Retribution

by Michael Byars Lewis

  Damn. I’m on my own.

  The aircraft was back over the Channel now, nothing but water beneath them. Jason found the heading indicator reading three-two-zero.

  An airplane zipped in front of him, banking in a ninety-degree turn, and got his attention. The huge flash of gray crossed his flight path, from left to right, dispensing flares. His windscreen filled with the top of an AV-8 Harrier jet, looking like a huge iron bird, spitting fireballs from underneath.

  Jason ignored how cool it was to see a military jet this close in flight. Instead, he focused on the fact the guy could shoot him out of the sky. It was only a warning. If they wanted him dead, they would blow him to bits.

  The headset Harry had used before Ashford killed him rested on the floor, and Jason put it on.

  “Unknown rider, unknown rider, in the B-25. This is ASCOT 32 on guard. You must turn to a heading of two-two-zero. Failure to answer or comply will result in hostile action.”

  17

  June 6, 1994

  * * *

  Jason found the mic button and pressed hard.

  “Uh. . . this is the B-25. . . don’t shoot,” he blurted.

  No response.

  Damn. Jason searched for the radio controls. ASCOT 32 broadcast on the emergency frequency, known as "guard." He obviously had a VHF radio like the B-25. In America, most of the military jets operated on UHF radios. He found the radio control panel when another set of flares was punched out in front of the aircraft.

  It’s a good thing I’m heading this direction, or I’d be dead already.

  Jason turned the knob to Guard and keyed the mic.

  “Harrier aircraft this is. . . this is the B-25 aircraft being tracked by British Harrier’s.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Aircraft was high-jacked. One pilot was killed. One severely injured. High-jacker has been subdued and secured in the back of the aircraft.”

  “Who is this?” the fighter pilot asked.

  “I-I’m Jason Conrad. Lieutenant. United States Air Force.”

  There was a pause on the radio.

  “Okay, lieutenant. Turn two-zero-five and descend to five-thousand feet.”

  Jason checked Bill, then keyed the mic again.

  “Uh-okay. Umm, give me a minute. I’m gonna have to figure out how to do that.”

  Now a longer pause.

  “Lieutenant. . . do you know how to fly that thing?”

  “No. But I’m hoping to learn real fast.” Jason found the autopilot and disconnected it. The aircraft bobbled and weaved right away. Jason grabbed the yoke and did his best to stabilize the airplane.

  He pulled the throttles back and guided the bomber to five-thousand feet on the assigned heading. Cautiously, he reengaged the autopilot. Taking a deep breath, he shook Bill again. He didn’t move this time, but Jason could tell he was still breathing.

  Jason filled the AV-8 pilot in with the information on the events that had taken place, most importantly, the bombs. Behind him, Ashford was still unconscious and secured to the spar. The AV-8 pilot tried to calm Jason down, which didn’t help much. He didn’t need reassurance, he needed someone to tell him how to fly the airplane.

  “You should see the coast of England soon,” the British pilot said.

  “I got it,” Jason replied. “Are those the white cliffs of Dover?”

  "That's right. When you reach the coast, we'll hand you over to another pair of British Harriers to escort you in. One will fly alongside of you, and the other will be behind you."

  “To shoot me down?”

  “If necessary. Don’t give him a reason. You sound like a good bloke.”

  “Thanks.” It wasn’t sarcasm, but it sounded like it. He was dejected. His mind tried to focus on what he needed to do to get the airplane on the ground.

  “At the coast, one of the other B-25s will be orbiting at six-thousand feet. He’s gonna descend and join on your left side and talk you through the landing. You copy?”

  “Hell, yes,” Jason said. The first good news he’d gotten on this flight.

  “Don’t curse on the radio, friend. That’s a violation.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Just kidding. Trying to relax you a bit.”

  Jason breathed deeply and loosened his death-grip on the yoke.

  “How much flying time you got, lieutenant?”

  “Private Pilot’s License. Little over a hundred hours.”

  “Ouch. You Yanks always try to show off. At least you know enough to know what a world of shit you’re in.”

  “I thought you said not to cuss over the radio.”

  Once again, another pause.

