Lockout

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Aboard Pangia 10 (0535 Zulu)

Ten minutes before the Iranian border, the digital fuel readouts indicated the engines were seconds from flameout. Jerry asked Josh Begich to return to his seat, touching his arm as he climbed out of the copilot’s chair.

“Josh?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want to apologize for my conduct hours ago in yelling at you and scaring you.”

“That’s okay. I understand.”

“You’ve really helped us up here. I won’t forget that.”

“Thanks. What’s… going to happen now?”

“I’m not sure, Josh, but go back and strap in, grab that little girl’s hand you’re sitting next to and say a few prayers. Carol told me you were trying to impress her, and now’s your chance.”

“I will,” he answered, his face suddenly ashen.

Bill Breem had come off the jumpseat and moved the short distance to Jerry’s side, putting a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Is there anything I can do to assist?” he asked.

Surprised, Jerry shifted as far around as he possibly could.

“No, Captain, other than watch carefully and let me know if I’m missing something.”

“You haven’t so far, Jerry. I…” He was searching for words that didn’t come easily, but there was no time to indulge in an apology.

“Thanks. Okay, everyone strap in.”

With Carol once again on her knees by the hatch, Dan was poised below waiting for the order to cut the power lead, his gloved hands holding the wooden handle of the crash axe. Frank had been sent back to his seat as well, since the time for analysis was long past. This was their last chance, and both men knew it.

What appeared to be a flash of an explosion to the left in the distance with the Israeli fighters apparently engaging an unseen enemy ahead would have unnerved Jerry, if he wasn’t already so numb. Without the ability to hear the tactical channel the Israeli pilots were using, his imagination was being fueled by his own experiences as a navy fighter pilot trying to imagine what was going on: radar lockups, missiles fired, possibility of being engaged by a ground-to-air battery, and basically flying through their own little war with no munitions, no defenses, no chaff, no flares, little visibility even at dawn, and no options. The whole thing would only last a few minutes. He assumed the unseen enemies were Iranian fighters determined to shoot them down. Who else would they be? And against a sky full of armed fighters, Pangia 10 was a fat, sitting duck.

Jerry hadn’t noticed the Israeli F-15 sliding back alongside his left wing, and he had not even imagined the possibility that another Israeli pilot was in trail formation, the targeting icon on his tactical screen locked on Flight 10 as he awaited orders from Tel Aviv.

He caught himself wondering what the last conscious seconds were like for the pilots of Malaysia 17 when they were blasted out of a clear blue Ukrainian sky by a surface-to-air missile. Blessedly, they had had no warning, he thought. But here we are waiting for the end. The cold certainty of death began to enfold him, and despite the determination to fight, somewhere inside he was already letting go.