Hail Warning

Sea of Japan

Lt. Commander Foster Nolan was crazy. As he floated on his tiny life raft in the middle of the dark ocean, he realized anyone in his line of work had to be crazy. No sane person would volunteer to climb into a lightning-fast jet venturing into foreign lands with very little chance of coming out unscathed — either physically or emotionally. Yet he volunteered to jump into a jet and had flown a single sortie over the mainland of North Korea. That pegged the frickin’ needle on the crazy meter, and he understood how lucky he was to be alive. If he had pulled the ejection handle on his F-35 just one second later, he would be floating in the Sea of Japan in the form of shark chum.

Moments after his aircraft had been blown from the sky by one of the North Korean pilots flying the Chengdu J-20 jet fighters, the lieutenant commander initially was surprised to be alive. There were so many things that could have gone wrong when he yanked the ejection handle going 1200 miles per hour.

In flight school, Nolan had learned that deploying the ejection seat in a modern jet operates in a two-stage system. First, the canopy is blown away, then the seat is launched. When the ejection handle under the seat is pulled, the ejection process is activated. Once the clear canopy was blown away, the pilot’s seat was ejected from the fuselage. Nolan had escaped the first deadly problem that could have occurred. The canopy might not have released properly and shot him directly through the tough acrylic dome which would have broken his neck, instantly. Thankfully, all had gone well, and Foster Nolan had found himself clear of the aircraft. Under his seat a series of little white tubes with nozzle ends ignited. The solid rocket fuel burned in one quick, ferocious burst, lasting less than a second, propelling both himself and his chair an additional 100 feet away from the aircraft. After the burn sequence had taken place, a tiny drogue parachute popped out from the top of Nolan’s pilot seat.

Initially, the chute stabilized his seat and prevented it from tumbling out of control. Since the lieutenant commander had ejected under 10,000 feet, the drogue chute had yanked out his larger main parachute. The instant the main chute deployed, Nolan felt his pilot chair release from beneath his butt. He looked down to watch the chair tumble toward the black water below. Nolan found himself hanging under his main chute as he slowly descended toward the unknown. He looked down to verify his survival kit — or ditch bag — as referred to by pilot was

hanging ten feet below him. He was glad to see it had had not been severed from its tether and lost at sea. When a pilot ejects over a body of water, the versatile ditch bag is the pilot’s lifeline. It contains essential items to sustain life until rescued: a small life raft, water, food rations, medical supplies, in addition to signal and communication devices.

Lt. Commander Nolan understood the statistics of survival rates when a pilot ejected from a jet. Only eight percent of ejections were fatal, and most of those occurred when the pilot waited too long to pull the handle. But that didn’t mean that a pilot could expect to walk away scot-free. About one in three pilots who ejected at full speed could expect to have some type of spinal fracture, typically caused by the force of the ejection. When Nolan had pulled the handle, he had experienced a gravitational force of fourteen to sixteen times normal gravity at 20G/second. During primary training with the Training Air Wing FIVE at NAS Whiting Field in Florida, he had watched videos of the very first ejection seats while they were being tested. The extreme blast of air could whip one’s arms behind the seat and snap bones like twigs. The same thing could also occur to a pilot’s legs. The new ejection seats were more sophisticated, and most of the injuries now centered around the neck and spinal areas.

After his successful ejection and main chute deployment, the Lt. Commander’s world transitioned from chaos to serenity. After he had descended one thousand feet, he watched his ditch bag splash into the saltwater. Other than the sound of a lonely seagull, he heard only the loud hiss when the saltwater sensor activated a valve releasing air from a small tank which inflated his life rate.

The water had been surprisingly warm. It had taken him less than a minute of dogpaddling around the Sea of Japan to reel in the cord that connected him to his life raft. The ten feet of paracord seemed more like a hundred feet. Floating in the dark ocean, suddenly susceptible to predators swimming under him, was more terrifying than the ejection itself. After what had seemed like an eternity, but in fact, was more like ninety seconds, he touched the edge of the tiny life raft, and he rolled himself into the middle of the orange ring.

He was relieved to find himself in pretty good shape. His back and neck were a little sore, but his arms and legs were still attached and working. Things could have been a lot worse.

