Recall

by David McCaleb

  Lori glanced at him, a quick shot, but long enough to see the fear in her widened eyes.

  “How far away are they?” he asked into the phone.

  “About seventy miles,” came the voice.

  Relief. He leaned back into the seat. “No way they’ll find us. Needle in a haystack.”

  “Then why are they turning toward us?” Lori asked, voice tight.

  “Probably figure we’re headed for Iraq. By the time they find us, we’ll have an F-18 escort.”

  “Unless they’ve got eyes on the ground,” Marksman said. “We were headed to the Gulf when they started jamming. If they were trying to get a visual on us, that’s the direction they’d fly. Someone’s tracking us. We’re not out of this yet.”

  From the phone came “MIGs on course to intercept.” Now the device felt like a chunk of ice in his palm.

  “Can you jam their guns?” Red asked it.

  The radar operator’s voice was professionally eager, as if she was taking an order for a hamburger. “Parts of them. The laser range finder and the radar tracking. But we can’t keep them from gunning you down freestyle.”

  Would you like to supersize that?

  A heavy New York accent called from the rear of the cabin. “Lookee what I found!”

  Smoke circled Crawler’s head. He sat on an opened crate like a guy on the john. A fat green tube lay across his lap. He rose and strutted to the front of the plane, petting it like a Price Is Right model showing off the next prize. He butted Marksman in the chest with one end. “You owe me an apology for bustin’ me while I hefted these on the plane, man.”

  Marksman’s smile was gratuitous.

  “My parents were married,” Crawler said.

  “We don’t have time for this shit,” Red yelled. “What the hell’s that?”

  Crawler ground the hot ashes of his cigar into the stainless-steel sink. “Russian issue, heat seeker. A shoulder-launched SAM.”

  But it wouldn’t work air to air, would it? “You know how to use it?”

  “You kiddin’? Russian grunts are dumber than shit. Damn thing doesn’t even have a safety. You point this end at an airplane and squeeze this trigger. Last time I did that, a helicopter blew up.”

  Red had been on that op, in South Africa. Crawler’d shot an old Huey out of the sky, but the missile had locked onto the wrong helo, leaving the gunship to deal with.

  “You are not lighting that torch in my aircraft!” Lori shouted. “You can’t just bust out a window and squeeze the trigger. That thing’s an open tube. All the exhaust goes out the back and will blow the plane apart!”

  “Can’t we slow down and open the door?” Red asked.

  “Even if you shoot out a few windows so the air escapes, you’ll set us on fire,” Lori said, scowling.

  Marksman waved a hand. “Lori’s right. He’d still be dumping liquid hot exhaust into the plane.”

  Crawler looked at the door, then across from it at a coffeemaker built into the side wall. He ripped it off and tapped the aluminium behind it with a knuckle. “We pressurized?”

  “No,” she said. “Why?”

  “Where the wires run? The controls. Through the walls?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Marksman tapped a boot on the floor. “Below the deck.”

  Crawler swung his M4 and pointed it where the coffeemaker used to be.

  Marksman grabbed his arm. “Hey.”

  Red lifted his thumb from the phone mic. “MIGs still on a course to intercept?”

  “They’ll pass a couple miles behind you,” the high voice advised.

  He covered the mic again. “Let him go.”

  Pressure waves smacked Red’s chest as Crawler auto-stitched a semicircle, like an upside-down smiley. He loaded a fresh clip and finished the loop. It reminded Red of the old carnival booth game where he used to try to shoot out the star from a piece of paper with a BB gun. Crawler pried at the middle with his knife, bending it inward and leaving a hole the size of a small melon. Wind howled through, launching paper napkins into the air like oversized confetti. Crawler stuck the butt-end of the SAM into the hole, pushing hard until it went through. The gale stopped then, replaced by a hum like a vuvuzela’s, turning the SAM into a huge musical pipe. Crawler hugged the tube between cheek and shoulder, pointing the business end toward the door. He peered over at Red and flipped up a thumb.

  Red ducked back into the cockpit. “Slow us down as much as you can,” he told Lori.

  She frowned. “But they’ll catch up faster.”

  “Our escort’s still fifteen minutes away. The MIGs are almost on us. Go slow now so we can drop the door. If they see us, I’ll give the word and you turn broadside to them. Got it?”

