Silent Enemy (26 page)
Authors: Tom Young
“Both the HFs out now?” Dunne asked.
“Maybe,” Parson said.
He considered his problem. If he couldn’t communicate, the danger rose exponentially, and it was already off the charts. Air Traffic Control needed to know his plans; the big sky theory didn’t work anymore. There were just too many planes in the air, and when he crossed Central or South America, he’d run perpendicular to a lot of jet routes. Even here, he could see the blinking strobe of an airliner off his two o’clock. It appeared on his TCAS, too: a white diamond creeping across a black screen, millimeters at a time, representing an aircraft moving at eighty percent of the speed of sound.
That gave Parson an idea. The airlines had a common VHF frequency just for chatting. He’d heard the crews during long flights updating each other on football scores and contract negotiations. At one company or another, it seemed pilots, flight attendants, or machinists were always on the verge of a strike. Most conversations on that channel Parson found insufferable. But perhaps now the frequency could do him some good. He entered it into his CDU and switched his comm selector to VHFI.
“Any aircraft, any aircraft,” he called. “Air Evac Eight-Four.”
The answer came immediately and loud and clear. Someone close by, perhaps even the aircraft he’d seen: “Air Evac Eight-Four, Delta Two-One-Eight. Go ahead.” Drawl of the Deep South, perhaps one of Delta’s old-line captains.
“Good to hear your voice, Delta,” Parson said. “We took some hail damage a while back, and we’re just about NORDO on highfrequency. Can you relay some information for us?”
“Be glad to, sir. We’re talking to oceanic, and we got data link back to company in Atlanta.”
Parson explained who he was and where he was going, including coordinates and waypoints for his course between the storm and the volcano. When he finished, the silence ran so long he wondered if he’d lost VHF, too. Finally, the airliner called back.
“Air Evac,” the pilot said. “ATC clears you as requested. They want you to squawk four-three-eight-six. Also, our company weather boys are going to get you some data from the Volcanic Ash Advisory Center.”
“Copy that,” Parson said. “Thanks much.” He entered 4-3-8-6 in his CDU scratchpad, then inserted the code by pressing the IFF button. As soon as he came within range of air traffic surveillance radar, that code would identify him.
He pressed his TALK switch again and asked, “Delta, did you have to divert when we went off the airway to find our tanker?”
“Negative. But a lot of traffic did. ATC’s still sorting it out. What else can we do for you, son?”
You don’t know how old I am, Parson thought. But he knew the guy meant to be sympathetic and not patronizing. “Can you call the Tanker Airlift Control Center for us and tell them we’ll need another refueling?” Parson asked.
“Consider it done,” the Delta pilot said. “What airframe you flying?”
“A Charlie-Five.”
Another pause. Then the captain said, “I flew 141s in Desert Storm.”
Parson wondered if the Delta pilot had known his father. Entirely possible. But this was no time for a social call. Before Parson could respond, the man keyed his mike again.
“All right,” he said, “we got some weather information for you. Along your route, all the heavy ash concentration lies below flight level two-five-zero. You’re gonna have light to moderate concentrations at thirty-four thousand feet, so you might think about climbing if you can.”
“We copy all,” Parson said. “Thanks again.”
No response came for several seconds, and Parson thought the conversation had ended. But then the captain said, “Those military transports can take more damage than you think. One night a storm kicked my ass all over the Arabian Sea, and I landed at Dubai with three feet of wingtip missing. Son, you fly that thing till there ain’t nothing left to fly.”
“We will,” Parson said. “Thank you, sir.”
He entered his new route on the flight plan page. When he activated it, the autopilot made a left turn of about eight degrees. With his course set, Parson could do little else until he came closer to land. Then he’d work on the next refueling and start getting ready to jettison the bomb, or at least try.
Colman returned from the bunk room and plugged his headset into his comm cord. “Copilot’s back up,” he said.
“You get any sleep?” Parson asked.
“Not much. An hour or two.”
Not surprising. Parson hadn’t rested much better. He’d have to ask an exhausted crew to do the impossible. All their skill, training, and ingenuity would need to push through a heavy muck of fatigue.
As he watched over his instruments, he thought about the Delta pilot’s advice: Just never give up. He wouldn’t have, anyway, but he appreciated the thought. A voice of encouragement came as a gift in the midst of this broad Atlantic.
It reminded him of a lecture he’d attended by a retired United captain. Parson thought maybe Colman could benefit from its lessons.
“Ever hear of an airline pilot named Al Haynes?” Parson asked.
“I don’t believe I have.”
“He brought a DC-10 into Sioux City after his tail engine blew up and took out his hydraulics. He didn’t have any flight controls at all.”
Parson explained that when the engine shelled out, it turned the aircraft into an unguided missile. No emergency procedure existed for that problem. On his own, Haynes figured out a way to steer the jet with thrust alone. More than half the passengers survived the landing, their death sentences commuted.
“Depending on what happens to me and what happens to the airplane,” Parson said, “you might have to do some things you haven’t even thought of yet.”
“I think I take your meaning,” Colman said.
They flew in silence for the better part of an hour. Dunne looked intently at something on his panel. Not a good sign. Parson waited for the explanation until he couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I got some oil pressure flux on number one,” Dunne said.
“Bad?”
“Not yet. Just a few psi.”
“What do you mean, ‘not yet’?” Colman asked.
“It’s not going to get any better, and it might get worse. Temperature’s coming up. That means the oil viscosity is breaking down.”
“Why?”
“Who knows?” Dunne said. “That engine has a lot of hours on it, and it’s not used to running this long.”
So now I have two sick engines, Parson thought. Oil trouble on number one and vibration on number four. If they’ll just hold out a little longer....
