he stayed silent, as he used to do, but not even his daydreams called back.
One year and six months earlier, Adam Gabriel had bailed out of an F-14 jet fighter at three thousand feet over the Iraqi desert. He had been flying bomber escort from the USS
Pendleton
.
Gabriel was banking to cover a second run over the city. As heturned, he saw tracer fire like huge pearl necklaces moving slowly through the sky. Parts of the city were burning. He could make out sections of road in the downtown area, where a number of the bombs had fallen. These smooth paths vanished into shadow-filled craters. Rubble lay in giant crumbs across the streets.
He was leveling out of the turn when he heard a slamming noise from somewhere behind him and to the right. It was exactly the same sound that the kitchen door in his parents’ house used to make when someone swung it shut. For a moment, the noise stunned him. Then he waited for the first sign of damage—lights on the instrument panel, or no response from the controls. His mind clattered through the bailout procedure. There had been no missile-tracking alarm. No hurricane blast of air through the cockpit, as he’d been taught to expect when the canopy shattered. No desperate bleep from any of the aircraft sensors. He banked slowly through a second turn. Then the fuel warning light went on.
Gabriel radioed that his plane was hit, but he did not know how badly. Sweat from his upper lip smeared on the helmet microphone. He called into the dark that if his engine began to fail, he would try to land his plane at one of the supply runways in Kuwait. If he could not make it that far, he knew he would have to bail out over Iraqi territory.
He disengaged from the bombers and headed for the nearest runway. Another fighter accompanied him, piloted by a lieutenant named Casper Wright. Flying from the aircraft carrier to their rendezvous with the bombers, Wright’s plane had banked with him, in and out of turns, as if the two machines were joined by invisible wires.
Wright reminded Gabriel to tighten all his straps as hard as he could take it and to prepare his cockpit for bailout. It was a comfort to hear Wright’s voice. Wright was from Tallahassee, Florida. Gabriel could make out the Panhandle twang in his voice. Gabriel’s mind still plodded back and forth along the question of what could have hit him. He had seen no tracer fire. There had been only one slamming noise, not several. He knew what the other pilots would say when they heard he had been brought down. They would say he had lost out to the Golden BB, one stray unaimed bullet wandering through the sky.
All through training and all the way out to the Gulf, Gabriel had worried that he might not behave correctly if something went wrong in the air. He’d been taught the procedures. It was not about that. He was afraid that dread would cloud his mind. But now here he was, the fuel alarm flashing tiny rubies in his eyes, and his thoughts were as clear as they had ever been.
Gabriel played the game of placing odds on his chances of making it home. He wrote them on the notepad that was strapped to his right knee. He played the game to concentrate his thoughts, in case panic reared up and caught him by surprise.
Wright asked him to check the fuel gauge. The reading was lower now. Gabriel realized he would probably never find out what had caused the damage. He tried to remember how much he had been told these planes cost. Gabriel was surprised to feel embarrassed at having been brought down. He had not expected this emotion. Then he wondered if his own negligence had put him in the line of fire.
He was losing altitude now. He looked up and saw the belly of Wright’s jet, set against the navy-blue night sky. A web of stars fanned out around the plane. The yellow-orange exhaust flame was like a comet, chasing and always just about to catch the F-14.
Gabriel told Wright he was going to have to bail out and asked if he knew whether they were
One year and six months earlier, Adam Gabriel had bailed out of an F-14 jet fighter at three thousand feet over the Iraqi desert. He had been flying bomber escort from the USS
Pendleton
.
Gabriel was banking to cover a second run over the city. As heturned, he saw tracer fire like huge pearl necklaces moving slowly through the sky. Parts of the city were burning. He could make out sections of road in the downtown area, where a number of the bombs had fallen. These smooth paths vanished into shadow-filled craters. Rubble lay in giant crumbs across the streets.
He was leveling out of the turn when he heard a slamming noise from somewhere behind him and to the right. It was exactly the same sound that the kitchen door in his parents’ house used to make when someone swung it shut. For a moment, the noise stunned him. Then he waited for the first sign of damage—lights on the instrument panel, or no response from the controls. His mind clattered through the bailout procedure. There had been no missile-tracking alarm. No hurricane blast of air through the cockpit, as he’d been taught to expect when the canopy shattered. No desperate bleep from any of the aircraft sensors. He banked slowly through a second turn. Then the fuel warning light went on.
Gabriel radioed that his plane was hit, but he did not know how badly. Sweat from his upper lip smeared on the helmet microphone. He called into the dark that if his engine began to fail, he would try to land his plane at one of the supply runways in Kuwait. If he could not make it that far, he knew he would have to bail out over Iraqi territory.
He disengaged from the bombers and headed for the nearest runway. Another fighter accompanied him, piloted by a lieutenant named Casper Wright. Flying from the aircraft carrier to their rendezvous with the bombers, Wright’s plane had banked with him, in and out of turns, as if the two machines were joined by invisible wires.
Wright reminded Gabriel to tighten all his straps as hard as he could take it and to prepare his cockpit for bailout. It was a comfort to hear Wright’s voice. Wright was from Tallahassee, Florida. Gabriel could make out the Panhandle twang in his voice. Gabriel’s mind still plodded back and forth along the question of what could have hit him. He had seen no tracer fire. There had been only one slamming noise, not several. He knew what the other pilots would say when they heard he had been brought down. They would say he had lost out to the Golden BB, one stray unaimed bullet wandering through the sky.
All through training and all the way out to the Gulf, Gabriel had worried that he might not behave correctly if something went wrong in the air. He’d been taught the procedures. It was not about that. He was afraid that dread would cloud his mind. But now here he was, the fuel alarm flashing tiny rubies in his eyes, and his thoughts were as clear as they had ever been.
Gabriel played the game of placing odds on his chances of making it home. He wrote them on the notepad that was strapped to his right knee. He played the game to concentrate his thoughts, in case panic reared up and caught him by surprise.
Wright asked him to check the fuel gauge. The reading was lower now. Gabriel realized he would probably never find out what had caused the damage. He tried to remember how much he had been told these planes cost. Gabriel was surprised to feel embarrassed at having been brought down. He had not expected this emotion. Then he wondered if his own negligence had put him in the line of fire.
He was losing altitude now. He looked up and saw the belly of Wright’s jet, set against the navy-blue night sky. A web of stars fanned out around the plane. The yellow-orange exhaust flame was like a comet, chasing and always just about to catch the F-14.
Gabriel told Wright he was going to have to bail out and asked if he knew whether they were
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