Four seconds after he began his upward turn he slammed the stick over and cartwheeled the plane over on its left wing and began a near-vertical dive. An instant later out of the corner of one eye he saw one of the 35-foot long SAMs flash past his canopy not more than 50 feet away. He could also see two of his flight-mates wildly maneuvering through the sky in similar, desperate, life-or-death aerial ballets. A split-second later, two bright-as-the-sun fireballs erupted several hundred feet apart as the missiles’ proximity fuses detected their nearest approach to an aircraft. Ramond’s Warthog shuddered violently, staggering from the concussions. He could feel and hear shrapnel impacting his plane. Somehow it stayed in the air and he could see from his instruments that all systems were in the normal range although the engines were straining from the demands he had placed on them.
He backed off the throttles, leveled off, tried to calm himself and then called out to his team.
“Eagle leader to Eagle flight. Form up and give me status!”
He watched as two planes came in behind him left and right.
“Two’s okay.”
“Three took a beating but I’ll make it.”
Ramond waited a second for Eagle Four to respond but got nothing. He scanned the sky finally seeing the fourth A-10 below and in front of him sinking toward the desert, its left engine spewing smoke, some sort of fluid streaming out, other damage clearly visible on the left side of the fuselage.
“Spud! What’s your status?”
Silence.
Eagle four was piloted by Ted “Spud” Wannamaker, an Idaho potato farmer’s son—hence the call-sign.
“Spud! Talk to me!”
A moment later, Ramond heard a croaked reply.
“It’s bad, Herc. Left engine is toast. Hydraulics got zero pressure. Fuel’s leaking fast. Think I’m going to have to get out.”
“Are you hurt!?”
“Yeah. Took something to my left leg. Not too bad, I hope. Think I can feel it bleeding into my boot, though.”
At that moment Ramond saw the crippled A-10 dip sharply to the left and head down in steep, slow spiral.
“Spud! Get out! Eject, eject, eject!!”
The other two pilots screamed the same in unison, begging for their friend to get out of the plane before it became his coffin.
Suddenly they saw the canopy explode off the fuselage and a second later the ejection seat, with Spud in it, blasted out, literally rocketing up several hundred feet, before the motor cut out and he floated free from the seat. A moment later his parachute opened and he began a slow descent. Ramond could see that his friend looked lifeless, probably knocked unconscious by the violence of the ejection. He’d known other uninjured pilots who’d ejected out of crippled planes and afterward said it was the most physically traumatic event they’d ever experienced. Ramond started to slow and descended trying to keep Spud in sight by circling with the wounded pilot in the center. The other pilots did the same. He knew, though, they needed immediate help. He toggled his radio.
“Eagle leader to Cent Comm.”
“Go ahead Eagle leader.”
“Eagle four is down. Pilot’s in silk but wounded. We need immediate Para-rescue launch. Probable landing point for pilot is Iraqi-held territory. Likely capture within minutes. Rest of Eagle team will orbit to assist but we’re near bingo on fuel and ammo.” Ramond gave the approximate longitude and latitude.
“Understood Eagle leader. Rescue team scramble underway now. ETA should be two hours for Jolly Green. Fast movers for additional cover and support in 20 minutes.”
“Jolly Green” was a Sikorsky CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter, the heavy-lift pilot extractor of the Air Force’s fleet in Saudi Arabia. Ramond knew it’s relatively slow speed was what caused the two hour window. The “fast movers” were probably four, heavily armed F-16 fighter-bombers, lifting off shortly with authorization for highest possible speed. For a moment Ramond considered demanding additional “assets” but quickly realized they were in the middle of a shooting war. Those assets were almost certainly very busy elsewhere. Consequently, he knew that he and the rest of Eagle flight were all that stood between their friend and likely capture by Iraqi soldiers. They had all seen what capture meant. The horrific photos of the bruised, swollen and grotesquely distorted faces of other pilots shot down by Hussein’s troops—and beaten to a pulp afterward—provided additional incentive for the swift dispatch of all available aid.
Ramond descended further, circled for a few minutes and finally found where Spud had landed. With relief he could see the man had gotten out of his parachute harness and although not moving fast was trying to get away from his landing zone, knowing Iraqi soldiers would be quickly moving in to search for him.
Ramond considered their options for a few moments then decided on a strategy and called out to his team.
“Eagle leader to Eagle flight. Fuel and ordinance status.”
“Two. Near bingo on fuel. Got a few rounds of 30 but that’s it.”
“Three. Same and same.”
“Okay. It’s time for you boys to head for the barn. That’s an order. I know you want to help but we can’t risk losing any more Hog pilots and their hardware. I’ll stay as long as I can.”
There was a few seconds of silence then flat voices responded.
“Two copy.”
“Three copy.”
Ramond looked up and saw the other two A-10s stop circling, then begin climbing, heading east.
A second later he heard Spud’s voice. “Eagle four to leader.”
Ramond was relieved that Spud’s emergency radio had survived the ejection and he was strong enough to use it. “Go ahead four. What’s your status?”
