Mission Compromised (57 page)

They had to get moving soon. It was only a matter of time before an Iraqi Army patrol came out here to investigate the wreckage.
In fact
, he thought,
this little rocky outcropping is probably the first place they'll search.

Now that it was completely dark, Newman was listening for the USAF Search and Rescue birds that should have been in the air over them almost from the minute they had gone down.
Sure could use one of those para-rescue guys right now
, Newman thought, not knowing that the SAM threat had delayed any search and rescue attempt.

Jane Robinette's breathing was becoming more labored, and she was moaning almost constantly. Newman decided to try and distract her somehow. He asked about her family.

“My husband works for the post office… and we live near Chicago… Harvey, Illinois. We have a son… fourteen years old.” She was gasping every time she tried to breathe. “My husband and I named him Dwight Moody Robinette.”

Maybe asking questions wasn't such a good plan, Newman thought. “Jane, save your breath,” he said. But she shook her head. She wanted to keep talking.

“Dwight was named after an evangelist… they call Dwight Moody ‘the Billy Graham of the 1800s.' I wanted my boy to learn early about
God… I prayed he'd go to the Bible institute that Mr. Moody founded in Chicago. Both his daddy and I wanted Dwight… to grow up and serve the Lord. His daddy—he's the part-time pastor of our little Baptist church—he hoped that Dwight might someday follow… in his footsteps.”

Newman could tell she was weakening. “Please, Jane… just rest.” He was still holding her close. Finally the wounded pilot fell into a fitful sleep.

Newman set one of the puny survival pistols beside them in case he had to get to it quickly. He resolved that he would not fall asleep, although fatigue was dragging at him like a lead weight. His joints and muscles were beginning to ache, and his body was crashing from the near-constant adrenaline rush of the last few hours.

He awakened with a start when Jane's body stiffened, wracked by a spasm of coughing. Newman knelt over her and shined a flashlight on her face. Bubbles of bright red blood were on her lips. She tried to sit up. Her gasps were much more panicked. She was at the point of choking. Newman could hear a gurgling sound with every breath she took. He put the back of his hand on her forehead, and it felt hot.
From chills to fever
, he thought,
that doesn't sound good.
Newman propped her up so she could breathe easier.

He shined the flashlight on her chest and felt a shiver of dread; her T-shirt was soaked with blood. She had bled completely through the bandage that he had applied earlier. The wound must have been much deeper than he realized. She was bleeding internally.

Gently he used his knife to cut off her T-shirt and he used it to wipe the blood from her chest. He put the flashlight close to the wound and tenderly pulled the opening to see if there was anything else in the wound. What he saw caused his chest to tighten. While there was no other debris inside the wound, it was deeper than he had first suspected. The piece of
aluminum wreckage that had penetrated her uniform and skin must have also pierced her left lung, not far from her heart. He'd seen a similar wound when during the battle for Khafji during the opening days of the Gulf War one of his Force Recon Marines had been wounded by Iraqi shrapnel.

“What is it?” Jane asked, seeing the deep furrows of concern on his face.

“I… I think your lung is filling with blood.”

“Am I going to die?”

“I don't know, Jane. I've seen this kind of thing before, and the guy lasted for three days. But if we can't get you to some real medical help pretty soon…”

“Well, we both know… I won't be seeing a hospital… anytime soon. It feels like my left lung isn't… really collapsed, but it's not working either. Seems… like there's an elephant… sitting on my chest.”

“Let me try and blow some air into your lung,” Newman suggested. He pinched her nose shut and blew into her mouth. He could see her chest rise considerably more than it had. He blew again… and again… and this time he could hear it—the sound of air escaping from the hole in her chest. He stopped and examined her chest wound, and saw bloody bubbles of air oozing out from her injured lung.

Newman felt absolutely helpless, but intent on putting to use every bit of first aid training he'd learned in peace and war. He put some more disinfectant on the wound, then packed it with gauze and folded more gauze on that. Then he took the plastic wrapper from one of the battle dressings in the first-aid kit and taped it down to seal the wound.

