by Chuck DeVore
Joe was slumped over the control yoke. The smell of burnt wires and singed hair filled the cockpit. Dan was shocked to see smoke. Fire, in a new state-of-art-aircraft—with him onboard, what rotten luck. The aircraft nosed gently down and to the right. The copilot was frantically reading his instrument panel and pushing buttons.
Dan unstrapped himself from the jump seat and squeezed Joe’s shoulder. No response. Dan worked his way around to Joe’s seat and hit the release on his seat belt and shoulder harness. The copilot noticed Dan’s effort and yelled, “We’ve been struck by lightning! Somehow it arced into the aircraft’s intercom system. I think Colonel Giannini’s been electrocuted!” The copilot rapidly flipped switches, never breaking stride while he yelled.
“Oh shit!” The copilot had looked up and momentarily froze. Dan reflexively looked up too, not really sure he wanted to see what caused the copilot’s discomfort. In the distance, about a half a mile ahead, the lead C-17 and the KC-135 tanker aircraft were in trouble. The aircraft must have somehow collided during refueling. The C-17 was pitching up steeply. The KC-135 was missing its refueling boom and its tail section looked severely damaged. They rapidly closed on the stalling C-17. Dan saw a gaping hole just behind the cockpit. The wounded cargo jet began to keel over to the left. The copilot banked sharply to the right. Trailing bits of debris, the C-17 was going down.
“Atlas One, Atlas One, this is Warrior Two, over.” The copilot used the flight’s fixed call signs to try and raise the first aircraft.
His voice got more desperate, “Atlas, One, Atlas One, Atlas One, this is Warrior Two, do you copy, over.”
A warning indicator on the copilot’s instrument panel began flashing red. All thought of the other aircraft vanished and the copilot went back to contending with his stricken aircraft.
Dan grabbed Joe from under his arms, lifting and dragging him from the cockpit. He laid him out on the deck and felt for a pulse. None. Dan checked for breathing. None.
“Oh dear God,” Dan said quietly. He wondered why the loadmaster wasn’t helping, looked up and saw him limp and unconscious in his seat, his headset still on.
Dan had to try to save these men, but he’d need help to do so. He sprang up and ran out into the cargo hold, yelling for help. He had 15 troops with him in the aircraft. All but two were fast asleep. Those two immediately responded, unstrapped themselves and ran to their Commander, steadying themselves with whatever hand holds they could find along the way. “Perez, Green, the loadmaster has probably been hit by lightning. Check his vitals and begin CPR if needed.” The slight young Private Perez and the well-muscled and much older Sergeant First Class Green knew what to do without explanation.
Training took over for Dan. He put one hand on Joe’s forehead and the other on his chin, tilting the head back to open a better breathing passage. He quickly pulled opened Joe’s mouth, looking to see if Joe had swallowed his tongue. Everything okay. He placed one hand on top of the other on the unconscious man’s chest and began heart massage. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. He pressed 15 times. Then down, pinching Joe’s nose shut with one hand while placing his mouth fully over Joe’s. Blow out, then let him exhale. Blow out, then let him exhale. Blow out, then let him exhale. Dan was going to quickly check for a pulse when he saw Joe’s body shudder underneath him. Joe’s chest heaved and he took a gulp of air on his own. “Thanks God,” Dan said under his breath. Dan saw his men working to revive the loadmaster.
Dan carefully watched the pilot’s breathing. It was now shallow, but steady. He looked at Perez and Green. Perez was doing the mouth-to-mouth. Green the heart massage. He slid over to the loadmaster and tried to find a pulse. Nothing. “Keep on it guys!” Dan looked around for something to keep the pilot warm and to elevate his feet to get more blood to the brain. He made his way back to his still sleeping 13 men and raided a couple of soft, warm camouflage poncho liners from Jones and Gutierrez who began to protest then fell into a confused silence when they saw it was their battalion commander who was taking their warmth from them.
While he was back among his men Dan barked, “Everyone, get up! Get up! We have an in-flight emergency. The crew thinks we’ve been hit by lightning. I want everyone alert!”
