Tomcat tsf-3

by David E. Meadows

  “Shell Leader, I look forward to buying the first round when our paths cross again. Ranger Two Nine out.”

  The flashing small red light on the starboard fuel bladder went from blinking to a steady red. They had less than ten minutes to land.

  “Commander,” Chief Henckels started.

  “I know, Chief. We’re empty, flying on fumes.”

  “I can turn off one of the starboard engines, sir. That would give us a couple of more minutes.”

  Stillwell shook his head. “No, I don’t think one good engine with our number two would keep the plane airborne.

  Cross your fingers, Jasbo, Chief.”

  * * *

  The American captain stared at the approaching aircraft through binoculars pressed against his eyes. His fingers meticulously twisted the lens as he tried to focus on the bobbing aircraft. The several seconds he had the aircraft in his vision, he saw the two wheels down Ranger Two Nine had reported. He failed to spot the port side wheel, but it was hard to take in everything through binoculars when your target was bobbing, weaving and approaching. He did not envy those pilots. From his own experience, he knew the adrenaline surge going through their bodies and the fear they were fighting to contain. He lowered the binoculars. One minute to truth time. He turned to the operations officer behind him and told him to check again and make sure those Italians were prepared to foam the runway. He wanted the foam laid as soon as they were sure the wheels did not fully extend.

  Further, he wanted his people to rig the barrier at the end of the runway. There was little he could do to help the plane recover. The foam padded the runway with fire retardant chemicals that expanded on contact with the air. If Ranger Two Nine had to belly in, the foam reduced the chance of the aircraft exploding from sparks or catching on fire. The barrier was a grid of metal wires running between two steel stanchions, designed to stop a plane from cartwheeling off the end of the runway. Barriers were used on carriers to trap a plane that has problems with its tail hook. Most airfields had smooth ground past the end of the runway, but in Sigonella, the runway ended abruptly, and rough, uneven cacti plains speckled with deep drainage ditches began. The barrier was not designed to stop a plane the size of the EP-3E, but even so, it would slow it down and maybe keep it on the runway with the foam. Three hundred yards farther, in the direction the Aries aircraft was going to land, a paved civilian highway, on a high bank, crossed the T of the runway.

  The noise of the approaching plane made the American captain think of a sick bird. He had over twelve thousand hours of flight time in fighter aircraft before the beloved medical corps decided his flight years were over. He glanced at the men and the two women officers standing with him to see if they heard what he did. They gave no indication, and he said nothing. There was a slight hiccup in one of the engines, a background noise that only an experienced pilot could recognize. He knew Commander Stillwell, and he knew as surely as he stood here waiting for the aircraft to pass overhead that the vibration of that slight sound the pilot would feel through the steering column.

  Several of the officers put their hands over their ears as the plane headed in its last 200 feet. Ranger Two Nine turned slightly to the left and then seemed to turn too far to the left before it whipped back to level flight. In that instant, when the belly was fully exposed to the Americans and the Italians standing in the crowded tower, everyone saw that only two wheels were fully deployed. The port wheel was barely visible out of its cradle as if it tried to deploy and then locked up. He knew the wheel would not reset. They could try pumping it down, but they had insufficient fuel with their transfer fuel pump broken to have the time do it.

  “Ranger Two Nine, Sigonella Tower: your port wheel is not fully deployed. It appears to be wedged half in and half out of the wheel well. What is your fuel situation?”

  “We have no fuel. I am going to climb above fifteen hundred feet and allow the crew to bail out. I know it is low level for a bailout, but within parameters. I have no choice, Sigonella, I am coming in. Request — if possible and you have time — foam the runway for us.”

  The American captain snatched up his walkie-talkie and transmitted the necessary instructions. Even as Ranger Two Nine climbed to higher altitude for a bailout, two large fire trucks raced down the runway, pouring out the white foam chemical across the tarmac. At the farther end, sailors, chiefs and officers raced back and forth as they raised the barrier. The foam expanded, growing from a foot-high layer to two feet, to three, and in places as high as five feet. Two fire trucks moved to the edge of the approach end of the runway. Two more spun into positions halfway down and off the runway about 100 yards and at the end, past the barrier, two more waited.

