happening.
Just as the first of his rounds splattered against the MiG, the canopy popped open, and a lone pilot smashed out into the air at a forty-five degree angle in his ejection seat. The helmeted figure turned toward them, as though taking a closer look at them. Just as he did so, the first of Tombstone’s rounds passed just above him.
“I didn’t mean to — I didn’t know he was going to — oh, dear God.”
Any aviator in the world would have understood Tombstone’s anguish. Because as much as he wanted to down the MiG, as much as he had had every intention of blasting her out of the air, he would never, ever, strafe a pilot ejected from an aircraft. Never. Once the pilot was removed, he was no longer a factor. Pilot’s didn’t kill other pilots under chutes.
“He was clear when you fired, Tombstone. He was. The only thing you hit was his aircraft. What happens to him now is not your fault.”
Even in the violent rush of ejection, Korsov knew vaguely what was happening. The sound of the rockets, the hard punch of the ejection seat, the fiery blast of the rocket that shot him clear of the airframe. As soon as he ejected, the force of the rocket spun him around until he was facing the other MiG. He saw the helm of the pilot in the front seat and he saw the tail number. One part of his mind registered astonishment. It was the same MiG he’d seen in Chechnya.
He saw the bright flash of the tracers, and cried out in fear, his voice lost in the tumbling air stream around him. Surely he wasn’t strafing him! And then he realized that he’d ejected just as the pilot fired. No, he wasn’t strafing Korsov. He was only shooting at the aircraft.
Why was he continuing to tumble through the air? By now the chute should have opened, should have started braking his mad disoriented fall through the air. Any second now — any second now — and then he saw it.
Overhead, the stark white collapsed fabric of his parachute. Although the shots had missed him, they had severed the lines connecting his parachute to his harness.
With a cry, he slapped the release button, and let the chute fall away from him, He deployed the secondary chute, jerked hard, and shouted at the violent deceleration, at the pain of the straps grinding into his crotch. Above him, the secondary chute was filling with air and slowing his descent.
The ocean was rushing up to the him. Fast, he was going too fast — but it was still survivable. Yes, he might break a leg, might sustain other injuries — but this was survivable. He would survive, just as Russia had survived. And would survive.
“His secondary deployed,” Tombstone shouted. “He lost the primary, but the backup was okay.”
“Wonderful, I supposed that means I have to call SAR to come get him,” Greene said sarcastically. “That makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? He tries to shoot us down and we pull him out of the water.”
“It’s going to be tough to call SAR with our radios out,” Tombstone pointed out. “We’ll have to wait until we’re back on board the
“Another exciting experience, but no longer a first. We’ve already landed a MiG on an aircraft carrier, haven’t we?”
“I got half a mind to set down in Bermuda, swap seats, and let you try it,” Tombstone shot back. “Show some respect for your elders.”
Greene laughed and Tombstone knew that the pilot would be all right.
“So I suppose he’s got a life raft?” Greene asked.
“At least a flotation device. There’s probably a life raft in the ejection seat pan, just like ours.”
“He better hope so. Pretty warm water out here…” Greene didn’t have to finish the thought. Warm water meant an abundance of kelp and microscopic animals and plants that were at the bottom of the food chain. It also meant that you’d find the small fish that fed on them, and the larger fish that fed on
“He’ll see the raft as he goes in,” Tombstone said. “Swim over to it and wait it out.” But, both of them knew that a life raft was no absolute protection against sharks. “That AGI he was heading for is still too far away to pick him up before we can get back to the ship and send the SAR out.”
“It’s going to be a bit tricky getting back to the
“The Hawkeye is keeping track of us,” Tombstone said. “At least, I hope they are.”
“Yeah. Let’s hope so.”
Tombstone put the MiG into a gentle bank and headed back toward the carrier.
Korsov hit the water feet first at thirty miles an hour. He hit so hard that at first he thought he’d broken his left leg, but that quickly became the least of his concerns. He punched down through the water, the dark closing over him as he descended until he floated alone in black water.
His training took over. He pulled his knife and cut the risers to his parachute. He kicked away from them and watched the bubbles for moment. They were rising, indicating the way up. He followed them, kicking harder, forcing protesting muscles to propel him upward. His lungs burned and some part of his brain was insisting he must breathe, must breathe, that he could breathe water if he really put his mind to it. He resisted, forcing himself up. Finally, when he thought he could stand it no longer, he broke the surface.
He gulped down great quantities of air, flushing his lungs of the carbon dioxide. A small wave splashed in his face. He choked, then started breathing again.
The life raft — he saw it off in the distance, and he figured he could probably make it. The AGI would probably pick him up before he could even reach it, but he had to try. He turned in the water, oriented on it, and started to swim.
Just then, something touched his shin. It molded itself to him and surged over him to wrap around his lower legs.
Blind panic descended. Visions of giant sea creatures and tentacled monsters out of his wild nightmares overcame him. He screamed, beating the water, trying to kick his legs and escape, but it continued enveloping, now up to his waist. He cut at it with his knife, but the nightmare wrapped around his hand. He jerked back, dropping the knife as he did. It disappeared into the blackness below almost immediately.
With one arm pinned against his side and both legs immobilized, Korsov sank lower in the water. Another wave washed over his head. He choked, and tried to cry out, gulping down more salt water. Panic overcame his reason and he screamed, twisting and fighting against the demon. It tightened around him and covered his face, plastering itself against his mouth and nose.
As his consciousness faded and he began sinking, he realized it was his parachute shroud.
TWENTY-TWO
Forsythe came to slowly, aware that something was wrong, feeling a growing sense of dread but unable to figure out exactly what it was. At first, he was aware only that he was cold and uncomfortable, and his arm was bent at an awkward angle under him.
He remembered the sound,
