Sanchez said. “We’ll try a couple more times. Tell the crew to prepare to ditch.” Sykes hurried back to the sensor cabin. “Is there anything we haven’t tried, Troy?” Sanchez asked cross-cockpit.
“I can’t think of anything, Nacho.” They ran the emergency checklist twice, but still got no results.
“Okay, screw it,” Sanchez said. The standby altimeter said they were less than a thousand feet above the South China Sea, but that could be off by hundreds of feet. “We’re ditching. Tighten your straps as tight as you can, Troy.” He reached around, grabbed an air horn canister, pressed the button to warn the crew to prepare for ditching, then started to tighten his straps. “Remember, let’s get a good read of our attitude in the water before we start opening hatches, and remember not to . . .”
“Hey, look !” Lister shouted. There, off to the right of their nose, was a Chinese JN-20 fighter, flying in very close formation. “It’s back! His electronics seem to be working fine.”
“That means ours might work this time,” Sanchez said. “Whatever we were being hit with, they may have shut it off. Run the airstart checklist, fast !” This time, as soon as he cycled the battery switch, lights popped to life on the instrument panel. “Hot damn, the batteries are back! Port starter-generator to start!”
As soon as Lister activated the switch on the overhead panel, the standby engine instruments responded. “We’ve got RPMs and turbine power!” she shouted. “Five . . . ten . . . fifteen percent power!” Sanchez moved the left throttle over the detent, and engine power and temperatures steadily began to rise. “We’ve got a light! We’ve got power! Temps are stable . . . temps are good. Starter switch to generate . . . good voltages . . . batteries are in good shape, charging normally . . . avionics power switch on.” Moments later, the primary flight and multifunction displays came to life.
“C’mon, baby, fly, ” Sanchez said, and he slowly and carefully moved the left throttle forward. The engine gauges responded, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, the vertical speed indicator moved to zero. They were close enough now to the ocean that they could see the contours of waves clearly, but they weren’t going down. “Thank you, Jesus,” he muttered. “Troy, get the avionics on, then let’s get the right engine . . .”
At that instant there was a brilliant flash of light from the left side of the plane, a massive explosion that drowned out all other sensations, and a wave of searing heat. The P-8 swung hard first to the right, then to the left so hard that it felt as if they were inverted. Sanchez mashed the mic button and yelled, “ Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Nickel Five-One— ” . . .
. . . just as the Poseidon hit the ocean. It flip-flopped end over end for nearly a half mile, shedding pieces of itself in all directions and cracking the fuselage in several places, before coming to rest upside down. In less than five minutes it had slid under the surface, leaving only a few pieces of the wing and tail behind.
T HE W HITE H OUSE S ITUATION R OOM , W ASHINGTON , D.C.
A SHORT TIME LATER
President Kenneth Phoenix stepped quickly into the Situation Room, wearing a Marine Corps physical training outfit after the early-morning wake-up call. Tall, trim, and athletic, the former Marine Corps officer and judge advocate, federal prosecutor, U.S. attorney general, and vice president of the United States waved everyone back to their seats. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“We lost contact with a Navy P-8 Poseidon reconnaissance plane,” said the president’s national security adviser, William Glenbrook. “It was over the South China Sea on routine patrol, in the vicinity of the Chinese aircraft carrier Zhenyuan. ”
“Oh, Christ,” the president muttered. He reached for a cup of coffee—he knew right then he wasn’t going back
“I can’t think of anything, Nacho.” They ran the emergency checklist twice, but still got no results.
“Okay, screw it,” Sanchez said. The standby altimeter said they were less than a thousand feet above the South China Sea, but that could be off by hundreds of feet. “We’re ditching. Tighten your straps as tight as you can, Troy.” He reached around, grabbed an air horn canister, pressed the button to warn the crew to prepare for ditching, then started to tighten his straps. “Remember, let’s get a good read of our attitude in the water before we start opening hatches, and remember not to . . .”
“Hey, look !” Lister shouted. There, off to the right of their nose, was a Chinese JN-20 fighter, flying in very close formation. “It’s back! His electronics seem to be working fine.”
“That means ours might work this time,” Sanchez said. “Whatever we were being hit with, they may have shut it off. Run the airstart checklist, fast !” This time, as soon as he cycled the battery switch, lights popped to life on the instrument panel. “Hot damn, the batteries are back! Port starter-generator to start!”
As soon as Lister activated the switch on the overhead panel, the standby engine instruments responded. “We’ve got RPMs and turbine power!” she shouted. “Five . . . ten . . . fifteen percent power!” Sanchez moved the left throttle over the detent, and engine power and temperatures steadily began to rise. “We’ve got a light! We’ve got power! Temps are stable . . . temps are good. Starter switch to generate . . . good voltages . . . batteries are in good shape, charging normally . . . avionics power switch on.” Moments later, the primary flight and multifunction displays came to life.
“C’mon, baby, fly, ” Sanchez said, and he slowly and carefully moved the left throttle forward. The engine gauges responded, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, the vertical speed indicator moved to zero. They were close enough now to the ocean that they could see the contours of waves clearly, but they weren’t going down. “Thank you, Jesus,” he muttered. “Troy, get the avionics on, then let’s get the right engine . . .”
At that instant there was a brilliant flash of light from the left side of the plane, a massive explosion that drowned out all other sensations, and a wave of searing heat. The P-8 swung hard first to the right, then to the left so hard that it felt as if they were inverted. Sanchez mashed the mic button and yelled, “ Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Nickel Five-One— ” . . .
. . . just as the Poseidon hit the ocean. It flip-flopped end over end for nearly a half mile, shedding pieces of itself in all directions and cracking the fuselage in several places, before coming to rest upside down. In less than five minutes it had slid under the surface, leaving only a few pieces of the wing and tail behind.
T HE W HITE H OUSE S ITUATION R OOM , W ASHINGTON , D.C.
A SHORT TIME LATER
President Kenneth Phoenix stepped quickly into the Situation Room, wearing a Marine Corps physical training outfit after the early-morning wake-up call. Tall, trim, and athletic, the former Marine Corps officer and judge advocate, federal prosecutor, U.S. attorney general, and vice president of the United States waved everyone back to their seats. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“We lost contact with a Navy P-8 Poseidon reconnaissance plane,” said the president’s national security adviser, William Glenbrook. “It was over the South China Sea on routine patrol, in the vicinity of the Chinese aircraft carrier Zhenyuan. ”
“Oh, Christ,” the president muttered. He reached for a cup of coffee—he knew right then he wasn’t going back
Similar Books
