It wasn’t so easy to be objective about Sapporo when she remembered the weekend in the dreary hotel making love to Kojiro. They were so consumed with one another they lost track of time, sleeping, waking, making love all hours of the day and night, rarely leaving their room or taking the time to eat.
Six months ago, if someone had told her that she would let some man grope her on a crowded subway train, she would have been horrified. But at the time, it had been exciting. Kojiro was so proper and dignified when he was out in public she couldn’t believe he would suggest such a thing, let alone go through with it. They had run from the subway station to the hotel they were both so aroused by the time they reached their destination. She hadn’t even had time to take off her coat when they got to the room.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” she had laughed, she was so impatient and needy. She wanted to feel him thrusting deep inside her, devouring her with his kisses … .
Her body yearned for him still. Her anger and hurt had not translated to her heart. It spoke a different language. It yearned for fulfillment, for love. It didn’t understand why she wept.
But however devastated Libby was by Kojiro’s betrayal, she was confident that she would eventually recover and be a much wiser, if not stronger, person as a result. She had learned a great deal about herself — that she was not as independent or self-sufficient as she had believed. She had discovered vulnerabilities which she had refused to recognize.
Libby lived in a man’s world, worked alongside them, flew with them, competed against them. The greatest lesson falling in love with Kojiro had taught her was that she was not one of them.
“Captain Comerford, you’re just the person I’m looking for.” Major Petrowski, on duty behind the operations desk, looked up and smiled when Libby walked into the squadron after lunch. Despite the tenuous accord the two officers had reached, he still managed to make the most innocuous statement sound either menacing or patronizing.
“What have I done now, sir?” Libby asked, expecting to be taken to task for some minor omission.
“Ah, it’s not what you’ve done; it’s what you’ve failed to do.” He glanced at the computer print-out in front of him. “You need one more GCA this half-year. The two-seater is on the schedule and Charlie is taking it out to practice some air-to-air with Mike Phipps. You can ride in the ‘pit’ and get your instrument approach on the way back. Unless you have something more pressing on your agenda,” he added. “A hair appointment or … ”
“It was canceled,” she retorted. “Put me down on the schedule. It beats hanging around here.”
The F-16 was a single-seat fighter. But every squadron had a few two-seat models for training and instrument checks and they were rotated on the flying schedule, along with the other aircraft. Although fighter pilots preferred to fly alone, they rarely passed up any opportunity to fly, even if it meant riding in the backseat. Spending the afternoon in air-to-air combat — pitting their skill and experience against one another in mock dog-fights twenty thousand feet above the earth — was what being a fighter pilot was all about. Libby could hardly wait.
Air-to-air combat required, not only quick reactions and keen eyesight, but tremendous strength and physical endurance. For during the sixty-or-so-odd minutes the pilots were airborne, they were constantly turning, or climbing, or diving at supersonic speeds. The G force on their bodies would have been intolerable if it wasn’t for the G-suit squeezing their abdomen and legs, forcing the blood back up to their brains so they wouldn’t pass out. Above four G’s, extra pressure from the oxygen mask forced air into the lungs, which had to be neutralized by inflating the positive pressure vest. Their bodies felt like they were in a vise. Their muscles ached; their arms were lead weights. They grunted, and sweated like weightlifters. Speech was distorted, and they loved every second of it.
Flying with Charlie was an added bonus. He would be leaving Misawa soon and Libby wanted the chance to make up for the misery she had caused him the past few months. There was no reason why they couldn’t still be friends, she thought. Their love of the Air Force and flying was what had sustained their friendship all these years. There was no need for it to end because she had fallen in love with someone else. And there was always the possibility, once her wounds had healed, that the genuine affection and regard she felt for Charlie would grow into something more. He was always predicting it would. Maybe he was right.
