I woke up when I tried to breathe. Cold seawater is a poor substitute for air.
My gear had done its job as advertised. Sometime after I hit the water, the ejection seat had separated and the buoyant flotation pan had kept me above water. The life raft was already inflating nearby.
For a few moments, I focused on just trying to breathe. The seas were rougher than they'd looked from the sky, and every second wave slapped me in the face and tried to make me breathe it. I got my life jacket inflated, got enough air in my lungs to be able to think clearly, and then started swearing.
"Gator?" I hollered. Silly thing to do ― I doubted he'd be able to hear me over the wave noise.
"Gator, are you here?"
I set out for the raft, breast-stroking in my best fashion and trying to keep my head out of the water. All the while, I was looking for the other life jacket, the parachute, anything that would give me an indication of Gator's position. I'd seen his chute ― the seats are timed so that his fires a split second before mine does, giving him enough time to get clear so his ejection rocket won't turn me into toast.
I grabbed the raft, hung on the side for a moment to catch my breath, then pulled myself into it. A flight suit, ejection harness, and boots were a hell of a lot heavier wet than dry.
I raised up on my knees, tried to stand, and almost lost my balance.
There ― off in the distance. I could see a speck of something that looked orange, something that might be Gator. I grabbed the paddle out of the raft and headed for him.
"Goddamn RIOs," I said, as the events of the last few minutes flashed back in my mind.
I knew what he'd done. And he'd probably been right to do it. What was worse, I was going to have to admit it.
The missile had been on us, so quick and so fast that Skeeter hadn't had a chance to get to us. If I'd let him come back when he first tried to join on me, it wouldn't have been a problem. But it had been my delays ― mine ― that had kept him at arm's length and out of position.
There had been no time, no time at all. Gator had known it ― and at some level, so had I.
Still, I never believe that anything in the air can get me.
It's one of those things about being a pilot. You start believing that it's possible for you to get hurt, that your bright and shiny new Tomcat wrapped around you isn't an invincible and all-powerful weapon, and you lose your nerve. The next thing you know, you're starting to stutter on your approach to the boat, you lose the edge, that thing that makes you the very best in the air.
Fear? You can't afford it. Not with the guy in the back depending on you.
But this time, it had been the guy in the back who'd saved my ass. RIOs have no ego compunctions about admitting when they're over their head. After all, they're not flying. Gator had seen what I wouldn't admit ― that the missile was too close and that we were about to buy it.
Command ejection. When the ejection seats in a Tomcat are set to command-eject, activating either seat causes both to shoot out. Experienced pilots with a new RIO stay away from that, in case the guy in the back gets panicky and pulls the ejection handle. If they do, they're the only ones leaving the aircraft ― and they're the ones who'll have to explain it to the Inquiry Board.
But with a guy like Gator, one who's been on more cruises than I have and has been flying with me for a couple of years now, you leave it in command-eject. For just such circumstances as this.
I was a little closer now, close enough to see that it was indeed a life jacket I was looking at. Gator had his back to me, and was floating uneasily on the top of the waves. He was still, except for the water-generated motion.
"Gator!" I hollered, and paddled over to him as quickly as I could. All this water ― I was conscious of the overwhelming need to pee.
About three yards away from him, it suddenly hit me. The life jacket ― it looked wrong. And what I could see of the figure was too small for Gator.
I started swearing again, this time really meaning it. A damn Vietnamese ― it had to be. Now I could see the skin color, and I was certain it was not one of our guys. Or girls. For a moment, I'd had a wild rush of hope that it could be the tanker crew, but no such luck.
I sculled the boat to a standstill a few yards away and considered my options. If I waited a little longer, maybe he would just drown. That would save me a whole lot of trouble.
Still ― there's a kinship among aviators that transcends a lot of things. One of those being floating in the sea face-down.
As much as I wanted to, I couldn't let him die like that. I took a last look around the ocean, still searching for Gator, and saw another splash of orange off in the distance. What now? Head for Gator immediately and come back later for the gook?
Still, I was right there. I hauled ass over to him, grabbed him by the neck, and yanked him into the boat. I pulled my.45 out. Maybe not the most logical thing to do, because if I shot him I'd undoubtedly put a hole in my raft as well. But maybe it would slow him down some.
He was unconscious, pale even under that golden skin, but breathing. Nothing stuck out at an odd angle, so I figured there was nothing broken. Not that it mattered ― as long as he was breathing, I'd about reached the limit of my first-aid abilities.
I kept him where I could see him, right in the front of the raft, and headed for Gator. It seemed to take hours, much longer than it had to reach the stranger. But finally I was there.
Gator was conscious, sculling the water and clearly looking around for his own life raft. Obviously it had blown out of reach. One of his arms hung at an awkward angle by his side. I was a good deal gentler with him as I hoisted him into the raft.
"Got your radio?" Gator gasped. "I couldn't ― my arm wasn't working. I couldn't grab it and paddle at the same time."
I felt in one long deep pocket and pulled out my emergency SAR radio. It was preset to the appropriate channel, and I keyed the flat switch on the side and spoke into it.
"This is Viper Leader, does anyone read?" I unkeyed the mike and waited for a response. Blessedly it came within seconds.
"Viper Leader, Angel 101 en route to your position. I have a visual on you."
Never have words been so welcome in my ears. I let out a wild shout, which Gator echoed weakly. Our companion in the raft still appeared to be unconscious.
I slumped back down on my butt in the ass end of the life raft ― like you can tell one end from the other ― and gazed fondly at my RIO. His face was battered and bloody, white with pain, and his arm looked like shit. Still, those SAR guys knew how to get us back up in their bird without doing permanent damage ― I hoped. At least they claimed they did. "First time for everything," Gator said finally.
"Last time too," I said. "And last time I leave us in command-eject." Gator managed a weak frown. "Don't give me that bullshit," he said, his voice faint. "If I hadn't punched us out, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Maybe you're right," I said finally. The urge to argue the point with him was overwhelming, but there was one factor that stood in my way.
He was right.
"So what do we do with him?" I said, gesturing at the Vietnamese pilot. "I vote we throw him overboard."
Gator shook his head slowly. "I know you're not serious."
"And what if I am?" I said, trying to salvage some degree of ego out of this whole thing. "So it's okay to shoot 'em down but not to drown 'em?"
Gator sighed and shifted slightly. He reached out with one hand and touched the Vietnamese pilot. A low moan issued from the still form, and the Vietnamese stirred slightly.
"We take him back with us. On the helo."
"There it is." I pointed off toward the west. The tiny, ugly insect ― Angel 101. "Hurry up, you guys," I said into the radio. "And we've got an extra passenger for you here ― one of the bad guys we fished out of the water."