Chapter 1

Someone once told me that many an avalanche started out the size of a snowball. I understand the metaphor much better now. I understand it because once upon a time, a broken piece of copper wire sent my life spinning out of control...

My name’s Nick Pappas and on the day that my life took a huge left turn, I was a 34 year old Air Force Reserve Captain, flying an A-10 Warthog over Western Iraq. My wingman and I were mission complete, having expended our ordnance pounding a bunker system occupied by an Al-Qaida unit that snuck into Iraq from Syria. We were on our way back to Al Jabar, our home airfield in Kuwait, flying at about 1000 feet AGL (above ground level). We were flying so low because we were looking, believe it or not, for a stolen Mercedes Benz SL 600. The intelligence wienies had received a tip that the car, stolen in Jordan, was filled with explosives and headed for Baghdad. I was pretty blasé about this follow on mission bullshit, but my wingman was all over it. He was dying to see what a two-hundred thousand dollar car looked like after a burst from his seven-barreled, 30mm Avenger cannon.

I was on cruise control as I gave my mission status to the AWACS (Airborne Warning and Control System). And why the hell not? I had twenty days left in country until I would be released from active duty. Plus, the AWACS controller I was gabbing with was my girlfriend, First Lieutenant Vickie Salvatore, my brown-eyed, raven-haired Italian princess.

Yeah, life was good for me — until all of the sudden Vickie’s voice disappeared from my radio. Just as I was calling Pete Costas, my wingman, to confirm that my radio worked, the threat-warning klaxon in my cockpit started warbling. I turned hard right and started fighting for altitude when the klaxon changed pitch to radar lock then incoming SAM (surface to air missile). I jinked the opposite direction and hit the flare dispenser as the threat warning system screeched two more incoming missiles. Before I could react I felt my plane shudder and a flash of tracers passed my canopy. I was too busy to be thankful for the titanium armor around my cockpit as one of the missiles struck my right engine. I fought my controls and barrel rolled right as the redundant fly by wire system compensated for the loss of thrust and the aerodynamic drag from my destroyed engine.

I was banked hard to the right when I saw Pete’s plane explode in a ball of flame. The sight cut me to the core. Pete was my best friend. I was shocked by Pete’s apparent demise but dumbfounded that his plane blew up as it did. The A-10 was a high survivability aircraft and not prone to explode. Tough about Pete, but I had problems of my own trying to control my damaged plane and unass the area. I’d mourn for him if I got myself out of this mess. I was bouncing from side to side trying to evade the ground fire that I knew was coming from at least two soviet ZSU-23-4 air defense vehicles. The ZSU-23 was an older design Soviet gun platform but it had been updated through the years and was a deadly foe for low flying aircraft. Its four 23MM chain guns were radar controlled and highly accurate. Not to mention later versions like the pair below were equipped with SA-18 fire and forget surface to air missiles.

I could attest to the accuracy part when a burst of shells chewed the nose off of my Warthog before I could heave my plane to the side again. I could actually feel the 23mm slugs thumping against the armored bathtub that enclosed my cockpit. After what seemed like forever, I was out of the kill zone of the ZSUs but a long way from being out of trouble. My plane was heavily damaged and flew like a brick, and worst of all, the burst to the nose took out all my avionics and communications. I made it another fifty miles or so before acrid smoke started seeping into my cockpit. I expected to lose my second engine any minute and my plane was struggling to keep me above five hundred feet. I clearly wasn’t going to make it back to Kuwait so I ejected while I still had some altitude. I figured the shot up Warthog would be lucky to make it another five miles.

The canopy blew as designed and the ejection seat worked perfectly, I was buffeted some by the explosive charge that sent the seat upward but the experience wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d heard others describe it. I figure I had it made. I simply had to call for help on my PRC-112 survival radio and hide out until the cavalry arrived. Then a gust of wind caused my parachute to oscillate and I started swinging back and forth under the nylon canopy in wide arcs. I hit the ground like a ton of shit, all my weight on my left leg. Excruciating pain shot up my body as my ankles and knees absorbed the initial contact of my hard landing. I landed feet, ass and head. My head hit the rocky ground hard enough to knock me out even with my helmet on.

I woke up with the mother of all headaches. I was groggy from bashing my head into the rocky desert soil so it took me a few seconds to get my bearings. I immediately wished I was still unconscious when I saw the two hazy figures standing over me pointing AK-47s at my head. As my vision cleared I saw that my captors were women. I also realized that my hands were tied with the strings from my boots and that my survival vest and helmet had been stripped off me. My heart sank when I saw my survival radio smashed into a pile of twisted metal and shattered plastic and my pistol tucked into the sash of one of my captors.

