“Damn straight.”
“—but I'm ordering you right now. Colonel, as your superior officer: turn right to a heading of one-two-five, center up the steering bug, and prepare to commence hostile airspace penetration operations at the original route entry point. Do it now, or by God, I’ll prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law when we get back to base.”
“You’re crazy, McLanahan,” Rebecca exploded. “You’ll never be able to convict me of disobeying an order like that. You’ll be laughed out of court—probably court-martialed yourself.”
“Are you going to refuse my order?”
“It’ll be daylight by the time we reach the shootdown point,” Furness argued. “We’ll be sitting ducks—”
“You don’t know that,” Patrick said. “All we do know is that Dev and Annie are sitting ducks right now. We are the only chance they have of escaping or getting rescued. Now I’m ordering you once more—center up the steering bug now.” Rebecca Furness looked into Patrick McLanahan’s eyes and saw nothing but red-hot fury in them, unlike anything she had seen in the short but intense time they had worked together. She knew that, although it was probably unauthorized, his was not an unlawful order. The Rules of Conduct under the Uniform Code of Military Justice stated that she was not obligated to obey unlawful orders or orders that violated her own morality. This did neither. If she obeyed his order, she felt certain she could not be prosecuted for doing so.
Damn it. Rebecca, she admonished herself, stop thinking about the legalities and start thinking about what could happen if you don’t do it! Dev and Annie could be captured. They were only a few miles from the Ukrainian border—if they were unhurt from the ejection, they still had a chance to make it across the border. The Russians might still go after them, but that’s why they needed to be there for them.
Rebecca released the paddle switch on her control stick, which allowed the Vampire bomber’s autopilot to follow the computer’s steering signals. They were on their way back to Russia.
In the Sredneruskaja Plains, near Obojan, Russian Federation
That same time
There was only one way to describe what ejecting out of an exploding aircraft was like: pure, unadulterated violence.
Annie Dewey’s only warning of what was about to occur was when the overhead hatch blew free, her shoulder and lap belt straps tightened, the leg restraints snapped her ankles back so they wouldn’t flail around during the shot, and the ejection seat slid backward against the launch rail. Then her body was racked by immense pain as the main rocket motor fired her clear of the aircraft. The force exerted on the human body during the ejection sequence had been compared to hitting a brick wall in an automobile traveling twenty miles an hour—headfirst—and Annie probably would've doubled that number.
The sky, which had been cold, dark, and stormy all night, was a blaze of hot yellow and red flames. Annie lost her oxygen mask right away—that’ll teach you always to lock it in tight, she somehow managed to admonish herself throughout the chaos—and the helmet almost came flying off with it. The only thing that helped catch her helmet was the chin strap digging into her nose. She was sure her nose was broken. Time for that nose job she always wanted—maybe she would finally get Nicole Kidman’s nose at last.
Because the Vampire was flying at such a slow speed—almost approach speed—and they were relatively low to the ground, the ejection sequence happened fast and violent. She got both rocket motors on full ignition right away, which tripled the force exerted on her body. Thankfully, that ride was over in less than two seconds. She then got the mule-kick in the back from the man-seat separator, a thick nylon strap along the back of the seat that tightened and propelled her away from the ejection seat pan like a slingshot. Next the drogue chute deployed, which whipped her body upside down, followed almost immediately by the shoulder-cracking snap of the big main chute. Fortunately, the Vampire bomber was still accelerating away, and her chute did not open inside the rapidly growing fireball that used to be her warplane. Annie got half a dozen good swings in her chute, but all she remembered was crashing into the frozen rocky earth in typical Air Force crew member fashion: feet, butt, back of head.
