by Mary Brady
* * * * *
Don’t miss ALL THAT GLITTERS,
the final installment of
THE LEGEND OF BAILEY’S COVE,
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PROLOGUE
COMMANDER GWENDOLYN BRETT adjusted the power levers on her P-3C-Orion aircraft as another gust of wind racked the airframe. Lightning lit up the night sky over the Philippine Sea and she wished they’d finished the mission hours earlier.
Terrorist insurgents in the remote southern islands of the Philippines hadn’t shown their hand until the last possible moment before she had to turn the plane around while there was still enough fuel to make it back to base. Besides streaming live video to government troops on the ground, her crew got their location, captured excellent photos of their camp and transmitted them via satellite to be disseminated to the intel weenies who’d figure out what it all meant.
They’d completed the mission; now she had to get her crew back to base.
Alive.
Thirteen souls, including herself.
That awareness kept her from letting the monotonous drone of the four turbo-prop engines lull her into drifting off—into thinking about anything other than the flight...
For some reason, the image of Drew as she’d driven off just before deployment had haunted her all day. She’d wondered why he’d bothered, why he showed up at the hangar. He’d said, no one should go off on deployment alone. He’d given her a friendly hug.
They were friends, in spite of all the hell they’d put each other through as young junior officers. So why had his platonic hug been worse than if he’d tortured her with a kiss, reminded her of all she’d lost when they’d divorced five years ago? More important, why was she allowing thoughts of him now, during a key mission?
The old mesh fabric pilot’s seat gave little support to her spine, and she shifted her position, trying to stretch her lower back.
“You’ve got to do those ab moves I told you about, XO.” Her copilot’s gentle chiding made her smile.
“No amount of exercise is going to shave the years off me, David.”
“Aw, ma’am, you’re still young.”
She chuckled, even as the sharp stab of a lower back spasm made her wince. Simple tasks that she’d managed through brute strength as a junior officer were becoming more difficult as her birthdays added up.
Thirty-seven was young in the civilian world, but not in the navy.
She was tired of the constant reminders of the years passing too quickly. When she got back from deployment she was going to follow her best friend, Ro’s, advice and get herself back into the dating scene.
Not that she’d ever been in the dating scene. Because of Drew. Because they’d been together since flight school in Pensacola, Florida.
From the beginning they knew their marriage faced more challenges than most—long deployments, geographical separation, war. Hurdles that wouldn’t go away until one or both of them resigned from the navy. Drew didn’t have the passion for flying that Gwen did and they’d agreed that she’d stay in while he got out. They both assumed Gwen would eventually resign her commission and fly for a commercial airline.
They’d survived three intense years after Drew got out of the navy and went back to school to earn his doctorate in Physical Therapy. His PT practice had thrived after only a year.
As his career took off, so did hers. Unfortunately, their marriage tanked.
She still mentally kicked herself for not seeing the inevitability of their divorce. That would’ve saved them both so much emotional distress. Very few dual-active-duty couples made it for the long haul. Factor in how young they’d been when they got married, and the odds had never been in their favor.
The long deployments and wartime assignments had been hell for both of them, but her performance earned her top marks and led to this tour. The ultimate goal all career officers chased after—the command tour.
Serving as the Executive Officer of Patrol Squadron Five-Two, the Grey Sharks, she’d had two more months until she’d become the commanding officer. A coveted twelve-month stint that had taken her entire career to reach and taken her marriage with it.
Her squadron’s mission was to conduct reconnaissance and antisubmarine warfare all over the globe. They provided real-time intelligence to operational ground forces and operational commands, no matter which theater they flew in. Often her missions kept civilians safe from unspeakable terrorist events. Sometimes it was simply reconnaissance. Other times, Gwen’s aircraft carried weapons, or helped others aim their weapons on the enemy target.
“See the flashes, XO?” David pointed starboard of the nose, to where sharp points of light lit up the not-distant-enough horizon.
“They’re not happy. Good. That’s our job.” She referred to the insurgents who were shooting off AAA, antiaircraft artillery, in an effort to take her aircraft down.
“We’re too far away for those triple-A rounds, Commander,” one of the radar operators said over the ICS or intercommunications system.
“And we’re going to keep it that way, crew.” Gwen spoke into her microphone as she eyed her fuel levels.
She glanced over at her copilot, his profile relaxed but alert in the starboard seat. Young and supersmart, he reminded her of Drew and of herself. Once again she lamented that they’d been so young when they started out in the navy and in life. Too young to know how to make a marriage work.
She contracted and relaxed her abs and her glutes. It eased the discomfort in her lower back.
At least she and Drew had remained good friends. That was more important than a marriage, in so many ways.
