After a couple of eternities, the seat fell away, and the drogue chute spilled from his parachute pack, dragging the main canopy behind it.
It cracked open, abruptly slowing him, when he was less than a hundred feet above the surface. The canopy went concave for a few seconds, then filled.
The ground below appeared rough, and he grabbed the toggles and steered himself toward the wadi.
He didn’t reach it, but touched down lightly, running, then tripped on a rut, and tumbled to the earth, rolling onto his left shoulder. The Browning automatic stung his ribs. The canopy settled around him, and he rolled onto his back and lay there, feeling exhausted. Keeping the airplane in the air had been more wearing than he had thought.
The Phantom didn’t wait for the timer. When she hit the earth, the impact switch closed the circuit between the batteries and the detonators.
The explosion rumbled through the earth, gently shaking him.
He sat up and looked to the south. He couldn’t see the crash site, but a column of smoke a mile away showed him her burial place.
It saddened him immensely.
Wyatt struggled to his feet, shrugged out of the parachute harness, and spread the canopy over the ground, securing it with piles of dirt he scooped by hand from the earth. It would give the Hercules a homing landmark.
He hoped.
Slipping the helmet off, he looped the chin strap through his web belt and let it hang off his right hip.
The sun felt particularly intense. The heat increased his rate of perspiration, and his damp forehead turned muddy with the dust already on it.
He retained his survival kit and rehooked it on his web belt.
Pulling the automatic from its holster, he ejected the magazine and checked the load. Wyatt wasn’t sure why he did that; he didn’t plan on using it.
Habit.
The military taught all kinds of habits.
The survival kit had a canteen of water, and he dug it out and took one sip, just enough to wet his mouth.
Until he saw the Herc, he wouldn’t waste water.
He walked over to the edge of the wadi and looked down into it. It was about seven feet deep, he judged.
He sat down on its edge and dangled his legs over the side.
Slow day at the office, he thought.
And then thought about Jan Kramer.
He supposed she wasn’t having a great day, either, and he was sorry for that.
Kriswell lost both of his seats.
Maal took the co-pilot’s seat and Barr, now in jeans and a blue golf shirt, but still wearing his flight boots, took the engineer’s seat.
Jordan had wanted to fly the transport, but Demion told him he was suffering from shock, which may have been true, Formsby thought. Demion had consigned both Jordan and Hackley to sleeping bags in the cargo bay.
Formsby elected to hold onto a grab bar on the flight deck, so he could see through the windshield.
“You ought to tie yourself up, Neil,” Demion said.
“I have an inordinate amount of faith in you, James.”
He leaned over so he could see through the windscreen. They had something of a narrow alley to traverse between the two F-4s on the left and Hackley’s crashed Phantom on the right.
Barr looked at his watch, and Formsby knew he was thinking about the timers on the explosives.
He checked his own watch. Thirty-two minutes before the three F-4s transformed themselves into shrapnel.
Demion advanced the throttles.
The turboprops increased their pitch.
The Hercules began to move.
Rolled twenty feet, picking up speed.
And the nose settled.
The nose gear sank into a soft spot, and the transport lugged down, slowed, stopped.
Demion goosed the throttles.
Nothing.
Demion tugged the throttles back.
“Shit!” Barr said. “Okay, everybody grab a shovel and get outside.”
Kramer called again.
Church took it on Embry’s phone. He was glad his wife didn’t sit by a telephone with an automatic dialler through every crisis in his office.
“There’s nothing to report yet,” he said.
“I can count minutes,” she said. “Fuel states are critical.”
Church looked over at the monitor, which was now back on real time, since the infrared returns had disappeared. The small silver shape of the C-130 sitting on the ground was visible, though the camouflaged F-4s were not. The transport had started moving, then stopped. Embry was trying to figure out why. It hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes.
Also visible were two C-130s approaching from the east.
“They’re all on the ground,” he told her reluctantly. He didn’t mention that the NSA had reported that one Phantom had crashed seventy-three miles north of the others.
“Where?”
“In the host country.”
“But that’s not right!”
“Fuel may have been a factor. But it appears that they’re changing aircraft now.”
“Call me,” she said and hung up.
Church wasn’t certain he wanted to make the next call.
The column of smoke grew larger as the C-130 lost altitude and centred its nose on the funnel. Ahmed al-Qati stood behind the pilot’s seat and studied the ground.
When they finally came into range, their radar had tracked this airplane until its demise. Captain Rahman had yelled triumphantly the second it went off the screen.
The radar had also followed another aircraft which had been flying with this one. It had split off and flown farther to the south and then also went off the screen. Al-Qati had elected to examine this one before chasing after the other.
“There!” the co-pilot exclaimed.
Switching quickly to the windows on the other side, al-Qati peered downward and saw the parachute canopy spread on the ground.
“He got out of the airplane before it crashed,” the co-pilot needlessly explained.
They passed over the burning wreckage. Al-Qati thought that the pilot was a very lucky man. He had not seen an aircraft that had suffered so much destruction in a crash. There were thousands of small pieces spread over a half-kilometre diameter. It was impossible to tell from here what kind of airplane it had been.
“Land the airplane, Lieutenant,” he told the pilot.
“I cannot, not here.”
“Find the best place.”
The transport rolled to the right, and al-Qati was forced to brace his feet.
“Sundown?”
Pushing himself back to the opposite bulkhead, al-Qati switched to the tactical radio channel.
“Moonglow, we are going to land now and deploy the helicopters.”
“Acknowledged.”
They had to fly almost fifteen kilometres north before they found a place where the pilot would attempt to land. The landing was quite rough and could have been better, al-Qati thought, but it was certainly superior to that made by the intruder’s fighter aircraft.
When the transport finally came to a stop, he, Rahman, and the Strike Platoon’s commander, Lieutenant Hakim, were the first to deplane, exiting the crew compartment hatchway. The ramp was lowered next, and the soldiers of his First Special Forces poured out. Many of them appeared relieved.
Shummari’s transport touched down two minutes later, and almost before it stopped, the ramp started to lower. His crews were already unfastening the cables holding down their helicopters. The Strike Platoon soldiers loped over to help disembark the Mi-8s.
The officers met in the space between the two airplanes. The dust raised by the landings hung in the air, coating their faces, but not protecting them from the heat.
“Khalil, we will want one helicopter for Lieutenant Hakim and the Strike Platoon. I will go with them to find the pilot of this airplane. The rest will go with Captain Rahman in the other helicopter and search for the other bomber.”