“Little shaken. Ejection itself nearly did me in. Leg hurts a lot but I can still walk. Got a visual on any Iraqi units?”
He tilted over on one wing and did a quick scan of the surrounding desert. Sure enough, a couple of miles or so away he could see a large dust cloud that could only be a harbinger of bad news for both of them. Through the cloud he could just make out a small convoy of armored cars, armored personnel carriers and what appeared to be light tanks moving fast in Spud’s direction. He knew Saddam Hussein had promised a substantial bounty, along with medals, promotions and other honors to any Iraqi soldier who shot down a coalition aircraft or captured its pilot.
“We’ve got company. Small armored column headed your way. Get your head down.”
“Copy. Digging in now.”
Ramond accelerated and rolled in toward the advancing Iraqis, quickly developing a plan of engagement. With no ordinance left except for about 300 rounds of 30-millimeter, he had few options. The GAU-8 rotary cannon blasted out 65 rounds per second so he probably had just a couple of two-second strafing runs left. After that he had no idea what he could do to help.
Before he could begin his attack he was interrupted.
“Eagle leader, Cent Comm.”
For a split second he almost answered but hesitated knowing what the call might be about. He remained quiet. He knew if he was right and given how close the Iraqis were to Spud, he was the only person who might be able to stop his friends capture.
“Eagle leader, Cent Comm. Respond.”
Ramond continued his approach to the Iraqi column choosing to ignore central command.
“Eagle leader. Return to base. Acknowledge.”
Ramond decided to parallel the column but going in the opposite direction and then come in from behind for his strafing run.
“Eagle leader. Let rescue teams handle this one, Herc.”
Ramond switched off his radio, deciding he didn’t want any distractions from the coming engagement. Moments later he began a steep, banking turn toward the Iraqi forces coming in behind and 5,000 feet above the last vehicle in the convoy. He nosed over and accelerated to 400 knots lining up for his run. He could now see many of the soldiers scattering to either side of the column, sprinting into the desert, knowing that howling death was descending on th
em. At 300 feet in altitude and 500 feet behind the end of the column he pressed the gun trigger for two seconds. The A-10 shuddered violently as the 16,000 pound cannon began spitting out 9-inch long, high-explosive shells at a blinding rate. It almost felt as if the plane hesitated in flight from the recoil. He watched with unsmiling satisfaction as the shells began tearing into the rear vehicles—a light tank, two trucks and an armored personnel carrier. All four were instantly torn to pieces as if by a giant chain saw and burst into flame. The Warthog screamed over the column at just over 100 feet. Ramond yanked the plane into a violent, high-g climb and turn to again get above and behind the enemy for his second run. As he did he could feel what he was certain were AK-47 rifle rounds impacting the bottom of his Hog. He knew the bullets would probably have little affect on the plane. But he also knew that if one “magic” bullet hit in just the right place he and his plane would end up in pieces scattered across the desert sands.
He completed the turn and again lined up on the column. This time his view was partially obscured by the burning vehicles. Nonetheless he pressed the attack, aiming for the middle of the pack and pressed the trigger. After only a one-second burst the gun stopped firing. He instantly knew he was out of ammunition and luck. He pulled up and away from the column to see what his second run had accomplished. Two more trucks were on fire but at least half a dozen other vehicles were still heading for Spud’s position. He had to do something. He knew the F-16s were inbound and could arrive within 10 minutes but that might be too late. He had to do something to slow down the Iraqis some more.
He turned on his radio and called out, “Eagle four, you still there?”
“Yeah. Hunkered down on a little hill watching the show. Good shooting Herc!”
“Well, I’m outta ammo. Got one more idea to try to stall the bad guys. I’m hoping the calvary will be here shortly.”
“You don’t have to do this Herc. I’ll be okay.” There was silence for a moment then he laughed, “Me and my trusty 45 can hold’em off.”
“Not a chance. I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe. Now keep your head down. I don’t want them to get a bead on you and maybe start shooting.”
“Copy that.....and thanks.”
“No prob. You’d do the same for me.”
Ramond turned and headed back to the rear of the convoy to set up for another pass. He didn’t have any more 30-millimeter to fire at them but they didn’t know that. He hoped to make a very low pass and force them to stop for at least another minute or so. He’d keep doing it until the fast movers arrived.
This time he pushed the A-10 as close to the ground as he had ever flown in anything before—including his Piper Cub trainer. As he neared the end of the blazing column his altimeter showed him to be close to zero feet—although he guessed he was actually around 30. His terrain avoidance alarm begin blaring and its automated female voice calmly told him to “Pull Up! Pull Up!” Although he couldn’t shoot anything or anybody he knew the 145 decibels of his turbo fan engines screaming at full power just above their heads would probably deafen anyone without ear protection. As he flashed over the column he was low enough to see agony on the faces of some of the men in spite of their trying to cover their ears with hands.
One man wasn’t.
He bravely stood up with a tube—or something—balanced on his shoulder, aiming it at the Warthog as it shrieked over him. Ramond knew immediately what was about to happen and what he had to do. He yanked on the control stick, again sending the plane into a sharp left-hand turn away from the column and the man—exposing the bottom of the plane. Even though he couldn’t see it, he knew a brilliant point of light was streaking toward his plane.
