Siege of Lightning

by R. J. Pineiro

  Kessler didn’t have a choice. It was either switching or asphyxiating. He enabled autopilot and let go of the stick. Lightning remained on course.

  With his vision blurring, Kessler unstrapped himself and bolted to the rear. Suddenly, his vision also narrowed. He had gotten up too fast. He was weaker than he’d imagined, and dropped to his knees. His body had not gotten a chance to adjust to Earth’s gravity. The single G that Kessler was experiencing felt like four or five.

  “Lightning, Houston. What’s your situation?”

  Kessler wasn’t listening any longer. He looked up and saw the metallic door to the right of the aft crew station. He had to reach it and pull out the small emergency oxygen unit.

  Kessler kicked his legs and pushed himself toward the back. His body felt very heavy. His hands trembled from the effort. An overwhelming desire to rest engulfed him, but he persisted. He had come too far to give up now. He had to fight. He was mission commander. He was in control of Lightning. One final push. There! He pulled open the cabinet and extracted the oxygen mask attached to a small canister through a thin plastic tube. He placed the mask over his mouth and nose and turned the knob on the canister.

  Kessler took one breath of pure oxygen, exhaled, and quickly followed with three more. He coughed for a few moments and breathed deeply once more before sitting up.

  “Lightning, Houston. Come in. Come in, Michael. Michael?”

  Kessler stared at the empty flight seat, and slowly crawled on his hands and knees back to the front and strapped himself in place. He eyed the altimeter as it shot below 110,000 feet.

  “I’m still here, Chief.”

  “Welcome home, Lightning. We have you on TV at one hundred thousand feet, three-point-five Mach. Everyone is breathing a little easier now.” Kessler smiled. Lightning was safely gliding toward the dry lake beds of Edwards Air Force Base.

  “Roger that, Houston. Ninety thousand feet, range seventy-four miles, two-point-nine Mach,” Kessler read out loud. “Everything looks good on board.”

  “Roger, we’re looking at it. You can take air data now.”

  “Roger, Houston. Eighty-two thousand at two-point-five Mach.” Kessler switched controls to automatic and then back to manual, performing a series of tests before flying around the approach circle manually and then going back to automatic control for the first part of the approach-and-landing phase. The data from the tests were automatically fed back to Houston control, where powerful computers quickly analyzed them. Lightning was designed to use RCS thrusters in space, and elevons and rudders inside Earth’s atmosphere. As Lightning descended below the stratosphere, the General Purpose Computers were in the critical process of slowly transitioning from the RCS system to the elevon/rudder system for control of flight. Nearly two million operations per second computed the precise blend of RCS and aerodynamic controls to keep the orbiter on its glide path. No pilot could ever even dream of coming close to maintaining that tricky balancing act.

  “Everything is looking right on the money. We have a wind update for you and a weather update. You’ve got a very thin cloud layer at forty thousand, the winds airborne are as briefed, and on the ground two-one-five at eighteen knots gusting to twenty. Altimeter two-niner-oh-five. Visibility fifty unlimited.”

  “It sounds like a good ol’ day at Eddie!”

  “You got it, Lightning.”

  As the orbiter descended below 45,000 feet, Kessler noticed the computers shutting off the RCS system. The air was thick enough to rely only on aerodynamic control surfaces.

  “Hello, Lightning. Welcome to California.”

  Kessler looked to his right and noticed the first of the chase planes, an Air Force T-38 Talon.

  “Lightning making a wide sweeping turn to get aligned with the runway. Twenty thousand feet.” Runway 23 at Edwards was ready and waiting.

  “Lightning, Houston. Check body flaps to manual.”

  “Roger. Body flaps to manual. Eighteen thousand feet at four-eight-zero knots.

  “Lightning, you’re a little low on the altitude. Pull your nose up by a couple of degrees.”

  “Roger.”

  “Okay, speed brake start now.”

