Flight of the Intruder jg-1

by Stephen Coonts

  “We’re on fire,” he shouted. They would have to eject now.

  “Not yet,” Cole said and put his left arm across the pilot’s chest. “Maybe a few more miles.”

  “Burning jets have a nasty habit of exploding, you know,” said Jake. In his mind he could see the line in the operating manual for the A-6 Intruder: “At the first sign of visible fire, eject.”

  The nose of the airplane dipped. He tugged the stick aft, but the nose continued down. There was no pressure at all on the hydraulic gauges. The fire had melted the hydraulic lines.

  Tiger stopped talking on the radio and looked at Jake.

  Slowly, slowly, the nose started back up, but the plane rolled left. Jake waggled the stick and rudder. No response. Devil 500 was finished.

  The two men looked into each other’s eyes.

  Tiger Cole reached up with both hands, grasped the primary ejection handle, and pulled it down over his head in a swift, clean motion. Instantly he was gone in a thunderclap of noise, wind, and plexiglass.

  One last time, out of habit, Jake’s eyes swept the instrument panel, then he pulled the alternate firing handle between his legs. In the fraction of a second before the ejection seat smashed its way upward through the plexiglass, the image of the panel and the yellow fire reflected in the mirror indelibly seared his memory.

  Something was hammering at his body, pounding every inch of his chest, arms, legs, and neck. Even as he realized it had to be drops of rain, a tremendous jolt tore at his crotch as his parachute opened.

  After the deafening rush of wind on ejection there was silence. He could not see a thing. In a near panic, he groped above him for the parachute risers. The straps rising from his shoulders were firm as steel cables.

  Reassured, he tried to think.

  Why was he blind? He wasn’t; there simply wasn’t enough light to see by. Firmly grasping the nylon strap on each side of his neck, he let the seconds tick by. His ears momentarily picked up the faint whine of a jet engine.

  The oxygen mask! If he were knocked out on landing and still had it on, he would suffocate when the oxygen in the seat pan ran out. He had to get rid of it. With his right hand he fumbled for the catches that held the mask to his helmet. He had no dexterity, and terror threatened to overwhelm him. He fought down the killing panic and fingered the place where the catches had to be. He found them and disconnected the mask and threw it out into the darkness.

  Through it all, he kept a death grip on the left riser.

  Again using his right hand, he felt for the quick release fittings on the lap belt. He would have no need for the seat pan, which was for landing in water.

  He unlatched the right-hand fitting and was aware of the weight shifting on the back of his thighs. Carefully changing hands on the risers, he struggled with the left fitting. Finally the weight on his legs vanished as the seat pan fell away. His right hand automatically seize the right riser again.

  He heard the dull boom of a distant explosion. His airplane, probably. The end of Devil 500.

  A faint breeze fanned his face. Somewhere below. the jungle waited. When will it come up? The darkness was total. He thought of his flashlight in the survival vest, but he didn’t want to risk losing it on landing.

  The pounding of his heart and the gentle kiss of the wind and rain and the reassuring tautness of the riser straps were the only sensory stimuli in the dark silence. He began to think. Would he land in trees or a paddy or a rock-strewn creek? Would he be dashed against the cliff? He hooked his legs together to protect his crotch and placed his left hand on his right shoulder and his right hand on his left, then lowered his face into the crook of his elbows. Now to wait.

  His body was tense, awaiting the impact. relax, he told himself. No, stay tense. Keep those legs together and protect the family jewels.

  Something tore at his legs, then smashed into his body. He was pummeled by a series of rapid, rock-hard blows, and he felt his legs become separated and a fire of agony ripped up his left side. He was tumbling and his arms were flailing, searching for the risers that were no longer there. He took bullwhip lashes across the lower part of his face. Then he lost consciousness.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Major Frank Allen sat in the cockpit of an A-1 Skyraider over Laos. An airborne flight controller was working with the F A Cs to find Allen a target worthy of his ordnance. He and his wingman, a thousand feet below, had been holding for nearly an hour when the controller advised them of a downed aircraft, a navy A-6 Intruder, call sign Devil Five Oh Oh. Allen, after acknowledging the information, checked his fuel an noted the time on his kneeboard pad.

