“Pete!” Lieutenant Colonel Terry Rowenki, the DSO (Defensive Systems Operator), yelled behind him. “What the hell are you doing? Get back here!”
Fletcher ignored him. Flat on his stomach, he made his way through the howling windblast to the cockpit. Through the glare of flares outside, he could see that all of the windshields were blown in, and both Wendt and Lleck were slumped over in their seats, unconscious. The autopilot was not on, but the B-1 was light and trimmed enough to maintain wings-level even without hands on the control stick.
“Terry! Get out! Eject!” Fletcher screamed, but he could not be heard over the windblast. Crawling forward another few feet, he pulled himself up onto the center console, keeping as far below the murderous wind coming through the shattered windows as he could, reached across, and lifted the right-side ejection handle on Doug Wendt’s seat. The large red “Eject” light snapped on in every section of the cabin — it came on automatically whenever the pilot’s ejection handles were raised. Fighting the force of the wind hammering on his entire body, he reached up and hit the ejection trigger with his left hand.
The inertial reel thankfully yanked Doug Wendt’s body upright in his seat a fraction of a second before the overhead escape hatch blew off and the seat roared off into space. But the ejection seat’s rocket motor flared right in Fletcher’s face, and he screamed again as his vision was replaced by angry stars of pure pain. He was on the verge of unconsciousness, and only another explosion from somewhere inside the bomber brought him back to his senses. Struggling through the pain to regain his vision, he finally gave up trying to open his eyes, groped around for Lleck’s ejection handle, found it, and pulled. This time the white-hot fire from the motor seared his chest and stomach, and he slumped to the deck.
“Pete! Pete, dammit, wake up!”
Someone was calling his name… someone… Fletcher raised his head.
“Pete! This way! Crawl this way! Hurry!”
It was Terry Rowenki — the idiot hadn’t ejected yet. Fletcher’s head hit the deck with a dull thud. That was his problem, he thought blissfully as he drifted off toward unconsciousness — the man had a perfectly good ejection seat, now was the time to use it.
But sleep wouldn’t come. He soon felt someone pulling his legs. “Pete, dammit, crawl this way… you motherfucker, wake up, dammit, wake up…”
To humor him, Fletcher pushed against the center cockpit console toward the systems compartment. The odd pitch angles of the deck seemed to help him — the Excalibur’s nose was high in the air, as if they were in a steep climb — and Rowenki’s grasp was extraordinarily strong. He heard another loud sound, more windblast sounds the farther back he moved — until he realized that it was the big entry hatch. Rowenki had jettisoned the hatch and the entry ladder and was trying to pull Fletcher out!
Somehow Rowenki managed to get Fletcher pulled to the hatch and over onto his stomach, head toward the open hatch. “What the fuck did you think you were doing up there?” Rowenki yelled as he continued to wrestle with Fletcher’s ragdoll-like body. “Being a damned hero? You get me killed up here, Fletcher, and I’ll fucking haunt you for a hundred years.”
Attaching the emergency rescue rope to the D-ring on Fletcher’s parachute harness, Rowenki used his feet and shoved Fletcher headfirst out the entry hatch. The escape rope yanked taut, spinning Fletcher’s body around but pulling the ripcord D-ring and opening the parachute. One of Fletcher’s legs got tangled in the parachute risers, but it whipped free and the chute safely opened. Rowenki was right behind him, leaping out of the hatch as if he were going to do a cannonball from a high-diving board. He broke his left foot when it hit the aft edge of the hatch, but the pain only served to remind him to pull the D-ring as he sailed toward the lush tropical forests below.
The stricken B-1 continued to sail in a nose-high climbing right turn for several minutes, almost executing a full 180-degree turn, until it finally ran out of airspeed, stalled, and crashed to earth near the town of Cadeco. The last aircraft of the first raid of the Air Battle Force had completed its journey.
“Sir, report from a J-7 fighter over Samar International Airport,” the radioman announced.
Admiral Yin was on his feet. “Speak!” he shouted, loud enough to startle just about everyone in the room. “Is the airport taken?”
The radioman listened for a several moments, his face looking more ashen and disbelieving every second. He glanced at Yin, then at Sun, then back toward his equipment. “Well? Speak!”
“Sir… sir, the pilot reports numerous vessels afire in Dadaotan Straits and Bangoy Harbor,” the radioman said. “No contact from any ground units on any tactical channel. Several explosions… secondary explosions… indications of some troop movement on the ground, but none that will answer on any frequency.”
Admiral Yin was absolutely thunderstruck. “No… contact… no contact from any of my Marines?”
“Sir, it does not mean anything,” Captain Sun Ji Guoming said. “The Marines most assuredly went into deep cover when the American air strike came in. They must be safe.” But his words did nothing to assuage Yin’s feelings of utter despair and hopelessness. Eight thousand Marines… six thousand sailors… no contact with any of them…
“Status of the American bombers,” Captain Sun ordered. Action was the best therapy now — they had an invasion force to run. Just because contact was lost did not mean that the battle was lost. “Have they withdrawn?”
“Yes, sir,” the radioman reported. “All aircraft have disengaged. One B-1 destroyed during the last raid.”
“Very good,” Sun said. “Excellent. Sir, did you hear that report?”
Finally, an incredible sense of relief seemed to wash over every man on the Hong Lung's flag bridge, and especially over Admiral Yin Po L’un. They knew that the American Air Battle Force had sent most of their aircraft on this one raid, and that they had sustained rather heavy losses. There would not be another air raid for several days, if at all — still plenty of time to take Samar Airport and win this battle.
“Order that J-7 pilot to investigate at Samar International Airport,” Yin ordered. “See if any of our troops have managed to take the airfield. It is impossible for only a handful of bombers to completely stop thousands of Marines.”
Several minutes passed. Then: “Sir, message from Jian Four-Four. He has made contact with a Marine company commander, who wishes to relay a status report to you.”
“Excellent! I knew our forces were still on the move! Open the channel.”
After a few anxious moments, they heard, “Hong Lung, this is Tiger. Hong Lung, this is Tiger. How do you read?”
“It is Colonel Liyujiang,” Captain Sun said excitedly. “I recognize his voice. He is the commander of the northern assault force.”
Yin himself picked up the microphone. “We read you, Tiger. What is your location? What is your status?”
The voice seemed weary, but the man spoke in a clear voice. “Tiger reports from inside the northeast gate of Samar International Airport,” Liyujiang said.
“Inside the airport! We have made it!” one of the flag staffmembers shouted. “The Marines are going to capture the airport!”
“Status as follows…” There was a short pause, as if Liyujiang had to refer to a chart.
Then, to Yin’s horror, he heard a voice in English. “This is Colonel Renaldo Carigata, Admiral Yin, acting deputy commander, Commonwealth of Mindanao Defense Force. Colonel Liyujiang will not be giving any reports for quite some time, so allow me to proceed. Status as follows: General Samar’s forces still hold the airport and the city. My snipers are going out to greet what is left of your invasion force right now. Allah akbar. Good day, Admiral Yin.” And the line went dead.