“Thunder, threats at six o’clock, five miles, suggest you extend left, chicks at ten o’clock, thirty miles … threats now at seven o’clock, four miles high, feet dry in two minutes, continue to burner extend … threat at six o’clock … Atoll, Thunder, Atoll!” At the same time as the “Atoll” call, which was a warning against a suspected enemy heat-seeking-missile launch, the MISSILE LAUNCH light illuminated once again …
… but this time the flare ejector on the left side of the Vampire jammed, so flares ejected only out of the right dispenser. While Fogelman ejected chaff, Furness started a hard 5-G right break — right into one of the Russian AA-11 missiles. The AA-11’s 33-pound warhead exploded between the right engine nacelle and the right cockpit canopy, nearly ripping the right engine and wing completely off the Vampire.
It was Rebecca Furness who initiated the ejection sequence, squeezing and pulling the yellow-and-black-striped handle by her right knee. The action fired several pyrotechnic initiators that tightened their shoulder harnesses and set off a guillotine-shaped linear charge all around the cockpit, including the wing gloves, from behind their seats to forward of the instrument panel at the forward tip of the long, slanted windscreen. A split-second later a powerful rocket motor blasted the cockpit capsule free of the stricken aircraft fuselage, with a smaller stabilizer rocket ensuring that the capsule did not pitch over backwards in the jet wash. The force of the primary rocket motor was like being hit in the back by a car going twenty miles an hour — not enough to kill, but guaranteed to make you remember it for the rest of your life.
The primary rocket motor burned for less than five seconds, but it was powerful enough to propel the capsule more than two hundred feet higher than the stricken aircraft. After motor burnout, accelerometers computed when the capsule had decelerated out of Mach speed, and a small pilot parachute and two flaps underneath the capsule “wings” were deployed to help the capsule stabilize. Almost at the top of its parabolic arc, the three main thirty-foot-diameter parachutes deployed. Twelve seconds after pulling the ejection handle, the Vampire capsule was under three good parachutes.
“Mark, you all right? Mark …?”
“I’m here,” Fogelman replied weakly. “Over here.”
“I hope you’re just trying to be funny, nav.”
But there was no more time to talk. Four large air bladders — a large mattress-shaped impact-attenuation bag under the capsule, two large pillow-shaped flotation bags under the rear “wing” of the capsule, a mushroom-shaped anticapsize bag behind the pilot’s canopy, and a large pillow-shaped righting bag that covered the navigator’s canopy — automatically deployed a few seconds later, just before the capsule hit the icy waters of the Black Sea. The gusty north winds kept the parachute inflated for a few seconds after hitting the water, and the capsule was dragged along the sea for a few dozen yards before flipping upside down.
The cockpit was completely dark, and the sudden pitchover completely confused Furness. She was upside down in her seat, hanging from her shoulder and crotch straps, with ocean sounds all around her — it felt as if she were sinking to the bottom like a rock. The capsule was supposed to be watertight and could even keep water out if completely submerged, but that was only if the glass or structure hadn’t been damaged. What if the thirty-year-old capsule had split apart or the missile had fractured it? What if the pressure of the seawater was finding some tiny weakness in the canopy and was about to break it wide open?
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic, she told herself. She unbuckled her oxygen mask, then detached it completely and stuffed it in the storage space beside her seat. There was no water collecting on the canopy over her head, only checklists, papers, pencils, and fear — fear was collecting in that cockpit faster than anything else.
She heard a moan — was that from herself or from Mark? — and she reached over to him. “Mark, you all right?”
“I think I broke my face again,” Fogelman said. He was also hanging in his straps, but his arms were hanging down onto the canopy. She reached for his oxygen mask — it was already broken free of his helmet. She found blood coming from his nostrils, but it was nothing serious. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m okay.”
“Are we still upside down? I can’t tell right now.”
“Just relax,” Furness said. “We’ll turn upright in a minute or two.”
The large pillow-shaped flotation bag on the right side of the capsule was supposed to automatically right the capsule if it was inverted — the sinking parachutes must be holding it under. On the center overhead beam in the cockpit were four yellow handles. The easy way to remember which handle did which was the “cut-cut, float-float” method — starting from the top, the handles cut the capsule free of the aircraft, cut the parachute risers, deployed the parachute, and deployed the flotation bags. Furness pulled the capsule-severance handle, which unguarded the parachute riser-release handle, pulled the second handle, and a few minutes later, aided by the surging action of the icy-cold Black Sea, the capsule rolled to the left and flipped upright.
Both crewmembers sat in the darkness of the Vampire capsule for several minutes, not speaking and not moving. Both knew how lucky they were to be alive.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Even after two years in office, this was the first time the President had picked it up. In this day of high-speed satellite communications, it was an anachronism, sure, almost a joke — but the Hot Line, the direct line between the White House and the Kremlin, was still in use. Upgraded, it was going to be used right now. “This is the President of the United States. To whom am I speaking?”
“This is President Vitaly Velichko,” the Russian president responded. “How are you this evening, sir?” The tone of voice was a bit strained — who wasn’t these days? — but it sounded friendly enough. Velichko’s English was very good — although the Russian president was an avowed Communist, part of the new right-wing politicians that wanted to return Russia to some semblance of its greatness of the Soviet Union, he was also well educated and rather cosmopolitan.
“I’m fine, Mr. President. I called because—”
The Hot Line was a satellite communications system, so there was no landline delay in their voices. “I am glad you are fine, Mr. President,” Velichko said, his voice seething. “I hope you are sane and intelligent as well. If you are, you will withdraw your bomber forces from Turkey, return your nuclear bombers and submarine-based missiles to normal alert, and stop interfering in affairs between Commonwealth allies that do not concern you. Otherwise, Mr. President, I may unfortunately see you roast in hell.”
And the line went dead.
“Well, so much for that,” the President said wearily. “Talking to that asshole is like talking to a brick wall. Christ, why couldn’t people have listened when I wanted to prop up Yeltsin? They wouldn’t listen to me, they wouldn’t listen to former President Nixon when he warned us about this two years ago. Then our NATO allies gave Boris diddlysquat in aid. Now, look at what we’ve got. Shit — they can’t say I didn’t tell them so.”
His advisers, and the First Lady, were gathered around the old Jack Kennedy desk, nodding in sympathy. They had certainly wanted more funds for aiding Yeltsin, but they’d seen how the country balked, claiming America needed to take care of its own first. And then when the Russian Congress started chopping away at Yeltsin’s powers, bit by bit, the President knew it was a lost cause. Yeltsin’s days had been numbered. And it could have been prevented.