  The whine of the engines lowered. The nose pointed up and leveled. The flap actuators under the grass-length lavender carpet droned like an electric mole trying to eat its way through.

  “Thirty seconds to intercept,” advised the radar operator.

  Will that be all for you today?

  Red held the phone to his mouth. “Turn off jamming, on my mark.”

  “Jamming off, on your mark,” she agreed, girlishness gone now.

  “Call out their position.”

  “Four o’clock and twenty seconds out. They’ll cross two miles behind and high. They’re at your five o’clock . . . six . . . seven . . .”

  “I see them!” shouted Marksman, peering through the small window on the door. “They’re headed away.”

  The rest of the team moved to the port side of the aircraft and pressed their cheeks to the windows. The planes were like two tiny arrowheads above the horizon, flying like racehorses with ears pinned back. They kept going till almost out of sight. A flash of reflected sunlight came from both.

  From the phone: “They’re banking toward you. Vectored to intercept.”

  Lori brought the plane about. Red held on to Marksman’s belt and braced as he dropped the door. Barren earth flashed by, the plane’s shadow bouncing up and down over ravines like a swallow fluttering in the dusk. The wind blasted him as Marksman dropped to his knees, pushing the door the rest of the way down. It seemed to vibrate in the fury, but the hinges held. If the door tore off, it’d run down the fuselage right into the engine. Freezing air whipped down Red’s back and filled his blouse, sucking the breath from his lungs.

  The horizon came down as Lori leveled off. Red yanked Marksman back from the edge. The MIGs were only dots now, an arc of gray mist marking their trails. He put the phone to his ear and shouted, “Jamming off!” Then tapped Crawler on the head.

  “They’re homing!” said the Hawkeye, with a vibrato of adolescent fear. “They’ve got—”

  Red bounced against the bulkhead as the SAM leapt from the tube, the hiss of motor exhaust breathing heat into his chest. The rocket left the door and disappeared aft. Had it tumbled in the slipstream? Or even had a chance to acquire its target in the turbulence?

  The MIGs banked sideways away from each other, ejecting white-hot flares like drops of liquid sun. Red held the bulkhead and inched toward the door. The SAM came back into view, arcing upwards toward one of the planes, closing so quickly the MIGs now looked slow. The SAM appeared as if it would pass behind the MIG’s tail, but took a sharp turn at the last second and hit the centerline of the fuselage. The MIG rolled forward, broke in the middle, and dropped out of sight behind them, falling in two burning chunks of metal.

  “Splash one!” Red shouted, slapping Sergeant Crawler on the back. He stumbled over something in the aisle. The empty tube. Crawler already had a second SAM ready. “Start jamming again!” Red shouted into the phone. The rushing air was so loud he couldn’t hear, even with the speaker pressed against into his frozen ear. He ducked into the cockpit, slamming the flimsy privacy door behind him. “Where’s the other MIG?” he asked.

  “Headed home,” the radar operator said.

  Red dropped onto one knee. “You sure?”

  “I’m reading his damn logboo
k. I’ll tell you if he comes around. Good job.”

  Thank you. Please come again.

  Something slapped the wall. Marksman was on the floor, Lanyard and Crawler each holding onto one of his boots. He hung halfway out the plane, pulling up the door. It closed and he cranked the handle hard, sealing it. The cabin was quiet again except for the hum of Crawler’s vuvuzela. A paper napkin floated down in front of Red’s face like a toy parachute. He snatched and crumpled it. He hadn’t seen the pilot eject. The distance was so short, maybe the poor bastard didn’t have time. Or maybe lax maintenance and no replacement parts kept the seat from working.

  He stretched a boot over the throttles and dropped back into the copilot’s chair, setting the phone on the console in front of them.

  “Come to two-six-five. I’ll talk you into Balad,” the radio operator said.

  Lori blurted, “We’re headed to the carrier.”

  “Negative. Come to two-six-five.”

  “What’re you doing?” Red asked. Her face was flushed. Sweat dripped from her chin. She kept blinking, shaking her head.

  “One tank’s bingo fuel,” she muttered. “Must’ve taken ground fire. Only got a third left on the one Crawler filled. The carrier group’s closer. Jim’s almost dead. Who knows what Balad’s got. I’m putting us down on the carrier.”