The wind tugged at her half-inflated parachute, as if insisting that she get up, but Annie wasn't going to move one inch, even though she was almost facedown in the snow. She could smell and taste blood, so she knew that at least two senses were working. A few moments later, her hearing kicked in as she caught the sound of her beloved B-l bomber crashing into the low hills, not far away. The ground heaved and rumbled like an earthquake—touch was okay, too. She tried the last sense, sight, but that didn’t seem to want to work quite yet. Four out of Five—not bad for just hitting the ground under a parachute after ejecting from a shot-up bomber
Her plane was gone, history. An incredible, almost overwhelming, sense of fear, dread, and guilt washed through her brain. What have I done? she asked herself. If I had followed orders, I’d still be flying far overhead, out of range of antiaircraft guns and safe from Russian fighters. I’d still be able to protect the special operations guys with her weapons, or vector in fighter support, or jam Russian radars, or a whole number of other things. The MV-22 Pave Hammer crew might have been able to fly the plane out themselves. Or what if a trigger- happy Russian fighter jock got both them and the MC-130P tanker as well? Her rescue attempt would have been a waste. What if everything she did was all for nothing?
The fear and the cold caused her to shiver. It was hypothermia setting in. Annie didn’t care. She had failed. She had probably killed Dev, and she had certainly caused the loss of a multimillion dollar warplane. The Russians were obviously going to find the wreckage and discover who and what they were. Their secret would be out. She would be captured, Dev’s body taken to some grimy little prison morgue, maybe broadcast around the world so Dev’s poor parents could see his mutilated body. The United States would suffer one of its greatest foreign policy and military embarrassments since Iran-Contra. The United States government might disavow any knowledge of their mission. Lives and careers would be ruined. Everything the United States said or did for the next decade would have the stink of this failure tainting it.
I might as well die, Annie thought. Death would certainly be preferable to living with the shame of what her decisions had caused tonight. She was probably already blind, certainly shattered from the ejection and the hard landing. So not only would she be a national disgrace, but if she lived, someone would have to take care of her. She’d have to be fed through a tube, shit in a pair of diapers like an infant, be set out on a patio like a potted plant so she could get some sun so she wouldn’t shrivel up and die, and the attendant would know who she was and would be embarrassed and probably disgusted to have to take care of such a loser oh God why did I do it why didn’t I listen to orders oh Jesus I want to die let me die don’t let me live like a paraplegic vegetable being hated by my mother and father oh mom oh dad I'm sorry I apologize I only wanted to help I thought I was doing the right thing I...
It was a clump of snow falling off a branch and landing a few inches from her face that finally snapped her out of her despair. It sounded like a footstep, and a thrill of panic—a new panic—shot through her head. I’m not dead. I'm going to be captured. Should I pretend to be dead or unconscious? What if they just shoot me to make sure I’m dead? What if 1 ... ?
NO! she screamed at herself. Stop it! Stop talking yourself into dying or screwing things up even worse than you already have! She had a crew member out there somewhere who probably needed her help. She had a duty to herself and to her country to get out and make it back into friendly territory. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Annie Dewey, and get on your damn feet and move! If Dev Deverill dies because you were too busy feeling sorry for yourself, then you do deserve to die! Get up, you bitch, and act like a real American airman instead of a whiny overprotected coed!
She heard no voices and no more footsteps. Good time to get the hell away from her
e. Hands and arms, working. Good. Try to roll over . . . no, bad, very bad, excruciatingly painful back pain, like ice picks were being driven up her spine. She tried to return to her original spot to try to relieve the pain, but her body was telling her, too late, Annie, there’s no pain-free way to move now. She cried out as she rolled over on her back. The pain seemed to constrict her throat, cutting off her airway, strangling her. Now panic was setting in again. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, and the pain in her back was mind- numbing. Stars swam in her field of vision, and she prayed she would pass out to save her from the pain.
She wasn’t that lucky. The only soothing thing she felt was the cold and wet snow against her back. The pain was still there, still as sharp as ever, but at least she felt it, and at least she could move. She wasn't paralyzed. Even through the shattering pain, she felt a twinge of hope. Maybe she would be all right.
Annie reached up to her eyes and immediately found one source of her vision and breathing problems—her helmet had shoved itself down over her face. Making the slightest movement only increased the pain even more, but she was able to unsnap the helmet and pull it off her head. Her fingertips found a deep crack in the helmet—it had saved her life. A gash like that on her skull would've easily killed her.
