True Valor

  “Viper 01, Fox one.” Peter sent a missile racing toward the ground at one of the AAA batteries. “Viper 01, Fox two.” He sent another missile right behind it.

  Half the antiaircraft artillery ceased.

  They banked ninety degrees to slice through the remaining AAA with a minimal profile.

  A bright explosion nearly blinded her and something loud smacked into her canopy. The concussion shoved her plane right.

  “Viper 02?”

  She had her hands full. The g’s were intense. She fought the many times force of gravity to move her hands and her head. Her panels were lit like a Christmas tree. The checklist to follow was red, short, and immediate in her mind’s eye. Do this and if it doesn’t work, pull the ejection handle.

  She had engines; she didn’t have flight controls. The left wing flaps had been shoved upward by the explosion, and aerodynamics was trying to roll the jet and put her into the sand. Grace fought it back. The altimeter raced down. Lord, pull with me. She was going to be eating sand in a few seconds. If she rolled she had no altitude to recover.

  Something more than flaps was wrong.

  She cut free the missile under the left wing, praying the sway-bracing had not been damaged. It dropped away with a deep thunk. The severe pitch to the roll stopped and she got the nose up. She started to regain altitude.

  “Viper 02?”

  Besides fighting a constant pressure for a left roll, she was going to be able to hold the climb. “I can make it. Mushy, but there.” She was not ejecting inside Iraq when her plane was still airborne and Turkey was within reach.

  She looked out into the darkness wishing she could see what it was she was fighting. Night vision goggles couldn’t help her see the back of the wing. She didn’t need to see it to know the back of the wing probably looked like someone had hurled baseballs through the metal. Landing would be interesting.

  “Viper 02, angels 15.” Peter brought his Hornet alongside. She admired his nerve. He was staying a few feet above her so if she did roll, he’d have an instant to get himself high and out of the way.

  She climbed slowly to fifteen thousand feet, feeling relief at every foot of altitude that gave her that much more recovery time. She started checking systems. She had gas—not a lot of it—good hydraulics, minimal flight controls, and avionics were a mess. According to the readout she was now flying over Oklahoma. She reset the system.

  “Viper 01. I’ll have to hold hands.” She’d fly with him like a chick with a mother and let his navigation control.

  “Viper 01. Roger. Mandus in eighteen.”

  The code name for Incirlik was a welcome word. It had the runway distance she would need and the best emergency landing crews. She scanned radar for the helicopters. The triangle of blips was to the northeast. While she’d been fighting to stay aloft they had crossed into Turkey.

  “Viper 02, say your state.” Whatever her XO was thinking about her flying, his voice was matter-of-fact.

  “Viper 02, angels 14, 3.1,” she replied, giving altitude and gas.

  There were problems to solve. She had flown birds that were beat up before, but this was the first time she was doing it in the middle of the night with no good sense of the damage. She’d lost an engine last time and it had not been nearly this difficult to fly.

  The AAA had taken out the slotted flaps; it felt like the aileron had taken secondary damage. She asked her plane to do something and it wasn’t able to deliver. Simulators had failed to convey how much she would be 110 percent tuned in to her plane. She could feel it hurting with every gentle move of her hands on the throttle and stick. Could she get the landing gear down and locked?

  “Viper 02, mark home base.”

  They were over Turkish airspace. “Viper 02. Roger.”

  “Viper 02, watch your speed.”

  Her eyes jerked to the airspeed. She was on the edge of a stall. She’d been fighting the roll and had let herself become dangerously slow. She was task saturating and had not even noticed it. She eased the throttle open and felt the plane shudder as it responded.

  Below her there were now town lights shimmering and an occasional road.

  “Viper 02, say your state.”

  Grace looked at her panels. “Viper 02, angels 14, 2.8.”

  “Viper 02, try dirty.”

  “Viper 02. Roger. Going dirty.” She began working the landing checklist, bypassing what she could not predict, turning her plane from graceful aerodynamics into one that gave a rough air profile configured for landing. The landing gear lights turned green, showing they were locked. “Viper 02. Configured.”

