Joint Task Force #4: Africa (12 page)

“We have less than sixty to seventy seconds left before it empties. Lieutenant, when that happens the temperature is going to hit
kaboom
stage and the last thing we’re going to see is that tunnel with a light at the far end—”

“Altitude, Senior Chief?”
If it’s not her, then it’s him
.

“Sir! We’re passing seven thousand feet. Extinguisher has fifty seconds remaining.”

“Paul, we’re going to have to bail out!” Babs shouted. “Jesus Christ, Paul! Give the goddamn order.”

Gregory glanced at the altimeter. He looked forward at the slight cloudbank overhead. Thought,
Clouds mark the ten-to-twelve thousand-feet-altitude area. If I can just make that
.

“Lieutenant, she’s right. The fire is still burning. First extinguisher is gone. Second nearly kaput. When it goes, we won’t have any way of putting out the fire. The time between empty canister and raining pieces of airplane will be seconds, not minutes.”

Gregory took a deep breath and released it.
Only a few more minutes and I could have done it. I could have saved the aircraft and brought everyone home safely
. He reached up and hit the bailout alarm.

Senior Chief Conar snatched up his checklist and started going down each item. The copilot shouted “check” at items under her cognizance and Gregory responded in kind when his turn. Behind the curtain that separated the cockpit from the operational section of the aircraft, crewmembers started waddling their way aft, maneuvering the bulky parachutes
strapped to their backs and buttocks, toward the hatch where only four hours earlier they had boarded the aircraft.

”GET YOUR ASSES UP OUT OF THOSE SEATS AND LINE UP!”
shouted Razi. Involuntarily, he shivered. He glanced toward the front of the aircraft and saw Lieutenant Commander Peeters looking in his direction. Razi intentionally straightened, trying to look taller than five-foot-seven allowed. An aircrewman behind Razi, stumbling as he tightened his parachute straps, bumped into Razi, who turned and pushed the man upright. “Be careful. Take your time,” he said.

Razi took a deep breath. Must stay calm. He ran his hands over his straps, checking again to make sure they were tight. How could this happen? Naval Intelligence said no one in this area had SAMs. He glanced at the two Naval Research Lab sailors, the one who had vomited earlier had tears running down his cheeks. The sailor’s visor was down on his helmet and the moisture was fogging the shatterproof plastic.
Damn, I know how you feel, shipmate. Good thing I hit the head before that missile hit us or I’d have piss running down my leg
.

“Chief! My parachute!”

Razi turned around, keeping one hand tightly gripping the metal railing that ran the entire length of the aircraft. It was MacGammon. “Damn it, MacGammon. I told you to take these bailout drills seriously.”

“Chief, I’m taking it serious now. I know what the hell I’m doing. I just want you to check these damn straps!”

Razi’s expert eyes quickly ran down the straps. “Damn it, MacGammon. You’ve got the damn thing on upside down. How in the—” He said as he let go of the railing, grabbed the latch across MacGammon’s chest and snapped
it open. The parachute fell onto the deck. Razi jerked it up, flipped it around, and holding the fifty-pound weight with one hand, he shoved MacGammon around, so the sailor’s back was to him. The aircraft shook, dropped a couple of feet, throwing MacGammon forward into two sailors who were busily checking each other’s rigging.

Razi reached forward, grabbed MacGammon by the flight suit. “Straighten up, shitbird!” Then Razi slammed the parachute against MacGammon’s back. “Arms! Arms! Put your goddamn New Jersey arms through the straps.”

MacGammon, speechless for a change, shoved his arms through the straps. Razi noticed the shaking, but he couldn’t decide whether it was him or MacGammon. Christ’s sake, he was as scared as they were, but he was a chief petty officer, and chiefs didn’t show how scared they were regardless of how bad the situation was, and the situation must be bad if the bailout alarm was sounded. He should have stayed in Rota, Spain! What the hell was he thinking to volunteer for this deployment? If he didn’t make “senior chief” last time off the selection board, why in the hell did he think this would make them select him?

The bailout alarm continued beeping. When the beeping changed to a steady tone, it would be his job to open the hatch and start the aircrew out of the aircraft—shoving them if he had to. “Goddamn it, MacGammon, you got those straps buckled yet?”

“Nearly there, Chief.”

His knees felt wobbly, which Razi quickly attributed to the shaking of the aircraft as it climbed at the more-than-usual angle.

