Looking around, he saw his life raft bobbing in the four-foot waves. It was securely tied to his harness by a twelve-foot lanyard, and it didn’t take much time to pull the raft to him and hoist himself inside. As he fell into the tiny raft, he lay back and rested his head against its side. He could feel his heart still racing in his chest. Suddenly he felt exhausted. For several minutes he lay motionless, his feet dangling in the water as he listened to the waves lap against the side of his raft. Staring into the darkness, a heavy weight seemed to spread through his body. He felt very tired and very alone.
The salt water began to sting Ammon’s lips, and he was very thirsty. Reaching into his leg pocket, he took out a small water bottle and took a long drink. As he put the container back into his pocket, he felt the wrapping around his knee and hoped the microfilm was not getting wet.
Finally, he sat up and looked around him. Nothing but water and the open sky. Occasionally he could hear the sound of an aircraft in the distance, but it seemed to come and go with the wind, and he never could get a good fix on its location. That would be the tanker, he thought. They are already looking for me. He was opening his survival kit to take out a signal flare when he suddenly figured it out.
He wasn’t supposed to signal the tanker. They were supposed to think he was dead.
Ammon shook his head in disgust and rage as he realized that his ejection had been a setup — a carefully thought-out plan to convince the United States government that Capt Richard Ammon no longer existed.
They would never know the truth. Richard Ammon was not dead, he had simply been called back home.
When he had been told that he would be brought in, he had expected instructions to land in North Korea. Or maybe a simple early morning kidnaping on his way home from work. He had imagined any number of ways they could have brought him in, but not this.
What idiot had come up with this plan? Didn’t they know that people died in airplanes that exploded at twenty thousand feet? Didn’t they know that ejecting from an aircraft could break your back? And now what was he to do? Bobbing around in the Yellow Sea, he felt completely helpless. Did they have a plan to recover him before the Americans did?
Even now, the tanker would have reported the accident and Ammon’s last known location to the rescue forces that were stationed at Osan. Even now, an emergency locator beacon in his life raft was broadcasting his location to every aircraft flying within a hundred miles. The rescue forces would easily find him. It wouldn’t even take until morning.
But his friends would find him first. Surely they would. They would have it all worked out. He had to trust them. At least for now.
Ten thousand feet above him, the crew of the KC-135 tanker was busy. It had taken some time before the boomer had calmed down enough to tell the pilots what had happened to the F-16. For a second they didn’t believe him. But the obvious panic in his voice soon convinced everyone that he wasn’t playing around. They listened in stunned silence as the boomer described the explosion and fireball. Then they acted together in a flurry of activity.
The pilot immediately banked the tanker into a steep descending turn. The boomer began searching the night sky for a parachute. He watched the burning F-16 spiral into the darkness. As the fireball descended, the boomer followed it as long as he could, but eventually he lost sight of the trailing flame. He never did see Capt Richard Ammon eject or the splash of the F-16 impacting the sea.
While the pilot flew the aircraft, the copilot radioed for help. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” he cried, talking much too fast to be understood. “This is Air Force tanker call sign Kingdom four-six. No disregard. Disregard.” The copilot took a deep breath and started again. “This is Kingdom two-two. We’ve got a downed aircraft. I say again, we have a downed aircraft. We need an immediate rescue response.”
The air traffic controller’s voice came back, much more calmly than the copilot’s hurried call. “Aircraft calling Mayday, say again your call sign and state your position.”
“This is U.S. Air Force tanker Kingdom two-two. We are on the two-five-six radial, seven-three DME off of the Hung tacan. I say again, we’ve got a confirmed downing of an Osan F-16. Unable to confirm any ejection. Will you initiate a rescue response? We will orbit the area to assist in the coordination.”
“Roger Kingdom two-two, standby. Korean Air flight three-fifty-six, turn right heading one-three-zero. Climb and maintain twenty-thousand feet. Air Japan flight, turn right heading three-six-zero. Proceed direct to Seoul when able.”
The controller was already starting to vector other aircraft away from the crash site. Not only would this make rescue efforts easier, but it was not unheard of for an aircraft to unknowingly hit a descending parachute. He had also motioned for his supervisor, who immediately called the command post at Osan Base Operations. On the north end of Osan’s runway sat a small alert facility with an HH-60 rescue helicopter waiting outside. The rescue helicopter was airborne within minutes.
Meanwhile the tanker continued to orbit overhead. They had now descended to 2,000 feet and were searching the darkness for any signs of a survivor. They listened on the radios for the sound of Ammon’s emergency beacon and watched the sky for any flares. If the F-16 pilot had survived, he would surely try to signal them. If he was down there, they would find him.
So they continued to orbit. But the hours slipped quietly by, and eventually the sun began to break over the horizon. Finally, they were forced to return to Osan, for they were running low on fuel. For five hours they had loitered over the crash site, trying to find a survivor. For five hours they searched the dark sea and listened on the radios, but found only darkness and silence.
THREE
About the time Ammon found himself floating around in his life raft, half a world away, the sun was just coming up and a light mist floated off the Santa Monica Bay. Jesse Monel had spent the last forty-five minutes walking along the boulevards and watching the sunlight filter through the huge oak trees that lined her neighborhood streets. Although she had started her daily walk in the deep shadows of early dawn, by the time she returned home, the morning sun was shining through her kitchen window.
Jesse was dressed in a bright blue jogging suit and white hightop sneakers. Her hair was tied back with a simple white ribbon. Around her wrist was a small silver chain attached to a two-ounce can of mace. Smart women didn’t walk in the early hours without some form of protection.
She was tall and slender, with olive skin, high cheek bones, and dark eyes. She had the sharp features of her Italian father, though somewhat softened by her mother’s Norwegian side. Shiny, brunette hair dangled from the thin white ribbon and bounced around her shoulders. A set of perfect white teeth flashed between her lips. Her eyes were clear and bright and generally sparkled, though they could become moody and narrow when she was angry or sad.
Jesse kicked off her shoes and poured herself a glass of orange juice before she noticed the blinking light on her answering machine. She punched the play button and walked to the kitchen window as she waited for the tape to start playing. As the message started playing, she smiled. It was so nice to hear his voice.
Then she heard what the voice had to say. She hardly breathed as she listened to the entire message. She continued to stare out the window as the tape stopped playing, clicked, and rewound itself to accept another call. Without thinking, she poured the orange juice into the sink and walked slowly to the answering machine again. With trembling hands she pressed the play button and turned up the volume.