  “Your gonna do fine. Hang in there, Yank. We’ll hand you off to somebody to help soon.”

  “Thanks.” Jason adjusting the throttles to hold the airspeed around two-thirty. Things started to feel a little more familiar. The trim wheel was something he was used to, and Bill had trimmed for the current airspeed an hour ago. He understood the concept of mixture, sort of. It allocated the correct fuel to air ratio in the combustion chamber. They did the same thing in a Cessna 172.

  “Here’s the plan,” the Harrier pilot said. “We’ll hand you off to your friend in the B-25. He’ll talk you through the landing. You’re not going to be allowed to land at Heathrow or—”

  “Wait, why not? I’m an emergency aircraft.”

  “You can’t land there because of the bomb on board. You can only land at a military field. Sorry about that.”

  Jason had to focus on something other than himself. He was scared shitless. He glanced at Bill, who appeared short of breath. His chest barely moved. How long can he last? Hopefully, he can land and get Bill some help. Outside, the plane approached the coast, the whitecaps of the shore passed under the nose of the aircraft.

  “Okay, lieutenant. We’re gonna hand you off to the B-25. You can contact him on 128.3. You’ll stay on that frequency, it’s discrete with approach and tower. Cheers.”

  “Thanks.” Jason saw the other B-25 maneuver at six-thousand feet. The other pilot positioned himself to rejoin on Jason’s left wing. On his right, another AV-8 Harrier with British marking, flew next to him.

  The pilot in the other B-25 contacted him. Said his name was Ryan. He began to talk Jason through what he needed to do to land the aircraft. Much of it sounded familiar, thanks to the tape Bill gave him last night. If anything, Ryan calmed him down, and his words of encouragement gave him the confidence he just might get out of this alive.

  “Uh-oh,” Ryan said over the radio. “Hey Jason, do me a favor and check your fuel.”

  “I-uh. . . just a second. Okay, I’ve got. . . uh, about five-hundred pounds. Does that sound right?”

  “You should have more than that,” Ryan said. “Stand by for a second.” Nothing was said for almost a minute. “It’s what I thought. Jason, you’ve got fuel venting from the bottom of your left wing. Looks like—”

  “Bullet holes.” Jason remembered the holes in the top of the windscreen where Ashford shot earlier.

  “Yep. I’d say so. Fuel is coming out pretty quick. What’s your fuel flow read?”

  Jason checked the gauges. “Fuel flow is about four-forty an hour. Total fuel is below five hundred now.”

  Jason looked at the fuel gauge again. It was significantly lower than the last time he checked. He was losing fuel, but would he have enough to reach the runway? The AV-8 pilot must not have been able to see it since he was on the other side. Because Ryan was slower and closer, he noticed the leak immediately.

  “We’re doing some calculations, Jason. Hang on,” Ryan said.

  Calculations? How about talking me through how to land this piece of junk? Jason pushed away his frustrations and focused on the task at hand. Ryan came back and told him how much fuel he’d need to reach Fairford. He had enough, but he wasn’t sure how long it would last. He needed to land now.

  “It’s gonna be tight on the fuel, Jason, and ATC is forcing us south of London due to
the bomb. As little flight as possible over densely populated areas. You have to land at a Royal Air Force base.”

  Ryan sounded concerned but calm. That made Jason nervous.

  “We should be able to make RAF Fairford on the northwest side of London. We’ll come up from the south, avoiding all the traffic into Heathrow. If for some reason we can’t make Fairford, RAF Odiham is close by.”

  If for some reason? The reason would be I’m out of gas.

  “I’ve declared the emergency for you, Jason. ATC has confirmed you can’t land at Heathrow or Gatwick.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Jason scanned outside the windscreen. To the north, London. South, there were smaller communities, surrounded by rolling green hills. Ryan called him up to check on his fuel. They were approaching Gatwick, which was south of their path, and he should have almost an hour’s worth. Jason stared at the gauge. Uh-oh. He tapped the glass, just to make sure.

  “Ryan,” he said. “I’m almost out of gas.”

  18

  June 6, 1994

  * * *

  Jason’s eyes fixed on the fuel gauge. The large needle was moving precariously toward zero.

