The interchange between Control One and Tom was at the same time both tense and thoroughly controlled — delivered with almost exaggerated calm.
“Telemetry switch.”
“On.”
“Calibration switch.”
“On.”
“Pressure — Tank One.”
“Tank One — normal.”
“Pressure — Tank Two.”
“Tank Two — normal.”
“Minus fifteen seconds. Master arm — maximum output.”
“On.”
“Laser-enable switch.”
“On.”
“Ready to fire. Minus five—” Even the voice of Control One was taut. “—four — three—”
Marcus stopped breathing. His eyes were riveted to the indicators before him.
From his chase plane to the right of Tom's F-15, Manning glued his eyes to the test plane. He heard the countdown on his earphones.
“—two — one—”
In the test-plane cockpit Tom's thumb on the firing button tightened.
“Fire!”
Instantly there was a small explosion, and a blast of smoke coughed from Tom's plane. The fighter shuddered violently, rolled over and began to plunge toward earth.
“Tom!.. Tom!” Manning called. “Can you read me?… Tom!”
In the control room Marcus stared in horror at the instrument panel. Every one of the telemetry indicators reporting on the test plane had gone dead the instant the command to fire had been given!
Manning wheeled his chase plane over, trying to follow the plummeting F-15 down.
“Tom!” he screamed into his helmet mike. “Punch out!.. You're coming apart! Get out! Eject!”
Tom's plane was out of control. Trailing a long plume of smoke, fire and metal debris, spinning wildly, it hurtled down, the radio dead.
Manning stayed. The ground seemed to be rushing up to meet him. His altimeter needle spun as if twirled by a madman.
Suddenly he saw the cockpit canopy tear from the stricken F-15—and the ejection seat explode from the plane.
Within seconds the plane struck. The explosion was a fiery spasm of disintegration, scattering wreckage for hundreds of feet. A huge black mushroom cloud of smoke and dust rose from the main impact crater.
Above it a single white-and-orange parachute was floating down toward the rocky ground below — ragged silk billowing from several torn panels.
Manning pulled up. He could follow no farther. As he climbed, he saw the chute land among the huge, rugged boulders.
“Control!” he said hoarsely. “This is Chase One… Dick. He's down okay. In the Sierrra foothills. Near Mount Whitney. Some torn panels. I show him 322 at 64 off China Lake.”
In the control room Marcus was staring at the PA speaker. He felt drained. Cold. He listened to the acknowledgment.
“Roger. Copy. Chopper's on the way.”
2
The office of Colonel Jonathan Howell, Commander, 6517 Test Wing, in the Flight Test Center Headquarters Building was, in appearance, very much like the make-up of the man himself. Orderly, functional, uncluttered — the large wall map of the Base and the symmetrical stacks of papers on his desk testified to that; a career Air Force officer whose life was his work — indicated by the prominently placed pictures of the latest U.S. Air Force planes, and the operational charts mounted on the wall over a row of uniform filing cabinets.
Howell stood at his desk, grim-faced, looking out the window. In the distance the disturbing sound of a siren could be heard. In his hand he gripped a telephone, his knuckles showing white.
“The choppers are already on the way to the crash site,” he said. His voice was tense, but with controlled authority. “Yes — we know the exact spot… Right… And medical — now. I want Major Ward with the rescue party. And notify the Inyo National Forest Rangers… Right… I want to be kept fully informed.”
He hung up. For a moment he stood frowning, gazing out the window. The siren had stopped. He picked up the phone again.
“Get me Captain Paul Jarman,” he said.
Randi enjoyed a morning swim. It was still cool enough to be invigorating. She'd always loved the water. During a couple of her summer vacations from college she'd been an Aquamaid in the spectacular water-skiing show at Cypress Gardens only forty miles from Tampa, her home town. She'd loved skimming across the water in her lemon-yellow bathing suit, holding a bright red, wind-whipped flag aloft.
She dove gracefully into the water and easily swam the length of the pool. It was obvious she was in top physical condition — any way one would care to make the evaluation. She made a competition turn, pushing off from the poolside, and swam back. She climbed out and joined a small group of young women sitting at the pool's edge. She was about to make a comment when one of the women looked up, past her, with a suddenly sobering face. The others quickly followed her gaze, falling silent. Randi turned.
In the door to the clubhouse stood Paul. He looked stiff and grim. Randi's heart sank for an icy, adrenal instant. She saw in Paul that — that certain person. He — for it was always a man — he who had been chosen to deliver the final news, to pronounce the widow of the day person. Always in person. That certain, special person, the messenger of death, bringing news about a husband whose life had been snuffed out in an instant, whose young body was now “burned beyond recognition”; a concept so hideous she had deliberately refused to visualize it.
And now — there stood Paul.
That certain person?
Paul started toward the group. The women watched him approach, apprehension darkening their faces as each of them was touched by a gust of her own special fears. Randi rose to meet him.
“Hi, Paul,” she called. She was aware of her voice sounding forced… of the others watching her intently. “What're you doing here this time of day? Got time for a dip?” she asked, automatically tiptoeing around the dreaded subject, wearing the obligatory blinkers.
Her voice trailed off as Paul came up to her. “It's — Tom, isn't it?” she said, her voice husky.
Paul nodded.
“Tell me.”
“He's down,” he said. He looked at her earnestly. “That's all we know.”
“Wait for me.”
She ran for the dressing rooms.
Paul looked after her. He lifted his face and gazed up into the clear blue sky.
Sometimes. Sometimes its beauty was marred…
3
Raising a whirling cloud of fine sand, the Air Force rescue helicopter skillfully set down in one of the few boulder-free, level spots among the outlandish stones and rock formations. Major Quentin Ward jumped from the craft. All around him loomed gnarled and weather-sculptured rocks. A hell of a place to come down in a chute, he thought. This particular stretch of the Sierra foothills was called the Alabama Hills, he knew. But he had no idea why. Looked nothing like what he remembered of Alabama. In the distance the snow-covered peaks of Mount Whitney towered majestically.
Two men followed Ward from the helicopter. One of them a master sergeant, a big black bruiser of a man who had a well-earned reputation as an amateur boxer. Heavy-weight. Name of Freddy Hays. The other, Airman First Class Norbert Wilson. They joined the Major.
Hays pointed up into the bizarre, oddly shaped rocks. “Up there, sir. A little ways,” he said. “That's where we spotted the chute.”
“Right.” Ward nodded. “Let's go find it. Spread out.”
The three men separated and began to climb up among the misshapen rocks.
Ward rather enjoyed himself. It was a perfect day. The sun was warm on his back as he made his way up among the boulders; the air was fresh and smog-free. Ward was a carreer officer, USAF Medical Corps. A search-and-rescue mission was a welcome diversion from Base duties, especially when chances of serious problems or injuries were minimal. And he fully expected to find Tom Darby perhaps shaken up — certainly chagrined — but OK. After all, he had ejected without trouble.