Drew hadn’t been impressed with her selection to command. He was proud of her, unquestionably. He’d supported her through the wartime deployments—by getting her mail, doing basic admin stuff a spouse often did, handling household responsibilities. But they’d been divorced for five years when she left last month. Neither of them had remarried, but she expected he’d be the first one to make that leap.
He’d wanted to start a family. She’d wanted to wait.
Tonight, at the end of a long mission, flying through a hell of a storm, she wondered if she’d been nuts to stay in the navy, to go through so much, for this last operational tour. Had it been worth it, giving up so much to become a commanding officer?
Lately she’d begun to suspect that she’d lost more than her marriage in the process. She didn’t know who she was anymore, except for her military vocation. If she hadn’t screened for command, would she have stayed in to make the twenty-year mark required for retirement?
“Shit! Incoming starboard, three o’clock! Probable missile!” The aft observer’s scream in her headset shattered her thoughts.
“Confirmed surface-to-air. Son of a bitch!” The radar operator validated that the sighting wasn’t another aircraft or fireworks.
Cold dread gripped her.
“I see it. Hell, it’s closing, XO!” Her copilot had his hands on the yoke, his head swiveled around to the right as he sighted the missile off their starboard side.
Preflight intel confirmed the existence of AAA during their mission brief, but never mentioned manpads—portable surface-to-air missiles.
They had an incoming that could blow them all to bits.
She heard screams and shouted curses over the ICS.
Drew.
Shudders buffeted the fuselage of the P-3, and Gwen’s operational instincts pushed anything else out of her mind. The plane rolled alarmingly to port and she threw a quick shout at her copilot. “Help me out here, David!”
“Engine number four, gone. Wing on fire.”
She never lifted her gaze from the control panel, where she confirmed that they’d lost an engine. Annunciator lights in the cockpit also indicated that number three, the other engine on the starboard wing, looked as if it was going to quit at any moment.
“We’ve lost both hydraulic systems,” the FE shouted.
“Roger. Pull the boost out handles!”
The FE leaned down and pulled the three yellow-and-black striped handles by his feet.
This left them with only manual control of the aircraft.
“What’s next, XO?” David yelled into his mic, even though he was right next to her. They’d never hear each other over the roar of the aircraft as it struggled to maintain altitude.
It was a losing battle. The altimeter showed they were dropping at an alarming rate.
One, maybe two minutes was all she had to prepare her crew.
They’d trained with the hope of three minutes.
“We’ll never make it to land, David.” She tore her gaze from the instrument panel and looked at him. His profile was set and determined, but she recognized the same fear she felt.
No one wanted to die. Not like this.
“You with me?”
He turned his stare on her and an understanding passed between them.
Whatever it takes.
Yells and shouts mixed with expletives over the ICS as the crew went through their trained-for responses.
The flight engineer pushed the button that issued the deadly warning—one long ring on the command bell. The sound she never wanted to hear while flying a P-3 reverberated through the entire aircraft.
They were going to ditch.
“Prepare to ditch!” She yelled what might be her last command—she had no choice. They’d lost two engines and were damned lucky they were still airborne.
The controlled panic of the crew aft of the flight station was palpable. Gwen heard swear words, prayers then silence as the country’s best-trained professionals prepared to fight for their lives.
Lives in her hands.
“Everyone got their LPAs on?” She referred to the survival vests that would be their only flotation device, other than the three life rafts, once they were in the harsh seas.
“Condition One set!” Lizzie, the TACCO or tactical communications officer, confirmed that everyone was prepared to ditch.
God help us all.
Ten thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean, approximately five miles off the southwest tip of the Philippines, they were about to ditch. The condition of the sea was abysmal, with waves that were ten feet and higher, And it was quarter past midnight.
Pitch blackness.
Her worst nightmare come true—a nighttime ditch in rough seas, miles from land, oceans from the nearest naval vessel.
Robert “Mac” MacCallister, the flight engineer, worked in sync with the copilot to complete the ditching checklist. It was standard procedure they’d all practiced and prayed they’d never need to use.
I’m ditching in the ocean.
She’d practiced it in the flight simulator countless times, mentally rehearsed the most undesirable event for any naval aviator.
“I’m here if you need relief, XO.” The voice of the third pilot rose above the rush of air that swept through the cabin. He clutched the back of the copilot’s seat as he shouted in her ear.
Gwen couldn’t spare him a look.
“Go back to your station and strap your ass in, Aidan!” If any of them were going to survive they had to be properly secured. She had to bring the bird onto the water safely and in one piece so they could get out before it sank.
“But ma’am, if you—”
“Take the freaking order!” Before she even finished her statement, Gwen had to grab the yoke back after it was wrenched out of her hands.