  “Lori, that’s crazy. Even if you could, they’ll blow us out of the sky if we even fly close.”

  The veins in her neck bulged again, like back at the airport. She probably hadn’t slept for days. When was the last time she’d eaten? They’d probably pumped her full of drugs. No way she was thinking straight now.

  “It’s on the carrier, or in the water next to it,” she said. “Even if they have to fish us out, we get Jim to someone that can help. And we’re on American soil.”

  Red tried his calmest tone. “Lori. You can’t do that.”

  She turned toward him and flapped a hand. “What you gonna do, Tony? Got anyone else that can fly this thing? Now tell that bitch what we’re doing. Then they blow us out of the sky or we land on the carrier. Their call.”

  “But you’ll kill us.”

  She twisted her grip on the wheel. “Conversation’s over.”

  “Red,” Ali called, an arm extended, waving him back. He took Jim’s T-shirt and pressed it to the scarlet mound of bandage atop his friend’s chest.

  Jim pointed a bent finger at the phone. “Give it to me.” Jim took it in his hand and shut it like a billfold.

  What the hell? “Sir, we need—”

  “You need to listen,” Jim wheezed. One eye was open, moving as if trying to focus, to find Red. “They won’t shoot us down. But she can’t land on a damn carrier.”

  “I know. She’s not thinking straight. She looks like hell. Doc should take a look. She’s . . . broke.”

  One side of Jim’s mouth rolled up in a smile. “Then you’ve got no choice. Sounds like we’re landing on the carrier.” He pushed the phone into Red’s chest. “Don’t ever let them think they’ve got the power. Higher, I mean. Or whoever’s in the control center. Once they pull the trigger on an op, you’re the one in charge. The rest can go to hell.”

  Red went back to the copilot seat. His boots fell like stones as he walked. Lori was sweating even more profusely. He passed her a canteen, got a tense nod. Hit redial and the Hawkeye gave him the radio channels. Jamming was off, so they could use it now. He placed headphones over Lori’s head. They pushed her hair down, exposing darker roots.

  An F-18 escort pulled next to them. The pilot waved and the radio crackled in Red’s ear.

  “Guido here, on your starboard.”

  Red waved.

  “Can I talk you out of this?”

  “You may not have to,” Lori said. “We’re low on fuel. But I’m not putting down in the water.”

  “Whatever. You’ll probably miss the carrier. Don’t undershoot. Ramp strike’s a bitch. Follow me. The strong headwind will help. The ship’s steaming away, full power. Since your normal landing speed is around one-ten knots—”

  “You know that?” Lori asked.

  “Not for sure. But that’ll give you a deck speed around sixty knots. We’ll arrest you with nets. It’ll be sudden.”

  Lori frowned. “How sudden?”

  “You’re gonna crash . . . twice. Once on the deck and again in the net. The headwind’s your friend.” Guido gave more instructions. She couldn’t aim for the tail of the carrier. Aim past it. “We set you up, you fly it into the deck. Just hit the damn thing. I’ll yell to go around if you’re going to undershoot. Once you hit, throttles back, controls forward. No touch-and-go’s with a net. Carrier’s ten minutes out. Follow next to me.”

  The late morning sun was still low in the east. At least it would be to their backs. The carrier was a fleck of copper atop a sea of molten lead. As they got closer, the ocean turned frothy. White water churned from the ship’s stern.

  Guido helped Lori line up and drop the flaps. “Go in gear up. The deck’s foamed,” he said.

  Red had everyone strap in. The small plane didn’t have enough seats for the prisoners in the baskets, so Crawler shoved them into the head, one atop the other, still tied in the fetal position at the bottom of their woven grass wombs. Soon to be tombs? Richards and Ali doubled up in one seat. Jim was upright now. Ali tied his blouse around his chest and chair, like a safety harness. Amin was strapped in, forehead wrinkling as if trying to open his eyes, moving the bloody foot across the lavender carpet, brushing it with highlights of crimson. Crawler tucked the busted crate behind the last row of seats.

  Red sat back in the copilot chair and crossed himself.

  “Do that for me, too,” Lori said, a pale pinkness flushing her cheek. The F-18 bobbed up and down outside the window.

