Authors: Tom Young
Silent Enemy (30 page)
Doesn’t matter, Parson thought. In the unlikely event this thing lands in one piece, it’ll probably never fly again.
“Air Evac Eight-Four, Sunoco One-Five,” called a voice on the radio. “I think we have a visual on you. Do you see us off your two o’clock?”
Parson squinted, adjusted his sunglasses. Colman saw the tanker first.
“There he is,” Colman said. Then he pressed his TRANSMIT switch: “Sunoco One-Five, Air Evac Eight-Four. Tallyho.”
“How do you want to join up?” the tanker pilot asked.
“Tell him just to reverse course, and we’ll catch him with an en route rendezvous,” Parson said. This would be the last aerial refueling, and Parson felt glad it would at least take place during daylight. The KC-135 would give Parson and his crew enough fuel to reach Johnston Atoll, or the scene of the crash, whichever came first.
Colman made the radio call as Parson ordered. The dark blemish in the windscreen turned, and as it banked it revealed the profile of its wings and nacelles. Then the Boeing leveled onto the new heading and became a mere dot again. That is, until it slowed to rendezvous speed. Then it grew larger against the glass and took the shape of an airplane once more, this time as viewed from behind.
Dunne read through the checklists for aerial refueling, but it required little setup. The AR door actuator had broken the last time they used it, and the door had remained open ever since.
“Ready to fly?” Parson asked Colman.
“I have the aircraft,” Colman said.
“My radios. Just keep your speed up until we’re a little closer.”
As the distance narrowed, Parson saw that the tanker had lowered its refueling boom. The boom extended from the aircraft’s tail like an insect’s stinger. Parson could make out the four black circles of the tanker’s exhaust cones, and eventually the USAF painted on the underside of the left wing. From his perspective, the letters appeared inverted.
He didn’t know the crew of that KC-135 ; none of their voices sounded familiar. Strangers had flown all this way to risk their asses refueling a flying bomb. Yeah, they did it because they’d been ordered to do it. But they could have found an excuse to abort, if they’d wanted to. Mainly they did it to save comrades-in-arms. They did it, Parson thought, because we all wear the same uniform. If we make it, he decided, I’ll get the tail numbers of all the tankers that gave us gas. Dunne will have the numbers in his paperwork. I’ll send Scotch to all the crew members, Parson noted. Better yet, I’ll take it to them.
The yellow line along the KC-135’s belly loomed larger. Colman flew smoothly, and he nearly had the C-5 in the precontact position.
“Good work,” Parson said. “Just keep that yellow stripe lined up with your inside leg.”
“Yes, sir.”
Parson pointed at the tanker as he coached Colman. “Look at that black antenna on the underside,” he said. “When it forms a
T
against that crossways white stripe, you’re on a good thirty-degree approach.”
T
against that crossways white stripe, you’re on a good thirty-degree approach.”
“Got it.”
As viewed through the C-5’s windscreen, the antenna met the white line in a perfect
T
. The join-up went well enough for the tanker’s boom operator to call them in closer.
T
. The join-up went well enough for the tanker’s boom operator to call them in closer.
“Cleared to contact,” the boomer said.
“Cleared to contact,” Parson acknowledged. Then he said to Colman, “You heard the man. Get us some gas.”
Colman entered the contact position, mere feet from the tanker. Parson could see the boomer’s eyes. The boom latched into the receptacle, and the C-5 took its final load of jet fuel. Just before the boomer disconnected, he looked at Parson, gave a thumbs-up, and saluted. Parson returned the salute, then gave a casual wave.
“Air Evac Eight-Four, Sunoco One-Five,” the boomer called. “Off-load complete. One hundred forty thousand pounds.”
“Eight-Four copies,” Parson said.
The boom unlatched and retracted, and the tanker pulled away. Parson and his crew voiced the terse calls and responses of the post air refueling checklist like some well-rehearsed catechism.
Another voice called from the tanker, this time one of the pilots: “Eight-Four, we have a message to relay from Hilda.”
