* * *
“Striker. Radio traffic.”
The grim tone in Dasher’s voice and the fact the pilot turned to look back warned him. Bruce reached over and flipped the switch so he could listen to the same radio traffic his friend was.
“Viper 02, Birddog. Say your state.”
“Viper 02, angels 9, 3.8.”
It was Gracie’s voice.
Lord, not this. Not Grace.
“She’s flying the Hornet that took the shrapnel damage,” Dasher said quietly over the radio traffic.
“Is she hurt?”
“Unknown. She’s got stabilizer damage and hydraulic problems.”
“Where is she?”
Rich unfolded a terrain map. He’d been computing coordinates from the radio traffic. “About here.”
Bruce winced. “Can she make it through the mountain passes?” he asked Dasher.
“She sounds determined to try. She’s got maybe ten minutes at the rate the plane is dying around her before controls become totally unresponsive. That’s enough time to clear the pass and make an emergency landing at Colemerik.”
“Tight.”
“Very. Anything else goes wrong, she won’t have the resources left to react.”
Bruce looked toward Rich.
“Ammo is loaded, medical supplies have been replenished. We’re ready,” his partner replied.
“Dasher, get us cut free to go meet her flight.”
“The request is already in. They’re checking who is nearest to reach her.”
“Birddog, Viper 02, requesting vector home base under 10.” Grace was calm, working the problems. Bruce grimaced. She was fighting to keep altitude but didn’t feel confident she could climb above 10,000 feet.
“Viper 02, Birddog, vector blue plus 30, angels blue plus 4.”
“Viper 02. Roger.”
Hang on, honey. Stay with it.
Dasher would get them clearance to go after her. Bruce reached for his medical kits. “She’s O Negative. Where’s the nearest trauma unit?” He couldn’t lose Grace this way, not like this.
IRAQ/TURKEY BORDER
Gracie felt chilled, the sweat soaking her flight suit cooling against her skin. She wished she could move her legs to ease the cramp in her right calf but had to settle for tugging against the ankle restraints and flexing the muscle. The aches were becoming more pronounced. A bruise on her right shoulder was making her grip on the stick come at a painful cost.
Time felt like it had slowed down to a painful degree. Safety was ahead. She had to get through the mountain passes and figure out a glide path into Colemerik that needed minimal maneuvering.
Warning alarms lit across her console and sounded around her. Details registered immediately: an incoming shoulder-fired SAM, fired from the ridgeline to the north, under half a mile away. Seconds until impact.
Gracie slammed the throttle forward and the stick hard left. She took the punishment because there was no option and dove her plane away. She didn’t have the altitude to be playing the game, and she could feel the control surfaces fighting her as the failing hydraulics worked against her. The SAM never acquired lock as she shifted altitude; it raced by above her.
When the second SAM came up from the other ridgeline, she would have closed her eyes and sworn at the unfairness of it had there been time. Combination attacks against a crippled bird. It was the tactic of a predator, moving in for a kill.
She wasn’t going to give them the pleasure.
The plane fought her as she brought the nose up, forcing it into a steep turning climb. She was giving the SAM what it wanted, the bursting bright heat of her jet engines. The warning noise in the cockpit intensified as the missile closed in on her plane.
It was a heart-wrenching move, popping chaff and then tipping the F/A-18 nose first to the ground. Gravity pulled her down with heart-stopping speed.
She was going to make it. She heard the whistle as the surface-to-air missile shaved through the air feet away from the belly of her plane.
And then it hit the chaff decoy.
The explosion flung her plane inverted into a flat spin, the world going crazy around her. She couldn’t eject while facing the earth.
Both engines snuffed out.
The ground spun toward her at a sickening pace. Wonderful. She was going to die with a broken nose. I’m sorry, Bruce. I am so sorry.
Thirty-Two
* * *
“She’s off the scope,” Dasher warned. The tension in the chopper leaped in magnitude. “We’ve got SAM signatures.”
