Spectre switched his primary radio to the Supervisor of Flying frequency at Balad. He explained that he had jettisoned his stores and was currently flying with an activated EPU, allowing the fire and rescue crews to prepare for the toxic ammonia-like exhaust gases they would be experiencing if he made it home.
Just as he was about to discuss his plan of action, the GE finally let go. It started with a vibration so violent it shook his HUD and ended with a thump. The engine had finally seized due to oil starvation.
Spectre checked his altitude. He had just hit 30,000 feet, but he was still 35 miles from his base. It was going to be close. Having built up speed from being in afterburner, Spectre traded his excess speed for altitude, reaching his desired airspeed at 33,000 feet and 32 miles. Even with better than a one to one glide ratio, it was still going to be close. That canoe on the centerline added a considerable amount of drag.
Spectre’s MFD showed his wingman still 40 miles out. He was gaining ground, but not fast enough.
“I’m engine out now, save your gas.” It was nothing more than a heads up for his wingman. There was nothing Stewart could do for him right now except be there and orbit for support if Spectre did have to eject.
“Two.”
Spectre’s F-16 was gliding over the desert. The good news was that it was daylight; at least he wasn’t trying to find a blacked out Balad on NVGs. The bad news was also that it was daylight. If he ended up short, every bad guy with an AK would see his jet crash and his parachute. His decision to carry extra 9MM magazines for his Beretta M9 wasn’t looking so excessive anymore.
As Spectre got closer, he could barely make out the field behind the steer point diamond in his HUD. He could make out cultural features, but couldn’t quite make out the runway.
The SOF called him on his primary radio. Not to pile on to the already bad day, but the visibility was down to ¼ mile due to a sandstorm. All fighters were being diverted or sent to the tanker to wait it out. The recommendation was to press on and then eject in the bailout area so Special Operations Forces could pick him up.
Spectre was now sweating behind his visor. He’d have to make a decision soon. If he continued on, he’d be over the populated area of Balad. At that point, there was no turning back. He had to make the runway. If he decided to bail out, he would have to turn north. There would be no chance to make the runway if the weather changed, and although the Special Ops guys would be on their way, there were still several factions of potentially hostile groups in the area.
He dialed in the ILS on his HUD and HSI. He was perfectly lined up with Runway 12 just 15 miles out. He still couldn’t make out the runway due to the dust storm, but he knew the steer point diamond sat exactly on the end of the runway from his checks on takeoff.
The wind on the ground appeared to be gusting. The dust storm was only a hundred or so feet in height, but enough to cover the runway. The gusts made the runway barely visible. Spectre decided to go for it. If it looked bad, he’d dump the jet in the open area to the north of the runway, away from any people or structures.
Relying completely on his instruments, Spectre continued gliding toward the runway. The former Soviet base had two intersecting runways, nearly two nautical miles each in length. If he could stay on runway centerline and get to the diamond, he’d have plenty of room to stop. If that didn’t work, he could drop the hook and take the departure end cables.
At seven miles, Spectre was still doing 240 knots, carrying extra speed to compensate for the drag of the TARS pod. He waited until the diamond was between the 10 and 15-degree pitch ladders at the bottom of his HUD at four miles and lowered the gear handle. With no hydraulic pressure, the gear did not lower, but the action allowed the flaps to lower under EPU power. After putting the gear handle down, Spectre grabbed the alternate gear extension handle and pulled, using pneumatic pressure to lower the gear.
The two main gear lights turned green, but the nose gear remained unsafe. The nose gear wouldn’t be able to extend until he slowed below 190kts. Spectre needed the airspeed. He’d worry about the nose gear later.
With the gear lowered, Spectre shifted his aim point short of the diamond. Normally, he would have put the flight path marker a few thousand feet short, into the overrun, but Spectre was flying blind. He had to guess based on the diamond. The runway was still obscured. Tower cleared him to land, advising that the fire crews were standing by.
Spectre used the radar altimeter to time his flare. If he waited too long, he would hit short of the runway at high speed. Too soon and he’d sink and stall into the runway. Neither would be very survivable for him or the aircraft. At 100 feet, he shifted his aim point to the diamond, letting his speed bleed down to 180 knots. The nose gear extended with a clunk.
As he descended to 50 feet, he shifted his aim point again. He put the flight path marker just below the horizon, indicating that he was just barely descending. He could now make out the runway lighting in his peripheral vision. At least he was somewhere on the runway.
Spectre winced as the radar altimeter leveled off at 10 feet. He tried to hold it off as long as he could, keeping the angle of attack indicator at 11 degrees while the aircraft slowed. With a thud and a slight bounce, the main gear touched down. He held the nose up in the aerobrake until reaching 100 knots, then lowered the nose and applied full brakes.
With no hydraulic power, Spectre relied on what was left in the hydraulic accumulators to power the brakes. Not knowing how much runway remained, he dropped the hook, but the aircraft rolled to a stop as Zeus started growling.
Spectre sat straight up in his bed as the knocking at the door became more apparent. He tried to shake off the dream he had been having. It haunted him night after night, just like the strafing incident. He convinced himself he wasn’t in Iraq anymore. He was in Homestead, and someone was knocking at his door at 11 PM. Chloe had been night flying, maybe she forgot her key.