  “Nomad One Seven, we’re going to send you up that way to see if you can make radio contact. Standby,” the controller said.

  “Roger, Nomad One Seven.”

  The controller reported the suspected area of the crash, and Allen scanned his chart. When the aircraft had proceeded around its holding circle and was headed in the proper direction, Allen leveled the wings and adjusted the throttle and the fuel-mixture knob. The big piston engine of the A-1 responded smoothly and the needle on the airspeed indicator slid up to 100 knots. His wingman swung into trail. Allen plotted the coordinates he had been given for the crash and measured the distance-about an hour’s flying time. He refined his heading and flipped the second radio to the Guard channel and, turning up the volume and toning down the squelch, he transmitted: “Devil Five Oh Oh, Devil Five Oh Oh, this is Nomad One Seven on Guard, over.” Silence. A number of transmissions failed to bring any response, and he quit trying. The stars illuminated the top of the overcast several thousand feet below him. He thought about the two American airmen on the ground, who were fighting for their survival. He hoped that one of them was not his old University of Texas classmate, Cowboy Parker.

  The Pathet Lao guerrillas often killed their prisoners at capture rather than bother to transport and feed them. But if these two men were caught by North VietNamese Army regulars, who patrolled the Ho Chi Minh Trail, they might be taken to Hanoi to be imprisoned with the other POWS. Or they might just as easily be tied to a tree and skinned alive. As he considered the prospects of a flier in the jungle below, Frank Allen scanned his gauges and listened carefully to the beat of his engine, just as he had on more than two hundred missions.

  The engine sounded healthy. His thoughts soon turned to his planned rotation date in three weeks. Should he go back to the States or extend for another tour? He was still undecided. He often mulled over the question these days at odd moments.

  The clouds would cause trouble in the morning when it came time to pull the navy fliers out of the jungle. If only the clouds would break up, or lift enough for planes and choppers to work.

  He turned up the volume on the secondary radio and flew on.

  Jake Grafton stood alone in a large room, the windows of which were veiled in mist. Two wooden coffins yawned on the unvarnished floor. He walked toward them, his steps echoing, until he could see down in them. Tiger Cole lay in one but the Other was empty. Instead of red silk and satin, the empty coffin was lined with earth and decomposing leaves. He turned away with revulsion only to find a crowd advancing toward him shoulder to shoulder.

  Businessmen in suits and college students with long hair and little yellow men in black pajamas-all closing in on him. He felt hands lift him, and he felt himself spiraling down into the darkness.

  Rain striking his face awakened him. He was disoriented and unable to move. Nausea came over him in waves. He closed his mouth and tried to breathe, but his nose was clogged. He opened his mouth again an gulped the air and rain. His head, he realized, was below his legs.

  For what seemed like a long time, he hung in the darkness, gathering his strength.

  He pawed around and his right hand brushed something. Something soft but firm. Dirt and leaves. He discovered that he was hanging only a foot or so from the ground, and the panic subsided. Gritting his teeth against a pain in his side, he fumbled in the darkness for the harness-
release fittings. They were always on his chest, just below the collarbones. But he could not find them and, infuriated and sick with fear and pain, he tore off his gloves, frantically feeling everywhere trying to find the familiar metal shapes.

  Frustration bred panic and he stopped squirming just before it overwhelmed him.

  Maybe the fittings had moved as he had twisted around inside the harness.

  He explored slowly. He found the left catch over his shoulder. It opened readily, freeing his head and left shoulder. Now that he knew where to feel, he located the right one easily, and his body slumped down until he was partly on the ground. His legs, though, were still entangled above his head.

  He needed his flashlight. He forced himself to remember where he had stowed his pencil flash, then he worked methodically to retrieve it. The beam pierced the darkness. His eyes took several seconds to focus, and he saw that his legs were caught in shroud lines that extended upward into the trees.