The snow on the back of her head felt good, and several moments later she started to see and sense more things—flickers of fires in the distance against the stormy skies, the acid smell of burning jet fuel, and the creaks, shrieks, and groans as the Vampire bomber continued its death-rattles; wet icy snow falling on her face, cold moisture seeping through her flight suit and cold-weather gear against her butt. She wasn’t wearing ultra-cold-weather stuff, but she was wearing insulated long-underwear, thick wool socks, a turtleneck long underwear shirt, and cold-weather Thinsulate flying gloves. The pain felt like it was subsiding. Now she started to be afraid of going into shock if she got too cold, so it was important that she get moving. Get up, Annie, she told herself. Find Dev. Find the survival gear, Find shelter. Get away from the crash site and hide.
The pain came back full force as soon as she tried to get up, but she knew she had no choice—either get up and have a chance of surviving, or stay on the ground and freeze to death or get captured. With the helmet no longer muffling her, she was able to cry out as loud as she dared, but she knew searchers would be on their way and she didn’t want to risk being captured. Crawling to her hands and knees seemed to take a half hour, but she did it. Reaching up to unfasten her parachute risers and unbuckle her parachute harness seemed to drain every erg of strength from her body, but she did it. Pulling on the nylon strap that connected her harness to the survival pack seemed an impossibility, like trying to pull a cruise ship into its dock after someone on deck threw her a line, but she did it.
Now, with the survival pack clutched safely in her arms, she felt better. I may be hurting, she thought, and I may be down hard, but I’m not out of the game yet.
Walking was out of the question, so she crawled. She didn't know which way to go, so she decided just to go away from the glow of the fires from the crash scene. That seemed a good choice, because the direction she chose was downhill. After a few dozen yards, she found a big pine tree. Feeling around its base with her hands, she noticed the ground underneath the thick bottom branches was dry, so she crawled underneath. Hey. she thought, those survival instructors were right: it’s surprisingly comfortable in here. It smelled good, and after a few moments, it even started to feel warm. Man oh man, what a break. She heard a scampering sound and figured she had probably disturbed some ground squirrel's rest, but she didn’t much care who or what she was sharing that warm, soft, pine-needle- cushioned ground with right now.
She knew she had to keep going. She had only moved a very short distance away from her landing spot, and they could find her easily by her drag marks. But she had to take time to check herself out. get her thoughts together, decide on a plan of action, then do it.
The first thing she had to do was take care of herself. Annie opened the survival pack, a square green nylon case about eighteen inches square, three inches thick, and weighing about twenty pounds. A tiny red-lensed flashlight was right on top, which helped her inventory the rest of the kit—even that tiny bit of artificial American-made light helped to lift her spirits. She was finally back in control of her environment, at least a little bit.
Four pint-sized cans of water—she drank one can immediately and put the others inside the leg pockets of her flight suit. Waterproof matches—inside her flight suit, between her T-shirt and long-underwear shirt. Survival rations: dried beef bars, granola bars, fruit bars, chocolate bars. One dried beef bar and one fruit bar in her flight suit, the rest back in the survival pack. Folding knife, in her flight suit. A space blanket, silver on one side, black on the other, in her flight suit. Vacuum-packed sleeping bag, compressed and squished into a nine-inch-long, three-inch-diameter tube, in the survival kit. Pretty amazing shit. Signal mirror, around her neck, along with a magnetic compass. Wool cap, on her head. Aha, the good gadget: combination satellite survival radio and GPS satellite navigation receiver—in her flight suit pocket, along with two spare batteries, which went inside her T-shirt next to her skin to keep them warm.