  “Roger, Houston.” Kessler activated the speed brake, which was integrated with the rudder and made up of two identical halves. Hinged at their forward edge, the two rudders opened and closed in response to Kessler’s commands, forcing a drag-producing wedge that assisted Kessler in maintaining his approach. Under a normal approach, the speed brake would have been kept one-half open, but in his current situation, Kessler kept it one-fourth open. That, in a way, acted as an engine since it allowed Kessler to shallow his approach just as he would do by increasing throttle, if he had an engine.

  “Lightning, you’re still slightly low on the altitude, but looking okay. You have a ‘Go’ for autoland.”

  Kessler switched to autoland, the microwave terminal-phase-guided-system program that was scheduled to take over at eighteen thousand feet using information supplied by the microwave-scanning-beam landing system. Autoland would be maintained to flare at two thousand feet, when Kessler would take over.

  “Roger, Houston. Brake and body flap on auto; everything on auto, thank you!”

  Lightning was now entering a twenty-degree-angle glide. The air brake helped Kessler maintain a steady 265 knots.

  “One minute to touchdown, Lightning.”

  “Roger, Houston.”

  Kessler noticed the chase planes closing in. They would call out the last tens of feet to touchdown and confirm Lightning’s airspeed to Hunter.

  “Lightning, you’re clear to land Lake Bed Two Three whenever you’re ready.”

  Kessler switched off autoland and took control of the stick. As the altimeter scurried below two thousand feet, Kessler pulled the nose up and the glide angle was reduced by two degrees as they approached the sun-hardened desert floor. The landing gear dropped.

  “Roger,” acknowledged Kessler.

  “Okay, Lightning, keep it steady.”

  The lake bed came up to meet him, and Kessler knew that the large elevons on the rear would make his landing difficult. He had to avoid jerking back on the stick to flare out as he would have done in a regular aircraft. A sudden jerk like that would cause the elevons to rise, resulting in severe loss of lift, probably forcing Lightning to land hard.

  “Two hundred feet…one hundred seventy-five…” called out the pilot from one of the chase planes.

  Kessler kept the control stick steady. Autoland had planned his approach meticulously, helping him avoid corrections at the last moment.

  “One hundred fifty feet…fifty…thirty…ten…five…three…touchdown!”

  Kessler felt a light vibration as Lightning’s rear wheels came in contact with the smooth surface of the lake bed.

  “Nose gear fifteen feet…ten…five…three…touchdown. Welcome home, Lightning.

  The mid-morning California sun struggled to pierce through Lightning’s anti-reflection-coated windowpanes as both T-38 chase planes, in full afterburners, zoomed past the decelerating orbiter and rolled their wings in victory. Underneath his plastic oxygen mask Michael Kessler smiled broadly. He was home. He was safe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  FINAL CONFRONTATION

  In the final choice a soldier’s pack is not so heavy burden as a prisoner’s chains.

  —Dwight D. Eisenhower

  NORTH OF KOUROU, FRENCH GUIANA

  The enemy slowly approached Mambo’s initial defense position—just as Cameron had anticipated—from the large clearing. Cameron and Ortiz had deployed their forces efficiently. Once more, Mambo was divided into three teams. Mambo One was composed of Ortiz, Zimmer, and Cameron. Mambo Two had three soldiers twenty feet to Mambo One’s right, and Mambo Three had the last two soldiers up in the trees fifty feet from the trip wires.

&
nbsp; Cameron checked his watch. According to his last communication with the rescue helicopter they still had another fifteen minutes. He made his decision and moved forward.

  “Where you goin’, amigo?”

  “Up front. I want to get a feeling for how close those guys are. The rescue helo will be here any minute now. If those guys are still too far away I’m pulling Mambo Three back here. No sense in exposing them unnecessarily.”

  Ortiz nodded.

  Cameron dropped to a deep crouch and moved forward quietly, warily. Although the area was supposedly secured because of the trip wires, there was always the chance of an enemy getting by undetected. He pressed his back against a tree and looked over both shoulders. Nothing. He selected another tree a few feet away and raced for it. Again, he leaned back against it and inspected the grounds. Satisfied, he moved forward once more, carefully selecting trees in advance, close enough to minimize detection between transitions, yet far away enough to maximize progress.