  Something wet was running into his mouth. It tasted coppery. Blood? He patted his face with his hand, then shone the beam on his hand. It was bright red. He picked pieces of his helmet’s plexiglass visor out of his face. When he touched his nose pain shot through him. Broken.

  A minute passed before he worked up enough nerve to move again. He dug out the parachute shroud cutter from a vest pocket and slashed at the nylon lines around his legs. There were many lines. He paused to rest and swung the light around. Dark foliage in every direction.

  Cursing silently, he resumed slashing at the tangled white cords that trapped him like a fly in a spider’s web. Pain in his left side restricted his movements. More blood flowed into his mouth, and he spat it out. He was wet with a mixture of rain, sweat, vomit, and bloody spittle. His right leg finally came free. His body slipped again, and now he lay on the ground with one leg still caught.

  The closeness of freedom galvanized him. He tore at the remaining cords with the cutter. At last, his left leg also came free with a jolt of pain that seared him.

  He groaned, the first sound that had escaped from him. When the pain lessened, he pushed himself into a sitting position and examined his left leg carefully with the penlight. At his knee, which his G-suit didn’t cover, The his flight suit was ripped, and blood covered his knee and the ragged edges of the cloth. The joint was swollen, but he could still bend it.

  He cleaned the dirt and leaves from the neck of his flight suit, then took off his helmet. The visor was shattered. He ran his fingers through his hair, which was sticky and stiff.

  The radios! He reached into the front pocket of his survival vest and pulled out one of the two radios he carried. With the penlight, he inspected it. It looked undamaged. He turned on the emergency beacon which would allow someone searching for him to home in on him. Then he silenced the beacon, put the device to transmit/receive, and adjusted the volume, “Tiger, this is Jake.” No answer.

  He tried sever more times at minute intervals and finally received a response.

  “Hey, Jake.” The voice, though weak, filled the pilot with elation.

  “Where are you?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “I’m okay. You okay?”

  The answering voice was tired and faint. “Not really I can’t get out of my chute.”

  Shit!

  “I’m out of mine. I’ll find you. Just hang tough until I get there.”

  “I ain’t going anyplace.”

  Jake lowered the radio and flashed the penlight around: trees and underbrush in every direction. Still sitting, he found one of his plastic baby bottles an drained it, pausing only once for air. The water was warm, but it cleaned out the salty, coppery taste in his mouth. He was still thirsty, but he would hold the other bottle until later when he would be thirstier still Capping the empty bottle, he slipped it back in his vest.

  “Devil Five Oh Oh, Devil Five Oh Oh, how,do you read, over?”

  Jake’s heart leapt and he struggled with the radio.

  “Devil Five Oh Oh Alpha reads you loud and clear, over.

  “Devil, this is Nomad One Seven. Give me thirty seconds of beeper, over.”

  “Roger beeper.” Jake turned the beacon feature of the radio on and held the radio so that the little antenna pointed straight up. Now the Nomad pilot could home in on the beacon with his automatic-direction-finding, or A D F, equipment. After thirty seconds, Jake switched back to voice. “Nomad, Devil Five Oh Oh Alpha, did you copy, over?”

  “Roger, we got your beeper. Identify yourself, over. “Jacob Lee Grafton, lieutenant, seven three five niner niner four.”

  “Copy. Wait.”

  Jake sat in the darkness and let hope and elation run through him.

  We’ve been found already! We’ll be rescued!

  “Devil, Nomad. Have you two joined up and are you hurt?”

  “Negative join-up and pilot has minor injuries.

  Tiger, are you hurt, over?”

  Silence, which the rescue pilot eventually broke.

  “Copy negative join-up and pilot minor injuries.”

  My bombardier is hung up,” Jake explained.

  “Okay, Devil Alpha. Keep the faith. I’ll call you again in several minutes. Wait.”

  Depression replaced elation. As he huddled.in the darkness, Jake reviewed the flight and catalogued every error. They should not have run that target a second time. He should have pushed the emergency jettison button and hauled ass out to sea. Right now he and Tiger could be sitting in their rafts waiting for the Angel. Yeah, with sharks circling in the dark water “Devil Alpha, this is Nomad. Give me another thirty seconds of beeper,” Jake complied.

