'Advance to Contact' (Armageddon's Song)

by Andy Farman

  Military Flight One Four Eight: 0019hrs, 13th April.

  From their orbit high above RAF Gütersloh, ‘Chain Gang’, a flight of four F-16s had escorted the Boeing VC-25A, tail number 28000, as it left Europe the way it had arrived, far lower than peacetime regulations allowed. The low altitude gave it the option of hiding in the ground clutter of radar returns if necessary. The further from the front it, and its escort travelled, it gained a little more altitude until passing Ireland it began a slow climb from 10,000’ to 30,000’.

  Lt Colonel Arndeker, commanding the F-16s, was 2000’ above the Boeing with combat spacing between himself and his wingman, the second pair were in trail five miles behind. All aircraft were totally blacked out as an added precaution against interception, and an air exclusion corridor was being maintained. In another 230 miles the escort would tank and then himself and the pair in trail would head back to Germany, leaving one F-16 to continue on in company with the diplomatic flight to the States. They had drawn straws for that duty, as it meant the winner got to spend a few precious hours with loved ones before returning to the war. Even for the remaining three pilots it constituted something of a breather, the duty was in stark contrast to the previous sorties flown since war had raised its ugly head, this hop was almost boring in comparison.

  Aboard the blue and white liveried airliner Senator Rickham was annoyed that a young woman in Air Force blue, and a mere Sergeant at that, was strictly enforcing a seat belts on, and no movement about the cabin rule. He had however managed to get himself seated in the Presidential office of the aircraft with the German Chancellor and British PM, playing the ‘Special Envoy’ and alluding to confidences greater than he actually had with the President. Both men were friendly enough but would only engage in subjects non-related to sensitive issues, even without the Presidents warning, there was little about Senator Rickham that inspired confidence and trust in the PM. Aside from the premiers and senior representatives of the governments, there were their aides and personal assistants, in all forty-two passengers had boarded in Germany and were now enroute to the first face-to-face summit since the war began.

  The aircraft’s new tyre was less than 1/8th of a pound heavier than it should have been, but had the bogus Herr Koenig known that the tyre would not be weighed as a security measure, it would have been heavier. Arndeker was taking a moment to look up at the heavens and admire the stars when he was brought sharply down to earth.

  “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday…this is Military Flight One Four Eight, explosion in starboard wing, our position is…”

  Arndeker rolled inverted as the diplomatic flights AC read off the GPS position as displayed on the navigation panel, and looked straight down. He shouldn’t have been able to see the Boeing, all external lights were off as a precaution, but a tongue of flame was trailing from its starboard wing and illuminating it.

  “Chain Gang flight, maintain positioning on Military One Four Eight, I am going down to him!” Pulling the F-16s sidestick back, he brought the nose down to point below the horizon, descending inverted so as to keep the airliner in sight.

  The RAF AWAC for this sector of sky had been charged with the additional task of keeping the sky around the airliner clear as well as looking for potential threats, when they received the Mayday call their senior controller took direct charge. The UK and Eire coastguard were alerted and Air Sea Rescue scrambled a helicopter. The controller needed more information than they currently had, and with the Boeings crew fully employed trying to keep the aircraft in the air, an external damage assessment was the logical first step.

  Arndeker had rolled level and was closing on the Boeing when his back-up radio came alive

  “Chain Gang lead…this is Overview Four Nine on Guard!”

  “Go ahead Overview.”

  “We have you closing on One Four Eight, assume you are intending visual, over?”

  “That’s a Rog…monitor Guard and relay to One Four Eight please.”

  The airliners nose was about 5’ below the horizon in a shallow turn to the right. The fire was reduced to a fraction of what it had been when the emergency had first occurred and he allowed himself to hope that all was not as bad as it first seemed. Lt Col Arndeker switched back to the primary set and hailed the Boeing.

  “Military One Four Eight, Chain Gang lead?”

  He received a brief.

  “Go,” and continued. “Chain Gang lead is approaching from your Six, slightly high and right for a damage look-see.”

  “Rog…be advised that we are experiencing control problems…amongst a few dozen other items…possibly damage to control surfaces is the cause. Number Three is out, maybe due to lack of gas reaching it, but we have not attempted an engine restart at this time. Currently we have shut off fuel supply to that engine and we are pumping fuel to the port wing tanks from the starboard to try and re-establish trim…in case you were wondering, this turn to the right is none of our doing Chain Gang…We are aware of a hole in the upper wing surface…appreciate anything else you can tell us.”

  “Roger One Four Eight, a little light on the subject would assist.”

  There was a momentary pause, and then the exterior of the aircraft began to light up as anti-collision and landing lights came on.

  “Thank you One Four Eight, monitor Guard while I relay observations to Overview Four Nine.”

  “Roger.”

  The F-16 had closed to within a quarter of a mile and maintained its position there as the aircraft commander updated him; he now increased power slightly and closed, keeping clear of any debris that may come off the aircraft. The flames had disappeared but he was very conscious of the fact that substantial amounts of fuel were in tanks within that wing, so although his approach was not gingerly, it was cautious, the whole aeroplane still contained over 40,000 gallons of fuel, 800 plus barrels worth.