“Help me out here, David!” she shouted to her copilot.
“I’m pulling as hard as I can!”
Gwen didn’t have to see David’s face to know the young officer spoke through clenched teeth.
“Come on, gal, give us one more break!” Gwen yelled at the old bird, then groaned as she stretched her shoulder and back muscles to their limit in her effort to pull back. Losing hydraulics after two engines had been blown apart by the surface-to-air missile wasn’t just bad luck.
It was fatal.
She had to beat it.
That was her crew’s only chance.
“Five thousand feet.” Scott reported each time the altitude dropped another thousand feet. Soon it would be every hundred feet.
“Wind direction is two-four-five at 45 knots,” her navigator, Bryce Griswald, shouted from the nav station, aft of the cockpit.
“Roger, Grizzy.”
Gwen checked the compass heading and was grateful for one small miracle in this hell. She was taking the plane down at the right angle of descent to keep the waves from becoming brick walls lying in wait to destroy the aircraft.
Forgotten images of her life appeared before her in quick succession. The first time she rode her bicycle without training wheels, her dad’s smile, Mom’s hugs, Drew’s first kiss, her graduation from Annapolis.
Their wedding.
Drew.
“This plane is coming down in one piece. We’re all getting out.” It might be the last thing she ever did for them.
“Two hundred feet!” David hadn’t missed a beat.
“One hundred feet!” David’s shout reached Gwen just before she saw the last glint of white-capped waves through the night darkness.
“Hang on!” She pulled back on the yoke with all her strength.
“Fifty feet!”
David’s last report.
“Hands off power levers!” Gwen shouted the order for David to join her in letting go of the power levers and gripping the yoke. They’d lose their fingers if they didn’t release the levers.
For the length of an indrawn gasp, the world stood still as she waited for touchdown. Her mind struggled to convince her that this was like any other landing, the end of any other mission she’d be able to walk away from.
That delusion shattered when the plane hit water. What remained of the two operating engines’ combined ninety-two-hundred shaft horsepower screeched to a halt as metal propellers met the ocean surface with such a violent impact she was sure they were finished. Panic threatened to drown them before their greatest enemy did. The sea.
Not yet.
Water sprayed against the windshield and blinded her. It took all her mental discipline to ride out the ditch, hands on yoke. Each creak, groan and shudder as the aircraft broke apart echoed in her bones.
After interminable moments, the aircraft’s forward motion stopped and the race for their lives began.
“Out, out, out, let’s go!” Gwen used her deepest shout, the one that had its origins in her plebe summer at the Naval Academy, to motivate her crew. Not that they needed any motivation—their quick decisive actions flashed in front of her as if they ditched regularly.
Mac crouched next to her, shoving the copilot out the upper hatch. They were up to their chests in water and jet fuel, so every movement became slow and difficult. Her flight suit provided no protection fro
m the ocean or the thousands of gallons of aviation fuel that had spilled from the torn wing tanks.
“Anyone else?” Mac yelled as he pointed directly above his head to the cockpit hatch.
“No, everyone else will exit the over-wing hatches.” They couldn’t go back to help anyone now, and she had to trust that the rest of the crew had survived the ditch. Her toe met a hard, unmovable steel bulkhead as she fought to hang on to the hatch rim while Mac, the flight engineer, prepared to egress.
Gwen prayed the crew who’d been strapped in back were out over the wing hatches, along with the life rafts. She wouldn’t know until she was out.
The fuselage tilted dangerously forward. They had precious minutes to get out and away from the sinking wreckage.
“Go ahead, Mac.” She gave him a shove and watched as his body disappeared up the hatch. Seconds later Mac’s hand reached down and grabbed the top of her helmet.
“Up here, ma’am! Let me pull you.”
Gwen complied and allowed him to save her life. As the plane commander, Gwen was responsible for each crew member’s life. She had to be the last one out.
She grabbed the edge of the hatch as soon as her arms were past the entrance and pushed herself up into the raging storm. The sting of salt water and the howl of the wind shocked her, and she had to take several gulps of air before she could ascertain where the life rafts were. In doing so, she breathed in the aircraft’s fuel fumes. Her eyes and throat burned and her stomach heaved. She had no choice but to vomit on the spot.
She saw David’s face, illuminated by his flashlight. The copilot was safe with the navigator and the second flight engineer. She couldn’t see any farther into the menacing darkness.
“How many?” Gwen screamed across the waves and the rapidly sinking P-3 to the first of the life rafts.
“All here, XO.”
Gwen couldn’t allow time for relief. She sought out the second and third life rafts.
“We’re missing the TACCO!” The shout from the second raft elicited immediate action from Gwen. Lizzie was still stuck in the aircraft.