  “Okay, Devil,” the Nomad pilot told him, “we had a couple good cuts on your posit. We’ll come to get you at first light. You guys find a hole and crawl in it. Still have your watch?”

  Jake looked at his wrist; the luminous hands of the watch glowed in the darkness. “Yes. It’s 2057.”

  “Okay. Somebody will call you at 2200 and every hour on the hour after that. Got it?”

  Jake rogered and the conversation ended. He laid the radio beside him and tried to think. The first priority was to find Cole and free him of his chute.

  Could he be found in this jungle?

  They had been heading 250 degrees when they ejected. How much time had there been between ejections? He could recall the exact reading on the airspeed indicator: 245 knots. He had jumped may second or two behind the bombardier.

  He tried to work the arithmetic of converting their airspeed to feet per second but gave up and decided it couldn’t be more than a thousand feet. No more than the length of the Shilo’s flight deck, and probably less. Cole was so where in this jungle within a thousand feet of where he sat.

  He drew out his compass and unwound the parachute shroud line he had wrapped around it many months ago. He placed the loop around his neck, and the compass dangled.

  He checked himself over one more time before setting out. He was bloody both at his knee and on his side, but the blood seemed to have coagulated.

  His survival vest contained a bandage, which he wrapped around his knee–G-suit, flight suit, and all. There was nothing he could do about the tear in his side, but he wasn’t hurting too badly-yet.

  He gathered up the penlight and radio and, leaning against a tree trunk, he maneuvered himself upright. He had been wrong; the pain in his side was very bad. He put some weight on the torn leg, and it buckled. He had to repeat the whole effort. The adrenaline was wearing off. His face throbbed, and his side and knee screamed with pain. Every muscle ached from the blows he had received as he fell through the trees. He found, though, that if he kept the injured knee rigid he could limp along. He checked the compass and started out.

  After some painful hobbling, Jake paused. What if he passed Cole in the darkness?

  “Tiger?” Jake whispered into the radio. it had occurred to him that they were probably not alone in this jungle.

  A soft-voiced reply: “Yes?”
/>   “If you hear me thrashing around, you tell me. Okay? I’m going to get you out of this mess.”

  “Yes.” That was all he said. Jake listened, holding the radio against his ear, hoping for more. That one word was the entire message. He left the radio set to receive, stowed it in his pocket, and zipped the pocket shut. A glance at the compass and he began to move again.

  The going was slow and hard. He tripped over roots and vines, and limbs and branches stung his face. He fell repeatedly, but each time he forced himself to rise. After a while he looked at his watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed. How far had he traveled? Two hundred yards? He knew hunters and hikers tended to overestimate the distance they had traveled. He was in agony from the pain in his side; he must have broken several ribs, He cast around his small beam of light, a a wilderness of dripping vegetation met his eyes.

  He estimated another fifteen minutes had passed and he spoke into the radio: “Tiger?”

  No answer. He waited almost a minute, then tri again. He held the small speaker against his ear.

  “Yes.” A weak whisper.

  “Heard anything? I’ve really been thrashing around.

  “No.” Why hadn’t Cole answered when he was asked about his injuries? “How badly are you hurt?” Jake waited Perhaps Tiger had not heard the question. But of course he had. Why didn’t he answer?

  “I think my back is broken.”

  Frank Allen pounded his fist on his thigh. A broken back! A badly injured man could not evade the enemy or hook himself to the rescue hoist. The chopper would have to lower a crewman, maybe two, to pack them in a litter. A lot of lives would be at risk as the chopper hovered.

  Allen spoke to the airborne controller about the bombardier’s injuries over his primary radio on discrete tactical frequency. The controller, for his part, gave Allen the names of the downed men. The nickname “Tiger” had sounded familiar, but now Allen remembered who the men were and was able to connect faces with names. How long had it been since he was on the Shilo? Three or four weeks? After several more conversations, the controller directed Allen and his wingman to return to Nakhon Phano their base. Allen was scheduled to lead the next search and rescue mission, or SAR. His call sign would be Sandy One.