After spending an hour briefing the mission with the “bandit” Lieutenant Phipps, the three pilots donned their flying gear in the life-support room and were driven out to the aircraft. During the winter months — from November to June — they were required to wear, in addition to the usual layers of G-suit and vests and parachute harness, what was popularly known as the ‘poopy-suit,’ an air-tight, long-sleeved, ankle-length rubber garment, under their flight suits. It was extra insurance in the event one had to bail-out in freezing temperatures. The Pacific Ocean pounding the rugged coastline of northern Japan was not as hospitable as the balmy waters washing the beaches in Okinawa.
The two F-16s were aligned, at the end of the runway, for take-off. Mike Phipps looked over at Charlie and Libby and gave them the thumbs-up sign as the two airplanes started to accelerate. In less than twenty seconds they were in the air, heading east in a sweeping turn, out over the Pacific Ocean. The visibility was good, winds from the east, moderate. They could see a few stray clouds, gray smudges on an otherwise brilliant blue canvas that faded imperceptibly into the color of the sea. In the water, a palette of iridescent blue and green, small fishing boats bobbed up and down on tranquil swells.
“You’ll miss this scenery,” Libby said into the microphone. “Flying in the desert can be deadly dull.”
“I’ll miss more than the scenery,” Charlie quipped.
“Think of all the distractions. Las Vegas at your doorstep. Showgirls … ”
“Not a one of them could hold a candle to you.”
“Maybe I’ve missed my calling,” Libby laughed.
“Naw. You’re too good of a pilot.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that there might be more to life than flying?”
“Like what?”
The two jets were cruising to 20,000 feet where they would practice a few warm-up maneuvers to acclimate their bodies to the powerful G forces. “Like what, Libby?”
“I’m thinking … ”
“I can only think of one other thing that can compare to what we’re doing right now,” Charlie said cheerfully. He did not take it personally when Libby didn’t answer; they had reached altitude and he pulled back on the stick and began a 90-degree roll. The G-suits automatically inflated, and they started straining to keep the blood from pooling in their legs.
After pulling out of the turn, the airplanes leveled off before beginning a grueling 180-degree turn. The G force pinned the pilots in their seats, pushed the air out of their lungs and made their arms feel as heavy as logs.
When they had successfully completed the final maneuver, the pilots took opposing positions, two miles apart, and began the mission in earnest.
“Fight’s on!” Charlie yelled into the radio, as he began a steep dive. His intention was to evade detection and then pop up and surprise the “bandit” from behind by delivering a practice missile up the tail pipe and theoretically blowing Phipps out of the sky. But Mike spotted Charlie’s airplane before he got a chance to lock radar and took evasive action by lighting his afterburner for a swift getaway.
With Charlie in hot pursuit, the two pilots spent the next five minutes skillfully eluding one another until a stand-off was acknowledged and Charlie advised his adversary to: “Knock it off.”
The second engagement was more intense, competition keener, as the men tested their expertise and daring against one another. In air-to-air combat, if a back-seater was present, his/her primary job was to keep a sharp eye
out for the ‘bandit’ and forewarn the pilot by calling out the coordinates of the other airplane.
Libby, harnessed down in her seat, was immobilized by nine Gs of deadening force, as Charlie did an inverted roll. For a split second, all she could see was the Pacific Ocean 5,000 feet below, and then nothing but blue sky, as Charlie nudged the stick and the F-16 soared straight up to 20,000 feet.
The G-suit compressed her abdomen and legs like a clamp, the positive pressure vest inflated, she strained and grunted to off-set the debilitating effects of pulling nine Gs, all the while swiveling her head from side to side in a concerted effort to locate the ‘bandit.’ Underneath the rubber “poopy” suit, her body was slippery with sweat and her throat burned from the pure oxygen pumping through the mask.
“Six o’clock, six o’clock,” Libby panted into the microphone. Her lips felt numb and formless, disfigured into an ugly grimace.
