Shattered Bone (4 page)

Tucked inside the baggie was a microfilm that contained the codes and frequencies that were used to guide the CBU-15 optically guided bomb. This precision weapon was one of the most powerful and useful American Air Force bombs. And since the Americans had invested billions of dollars in the weapon, they had to rely heavily on its performance, particularly during the first and most critical opening days of a war.

But the CBU-15 was a very vulnerable weapon. If the enemy ever discovered the radio frequencies that were used to guide the weapon to its target, the bomb could be easily jammed. And once it was jammed it went from an extremely smart and accurate weapon to a very expensive stupid bomb.

It was hard to estimate the difference that having these frequencies could mean to the North Koreans. It was information that could provide them with a decisive advantage. And it was worth a huge amount of money.

Except for one thing. The codes which Ammon carried were more than three years old. Since then, the CBU-15 had undergone a major upgrade in avionics. Part of the upgrade included a change in software. As a result, the codes that Ammon carried out of the wing intelligence building were completely useless. They were of no value to anyone. And Ammon knew it.

Just over four hours later, Capt Ammon found himself circling over the western coast of Korea. It was a beautiful night; clear with a full moon and not a cloud in sight. That was very unusual for August. When the weather briefer forecast clear skies for the air refueling track, Ammon had not believed him. During the day, thunderstorms would usually develop over the mountains of central Korea. They then would move eastward and blow out to the Yellow Sea, reaching the ocean by nightfall.

But here he was, level at 23,000 feet, with nothing but twinkling stars and the bright yellow moon.

Seventeen minutes earlier, Ammon had taken off from Osan and climbed immediately to 23,000 feet. He was a little early for his air refueling and had spent the last five minutes in a lazy orbit while he waited for his tanker. Sealed inside the cockpit, the earth passed silently below him, interrupted only by the sound of his breathing and an occasional radio transmission from Air Traffic Control.

To pass the time he tried to identify as many constellations as he could, but his gaze was continually drawn to the water below. He noticed the sparkle of the moon as it reflected on the sea. Following the coastline, he could see the lights of Seoul sprawIcd along the Han river. Further to the north, P'yongyang, the capital of North Korea, caused a dim glow on the distant horizon.

As he circled, the KC-135 tanker that was scheduled to refuel his fighter was enroute to his position. It would be there in a little less than five minutes. Ammon had already talked to the tanker pilots on the preassigned radio frequency. He reported that he was orbiting over the start point of the air refueling track at flight level 230. Once the tanker was within thirty miles of Ammon's position, it would descend from its cruise altitude of 29,000 feet to 24,000 feet. As they met over the start point, they would both begin to fly eastbound along their designated refueling track.

In the tanker's tail lay the “boomer,” an enlisted crewmember whose job it was to maneuver the air refueling boom into the fighter's refueling port. He lay on his stomach on a padded board that looked very similar to a weight bench. From this vantage point he could look out a large bubble window and watch the thirsty aircraft maneuver behind the tanker as they moved into position for gas.

The boom extended twenty feet below the belly of the tanker and had small winglets and hydraulic actuators that allowed the boomer to move it into position and connect with another aircraft's refueling port. Once a “contact” was established, fuel could be transferred at a rate of 3,000 pounds per minute.

When Capt Ammon had the lights of the tanker in sight, he would begin a gradual climb to tuck himself under the tanker's tail. Once in position, he would open his refueling door to allow the tanker's boom to hook into his F-16' s fuel port.

On a dark night it could be fairly difficult to maneuver into position for refueling. The tanker's lights would blend in with the starry background, making it nearly impossible to see the outline of the aircraft or refueling boom in the darkness.

But as Capt Ammon looked around him at the bright moon and clear sky, he realized that it would be easy to refuel tonight.

“No problem,” he muttered to himself through his oxygen mask as the tanker flew into view. At three miles, Capt Ammon could clearly see the outline of the tanker as it positioned itself ahead of him. He completed his air refueling checklist, checked his own airspeed and altitude and added a little power to begin his climb up to the tanker. Thirty seconds later, he was in position twenty feet behind and slightly below the tanker's extended boom. This was considered the “pre-contact” position and it required a final radio check prior to moving any closer.