“Pull those straps tight and snap them together!” he shouted into MacGammon’s ear. Razi pushed the parachute upward on the man’s back. Then he held the bottom of the parachute, keeping the upward tension on it so the
tightly packed silk rode high on the sailor’s back, but not so high the top edge protruded above the shoulders. Sure, this was great on paper, in the schoolhouse, and even practicing while the aircraft was parked on the tarmac, but he never expected to have to bail out of an aircraft. His flight goal had never changed in over 5,000 hours of flight time, and that was to walk on and walk off aircrafts an equal number of times. This was sure as hell going to throw that goal into the odd-number column.

“Got it, Chief. I got it.”

Razi continued holding it for a moment, his thoughts on bailing out.

“Chief, I said I got it! Let go!”

Razi released his hold. MacGammon turned around facing Razi. Razi reached forward, grabbed where the two straps running down each side were locked together in the center and jerked them. MacGammon fell forward, and then was pushed backward.

“Damn it, Chief, don’t kill me.”

“Don’t tempt me. If you’d paid attention during the drills. . .”

“I know, Chief, I know. I do pay attention during the drills.”

Razi turned away, his ears listening to the bailout alarm while his hands, again, traced his parachute straps, making sure they were in place, still tight, and ready for that sudden jerk when the parachute was released. Damn, he had never bailed out of an aircraft. He heard MacGammon behind him asking Rockdale if he was scared.
Christ yes, you should be scared, MacGammon. If you’d paid attention like a third class petty officer should, you’d have known something like this could happen anytime. But no, you were just one more smart-ass who has to show everyone how to act up when they’re practicing putting on a parachute. You think
putting on a parachute is easy? Sure, it’s easy—when the aircraft is flying nice and level and everyone is laughing and joking. But, it’s a whole new world when bullets are flying, engines are burning, and you got nothing between you and the ground but a thin sheet of fabric wavering above your head, capturing air, and hopefully slowing you enough so when you land, you don’t break anything. When we land, if you haven’t broken anything, I may remedy that situation
.

”TWENTY SECONDS, LIEUTENANT.”

“It’s still burning,” Babs added. “Flames still coming out the rear of the engine.”

Gregory pushed forward on the yoke, forcing the aircraft level. “Altitude?”

“Passing seven thousand feet, sir. Should be high enough.”

“Okay. Equalize air pressure so they can open the hatch.”

“Two thousand more feet would be nice,” Babs added.

Senior Chief Pits Conar reached up and pushed another button. Their ears popped as the air pressure inside the aircraft dropped, equalizing with the outside air pressure. Until the air pressure was released, the crew couldn’t bail out because they wouldn’t be able to open the rear hatch. The air pressure wasn’t released until the last minute so no one would decide to leave the plane early.

“We don’t have time for another two thousand feet,” Gregory replied.

“You’re right. Just more air space under us—”

“Air pressure equalized.”

“Okay, Senior Chief. Let’s do it,” Gregory said. “Hit it, and then you two head aft.”

Pits Conar reached up and pushed the bailout alarm the
rest of the way. The alarm changed to a steady tone. “Think I’ll stay with you, sir. Never can tell about these things.”

Gregory opened his mouth to tell him to buzz off, get the hell out of his cockpit, and go bail out, but he didn’t. NATOPS might say this was the way it should be, but the flight engineer and copilot were only going to reach the bailout door a few seconds ahead of him. What did it matter if they went now or went together.

Gregory looked down and quickly rechecked the settings of the autopilot. Then he flipped it on. “Autopilot engaged.”

“Guess it’s that time.”

Babs leaned toward the window and looked back at the burning engine. “Oh, God!” she shouted, reaching back with her left hand and waving frantically at Pits Conar. “Turn it off! Turn it off!”

RAZI REACHED FORWARD, TWISTED THE HANDLE, AND
heard the suction break as the hatch opened a crack. Wind pushed the hatch into the fuselage. The hatch jerked out of Razi’s hands, crashing back, slamming into a catch, and like a metal trap, the catch held it. There was nothing between Razi and the sky except a couple of steps. Razi reached up and pulled the clear visor down on his helmet, protecting his eyes from the wind shooting into the cabin.