  One of the officers touched the American captain on the shoulder and pointed to Ranger Two Nine. White parachutes blossomed asEP-3E crew members jumped from the side door of Ranger Two Nine. The American captain overheard the operations officers ordering pickup trucks and official sedans toward the fields outside the base to recover the crew members. One of the four ambulances broke off and sped off toward the field where the bulk of the parachutes appeared to be heading. The bailout stopped as Ranger Two Nine turned to port. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing the constriction in his throat to loosen. He relived his own crash and muttered a short prayer for the three who would try to bring it in.

  The bailout continued after Ranger Two Nine leveled off, flying parallel to the runway about one-half mile out.

  The aircraft would continue on this path for about four miles, make a left turn, and then a last left to line up on the runway. The decisive moment would be about two minutes after it lined up.

  “Sigonella Tower, Ranger Two Nine. We have completed bailout. Request short final.”

  The captain leaned forward, putting both hands on the railing. Those parachutes of the last group to bail out were being blown toward the runway. Shit! They were going to hit the runway about the same time as the aircraft touched down. He grabbed his walkie-talkie again and passed urgent instructions to those along the runway. Get those crew members off and away from the runway and under cover before the aircraft touched down. He passed the effort onto his operations officer, who stepped inside the tower to tell his Italian counterpart what was happening.

  They had seen the same thing and had passed similar instructions to their people on the ground.

  “Ranger Two Nine, Sigonella Tower. We have a slight problem. Some of your people who bailed out are being blown toward the runway. How long can you delay landing?”

  “Sigonella Tower, I cannot delay. I have no fuel! I am flying on fumes now. I have a fire warning light on engine, number two. No visible flames yet, but the light is on. I can’t turn it off. If we cannot land ASAP, then we will have to ditch the plane.”

  “Roger, continue with your approach. We are working to clear your crew members off the runway before you land. It will be close, but we can do it. Left turn, for short final.”

  Two clicks acknowledged the instruction.

  The first two parachutists landed in the middle of the foam. Silver-garbed Italian and American firemen rushed across the runway, grabbed them, their parachutes, and hurried them off the foamed pavement. Two more landed, one on each side of the runway. Firefighters snatched them under each arm and, more dragging than carrying, ran with them to a position behind nearby trucks.

  Only three parachutists remained in the air. Two of them would touch down before Ranger Two Nine. The American captain saw it was going to be close for the last crew member who bailed out. He doubted the man would land before Ranger Two Nine started its controlled crash along the runway.

  “This is Ranger Two Nine. Five hundred feet and descending.”

  “Ranger Two Nine, you are on glide path. Continue gradual descent. One minute to touchdown. Just prior to touchdown, cut engines ami secure unnecessary electronics.”

  “Roger, will do.”

  Dark, oily smoke erupted from engine number two, sending a bla
ck trail behind the injured aircraft. Flames leaped up, surrounding the engine.

  The parachutist tugged on his strands, fighting to maneuver his descent away from the runway. In so doing, the wind. caught the parachute and caused it to rise slightly, delaying the time to impact even more. It had been close, but now his unsuccessful attempt to avoid the runway had increased his chance for landing on it as the plane touched down. The captain estimated the parachutist was at!00 feet. He seemed to have ceased trying to manipulate the parachute, probably realizing his attempts only worsened the situation.

  The sounds from Ranger Two Nine’s engines abruptly stopped 300 yards from the runway. Flames spewed out of engine number two, moving up the wing toward the fuselage.

  “‘Don’t cut them yet!” shouted the transmission from the tower.

  “We didn’t. It’s on fire!”

  “Hit your extinguisher!”

  “‘They are empty on port wing side.”

  The plane moved forward another 100 yards before the nose dropped abruptly. Flames shot up suddenly, wrapping around the fuselage of the aircraft for a moment before dropping back. The American captain watched the Haps as Commander Stillwell attempted to coast the last 200 yards to the Sigonella runway. Without hydraulic power, the flight crew would have to use muscle to move any of the flight controls. His throat constricted as he watched the burning aircraft approach the runway.