Mike was homing in at supersonic speed for the kill, closing the distance that separated the two aircraft, when Charlie popped out the speed brakes and jammed the nose skyward and, as the bandit streaked past, neatly rolled out onto Phipps’ tail. Seconds later a ‘Fox Two: Missile kill’ was recorded on the Heads-up display in the cockpit.
“Well done,” Libby exclaimed from the backseat.
“Haven’t I always said we make a good team?” Charlie’s voice crackled through the earphones.
“Would the two of you stop congratulating each other and take your position.” Major Phipps had eased his airplane alongside Charlie’s and was addressing them over the radio. “We’ve got fuel for another engagement. Scooter may have the biggest head in the squadron but he doesn’t have a monopoly on brains. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve that they forgot to teach you zoomies at the Academy.”
“Well by all means, don’t keep us in suspense,” Libby parried. And with that, the two F-16s separated two miles apart and began the next engagement at 6,000 feet.
Charlie had just dumped the nose over and lit the afterburner when there was a deafening bang. The electric jet suddenly slowed. The master caution light on the instrument panel started blinking like a Christmas tree, followed immediately by the yellow warning light, and then the ominous red fire light.
Charlie turned the airplane in the direction of land, and in a terse voice, advised Mike Phipps to “knock it off” and standby, while he and Libby evaluated the situation.
Part of their intensive training as fighter pilots was to enable them to cope with just such an emergency and they both reacted according to the procedures spelled out in the flight manual. Libby promptly took the checklist out of a side pocket and began reading the engine-fire checklist out loud to Charlie while he pulled back on the throttle to try and restart the engine. But the airplane was losing thrust and slowing down and Libby could see wisps of black smoke wafting out of the air conditioning ducts. An acrid, caustic odor was filling the cockpit.
“Go on 100 percent oxygen,” she said calmly. But her tone of voice belied her alarm and her heart was pounding as the loud banging continued — sharp retorts like gunfire or backfire from a motorcycle.
“The damn engine’s stuck at idle,” Charlie muttered into the microphone. “There’s no throttle response.” And then: “Christ, Libby, this is a helluva thing to happen.”
“Yeah,” she answered. The element of disbelief that had sustained the two of them thus far was quickly eroding, as one option after another had to be abandoned. They were gliding at 210 knots toward the shore, but it was unlikely they would make it over land before they had to eject. Smoke was getting thicker in the cockpit and it was becoming more obvious with each passing second that the airplane was in its death throes and would end up in a watery grave and take Libby and Charlie along with it, if they didn’t get out soon.
“Eject! Get out! Now! You’re on fire!” The impetus to eject immediately was shouted over the radio by Major Phipps, who was flying alongside Charlie’s aircraft and monitoring the situation.
There was no second-guessing that definitive injunction. Libby yanked instinctively on the yellow handle between her legs and set the sequence in motion. The canopy popped off, and she was propelled by the rocket under her seat and catapulted 150 feet into the air above the burning aircraft. Exactly one second later Charlie followed on a trajectory equidistant from the airplane and in the opposite direction from Libby. Their ejection seats fell away and the orange and white striped parachutes opened automatically.
Libby, her head reeling from the explosive exit, reached up and grabbed the rope lanyards to pop the back four lines of the parachute and steer away from the burning jet. Then she discarded her oxygen mask.
When Libby was at the Air Force Academy, she made a couple of jumps on a dare from another cadet. Parachute jumping was a popular pastime among the more adventurous students and she was eager to prove she had the steady nerves and courage to voluntarily leap out of an airplane. She didn’t like it then, when she had a designated field in which to land, and she liked it even less now. The icy water of the Pacific Ocean was not the most optimum landing site.
From 20,000 feet the ocean looked benign, but the closer she got to the water the more menacing it appeared. The moderate winds that had skimmed lightly across the surface of the water had increased considerably during the last hour. The swells were higher; and their color, a deeper, sinister blue gray, reflected a lowering sky.