Ten minutes after hitting the water, Foster Nolan focused his attention on a little green light steadily blinking on his saltwater emergency beacon. His location was silently transmitting his coordinates. The lieutenant commander had very little interest in being found by most of the people who may be paying any attention to the blip. He had a satellite phone in his kit, but he already knew that it would not be used. His commander on the Gerald R. Ford aircraft carrier, less than fifteen minutes away, knew he was down. He was docked at the Fleet Activities Chinhae Navy Base in Busan, South Korea. But Lt. Commander Nolan had not scrubbed a mission as ordered, crashing the $337 million-dollar jet fighter. Thus, he wasn’t sure if the big man was willing to take the risk of picking Nolan up.

The night was quiet and still. A full moon was blasting out white light like a mini-sun. The lieutenant commander felt isolated and naked. Isolated in distance to any vessel that could save him, yet naked, like a man sitting in a tiny bathtub in the center of a public fountain. There was no place to hide if hostiles came looking for him. To make matters worse, he was also stuck in a sitting position — not an optimal position to defend oneself. But he had no other choice. The life raft would not support his weight when he attempted to stand. He sat, feeling helpless, sitting in two inches of saltwater that had collected inside the raft.

He heard the helicopter before he saw it. Nolan surmised it was two miles out and quickly closing in on his position. He looked in the direction of the sound but saw nothing, probably because the helicopter was flying without navigational lights. That nuance told him two things. First, whoever was flying toward him didn’t want to be seen by anyone else who might come to his rescue. Second, the only countries who fell into that category were either North Korea or the United States. If the chopper belonged to the United States (fat chance due to insubordination) it would fly in stealthily, doing its best to evade detection by the surrounding Asian countries’ radar. Otherwise, his mission into North Korea would be exposed to the world. If the helicopter closing in on his position belonged to the North Koreans, they also would fly in under the cover of darkness, pick him up and whisk him back to their country to secretly torture him for information. He would consider himself lucky if a Chinese or Japanese chopper pulled him out of the water. At least they didn’t have any pending agenda with him or his mission. They might even do him a solid, return him to the United States, and not make a big stink about it. That would be cool.

The “whoop, whoop, whoop” sound was getting closer. The lieutenant commander estimated the aircraft was now about a mile out and closing at a conservative speed of 30 miles per hour. The helicopter’s tracking scope would alert them of his life raft’s location, and they would be reducing their speed so they didn’t overshoot his position.

Rummaging around in his bag, Nolan located a flare gun. He stuffed it into one of the front pockets of his flight suit. He also withdrew a standard-issue Beretta 9mm handgun. He popped out the clip to ensure the pistol was loaded, stuck the clip back in the gun and racked the slide to chamber a round. He verified the weapon’s safety was off.

The blade wash intensified and Nolan felt the helicopter almost on top of him. Pulling the flare gun from his chest rig, he held it in one hand and the Beretta in the other hand. In a purposeful manner, he gently placed the muzzle to the side of his head, and he pointed the flare gun into the air. Being careful to avoid pulling the wrong trigger, he fired the flare gun into the moonlit sky.

The night burned bright red, and the helicopter came into sharp view. It was about fifty yards away with its broadside facing him. The chopper looked like a Sikorsky Seahawk. Nolan recalled that the Seahawk was used by the United States, South Korea, Japan and Taiwan. Neither North Korea nor the Chinese use that medium-lift helicopter. But this was no reason to celebrate. However, Nolan thought it may be a good omen. The chopper was painted a light color, maybe white, but it was hard to tell since the red flare had made everything appear red. Visually, he could not detect any sort of weaponry affixed to the Seahawk’s pylons. Typically, a helicopter sent out to do bad things might have an assortment of missiles, torpedoes or guns mounted to those tactical surfaces. Through the red hue of smoke and the water vapor being kicked up by the choppers’ large blades, Nolan could make out the words Hail Industries stenciled on the passenger door of the Seahawk.

Hail Industries, Nolan thought to himself. He knew of Hail Industries in the same manner he knew of Johnson & Johnson, DuPont and Ford. If he recalled correctly, Hail Industries was involved with some sort of nuclear power startup. But why the hell would one of their helicopters be sent out here to pick him up? Nolan kept the muzzle of the gun pressed tightly to the side of his head with his finger resting lightly on the Beretta’s trigger. He dropped the spent flare gun into the raft and wiped saltwater out of his eyes. If this turned out to be a trick, and the chopper was full of North Koreans or any other nationality intending to do him harm, he would squeeze the trigger immediately, thus terminating his problems.

