James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (20 page)

“Angelfire One to Iranian aircraft. We are on a rescue mission. Break off or we will be forced to open fire. This is your final warning, over.”

Again no response.

He switched channels. “Hornet’s Nest, Angelfire One. Requesting permission to engage, over.”

“Hornet’s Nest, Angelfire One. Permission granted, over.”

Braddock felt his pulse quicken slightly as the reality of combat took over. “Okay boys, let’s splash ’em.” He glanced at his wingman over his right shoulder. “Full House, you’re with me, we’ve got the two on the left. The rest of you, break ’em down by the numbers, left to right. Let’s get this over with quick, and watch your threat alarms for SAMs.”

He jerked his stick to the left as the acknowledgements came through, the rest of the wing of twelve planes breaking off to line up their attacks. They were dealing with six targets, all ancient MiG-29s, no match for their F/A-18 Super Hornets.
This will be over in seconds.
Braddock lined up with the rapidly approaching targets, and marked the first from the left, then the second. “Angelfire One, targets marked, preparing to fire.”

“Angelfire Three, targets marked, preparing to fire on your command.”

“Angelfire Five, targets marked, preparing to fire on your command.”

“Angelfire One to Angelfire Three and Five, fire on my mark.” He took a breath, flipping his weapons selector to his AIM 9 Sidewinder missiles. “Fire!”

He felt the slight jerk as the two missiles dropped off his wings then sped forward, their propellant igniting. A quick glance to his right showed four other missiles streaking to their targets. The Iranians immediately scrambled, breaking off their approach, but it was too late, the missiles having acquired their heat signature. The contrails in the air drew paths to destruction, as each missile adjusted its course, closing inexorably on their targets like juggernauts, unstoppable in nature. Within seconds, all six missiles made contact, erasing their targets from the sky, thick black smoke all that remained as the airframes of the MiGs dropped from the sky to the barren ground below.

Braddock checked his scope and found everything clear. No SAMs had been launched, and with the jamming gear they were using, he crossed his fingers they would be alright. “Hornet’s Nest, Angelfire One. The road has been cleared, I say again, the road has been cleared. Deploy Dove Collector, over.”

He looked at the scope and saw Dove Collector appear.

There’s no way this is going to work.

20,000 Feet Over Iranian Airspace

To Captain Shaun Richards it sounded stupid.
Dove Collector? Sounds like some wacko who hoards soap.
He knew there was an entire group of people who all they did was generate cool sounding names for ops, and quite often they tried to have them fit the spirit of the mission.
But who the hell ever expected the Pope to be kidnapped and held in a plane with no oxygen?
He shook his head.
But Dove Collector was the best they could come up with?

“Two minutes!” the crew chief yelled over his mike. Richards gave the thumbs up and double checked his harness. He watched the grappling crew take knees as the rear door of the C-17 Globemaster III opened. Wind whipped through the cargo hold and the cold bit at his exposed skin. He felt his heart race as the excitement of the moment took over. He had never done this before for real, but the principal was simple. This was just something pilots never trained for.

He glanced over his shoulder at the two other pilots behind him. They both nodded, the closest patting his shoulder in respect. He would be first. And if he failed, there were only two more tries aboard this plane, and judging from what the fuel situation should be, there would be no time for additional tries.

They had to succeed.

“One minute!”

He checked his chute, something he was more familiar with from training, and took a deep breath. He pushed against the wind, and his nerves, approaching the door. The tail of the Gulf V appeared to the left, slightly below them, as the engines of the C-17 strained to overtake her. The grappling crew knelt at the far corner to get the best angel on their target. One, a Corporal, held what looked like a rocket launcher on his shoulder, with a pointed shell protruding from one end, attached to a long coil of metal cable lying on the floor behind him. His partner, a Sergeant, sat to his side, a second shell at the ready.

“Execute when ready!”

The young man, Richards put him at no more than twenty, shuffled forward on his knee, getting the best angle he could, then suddenly a loud sound drowned out the howling wind and screaming engines for a split second, as the hydraulic launcher fired the round at its target.