Bruce clenched one hand around the other so hard he about broke his own knuckles. “Transponder codes?” The ejection seat would have its own emergency signature, as would the plane.
Dasher was running the frequencies. “None,” he replied grimly. “Her electronics were a mess but that shouldn’t have affected the ejection seat.”
“What was her last altitude?”
“Angels 7.4. And in those ravines . . .”
Striker knew exactly what Dasher wasn’t saying. They would be dealing with a search area where radar would be of little help. “Head to the last coordinates. And get firepower to cover us.”
* * *
“Where are you, Gracie?” Striker whispered, scanning the terrain from the open door of the chopper. The wind buffeted his face. His flight suit wasn’t as much protection as he would have liked. The emergency radio frequencies she had been given remained stubbornly silent.
The nausea in his stomach grew with the jerking of the Pave Hawk as they flew the terrain at twenty feet above the rocks. He ignored it as best he could.
Rich’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “There.”
Striker’s heart sank as he saw the wreckage. The F/A-18 had pancaked, cut a deep swatch into a ravine, and come to rest at a forty-degree down angle. Rocks and loose debris were still avalanching around the wreckage. One wing had sheared off and folded back over the fuselage; the rest of the plane was in fragments.
“Rich, you’re with me. Victor, Frank, keep a sharp eye out. We don’t need unwanted company.”
They had to rappel down from the chopper to the top of the ravine as there was no place for Dasher to set down. The rising smell of jet fuel was overpowering. Striker dug his boots in to get traction on the loose shale as the swinging rope threatened to push him off-balance.
“Think we can get down there without bringing this on top of us?” Rich asked as a small river of stones and dirt slid into the ravine.
Striker uncoiled the rope he had brought with him. “Tie off, go down far to the sides of the wreckage, then swing back in toward it?”
Rich nodded and undid his own rope, then moved across the rocks to one of the pines. Striker moved to the other side of the wreckage to tie off his own. The descent was slippery. He kept his eyes peeled for the one thing he most feared seeing: a body.
Bracing his back against the rope, he walked in toward the fuselage wreckage, watching every step he took to make sure jagged metal didn’t slice his rope or cut open the bottom of his boots.
The top of the left wing had peeled back like a can lid and now rested over the fuselage. Striker put his shoulder into moving the heavy wing flap away. He found the front section of the canopy had been sheared away. Gracie. Striker nearly threw up. The cockpit, one of the smallest for a fighter plane, had crumpled around her. The front of her flight suit was covered in blood.
The visor on her helmet was down. He carefully pushed it up. Her eyes were wide-open and unseeing. She’d snapped her neck? She had the glassy look of someone who was dead.
“Gracie?”
He pulled off his gloves and struggled to get his hand between her helmet and flight suit. He found a pulse. For a moment he thought it was his own, pounding through his cold fingertips. He moved his hand over her face and felt faint breath against his palm. “Rich, we’re going to need the heavy extraction equipment down here. Rush it.”
“I’m on it.”
Bruce struggle
d to find secure footing on the loose ground to tie off his rope so he could get to work. He got his medical pack wedged into the debris and opened it.
Her nose had bled heavily. He eased her crash helmet off, afraid of what he might find. Had the g-forces been vicious enough, they would have ruptured not only the blood vessels of her nose but also her ears.
Honey brown hair tangled around his hands. He was relieved to find no additional blood. He carefully checked her eyes with his flashlight, looking for the hallmarks of oxygen deprivation that came at high altitudes if the pressure mask failed. He was relieved to get normal pupil reaction to the light. No catastrophic head injury; that was a miracle.
He started working the trauma list: breathing, blood, bones.
He ran his hands carefully down her arm. He didn’t find the obvious compound fractures he had expected. If she hadn’t broken her back . . . There was no good way to know until she awoke enough to move her limbs. There was a gash on her left arm, but all the blood on her flight suit appeared to be from the nosebleed. Her legs were likely going to be another matter, given the way this plane had crumpled.