The rocket propelled grenade struck the bottom of the fuselage behind his seat, entering the cavity that held the 30-millimeter cannon. A millisecond later the rocket’s shaped charge exploded against the massive, cylindrical drum that held the gun’s ammunition. The heavy metal of the drum and supporting framework, along with the spent cartridge shells, as well as the massive gun itself, absorbed and contained some of the blast. The cannon was instantly turned to scrap but the plane was spared from being blown out the sky. Still, the explosion shook the plane to its core and something white-hot slashed at Ramond’s back. He screamed in pain but managed to keep his hands on the controls and the plane in the air. Multiple warning alarms sounded while a myriad of red lights flashed on his instrument panel. He knew the only thing that had saved his life from most of the deadly shrapnel was the 1,200 pound Kevlar-armored “bathtub” that surrounded his seat. Without it he probably would have been shredded like he had done to the unfortunate Iraqi soldiers.
He tried to clear his mind, fight through the pain and assess what was going on with the A-10. He scanned the flight controls and knew he couldn’t keep it in the air much longer. Pulling back gently on the stick he prayed he could get enough altitude to safely eject. Even though he could eject with the plane sitting on the ground he still wanted that extra margin of safety. With great relief he felt the fatally wounded Warthog struggle but begin to climb—300, 400, 500 feet. He turned on his radio, praying it hadn’t been damaged.
“Mayday! Mayday! This is Eagle flight leader. I’ve been hit! I’m ejecting just south of Eagle four’s last known position.”
He knew he didn’t have time to wait for someone to respond so when he reached 1,000 feet he leveled the Warthog as best he could, grabbed the right-hand ejection handle and yanked up as hard as he could. Instantaneously, explosive bolts blew the canopy off. A tiny fraction of a second later his shoulder and lap belts automatically cinched him tight into the seat along with his boots. A split-second after that the rocket motor ignited with a deafening roar, launching him out of the cockpit and into the jet stream of the dying A-10. The g-forces were less than he had expected, but the 200 knot wind generated by the speed of the A-10 was brutal, nearly knocking him unconscious.
Then the rocket cut out and he was falling. Again the technology of the $150,000, ACES-II ejection seat worked precisely as designed, releasing him from the seat, sending him tumbling through the sky. The final step in the ejection process happened flawlessly as a small actuator opened his parachute.
The brutal, snapping force of the chute opening sent white-hot pain cascading agonizingly through his left side and back. When added to the initial shock of the ejection, it was more than he could bear. Ramond felt himself sliding into an abyss. Just before he passed out, as his chin slumped over onto his chest, he heard the unmistakeable sound of the calvary’s arrival—the four F-16s screaming in from the East.
His last thought as blackness enveloped him: Spud would be okay.
Chapter 3
Present Day
Breakfast had always annoyed Claire McBeth.
For most of the 15-odd years of her adult life she had tried to figure out ways to make it nutritious while reducing the time necessary to make it. The problem was that unlike the few friends, peers and co-workers she had, she liked sleep—lots of it. She’d done the research and knew that seven to eight hours a night was essential to being the best she could be in all aspects of her life. While they were out clubbing, partying or spending long, sexually charged nights with boyfriends and/or girlfriends till two or three a.m., she greatly preferred to simply stay home and hit the sheets by ten—eleven at the latest. While they dragged themselves out of bed at six, gulping down nothing more than a cup of coffee on the way out the door by seven, she would be up at seven and out the door to work by seven-thirty—which is where the breakfast problem came in. Because she frequently rode her bicycle from her one-bedroom apartment on West 57th Street in New York City to her job as a science and technology staff writer at The New York Sentinel, she needed energy—lots of it.
For years she had experimented with various cereals, breads, fruits, smoothies, energy bars and drinks—along with multiple combinations thereof—trying to find the one that gave her the most stamina. This to pedal the 18 blocks through the
maddening midtown Manhattan traffic to the Sentinel Building at 520 Eighth Avenue. After much experimentation she arrived at the best formula: 10 ounces of whole milk, one packet of Carnation Instant Breakfast powder, one tablespoon of protein powder, one teaspoon of powdered vitamin C, one banana and one raw egg. Every now and then she would add some other fruit or perhaps baby spinach. She could assemble all the ingredients, throw them in her Vitamix blender and drink the concoction within 10 minutes.
In an additional effort to maximize sleep time and reduce morning prep time, she’d also managed to organize the usually chaotic art of getting dressed into a seamless act of science. It all started the night before as she carefully laid out exactly what she would wear the next day; placing those articles and items in exactly the same place each time. In some ways her plans reminded her of firefighters, who upon getting a call in the middle of the night, would leap out of bed directly into their precisely positioned boots and pants.
She would also lay out her make-up and sundry toiletry items. As best she could she would decide in advance which items she would apply, where she would put them on her face and body and about how much depending on her already thought out wardrobe.
Blinding Fear Page 2