They all strained to see what happened, but it was obvious by the shaking of the young Corporal’s head. His partner loaded another round, and this time the Corporal moved much further out onto the ramp, his double harness stretched to the limit. He took a much sharper angle, probably compensating for the several hundred mile per hour winds it would hit the moment it cleared the plane.

He fired.

Richards was close enough to see the round leave the weapon and disappear to the left, the long coil of cable streaming after it rapidly, then the round suddenly reappear and smack the side of the plane, just three feet from the cabin door, the aerodynamic housing of the shell shattering, leaving an extremely powerful magnet to hold onto the skin of the plane. The Sergeant grabbed the end of the line, already secured to the fuselage and tightened the cable with a crank. With most of the slack removed, Richards moved into position. The Sergeant hooked him up as he heard the order given for the plane to rise.

He grabbed the cable stretching between the two planes, and, hand-over-hand, moved to the edge of the platform, accompanied by the grappling crew who held him on either side. Outside, he watched the Gulf V drop from his perspective as the C-17 rose to let gravity do its job. His heart hammered against his ribcage, adrenaline fueling him.

“Get ready!” yelled the crew chief.

Richards nodded and turned around, lowering himself so the two lines hooking him to the cable took his weight. His hands still grasping the cable, he hooked his feet over the line, and now, free from the deck of the plane, he felt his full weight pulling on the cable. He lowered his head so he could see out the back of the plane. The Gulf V was out of sight, below his field of vision for the moment.

“Go! Go! Go!” yelled the crew chief.

Richards gulped.

And the grappling crew let go.

And nothing happened.

He had expected to start to slide, but he didn’t. He pulled with his hands, and whatever friction had been holding him in place let go and he began to move, the deck of the ramp disappeared and all he saw was the ground below. He raised his head slightly, looking for his destination, and quickly found it, racing toward him as he slid rapidly down.

“Jesus Christ!”

He squeezed the hand brake, slowing himself slightly as gravity did its job—too well—hurtling him toward the large piece of metal in the sky. His pulse roared in his ears, his breath was rapid as the Gulf V quickly filled his view. He saw the door, he saw where the magnet was gripping the plane.

Please, God, let this work.

He had talked to his wife and newborn just this morning. It was supposed to be a routine day. He wasn’t even scheduled to fly. And now here he was, twenty thousand feet in the air, sucking oxygen through a mask, a performer in the ultimate high wire act.

I love the Air Force!

The cable jerked and he was whipped up, then back down. His eyes focused like lasers on the magnet.
Did it come loose?
He was sure it had moved. He let go of the brake. He knew he needed to get off this line fast. He raced toward the plane, the wind buffeting him, tossing him to and fro as he desperately hung on.

He hit the fuselage.

And it hurt.

The pain shocked him for a moment, and he lost focus, the elbow and knee pads protecting his joints, but not the rest of his body.

“Hit the brake! Hit the brake!” yelled the crew chief through his comm.

He remembered where he was.

Sliding down the side of the Gulf V, toward the engines on the rear.

“Shit!”

He squeezed the hand brake as hard as he could, bringing himself to a halt. Repositioning his knees so the suction cups attached to the pads could do their job, he looked forward toward the door now almost twenty feet away. And the magnet he swore had slipped again. Grabbing onto the cable in front of him, he pulled, then, releasing the brake, repositioned it ahead. He repeated this procedure, advancing inches at a time, his muscles screaming, his body protesting as the wind flowing down the aerodynamic skin of the plane slammed into him, tossing his battered and bruised body against the unforgiving plane.

He was getting closer. Only feet away now. But the magnet had definitely moved. And continued to move with each pull.
Who the hell came up with this plan?
He pulled again and the magnet let go completely. He slid down the side of the aircraft then came to a jarring halt, the suction cups on his elbows and knees finally grabbing hold. He looked up and saw the magnet was holding again. For how long he had no clue. He lowered his head to his chest, trying to calm himself.

And gasped.

