Chapter 8 - The Voice in the StaticFor three seconds, the operations room was completely silent.
Then everybody started moving.
Controllers reached for backup frequencies.
The duty officer activated additional emergency notifications.
A communications specialist attempted contact on the international emergency frequency.
Colonel Benson took command of the response without raising his voice.
“Maintain radio discipline. Confirm Talon Four's position. Get updated weather along every possible recovery route.”
The room immediately became more organized.
That mattered.
Panic was contagious.
So was calm.
I leaned toward the communications console.
“Falcon Operations, Talon Three, radio check.”
Nothing.
I waited.
“Falcon Operations calling Talon Three. If you hear us, acknowledge.”
Static.
My heartbeat sounded painfully loud.
Captain Reyes pointed toward the positional display.
“We've got an intermittent radar return.”
I turned.
Vega's aircraft had been tracked moving east.
Then the returns became inconsistent.
The mountainous terrain and rapidly deteriorating weather complicated the picture.
Mercer's voice emerged through the radio.
“Falcon, Talon Four. I've lost visual contact with Three. Last observed heading east-southeast. Continuing my assigned diversion.”
Benson leaned toward the microphone.
“Talon Four, maintain your safe recovery plan. Do not reenter the hazardous area.”
“Copy, Falcon.”
I felt an enormous rush of relief.
Mercer was doing the right thing.
She wasn't trying to prove her loyalty by following a damaged aircraft into a storm.
She was preserving her own safety while giving ground personnel the information they needed.
I thought about the simulator.
Her hesitation.
Her fear of disagreeing.
And the moment she'd finally learned to say no.
Now those lessons might be keeping her alive.
Reyes moved another chart across the desk.
“Last known position puts Vega somewhere between Glass Knife Pass and the northern edge of Gold Wash.”
I examined the terrain.
A narrow canyon cut east through the mountains.
Beyond it, the land opened into a broad basin with scattered settlements.
If Vega could maintain altitude, he might have options.
If his engine failed completely, those options would disappear quickly.
“What's his approximate altitude?” I asked.
The radar operator shook his head.
“Last reliable reading was just above fifteen thousand.”
I traced the terrain contours with my finger.
“He needs to remain clear of the ridgeline.”
Calloway approached our console.
“What are you doing?”
“Plotting possible aircraft positions based on the last known track.”
“That's what the controllers are for.”
“Yes, sir. Colonel Benson asked me to assist.”
Calloway looked toward Benson.
For once, he said nothing.
Instead, he returned to the communications station.
“Talon Three, this is Falcon Operations. Respond if able.”
A faint burst of sound came through the speaker.
I leaned forward.
There.
I heard something.
Not a complete word.
But a voice.
“Wait,” I said.
The operator adjusted the receiver.
Another burst of static.
Then:
“...Falcon... Three... standby...”
The room went quiet.
The controller answered immediately.
“Talon Three, Falcon Operations. We hear you weakly. State altitude and condition.”
Several seconds passed.
“...engine... unstable... descending...”
My stomach tightened.
He was still flying.
But not comfortably.
Benson motioned toward the communications operator.
“Tell him emergency services are activated. Advise the safest available terrain avoidance information.”
The controller complied.
Vega's reply was fragmented.
“...trying... maintain... heading...”
I studied the map.
Something bothered me.
His last known heading took him toward Gold Wash.
If the aircraft became uncontrollable, the town could lie directly beneath his projected path.
I zoomed in on the topographical display.
A dry wash ran northwest of the settlement.
Beyond it lay a broad stretch of uninhabited desert.
I pointed.
“Colonel, there's open terrain north of Gold Wash.”
Benson leaned closer.
“Enough room?”
“Potentially for an unoccupied impact area if he has to eject. We need air traffic control to verify his actual position and get the information to him.”
Benson nodded.
“Coordinate it.”
Reyes looked at me.
“Good catch.”
I didn't answer.
My father's face flashed through my mind.
The folded flag at his funeral.
The old silver wings.
And McCann telling me how Ray had turned a dying airplane away from forty-three people.
I forced myself back into the present.
Vega wasn't my father.
I wasn't living inside his story.
This was a new emergency.
And the people depending on us deserved our full attention.
“Talon Three,” the controller transmitted, “if unable to reach a suitable runway, be advised uninhabited terrain lies northwest of Gold Wash. Confirm your position and maintain safe terrain clearance.”
The speakers hissed.
Then Vega answered.
“Roger... north... west...”
I closed my eyes briefly.
He'd heard.
Across the room, Calloway was speaking urgently with the weather officer.
“Can we launch a rescue aircraft?”
The weather officer shook his head.
“Not safely through the active cell, Major. We need a usable corridor.”
Benson looked toward the search-and-rescue coordinator.
“Prepare aircraft and ground resources. Launch when conditions permit. Notify civilian authorities in Gold Wash and the surrounding area.”
The emergency response began taking shape.
A civilian sheriff's office would assist.
A military rescue helicopter was being prepared.
Ground teams would move toward the likely crash area as soon as routes were confirmed safe.
But we still needed to know where Vega was.
And whether he could remain in the aircraft.
Another broken transmission reached us.
“Falcon... Three... engine...”
The controller pressed the microphone.
“Talon Three, say again.”
“...flameout...”
My blood turned cold.
Vega's engine had stopped producing thrust.
An F-16 could glide for a limited distance after an engine failure.
But it couldn't remain in the air indefinitely.
Every second mattered.
The controller transmitted calmly.
“Talon Three, confirm engine failure. Follow your emergency procedures.”
“Confirmed... flameout...”
I watched the projected track on the map.
There was no paved runway close enough to guarantee a safe recovery.
Vega knew it too.
A few seconds later, his voice came through more clearly.
“Falcon, Three. Unable to reach a runway. Preparing to eject.”
Nobody in the room moved.
I thought of Annie Sutter.
I thought of every military family that had ever listened to a telephone ring in the middle of the night.
And I thought of Lieutenant Mercer, somewhere above the desert, trying to land safely without knowing whether her flight lead would live.
“Talon Three,” the controller answered, “roger. Confirm safe separation from populated areas if able. Your life takes priority.”
Vega acknowledged.
Then his next transmission came through in broken pieces.
“...turning northwest... clear of Gold Wash...”
A pause.
“...aircraft away from houses...”
Static.
Then:
“Falcon... I'm ejecting.”
The radio went dead.
On the radar display, the last intermittent return disappeared near the northern edge of the basin.
For a long moment, I couldn't breathe.
May you like
Because somewhere beyond those mountains, a man was falling toward the desert.
And we had no idea whether his parachute had opened.
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