CHAPTER TEN
Homestead, FL
When Spectre opened the door, he was overcome with extremely conflicted emotions. On one hand, he wanted to punch the man standing on his doorstep, but on the other, he was absolutely horrified by the potential reason the man was even standing there.
Colonel Ross “Coach” Louhan was the Operations Group Commander for the 39th Operations Group. Although Coach had taken command of the 39th well after Spectre separated from the Air Force, Spectre detested the man with all of his being.
The wretched, vile little man had been the Air Expeditionary Group Commander during Spectre’s last deployment. While only an Active Duty Lieutenant Colonel at the time, the evil little troll with salt and pepper hair and crooked nose had been in charge of both the active duty and reserve squadrons deployed to Joint Base Balad during Spectre’s deployment.
It had been Coach that had met Spectre at the jet after his engine out experience. It had been Coach that grounded him for a week for not ejecting instead of trying to land in the dust storm. It had been Coach that had grounded him for strafing without his flight lead and without a qualified JTAC. And worst of all, it had been Coach that sent the scathing, slanderous email to the head of Air Force Reserve Command filled with outright lies about Spectre’s lack of airmanship, flight discipline, and regard for the rules.
That e-mail had cost him his flying career. The three star general, wanting to save a delicate Active Duty and Reserve Coalition, responded with a simple, “He won’t be flying my airplanes anymore. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.” And with that, Spectre was pulled from the cockpit and sent back to the states. No formal hearing. No chance to plead his case. No looking at the facts of the last flight of his career. He had been administratively reassigned to a non-flying staff job and given a formal letter of reprimand.
With the steady drizzle outside, Spectre seriously considered pushing him into the nearest puddle and slamming the door. The pure sight of him made his jaw and fists clench in unison. But Spectre knew there was a reason Coach and the chaplain were
standing on his doorstep so late at night, and it wasn’t good.
With a forced smile, Coach asked to come in. Spectre ushered them in and sent the growling Zeus to his bed.
“Cal, this is Chaplain Moise,” Coach said as they sat. The two were dressed in their pressed Air Force service blues. This was definitely not a social visit.
Before Spectre could ask what was going on, Coach began explaining. “Cal...” he began. It was an obvious jab in Spectre’s mind, refusing to address him by his callsign. Coach always considered himself above everyone, but those not flying were especially beneath him.
“As you probably know, you’re Captain Moss’s emergency contact as her next of kin,” he continued. Chloe apparently had never updated her Record of Emergency Data after the breakup, or she still believed, as he did, that there was hope for their relationship.
Spectre’s eyes began to water. He knew what was coming, and Coach was dragging this out.
“What happened?” Spectre interrupted impatiently. He knew the routine. Get to the point already.
“As you may know, the Gators have been night flying this week. During maneuvers tonight, we lost contact with Captain Moss. Search and rescue efforts are underway, and right now she’s listed as missing, but we have not heard anything from her.”
Spectre looked away. He didn’t want to show weakness in front of the man he hated so much, but the news was crushing. Coach was giving him the press release version, but he could read between the lines. No contact usually meant no ejection attempt. He had seen it far too many times before, but this time, it had happened to the woman he loved - or used to love. It all seemed so trivial now.
“Cal, we’re doing everything we can to find her, but the weather has hampered our search, and there’s a lot of water to cover.”
“Was there a beacon?” Spectre was referring to the emergency beacon in the F-16’s ejection seat. When set to AUTO, it would automatically begin broadcasting on UHF frequencies, allowing search and rescue teams to locate the survivor in the event of incapacitation.
“There will be a Safety Investigation Board convened—”
Spectre immediately cut him off. “Don’t give me that horse shit, Coach. The least you can do is tell me what you know. You owe me that.”
“Fine,” Coach yielded. “Captain Moss was leading a red air sortie tonight. During a preplanned maneuver, she was to execute a 135-degree turn with a rapid descent to a lower altitude block. Pistol lost contact with her on the datalink sometime after that. He tried to find the wreckage, but with the undercast solid weather deck, he couldn’t find anything. There was no chute, no flares, no calls on the primary or backup rescue freqs, and no beacon.”
Spectre sat back in resignation. “It’s almost the same thing that happened to Pistol.”
“It’s too early to tell. We’re still looking for her, and we’re hoping she managed to eject like Pistol did, but it’s looking like a possible controlled flight into terrain scenario.”
“What happens now?”
“We keep looking for her. If we can’t find her in a couple of days, it will become a recovery effort.”
Spectre had developed a thousand yard stare. He was in complete disbelief. Just a few weeks ago, the two had been planning the rest of their lives together. Everything was happening so fast. First the breakup, now she could possibly be gone forever. He was living a nightmare.
“Cal, I have to get back to squadron. Chaplain Moise can stay here with you and talk to you as long as you need.”
Spectre said nothing. He didn’t think any amount of talking would do anything. He felt helpless, and wanted to be in the air, circling the waters of the Atlantic looking for Chloe as part of the rescue effort.