“Kingdom two-two, Devil six-seven is established precontact,” Ammon transmitted over the radio.

Inside the tanker's belly, the boomer had watched as Ammon had maneuvered his aircraft into position. Now he could clearly see the outline of the pilot sitting inside the cockpit, illuminated by the moon and the lights of his instrument panel. The boomer keyed the radio switch in his left hand and replied.

“Roger, Devil. You're cleared in. Are you going to want all five thousand pounds? That's a lot of gas for such a little plane.”

The tanker was scheduled to offload 5,000 pounds of fuel. But like most tankers, they were feeling a little stingy. Their thirty-year-old engines were very inefficient and burned enormous amounts of fuel, so they figured it never hurt to try to keep a little extra gas. They especially hated to give away fuel to unappreciative customers. Their attitude was, if Ammon didn't really need the gas, then maybe they would just keep it for themselves. Unfortunately for them, tonight Ammon needed it all.

“That's affirm, Kingdom two-two, I'll need all five thousand pounds.” Ammon replied.

“Okay Devil, we copy,” the boomer said. Then after a short pause he commented, “Beautiful night, isn't it?”

“It really is. Kind of makes you sad to think of landing and losing this view.”

“Roger that, Devil. Well anyway, if you're really going to steal our gas, then come on in to Mama.”

Before closing the final distance between the two aircraft, Ammon scanned his instruments to complete a final safety check. He would not be able to look inside the cockpit once he hooked up to the boom, and he wanted to know everything was normal before the refueling began. He also reached up with his right hand to brighten his exterior lights. That would make it easier for the boomer to see his refueling port against the backdrop of his gray painted aircraft. Finally, he nudged the throttle forward ever so slightly and moved in on the tanker.

Now there was only one thing left to do. He had to open his refueling door so that the boom could make a contact. But before he opened the door he lifted up his left hand and gave the boomer the customary wave. He saw the boomer return his wave, then give him a thumbs up signal.

Not until then did Ammon reach down to his side console to find the switch that would open the refueling door. He felt for the switch and found it without looking, keeping his eyes on the tanker above him. He hesitated for just a second, then moved the switch to the open position.

The boomer could only stare in bewilderment when the aircraft exploded before him. The dazzling flash filled the night sky with a white-hot ball of fire and burning metal. For several seconds, he was completely blinded by the searing explosion, leaving him confused and disoriented, his mouth hanging open in silent horror. He was only eighteen years old, and his young mind took a moment to comprehend the fact that he was in the process of watching a man die.

When the boomer could finally speak, he forgot to key his microphone switch, and no one heard him screaming. “What! No! Climb! Climb! Get away from the fireball!”

Capt Ammon's F-16 was now a dazzling ball of flying fire. However, the pilots in the tanker had no idea what was going on. They didn't see the flash of the explosion or feel any of the shock wave it produced. Their only indication that something was wrong was a slight bump and lift in the tail. The boomer was the only one to witness the fighter as it descended and rolled inverted, its left wing and fuselage completely engulfed in flames. As the fighter's engine flamed out, it quit producing thrust. With its airspeed decreasing rapidly, the aircraft began a near vertical fall. Spinning wildly, it descended to the ocean more than four miles below.

Capt Ammon was knocked nearly senseless by the explosion; his head smashed against the Plexiglas canopy with enough force to fracture his helmet and mask. Inside the belly of the aircraft, splintered fuel and oil lines fed the already billowing fire. Precious electrical wires that allowed the pilot to control the aircraft were burned almost immediately. Within seconds of the explosion, Ammon was little more than a passenger in a scorching, smoke-filled cockpit. A soft female voice in his headset announced the obvious.

“Warning! Warning! Fire! Fire!”