  The EP-3E nose lifted slightly, but the plane was dropping fast. “Just get on the ground,” the captain muttered.

  Several of the officers near him agreed. If the aircraft would just stay together a few more minutes.

  “That’s it, Sigonella. Fuel’s gone!”

  Ranger Two Nine tilted to the port side for a moment before righting itself. Fifty yards. Come on, fellow. Fifty more yards, and then suddenly, the nose wheel touched the end of the runway, followed by the starboard wheel.

  The two starboard propellers were winding down. The propeller on number-one engine was missing. Fire was blazing from the number two engine, obscuring the port side.

  “That must have been the one shot off by the SAM,” the American captain said aloud, musing over the missing propeller of the number-one engine.

  The port wing remained aloft several seconds before slowly folding toward the runway. The tip of the wing disappeared into the foam, and the sound of horrendous wrenching, the tearing away of the undercarriage and the ripping of the number-two propeller from its shaft, filled the twilit atmosphere. The detached propeller spun about fifty feet into the air before falling back down to disappear into the foam behind the aircraft. The starboard wheel was invisible beneath the foam. Suddenly, the starboard side of the plane fell onto the runway as the wheel gave way.

  Flames roiled out of the foam, wrapping the Aries II reconnaissance aircraft in a moving pyre. Only the cockpit seemed free of the names.

  The aircraft began an uncontrolled skid along the pavement toward the barrier, sparks flying behind it to be quickly smothered by the foam. Why isn’t the foam putting out the conflagration? the commanding officer of Sigonella asked silently.

  The nose gear collapsed next, burying the nose of the aircraft into the foam. Foam shot up an dover the cockpit windows, blinding the cockpit crew inside. The only visible parts of the aircraft were the top of the fuselage and the top portions of the wing. The tail looked like a shark fin charging through white waters as the momentum of the aircraft shoveled the foam ahead of it, building a wave over ten feet high traveling down the runway, the burning fuselage marking its path along the runway.

  The aircraft spun clockwise, its tail rotating to port. Behind the aircraft, shooting more foam at the aircraft, sped the two fire trucks that had waited at the beginning of the runway. The foam fell ineffectively behind the aircraft.

  The trucks were unable to get close to the aircraft as it skidded down the runway because of the heat. Two fire trucks midway down the runway came in from the side to join the chase. Other vehicles, trucks, ambulances, and maintenance vehicles that had earlier converged toward the barrier began to move away as the RP-3E approached.

  At the barrier, the people began running, seeking safety, knowing the fate of the crew inside the aircraft rested in that thin strip of steel. It was the static barrier against the declining momentum of a heavy, spinning, crashed aircraft it was never designed to stop.

  The captain glanced up. The parachutist was ahead of the EP-3E. He watched the man in the parachute frantically tug at the canvas lines running to the canopy of the parachute, trying to gain altitude above the uncontrolled aircraft rushing toward him. The crew member jerked his feet up to his chest at the last moment. The tail passed beneath the parachutist, missing his butt by what seemed to the captain to be inches. The edge of the parachute canopy caught on fire as it passed over the burning middle of the aircraft. He had not realized he was holding his breath until that critical moment passed, and he heard the others around him let theirs out, also. The man in the parachute hit the center of the runway behind Ranger Two Nine and disappeared under the foam, only to emerge several seconds later at a dead run toward the near side of the runway. That would be one sailor who would have tales to tell his grandchildren.

  Ranger Two Nine hit the barrier with its port wing first, breaking through two of the steel cables before the tail section hit it. The barrier strained, the two stanchions bent, and when the captain thought they were going to give, they straightened. Ranger Two Nine had landed. The two fire trucks behind the barrier rushed up and trained their foam guns on the aircraft. The explosion knocked the captain and the officers with him back against the concrete side of the tower. They quickly pulled themselves up.

