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Midway Island
14 Feb
Buck felt the splash of seawater in his face as he came to. His survival equipment had worked as advertised and saved his life. The Sea Water Activated Release System attachments on his harness had automatically separated from the parachute risers upon hitting the salt water and his life preservers had automatically inflated, keeping him afloat in the waters off Midway Island.
His neck was sore and his head was throbbing as he tried to regain his bearings. The opening shock of the parachute, combined with the weight of the JHMCS visor on his helmet had caused his neck to snap back, causing him to lose consciousness. He felt lucky that was all that happened. He had heard of fighter pilots breaking their necks and dying during ejection sequences while wearing the helmet.
Looking around, Buck found his single-man raft tethered to him fifteen feet away. He could see the white sandy beaches of Sand and Eastern Island in the distance. He hadn’t landed too far from shore. As he continued looking around, he saw an oil fire still burning just above the surface of the water. He thought it might be his jet’s wreckage, but then he realized it could have been GLOC’s as well. He hated to lose him.
Buck took an inventory of his injuries. Besides his neck and head pain, his body was sore from the ejection. Nothing seemed to be broken. He looked back at the raft. Normally, it was best to conserve energy and radio for help from the raft, but Buck knew help was a thousand miles away and more focused on the President at the moment. With the jamming he had experienced in his jet, he doubted his radio even worked. Buck decided to swim for it.
Reaching back, Buck disconnected the raft and seat kit tether. He then flipped over to his stomach and started swimming to the beach. He estimated it was less than a quarter mile away, a good deal less than the mile he had been forced to swim in boots and flight gear in the Navy’s water survival training.
Buck swam across the calm ocean waters, pacing himself as he slowly made his way to the shore. He was glad to be alive, but he knew his work was far from over. He needed to find a way to get help for the President and the people on board Air Force One. He had to make his family proud.
The thought of his family made him push harder as he swam through the choppy water. His exchange tour with the Navy had been a sore subject with his wife and parents. They wanted him to take an instructor or staff tour where he could be home every night. His parents wanted him to stay in the States where they could see their grandchildren more than twice a year as they entered their retirement years.
But they understood Buck’s drive and desire to be at the tip of the spear. It was an awesome opportunity, and they were proud of him for stepping up, despite the hardships he created. Despite her objections, his wife was even on board with it. The family of four had packed up with orders to head to Virginia Beach for six months of training, and then on to Japan.
Buck swam until he could feel his boots dragging along the coral and sand. He stood up in the water, breathing heavily as he reached the end of his swim. He walked through the waist-high water to the shore and collapsed onto the sand as he stared back out at the water. He was exhausted, but he knew he had to push on and fall back on his survival training.
He took his helmet off and tossed it to the side before he unzipped his survival vest and pulled it off. He placed it gently in the sand next to him before unzipping the harness and wriggling out of it. Finally, he unzipped the zippers on the legs and waist of his G-suit and took it off. It felt good to get out of the soggy gear, the survival vest alone weighed upwards of twenty pounds.
Gathering up the gear, Buck carried it up the beach to nearby vegetation. He hid the harness, helmet, and G-suit in the thick brush and then went to work on the survival vest. After deflating the life preservers with his knife, he unclipped the horse collar from the vest and tossed it in with the other equipment he had discarded.
He then put the vest back on and found a hiding spot in the bushes as he powered up his PRC-112G survival radio. Based on the jamming, he knew it was a long shot, but the Search and Rescue Satellite (SARSAT) system operated on its own secure frequencies and satellites. It was possible that he could communicate via secure text and use the satellites for navigation if the radio could connect.
The monochrome screen powered up, and indicated it was searching for satellites as it finished its built-in self-test. A status screen displayed after the self-test, showing the numbers of six possible satellites and a message at the bottom SEARCHING. After what seemed like an eternity, the system display finally showed READY: NO VOICE as two satellite numbers were highlighted.
Buck felt relieved as he scrolled through the menus. The radio had managed to lock on to two out of the six satellites. Although he didn’t have the capability to use the secure satellite voice communication, having the other satellites allowed him to send free-text messages to the SARSAT headquarters in Maryland, which would then be routed, to the appropriate Pacific Fleet Search and Rescue Center in Hawaii. It wasn’t much, but it was as close to a lifeline as he could get.