Dan went back to attend to Joe, checking for a pulse on the loadmaster on his way. Still nothing. He covered the pilot and made him as comfortable as possible. It had been about two minutes since the lightning strike. “Come on guys, keep trying!” Colonel Alexander exhorted his men.
Dan searched his memory. He seemed to remember one of his men was a private pilot. He bolted back to the cargo and passenger hold. “Blackwell! Don’t you have a pilot’s license?”
Staff Sergeant Blackwell spoke up, “Yes sir. Multi-engine instrument rating, sir!”
“Get up to the cockpit and see if our copilot could use any help. And Blackwell, let me know what’s going on when you can.”
“On the way sir!”
Dan thought about the situation. They were cruising at 28,000 feet. There were some high clouds above them. Joe discussed a typhoon far to the south, but certainly they weren’t upon that weather system yet. He had heard stories about clear sky lightning, but how did that explain the other C-17 apparently spinning out of control? He glanced at his watch. He had a inexpensive but reliable battery-driven Timex with both analog and digital function. The digital LED readout was blank. The watch’s second hand was motionless. He thought of the transmission from the Belleau Wood and Okinawa Control. A deep chill gripped his neck and arms—could they really have done it? Did the Chinese attack Taiwan using nuclear weapons? Certainly it could explain the electrical damage in the aircraft as well as the other C-17s misfortune. If so, where were the flash and the shock? Dan thought of his family back in California and hoped that he’d see them again. The idea of dying of radiation sickness wasn’t especially appealing—literally retching your guts out. Still, he felt okay.
He walked past Joe’s gently breathing chest. Green and Perez were still working on the lifeless loadmaster. Speculation turned suddenly to military certainty. They were in the middle of a war whether they wanted to be or not.
He tapped the copilot’s left shoulder. Not turning, the Air Force major said, “Yes?”
“If you want it, I found some help for you. Sergeant Blackwell here is a pilot with an instrument rating. He could at least keep an eye out for you.”
“Right.”
“Major, I know what happened to us. Somewhere, someone, probably the Chinese, exploded a nuclear device. We were hit by EMP.”
“Colonel, we lost an engine, we have no nav systems, all our comms are down. Go away.” The copilot began to fray at the edges.
Dan paused. Now was not the time to confront an overloaded pilot. “What are you going to do, Major?”
“I’m going to set this bird down at the nearest airport I can see.” As he said this, he pointed down and to the right at about two o’clock, “Right there!”
Sergeant Blackwell began climbing into the pilot’s seat and strapping in. The copilot grabbed his chart book and handed it without looking to Blackwell. “Here, find me the closest airport in northern Taiwan. We need to land—right now!”
Blackwell, never before behind the controls of a C-17, was, nevertheless, immediately at home with the familiar navigational chart book, “You got it, sir!”
Having provided the copilot with some relief, Dan decided he could risk one more interaction with the stressed-out flyer, “Major, do you have any idea if the other two aircraft are still with us?”
“No, sir. But if I know Collins and Shaw, they’ll be right behind me, at least making sure I’m okay.”
The Major addressed Sergeant Blackwell, “What’s the nearest airport?”
“Taipei Sungshan Airport. It’s Taipei’s domestic airport on the northeast side of the city. Its runways are 9 Left and 27 Right. They’re 7,000-foot runways. The tower frequency is 87.5. Taipei control is 127.3. The runway is about 20 miles to the west of the coas
t.”
Following standard procedure, the Major tried to reach Taipei Control, Taipei Tower, and Okinawa Control. He had no idea if his calls could be heard by anyone. It was possible that he was transmitting and not receiving, or that Taipei had already been knocked off the air and couldn’t hear him or respond.
The Major swung the military cargo aircraft around to the right and began his approach into Taipei Sungshan Airport. “I hope they know we’re not bad guys.”
Dan looked back at Sergeant Green and Private Perez, his eyes trying to adjust to the relatively dark interior of the unlit cabin. They were beside the limp body of the loadmaster. Green looked back at his battalion commander, the whites of his eyes burning brightly behind his dark black face. Green just sadly shook his head. “How’s the Colonel?”
