Chapter 7 - The Storm They Couldn't Outrun“Falcon Operations, Talon Three. Confirm whether we're cleared to terminate the route.”
Captain Drew Vega's voice sounded controlled.
But I recognized the urgency beneath it.
I looked at the radar display.
The storm's leading edge was moving directly toward Glass Knife Pass.
“Major, we need to recall them,” I said.
Calloway was standing near the main operations console.
He turned toward me.
“Captain, I'm handling it.”
“The weather office confirms rapid deterioration. They're approaching the most restrictive part of the route.”
“I can see the display.”
“Then we need to get them out.”
His eyes hardened.
“Hollis, step away from the radio.”
I hesitated.
He repeated himself.
“Now.”
For one terrible moment, I was back in the ready room.
Standing before a man who believed disagreement was disrespect.
But this time, two people were in the air.
And neither of them had enough room for anybody's ego.
I stepped back from the microphone.
Then I picked up the telephone beside the operations console.
“What are you doing?” Calloway demanded.
“Contacting Colonel Benson, sir.”
He stared at me.
“You're going over my head?”
“I'm reporting an immediate operational concern through the available chain of command.”
I pressed the extension.
Before anyone answered, Mercer's voice returned over the radio.
“Talon Three, this is Four. Visibility decreasing. Recommend immediate climb and exit.”
Vega answered.
“Copy, Four. Stand by.”
Then came another burst of static.
The kind that made every pilot in the room look toward the speakers.
Colonel Benson answered my call.
“Benson.”
“Sir, Hollis. The Talon flight is approaching Glass Knife Pass. Updated weather shows rapidly worsening conditions. I've recommended recall.”
“Has the flight been recalled?”
“Not yet, sir.”
A short silence.
“Put Calloway on.”
I handed over the telephone.
Calloway listened for several seconds.
His expression tightened.
“Yes, Colonel.”
Another pause.
“Understood.”
He set the receiver down.
Then he reached for the radio.
“Talon Flight, Falcon Operations. Terminate the training route. Climb to your assigned safe altitude and proceed toward your briefed recovery or diversion plan.”
I felt my shoulders loosen.
They had been told to turn back.
Now they only had to do it.
Vega answered immediately.
“Falcon Operations, Talon Three. Terminating route.”
Mercer followed.
“Talon Four, copy.”
I looked at the weather display.
The storm cell was still advancing.
A thick red band marked the strongest precipitation.
Inside it, turbulence and rapidly changing winds could make the mountains dangerous even for experienced pilots.
“Talon Three, advise current position,” Calloway transmitted.
Vega gave his coordinates.
I plotted them against the terrain.
Something didn't look right.
He was closer to the ridgeline than the last positional report suggested.
“Sir, his indicated position puts him near the eastern edge of Glass Knife Pass.”
Calloway glanced at the screen.
“He's aware of his location.”
“I'm sure he is. But the storm is crossing his exit route.”
Calloway didn't answer.
I watched the radar.
Mercer's aircraft was turning away.
Vega's was following more slowly.
Then his voice returned.
“Falcon Operations, Talon Three. Experiencing moderate turbulence. Climbing out.”
A second later:
“Stand by. Getting an electrical caution.”
I stopped breathing.
Calloway leaned toward the microphone.
“Talon Three, confirm.”
“Generator indication unstable. Some intermittent instrument displays.”
My pulse accelerated.
Electrical problems in a fighter aircraft could become serious, especially when combined with poor visibility and difficult terrain.
I looked at the flight-status screen.
Vega was still moving toward rising ground.
“Talon Three, this is Talon Four,” Mercer transmitted. “I have you intermittently visual. Recommend maintaining our established separation and climbing clear.”
“Copy, Four.”
Her voice was calm.
But I knew she was frightened.
Because every pilot would be.
I remembered her asking me what to do when a flight lead made a questionable decision.
I'd told her to speak up.
Now she was doing exactly that.
“Falcon Operations,” Mercer continued, “requesting an immediate diversion for Talon Flight.”
Calloway answered.
“Approved. Coordinate with control.”
For a brief moment, I thought the crisis might be ending.
Then Vega transmitted again.
“Falcon, Three. Engine indications fluctuating.”
I leaned toward the monitor.
A maintenance technician nearby looked up sharply.
“Was there a reported problem with Vega's aircraft?”
“None before launch,” another operator answered.
Calloway pressed the radio button.
“Talon Three, execute the applicable emergency checklist. Declare your intentions.”
“Working it.”
Static.
Then:
“Falcon, Three. Engine response is becoming inconsistent.”
I could hear the strain entering his voice.
The aircraft was still flying.
But he was losing the confidence that it would continue doing so.
Colonel Benson entered the operations room.
He took one look at the radar and moved beside the communications operator.
“Status?”
“Two aircraft airborne,” Calloway answered. “Talon Four appears stable. Talon Three has electrical and engine indications.”
Benson nodded.
“Activate the emergency response plan. Coordinate with air traffic control, weather, and search-and-rescue support.”
“Yes, sir.”
Benson turned toward me.
“Hollis, you've been studying this terrain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Assist with terrain analysis. Work with the controller. No conflicting transmissions.”
I moved to the second console.
Captain Reyes joined me moments later.
He had been preparing for another training mission when the emergency started.
“What do you need?” he asked.
“Topographical overlay for the eastern basin. Vega may need the nearest suitable recovery option.”
Reyes pulled up the chart.
We worked quickly.
The closest paved military runway was farther away than I liked.
An auxiliary field lay southeast, but the route crossed rising terrain.
And directly east of Glass Knife Pass was a small civilian community called Gold Wash.
Six hundred people.
A school.
A volunteer fire station.
Several farms spread across the valley floor.
I remembered my father's story.
Forty-three people in a maintenance hangar.
A disabled fighter.
And a choice made with almost no time left.
I pushed that memory aside.
Vega needed accurate information, not sentiment.
“Talon Three,” the controller transmitted, “confirm altitude and heading.”
Static crackled.
Then Vega answered.
“Seventeen thousand and descending slightly. Trying to stabilize the aircraft.”
My hands tightened.
There was something wrong with his heading.
He was drifting away from the safest escape corridor.
“Sir,” I told Benson, “he's moving toward the eastern basin. The terrain drops, but Gold Wash lies beneath that route.”
Benson nodded to the controller.
“Pass the relevant terrain and diversion information.”
The controller relayed the advisory.
Vega acknowledged.
Then came a sudden burst of static.
A harsh electronic tone filled the room.
And his next transmission made every person turn toward the speakers.
“Falcon Operations, Talon Three. Engine's surging. I'm losing reliable indications.”
A pause.
“Stand by—”
The radio hissed.
Then Vega's voice returned, sharper now.
May you like
“I'm losing power.”
And the signal cut out.
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