  He scurried forward for a second, perhaps two, until he reacted to the visual image of several men moving in his direction. It all happened very fast. He dropped to the ground and rolled back to the tree. A second later he rose to a crouch, hid behind the thick trunk, and—

  The loud explosion was followed by cries of pain. Someone had run into one of Zimmer’s trip wires. Cameron was about to look in that direction when gunfire erupted from several places at once. Muzzle flashes were clearly visible in the murky woods. They were mixed with the screams from the wounded men and the enraged shouts from other men.

  Cameron dropped to the ground again and rolled away from the tree. He shifted his gaze up toward the two Mambo soldiers, pinned down behind thick branches as a shower of bullets engulfed their entire area.

  “Pull back! Pull back!” he screamed as loud as he could, but the men could not hear him. Cameron quickly moved his body from side to side, trying to bury himself in the foot-thick layer of leaves. Satisfied that he was relatively invisible, he set the MP5 to full automatic fire and aimed at the first group of muzzle flashes over a hundred feet away—the one that appeared to be firing in the direction of Mambo Three. He pressed the telescopic butt against his shoulder, left hand under the silenced barrel and right index finger on the trigger.

  Another explosion. More curses and screams. More gunfire broke out from another sector to his left. Who are they firing at? There were only the three of them, the two Mambo soldiers and himself, in that sector. The rest of Mambo was safely positioned almost two hundred feet back.

  He shrugged and shifted his gaze back toward the muzzle flashes to his left. He squeezed the trigger and made a wide sweep at waist level. The German MP5 started spitting 9-mm rounds, depleting the thirty-round magazine in under ten seconds. Some of the muzzle flashes had disappeared. Cameron quickly removed the spent magazine and grabbed another one from a Velcro-secured pocket on his gear vest. He slid it in place and, using his left hand, he pulled back and turned upward the cocking handle located on the left forward section of the barrel. Again, he unloaded the thirty rounds on the enemy. A few more muzzle flashes disappeared. He estimated only five or six attackers remained. Another explosion. This one to the far left. The enemy was approaching from all directions. They were closing in.

  “Pull back! Now! Now!”

  This time one of the two soldiers snapped his head in his direction. Cameron waved them down. Both men nodded and began to crawl back. Cameron released the magazine and inserted his second-to-last one. He set the MP5 in single-shot mode, cocked the weapon, and trained it on the remaining flashes. He briefly eyed the soldiers climbing down the tree before lining up the first flash between the rear adjustable sight and the fixed forward sight. He fired once, twice. The muzzle flashes disappeared. He moved to the next one. Same thing. Cameron glanced back at the soldiers. They were already out of sight.

  He began to crawl back toward the tree when a shower of bullets nearly shaved off the bark. Cameron pressed the MP5 against his chest and set into a roll. He had gotten too close to the enemy and had attacked only one front, while the enemy had steadily approached his position from the sides. They were going to flank him. He continued to roll as the ground, the tress, and a cloud of leaves filled his field of view. Incomprehensible shouting filled the background. Cameron ignored it and kept rolling until he crashed against another tree. This time he looped around the trunk and rose to a crouch. He briefly inspected the area, but the murk made it difficult to see anything. He turned around and hurtled back toward Mambo’s defensive position. He had to hurry. He was right between the approaching enemy and Mambo. In just a matter of seconds he could be caught in a cross fire. He ran as fast as his legs would go. Visions of the past filled his mind. Visions of jungles, rice paddies, napalm-charred bodies. Smells, too. The smell of gunpowder in the woods, of rotting foliage, of burned flesh. He was back. For a second it seemed as if he actually had never left those jungles, those hellish forests, those fields of death. Go, Cameron. You have…a chance by yourself. Skergan’s voice echoed inside his mind; it reached his soul. Why did he leave him? But it’s…okay, Cameron. I’ll just…hide here. It made sense. It had seemed like the right thing to do, yet the guilt consumed him. The overpowering guilt, the pain. Sorry, man, I’m sorry. I’m so—

  He felt something grab ahold of his entire body and propel him up with titanic force.

  What the hell! Oh, Jesus!

  He had run into Ortiz’s trap. A sudden upward jerk and then he swung nearly thirty feet above the leaves.

