Wraith (5 page)

“Gotcha.”

He pressed the pickle button and released his imaginary bombs. “Wizard Three, off hot,” he called, glancing over his shoulder to check Bug's position. His wingman looked good. Bug was all over it.

“Wizard Four, off hot,” Bug reported exactly one minute later.

Nick snorted; at least his half of the team could get the job done. Then he heard an unexpected radio call.

“Wizard Two, say posit.”

It was Oso's voice. There was no response from Brent.

In a split second Nick processed the implications and chose a course of action. Oso had lost visual contact with Brent. He was trying to locate his wingman, and his wingman was not responding to his call.

Not good.

A missing and unresponsive wingman could mean anything from a dead radio to a dead pilot. Oso had a mess on his hands and two extra planes in the target area would only add to the confusion. Nick needed to get his pair of Hogs back across the ridge until Oso sorted this out.

The attack had put Bug west of him, closer to the hold point, and the big Nebraskan was already turning to backtrack and get behind his lead. “Wizard Four, reverse your turn,” said Nick. “Continue to X-ray. I'll follow you.”

“Four.”

The radio crackled again. “Lead, Wizard Two is visual. I'm at your six o'clock,” said Brent. This time he sounded confident.

Nick breathed a short sigh of relief. Problem solved. Brent had found Oso and fallen into trail, well to their north.

With the potential conflict averted, Nick focused on Bug, who was just crossing through the saddle. He would have to work harder to keep sight of him once he moved into the more mountainous terrain.

Suddenly Nick caught a flash of gray in his peripheral vision. He turned his head to look and saw the broad side of another A-10. It nearly filled the left side of his canopy, and it was getting bigger. Fast.

“Wizards, climb! Climb!” Nick shouted into the radio, calling for all the other Hogs to pull up while he violently pushed forward on the stick to force his jet earthward. As he buried the stick in the forward control panel, Nick watched his G-meter peg at the negative limit, sending loose charts flying to the top of his canopy. Then he pulled hard left to dodge a radio tower and the charts slammed back down. The G-meter swung back up to positive six. Finally he leveled out at a hundred feet, still trying to find the other A-10 and still trying to figure out what had just happened. Through the rush of blood in his ears he heard Bug's voice.

“Wizards, knock it off!” His wingman made the emergency call, ending the scenario.

“Wizard One, knock it off.”

There was a moment of tense silence as Nick waited for Brent to respond in turn, but he never did.

“Wizard Three, knock it off,” Nick called, getting his pulse under control. He cautiously began a climb back up to five hundred feet.

“Wizard Four, knock it off,” Bug finished. The fear in his voice was unmistakable.

Like any good flight lead, Oso immediately followed the first sequence with another. “Wizards, knock it off. Wizard One, knock it off.”

Silence . . .

“Wizard Three, knock it off.”

“Wizard Four, knock it off.”

“I need an explanation, Four,” Oso prompted, the impatience in his voice barely overshadowing the fear.

“There's a large fire with black smoke about a mile southwest of Böchingen,” Bug explained. “I think it might be Wizard Two.”

Oso did not directly respond to Bug's revelation; instead, he barked out another order. “Wizard Three and Four, climb to five thousand and rejoin at point Yankee. I'm already established there and climbing to six thousand.”

“Four, say posit,” prompted Nick, unwilling to climb until he had visual contact with his wingman again.

“One mile at your six, Three,” answered Bug.

Nick brought his Hog around to look for Bug. As he turned, he saw the pillar of black smoke rising out of a brown field outside of the town, not far from where the other A-10 had almost smacked into him. He looked away, refusing to speculate on what it might mean. He found Bug and began a slow climb, continuing his turn to allow his wingman to close the distance to a tight formation.

On the second turn Nick looked at the wreckage again. From the higher altitude, his view was better, and through the black smoke and the flames he saw the distinct nose section of an A-10. It looked like part of the canopy was still with the aircraft. He logged the information in his brain and suppressed the consequences, focusing on getting his element back together with Oso. Looking to the north he picked up Oso's A-10, orbiting six thousand feet over Yankee. “Wizard One, this is Three. I'm at your four o'clock and level at five thousand.”

“I see you, Wizard Three. Hold over Yankee with your element and come up on SAR Alpha. I'm pressing south to get a look at the wreckage.”