  “Viper 02. Roger. Viper 01, Mandus,” Thunder called the Incirlik Air Base controller.

  “Viper 01, Mandus. Standing by.”

  “Viper 01, 3.1, holding hands with Viper 02, 2.8. Crossing 1.2.”

  “Roger, Viper 01. Winds 12 NW, runway 144 clear for approach, crews standing by.”

  Grace wished she were leading Peter in and not the other way around.

  “Viper 02, lights,” Grace relayed, able for the first time to see the base runway. It looked huge compared to a ship but not nearly long enough given there wasn’t a wire to catch and stop her, and she had uncertain brakes. If she had problems, she wouldn’t be able to abort a landing and climb again without flaps. She eased right to line up with the runway. It was like wresting a heavy hunk of metal falling through the sky.

  Peter broke off as she passed below five hundred feet.

  She was committed to the glide down. She eased back on the speed. The ground rushed up. She fought the desire to close her eyes.

  Rear wheels touched down. Smooth air became rough concrete. She eased the nose forward. Front wheel touched. Lights on either side of the runway streaked by. She fought to keep the plane on the runway.

  She carefully applied brakes. Without flaps she was fighting to slow before she ran out of distance. Runway careened by.

  The plane slowed its rollout and fell to taxi speed. Grace took her first deep breath since landing. Her muscles unlocked enough for her to move the stick, and using the rudders she turned the jet toward the ramp and the taxiway. The emergency vehicles racing along were now distinguishable as fire, rescue, and ambulance. “Thanks, Viper 01.”

  “Good flight, Viper 02. Check-in 0800 Crawler.”

  She chuckled and queued her mike. “0800 prop flight. Roger. I can walk faster.”

  “Viper 01, approved to try,” Peter replied with his signature dry humor.

  She clicked her mike twice, sharing her laughter.

  Her jet would be down for repairs for more than a day. She was going to be catching the mail run flight out to the carrier in the morning. The thought of the paperwork for this flight was enough to make her headache intensify. She’d spend the first day doing the debriefing of this mission, and the time after that borrowing a jet and covering all the odd jobs that fell to the poor pilot without a plane.

  Yellow light sticks directed her to the far end of the runway away from buildings and waved her to a stop. She shut down her engines. She was so tired it took a great effort to lift her hands from the stick and throttle to retrieve the pins to secure the ejection seat. Men in silver fire suits surrounded her plane ready to deal with the possibility of fire.

  In the spotlights from the recovery equipment she could see the crack and smear of black that marred the canopy. It had been a vicious hit. The AAA canister had tried to come into her lap.

  As the cockpit canopy came up, fresh air swirled around her. It was delicious, in the upper sixties and moderate humidity. She eased off her helmet and found her hair wet with sweat. The maintenance crews scrambled up on ladders to help her out. She saw the surprised look on the maintenance chief’s face as he realized it was a woman in the cockpit. She glanced at his uniform. “Dakota, give me a hand out of here. I feel like I rode a roller coaster a few too many loops.”

  The older man smiled and reached out a meaty hand and grasped hers. She wrestled herself up o
ut of the seat. She handed him the flight pouch with her maps and kneeboard and her helmet. She carefully climbed down to the runway. Her legs felt like rubber. She deflated the g-pressure puff suit she wore around her legs to keep blood forced to her head. She took her first steps and found her boots felt like lead.

  She ducked around the wing to get her first look at the damage. “What a mess.”

  “At least two shells exploded close, and one tried to knock you out of the cockpit,” Dakota assessed.

  “Golden BBs.”

  “Lieutenant, hold still.” She’d been doing her best to avoid the doctor in the wave of men that had surrounded the plane, but he stepped in her way. Grace reluctantly stopped. She looked over the doctor’s shoulder to Dakota. “Take good care of her. She was kind to me tonight.”

  “We’ll fix her up good as new,” the maintenance chief promised. “We’ll haul her under lights. Give me till morning, then we’ll talk about what you felt and what I found.”