Right in front of him, was a label that read, “ESCAPE WINDOW RELEASE PUSH”. He looked and found a panel with more instructions. “OPEN DOOR. PULL HANDLE UP PUSH WINDOW IN.” He grasped at the panel just as the magnet slipped again. But this time he had something else to grip. With both hands now in the housing he had just revealed, he was able to take the pressure off the cable. He pulled himself forward, and saw the handle. He grabbed it, and pushed up. Above him he could see the window move slightly. He freed his right hand and reached up, pushing on the window.

It budged.

Just half an inch. But it fueled him with hope. He pushed again, and managed to get his fingers inside. He took a deep breath, and let go of the handle with his left hand, swinging his arm up as hard and as fast as he could, shoving the fingers into the tiny groove of hope he had found. His feet were now dangling behind him, the slack taken off the cable, and his fingers screaming in agony. He pulled with all his might, and got his helmet even with his hands, then pushed with his head against the window. It gave. And continued to give. The opening became wider and wider, he felt his head push through and suddenly he had a view of an empty seat. He pushed with his arms, and dropped inside and onto the floor.

He flipped himself on his back, unhooked the two lines still attached to the cable, and instantly the metal lifeline whipped out of the window.

He took a deep breath then activated his comm. “I’m inside, detach!”

“Roger that!”

He pushed the window closed, then looked out as the electromagnet, its current cut, let go from the side of the aircraft, and the cable retracted. He looked about him. He saw several people in their seats, no signs of life. He rushed forward toward the cockpit, stripping off his knee and elbow pads, not wasting any time on checking if the passengers were alive. None of them would be if he couldn’t land the plane.

He punched in the code for the reinforced cockpit door, provided by the owner of the plane in Rome, and yanked it open. Inside the pilot was still sitting in his seat, his head lolled to the side, no oxygen mask on. He moved forward and saw why. The cockpit window had exploded out, and it looked like he had been hit in the head with something, a large lump, and a lot of blood, indicating he was probably out cold from the moment of the emergency.

Richards dropped into the empty copilot’s seat and strapped himself in. He quickly oriented himself, then jacked into the plane’s communications.

“Hornet’s Nest, Pegasus One, I’m about to take control, over.”

“Pegasus One, Hornet’s Nest. Acknowledged, over.”

He flipped the switch to take control from the pilot, then disengaged the autopilot. Holding the controls, he gently banked to the left. Out the cockpit window he saw the C-17 banking as well, in the opposite direction, back toward Iraqi airspace. He was heading back to Turkish airspace, the closest airstrip within thirty minutes of his position. He looked at his fuel gauge.

Oh shit!

Corpo della Gendarmeria Office

Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City

Cheers, tears and hugs were exchanged. Laura simply collapsed in her chair, exhausted. She felt Reading’s hands on her shoulders and she reached up with one hand and squeezed his. The ordeal had been indescribable. When they had received word of what was happening, then were given a feed into the live communications being exchanged by the rescue crew, none of them could believe what they were hearing. And when the video feed was shared with the press, shot from the tail section of the rescue aircraft, her heart had been on a rollercoaster of hope and despair. When it looked like all was about to be lost, with the pilot sliding down the side of the plane toward the engine, she had turned away, unable to look, knowing if he were sucked in, not only would he be dead, but so would everyone on the plane.

But he hadn’t died.

And he was now in control, heading back to Turkish airspace.

“I’ve got bingo fuel, say again, I’ve got bingo fuel, over.”

The room was silenced.

“Say again Pegasus One?”

“I have bingo fuel. What’s the nearest safe location to ditch, over?”

Laura felt Reading’s grip on her shoulder tighten.

“Pegasus One, Hornet’s Nest. Negative within three hundred miles of your position, you’re east of a mountain range. Confirm insufficient fuel, over?”

“Hornet’s Nest, Pegasus One. That’s a negative. On board computer is estimating fuel exhaustion within twenty minutes, over.”

“Pegasus One, Hornet’s Nest. We have a level area outside the Green Zone, five-zero miles from your current location, bearing two-eight-zero. Can you make it, over?”