Rockdale was first in line. Razi would have commented on this fact if the situation hadn’t been so serious. Rockdale was one of his stellar performers; one who Razi believed eventually would be picked up for commission. For a third class petty officer, Rockdale performed at a much higher paygrade, and the sailor listened to him. Razi even saw him jotting down notes once after Razi had given the sailor a lecture on leadership. Their eyes locked for a
moment before Rockdale stepped into the doorway, hands on each side of the hatch, and without prompting, jumped. MacGammon was next, hesitated for moment, and as Razi reached forward to shove him, MacGammon jumped, surprising Razi.
Probably surprised MacGammon also,
he thought.

Tommy “Stetson” Carson stepped up. “Senior Chief—” he started.

“No!” Razi shouted. “Don’t think, just do it!” No time for talking. He reached forward, turned Carson toward the door, and before the blond-headed young man from Texas could say anything, Razi pushed him through the opening.

A sharp electronic piercing sound, like fingernails down a chalkboard, rode over the relative quiet as others moved toward the opened hatch. “Don’t bail out! I say again, don’t bail out!” blared the announcement over the internal communications system. The bailout alarm stopped, replaced by the ditching alarm.

“What the hell is going on?” Razi shouted.

Someone nearer the cockpit shouted down the crew line that the engine fire was out.

Razi looked at the open door. Petty Officer First Class Lacey was the next one in line to jump. Razi turned toward the door and positioned himself. Lacey reached forward and grabbed him by the shoulder. Razi glanced toward the front and saw Lieutenant Commander Peeters frantically waving at him.

“Chief—”

“Three of my sailors are down there!” he shouted above the wind, turned, and before Lacey could reply, Razi was gone.

“WELCOME ABOARD, GENERAL—OR SHOULD I CALL YOU
Mr. President?” Dick Holman asked as he shook hands with retired U.S. Army Lieutenant General Daniel Thomaston.

“Dan or Daniel would be fine, Dick.”

The two years had not been kind to the former commander of the famed 82nd Airborne. The gray hairline Dick remembered encircling Thomaston’s head was gone. Two straggly sideburns stopped level with the middle of the ears, military style, and the peppered mustache from two years ago was now permanently gray. Harsh wrinkles covered the forehead, painted permanently across the brow from two years of hard work to restore and reconstitute the Liberian Republic. The dark age spot on Thomaston’s right cheek had either been so faint Dick didn’t recall it being there, or it was new. He would offer the services of his medical team before Thomaston departed. For all of the facial changes, the man was still razor thin, chest tight, with arms that filled the sleek cotton short sleeves of the white shirt.

“You have done well, Daniel,” Dick said, dropping the hand.

Thomaston chuckled. “I don’t think many thought we’d still be here this long, Admiral. I want to once again thank you and your Amphibious Group Two forces that helped us in our time of need.”

Dick motioned to a chair near the small table that occupied a quarter of his in-port stateroom. Background sounds of boatswain mates shouting politically incorrect orders to each other as they finished tying up the USS
Boxer
to the Monrovia pier brought smiles to both flag officers as they sat down.

“Looks as if you’ve lost some weight since we last met,” Thomaston said.

Weight wasn’t something military people discussed with each other. Weight was the one element everyone had control of, but found challenging as they rose in rank and age. Dick blushed slightly. “Could be, but I’m just happy to have maintained the same pants size,” he replied, trying to make light of the comment.

“Maybe I should have waited until tomorrow to pay a courtesy visit?” Thomaston asked, seemingly unaware how his compliment uneased Dick Holman.

“Dan, you’re welcome anytime,” Dick said, happy to change the subject. It wasn’t as if he had a choice of what type of body he inherited in life. Dick glanced down at his waistline, sucking in his gut slightly when he realized his belt buckle was hidden by a slight waistline bulge.

“Thanks, appreciate that.” Thomaston reached up and straightened the collar on his shirt.

“Besides, what can an admiral do when the sailors are securing the ship? Only get in the way, and if I should, in a moment of pique, suggest something, they’d consider it an order, and later when they unscrewed up whatever I caused, they’d realize I was just another aviator trying to play sailor.”

A mess specialist opened the side door to Holman’s in-port cabin and stepped inside, carrying a tray with a silver-plated coffee urn, a couple of cups, and the usual condiments necessary for a fine Navy coffee. From under a cloth napkin, the aroma of fresh pastries wafted amidst the smell of freshly percolated coffee. Dick jerked his eyes away from the pastries, promising himself he was going to the gym later in the day.