Basher Five-Two

by Scott O'Grady

  Even if I didn’t know it, Flashman had been part of one of those secret packages. He and all the search-and-rescue teams had their radios continually turned to Guard or Alpha. They repeatedly called out to me and waited for some signal in return. There had been little to make them hopeful. Several beacon signals had been picked up in the countryside since Friday afternoon. However, the signals were judged by Magic, the NATO airborne command post, to be too far from my crash site to belong to me.

  Late Wednesday night, June 7, Hanford and his wingman, Captain Clark Highstrete, were on a Deny Flight sortie north of their normal route and only seventy-five miles from my crash site. For two hours, starting around 11:00 P.M., Hanford had trained his radar on the no-fly zone, looking for bad guys. Nothing showed up. By 1:25 A.M., Thursday morning, their sortie over, Hanford and Highstrete were cleared by Magic to return to Aviano. Hanford wasn’t really looking for me—that was the job of search-and-rescue pilots—but with nothing else going on, he asked Magic if he could stay in the skies a little longer. He had enough fuel for an extra forty minutes of flying, he said, and just maybe he would get lucky and find me. Magic gave him permission to fly an additional twenty minutes. While Highstrete monitored Magic’s frequency, Hanford turned his radio to the Alpha search-and-rescue channel.

  “This is Basher One-One,” he called, still in a racetrack pattern off the coast of Croatia. “Looking for Basher Five-Two.”

  There was no answer. Patiently, he kept trying. Around 1:40 A.M., something strange came over his headset. Having switched briefly to the Guard channel, Hanford heard an irregular static pattern that sounded as though it could be a very faint beacon.

  Hanford was interrupted by his wingman on their interflight radio. Their twenty minutes was up, Highstrete said, and Magic wanted them to return to Aviano. Knowing he still had extra fuel, Hanford asked Magic for permission to stay out longer. He had heard something on Guard, he told them. With Magic’s okay, Hanford went back to monitoring. The normal pattern of static returned. Disappointed, he moved his radio frequency to Alpha.

  “Basher Five-Two, this is Basher One-One on Alpha.”

  Hanford kept calling, circling over the coastline, peering into the distant lights of Bosnia. Things looked peaceful from his darkened cockpit. He tried to imagine where I might be hiding, what my thoughts were, how I was attempting to communicate. Minutes later, Highstrete interrupted again. Magic was worried—it knew both pilots were low on fuel and wanted them back at the base now. In a stern voice, Hanford told Magic he was well aware of his fuel level, but he wanted more time. A fellow pilot was down there somewhere, and Hanford said he was going to keep looking until the last possible moment. Nervously, Magic backed off. Still in a racetrack pattern, Hanford repeated his call sign on Alpha.

  “Basher Five-Two, this is Basher One-One on Alpha.”

  His eyes kept dancing to his fuel gauge. In another minute he would have to turn back to Aviano. The worst thing he could do was run his wingman, Highstrete, out of fuel. As Hanford listened intently through his headset, the faintest of voices suddenly broke through a haze of static.

  “Basher One-One … Basher Five-Two.”

  The voice sounded weak and tired. Hanford didn’t want to jump to conclusions. “This is Basher One-One,” he said, speaking slowly. “I can barely hear you—say your call sign.”

  “Basher One-One … Basher Five-Two …”

  Again, the voice was almost too faint to be heard. Hanford was unsure. “Understand you are Basher Five-Two,” he said. “This is Basher One-One on Alpha.”

  The low-fuel warning sounded on Hanford’s on-board computer. He ignored the warning, pushing his F-16 farther east to improve his radio reception. He was suddenly flying over the interior of Croatia, coming close to the range of known SAM batteries. Now Highstrete had to urge his flight leader to return to Aviano.

  “Basher Five-Two, this is Basher One-One, say again,” Hanford said into his radio, ignoring Highstrete for the moment.

  Then Hanford heard it. As clear as a church bell. He almost jumped out of his skin.

  “This is Basher Five-Two … read you loud and clear!”

  “Basher One-One has you loud and clear!” Hanford roared back. His plane briefly circled west, out of range, but when he turned east again, the voice on the ground returned even stronger.