  From above, it was clear that the aerofoil shape of the wings upper surface had been badly distorted from the wing root to within a few feet of the starboard inner, the number three engine. There was a gaping hole about three feet across, some eight feet from the wing root, and the wing was bulging upwards, almost blister like around it. Arndeker began relaying this to the RAF AWAC, all the while trying to match the Boeings involuntary turn, which was varying by degree from moment to moment. The aircrafts wings clean silver finish was blackened and burnt from the wound in the wings upper surface, back to the trailing edge, where a slight movement caught his eye. Nudging in closer, he could see that the nearside end of the starboard aileron was effectively clamped in place by buckled aluminium in the damaged area; it could only be raised and lowered slightly. He could see the aileron moving fractionally, in response to commands from the cockpit but unable to comply fully. He also voiced doubts that the flaps could be relied upon, when the time came. The F-16 pilot wondered how well a standard Boeing would have fared under the same circumstances.

  There was much about this 747-200B, actually designated as VC-25A that was not fitted as standard, from the ECM suite to the self-sealing fuel tanks, which were effectively rubber bladders with a polymer shell. They didn’t stop the tanks from being pierced, but the rubber walls let the offending item penetrate and closed up behind it. Should the object carry away plugs of the rubber then the first trickle of fuel to touch the polymer shell would cause a chemical reaction as it reacted to leaking petroleum by first becoming gum-like, swelling and then hardening, sealing the hole. Even a tracer round would have little detrimental effect, as there was no air inside the tanks to allow an explosion to occur. The fuel tank nearest the seat of the explosion had been pierced by shards of jagged metal travelling at 1000 feet per second, and absorbed both they and the impact of the blast-wave, which would have sundered a standard fuel tank. The fuel line to the starboard inner engine had been severed and the fuel ignited, it was only prompt action by the USAF crew in cutting off the feed to that engine that had prevented the fire spreading. With the engine, a General Electric CF6-80C2B1 shut down; it was n
o longer adding its potential of up to 56,700lbs of thrust, so it was now a lump of metal causing more drag.

  Arndeker let down a few feet to see the underside of the wing, edging in closer because there was little in the way of white light to help his inspection, just the sweeping amber glare of the rotating anti-collision beacon on the aircraft’s belly. If anything, the damage from below was more obvious, the wheel bay doors were missing, and here too the wing shape was distorted, a large bulge marring the otherwise flat surface. Jagged aluminium edges protruded like the teeth of a predator at its centre, where the wheel bay had been located. Moving underneath he peered up into the gaping maw where the starboard gear should have been.

  “Overview, Gang Lead…I don’t know if anyone ever tried landing one of these on just the port wing and belly gears, but there isn’t much left of the starboard undercarriage…whatever happened, it happened in the starboard wheel bay.” Everything he was saying was being recorded, and design engineers were being woken up at home in America and collected by police cars for fast runs to their workplaces. He kept up his commentary until there was nothing else left to report, and then he backed away to a safe distance and called up the Boeing again.

  “Military One Four Eight, Gang Lead?”

  “Go Gang.”

  “How are your control problems now?”

  “Well as you can see, we’ve so far turned through one eighty once and are well on our way to doing it again…port tanks are about full, so we are going to commence a fuel dump from the right side…its restoring trim slowly.”

  “Roger…any thoughts on how you are going to put that thing back on the ground?”

  “So far we seem to be limited to shifting fuel from wing to wing and throttling back individual engines in order to steer…a guy put a DC-10 on the ground, after a fashion, at Sioux City a few years back, steered by altering trim this way. He wasn’t able to get even close when he tried duplicating it in the Sim, and neither has anyone else…so I’ll take a rain check on replying to that one Gang.”

  Arndeker checked his altitude, they were down to 27,000 feet, and the 747 still had a slight nose down attitude.

  “Roger that…are you able to get the nose up?”

  “Fella, we’re both hauling back like son’bitches in here…next step is to move passengers toward the rear of the cabin, and hope that helps.”

  Arndeker gained a few feet in altitude to stay clear of the fuel that would be entering the slipstream from the damaged wing.

  Sergeant Nancy Palo entered the Presidential office and smiled at the occupants, the German Chancellor and the British Prime Minister received the genuine ones, but Senator Rickham’s was of the strictly professional variety.

  The PM returned the smile.

  “Sergeant, are you able to tell us what is going on yet?”

  “Prime Minister, one of the escorts has looked us over and there has been some kind of explosion in the starboard wing wheel bay. It has damaged that wings control surfaces and fuel lines to one of the engines…”

  Senator Rickham mopped his brow with a handkerchief, his heart was pounding, and had been since the emergency began, the conversational tones of the Limey and the bitch in blue served only to irritate him further, and he snapped at her, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

  “Just what the hell does that mean?”

  Sergeant Palo opened her mouth to answer, but the PM was talking.

  “It means Senator, that we cannot steer properly and there are three engines running instead of four.” Rickham coloured, sure that the PM was talking down to him, but the PM did not apparently notice his discomfort and looking back to the Sergeant he gave her an apologetic half smile. “Please excuse me Sergeant…do carry on.”

