“I’m coming up on bingo fuel, Basket,” Collins said. “I either chase him or continue with the pickup. I can’t do both. Where’s he now?”
“Bandit three now heading southwest, your ten o’clock position, eight miles, airspeed one-zero-zero knots, altitude three thousand. Appears to be buggin’ out.”
Collins knew that the guys could turn and re-attack quickly, but he had no choice — he was too far away to pursue. “All right, Basket, I’m staying. Give me a heads-up if he comes back. Switching to Guard channel.” To his copilot in the Sea Hammer’s left seat, Collins said, “You got the aircraft.” The copilot shook the control stick to acknowledge the order, and Collins released the controls. “Start an orbit over the area. I’ll see if I can find him on the FLIR.”
Collins’ copilot climbed to five hundred feet, stabilized, then began a slow orbit over the area. Collins activated the AN/AAQ-16 FLIR, or Forward Looking Infrared, sensor ball, which presented a thermal image of the forest below in his helmet-mounted sights. At the same time he keyed the microphone button: “Bullet, this is Able Zero-Seven on Guard. Bullet, if you read me, give me a tone on Rescue one. Over.”
A few seconds later, Collins heard, “Able Zero-Seven, this is Bullet on Guard. I read you loud and clear.” The DF direction-finder read southwest. The accent was strange, the voice clipped and precise — too precise. There Was also a lot of background noise. It could be his own rotors… or it could be someone else.
Collins said, “Bullet, go to Rescue One and hold down for ten. Over.”
“Able Zero-Seven, I cannot. Land on shoreline. I can see you. Land on shoreline.”
“Bullet, go to Rescue One. Over.”
“Able Zero-Seven, I am injured. I cannot work my radio. Land on the shoreline. I am just a few meters inland. Hurry. Over.”
The DF readout still read southwest — but that could mean a hundred yards southwest or ten miles southwest. The Navy pilot was not following orders because he was panicking — or because it wasn’t a Navy pilot talking. The term “meters” worried Collins, but more military guys were using metric measurements like meters and “klicks,” so that wasn’t a definite giveaway. On the Guard emergency channel, Collins said, “Stand by, Bullet.” To his copilot, Collins said, “Swing west a few miles. Let’s see if we can triangulate this DF steer.” The MV-22 swung west away from the coastline, keeping as close to the treetops as possible.
“Able Zero-Seven, this is Bullet, come in. Come in, Able.”
Bowman was groggy but awake. He had a pounding headache and completely washed-out vision. He felt paralyzed, and when he tried to move, a red-hot wave of pain rolled up and down his back. Same for his left arm — it wasn’t just his elbow anymore, the entire arm felt broken. His wrists were still handcuffed together and the survival radio was gone…
No, not gone. He could hear faint voices coming from somewhere. Fighting through the pain in his back and arm, he scratched his fingers across the mud and foliage toward the sound. Just as he thought he was going to pass out from the pain, his fingers brushed the thick rubber of the short antenna. A spark of hope shot through his pain-tortured brain, and he was able to grab the radio and drag it to his body.
“Stand by, Bullet,” Bowman heard. “Bullet, switch to Rescue One, if able. Over.”
“Unable to switch. Help me. Land on the shoreline. I will find you.”
Able… that was the call sign of the Navy rescue choppers on Ranger on the day that Bowman was shot down. The PJs finally found him! But who was he talking to? There was another Bullet crew member out here? Who was he talking to? Miller? Was Cookin’ alive? He couldn’t believe it — Miller had really made it!
But he suddenly realized that wasn’t right. Miller was dead. The voice on the radio didn’t sound American — it sounded too smooth, too practiced. It had to be Chinese! The Chinese were trying to coaX the Navy rescue bird into landing. No downed aircrewman would ever do that — a downed aircrewman’s responsibility was to first get himself located, then follow instructions from the rescue bird. He was not supposed to issue orders.
Bowman’s radio was set to the Guard channel. On the PRC-23D radio, there was a four-position rotary diaclass="underline" full clockwise, toward the side with the antenna, was Guard, one click counterclockwise was Off, one more click was Rescue One, and one more was Rescue Two. With trembling fingers, Bowman depressed the rotary dial and twisted the knob once to the Off position; then, with a tremendous effort, twisted the dial to Rescue One and depressed a rubber switch on the side of the unit…
The DF readout on radio number one was moving slightly south. “Few more miles,” Collins said to his copilot, “and we can plot out his position…”
Suddenly, radio number two came alive with a distinctive Piiinng! Piiinng! Piiinng! Piiinng! tone. The DF readout on the second channel pointed directly east. “I got a tone on Rescue One!” Collins shouted. “Coming from the area we just left!”
“That guy on Guard must be an eavesdropper,” the copilot said.
“I almost fell for it, too. Follow the DF steer from Rescue One.” Collins switched from Guard channel to Rescue One. “Bullet on Rescue One, I copy your tone. Give me a tone when we fly overhead.”
They were about sixty seconds on the new heading toward the east when Collins said, “I think I have something down there. PJs, stand by.” In the rear of the MV-22 tilt-rotor aircraft were four pararescue jumpers, or PJs, two sitting on the port and starboard cargo doors, wearing rappelling gear.
Collins tracked the warm spot below him with the FLIR.
Just before the object was directly beneath them, they heard another series of tones on Rescue One. The copilot flew past the spot, but Collins continued to track the warm spot and hit a button on the AN/AYK-14 mission computer, which would store the latitude and longitude of the spot they flew over.
“Bullet, this is Able Zero-Seven, authenticate Victor-Kilo. Victor-Kilo.” No response. “Bullet, this is Able, I say again, authenticate Victor-Kilo. Over.”
“We’re coming up on bingo fuel,” the copilot said, “and the Chinese are bound to bring reinforcements. We can’t stay…”
“Once more, then we’re outta here,” Collins said. On Rescue One, he said, “Bullet, I say again…”
“Bullet…. authenticates.… Poppa Zero… Poppa-Zero…”
“He didn’t give the whole response,” the copilot said.
“Close enough for me,” Collins said.
“But you don’t know…”
“I’m taking the chance. I’ve got the aircraft.” Collins took the controls, gave them a shake to verify transfer of control, then banked sharply to the left and lined up on the object he was tracking on the FLIR. When he was pointing at it, he moved a switch on the power quadrant, which rotated the twin rotor nacelles on the wingtips of the MV-22 vertically and transformed the Sea Hammer aircraft from an airplane to a helicopter. He maneuvered the big cargo-plane-tumed-helicopter into a hover, then translated slightly sideways until he found a clearing beneath the airplane. On interphone, he said, “PJs, our boy’s off the nose, about thirty yards. No complete ID, but I don’t see a weapon and he’s alone. Out.”
Using their rappelling gear, the PJs edged off the Sea Hammer and slid to the ground. Unslinging their rifles, they took a bearing from the MV-22 and proceeded toward the subject. A few cautious minutes later, they found Bowman.
“Able, this is PJ One, I got him. Looks like one of our boys.” The rescue technician quickly searched Bowman for hidden explosives or booby traps as the second PJ stood a safe distance away, guarding the area. “Move in position.” Collins edged the Sea Hammer aircraft forward, and the crewmen in the cargo hold lowered a rescue hoist with a forest-penetrator device down to the men on the ground. He unfolded the petal-like seats on the forest penetrator, lifted Bowman up, and secured him into the seat. Bowman had enough strength to wrap his arms around the rescue device and do as he was told.