  “This is Basher Five-Two, how do you hear?”

  “Basher Five-Two,” Hanford bellowed, “this is Basher One-One!”

  “I’m alive, I’m alive!”

  “Copy that!” Hanford said joyfully. Tears were welling up, and his voice was cracking. There was just one small doubt he had to overcome. Hanford had to be sure this was no Serb trick, no ambush to bring him into SAM range.

  “What was your squadron in Korea?” Hanford asked. We were good enough friends for him to know the answer.

  “Juvats—Juvats!”

  “Copy that, you’re alive!”

  It was 2:08 A.M. Hanford was so shaken he had forgotten standard radio procedure. He also didn’t identify who he was, and I didn’t ask. Basher One-One wrote down the code I gave him for my coordinates. This was the same special code that Wilbur and I had agreed on in our preflight briefing. Basher One-One told me to turn off my radio to save my batteries. Using a special Alpha frequency, we agreed to communicate again in half an hour. As his F-16 turned away, out of monitoring range, he and Highstrete dashed back over the Adriatic on what fumes were left in their gas tanks. They would refuel at an airborne tanker and return to me as quickly as possible.

  Hanford’s thoughts jumped ahead to the next step. He had to get my coordinates relayed to NATO. But he was also feeling the joy of the moment. He knew there were going to be a lot of happy folks back home.

  NINE

  Hanford wasted no time in radioing Magic as well as Aviano intel that he had found me, alive, safe, and apparently in decent shape physically, considering my six days on the run. Word was quickly relayed to the Pentagon, as well as to NATO headquarters in Vicenza, Italy, where it was around 2 A.M. The NATO officers in Vicenza were startled. They had been sending French and British jets on secret sorties over Bosnia since my plane had been shot down, but like the regular search-and-rescue teams from Aviano, the pilots had found no evidence I was alive. With the unexpected news from Hanford, the Vicenza command jumped into action.

  Even before I had been shot down, tensions in Bosnia had increased over the last few weeks. When the Bosnian Serbs had captured the 350 NATO military observers and made them prisoners of war, NATO had placed on alert the 24th United States Marine Expeditionary Unit, a crack troubleshooting team called up to handle tough situations around the world. Part of the 24th Expeditionary Unit was a forty-two-member TRAP force—Tactical Recovery Aircraft and Personnel. They were now stationed on the USS Kearsarge, an assault ship cruising in the Adriatic. Since June 2, the men on the Kearsarge had been on standby, ready to rescue me, if necessary.

  But there were several important questions that had to be answered before any rescue effort was launched. The first question was, when? Dawn was only hours away. A daylight mission would be risky, the NATO commanders thought, because the Bosnian Serbs could easily spot a slow-moving helicopter. If NATO could be sure that I would be safe waiting until nightfall, wasn’t it best to delay the rescue until dark? The second question was, who should make the rescue? Several commando groups, stationed at various places in Europe, could do the job as well as the TRAP force on the Kearsarge. Which group was the best prepared and could act most quickly? By 2:30 A.M. there was still a lot of talk. Nothing had been decided.

  As much joy as “T.O.” Hanford felt the instant I uttered the word Juvats over the radio, it was nothing compared with my own emotions. I hadn’t even recognized Hanford’s voice. All I knew was that one of the good guys had found me and that my chances of being rescued had just improved dramatically. At last, everyone would have proof that I was alive, and they had my coordinates, too. I wasn’t sure whethe
r I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs or cry or fall down and thank God.

  From Basher One-One’s tone, I realized that no one had picked up my earlier beacon signals. I had had a lot of fears during those six days, but one of my greatest was that my family would never know what had happened to me. Now, at least, they’d be told I had not only survived the missile attack, but I’d avoided capture. I had done my duty. I had served my country with honor.

  Basher One-One returned around 2:45 A.M., and we made contact on our special Alpha frequency. We were both concerned about Bosnian Serb intelligence. I was so close to freedom—by now my get-home-itis had struck like the flu—and I knew this was the time I was most likely to make stupid mistakes. I was also, perhaps, the most at risk. I remembered the gunfire in the night. The Bosnian Serbs could be closer than I knew.