“I think he’ll make it, sir,” Green responded.
Dan slapped his hand to his forehead and said, “Damn! Everyone get to MOPP-4, right now!” He ran back to the cargo hold and began taking the cargo netting off of their stowed personnel gear. He found his rucksack and began tearing into it, breaking out the new charcoal-lined chemical suit from its plastic container.
He pulled on the jacket, then thought twice and took it off. He reached for his Kevlar vest and donned it. Dan told his four tankers to leave their flak vests off. Then he put on the chemical jacket and the pants. Another soldier automatically helped him button the three snaps in the back that completed the seal. He pulled on the rubber booties over his combat boots and laced them up, pulling the pant legs down over them to prevent chemicals from getting inside his boots. He and his men would now be protected from many of the most unsavory aspects of modern warfare—when in doubt. . .
Dan made his way back to the cockpit. He was surprised to see the runway only a few miles off. An aircraft sat dead center in the middle of the runway. Sergeant Blackwell looked back and was startled by Colonel Alexander’s chemical suit and mask. Dan yelled through the voice meter, “Get yours on as soon as we’re down. I’ll have someone break it out for you.”
“Thanks, sir. You better strap in. The runway looks short today.”
“Right.”
“Sir, what the hell are we getting ourselves into?”
“Sergeant,” came the muffled reply out of the mask, “I’ll let you know when it’s over.”
Lieutenant Colonel Dan Alexander saw it at the end of the runway: a Soviet-era four-engine cargo aircraft with its ramp down. A few uniformed men milled about the Iluyshin-76. His old Cold War paranoia activated. He thought of the last hectic 15 minutes. One C-17 and a KC-135 missing and presumed down. A complete loss of communications. Almost total electronic and electrical failure, including the surge of electricity into LTC Giannini’s headset resulting in his near death. Now a suspicious-looking Il-76.
Images from the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 popped into his head. He had just completed his basic training at Ft. Jackson, South Carolina—a brand new private in the dismal days of American military retreat. He vividly remembered the TV shots of the Soviet transport aircraft in Kabul—the Soviets had seized control of the airport and simply flew their troops in to the heart of the country. President Carter declared a grain embargo and boycotted the Moscow summer Olympics in protest. Private Alexander went off to his Advanced Individual Training, Armor School at Ft. Knox, Kentucky. From there he went to West Germany where he served in a cavalry unit in the Fulda Gap. He cut his military teeth expecting to face the Soviet military in the World War Three that never happened. Seeing Soviet-built military hardware caused an unavoidable, reflexive hostility in him. His rational being knew it wasn’t fair. He just hadn’t been deprogrammed yet.
The C-17 touched down. The brakes thankfully slowed the crippled aircraft to a crawl just short of the two-engine commuter aircraft that blocked the runway. The copilot swerved the C-17 into the grass to give the aircraft behind him more room to stop. The C-17, designed for short and unimproved runways just roared on, plowing over the grass. He gunned the engines and pulled back onto the runway.
They taxied to the west end the of the runway about 100 meters to the left of the Il-76. Dan noticed most of the military personnel around the Il-76 were wearing protective masks. A few of the personnel milled about aimlessly. Others appeared to be gesturing wildly at the wandering soldiers.
Dan shuffled over to his troops, the large rubber chemical suit booties making maneuver in the cramped aircraft tough, “Peña, Jones, Hernandez! Get in the tank. Perez, take my place in the TC’s position. Button-up. Power-up. Take your masks off. Prepare for combat. We have unidentified troops out on the tarmac. Watch me through the periscope.” The men immediately climbed into the tank.
“Sergeant Noreiga, get the rest of the men to cut the tank free, right now! When you’re done, get your personal weapons and take up positions covering the ramp area. There are troops out there and I don’t know if they’re friendly!” Dan took a big draught of air. Yelling with a protective mask on was exhausting.
Dan made his way back to the cockpit.