“Go,” Parson said.
“Hilda advises you have a diplomatic clearance to overfly Nicaragua, as long as you stay above flight level two-five-oh. Overflight only, no landing permission. Stand by for the clearance number.”
Parson slid a pencil from one of the pen pockets on his left sleeve. He looked around for paper and settled for the back cover of a Chart Update Manual.
“Ready to copy,” Parson said.
The tanker pilot called out the clearance number. As Parson wrote it down, he was so tired his
5
came out more like a
Z
. He scratched it out and asked the tanker to repeat the number. Then the radios and interphone fell silent, and Parson’s ears filled with the song of wind and machine. Now a translucent scrim of cloud hung over the ocean below.
5
came out more like a
Z
. He scratched it out and asked the tanker to repeat the number. Then the radios and interphone fell silent, and Parson’s ears filled with the song of wind and machine. Now a translucent scrim of cloud hung over the ocean below.
Eventually, the isthmus between the Americas took form in the blue distance. Beyond it lay the Pacific, and the tasks Parson dreaded most.
ON PARSON’S ORDERS, GOLD, SPENCER,
and Justin began to gather tools and equipment. They took a half dozen oxygen cylinders from around the aircraft. By now Gold knew how to check the cylinders’ pressure; they all showed 300 psi. Full. Inside a storage cabinet in the aft flight deck she found two safety harnesses. The harnesses fitted over the wearer like a parachute rig, but instead of a canopy the straps connected to a lanyard made of heavy-duty webbing. Justin broke the copper safety wire on an emergency exit light and detached it from its receptacle. It contained its own batteries and could serve as a portable lamp. Spencer fitted a steel bit to a battery-powered drill.
and Justin began to gather tools and equipment. They took a half dozen oxygen cylinders from around the aircraft. By now Gold knew how to check the cylinders’ pressure; they all showed 300 psi. Full. Inside a storage cabinet in the aft flight deck she found two safety harnesses. The harnesses fitted over the wearer like a parachute rig, but instead of a canopy the straps connected to a lanyard made of heavy-duty webbing. Justin broke the copper safety wire on an emergency exit light and detached it from its receptacle. It contained its own batteries and could serve as a portable lamp. Spencer fitted a steel bit to a battery-powered drill.
The preparations made Gold think of a platoon gearing up to close with the enemy—loading rifles, honing knives. But she’d never faced or even anticipated this kind of battle. The only thing she knew about IEDs was that you never screwed around with them if you weren’t trained for it. In this case, though, she knew they had to try. She also knew Parson would err toward action. He’d rather die doing the wrong thing than die doing nothing. For that matter, she thought, so would I.
Gold and Justin placed the oxygen bottles, harnesses, and lamp in the troop compartment, next to the negative pressure valves. The stockpile of gear somehow made Gold feel just a little less vulnerable. We’re still fighting, she thought. Parson’s still thinking. His crew’s still flying.
As she descended the troop compartment ladder on her way back to the flight deck, the overhead speakers crackled and hummed. She heard Parson make a PA announcement:
“This is the aircraft commander speaking,” he said. “You all know what we’re up against. And I think you all know the odds. But we’ll do the best we can. We’re going to depressurize the aircraft one more time, and we’re going to try to jettison the bomb. If you have any protective gear, whether it’s a Kevlar helmet or a flak jacket or an exposure suit, I suggest you put it on. If you don’t have a seat belt, get a cargo strap.
“If anything happens to me and the aircraft remains flyable, Lieutenant Colman will take command, assisted by Sergeant Dunne. I know you’ll give them your full cooperation.”
Parson paused, but the hum continued, as if he still had his finger on the TALK switch, considering. Then he said, “I’ll see you . . . when it’s over.”
On the flight deck, Gold found Parson giving last-minute instructions on interphone. “Your plane, your radios,” he told Colman. “Just keep us level at twenty-five thousand.” Then he added, “I’ll check in on headset from up in troop. That’s when you guys can start depressurizing.”
“Roger that,” Dunne said.