  Basher One-One asked how I was. When I told him that I was okay, he hesitated, then dealt me a blow that sent me staggering.

  “Magic wants me to pass you the word,” he said. “Mañana.”

  Mañana. Tomorrow. I couldn’t believe it. NATO wasn’t going to send a rescue team until the next night! Maybe I should have told Basher One-One that I was half dead and that if someone didn’t come right away, there might be no mañana.

  “No,” I shouted back into my radio. “Get me the heck out of here now!”

  Basher One-One tried to calm me down. He explained that NATO was assembling a rescue team, but there were risks to be considered. In my military mind, I understood perfectly. Rescue forces liked to work at night—with high-tech gear like night goggles. Darkness gave them an advantage over a less well-equipped enemy—and in about three hours it would be daylight in Bosnia. As much as I wanted out, I definitely didn’t want to put my rescue team in needless danger. I didn’t want a bunch of men dying just to save my life. Waiting another twenty hours might be necessary.

  In my heart, however, I was not quite so sure. I wanted out now. With all my radio transmissions, I worried that the enemy had surely heard me, and if I wasn’t rescued right away, the Serbs would find me. I had used up enough of my nine lives surviving the last six days. I couldn’t afford to chance another twenty hours.

  Basher One-One promised to call me back, and again I turned off my radio. My batteries were growing weaker. Transmissions with Basher One-One were so faint that many times we had to repeat ourselves. For the next two hours, at agreed-upon times, we talked on Alpha, but he had no specific news from Magic. He only said that NATO was doing all it could to launch a rescue. Daybreak was coming. I prepared myself mentally to go back to my hole-up site. I would have to live with my disappointment and hope that the Bosnian Serbs hadn’t picked up any of our communications. Then, around 4:15 A.M., Basher One-One came on Alpha with a glow in his voice.

  “They’re rounding up the boys right now,” he said. “The assets are airborne. Theyre throwing everything they have at you. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Yes, I cheered silently. For whatever reason, NATO had changed its mind. They were coming for me today—right now! I uttered a brief prayer to God and quickly found a hiding place behind a nearby dirt mound. This was hardly a hole-up site, but I could keep low for a couple of hours. Turning on the radio, I accidentally knocked off the volume knob. The knob, which also controlled the on-off function, had been loose since I had first used the radio six days ago, but now was no time to have a problem. In the darkness I spent the next ten minutes combing the grass before I found it.

  In my last communication with Basher One-One, he told me he had to return to Aviano, but another pilot, Rock Four-One, would take his place and be my eyes and ears in the sky until I was rescued. Basher One-One signed off, and his replacement came on my radio within minutes. Unlike the voice of Basher One-One, I recognized the voice of Rock Four-One. It belonged to Captain Vaughn Littlejohn, a friend of mine who was calm, confident, and steady as a rock—just as steady as Tom Hanford.

  “Conserve that battery power,” Littlejohn told me. “And be ready. We’re here for you, we’re going to get you out.”

  At 5:45 A.M., Littlejohn came back on the radio to say the rescue craft would be over my position in ten or fifteen minutes.

  I kept looking around. Dawn was breaking. I could hear cows lowing in the distance and the infernal racket of the herders’ bells, but I saw nobody. Just in case, I had slipped a bullet into the chamber of my Beretta. Before, I had been sure I would never use the handgun. Now, I was just as certain that nobody was going to stop me from leaving.

  As I waited, I began to realize that the clearing I’d chosen for the helicopter landing was small, maybe too small to handle a good-sized ship. Maybe a chopper could hover overhead and drop me a safety line. I wasn’t about to go searching for another spot, not in daylight, not with all the cows and their handlers due to be grazing in open fields. I scooted behind my mound of dirt and asked God to make the time go a little faster.