It was hard to read my captors expressions, as they were covered head to toe except for their eyes. They wore square shouldered, flowing dark brown burkas and face covering niqab veils. The AK-47s were unwavering though, and the women looked as if they knew how to use them. My leg was throbbing to go along with my headache and I couldn’t suppress a groan. As soon as the sound was past my lips the larger of the two women smacked me upside my head with the barrel of her assault rifle and said something in Arabic. I spoke some Arabic but her speech was rapid fire and my head was mushy, so I looked at her blankly.

“She said to stand up,” the second woman said in passable English.

“My legs are injured,” I replied pointing down to my oddly twisted left foot.

She nodded, turned to the other woman and explained the problem.

The first woman made a sneering sound and prodded my leg with the barrel of her rifle. I moaned in pain and almost passed out again. Satisfied that I was telling the truth, she said something to the English-speaking woman and stalked off.

As soon as the departing woman was out of earshot, the woman left guarding me spoke again, her voice less hostile.

“I am called Jamilah. Basheera says you are a weakling, as are all infidels,” she said.

I grunted in pain. “Basheera might be right, my ankles and knees hurt like hell. What are you going to do with me? If you turn me over to Americans you will be rewarded.” I said.

“We widows of Abu Bakr Al Hassan will discuss that when we get you home. Basheera is the senior among us though and is very wise. We often do as she suggests.”

As we waited for whatever Basheera was doing I was counting on the AWACS sending help my way. The big 707 kept tabs on all aircraft in a four hundred mile radius via the transponders in our planes, so I knew they had scrambled the search and rescue teams as soon as Pete and I disappeared from their screens. They would know within a hundred meters where both of us crashed. At least they should have known. Had I known the truth, I’d have been scared shitless...

Lieutenant Victoria Salvatore stared in disbelief as the 24-inch monitor in front of her went blank and her headset went silent. One second she was atingle talking to Nicky on the radio as she tracked his flight back to Al Jabar, the next she was sitting in eerie, semi-darkness. She looked to her right when her boss, Major Sheldon started cursing.

“Power outage, and the backup APU (auxiliary power unit) is not coming on line either. We’re dead in the water,” he growled.

The flight engineer came hustling back from the flight deck. Major Sheldon joined him as he removed an access panel on the starboard side of the plane. It took ten long minutes to get the electricity restored, a broken wire from the temperature sensor led to a false thermal overload condition that shut down both APUs. It was another agonizing five minutes before the computer system rebooted. Sentry 33 had been mission noncapable for more than thirty minutes.

Vicky keyed her mike as she watched her display slowly come to life. It took a few sweeps of the big radar dome to acquire everything in the air and a few ticks longer for the computer to identify them.

“Spartan seven-one this is Sentry three-three, sorry about that, we had a glitch.”

She released the transmit button and waited to here Nick’s mellow baritone. When the radio remained silent she tried again.

“Spartan seven-one this is Sentry three-three, acknowledge.”

Her eyes swept the screen of her display looking for the symbol that represented Nick’s Thunderbolt II. Then the symbol for both nick and his wingman flared on the screen blinking red. Vickie recoiled in horror and grabbed Major Shelton’s arm. She pointed to the screen as she switched to the guard (emergency) frequency and keyed her microphone. The blinking red transponders meant that Nick and Pete Costas’ airplanes were on the ground. She kept the panic out of her voice as she tried to raise either pilot.

“Spartan seven-two this is Sentry three-three, acknowledge.”

She followed procedure and tried to reach both Nicky and his wingman twice more. As she called she peered at her display. The closest asset to the Spartan flight’s position was a Texas air National Guard C-130 hauling supplies to a forward deployed Ranger unit. She punched up the C-130’s radio frequency and called him.

“Cowboy four-seven-two this is Sentry three-three, how copy?”

“Ma’am, you are wall to wall and tree top tall,” came back an unmistakable nasal twang.

In spite of the situation Vickie had to smile, the C-130 pilot was a friend of her and Nick named Jericho Jimenez. Jericho was pushing sixty years of age so everyone called him Pappy. In civilian life he owned a trucking company so he tended to treat any radio as if it were a trucker’s CB.

“Cowboy, Sentry three-three is declaring a SAR (search and rescue) emergency, stand by for authentication.”

Pappy’s voice immediately lost its twang and was all business, “Roger, Sentry three-three, standing by.”