“Wilco. Break, break . . . Wizard Four, push SAR Alpha,” Nick said. SAR Alpha was the search and rescue frequency keyed into each of their survival radios. If Brent survived the crash, he should be waiting for them on that frequency. Nick switched his radio and waited for Oso to check them all in.

“Wizard Flight, check.”

Nick gave the required pause to allow Brent to join the sequence, but there was only static. “Three,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.

“Four.” Bug finished the sequence.

“Wizard Two, this is Wizard One on SAR Alpha. Respond.”

Still there was nothing but static.

Nick let the image of the burning cockpit resurface in his mind. “One, this is Three.”

“Go ahead, Three.” Oso sounded tired.

“I saw the canopy in the wreckage. It was still with the fuselage.” Nick paused to steady his voice before continuing, “I think he stayed with the plane.”

Oso ignored the information and tried again. “Wizard Two, this is Wizard One on SAR Alpha. Respond.”

Silence.

“Wizard One, did you copy? I think he stayed with the plane.”

“I heard you, Three,” Oso snapped. He repeated his call again. “Wizard Two, this is Wizard One on SAR Alpha. Respond.”

With only the ghostly whisper of static to answer his calls, Oso finally gave in. He coordinated for firefighters from a nearby Army base to respond to the accident, knowing that Böchingen's Freiwillige Feuerwehr wouldn't have the tools to deal with burning jet fuel.

At Oso's request, Nick returned to the lieutenant's frequency and gave him the coordinates of the site, but Joe was already halfway there, guided by the smoke. “Be careful,” Nick cautioned. “Two's gun was cold but he was carrying rounds for ballast. They could cook off at any time. Just get close enough to survey the site with your binoculars and look for a survivor.” He knew it was dangerous to send such a young second lieutenant into a mess like that, but Joe was the closest squadron member on the ground.

Orbiting high above the crash site, Oso coordinated with Ramstein's emergency response team headquarters while Nick directed helicopters to the wreckage. The three Hogs remained over the site until Bug reached bingo fuel. As they turned northwest toward home, Oso ordered Joe to stay clear of the wreckage and then hand off to the incoming ERT ground crew when they arrived.

Nick led Bug back into formation with Oso, and the A-10s turned northwest for the flight home. They flew in a loose fingertip configuration, with Nick at Oso's left and Bug at his right. The Moselle River wound lazily along beneath them, snaking its way toward the base. The pilots were accustomed to following the river at very low altitudes, but there was no more room for risk on this mission. Oso had them at a safe and comfortable five thousand feet instead.

It occurred to Nick that he'd never taken the time to observe Germany's Moselle Valley from this altitude. Even on the rare occasions that he took his Hog through five thousand feet, it would be on the way to twenty-five thousand, and a midlevel cloud deck usually obscured the ground. At the moment, though, there were no clouds, and the view was breathtaking. The mist that rose from the vineyards refracted the fading light of the setting sun, covering the hillsides in a translucent film of gold and auburn. The valley looked like an old photograph, once rich in color and detail, now faded and subdued by age. He wondered if this was what an unhappy memory looked like.

*   *   *

Back on the ground, the commander met the pilots at the crew van. Oso tried to speak but the senior officer cut him off. “Nobody say a word. The regulations say you have to talk to Flight Safety before you can talk to me, but there's nothing that says I can't talk to you.”

Redeye folded his arms, pacing back and forth in front of them. “You boys are about to go through a process that we all prefer to forget about until it rears its ugly head. I don't know exactly what happened out there, but I know the men who stand before me now. I know your skill, I know your professionalism, and I know your character, so I'm confident that you'll all come out okay on the other side.” He stopped at the center and scanned their faces. “Gentlemen, the measure of a combat pilot is taken in the dogfight and on the bombing range . . . but the measure of an officer is taken at moments like this.”

Then it began. Blood tests, urine tests, a barrage of questions both in isolation and as a group—the safety investigators put Wizard Flight through the wringer. Nick knew the investigators were just doing their job, but the whole process seemed so adversarial, like anything he said could get his wings ripped off his chest.

He kept telling them that Brent had gotten disoriented and mistaken Bug's jet for Oso's, falling into trail right where Nick was already flying, that he had dodged the kid and ordered him to climb. And the investigators kept nodding and writing it down like it was brand new information. Finally he was too exhausted to talk at all.