In the moonlight, broken undercast shimmered several thousand feet below like floating clusters of ice floes. Above it, stars encrusted the horizon. Parson considered how far that vision of stars had traveled to reach him. To shine on him at this moment, that light had begun its journey before he’d ever joined the military, before he’d ever been born. Parson found comfort in that somehow, though he could not say why.
A VAGUE WEAKNESS CAME OVER GOLD
. She had no appetite at all, but when she thought back over how little she’d eaten since takeoff, she realized she had to be a little hypoglycemic. Most likely everyone else was, too.
. She had no appetite at all, but when she thought back over how little she’d eaten since takeoff, she realized she had to be a little hypoglycemic. Most likely everyone else was, too.
In a carton of MREs she found only one left. The box also contained a half-full water bottle and three empties.
“May I take the MRE?” she asked the lieutenant colonel.
“Might as well,” the MCD said. “It won’t do anyone any good sitting on the floor.”
Gold picked it up and read the label. To her disappointment, the main item was pork slices. She took it to Mahsoud, who looked more pale than ever. His oxygen cannula hung from around his neck, unused.
“What’s the matter?” she asked Justin.
“We’re out of PT-LOX.” He gestured toward a green metal box strapped to the floor. A placard on the knee-high unit read: PORTABLE THERAPEUTIC LIQUID OXYGEN SYSTEM. “It had more than enough to get us to Ramstein, but it’s empty now.”
We’re running out of everything, Gold thought. Maybe Mahsoud would feel better if he ate something.
“This is for you,” she said in Pashto. “I know you do not eat pork, but it is permitted to preserve your life. You need your strength.”
“My need is not great enough for that,” he said, “but I thank you.”
“Then you can eat one of the side foods.” Gold hunted through the inner packets and found corn bread. “Perhaps this, then,” she said. “It is a traditional American bread.”
“That, I will try.”
Gold tore open the pouch and broke the corn bread in half. She handed the piece to Mahsoud. He took a bite and chewed cautiously.
“You don’t like it?”
“It is not bad,” he said in English, still chewing. Crumbs fell onto his bloodstained uniform.
“You need something to drink with that.” Gold turned toward the box with the water bottle only to see a loadmaster had just taken it.
“That’s mine,” a medic said to the loadmaster.
The loadmaster uncapped it and took a drink. The medic charged at the other man and pushed him against a bulkhead. He drove a fist into the load’s solar plexus. The bottle fell to the floor and spilled.
“Asshole!” the loadmaster yelled. He slammed the heel of his hand into the medic’s nose. Blood streamed from the man’s nostrils as the two wrestled. Droplets spattered on the floor in dime-sized starbursts.
“That’s enough!” the MCD shouted. She pushed the two apart by the shoulders. Gold pulled the medic away by the arm. The loadmaster took one more swing but got only air.
“You two idiots better unfuck yourselves right now,” the MCD said. “Does the phrase ‘dereliction of duty’ sound good to you?”
“No, ma’am,” the medic said. He touched his sleeve to his face and the blood left a dark streak. Justin handed him a gauze pad.
“Then get back to work. We’ll forget about this, but if it happens again you’ll need a proctologist to get my foot out of your ass.”
Gold knew the fatigue and stress would only get worse. She thought of a painting she’d seen once while on leave in Paris.
The Raft of the Medusa
depicted a handful of half-dead castaways adrift in a roiling sea. The artist had taken inspiration from an actual event. Nearly one hundred and fifty survivors of the wrecked French frigate
Medusa
had set out on a makeshift raft in 1816. In thirst, starvation, and madness, the sailors and passengers began to kill one another. Others died of exposure or threw themselves overboard. Only fifteen were rescued.
The Raft of the Medusa
depicted a handful of half-dead castaways adrift in a roiling sea. The artist had taken inspiration from an actual event. Nearly one hundred and fifty survivors of the wrecked French frigate
Medusa
had set out on a makeshift raft in 1816. In thirst, starvation, and madness, the sailors and passengers began to kill one another. Others died of exposure or threw themselves overboard. Only fifteen were rescued.
At least we won’t live long enough to reach that state, she thought.
Baitullah wouldn’t eat the pork, either, so Gold took a few bites of it and gave the rest to Justin and the other medics. One of the medics offered an orange to Baitullah, which he seemed to relish. He wrapped the peelings in a paper towel and held them in his fist. Gold wondered if he planned to eat those, too, or if he just liked the scent. The citrus smell contrasted oddly with the odors of fuel, oil, sweat, and blood.
Gold gathered up the empty water bottles and took them upstairs to the flight deck. Her hands were full so she didn’t bring her headset.
“May I take some water?” she asked loudly enough to be heard without the interphone.
Parson said nothing but turned and gave an OK sign with his thumb and forefinger. Dunne was finishing an apple, and he even ate the core. So they’re out of food up here, too, Gold thought.
At the watercooler, across the aisleway from the galley, Gold filled three bottles. From the cooler’s slosh, she figured it was nearly empty. Maybe a gallon left.
One pouch of instant coffee remained on the galley table, along with packets of sugar and dry creamer. Gold heated a cup of water and brewed the coffee. Then she stirred in five sugar packets and two creamers. Too sickly sweet, she guessed, but that way it had more food value, if she could get Baitullah to drink it. She stuffed the water bottles in her cargo pockets and carried the coffee in her hand.
On the way back to the ladder, Gold passed the bunk rooms. On a hunch, she looked inside one of them. Yes, she’d remembered correctly. Each bunk had its own oxygen regulator, like the one at the nav table. If the nurses had no more medical oxygen for Mahsoud, could he come up here and breathe from the aircraft’s supply?
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