Coach stopped himself as he started for the door. “Oh, almost forgot. She listed you as the person to notify her parents for something like this. She probably just never updated it since you left the Air Force, but technically, you’re that person. I’d go myself, but it’s a pretty far drive north, and I really have to get back to running the rescue operation. Can you do it? I’ll send the chaplain with you if you like.”
“Of course I’ll do it,” Spectre barked. The smug bastard just didn’t get it. Everything about him felt fake and forced, and even in a time like this, he just couldn’t manage a genuine gesture.
“Great. I’ll have someone at the Ops Desk call you if anything changes.”
Coach got up and walked out, leaving the chaplain behind without waiting for a response. Spectre watched through the nearby window as he got in his car and sped away. The car sounded awful – way too loud for such a little car. He would have expected a colonel to be driving something much nicer.
“Let me get changed, do you want to go with me or do you want me to take you back to base?” Spectre asked, trying to refocus. Coach always seemed to bring out the worst in him.
“Whatever you need me to do. I’ll gladly ride with you and help you talk to her family,” the chaplain responded.
Spectre appreciated the offer. Her family never really liked him, and breaking the news to her overbearing mother would probably be something better left for the chaplain anyway.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Winter Haven, FL
The pain started as a dull throb and accelerated to a sharp pain as Jack Rivers regained consciousness. His brain seemed to be starting its own reboot cycle, as more and more nerve centers seemed to come online and send signals of sharp pain to his brain. He tried to open his eyes, only to realize his left eye was swollen shut. He had no idea where he was, only that his last memory was walking back inside from that van. At least, he thought it was a memory. It could’ve just been a dream.
But the pain Jack was feeling was no dream. He strained to see anything with his right eye, but wherever he had ended up was completely dark, or he had also lost vision in his right eye. As more of his senses came online, he heard what sounded like a soft whimper somewhere near him. It almost sounded like muffled crying. He started to pick up his hands to his face, only to realize that he couldn’t move them. His hands were bound to the chair he was sitting in. As he struggled against his restraints, he realized that he’d found another source of pain. The rope used to tie him down was digging into his skin, causing even more pain as his brain cycled through the nerve centers of his wrists, face, and ribs. He found it hard to breathe.
His eye finally adjusted to the darkness. There was just enough light from under the door to his right to make out shadows in the room. There were two silhouettes lying on the floor in front of him. He could barely make out the up and down movement from the one closest to him. It was a female sobbing. He couldn’t tell whether it was Maureen or the live in nurse, Dianne. The other silhouette lay motionless beyond the first. It was too dark to tell if whoever it was could still be breathing or was sleeping or unconscious.
He slowly looked around the room. The more he regained his senses, the more he realized his breathing was labored. He must’ve broken or at least bruised a few ribs at some point. He felt like he had been in a car accident or heavyweight fight. None of it was adding up. As the shadows started coming together, his location started to make sense. He was in the utility room near the north end of the house. He could make out the washer and dryer off to his side, and the coat rack in the corner. He was tied to a metal folding chair near the back corner of the room.
He tried to talk. His jaw was also incredibly stiff and sore. Whatever had hit him hadn’t stopped at the initial strike.
“Maureen?” His voice was barely above a whisper. The muffled sobs increased and he saw the nearest silhouette roll over. That answered nothing.
“Maureen, is that you? Are you ok?” The sobs were replaced by a muffled “Oomph.” She was gagged. There would be no conversation.
Jack was desperate for answers. Who could’ve done this? He had heard of a burglary a few miles up the road last month, but they just stole the valuable stuff and took off. This wasn’t a burglary, he reasone
d. They would’ve tried to come when they weren’t around, and during the day like the other burglary. Maybe it was the work of that new gang in town. A gang in Winter Haven, Florida of all places. It made his blood boil. If this were a bunch of spoiled gangbanger wannabe kids, they’d have hell to pay.
The door opened. The hallway light was blinding until the shadow of the man entering hovered over him. A man entered, leaving the door open. The light was now enough to see that it was Maureen lying on the floor. He tried to look around Maureen at the other figure on the floor. Evan! His heart started racing. He could see Evan lying there on the floor, his arms tied behind him. He wasn’t moving. His blood boiled even more. Who would tie up a handicapped child? Who would even touch a special child like Evan? Jack struggled against his restraints, only to exacerbate the pain in his chest and wrists.
“Who are you? What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded of the dark figure standing before him. He wasn’t very tall. Even seated, Jack was almost at chest level with the man.
“Such language Mr. Rivers. You Americans are all alike. So demanding and vulgar, even in a position of disadvantage.” His accent was thick, but his English was perfect. A Middle Easterner? Nothing made sense.
“What do you want from us? Let us go! Untie my wife and son!”
“Your son is weak. Allah has cursed you.”
Jack’s face grew flush. He wanted to kill that son of a bitch. He had never felt so angry and scared in all of his life.
“Fuck you!”
The man wound up and backhanded Rivers. The blow itself wasn’t painful, but his jaw and head were now screaming in pain from earlier. He could barely think.
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