After an ordeal that seemed like it would never end, the senior investigating officer released Nick to go home. There, he faced more questions. Katy embraced him for a few seconds and then let out a fretful tirade, pushing him, punching him, and shouting at him for not calling from the base—for letting her wonder whether he was the one.

Other loved ones from Wizard Flight did not have that luxury.

Several hours later, in a quiet suburb of Atlanta far from Katy's angry and grateful tears, a blue sedan pulled into the driveway of Gregory and Barbara Collins's house. Two men stepped out with their hats in hand, one bearing stars, the other bearing a cross.

Over the Atlantic

07 October 2001

“We're twelve hours from the target and thirty minutes from feet wet. The weapons are looking good, the system altitude is stable, and the fuel curve is right on track.”

Drake rattled off the liturgy like he was calling a horse race. He was more than a bit nervous. He and Murph were flying the
Spirit of Texas
under the call sign Ghost 11, and they would soon depart the U.S. Coastal Defense Zone for international waters, well on their way to night one of Enduring Freedom.

“Relax, man,” said Murph. “It works, I promise you.”

Like all B-2 pilots, Drake was trained to optimize stealth. He knew the basics of the science and he had practiced the mechanics, but somehow, in the back of his mind, stealth still required a bit of ethereal magic.

Murph leaned back and stretched. “Let me share a story that might help settle your nerves. I flew on the first night of Allied Force, as well. It was the first time the B-2 had ever been to combat and we were all afraid that we were betting our lives on a lot of smoke and mirrors. When we entered the strike zone, there were triple-A flashes all around us, not to mention the occasional fiery plume of a surface-to-air missile streaking skyward. We could never be sure whether the bullets and missiles were meant for the aluminum jets or for us, but we kept our heads low and pressed forward anyway.

“A few minutes before we reached our target I heard AWACS call out the position of a MiG-29 Fulcrum. He was getting way too close. We debated whether or not we should call for help, potentially betraying our position, but before we could do anything, an F-15 engaged him. They tangled for a bit and then the Eagle shot him down.

“That dogfight took place almost directly below our jet, so close that we thought we might get singed by the fireball when the Eagle's Sidewinder hit its mark. With the threat removed, we continued to the target and dropped our bombs, and the next day I got up and mowed my lawn back at home as if I'd never left.

“After the war, we flew the F-15 pilot in for a debriefing. He was so ticked at being pulled out of his unit that he ranted at anybody who would listen until we finally got him into a secure room and shut him up.”

Murph laughed. “You should have seen the look on his face when we tried to thank him for defending our stealth bomber. He had no idea. He told us he was defending himself, not us. The MiG had locked
him
up. Neither one of them ever knew we were there.”

Murph leaned back in his seat and placed his hands behind his head. “Like I said, it works, I promise.” He stifled a yawn. “You've got the jet, bud. I feel a nap coming on.”

*   *   *

Several hours later, Drake cringed as Murph slammed his fist on the forward console; the former picture of serenity shattered. “Where is he?” the older pilot shouted at the darkness beyond the windshield.

“I don't know, but if he doesn't show up soon, we'll have to turn back.” They were halfway to the target. They'd reached the rendezvous point for their final refueling twenty minutes before, but there was no tanker in sight. Soon they would have to turn around. There was barely enough fuel to get home, let alone get to the target and back.

Suddenly the secure radio crackled to life. “Ghost One One, this is Exxon Seven One. How copy?”

“Loud and clear, Exxon,” responded Murph coldly. The transmission was scrambled, transmitted, received, and descrambled, before it was broadcast at the other end, but Drake was certain the tanker commander would still be able to hear the edge in Murph's voice as clear as a bell.

“Sorry we're late,” replied the refueler. “We had some engine trouble on the ground. We made up as much time as we could but the winds were killing us.”

“Copy all,” replied Murph, the edge lessening. “We're ten miles east of the IP, heading west.”

“Roger, Ghost, we've got your beacon. Start your turn back to the east now and you should roll out right underneath us.”

Drake looked at the glowing blue fuel readout on the panel in front of him. “We burned a lot of extra gas in the hold,” he said over the radio. “We're going to need all you can give us to make up the difference.”

“Roger that, Ghost. You're our only customer. Take as much as you need.”

Drake looked across the cockpit at Murph and tapped his watch, letting his face show his concern.

“Yeah, bud. I know,” Murph replied. “We're going to be late.”