  “How much is left?” Ryan said.

  “About two-hundred pounds.”

  Silence.

  Jason hated these pregnant pauses after his radio transmissions. They were always followed by something bad.

  “Jason, we need to climb.”

  “How high?”

  “Not sure yet. Raise your pitch five degrees. We don’t want to get too slow.”

  Jason raised the pitch of the ailing B-25. His crosscheck was non-existent, but he eventually returned his attention to his airspeed. It decreased as he climbed. Jason's hands began to shake.

  Ryan positioned the B-25 to run out of fuel at a higher altitude. Jason remembered his flight instructor talking about such a situation a couple of times. “Speed is life,” he would say. “You can exchange airspeed for altitude to give yourself more time to solve your problem.” He had a problem, all right.

  "Jason, you're about to run out of fuel," Ryan said. "Here's the plan. There's an abandoned World War Two airfield we're about to fly over, Wisely Field. We're going to have to configure your airplane now before the engines shut down. When that happens, you won't have hydraulics to lower the gear or move the flaps."

  “Okay,” Jason squeaked. “Is someone gonna talk me through all this?”

  "I got ya' the whole way, my friend. We're at six thousand-two-hundred feet. We're going to make a big three-hundred-sixty degree turn and land to the west at the abandoned airfield. Does that make sense?"

  “Yes.” Jason checked his fuel; he only had a little over a hundred pounds left. “We’d better hurry.”

  "Okay. Slow to one-hundred fifty knots. Maintain altitude. We'll be right next to you, slightly aft. Normally, you wouldn't use flaps for this, but you're going to be high on energy, and you'll need some drag."

  Jason pulled the throttles back. The forces on the yoke changed and he adjusted the trim wheel. Gradually, the pressure needed to hold the yoke subsided. He followed Ryan’s instructions and lowered the landing gear and partial flaps. As soon as they were in position, they began a descending turn back to the field. Half-way through the turn, the left engine sputtered.

  “The left engine is shutting down,” Jason radioed.

  “Go ahead and feather the prop.”

  Jason grabbed the prop handle and moved it to the feather position like Ryan had explained earlier.

  “Keep your turn coming and ease up on the descent,” Ryan said. “You’re wide, low, and fast. Bank up to forty-five degrees.”

  He listened to Ryan’s instructions and flew the B-25 to what Ryan said was a good glide path. Moments later, the second engine failed as he ran out of fuel. Jason feathered the prop on his own and returned his grip to the yoke.

  “I see you’re out of gas,” Ryan said. “Nice job on the shutdown, both props are feathered. The runway is at ten o’clock. Do you see it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The runway is sixty-two hundred feet long, with no real overrun. You’ll have to adjust your pitch to change airspeeds from here on out. You want to hold close to one-hundred thirty knots on final and touchdown at one-hundred. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “You’ll still have brakes. The B-25 brakes are hydraulic assisted, not powered. So, despite not having your engines and hydraulics, you’ll have brakes. You’ll be able to stop, just not as fast.”

  “Swell.”

  Jason searched outside and found the runway. If he were in a Cessna, he was too high. He rolled out on final and realized he was wrong. The B-25 had a better glide-ratio than he thought, but he worried it wouldn’t be enough. He was low, and he adjusted his pitch. It helped, but a mile from the runway, Jason knew he would land short.

  I thought this guy said I was going to be high on energy. I’m not gonna make the runway.

  He raised the pitch to shift his aim point.

  "Jason, you're getting slow," Ryan said. "Lower your pitch, or you'll stall."

  Subtle vibrations began to course through the yoke. He lowered the nose to increase his airspeed. The aim point at this speed was just short of the runway. He passed through five-hundred feet and hoped the plane wouldn't cartwheel when he landed in the grass, and the aircraft hit the concrete edge of the runway.

  Ryan talked non-stop, but Jason tuned him out as he focused on landing. Thirty feet above the ground, he began his flare. The B-25 hovered over the jagged terrain. Jason didn’t pull back any further, in fact, he was sure he should have touched down.

  Ground effect.