Just before the C-17 came to a full halt, the copilot turned the aircraft to the left 90 degrees. He excitedly pointed to his left, back up the runway. “They made it! I see two Globemasters! Hot damn!” His smile was so wide Dan thought he’d crack his face.
They were stopped, on the ground and in one piece. Lieutenant Colonel Giannini stirred, mumbling. Dan took a deep breath and spoke loudly through his protective mask, “Thanks for the safe landing. Joe’s in bad shape. I’ve got to get off the aircraft. I don’t like the welcoming committee. You stay here.” He turned toward the door. “The loadmaster is dead. Can you lower the ramp from here?”
The copilot turned in his seat and began unstrapping, “No. Power to the ramp hydraulics is out. I’ll have to climb in the back and let it down manually.”
Dan followed the copilot to the back of the aircraft. His men had just finished unhooking the tank. The copilot released a safety latch and turned a few hydraulic valves. The cargo ramp slowly descended. The light from outside the aircraft fairly blinded them. They heard the whine of the other jets coming down the runway. Two seconds later, they saw more than a dozen masked soldiers surrounding the aircraft with submachine guns and light anti-tank weapons (LAWs) leveled on them. “Whoa! Don’t shoot! Americans! We’re Americans!” the copilot shouted as they both raised their hands skyward.
Dan looked up at the tank. He hoped his men grasped the delicateness of the situation. The copilot was wrung dry. His ability to think and react, especially with an unexpected ground situation, was limited. Dan had to do something fast to avoid bloodshed. Perhaps the fact that they hadn’t been immediately attacked meant that these soldiers were not the enemy. Dan remembered they had all sewn the American flag high on their right sleeves. Unfortunately, the chemical suit covered it up. The troops outside shifted nervously. Only five seconds had passed since the ramp lowered. His hands held high, Dan walked down the ramp and into the sunlight. He slowly reached one hand down to his mask and removed it. He hoped his blue eyes and closely cropped blonde hair would show these men he was an American. “American. We are Americans!”
A soldier advanced, pointing his pistol at Dan’s head. Dan slowly unbuttoned and unzipped the front of his chemical suit and peeled it back to reveal the American flag patch on his BDUs.
The soldier spoke to him in near-perfect English from behind his protective mask, “Put your mask on. There has been a chemical attack.” He turned to the other soldiers and spoke in Chinese. Dan heard the sound of muffled cheers through 20 protective masks. The soldier turned back to Dan, “You have arrived quicker than we hoped. Thank you for coming to help us defend our freedoms.”
* * *
Colonel Flint watched the air situation display as the east and west moving masses of blips moved relentlessly towards one another. Just as the two masses appeared poised to merge, blips began to disappear from the leading edge of the east-moving masses. Colonel Flint watched with satisfa
ction as the mainly U.S.-equipped ROC air force tore into its larger but antiquated counterpart. At this kill rate, he smiled to himself, the air war will soon be over.
His equanimity froze into anxiety as he noticed a very rapidly moving radar return well to the south of the ongoing dogfight. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, pointing at the flashing symbol.
“Sir,” came the voice of young radar operator. “That’s a ballistic missile. I’m running a trajectory on it. It should clear Taiwan more than 150 miles up and land near Philippine territorial waters about 50 miles north of Luzon.”
“That ought to win friends and influence enemies,” Colonel Flint observed dryly.
Major Ramirez showed up at his left elbow. “What’s up, sir?”
“You tell me, Rez,” Colonel Flint half-whispered in his intelligence officer’s ear. “Those are Chinese aircraft,” he said, gesturing at the air situation display. “Those are Taiwanese aircraft. And that blinking SOB is a ballistic missile that the Chinese are lobbing over Taiwan. But it won’t even come close. It will splash down north of Luzon Island. Are Chinese missiles that inaccurate?”
“Sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Ramirez’ mind was racing. “You wanted the birds warmed up, right?”
“Yes . . .”
“We’ve got to shut them down—right now!” Ramirez was sure of himself: bet your rank on it sure. “That missile is carrying a nuke. The Chinese are going to explode it over Taiwan. Shut down everything we have and disconnect the antennas.”