  Shit! What now?

  He had barely finished thinking that when he saw several muzzled flashes aimed in his direction. Cameron closed his eyes and braced himself in anticipation, but the impact never came. Instead he fell. He opened his eyes and watched in shock as the ground grew rapidly closer.

  “Aghh!”

  He crashed feet-first, rolled, and landed on his back. The blanket of leaves somewhat cushioned his fall, but could not prevent him from twisting his right ankle. It didn’t matter, he had to get up and continue. He grabbed theMP5, kicked with his left leg, and tried to stand up, but the moment he applied any weight to his right leg the piercing pain crippled him. He fell on his side and quickly looked down in disbelief at his tibia protruding through the camouflage fabric of his fatigues.

  Suddenly he felt a hand pulling him up. Cameron looked up and watched in a blur as Ortiz dragged him toward the thick fallen log where Mambo One was stationed.

  “Madre de Dios, amigo. You fucked up your leg big time.”

  “I’m too old for this shit!” Cameron inhaled deeply and held it, also clenching his teeth to absorb the agonizing pain as he placed an arm over Ortiz’s shoulders and began to hop back toward their defensive position.

  “You’re some crazy cabron. Trying to pull a stunt like that.”

  Cameron didn’t respond, but his face showed some relief when he spotted the two members of Mambo Three to his left. They had made it back safe.

  “You just lay there and let us handle this. We can take care of those pendejos.”

  Waves of pain washed over Cameron. He spoke through clenched jaws.

  “No…too many. They’re…trying to…flank us. The clearing…the helo…run for it…damn fucking leg!”

  Ortiz looked at Cameron. “What are you saying, man? There can’t be any more than twenty of ‘em pendejos out there, minus the ones that you took out!”

  Suddenly all gunfire ceased. A frightening silence descended. Dead calm.

  “No…there are…more, Tito. Don’t know…where they came from…the helo…it’ll be here…soon…aghh, Jesus Christ! My leg!” He bent over and continued to breathe in and out deeply, forcing his mind to ignore the pain. Take the pain, Cameron. Take the fucking pain! he cursed at himself. Take it! Skergan took it, so can you!

  Focusing on the image of his friend lying bravely alone in the jungle, Cameron somehow
managed to endure the pain enough to lift his head over the log. The sight was terrifying.

  “Dios mio!” said Ortiz. “Where in the hell did they come from?”

  “Tell your people…not to…open fire…yet. Wait.”

  Ortiz raised his right hand in a fist. “No firin’ yet. Pass the word.”

  Cameron squinted. His vision grew blurry. He eyed the wound and noted an increase in the blood flow. The bone had definitely torn an artery. He knew there wasn’t much time left. He considered a tourniquet but the enemy was too close to take the time. Every man counted. They would need all the firepower they could muster to keep the incoming mob in check until the helo arrived. He brought his MP5 up and rested the barrel on the log. The figures were roughly a hundred feet away. His finger softly caressed the trigger.

  “Wait…wait…” Cameron said. “Select your targets.”

  Eighty feet. The figures—over forty of them as far as he could see—approached slowly. All appeared to be carrying automatic weapons.

  “Just a few more seconds…fire!”

  All seven members of Mambo and Cameron opened fire at once. Each man had a thirty-degree angle of responsibility. All enemy soldiers within that angle were his. The angles overlapped one another to cover the entire frontal perimeter.

  “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Ortiz screamed. “Don’t fire unless you got a specific target!”

  As the fire subsided Cameron heard a low deep rotor noise in the background. He reached for the radio. “Stallion One…Stallion One, Mambo…here, over.”

  “Good lord! What in the world is going on down there, Mambo? I can hear the gunfire from up here.”

  “We’re in a…world of shit, Stallion One. Need you down…in the clearing next…to the swamp.”

  “Got it. Be there in thirty seconds.”

  “Roger…thirty seconds.”

  He looked at Ortiz. “Time to get…the hell outta… here, Tito.”

  “All right. Everyone toss me your spare magazines and pull back. Pull back. All of you! Back! Back!”