  “Sir’s, we have pumped a lot of the fuel out of the starboard wing and into the port wings fuel tanks, now we are going to jettison some of the remaining fuel in the starboard wing. That will bring the wings level, but at present we are losing height slowly, so I will be moving people to the rear of the aircraft, that should help bring the nose up.”

  The German Chancellor had a suggestion that met favour with the PM, although the senator was not so sure, but forced himself to keep silent in case either of the supercilious, European sons of bitches put him down again.

  “I would be correct in assuming that the rear of the aeroplane is the safest place to be, if we force land, yes?”

  Statistically he was right, so she nodded in affirmation. “Then if I may suggest that the ladies are moved first?”

  It was a very gallant suggestion, typical of the Chancellors Old World values, but she suspected one or two of the females aboard would take umbrage at the suggestion that they were ‘little women in need of protection’.

  The front of the cabin was emptied until the Boeings nose rose again to the horizontal, and the wings slowly came level as the fuel was dumped.

  Lt Col Arndeker sat above and behind during the entire process, feeling relief as the Boeing held its current height, in a wings level attitude. One by one the valves in the wing tanks were closed as the desired trim approached, until just one remained open, that nearest to the fuselage.

  “One Four Eight, Gang Lead.”

  “Go ahead Gang Lead.”

  They were one hundred and twenty miles off the Irish coast, but heading almost due north.

  “Your attitude looks lots healthier now, are you going to complete the dump before turning?”

  “Gang Lead, we completed jettisoning fuel a few minutes ago, we will reduce power on number four to effect a turn to the right, commencing in about one minute.”

  Arndeker did not reply immediately, he brought the F-16 in a few feet, peering at the starboard wing, in the area occupied by the tank nearest the seat of the explosion. There in a steady stream, was fuel that was faintly visible whenever the amber collision light swept over it.

  “One Four Eight, Gang Lead…check your gauges please, you are still venting from whichever valve is nearest the starboard wing root.”

  “Roger.”

  There was silence for a few minutes, and then he heard the Boeings AC call the AWAC.

  “Overview Four Nine, Military One Four Eight…we have a problem.”

  Admiral Gee had just settled onto the camp bed in the CJOs office in the Haddon’s Rock facility when the phone rang. Rolling off the flimsy device he grabbed the handset off the receiver.

  “Gee!” He listened to the senior communications supervisor for a minute without comment and then sent a questing foot, outwards for his shoes whilst he replied. “Okay, let me speak to the Brit AWAC guys.”

  Admiral Gee was a good listener, provided the speaker knew what he was talking about and all relevant information was included. Once the details were passed over as to what had happened, what was still occurring and what action was in progress 4316 miles away, he went to wake the President.

  “Gun Lead, One Four Eight.”

  200m away, Lt Col Arndeker thumbed the send switch. “Go.”

  “We’ve reset the switches…standby while we try again.”

  The Boeing had completed its wide turn back to the south before running a systems diagnostic, the F-16 backed off whilst the manoeuvre was in progress, and then moved back in where it could watch and report.

  “Roger, One Four Eight…observing.”

  For five minutes he watched, willing the flow of fuel from the wing to stop, but it continued unabated.

  “One Four Eight, Gun Lead.” His tone conveyed the message as succinctly as a picture would have.

  “Roger Gun, had to try…we are beginning our let down now.”

  There was nothing else for it, the Boeing Corporation engineers were in agreement that something was broke, and it wasn’t going to fix itself.

  Mid-air refuelling was only going to prolong the inevitable, so it was left up to the AC as to where he was going to set it down. He was 100% convinced that trying to land on a runway was not an option, he couldn’t manoeuvre worth a dam
n so he elected to ditch off the Irish coast once there were rescue services on scene. In his words, there was less tall stuff about to bang into, and an ocean was easier to line up on than a strip of tarmac.

  The President was wearing an expression that said it all, “What the hell else can go wrong!” but the way the war was going, he wasn’t about to tempt fate by saying it aloud.

  Striding into the situation room, he asked the question without directing it at anyone in particular.

  “Do we have an up to date passenger list…and are the various governments aware?” Seating himself he rubbed hard at his eyes and the back of his neck, seeking to remove the last vestiges of sleepiness.

  He scanned the list that was put up on screen and muttered a thank you when a mug of hot fresh coffee was placed beside him.

  “Are there any options apart from ditching or forced landing, for getting anyone off?” It was a throwaway comment that he already knew the answer to, only in the minds of Hollywood screenwriters did the schemes to evacuate passengers from aircraft in flight exist. Even parachutes were fanciful, the Boeing would endanger itself further by slowing to above a stall in order for a parachutist to exit safely, not that the VC-25A carried any of them anyway. He had little doubt that even if there were only two aboard, neither the German Chancellor nor the British Prime Minister would use them themselves, they were ‘women and children first’ kind of folk.

  “At least Henry Shaw isn’t aboard, or more state heads.” He looked up as Admiral Gee entered. “Is it possible to listen in to voice communications, Admiral?”

  “Yessir…do you want to speak to anyone out there, we can do that too?”