Libby’s attention was momentarily diverted from the inhospitable ocean to the awesome sight of the doomed F-16, engulfed in flames, spiraling into the water. A cloud of steam erupted on impact but by the time it dissipated, the airplane had vanished. Hot tears stung her eyes and she had to will herself not to cry. But she didn’t have time to get sentimental over the loss of an airplane if she was going to survive the ordeal that lay ahead.
Four or five hundred feet to her left, she could see the reassuring presence of Charlie swinging back and forth in his parachute harness. Just knowing he was nearby helped restore Libby’s confidence and dispel the paralyzing fear as she prepared for impact. She tugged on the pouch under her right hip, releasing the inflatable orange dingy. It dangled beneath her at the end of a fifteen-foot lanyard. Once she was in the water, all she had to do was reel in the line and climb aboard. Libby had practiced the maneuver dozens of time before, but floundering around in an Olympic-sized swimming pool was not quite the same thing as punching out in the Pacific Ocean. Water survival had been fun. The frigid water awaiting below looked like anything but.
Libby swiveled around in her harness searching for Charlie; but he had drifted farther away. Not only that, he had failed to release the dingy. She was too low to steer much closer to him and he was too far to hear, when she shouted his name, but something was obviously wrong with the parachute or … .
It wasn’t the parachute, it was his right arm. She had been too busy to notice before, too preoccupied with her own problems to worry about Charlie. But she could see his arm now, hanging uselessly at his side. He must have been injured when he ejected and the injury had prevented him from steering the chute and releasing the dingy.
“Charlie!” She shouted again. And then she was in the water, sucked down in a swirling green vortex. She held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut as she sank and then the parachute automatically released, the horse-collar around her neck inflated, and she bobbed up to the surface and could breathe. She unsnapped the latch on her helmet and tossed it aside.
The water was fifty degrees and, despite the protective poopy suit, Libby was shivering from the intense cold. She had to get into the dingy as quickly as possible.
But first she had to locate Charlie.
Libby was a strong swimmer but being buffeted like a rag doll by the powerful current was debilitating and she had to focus all her energy and attention on the search. He couldn’t be too far away, she reasoned, but wherever he was, he nee
ded help — to release the dingy and climb aboard.
If only the swells weren’t so high and the wind so shrill. He would never hear her above the din.
“Charlie!” Shouting his name, was a waste of precious energy. She had to concentrate. Concentrate.
Libby spotted the bright orange parachute fifty yards or so away. It should have detached as soon as he hit the water but it apparently had failed to do so, and had deflated on top of Charlie. She could see him flailing around in the water in an attempt to free himself from the tangle of lines and smothering nylon chute. The horse-collar was keeping him afloat but if she didn’t reach him, he was in imminent danger of drowning.
“I’m coming. Hang on,” she yelled, as much to inspire herself, as to reassure her friend. He couldn’t possibly hear her voice.
It took longer to reach Charlie than she anticipated. Every time she just about closed the gap separating them, she would be tossed back by a wave and have to start all over again. Her persistence eventually paid off but by the time she got her hands on him he was thrashing so wildly she was in peril of getting tangled in the lines herself.
“Stop it. Stop it. I’m not going to let you drown,” she shouted. But there was no way to free him without diving under the parachute and cutting the lines with her survival knife.
“Charlie,” she pleaded, but he was too panic-stricken to follow instructions and kept lashing out whenever she got near enough to sever the cords.
Libby took a deep breath, dived underwater and tackled him around the waist. Wielding the hooked blade, in gloves, under water, with hands that were starting to lose feeling from the cold, tested both her strength and her patience but after several dives, she managed to cut the parachute loose and yank it off his head. The helmet was next. She locked her legs around his hips to anchor their bodies together, unfastened the latch, and lifted the helmet off his head.
Charlie was deathly pale from the frightening ordeal, in excruciating pain with what appeared to be a fractured arm, and nauseated from having ingested so much salt water. There was a bruise on the side of his face, and his blonde hair was singed from the fire.
Heart to Heart Page 86