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  A firm hand tipped up her chin and a light flicked across her eyes. “Your plane will be fine. How many g’s did you pull?”

  She knew the drill, and the last thing she wanted was to spend an hour at the clinic. From the jacket the man was top doc at the flight medicine clinic. The Navy docs on the GW were going to repeat it all anyway before they’d put her back in the cockpit. “Four, maybe five.”

  “Double vision?”

  “No.”

  “How’s the headache?”

  She wanted to lie but didn’t. “Bad.”

  He pointed her to the back of the red and white rescue squad. “Sit.”

  She bit back a sigh and reluctantly followed orders. It was a fully equipped medical squad, better equipped than most ambulances in the States. She took a seat on the tailgate. The fatigue was enough she put her elbows on her knees and lowered her head. She was so tired she was ready to stretch out on the ground.

  Lord, when it starts to sink in just how close it was, this prayer will have even more emotion under it. Suffice it to say—I owe You one. A big one.

  She wanted to ask if the helicopters had made it in, but she knew there would be no answer even if the men around her knew. Ops into Syria would be classified. The lack of other visible signs of rescue squads anywhere on this side of the base suggested she was the only flight to have trouble.

  The doc handed her two aspirins and a bottle of ice water. Her opinion of him came up a notch.

  “Ears ringing?”

  “No.”

  “Nausea?”

  “No.”

  “Finish the bottle of water. I want to see how you’re doing after the adrenaline fades. If you can still walk a straight line I’ll send you to billeting, otherwise you’re my guest for a while.”

  She raised the bottle of water and gave the man a smile. “Deal.”

  The maintenance men were draining fuel and waiting for the engines to cool down before they moved the jet. Dakota was already tinkering.

  “Lieutenant Yates.”

  She took the flight pouch and helmet from the airman. “Thanks.”

  She looked at her watch. Planes would be starting to land on the GW soon. She would miss out on the gathering in the ready room to debrief; she’d miss watching the strike tapes; she’d miss the hour in the dirty-shirt wardroom eating sliders (cheeseburgers) and sharing flight experiences. They’d be talking about her, the one plane that didn’t come back. By morning the story Thunder told in his calm manner would have traveled and gained a few embellishments. She missed that routine at the end of a flight.

  Grace pushed it aside and finished the water. She’d grown accustomed to the tight quarters of the GW, and this base was huge. On the other side of the runways she could see the large open hangars and the big cargo planes. She had grown up expecting to fly one of those C-17s. The building was open and bright with lights. The graveyard shift was at full staff, for most of the cargo in and out of the base was loaded at night in the cooler temperature and at the low point of flight ops. She felt very small; she was once again low man on the totem pole, a pilot without a plane.

  The doctor finally released her when he was comfortable she wasn’t suffering anything more than adrenaline wipeout. He held out a release approval. “If you need me, page. My numbers are on the card.”

  She tucked it in her flight pocket. “I’ll do that. Where can I find the billeting office?”

  He waved over one of the men. “Airman First Class Andy Walsh. He’ll give you a lift to the Hodja Inn-Billeting. Make sure you ask for a room far from the Teen Can. It’s the youth movie and popcorn night, and they chose a Back to the Future movie marathon. It’s just breaking up.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Incirlik had several housing complexes, a swimming pool complex, a bowling alley, a community center, and even had both an elementary and a high school for the kids of the servicemen living on base. “Is there a gathering spot for the graveyard shift where I can get a meal?” She needed a place to unwind.

  “Try a place called the Air Wing Flag on the east side of the quad. It has the best food on base.”

  She nodded her thanks. Billeting to get a place to sleep, then something to eat. There were worse ways to end a night of flying. “Dakota, I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “Your bird will be here.”

