Nothing could have survived, and Bai, his face frozen in wide-eyed shock, realized with sudden dread what had happened. He needed a story, quick.
As Gooney-11 fell from the sky, there was at least one survivor aboard.
From his console station in the tube, Lieutenant Jimmy Cox watched the video of the Triton recording the TV image of his aircraft. He saw the two J-11s that were making another run on it enter the screen. He heard from the XO that the first dust off came way too close, and XO was pissed. He link-texted the controller on Blue Ridge:
DID YOU SEE THAT SHIT? FELT THE JET WASH.
The watchstanders aboard Blue Ridge had indeed seen it, and Jimmy kibitzed with his controller on classified text after reporting their position and altitude. Unable to see outside, he and the other tactical operators were glued to the screen image of Gooney-11 as they listened to Michelle’s calls over the ICS before the Chinese came in for a second pass.
“Here they come from our three…. The wingman is tight on his lead…. They’re gonna pass in front of us again…. What’s he doing? XO!”
An observer on the right side shouted, “Fuckin’ idiots!” At the same time, Jimmy heard Michelle scream, and the aircraft lurched down from negative g.
Immense pressure from a massive explosion forward twisted his torso sideways, breaking his back and ripping off his headset. In shock, he was still aware of hurricane winds, cold, sunlight, swirling debris, deafening noise, and a muffled scream from somebody. Debris pelted him on his back, then pressure from his right, light from his right.
Jimmy’s arms were broken, flailing, but he was able to crack open his eyes against the depressurization force. In horror, he realized that the aircraft forward of the main cabin door was gone, the bright South China Sea three miles below now visible. He felt and heard pieces of the Poseidon being ripped from the fuselage and sensed the world spinning. He then heard another human scream in the confused cabin. The cold and the wind beat on him with a force he had never experienced. It was difficult to breathe. The debris storm continued for a while, but then stopped, leaving Jimmy with a loud roar and biting cold wind pressure.
What the—?
Jimmy felt he was passing out; he wanted to pass out. Flailing like a rag doll, he felt weightless and helpless, tossed about in his seat as the fuselage continued to roll and tear itself apart. God, please help! he thought as he saw a glimpse of serene blue water.
With one last shriek of aluminum, the floor was ripped away beneath him.
CHAPTER 15
An audible gasp, mixed with cries of shock and shouted orders, came from the stunned watchstanders in the large Current Operations space aboard Blue Ridge. Two officers covered their mouths in horror as they watched the TV image of Gooney-11 explode before them, emerging without a nose and entering a dive. The dutiful Triton, following its latest order, maintained a TV lock on the P-8 as the noseless aircraft tipped over and began a slow roll. They watched as the right wing was ripped away, and the fuselage with remaining wing entered a tighter corkscrew straight down. It took a minute more for the P-8 to slam into the blue water, and the camera image snowplowed ahead with nothing left to track. The group heard no radio transmissions, but the diligent Triton reported an emergency beeper signal once the P-8 smashed into the South China Sea.
The watch captain grabbed a sound-powered phone, and moments later the ship’s 1MC crackled:
“Fleet Commander to Current Ops. Fleet Commander to Current Ops…”
Vice Admiral John McGill was eating a sandwich in the flag mess with his Chief of Staff Mike Capstaff when they heard the call over the 1MC, a call, they had never heard before. After a shocked second of looking at one another, they bolted for the Ops spaces. With Gooney-11 on a scheduled transit, McGill’s mind raced. What happened?
When they arrived, no one acknowledged them as all eyes glued to the big screen. The sickening image of the midair collision and subsequent destruction of Gooney-11 was replayed again and again, in freeze-frame and slow motion. After a minute to digest what he saw, McGill spoke to his Chief of Staff, “Get me the Commander on the horn.”
As Capstaff punched in the number for Cactus Clark, McGill checked the time on the bulkhead clock: 1830 in Honolulu. He scanned the screen and status board. “Where’s our nearest unit?” he asked the watch captain.
The Chief of Staff handed him the phone. “They’re getting him, sir.”
McGill was still forming his message when a sharp voice spoke up; “Clark here. What’s going on, John?”
“Sir, a J-11 ran into our P-8 transiting the SCS. It sliced the nose off the P-8, which has crashed with what appears to be no survivors. We saw it all from a Triton. The J-11 disintegrated at impact.”
After a moment to absorb another awful report from the SCS, Clark gathered his thoughts. “Where?”
“About a hundred miles southwest of Blood Moon. They were tracking north at 24K. Happened ten minutes ago.”
“Roger. Just one J-11?”
“No, sir, two. They were thumping them, crossing right in front of their nose, as aggressive as anything I’ve ever seen. My people are sending the video to Camp Smith now. I think the wingman was padlocked on his lead in parade formation, and the lead scraped him off the P-8.” Clark grunted his understanding.
“Okay, send it to the Pentagon command center, too. I’m heading up to HQ. Send amplifying info when you get it. And when I get there in twenty minutes, I want a FLASH message from you. Where are you?”
“Aye, aye, sir. We are in the Phil Sea, about 400 miles east of Samar. With this development, I’m going to move us further east toward Guam.”
“Good…. John, how many were in the P-8? What was their call sign?”
“Gooney one-one, sir. The initial report is nine souls.”
“And the Chinese pilot….” Clark said, more to himself than to McGill.
“Yes, sir. I’ll call back in fifteen, Admiral.”
“Thanks, John. Keep us informed, and let us know what you need.”
“Roger, sir.”
Clark broke the connection. Dressed in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, he stepped back into the dining room. His daughter and her boyfriend were visiting from the states, and she and Louise were setting the table for a dinner that would include Richie Casher and his wife, who lived a few doors down the street. Clark gave his wife a frown.
“What now?” Louise asked, perturbed but also anxious.
Clark swallowed. “A Chinese fighter ran into one of our P-8s. All hands lost. Might be an accident. Could be deliberate. I have to go up to HQ.”
“Oh, my gosh!” she gasped. Their bewildered daughter looked back and forth between them, wondering what was going to happen next. The Culinary Specialist appeared at the door; considered part of the family, the active duty sailor was thinking about shipmates in peril half an ocean away.