“Double compressor stall!” the observer shouted, quickly scanning the engine instruments. “TOT red-line… fuel flow max… two fire lights! We’ve been hit by something! We’ve been hit!” He didn’t think to look out the cockpit canopy, but if he had he would’ve seen both engines on fire.
There was only one line, one word, to the emergency checklist for two FIRE lights on. The pilot favored his observer with a “Prepare to eject!” command before slapping himself back into his seat, giving the control stick one last pull to try to gain a little more altitude, reaching between his legs, shouting “Eject! Eject! Eject!” and pulling the thick oblong handle. The canopy unlatched itself and lifted up an inch, enough for the slipstream to blow it up and away. Two seconds later the ejection seat rockets fired, blasting the pilot clear of the burning aircraft. A second and a half later the observer jetted out.
They were just high enough to get a fully open parachute and one swing before hitting the ground, with nothing that even remotely resembled a parachute-landing fall. But somehow both United Korea pilots picked themselves up off the ground without any broken bones or other serious injuries. They had landed about two miles from the burning train cars, just behind a tiny hillock.
Both men sprang into action without a word between them. They released their parachutes, wadded them up as fast as they could, then stuffed them under rocks and in dirt crevasses. They then retrieved their seat kits, which were tethered to their ejection seat harnesses. The seat kit was also a small backpack. Each took only three items from the backpacks — the survival rifle, spare ammunition clips, and a can of water — before throwing the kits over their shoulders, stuffing the ammo and water into their flight suits, and running for the nearest cover they could find.
Once they reached cover, they took a quick heading with their wrist compasses, then took a few moments to rest. “What happened?” the observer asked. “What hit us?”
“I don’t know,” the pilot responded. “Must’ve been rebels, maybe a detached security unit with a shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapon.” He nodded resolutely toward the south. “We need to get as far away from here as possible,” he said. “The transport carrying our commandos will be arriving soon.”
“We’ve got to warn them off!” the observer said. “Whatever shot us down will take them next!” He pulled out his survival radio and clicked it on. His pilot looked at him wordlessly, and the observer nodded. They both knew that the minute they activated the radio, the enemy could triangulate their position. But if they didn’t make the call, the deaths of thirty commandos and a C-130 Hercules flight crew would haunt them forever.
“Samtek Seven, Samtek Seven, this is Patrol Three-Four on the ground, over.”
“Patrol Three-Four, this is Samtek, we read you loud and clear, authenticate one-Zulu.”
“Charlie,” the observer responded, referring to a tiny authenticator card. He accomplished another authentication routine with the transport pilot; then: “Samtek, we have been shot down by unknown hostile forces, possibly hostile AI or SAMs. The LZ is hot, repeat, LZ hot. Remain clear of the area and go get help. Do you copy?”
“We copy, Three-Four,” the transport pilot replied. “Air cover and strike forces are on the way, ETA four. If you can make it to extraction point Lotus, repeat Lotus, help will be waiting.”
“Roger,” the observer said. There was nothing that made a downed aircrew feel better than to know there were friendlies in the area who were willing to risk their own lives to rescue them. “Our ETA to Lotus is three.” They used a simple code for time — multiplied the number by the day of the month — to avoid giving the enemy an idea of when and where to find them.
“We copy, Three-Four,” the transport pilot said. “Good luck. Samtek is clear.”
“Now let’s get out of here,” the pilot shouted, and they took off running to the next bit of cover they could see, about two hundred yards off.
They were halfway to their next hiding place when they heard it — a deep, loud, screeching roar, coming toward them. They looked up — and realized immediately that they were dead men. It was two Chinese Q-5 light jet fighter-bombers, careening down on them in a shallow dive.
“It’s Chinese,” the observer said. “We’re well inside our own borders! China is flying attack jets over our territory!” No doubt that’s who had shot them down — and now they were coming in to finish the job.
The pilot frantically got on his handheld radio again. “Samtek, Samtek, this is Three-Four. We spotted a Chinese Q-5 fighter-bomber, repeat, a Chinese fighter-bomber, at our location. Recommend you get as far away from here as possible and send help! How do you read?”
“Loud and clear, Three-Four,” the transport pilot acknowledged. “Thanks for the warning. Get off the air and take cover!”
But it was far too late. The United Republic of Korea crew members’ last thought was that the stupid Chinese bastards sure were wasting a lot of bombs on them — both Q-5 fighters dropped cluster bombs on their attack pass. All that ordnance just to kill two arrogant Dragonfly crew members who were too stupid to check their six for signs of threats. It was an impressive attack, very accurate — but one bomb would’ve done the job just as easily.
With the cluster bombs gone, the Chinese Q-5 fighter, a copy of the old Soviet MiG-19 fighter-bomber, now flew like a jet fighter instead of like a wallowing pig. Both Q-5s climbed up from their attack pass to four thousand meters. The leader checked his wingman over and noticed he had dropped his bombs too. Well, now they were both fighters again.
“Han-301, this is Control,” their ground controller radioed. “We have detected an airborne target, slow-moving, altitude unknown, twenty-three kilometers south of your position. You are directed to intercept and destroy. Acknowledge.”
The Q-5 flight lead checked his radio range from the controller’s position beacon, cross-checked his position with some prominent landmarks, then checked his chart board. He was about thirty kilometers inside United Korea, what was once free-flying airspace of North Korea. Technically, this was a violation of UROK’s airspace, an act of war. But since China had not yet recognized the United Republic of Korea, it still considered this airspace as belonging to its ally the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, whose president and government just now happened to reside in Beijing to escape political persecution. Besides, when UROK fired those missiles against Chinese troops in Yanggang Do province, they technically started a war. So flying another twenty-three kilometers or so inside Korea was no big deal.
“H-301 acknowledges instructions,” the flight lead responded. He turned south and activated his ranging radar. The tactical controller, based in a mobile radar trailer just north of the Korean border, kept feeding him a constant stream of position updates until it became apparent that the target had descended low enough to escape his radar.
But soon the Chinese fighter pilots didn’t need the controller’s help. Just a few minutes later the Q-5 fighter lead spotted the big transport. It was an American-made C-130 transport in black and brown camouflage, hugging the rolling, rugged terrain, flying barely a hundred meters aboveground. “Control, H-301 has visual contact on aircraft, proceeding with intercept.” There was no response — he was flying too low and too far from the radar controller now to maintain good radio coverage.
No matter. He had the target visually, and it would be an easy kill. He deactivated his range-only radar, selected his 20-millimeter cannon, armed his trigger, dialed in the proper settings on his mechanical heads-up display — no fancy electronic HUD on this thirty-year-old bird, nor was one required — double-checked his switches, and began to slide into firing range. When the C-130’s wingtips began to touch the edge of the aiming reticle, he slid his finger down to the trigger and…