He used her tattered T-shirt to wipe the blood from her chest and side. He gently lifted her to wipe underneath and was further distressed to see a pool of blood beneath her. The fragment of metal had apparently passed right through her; the lung was leaking from the back as well.

It was only a matter of time before she bled to death. Making a nighttime hike north toward Turkey was out of the question. In the reflected glow of the little emergency light, Jane saw the sadness and shock on his face. Surprisingly, she was more calm than he was, though she was the one in such a desperate situation.

“It's time to get real, Colonel Newman,” she said between quick gasps. “I'm not gonna make it. I feel myself getting weaker… and I'm afraid that I'm not going to be able to keep breathing… seems like every time I try to breath, my chest and lungs are fighting me… like a charley horse in my chest. I won't be able… to breathe.”

“Jane, don't—”

“No… I have to. Please… tell my family how much… I love them… and how sorry I am… to leave them this way. But remind them that… I'm going to meet my Savior… and I'll be in heaven… waiting for them.”

Newman envied her confidence, but knew that if that were he lying there, he would not have such assurance.

“You must have a lot of faith.”

“Yes… I'm sorry that I won't get to… see my family again… but I'm not afraid of dying. I know where I'm going from here… and it's not scary. Can you hold me? I'm beginning to… get cold again.”

Newman lay down beside her and held her as he had before.

“Are you a believer?” she asked Newman.

How to answer?
“I… uh… I guess that I don't have your kind of faith. I believe in a Supreme Being… but, well, I'm just not sure what I believe about God.”

“Will you let me pray for us both, Colonel?”

Newman shifted his weight on the ground nervously when she asked, but he replied, “Sure… of course.”

“Lord… I know that all things… work together for good… for those who love You. You know my heart, God. I place myself… in Your hands. May I glorify You… whether I live or die, heavenly Father. I pray for my family just now… that You'll take care of them. I know that… my dear husband will be all right, but I don't know how my boy Dwight… will take the news of my death. Please be with him… protect him… and I pray that Your Holy Spirit… will fill his life with Your love and truth and purpose. There's so much more I could ask You… for my family, but I trust You, Lord. I know that You'll… look after them.

“And God, please reveal Yourself… to Lieutenant Colonel Newman. I don't know him very well, but… he seems to be a good man… for all the wrong reasons. I sure hope I'll… see him in heaven someday. So, God, please show him Your love… and introduce him to Your Son, Jesus. I pray for him with all my heart. Now Lord, I give myself to You… for whatever's next.…” Her voice trailed off.

Newman had closed his eyes reverently when she prayed and half expected Christ to be standing there when he opened them, so real was her prayer. But he was not a person of faith. In fact, he wondered why, if there really was a God, He would allow one of His own to suffer and die here. If any time and place deserved a miracle, this surely was it.

Dawn was coming. In the distance he could see some trailing smoke from burning Iraqi radar installations and, possibly, the wreckage of aircraft.

Jane's breathing became even more labored; the air husky across her vocal chords, rasping in and out with an awful hoarse sound. He agonized over her pain and the effort it took just to get air into her lungs. Then, as she had predicted, her chest muscles cramped and she writhed in panic as her lungs failed. Her eyes widened and she arched her back, then fell in place. Her eyes showed she realized what was happening.

She managed a small smile and mouthed, “Good-bye.” She gave up her valiant struggle to live.

Newman began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He kept it up for more than ten minutes before he gave up. He could feel no pulse, and when he shined the flashlight into her eyes, her pupils were dilated. She was gone. Newman hoped she was right about her faith.

Command Center

________________________________________

Incirlik Air Base
Adana, Turkey
Tuesday, 7 March 1995
0300 Hours, Local

 

General Harris walked into the ready room adjacent to his command center just as Lieutenant Douglas Hill, the assistant operations officer, was completing a pre-flight briefing. The pilots, in their pressure suits and carrying their helmets and kneepads, were just leaving. Hill shouted, “Attention on deck.”