Signal flares, smoke signaling devices, flare gun with forest-penetrator cartridges, back in the survival pack. Booklets, fishing kit, first-aid kit, mittens, compression bandages, snare wire, a wire saw, aspirin tablets, water-purification tablets, a small tarp to make a tent, nylon twine, a radiation tester, two pairs of socks sealed in plastic, a canteen—all stayed in the survival kit for now. except she popped two aspirins and washed them down with water to help take the edge off the pain in her back and shoulders. Everything but nylon stockings, chewing gum, gold pieces, Russian rubles, and condoms ... oops, a moment later she found the condoms. They stayed in the survival kit.
Annie felt immensely better after she closed up the survival kit. She had read that the vast majority of crash victims who died while in a survival situation never even bothered to do the simplest things, like seek shelter or open their survival kits. They were either in a daze, in shock, or simply couldn’t believe the situation they were in. Most of the time they ended up dropping all their gear and walking off in circles until they died of exhaustion, hypothermia, or shock. The old saying was that crash victims who died in survival situations died of embarrassment. Annie understood that feeling very, very well right now.
Checking herself out didn’t take long. The pain in her back was immense, now spreading from her spine and radiating out to her legs, arms, and neck. Her nose creaked and snapped like cellophane, and in the survival mirror she could see blood covering her cheeks and chin and thickly caked in her nose, but if there was any pain from the broken nose it was being overshadowed by the pain in her back. Her whole body was sore, and she knew she was going to find some humongous bruises. Her butt hurt badly, and she thought she might have a broken tailbone. No other obvious injuries. Annie counted herself very, very fortunate. She knew that she could have easily ...
“Annie, this is McLanahan. Do you hear me? Annie?”
“General!” Annie exclaimed aloud. The global satellite transceiver they'd planted under her skin, powered by the thick rubber-coated bracelet on her ankle, sort of like a futuristic miniature OnStar assistance device—my God, it was working, even way out here in the middle of nowhere. “I hear you! I hear you!”
“I read you loud and clear, too, Annie,” Patrick McLanahan said. “Lower your voice. I assume you’re safe for now. What’s your situation?”
“I’m under a tree.” Annie said. “I was just resting, checking my survival gear out. I'm okay. My back hurts, I got a broken nose and maybe a broken butt bone, but otherwise I'm okay.”
“Good, You did the right thing,” Patrick said. “You can divvy up the survival gear later.”
“Already did it. I even had some water and a couple aspirins.”
“Good job. Okay. We're with you
now, we have your location, and help's on the way: You’re going to have to find Dev, then find as safe a place as you can to hide until we can send in the rescue teams.”
Annie almost burst into tears when McLanahan mentioned the “rescue teams”—she finally felt she might make it out of this alive. “What about Dev?” she asked. “Are you talking to him? Can you find him, too?”
“We're still picking up life signs from Dev, but there’s no answer from him,” McLanahan said. “He’s about two hundred yards east of you, but we can't be too precise. If you feel up to it. I'd like you to try to join up with him, check him out, hide him if you can, and help him. Are you able to move?”
“I think so,” Annie replied.
“We know the weather’s bad, but that will help you stay concealed,” Patrick said. “It’ll be tough going, but give it a try, I’ll direct you as best I can, but you have to move several yards before your position will update, so it’s imprecise. I don’t want you falling into a ravine trying to find him in the dark, and I don't want you to get captured. If you can't do it safely, go back to your nest there, or find another hiding spot, and stay hidden.”
“I’ll find him. Don't worry.”
“Good. We’re putting together a rescue package for you as we speak. The entire Intelligence Support Agency is gearing up to launch a rescue. You’re heroes for what you did for Weston and his crew, Heels. They’ll move heaven and earth to get to you.”
“Thank you. sir,” Annie said, not embarrassed by the gush of joy and relief in her voice. “Thank you so much. I—I’m sorry for what l did. I disobeyed orders, and I got us shot down. I take full responsibility for whatever happens.”
“The cost of the Vampire is already being deducted from your paycheck, Annie,” McLanahan quipped. “You have about three hours until local sunrise, so you'd better get moving. Take it nice and slow and easy. Good luck. We’ll let you know if we hear from Dev.”
Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 Page 27