  The cushion of air between the ground and the wings is called ground effect. It keeps the airplane flying just a little longer. The end of the runway passed under the nose of the B-25. Jason didn’t change anything. His airspeed slowed, and the plane hit hard, then bounced back into the air. He held the yoke steady and maintained his pitch picture. The bomber hit the ground hard again before it settled on the concrete, speeding toward the runway edge at an angle.

  Ryan barked something at him as his airplane flew by, but Jason didn’t hear him. He was focused on his own aircraft. His first instinct was moving the yoke like a car steering wheel. Realizing his mistake, he worked the rudders to steer the plane back toward the center of the runway.

  Rudders weren’t enough, and he tapped the left brake, which turned the nose enough to track back toward the center.

  He quickly realized the plane headed toward the other end of the runway. Jason applied the brakes, and the left side locked up, turning the plane almost a hundred and eighty degrees before it stopped.

  Jason released the brakes of the airplane. He looked around at the ground outside and couldn’t believe it. He laughed aloud. For the first time, he relaxed.

  Ryan flew another pass over the airplane. “Great job, kid.”

  “Thanks,” Jason replied. “I’d be dead without your help. You did all the hard stuff.”

  He put his finger to Bill’s neck. There was a feint pulse. He glanced back at Ashford for the first time since the fuel leak. His eyes started to flutter as he returned to consciousness. Outside, the police vehicles, lights flashing, entered the airfield and raced to the plane. A medivac helicopter landed in the distance, as well. Ryan had been busy. Bill might make it after all.

  Jason unstrapped, crawled out of the seat, and found the hatch to leave the plane. Ashford was starting to stir, but it would be a few minutes before he was fully conscious. After a brief struggle with the latch, Jason managed to open the hatch and lower the ladder.

  He climbed out of the aircraft and was met outside by no less than ten police officers, armed, which was not normal for England. And all the guns were pointed at him. He raised his hands.

  "The wounded man is in the pilot's seat, and the hijacker is tied up behind him."

  Two officers scurried up the ladder while another two stood below
.

  “Down on the ground,” another officer yelled.

  Jason complied and laid face first on the ground. His hands were handcuffed, and his face was pushed into the cracked concrete.

  He didn’t care. It was always better to be on the ground wishing you were in the air, than in the air, wishing you were on the ground.

  Epilogue

  June 8, 1994

  * * *

  The disheveled cab bounced over the ragged surface of the interstate as it drove along I-10. Jason stared out the window as the scent of stale cigarettes seeped from the seats, and his fingers picked at the minor tears in the vinyl on the door. The summer humidity of Louisiana reminded him just exactly how nice the weather had been in England. Hard to believe that only two days ago, he had stopped an attempted murder that would have killed hundreds and injured many more. He was fortunate the AV-8s didn't blow him out of the sky.

  Jason exhaled deeply as the cab left the interstate and headed south on College Drive. Despite the heat, it was good to be back in Baton Rouge.

  His first instinct after this incident was to return to his wife. Bethany didn’t have much to say when he called from London and explained what had happened. She either didn’t understand or didn’t care. He wasn’t sure. Nothing’s changed. She had no interest in his airplanes or his future career. When he asked about her meeting with the director, she perked up. His original four-day trip home on the B-25 was gone, so he thought he’d surprise Bethany by showing up a few days early.

  When Scotland Yard, the RAF, and the FBI finally sorted out the mess involving Philip Ashford and the hijacking of Kimmie-Loo Choo Choo, Jason was allowed to leave the country. The downside of all this, he found out just prior to boarding his plane at Gatwick, the USAF pushed back his pilot training slot for a year, until the investigation was resolved. The fact they did that so fast was troubling.

  Bill survived, fortunately. He was admitted to a hospital in London. Jason's mother had flown over as soon as she heard what happened. They met briefly before he flew back. She had been troubled by some dealings with a colleague of his father's. A "silver-haired bastard" was how she referred to him. She insisted Jason stop trying to contact his father. Since Jason had left, there had been reports of three different people who claimed to be the son or daughter of Senator Jonathan Bowman. His mother said these people were most likely floated out there by his father's "handler," as she called him. It didn't matter, Jason had told her. His father had changed his phone number.