“Stand easy, men,” Harris said. “I want you to do what you can to find these people, but I don't want to lose any of you. Be careful out there. Carry on.”

As the pilots shuffled out the door to head to the flight line, the general went over to the lieutenant. “How does it look, Doug?”

“Well sir, we've got three different locations and a ton of people missing. In addition to Randy Jenkins's F-16, we've twelve people on the MD-80, and fifteen more that went across the border with their QRF. We've had no contact from any of them. There's no satellite readout from the E-PRB beacons on any of the aircraft and no comms from the QRF since shortly after they crossed the 36th latitude. That's not good.”

“What are you sending up?”

“We moved three of our four MH-53 Pave Low SAR birds, each with a para-rescue team aboard, up to Siirt at about midnight so they will be close if the over-flights pick up a beacon or a call on a survival radio. I've got two MC-130s up there with them to tank them if they need to stay up awhile. One of the Combat Talons is equipped with a STAR rig in case any of the folks we're missing have the pick-up equipment.

“The flight we just briefed consists of four F-16s with AGM-88 HARMs aboard in case they encounter SAMs, two F-15s with the standard mix of air-to-air and air-to-ground ordnance, and one Navy EA-6 to jam Iraqi radar and listen for any noises from missing friendlies. We have two KC-10s on station to top off the fast movers on the way in and refuel them again on the way out if they need it. I've told them to stay north of the border unless we have a lot of action because we don't want to tip the Iraqis that we've got people down—if they don't know it already.”

“You did well, Doug. I'm going to try to get a couple hours' sleep. Call me right away if our guys pick up anything or start getting shot at.” The general returned to his office down the hall, turned out the lights, and stretched out, fully dressed in his desert camouflage uniform, on the military cot in the corner.

Office of Deputy Secretary General Dimitri Komulakov

________________________________________

38th Floor
UN Headquarters
New York, N.Y.
1912 Hours, Local

 

Dr. Simon Harrod had flown aboard a USAF Gulfstream IV from Andrews AFB to New York and was now sitting in the conference room adjoining Komulakov's office, waiting for the UN Ambassador from Iraq to meet with him. He looked at his watch; the ambassador was late.

The door opened and Komulakov came in with the Iraqi ambassador. Harrod stood. The Russian made the introductions and asked, “Shall I stay?”

The ambassador shrugged, but Harrod shook his head. “I think it is best if we meet in private,” he said. “We can talk more frankly.” Komulakov nodded and left the room.

Harrod had stood as a sign of respect when the ambassador had entered the room. Now he gestured for the man to take a seat. Harrod had wisely taken a seat on a side of the table and not at its head. The ambassador sat down across from Harrod.

“So, what brings the National Security Advisor to the President of the United States all the way to New York to meet with the lowly ambassador of the country whose children are starving because of your embargo?”

Harrod looked at the man across from him. On the flight to New York he had read the CIA's file on the Iraqi. He was a career diplomat and had served among Saddam's hierarchy for nearly two decades. As the prestigious ambassador to the United Nations, Igouri Rubariyah was a cut above Saddam's other political and diplomatic underlings. He had studied in England and held a Ph.D. in history. He had taught at the Baghdad University for many years before joining Saddam's team and was known to be one of the dictator's most intelligent strategists.

“Has your country briefed you on the events of this afternoon in Iraq?”

“Of course.”

“Well, there are some things you need to know. First, the President has instructed me to express our sincere apologies about the reconnaissance drone that went out of control and crashed in Iraq. It was conducting surveillance for the UNSCOM inspection program, and it apparently had a malfunction.”

“Please, Dr. Harrod, do not play me for the fool. That was no reconnaissance drone. It was some kind of missile, and it was aimed at our president who, thanks to Allah, was not in the building when your weapon hit it. We reject your private apologies delivered in this imperious manner. When your president makes an apology before the world's TV cameras, then we will consider it, not until.”

“Well, Mr. Ambassador, we can discuss that—and the political implications. But I do want to offer the condolences of our nation, expressed by the President himself.”