  Pieces of the aircraft hurled outward and up. Flames, smoke, and burning fuel rolled into the air with the fuel raining down on the firemen and others who had run toward the aircraft in a valiant effort to save the crew. A fire truck behind the barrier was on its side, burning.

  The American captain wanted to rush down there. He forced himself to watch, to witness. He could do little at ground level other than get in the way. Two firefighters in their silver fireproof gear emerged from the foam and fire, one pulling the other, who appeared to be unconscious.

  Their suits were speckled with small dots of flame where fuel burned on the fireproof suits. Nearby firemen returning to the blackening hulk of the Ranger Two Nine blasted the two with fire extinguishers. Two of them grabbed the injured one and carried him away toward a nearby ambulance, removing his helmet along the way. The second man dropped to his knees for a moment and then fell face forward onto the tarmac as two other firemen wrestled with his helmet, freeing it.

  He let his binoculars drop, turned to the officers beside him, and suggested they go see what they could do, though he knew there was little. He ordered the operations officer to have all the surviving crew members taken immediately to the hospital. Also, no press were to be allowed around them until he received instructions from Washington, next of kin were notified, and the intel had their chance with them.

  What a brave bunch of crew men on that aircraft, he thought, and then, in a kind of a by the way, he wondered who in the hell was the last person to bail out of that plane. john andrews lay in the dry grass beside the runway. Everyone was so focused on the exploding and burning aircraft that no one noticed him. He ran his hands down his sides, checking himself, even though he knew if anything had been wrong he never would have been able to run off the runway. His breaths came in short, rapid gulps. That tail nearly knocked him from the sky. He thought he was dead when he looked down the runway and saw the EP-3E, aflame, spinning toward him and there wasn’t a thing he could do. Several minutes passed before he managed to stand. Two sailors watching from a nearby pickup truck pointed at him. They rushed out of the vehicles and soon had Lieutenant Commander John Andrews resting against some boxes in the back of the maintenance vehicle as one of the sailors transmitted on the pickup radio his presence. The other one passed a half bottle of water
to him.

  An ambulance sped up to the scene, the tires leaving a trail of rubber when the driver slammed on the brakes.

  The white-garbed medics threw open the doors and rushed toward him, leaving the siren blaring on the empty ambulance. Everything seemed to flow in slow motion. It was as if he was a third party, watching things happen.

  Seemed to him a lot of sirens and horns were blaring across the runway. He turned and looked toward the end of the runway, expecting to see Stillwell, Jasbo Smith, and Chief Henckels. What he saw was a cockpit with flames licking through the side and the tail of the EP-3 burning on the other side of the runway. The thought passed through his mind that the tail shouldn’t be that far from the nose. As the adrenaline high ebbed and things returned to normal speed, tears began to flow. He couldn’t stop them. He shut his eyes, screwing them together as tightly as he could. Dead. He felt hands on him. Where were the others who bailed out with him? Where were they? He cried. Cried like a baby. Tears streamed from beneath the closed eyes. He had never been so scared in his life. His throat was so constricted, he couldn’t talk when the ambulance attendants picked him up gently and strapped him to the stretcher. Never so scared.

  CHAPTER 10

  Stapler moved cautiously but quickly around the dug-in positions of the Marines. He touched each of the Marines and oil riggers manning the defensive line. They stopped long enough to acknowledge his few words of encouragement before continuing to dig. Shoveling the sand and rocks to the front of their positions, building small walls to better protect themselves. Where he had placed a Marine, Stapler had interspersed one of the ten, armed riggers. What was coming their way would need the combined firepower of everyone.

  The unarmed, such as the professor, Karim, and Miss. Sheila Anne Forester, who bitched and moaned the whole time about being ordered to take cover, demanding she be given a weapon, he moved behind the large boulders to their rear. He ought to give her to the Tauregs; they’d surrender after a couple of hours with her. But he noticed that even she was stacking rocks around the positions nearer the base of the wadi cliff, creating some sort of half-built, waist-high fort. They would be safe as long as Stapler and the others held the front position. When he had looked back at what she was doing after an hour, he had to admit the girl had some intelligence.