How was she pinned? He moved his flashlight to get a look around the crumpled metal. The better question, how was she not pinned? It looked a lot like the aftereffects of a race car crash, only with the chassis cage left intact. The electronics of the cockpit had folded back on her. He pulled on his gloves. Some of the components he was able to push back, others driven practically into her lap he couldn’t budge.
He strained to reach down and check her legs, free them from the restraint straps. He cut his hand as ragged metal sliced through his glove, and he bit back a curse at the pain. Resting his weight on the side of the plane, he angled the light farther in and strained to see the problem. Part of the seat-locking mechanism had twisted and sheared.
He froze. Whatever had hit her plane had driven a sidewinder back into the undercarriage of the fuselage. The release mechanism was missing; the round was live. And she was practically sitting on it.
He heard the falling gravel as his partner rejoined him.
“Rich.” Very slowly Striker moved and redirected his light, illuminating the live round. If the plane shifted, that round was going to explode. And at the moment he was leaning on the fuselage.
His partner’s eyes widened but he said nothing, only set down the equipment he had retrieved, reached for his knife, and started moving dirt. In another situation they would have sandbagged the round. For now a ridge of dirt and a fulcrum to brace the plane would have to do.
Striker held still for three minutes until Rich had the brace in place. He eased back, able to breathe again. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Getting Gracie out would mean being creative. He could forget moving the ejection seat. “See what you can do to get these display panels pulled back. I think we can get the chains and power winch around at least one of them.”
Bruce checked her pulse again and found it holding steady. Her breathing was good, and given it was twenty-four minutes since her plane had disappeared from the scope, she was surviving the initial shock. At least it didn’t appear that she was bleeding to death. He eased a neck brace in place and secured it.
Retrieving his own knife, he began cutting through the restraints holding her to the wreckage. A low shuddering groan broke from her when he freed the right shoulder harness restraint. He carefully ran his hand over her arm. Her shoulder didn’t appear dislocated but she had clearly done some damage here. That she was coming conscious was a relief but she had very bad timing. “Gracie, stay still.”
* * *
The voice drifted through the deep fog she was in.
It hurt.
She wanted to scream but found that took breath she didn’t have.
“Easy, Gracie. We’re here. Don’t move.”
The deep voice echoed in her mind as she tried to attach a meaning to the words. Who was here? The plane, missiles, earth . . . She flinched as it registered. She’d crashed.
She forced her mind to clarity amid pain that was excruciating. Her right shoulder was screaming at her. The man’s voice was calm. She wasn’t in a hospital. Doctors fussed about pain.
He’d called her Gracie and it sounded like second nature. “Stay still,” he said. An order. Thinking was so hard.
“Gracie?”
She knew she had to answer but the words wouldn’t connect.
“Let’s get this finished while she is still out of it. We could try to cut the panel away.”
“Not until the jet fuel dissipates more; we can’t risk hitting a pocket of it with a spark.”
Two voices. Where am I?
She had to move to relieve the pain. Her weight was leaning back against her injured shoulder and it was killing her. The realization she was sitting up startled her. She was still in the plane?
“How much clearance do we need to free her legs?”
“Two inches.”
“Call Boeing and complain. They used reinforced ribbing—two inches might as well be a foot.” Something heavy pressed against her right leg. “Give me the metal cutters. And remind me to lift weights more often.”
Her eyes didn’t want to open but she forced them.
She was looking at trees, the ground? It was a confusing mix of brown, green, and tan. She jumped as it moved. Woodland cammies. If she had been able to, she would have laughed.
His head jerked around.
“Hey there, Gracie.”
She liked the voice. It was a warm cascade of sound. She couldn’t move her gaze away from the blue eyes looking back at her even if she wanted to. Even blinking hurt, and it felt like her head was going to explode with the brightness of the sky behind him. She tried but had a hard time sorting out his features from the confusing face paint.