He scrolled to the FREE TEXT menu and began typing using the radio’s obsolete method of typing by scrolling through letters using up and down arrow keys. He typed HR42 A EAGLE DN PMDY, giving the first and last letter of his callsign as Hammer 42, his condition code meaning he was uninjured and mobile, and a message he hoped they would understand to mean the President was in trouble at Midway Island. He selected SEND DATA BURST and hit enter. The radio would automatically transmit its unique identification number, best-guess GPS position, and a timestamp.
The radio confirmed that his message had been sent. Buck heard what sounded like a diesel engine in the distance and took cover. As he continued listening, he could see the top of roof-mounted gunner on the Humvee moving toward him in the distance.
Buck powered down the radio to conserve the battery and stuffed it back in his vest. He pulled out his Beretta M9 and chambered a round, returning it to its cross-draw holster on his vest. He moved quickly and quietly through the thick vegetation, hoping his green flight suit and vest would help him blend in as he evaded the approaching patrol. He knew he needed to stay moving and evade capture long enough to coordinate with friendly rescue personnel to save the President.
* * *
The room was dark and musty. It looked like a supply closet of some sort. The six of them had been dragged in, stripped of their clothes, and forced to put on orange jumpsuits before being gagged and chained to the walls.
The light was blinding as a man opened the door. He turned on the lights in the room and tossed something inside. It was hard to see after what seemed like hours in the darkness, but it appeared to be something round that rolled onto the floor between them.
There were muffled shrieks. As her eyes adjusted, Decker recognized the lifeless face of Deputy Director Miller. She tried to scream, but the rag they had stuffed in her mouth prevented anything more than a muffled yelp.
She looked back up with wide eyes at the bearded man standing in the doorway. He had a look of sadistic satisfaction as he watched the horror of each person in the room. She tried to look away as his eyes met hers, but she could feel him staring at her.
“Which one of you will be next?” the man asked in a low voice. He waited for a moment as if he was expecting a volunteer from the gagged hostages and then laughed. Decker found his laugh to be even more unsettling than his gaze. The man just seemed sinister.
He turned the light off and slammed the door behind him. Decker could feel her heart racing. She tried to slow down her breathing. It was the closest she had ever come to a panic attack.
Decker jerked against her chains, trying to find a weakness in their attachment to the wall, but found none. Her hands were attached to the wall behind her, over her head as she sat on the floor. She had nowhere to go and no way out.
Her ribs and back still hurt. She thought she might have broken a rib or two from the rounds that hit her. The last 7.62 round from the AK-47 had knocked her flat on her face and taken her breath away. She had tried to scramble to her feet, but they were on top of her and had her restrained before she could gather herself. Their speed and efficiency were unlike anything she had ever seen before. These men were elite professionals.
Decker’s mind wandered back to Cal. She knew he would be dead if he had been with her in that galley. Or maybe not. Cal had a way of getting himself out of the trouble that always seemed to follow him. She wondered if she had made the right decision.
After restraining her, they had thrown a hood over her head and taken her out, stuffing her in the back of a Humvee face down before they brought her wherever she was. She hadn’t seen anyone else until they removed the hood and put her with the other agents. At least she thought they were other agents. They had spent most of the time in the dark together.
She hoped Cal was at least alive. If he’s alive, there’s still a chance, she thought. She felt guilty for making him take this trip. All he had wanted to do was hide out and spend time with her. He had already been through so much. His life had been so hard, and now she was responsible for making it worse. And possibly even ending it.
A tear rolled down Decker’s cheek. She wasn’t afraid of dying, but it hurt to see the man she loved put through so much. He was such a good guy that genuinely cared about people. It had broken her heart to watch him realize that his fiancée was still alive and had betrayed him. He deserved so much better than that, but yet her arrogance had gotten them stuck in the middle of this situation.
Decker cringed as the door swung open again. Three men entered, turning the lights on. Decker’s eyes adjusted more quickly this time. Two of the men were dressed like the man with the evil laugh, but the third was wearing an Air Force uniform. Decker strained to make out the nametape. GRAVES. All of the Air Force personnel on Air Force One wore dress blue uniforms. This guy was wearing the Air Force combat uniform. Decker wondered where he had come from.
They chained Graves to the far end of the room, away from the others. They let him keep his clothes and didn’t gag him, but they chained him facing the wall so that he was on his knees. Decker thought it was unusual, but then, nothing in the last six hours had been normal.
Once Graves was secure, the two men turned the lights off and exited the room, locking the door behind them.
“Please help me,” Graves whimpered.