  “Why’s Guido moving like that?” Red asked.

  “He’s not.” Her lips stretched thin. “We are. I’m trying to follow him in.”

  “Listen, if you miss, put us in the water. I’ll—”

  “Shut up.”

  It would be over soon enough. No way they’d all survive this. If she was able to hit the deck, maybe a few of the team would live. Probably the ones near the wings, where the fuselage was strongest. If they ditched, they’d hit the water at over a hundred knots, so it might as well be cement. With the wind turning up the waves they’d be under in minutes. If the plane broke apart, seconds.

  It was his fault, letting the pilot get killed. Penny, Jackson, and Nick would be raised by his parents. At least Tom had mellowed in his old age. Maybe he wouldn’t screw them up too badly.

  “You know I’ve seen this before,” Lori whispered under her breath. “Remember?”

  “What?”

  “I was in your seat. The real copilot was puking his guts out. But then the captain was Navy, and our plane had a tail hook, so it wasn’t the same.”

  The story felt familiar, as if Red had heard the joke before but couldn’t remember the punch line. He closed his eyes and tried, but the memory was like a butterfly that landed all too briefly, then flew away. He tried to picture Lori in the copilot seat, but all he could see was her determined eyes as she emptied the 9mm into the guards at the warehouse. How smoothly she had caught Amin’s neck with her handcuff chain. “Who are you?”

  “Sorry if I let you down,” she said.

  That’s not what he’d asked. “Father Ingram said he’d be praying. He’s an old Navy guy. Maybe God will listen to him.”

  The fuel gauge had a sliver of space between the bottom pin. Lori said, “I’m gambling we’ll have enough to do a trial run.”

  The carrier was huge and flat-topped. A superstructure rose from one side reaching seven stories into the air. The island, the Navy called it. It was topped with antennas and whirling radar dishes. The flight deck was divided into two main runways, one near the front pointed straight ahead with twin catapults sunk into it for launching aircraft. The separate landing runway, the one at which Lori steered the plane, angl
ed nine degrees to one side in case of an accident upon approach. The damaged plane would be less likely to endanger other aircraft on the deck. A likely scenario, currently. And the Navy, in their forethought, had provided the courtesy of spraying a thick white layer of fire retardant foam in anticipation of their arrival.

  But no other aircraft were on deck. It was like a ghost ship. Except for two white uniforms on an observation platform, nothing was moving. Having lined up her approach and flared close to the deck, Lori pressed the throttles forward and performed a go-round. Not bad, a little far to port, trying to stay clear of the island.

  “Pretend it’s not there,” Guido said. “Up close, all you’ll see is the butt of the flight deck. Pretend there’s a big red dot there. Run right into it.”

  Red cinched Lori’s harness, then his. Final approach, if they had enough fuel to make it. The wheel in front of his face travelled in and out, twisting, mirroring Lori’s movements. Sometimes when it moved, the aircraft didn’t, as if she was feeling the wind, listening to its thoughts, reacting before it changed. It was a battle between will and fate, woman and nature, skill and doubt.

  The morning sun shot pink on the contrails of two airliners crossing high above. On the water it paved a golden highway over windswept sea, like a sandbar emerging after ebb tide. The red dot grew, rose, then fell. She flared.

  The tail hit with a crack as loud as Marksman’s rifle. A flash of light shot through the fuselage as the back of it ripped off behind the bathroom. The plane pitched forward, dropping the cockpit hard, digging Red’s harness into his shoulders till the belly smacked the deck, driving him back into his seat. Pain shot up his spine to the crown of his head. Screeching, crumpling metal was under his feet. Foam sprayed ahead like a hundred fire hoses. A thick glob of it splashed on the steel net, approaching fast, not slowing, right where his window hit.

  The sun warmed Red’s cheek. Cold air blew down his neck. Pain shot through his arm. He opened his eyes. He was in the copilot seat, but his shoulder was twisted. Someone was going to have to put it back in its socket. Where is Lori?

  Boots holding a smallish man in blue fatigues were standing on the console between them. How was he doing that? The sun glinted off the multi-display, cracked. Damn, the roof was gone. Red leaned back and hit something hard and hot against his scalp. A cable from the net. Behind were the crumpled remains of the canopy, the orange morning sun burning his eyes. Lori?