He angled his body around to face her, leaning at an awkward angle so she didn’t have to move to see his face. “I know you’re hurting; I can see it in your eyes.” He spoke quietly, in no hurry, giving her time to sort out his words.
“Bruce . . .”
“We’re going to get you out of here. Rich is here too.”
Her white knights. She tried to smile at him. In survival school they had forgotten to tell her how nice it would be to have someone rescue her.
“Can you move your hands for me, Grace?”
The very thought was agonizing. She felt tears slip down her face. No. It hurts.
“Try, Gracie.”
He was holding her left hand. She flexed her fingers against his, exploring, experimenting, testing the strength and seeing if it was real.
“Good.” He moved his hand away, hurting her with its loss, taking away what she wanted to cling to. “Now this hand.”
She wanted to scream when he touched her right hand. She closed her eyes as the world washed away in white and her breathing shallowed against the intense radiating pain.
“Hold on,” he ordered. The pain seared as he moved her in the seat, and then it eased into a dreadful ache. “Better?” The sickness inside was intense, and she nodded slightly but didn’t try to open her eyes. Let them work. She wanted out of here. Something rough brushed her cheek. “Okay, Gracie. Just hold on. You’re going to hear metal pop.”
The weight against her legs pressed heavy and she heard his breathing turn harsh as he strained. Then she heard the awful sound of metal giving. “Pull it, Rich,” he gasped.
“I’ve got it. Watch your footing!”
Not knowing what they were doing was worse than knowing. She forced her eyes open. It sounded like an explosion around her as the mangled display was pulled over the edge of the cockpit and dropped away, triggering a small avalanche of rocks, dirt, and debris.
“Let’s get her legs free.”
“What about . . .” His partner didn’t finish the sentence.
“Gracie, look at me.”
There was nothing gentle about Bruce’s order. Her eyes left the tangled metal and angled to
see his face.
“I don’t want you to move when your legs come free. Do you understand? I want you to stay absolutely still.”
She didn’t understand why he was worried, but she forced herself to nod.
“I’m going to cut your bootlaces and the top of the your boots so I can slip your feet free.” He quirked a grin at her. “I hope you’re wearing clean socks.”
He leaned down before his unexpected comment registered and she could try to return the smile.
His hand slid down her left leg and she felt the tug as he started to work. Laces snapped and she felt the heavy leather rip. His fingers wrapped around the back of her ankle and pulled her foot free. Her knee struck something sharp and she gasped at the pain. Her leg had been stationary so long the small movement felt like a dagger.
She’d broken her leg? Nausea curled inside. She had to be able to fly again. Her shoulder was hurt, her legs . . . Her career was over if the injuries were serious enough. And that was assuming they would ever let her fly again after crashing.
She had to fly again. It was her life.
How long had she been on the ground? She could taste the blood in her mouth and the headache was pounding with her heartbeat. She had been on the wrong side of the pass when she went down. It would have taken them time to reach her. She shivered as the wind picked up and swirling debris was driven against her face.
Get me out of here, Bruce.
She heard gunshots in the distance. The sound spooked her.
Bruce ignored them.
She struggled to move her hand to touch his shoulder. “How long—”
He didn’t look up. “Relax, Gracie. We’re not leaving without you.” He started working on her right boot. “Rich, tell Dasher to send down the basket.”
When he leaned back, her feet finally free, he was breathing hard. “Now it gets tricky. Hold on, Gracie.” He disappeared from her line of sight.
The plane shifted. She screamed. Bruce grabbed the back of her flight suit at the neck as she slid. “Freeze!”
The wreckage settled again. With painful slowness he reached across to her good shoulder and brought her toward him. “Rich, get the cable and come around behind me.” Now it was Bruce who sounded spooked.
True Valor Page 21