  It was decided that the U.S. Marines on the Kearsarge were the best unit to make a rescue attempt. Stationed just miles off the Croatian coast, the U.S. Marines, once they were airborne in choppers, could reach me in less than forty-five minutes. The TRAP unit was one of the U.S. Marines’ best trained, and the unit was experienced in handling dangerous situations from Beirut to Haiti to the Persian Gulf. As long as NATO provided backup air support, the TRAP commander, Colonel Martin Berndt, had already told Vicenza, his men weren’t afraid of a daylight mission. The U.S. Marines thought that I’d been in danger long enough, and they wanted to get me out as soon as possible.

  At 4:39 A.M., the forty-two members of the TRAP force hit the decks of the Kearsarge running. The team was made up of expert riflemen, field scouts familiar with the Bosnian countryside, electronic warfare specialists, medics in case someone got wounded, and a translator in case communication with the enemy became necessary. Team members prepared for their mission by test firing their M-16s, painting one another’s faces with camouflage paste, and receiving a last-minute briefing from their commanding officers. By 5:05 A.M., one minute before sunrise, they were in their two Super Stallion helicopters. Two Cobra assault helicopters with lots of firepower would escort the larger helicopters with the rescue team. The four choppers lifted off the deck of the Kearsarge and waited for their NATO air support to come on-line from air bases in Italy.

  The NATO fleet that joined the U.S. Marines was like the air force of a small country: F-16 and F-15 fighters; British Harrier jump jets, the kind that can take off vertically and just hang in the air; tank-killing A-10 Warthogs; F/A-18 Marine Hornets with special missiles to take out SAM batteries; and EF-111 Aardvarks and EA-6 Prowlers with the electronics to jam hostile radar. Eight flying tankers were sent up to meet all refueling needs. In addition, a set of planes and helicopters would wait, hovering off the Croatian coast, to provide any necessary backup assistance. NATO was taking no chances.

  It took more than half an hour to assemble all the aircraft, and at around 5:45 A.M., the fleet headed toward the Croatian coast. The Hornets would streak toward me first, flying direcdy over my site to verify my coordinates. The Cobra choppers would follow, leading the actual rescue, with the two Harriers overhead to supply close air support.

  Once the air fleet was feet dry, they began skimming over the hills and farms and forests, staying low and using fogbanks for cover. They were followed by the TRAP force in the two Super Stallions. The Cobras were only ten miles from my position and closing in fast. The job of the pilots of the Aardvarks and Prowlers was to pick up, jam, and, if necessary, destroy any Bosnian and Krajanian Serb radar activity. From intel they knew the location of the SAMs, and they waited to see if anyone would be spiked as I’d been six days earlier. The rescue mission was meant to be as secret as possible. No one was going to open fire unless put in harm’s way. The next move would be up to the Serbs.

  From my hiding place near the clearing, I watched the clouds begin to break up, showing a clear patch of blue. The ground fog had mostly peeled away,
but some fog still hovered in the field below. I was on the edge of the mist … shrouded from anyone approaching by foot, but visible to my rescuers. I couldn’t have asked for better weather conditions. Suddenly, I heard the welcome roar of a pair of F/A-18 Hornets overhead. It was a little after 6:00 A.M. One of the U.S. Marine pilots radioed and asked me to give him a mark. I let him know exactly where I was. His jet streaked off, but not before he promised that the rescue choppers would be there within thirty minutes.

  That half hour was one of the longest of my life. In my head I went over the search-and-rescue procedure fifty times. I could have recited it in my sleep. When I finally heard the sound of helicopter blades beating the air, I jumped into the clearing. Trying to control myself, I called in to my radio to tell the pilots my exact position in relation to the Cobras. I could see the Cobra attack helicopters through a hole in the mist, but I didn’t know if they could see me. The pilot of the first chopper radioed for me to “pop smoke.”

  I was ready with my flares and pulled the cap off the first one. Its red phosphorus smoke spiraled up through the fog, marking my position. Within twenty seconds, by the time the flare had faded, I could see the first Cobra direcdy overhead.

  “We see you!” the pilot confirmed over my radio.

  The floppy orange hat that I had wanted to throw away because I couldn’t imagine a use for it was now on top of my head. I wanted to make myself as visible as possible. I popped a second flare, just in case, and waited for one of the Cobras to land or someone inside to toss me a safety line.