the airplane was inverted, it was upward toward the earth. The airplane spun like a lopsided Frisbee, bucking up and down madly as the Gs slammed them, positive, negative, positive, negative. The ride was so violent Toad couldn’t read the MFDs on the panel before him.
“Inverted spin,” he gasped over the ICS,
“The controls — it won’t—” Rita sounded exasperated.
“You’re in an inverted spin,” Toad heard a hard, calm male voice say. Smoke Judy on the radio.
“I’m — the controls—“
‘Twenty-nine thousand… twenty-eight …” By a supreme effort of will Toad made himself concentrate on the altimeter and read the spinning needles.
“Spin assist,” he reminded her. This switch would allow the horizontal stabilator its full travel, not restricted by its high-speed limited throw. The danger was if the pilot pulled too hard at high speed without the mechanical limit, the tail might be ripped away. Right now Rita needed all the help she could get to pull the nose down.
“It’s on.”
“Twenty-five thousand.” He was having trouble staying con- scious. The ride was vicious, violent beyond description. His vision closed in until he was looking through a pipe. He knew the signs. He was passing out “Twenty-two,” he croaked.
Miraculously the violent pitching action of the nose decreased and he felt as if he were being thrown sideways. As the G de- creased, his vision came back. Rita had them out of the spin and diving. She had the power back, about 90 percent or so. She rolled the plane upright and the G came on steadily as she pulled to get them out of their rocketing dive. “Okay,” she whispered, “okay, baby, come to Mama.”
The wings started rocking again as the G increased, and Toad opened his mouth to shout a warning. Too late. The right wing slammed down and the plane rolled inverted again. “Spin,” was all he could get out.
He fought the slamming up and down. “Seventeen thou- sand…”
“Rita, you’d better eject.” The hard, fast voice of Smoke Judy-
“I’ve got it,” Rita shouted on the radio. ”Stay with me.” That was for Toad. She had the nose coming steadily down now, that yawning sensation again as she fed in full rudder.
“Fifteen grand,” Toad advised.
They were running out of sky.
“It’s the controls! I’ve—“
“Thirteen!”
She was out of the spin now, upright, but the nose was still way low, seventy degrees below the horizon. Power at idle, she de- ployed the speed brakes and began to cautiously lift the nose.
“Eleven thousand.”
“Come on, baby.”
“Ten.”
The ground was horribly close. Their speed was rapidly build- ing, even with the boards out and engines at idle. The ground elevation here was at least four thousand feet above sea level, so they were within six thousand feet of the ground, now five, still forty degrees nose down. They would make it Rita added another pound of back pressure to the stick.
The left wing snapped down.
Toad pulled the ejection handle.
The windblast hit him like the fist of God. He was tumbling, then he wasn’t, now hurling toward the earth — an earth so close he could plainly see every rock and bush — and cursing himself for the fool that he was for waiting so long. Lazily, slowly, as if time didn’t matter, the seat kicked him loose with a thump. The ground was right there, racing up at him. He closed his eyes. He was going to die now. So this is how it feels… A tremendous shock snapped through him, almost ripping his boots off. The opening shock of the parachute canopy. The ground was right there! He swung for another few seconds, then smashed into a thicket of brush. Too late he remembered he should have protected his head. He came to rest in the middle of an opaque dust cloud.
He was conscious through ft all. He wiggled his limbs experi- mentally. Still in one piece, thank the Lord!
Rita! Where was Rita?
He was standing before the dust had cleared, ripping his helmet off and trying to see. He tore at his Koch fittings. There! Rid of the chute.
Striding out of the brush, almost falling, looking.
Another dust cloud. Several hundred yards away and down the hill slightly. Something had impacted there. Rita? But there was no chute visible.
Mother of God!
He began to run.
23
You still here?” the doctor asked when he saw Toad leaning against the counter at the nurses’ sta- tion. The doctor was about forty and clad in a loose green hospital garment with tennis shoes on his feet
“How is she?”
“Unconscious.” The doctor swabbed the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve. “I don’t know when she’ll come around. I don’t know if she ever will.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Toad demanded, grasping the doctor by the arm.
“Everything.” He patiently pried Toad’s hand loose. “Her spleen exploded. Fractured skull with severe concussion. Blood in her urine — kidney damage. Broken ribs, busted collarbone, two frac- tured vertebrae. That’s just the stuff we know about. We’re still looking.”
“She hit the ground before her parachute opened,” Toad ex- plained. “The drag chute was out and the main chute must have been partially deployed. She just needed another hundred feet or so.”
“Her status is extremely unstable.” The doctor took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “I don’t know how she’s made it this long.” He flipped the ash on the floor, right in front of the No Smoking sign. “The average person wouldn’t have made it to the hospital. But she’s young and she’s in great shape, good strong heart. Perhaps, just perhaps …” He took a deep drag and ex- haled the smoke through his nose, savoring it
“Is she gonna be able to fly again?” Toad wanted to know.
The doctor took a small portable ashtray from his pocket and stubbed out the cigarette in it after a couple more deep drags. He looked Toad over carefully before he spoke. “I don’t think you heard what I said. She’ll be lucky if she lives. Walking out of this hospital will be a miracle. There’s nothing you can do for her. Now why don’t you go back to the Q and take one of those sleeping pills the nurse gave you. You need to get some rest.”
The doctor turned away from Toad and leaned his elbows on the counter of the nurses’ station. “When you get Lieutenant Moravia’s emergency data sheet from the navy, let me know. We’ll have to notiiy her next of kin. They may want to fly out here to be with her.”
Toad smacked the waist-high counter with his band. “I am her next of kin. She’s my wife.”
“Oh,” he said, looking Toad over again, then rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t know that”
“I want to be in the room with her. I’ll sit in the chair.”
The doctor opened his mouth, closed it and glanced at the nurses, then shrugged. “Sure, Lieutenant Okay. Why not?”
Thirty minutes later Jake Grafton stuck his head into the room. He looked at Rita, the two nurses, the doctor, the IV drips and the heart monitor, then motioned to Toad, who followed him out into the hall.
“How is she?”
“She’s in a deep coma. She may die.” Tarkington repeated what the doctor had told him.
Jake Grafton listened carefully, his face expressionless. When Toad finally ran down, he said, “C’mon. Let’s go find a place to sit” They ended up in the staff lounge in plastic chairs at the only table, between a microwave oven and a pop machine. “What hap- pened out there today?”
Toad’s recapitulation of the flight took thirty minutes. After he had heard it all, from takeoff to loading Rita into the meat wagon, Jake had questions, lots of them.