  Twelve

  * * *

  INCIRLIK AIR BASE, TURKEY

  AIR WING FLAG COMMUNITY CENTER

  “You owe me your dog tags.” Bruce leaned his elbows on the table and pointed the neck of his cold soda bottle at Wolf. The round table was crowded with men as Bear, Cougar, Wolf, and Pup from the SEALs and Rich, Dasher, and himself from the PJs fit themselves around it. The center of the table was crowded with empty glass bottles because the military had taken the unusual step of importing water into the country because of the drought. The remains of two large pizzas crowded the remaining space.

  “Never let it be said a SEAL welched.” Wolf ducked his head and slipped off his dog tags. Bruce accepted them amongst a chorus of laughter.

  They hadn’t talked much about the mission since the debriefing. The defector had been hustled from their helicopter to a military transport, spending no more than three minutes on the ground in Turkey. It was likely they would never know if getting him out had been worth the risk, would never hear about him again, but they’d celebrate the successful mission just the same.

  Bruce knew either Iraq or Syria would be exploiting the wreckage of the downed helicopter by morning. He figured it would be revealing as to whether Syria officially said anything. Silence would be the most interesting reaction. It would show the defection had stung.

  Bruce watched the men at the table, finding comfort in their humor. It had been a dangerous mission and rescue, but they were taking it in stride. Bruce caught the eye of Bear across the table and quietly raised his soda. Bear raised his. Before long this group would split up and the two units would go their own ways again. But what had happened would get passed on by word of mouth, and an institution memory among the units would add this one to their shared history.

  Bruce got kicked under the table. He looked over at Cougar, surprised, and got an imperceptible nod toward the door. Bruce looked over and felt shock course down to his toes like a hot twinge. “Wolf.” His quiet, forceful word got the man’s attention. “Gracie’s here.”

  Wolf spun around, the chair legs scraping on the floor.

  Grace was crossing the room to the self-serve coolers where the water was kept and hadn’t noticed them at the back table. She glanced over at the noise and stopped. Bruce felt like he was going to drown in those blue eyes as her gaze locked with his. Chagrin was an expression he hadn’t seen before and he smiled at her. She broke eye contact to glance over the group. The change to her expression when she saw Wolf . . . Bruce was going to remember that look of joy for a long time.

  “Wolf!”

  Bruce rose to his feet as did Wolf as sh
e changed course to join them. Her hair was wet, like she’d dunked her head and toweled it dry. The flight suit was rumpled. Wolf lifted her clean off the floor. She gave him a hard hug back. He took his time lowering her back on her feet. “Grace, you are supposed to be on the GW. What are you doing at Incirlik?”

  She scanned the group and the table. “I’m hungry?”

  “Gracie.”

  “My Hornet ate a hairball of AAA. Interesting flying. Is that sausage pizza?”

  Pup pulled over a chair. “Bless you,” Grace said. The young SEAL blushed.

  “That was you overhead,” Wolf said slowly.

  “Hi, Dasher, Cougar.” She looked pointedly at her cousin as he took a seat beside her. “What do you think you were doing belly flopping in a minefield? Life was boring?”

  Wolf looked her over from head to foot to assure himself she was in one piece. “Had I known you were watching, I would have crashed with a little more elegance.”

  “I was tucked under Thunder’s wing having a nice, quiet, routine flight when suddenly I’ve got SAMs and MiGs messing up my plans.”

  Wolf laughed. “Nice flying.”

  “At least I was smart enough to stay out of the sand.” Grace glanced around the table again, her gaze stopping on Bruce’s hands, and he felt an urge to tuck them in his pockets when her smile flickered. The ropes had burned through his gloves and left raw skin and blisters. She glanced up at him. “I owe you a drink.”

  There were a lot of ways to answer that—yes, he’d been the one going down the rope, to no, it was not that big a deal. Instead he just smiled. “Yes, you do.” She’d acquired a tan since he last saw her, and it looked good on her. Freckles had appeared. Her self-assured confidence hadn’t suffered for the tough flight.

  “I’ll get them, Grace.” Wolf pushed back his chair again. “What do you want?”

  “Pilot’s special. Get Bruce one too.”

  Wolf groaned. Bruce raised an eyebrow when Wolf headed toward the kitchen. This could be interesting.