Thunder pulled himself back up onto the flight deck. The carnage sickened him. Only the decapitated trunk of the flight engineer remained. The copilot was dead, most of his head blown off. The navigator and fire-control officer were slumped forward. The navigator had a left-shoulder wound, and blood was gushing from the fire-control officer’s head.
Beasely was still conscious, face gashed and bleeding, right arm hanging down. He was flying the Hercules with only his left hand. He looked at Thunder, sending a wordless plea for help.
Thunder unbuckled the copilot’s lifeless body and dragged it back onto the flight deck. He got into the seat and grabbed the yoke, taking control of the plane. “General,” he said, “for God’s sake …” The wind blast from the holes in the right side of the cockpit drowned his words.
Mado was back on the flight deck, still dazed from the fall. He shook his head, not knowing what to do. “Beasely,” Thunder called out, “tourniquet on right arm … help me.”
Mado reacted slowly, then more quickly as his head cleared. The Sensor Operator from the booth was on the flight deck helping with Beasely as Mado crawled into the pilot’s seat. “I’ve never flown a C-130,” he told Thunder.
Neither have I, Thunder wanted to say.
Mado headed for the airfield, gaining some confidence. The tee — handle for number-four engine on the fire-emergency control panel was lit up. Thunder looked out his shattered side window to check on the engine, which was a mass of flames. “Fire on number four.” Mado feathered number four, he would only be flying on the left two engines. Could he do it? Could he gain enough altitude for them to bail out? Trying to land had not crossed his mind. “It’s getting worse,” Thunder told him.
“Feather number four,” Mado said. Thunder reached out and pulled the tee-handle, shutting the engine down and shooting the fire-extinguisher bottle. Mado looked at the center console, then moved the number-four throttle aft and the flight-condition lever to the feather position, matching number three. The plane started to descend. They could not maintain altitude on two engines. Mado pushed the two good throttles up and lowered the flaps, trying to gain altitude.
A gunner from the rear came onto the flight deck to help the wounded. “Stop lowering the flaps,” he said. “The hydraulic drive motor can’t hack it.” Mado looked at the sergeant and disregarded his warning as they headed for the airfield. He decided they were going to land on the runway. By the numbers …
“The Herky Bird’s had it,” Baulck told his partner Wade, “and do we need him now.” The lead tank was less than four hundred meters in front of them.
“I really hate this,” Wade said as he sighted the Dragon and sent the missile on its way. At the same time the jeep team from behind the wall sent another Dragon into the tank. The two missiles hit the tank on opposite sides, and a mass of flames and smoke broke over the tank. When the smoke cleared the tank had stopped its forward motion but its turret was swinging onto the prison and the barrel of the 122mm cannon was lowering, aiming at the prison wall where Ratso One was hidden.
“Those muthas just don’t want to get the message,” Wade mumbled, jamming his last missile-launcher onto the tracker. He aimed, squeezed the trigger, and this time, the tank exploded.
Stansell was holding the mike to the UHF radio he had thrown in the jeep as he watched the F-15 takeoff. Jack had to use his afterburners to get airborne on the short strip and now was rapidly gaining altitude. Abruptly the nose came down and the plane arced away.
Thunder’s voice came over the radio, demanding his attention. “Lifter, this is Spectre. In-bound at this time for emergency landing.”
“Say emergency,” Stansell responded. In a few short words Thunder recounted their situation and how Mado was flying the plane. “Land on dirt strip north of main runway,” Stansell ordered.
“Roger,” Thunder acknowledged. Stansell watched as the disabled C-130 came into view, trailing smoke. It lined up on the main runway, pointing directly at the waiting Kowalski.
“For Christ’s sake …” Stansell growled and keyed the radio. “Scamp One-One, taxi clear of the runway.”
“Roger,” came the reply. Kowalski’s bird was moving, and she taxied off the main runway and onto the dirt strip.
“Right main isn’t coming down,” Thunder said. “Retract and do a gear up landing.” Mado said nothing. Thunder pulled up the gear handle.
“What the hell!” Mado exploded. The flight controls had just become very heavy.
“There’s hydraulic fluid all over us from the flap-drive motor,” a voice from the rear shouted over the intercom. “It blew a seal. Hit the emergency hydraulic switch. You gotta isolate the utility system.” The flap-drive motor had ruptured and was spewing flammable hydraulic fluid over the crew in the rear. Thunder scanned the instrument panel in front of him until he found the switch and toggled it down, and Mado could feel the controls again respond.
The AC-130 gunship came down final, much too fast for a normal landing. Mado pulled the nose up as it touched down on its belly. A shower of sparks and smoke trailed behind the big plane as it skidded along the concrete. Mado worked his rudder pedals, using the big vertical stabilizer, trademark of the C-130 for maintaining steering authority. At the very last the plane ground-looped to the left and came to a halt half off the runway. Smoke belched from the right gear well as the left two props spun down.
A man jumped off the rear ramp and ran for safety, then stopped and ran back, helping to carry Beasely off the plane. Four more jumped down and carried off two wounded. Beasely’s men were leaving as a crew. Rangers ran from Kowalski’s C-130 to help them. Stansell counted thirteen off the plane, two obviously dead. A tall figure jumped off the ramp. It was Mado. Stansell ran to the general. “Is this it? Everybody off?” Mado nodded dumbly. “Where’s Thunder?” Mado stared at him, then pointed to the flight deck. Flames were shooting out the rear of the plane as the hydraulic fluid ignited.
Stansell ran to the front of the Hercules, to where the low-lightlevel TV and laser-target ranger were bolted into the open crew-entrance door. His small size worked to his advantage as he squeezed around it and up onto the flight deck. Thunder was still strapped into the copilot’s seat, unconscious. Stansell ripped at his lap and shoulder harness, freeing the big man. A groan urged him on. His hands, wet from Thunder’s blood, slipped. He grabbed Thunder’s flight suit and dragged him to the crew-entry well. The rear of the aircraft was a wall of flame.
Now Stansell had to fight down his own panic. A 40mm-round in the ammo storage racks cooked off and he glanced at the cockpit windows — no help there. He looked up and saw the emergency escape hatch in the ceiling but doubted he could manhandle Thunder’s 235 pounds through it. He managed to drag him down to the crew-entrance door, the way he had come in, and shoved his head through the gap below the TV camera. Blood was running over Stansell’s hands as he pushed, but Thunder was wedged between the door and the camera. Then someone was pulling at Thunder from outside. Gregory and a Ranger. The two men pulled Thunder free, and Stansell squeezed through. Together they half-dragged, half-carried Thunder to Kowalski’s C-130 as the gunship flared into an inferno.
The F-15 started a curvilinear approach, running in on the tank that was maneuvering past its burning leader, and headed for the Rangers blocking the road at the prison. Jack ran through the procedure he had practiced in the weapons simulator trainer for calling up a Maverick and launching it from the front cockpit: air-to-ground master mode selected; master arm on; move the Castle switch on the stick to the right; nose gear steering-button depress and release; move the crosshair with the target designation control switch on the left throttle. By the book — except the crosshair wouldn’t move` battle damage from the mortar attack and the frag that had nicked the wiring bundle.