It took the onboard computer less than two seconds to analyze the deteriorating situation and reach a conclusion. Based on the increasing rate of descent, the presence of the fire, and the lack of thrust, the computer considered the aircraft to be in a situation from which it could not recover. After reaching its conclusion, the computer offered this advice.

“Eject! Eject!” the computer-generated voice called through Ammon's headset, this time an octave higher and with a significant degree of urgency.

But Capt Ammon wasn't ready to bail out yet. Although he knew that the burning aircraft would probably not recover, pride and training forced him to try.

He pushed the fire-suppression button, then threw the control stick left and right. No response. The aircraft tucked into an even tighter spin, the G forces pushing him against the sides of the canopy. By now enough smoke had filled the cockpit that he could barely see the instrument panel. The acidic air filtered through his splintered oxygen mask and burned his lungs. “Warning! Fire! Eject! Warning! Fire! Eject!” The voice repeated itself every three seconds, making it even more difficult for Ammon to think.

Peering through the smoke, Ammon searched for the airspeed indicator. Eighty knots! That wasn't even flying airspeed. He would need at least 200 knots before he could break the spin. And to accelerate, he would need more power.

He jammed the throttle forward into the full afterburner range. But nothing happened. No gentle push of acceleration. No vibration or muffled roar. It wasn't until then that he noticed the silence. The familiar drone of the engine was no longer there.

Only twenty seconds had passed since the plastique explosives had been detonated, but in that time Ammon's aircraft had lost more than 10,000 feet. At the rate it was accelerating downward, it would take only fifteen seconds more before it hit the water. His engine was gone, he had no control, his jet was on fire.

It was time to get out.

As he reached for the ejcction handle between his knees, Ammon pushed his back straight up against the seat. After tucking in his legs and elbows, he yanked on the yellow-striped handle with all of his might.

In less than a second, explosive bolts fired his canopy clear of the aircraft. Two rocket motors then ignited under his seat, propelling him upward with enough force to shoot the seat two hundred feet into the air. As he began to accelerate up the ejection rails, the first thing Ammon encountcrcd was the incredible wind. It pulled the breath from his lungs and sent his arms flailing like a tattered rag doll at the side of his head. The skin on his face was stretched against his teeth and cheekbones. His left boot was ripped from his foot. The overall effect was like being fired from a cannon into the vortex of a powerful tornado. Ammon had talked to pilots who had survived an cjection before, but nothing prepared him for the sheer force his body now encountered. Although he remained conscious during the entire ejection sequence, disorientation and shock made him only dimly aware of what was happening around him.

Fortunately, the seat and parachute deployment was completely automatic. Seven seconds after pulling the ejection handle, Ammon found himself hanging in his parachute harness as he drifted down toward the sea.

For several seconds hc hung in a stupor. Time seemed to have stopped and his mind seemed far, far away, floating in some kind of haze. But as he descended, the initial shock began to wear off and the cool breeze helped to clear his head. Quickly, he looked around him in an effort to regain his bearings. Out of the corncr of his eye he saw a trace of flame and followed it as it spiraled downward. He could clearly see the splash and spray in the moonlight as his F-16 impacted the water. For several seconds Ammon stared at the spot, watching the foamy water, illuminated by the moon as it gradually spread and then slowly disappeared. For just a moment he imagined what it would have been like to have been inside the cockpit of his F-16 when it was shattered by the force of the impact. He pictured sections of the cockpit exploding around him and the wave of the incoming sea as the aircraft broke into a thousand pieces and began slowly sinking to the ocean floor. Looking down at the black-gray slate of wrinkled sea, the water seemed so cold. So dark. A horrible place to die. He shook his head and tried to clear the image from his mind as he stared at the glistening ocean below.

Finally, the flapping of his parachute demanded his attention, reminding him that there were certain things he needed to do in order to survive. He couldn't just hang there in his parachute. He needed to prepare for his water landing or he would drown before he could get inside his life raft.

What had they taught him in ejection seat training? There was a little song that would remind him what to do. As he tried to concentrate, the jingle he had learned several years before slowly came back to mind.