The chopper flew over the top of his position and transitioned into a hover. Nolan looked up and saw the large side door of the aircraft slide open. A light inside the chopper blinked on and a boom arm was swung out through the open door. A shiny hook was hanging from a cable which was threaded through the boom arm and coiled up onto a winch. Someone’s head poked out from inside the chopper, and a face encircled by a black helmet with a thick chin strap appeared alongside the boom arm.

Nolan thought that the face looked young — like real young. He guessed she was between the ages of twelve and fourteen. Between the light of the fading flare, and the interior light of the helicopter, he could discern that the eyes of the youngster operating the boom were not Asian. This meant his rescuers were not North Koreans. In waters surrounded by Asian countries, he had expected the first responders would be Asian. Nolan eased his finger off the trigger of the semi-automatic pistol but didn’t remove it from his ear. The young Anglo female screamed something down at him he could not hear over the engine noise. Then the girl’s arm reappeared outside the aircraft, clipping a yellow sling to the J-hook to the end of the cable. The winch came to life and began to unroll a thin metal cable. Nolan watched as the sling began to descend toward his life raft.

With his free hand, Nolan again wiped saltwater from his eyes. Having given the situation ample consideration, he lowered the gun from his head, clicked on the safety and stuffed the weapon into his chest rig. He waited patiently for the sling to make its way down the 100 feet that separated the helicopter from his life raft. The lieutenant commander scanned the ocean in all directions, verifying if other vessels or aircraft were closing in on his position. Seeing nothing, and having no other options, he grabbed the yellow sling when it came within his reach. He did his best to get off his butt and onto his knees. He pulled the ring over his head and then wiggled his upper torso through the sling, letting the rubber-coated cable rest under his armpits. Nolan looked up at the young girl, and he gave his rescuer a thumbs-up. There was nothing to do but wait.

The winch began to take in line and the sling tightened around his chest. Nolan looked down as he was lifted out of the small life raft. The wind from the helicopter’s blades blasted the orange raft, and a second later, Nolan watched as the raft was blown into the air and sailed away in the darkness.

“Who in the hell is this?” he mumbled to himself.

Even before he was pulled into the chopper, the aircraft tilted forward and began picking up speed. Once he had been reeled in, the winch stopped, and the boom arm, with the lieutenant commander still attached swung back inside the cabin. The door was drawn shut, and the chaos of sound immediately reduced to a tolerable racket.

Nolan found himself sitting on his butt on the floor of the chopper, still hooked into the cable. He looked up at the girl standing over him. She said nothing. Instead of talking, she reached down and grabbed the bottom of the sling and began to pull up on it. The lieutenant commander lifted his arms and allowed himself to be separated from the lifeline. The girl unclipped the sling from the boom arm and it fell onto the floor. She swung the heavy boom up against the wall of the helicopter, securing it with a thick metal latch that held it tightly against the frame of the chopper.

“Are you hurt?” the girl yelled over the noise of the engines.

“A little sore, but I’m OK. I was lucky,” he replied.

“You still are lucky,” the girl said, handing him a thick blanket.

“I’m not cold,” the pilot told her.

“Wrap yourself in it. You could be in shock.”

“I would know if I was in shock or not,” Nolan argued, but his words had no impact on his young rescuer. She took the blanket out of his hands, shook it out and draped it over his shoulders.

“That’s what people say who are in shock,” the young woman insisted.

Instead of saying thanks, he asked, “Who are you?”

Initially, the young woman ignored him. Instead of answering his question, she located the yellow sling that had been discarded on the floor and picked it up.

She replied, “My name is Paige.”

Nolan looked frustrated and responded, “No, I mean who do you work for — the CIA?”

The woman stowed the yellow sling in a compartment fused to the wall of the chopper and shut off the interior cabin light.

“I work for Marshall Hail,” she responded. “You sit tight. We’ll board the Hail Nucleus in a few minutes.”

“The Hail Nucleus?” Nolan responded. “What is the Hail Nucleus?”

By the time the words had left his mouth, the girl had already moved forward and plopped herself down into the copilot’s seat.

The lieutenant commander could only see the back of the pilot’s black helmet. Nolan didn’t know if the person piloting the Seahawk was a man or a woman.

Thus, he had no idea that the person flying the twenty-eight million-dollar 17,000-pound Sikorsky was a sixteen-year-old boy.