Ready.
Wilson picked his aimpoint, the western end of the north parallel runway. The four aircraft of his division had that runway, the Slash 21 jets had the other runway, and the Rhinos in Slash 31 had the taxiway. There was no easy way to deconflict twelve diving strike fighters into twelve separate aimpoints in an area of less than two miles wide. The Slash 31 division was going to take the worst of the AAA as the last down. The nugget pilot assigned to Slash 34 had watched Wilson with wide-eyed attention from the back of the ready room four hours ago, a pilot who now would be Tail-End-Charlie on this strike. Wilson had seen him around the ship but didn’t know his name. He found it on his kneeboard card. Kid. His call sign was Kid, and he looked the part. This was his first time at sea away from the familiar Virginia Capes operating area. The VACAPES, an area mariners called The Graveyard of the Atlantic, was home for Wilson — and Kid.
On timeline almost to the second, Wilson flew his Hornet tangent to the imaginary cone he would intercept to begin his dive. After he went, Dusty would follow, then DCAG, then Stretch, each with three heavy bombs to drop in a stick with exact spacing, to penetrate the concrete and then explode a huge crater, rendering the runway inoperable. They would be followed by two more divisions of strikers to cover all available concrete. None of the aviators wanted to come back here, and they would work hard to identify their aimpoint and not screw it up. They had to get the bombs off. Pulling off target still lugging an extra two tons of deadweight was not career enhancing, and they would be easy prey for the gunners. If the gunners could see them… the aviators were lights-out on their NVGs, enjoying almost daytime situational awareness. Did the gunners have goggles, too? Or did they rely on radar to aim their fire — or the rumbling noise of 24 jet engines — to put a barrage of lead into the sky and hope one of the Americans ran into them.
At thirty seconds to first impact, and with flashes from lightning and AAA off his left wing, Wilson transmitted, “Slash one-one’s in.” He pulled his jet hard left, then overbanked down as he banged out some chaff and craned his neck to pick up his aiming diamond through the HUD. Stabilized in a dive, he rolled out and pulled his nose onto runway 28R of the Venezuelan fighter base at San Ramón.
CHAPTER 52
Like his attack against the yacht, in what seemed a lifetime ago, Wilson was again hitting a target under a thunderstorm.
The storm was now south of the field, and, with the Slash formations attacking from the northeast, there was a ledge in the clouds they could get under to visually acquire their separate aimpoints. Wilson rolled out and, by instinct, checked Dusty in position before returning attention to his displays. On his FLIR, Wilson designated his aimpoint, right on the runway centerline tire marks, and, on his HUD, aligned his jet with the steering cues for release. He was in a steep, high dive, airspeed building and San Ramón growing larger through his windscreen. Fiery balls of 57mm rose up to him and then rocketed past as he plunged toward earth. Wilson fought to ignore them — they were close but missing above him — and returned his concentration to the FLIR. His eyes flew from the HUD altitude box to the steering to the FLIR display as he kept his scan going the same way he had trained for years. He fought to ignore the distracting lights of AAA that zipped by in his periphery. The release cue was dropping down, fast, and Wilson put his thumb on the pickle for release.
Without warning, his cockpit went dark. What the fuck!
Stunned, Wilson waited for the cockpit to return to life and realized with horror that it wasn’t happening this time. Fear burst into his brain as he yanked back on the stick. Did they hit me? Another lightning strike? He was under five g’s and the airplane’s nose was moving up but not fast enough for Wilson. I’m in MECH! He was now in a black cockpit and struggled to recover from the dive in manual flight control mode. Using the cable and pulley backup system to fly the jet, his heavy jet, the goggles affixed to his helmet were his only sensor or instrument.
Wilson realized he still had his bombs attached and, knowing he was right over several enemy gun emplacements, he let off on the g and, in the darkness, found the EMERG JETT switch and pushed it. Nothing! As he turned to the right in his desperate flight to safety, he pushed it again and waited in vain for the familiar lurch of jettisoned bombs and fuel tanks. AAA rounds were all about him now, and he flicked on his gooseneck flashlight to see altitude on the cockpit backup display. Under 10,000 feet, his nose was breaking the horizon as the g pushed down on his goggles in his struggle to fly the airplane and escape with his life.
In frantic fear, Wilson cycled the battery switch to get basic electric power. Nothing! He cycled the number two generator in another vain attempt to restore power. With total electrical failure, the flashes from bomb impacts below him, the lightning behind him, and AAA whizzing by next to him produced eerie shadows in his dark — and quiet — cockpit. Now deep in the caldron of Dante’s Inferno, Wilson saw a Hornet pull off to his right a few thousand feet above him.
Fly the airplane. Wilson began to repeat to himself the first axiom of aviation, and, with his goggles, he could see the Columbus Channel — and safety — beckoning. Another Hornet — DCAG? — flew away high off his right. His ordnance was still attached, and repeated depressions of EMERG JETT were having no effect. Wilson sensed he was slow and shoved the throttles to MAX. On his steam gauge airspeed indicator he was doing 400 plus. He wanted to double that.
Wilson shot a glance over his right shoulder at San Ramón. In addition to the blinking of AAA guns, he could see clouds of smoke on the field from the numerous Slash hits. Breathing through his mouth, he concentrated on getting fast and maintaining a slight climb. Bright fireballs of AAA shot by him in groups of three and four, orderly trails from low to high. His body was tense, ready for impact.
He felt and heard the thud behind, on his right.
Terrified, Wilson twisted his body in the ejection seat to see what he could, pushing his helmet and goggles with his left hand to see over his wing. Through the narrow field of view of the goggles, he sensed flickering behind him. He then felt the airplane yaw right. Both were signs he had lost thrust on the right side.
Sonofabitch!
Squeezing the stick with his right hand, Wilson secured the right throttle with his left. He then reached across to lift the protective cover and punch the right fire light button. He now had to step on left rudder to keep the aircraft in balance and twisted his neck again to see if securing the right engine had had any affect. He still saw flickering from behind the right wing. That was evidence enough for him, and he pushed the fire extinguisher ready button and dropped the tailhook as part of the emergency action procedure he knew by rote memory. With zero electrical power, he didn’t know if any of it would work. Zero!
Río Salta, also sending streams of AAA skyward, was passing down his left side, and he figured he had about 20 miles to feet wet. He was flying. It had been over a minute since he had felt the impact and secured his engine, and he could navigate visually. He saw the faint outlines of more Hornets passing over him high to his right. Most of all, Wilson wanted to get feet wet, but he also wanted to tell them he was still flying. With his left hand, he unzipped the pocket on his vest and pulled out his CSEL survival radio, a brick-shaped radio with an attached battery and a collapsible antenna. He flicked it on and popped off one of his mask fittings to stuff the earpiece in his ear. He then realized they hadn’t briefed a discrete Combat SAR frequency! It was one of many items that had fallen through the cracks. He selected GUARD and transmitted, mindful that the Venezuelans could also monitor that frequency. Unsure about how long his jet could stay together, Wilson decided he had to let his wingmen know he was with them. He depressed the push-to-talk switch.