“What would you like me to do?” Gold asked.
“Same as before,” Parson said. “Keep an eye on us from the negative pressure valves, but don’t go back in the tail unless there’s a damned good reason.”
“What about me?” Justin asked. Gold had told Parson about the talk she’d had with Justin up in the lav. She couldn’t blame Parson if he decided not to trust the young aeromed.
“Are you up for this?” Parson asked.
“I think so. I want to help.”
“All right. You’re coming with me and the crew chief. You’re going to be our oxygen runner. Keep those full bottles coming, and bring the empties back to Sergeant Major Gold. She’ll refill them for you. Don’t forget to keep an eye on your own oxygen.”
“Yes, sir.” Justin smiled. Though Gold could see little to smile about, she understood how he felt.
She looked in on Mahsoud in the bunk room. He lay wide awake, and his color still appeared good. The MCD was looking at his vital signs on a Propaq monitor.
“Any change?” Gold asked.
“He’s not any worse,” the MCD said. “I wish we didn’t have to depressurize again, but I realize it’s necessary.”
Not the diagnosis Gold wanted to hear. “I will be well,” Mahsoud said in English. “I worry about you and the major, with what you are about to do.”
“Just rest and let the nurses take care of you,” Gold said.
“Very well,” Mahsoud said. After a pause, he added, “I wonder what the Falnama would say about this.”
“We don’t have time to check it now,” Gold said, “but we will learn what the future holds soon enough.” Or whether we have a future at all, she thought. No matter what the Falnama or any other book said, it couldn’t guarantee success. You could never have assurance of winning, she thought. You could only deserve it, and the rest was out of your hands.
She stepped out of the bunk room and looked forward through the cockpit windows. Cumulus bloomed down below, rising above jungled hills. With all that had happened, Gold had stopped keeping track of the flight’s progress, and the sight of land surprised her. Was that Panama? Maybe Honduras? Twin mountains rose from an island in the middle of a lake. Their conical shape made it apparent they were volcanoes. Inactive, at least for now.
“What is that?” Gold asked.
“Lake Nicaragua,” Parson said.
The growing clouds obscured much of the ground and water. Each white mass featured its own terrain relief: white mountains and canyons, valleys and plains. When the west coast of Central America came into view, the clouds stopped at the beach as if fenced. As the strip of sand passed underneath the nose of the aircraft, Gold looked ahead into a new ocean. The turquoise peaks and troughs of waves stretched into the distance, undulating all the way to Asia.
She put the Pacific from her mind and followed Parson down the flight deck ladder. Justin came with them, carrying blankets from the bunk rooms. In the cargo compartment, Spencer pulled on a pair of black non-issued gloves. White lettering across the back of each glove read MECHANIX. He donned a nylon civilian windbreaker. Parson said, “Chief, that won’t be nearly enough.”
“It’s all I got, sir.”
“Take one of these blankets,” Parson said. “It’s cold as the north side of a witch’s heart back there.”
“Yes, sir.” The crew chief took a blanket from Justin and wrapped it over his shoulders. Then Spencer hoisted his drill, along with a ball-peen hammer and a canvas tool bag.
“You look like you’re ready to do some damage,” Parson said.
“This ain’t exactly precision work.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Up in the troop compartment, Parson plugged his headset into an interphone cord, pressed the TALK button, and said, “Begin depressurization.”
A few seconds later, Gold’s ears popped as cabin altitude rose. The air expanding in her sinuses and eustachian tubes didn’t bother her; she’d experienced the same thing before every parachute jump. If only she could escape that way: Wait for the green light, feet and knees together. Don’t anticipate the ground. Just roll when you hit it.
But the C-5 carried no parachutes, and even if it did, she wouldn’t bail out unless there was a chute for everybody.
Parson removed his headset and picked up a harness. He buckled it—straps over his chest and around his thighs—and he stuffed its lanyard into a flight suit pocket. Then he wrapped a blanket over his shoulders and donned an oxygen mask attached to one of the cylinders.
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