The lightning lit up the ground below, and Wilson could see he was heading into a forest that covered rolling terrain. He made out a ridgeline to the south and, maybe, a small clearing to the east. Now he was concerned about getting caught up in one of the trees. The dark had returned, along with a light rain, and Wilson knew he would go into a tree in seconds. He put his good leg against the other one as best he could. With his right hand, he pulled his elbow in tight and protected his neck. He felt the seat pan hit something.
Here it comes.
Branches ripped and clawed at him as he fell through the tree, and Wilson cried in pain as a branch pried his good arm away from his body. His body jerked to a halt as the parachute caught up in the tree. Then, with twigs tearing at his face, he continued down, pulled by his own weight, until he crashed in a heap on the muddy ground.
Wilson lay there for a few seconds to collect his wits. In excruciating pain, he rolled onto his good leg as he undid his Koch fittings. He felt for his canteen in his g-suit pocket. The pocket was open, the canteen gone — most likely lost in the violence of the ejection. He was exhausted, but he had to have water. He kept a small flask in his vest and retrieved it.
Then the sky opened up, and a band of rain beat down on the trees and foliage. Even under the canopy of tree branches Wilson was soaked again by the deluge, but unlike nature’s washing machine minutes ago, it provided warm water. Using a nearby fern branch as a funnel, Wilson pulled the tip to his mouth and drank his fill of fresh rainwater and then refilled his flask. Grateful to be alive, he sat there in the pouring rain, fingers feeling the mud of solid ground, and tried to regain his bearings.
Wilson looked at his watch: 2035. Thirty-five minutes had elapsed since he had rolled in on Runway 28R. He then realized that, at that very moment, the President was speaking to the nation. Mary. Are you watching? I need you, baby.
Wilson felt again for his radio, and with dread confirmed that it, too, was really gone. Pain returned, and pushed into every part of his body. He couldn’t walk, but his .45 was firmly attached to his chest. Would he fight if they came upon him? The steady rain, even the bolts of lightning coming down around him, gave him a reprieve from capture for the moment. He sat under the tree breathing, thinking, recovering.
He was an American fighting man. His duty now was to evade.
CHAPTER 54
Hours later, after the world had watched the President of the United States speak about his surprise attack on the Bolivarian Republic, Hernandez made a report to Caracas.
The directed energy weapon seemed to have worked the way the Russians had said it would. But it required a radar handoff to track multiple targets, and the Americans had delivered effects on them the AMV controllers had never seen. The runways at San Ramón were cut in several places and would be out of action for some time. It could be weeks until construction crews could clear debris and fill the deep craters. They had paid a high price with the loss of two Vipers to American sweep fighters — and before the Vipers could even attempt a missile shot on the attackers. On the bright side, the Russians had night vision goggles and were able to acquire and track one airplane and disable it. Gunners firing barrage AAA into the air then managed to shoot it down with several eyewitnesses on the coast. An hour ago, a piece of wreckage was found, the wing on an American F-18 with the number 301 on a flap surface. Hernandez had mobilized search helicopters with Bolivarian Army commandos and armed patrol boats to find the pilot, whether he was dead or alive. There was no indication yet of an American rescue attempt, but intercepted American communications revealed they thought the pilot was able to get out of the stricken aircraft. Hernandez promised his leadership that he would find the pilot before they did. An American pilot would be an invaluable prize for the Bolivarian Republic — and a bargaining chip for Hernandez.
After the attack on San Ramón, the Americans hit Río Salta with no fighter opposition, the port suffering moderate damage. Because they could expect the Americans to return tomorrow night, he would truck the Vipers at San Ramón to dispersal fields and have the Flankers out of Caracas fly barrier combat air patrols to defend the capital. Not counting air-to-ground close air support aircraft and high performance trainers. He could maybe get 15 fighter aircraft into the air.
At the moment Hernandez finished his report, he learned of American attacks on the capital. The Chief of Staff ripped into him, asking Hernandez if he could hear the sirens and thumps of American ordnance through the phone line, blaming him for the inept performance of the AMV in defending the Bolivarian Republic from attack. How could he accuse Hernandez of not defending the Bolivarian Republic? One of the American aircraft carriers was more than twice as powerful as the entire AMV! He didn’t deserve blame for this mismatch. Generals always blamed everyone but themselves. But, on a higher level, Hernandez knew he deserved it. If he were in Caracas, he would have already been cashiered — or worse. One way or another, he had only days to live, Hernandez knew he must now be one of those who got into the cockpit of a Viper being trucked to a dispersal field and attempt takeoff on a narrow highway strip. If he survived that, the flight controllers would vector him to a one-way meeting with an American formation that could out-stick him with missiles and flood his sensors with electronic jamming such that he would have no idea what was going on. At least he would die with a shard of honor.
Unless he could deliver the downed pilot, alive. That prize, and Daniel’s help, could save him. Once his report to Caracas was concluded, he ripped into his subordinates. Finding the American pilot alive was job one, and to make a point, he removed his sidearm and discharged it into the ceiling. He now had the full attention of his astonished and fearful staff, and they set out with renewed vigor — one group to find the American, the other to disperse the intact assets of San Ramón.
Aboard Coral Sea, Admiral Davies was waiting for LTJG Webb in CVIC. It was nearing midnight, and Kid had already boltered on his first pass before getting aboard with a lucky 4-wire on his next attempt. The recovery of the first strike was winding down, and the jets from the second wave would be here in an hour or so. Coral Sea was pitching and rolling as much as the new guys had ever seen, and it was black outside. Davies knew they had to go back tomorrow night and wondered if the untested aviators in Carrier Air Wing SIX were up to it.
CAG Matson and DCAG Kay also waited with Davies, who was becoming impatient.
“He trapped ten minutes ago. Where the hell is he?” Devil snapped at Matson.
Without being told, Kay picked up the J-dial phone and contacted Webb’s squadron, the Hells Angels of VFA-54 in Ready 6. He was waiting for an answer but cradled the receiver when the young pilot walked in still wearing flight gear that reeked of perspiration. Kid’s hair was matted down with sweat, and mask lines etched his face as he hoisted his helmet bag. Seeing the heavies when he walked into CVIC — all of them looking at him — caused his night-adapted eyes to open wide even in the bright fluorescent light. Matson spoke first.
“Admiral, this is Lieutenant JG Webb.”
Davies took two steps toward him. “Where have you been, son?”