Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“Kid, where away?” responded his lead in Slash 33.

“About my nine o’clock low, two miles. Looks like angels twelve.”

Eyes in the strike aircraft snapped north toward the cell, but only Kid in Slash 34 was close enough to see the jet. DCAG jumped in.

“Stay padlocked on him, Slash three-four. Are you both feet wet?”

“Almost… He’s rolling toward the storm, and he may be on fire!”

“Stay with him, and say your state.”

“ Slash three-four is seven-point-five.”

“Three-three is seven-seven.”

With fewer than 8,000 pounds of fuel and the tanker nearly 200 miles away — through more convective weather — the Hornets didn’t have much time to stay. And, even if the runways at San Ramón were out of action, the FAV could have Vipers inbound from dispersal fields, even Flankers from Caracas.

However, they would not abandon one of their own just yet.

Wilson was heading toward the thunderstorm in his path, one that was strengthening and forming an anvil top high above him. The storm was the least of his worries.

As he approached the safety of the coast, still using the rudder to control his jet, the glow from his right side was becoming more pronounced. Wilson knew he was on fire. The jet could explode any minute. He could get out now with a chance to live — and be captured. The storm was in his path, but it was worth entering if it got him feet wet into the Columbus Channel. Although he had no CSAR to pick him up, he had a better chance at rescue in the water. Since two or three more rolls should get him there, he prayed his dying jet could hold on a bit longer.

Knowing he would have to get out soon, Wilson ripped the goggles off his helmet and dropped them by his feet. When, with both hands, he began to stow his radio in his vest pouch, he was thrown up against the left side of the cockpit by an explosion from behind. The tearing of metal caused the jet to roll hard right. The negative G-force pinned his hands up, and the radio flew away and slid down to the windscreen. He had to get out now, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t reach down to the handle.

Wilson was out of his seat from the negative G, hanging in his straps as Firebird 301 rolled faster and faster as it picked up speed. Unknown lights spun in front of him and blood rushed to his head. Wilson tried to push off the top of the canopy with his left arm but the force was too great. Shocked that he could not move, he struggled and cried for help even though he knew there was no one in his cockpit. He was pinned, helpless, in a corkscrewing jet with airspeed building.

Pushed up against the canopy, Wilson could not move from his position. With all his might, he tried to reach down to the handle — and couldn’t! He began to panic, whimpering, straining, praying, fighting for life. Help me! The violent spinning was causing him to choke, and he feared he would pass out any moment.

Jim Wilson’s life flashed before him. Hitting a home run during a boyhood baseball game. Mary holding newborn Derrick. Weed sitting next to him on a liberty boat. All of it flashed by in an instant. The sharp point of a single coastal light below became a blur. Pinned…. Helpless… .

Wilson gave up struggling. It was going to happen. It would be painless. No chance. Even if he could reach the handle, an ejection would probably kill him. Why fight anymore? He had given it a good fight. But South America… hadn’t thought it would end here.

Then, deep inside his soul, a raging defiance burst forth, and with it a volcanic explosion of superhuman strength he didn’t know he possessed. He tensed his body, closed his eyes tight, and bellowed.

“ NO! ”

Wilson awoke to cold — and pain.

Hanging in his straps, his helmet and mask gone, he realized that he was out — and alive. The pain grabbed him immediately. His left arm was immobile, and his shoulder hurt like hell. He felt moisture on his neck. Blood? With his right hand he felt it and figured it was rash caused by the nylon straps. Wilson lifted his head and saw the parachute canopy above him. Four-line release. He felt for it, but the pain made him lose interest. With his good hand he found the beaded ring and pulled, and, with a loud whoosh, his survival vest inflated around his neck and waist. The minor exertion caused his body to go limp with exhaustion and pain.

Sharp pain dug through his right thigh. Wilson tried to move his leg and couldn’t. One arm and one leg out of commission. They must be broken , he figured.

His flashlight was gone, ripped out of its grommet snaps by the force of ejection. He sensed something next to him… a wall, a milky wall. Wilson realized he was in more trouble when a sudden flash lit up the wall. He was next to the storm.

A boom from inside stung his ears and caused him to flinch. He was regaining his senses. How did I get out ? he wondered, having no memory of even touching the handle. He looked for his jet below. Nothing. What happened to it? What happened?

In the ambient light he could detect the clouds reaching out toward him. He was over the coastline, and the winds at altitude would push him back over land. He had been so close — if only his Hornet could have survived another roll. Then, he felt his pouch. His survival radio! Gone! Lost like the flashlight in the ejection. He now had no way to communicate with potential rescuers. He tried to come to grips with this dreadful development. Severe injuries and no radio. No way even to call the rest of the Slashes to tell them he was alive. He tried to see and hear any of them. Nothing.

Feeling the cold moisture on his face, Wilson entered the cloud and lost all bearing in the milky darkness. At least he had his gloves. Even though he had no depth perception, he felt as if he were climbing, not falling, and realized he was caught in an updraft. A rumble from inside the cloud reminded him of the danger he was in.

He was hanging from a parachute inside a thunderstorm.

Ice crystals pelted his face from below, and he raised his hand to shield his chin. Soon they became marble-sized balls of hail that, on the way up, bounced off his inflated life vest and the soles of his feet. Wilson looked up at his parachute canopy, and it appeared to be full, still undamaged.

Another frightening rumble came from nearby. Then, blasting the air with the sound of a rifle shot going off in his ears, a horizontal tube of translucent electricity, rectangular, appeared out of nowhere in front of him. Wilson recoiled in terror, feeling close enough to touch it. The intensity of the light was blinding, and he felt its power down to his marrow. The lightning bolt disappeared as quickly as it had come, but Wilson’s ears continued to ring in pain. He knew he was in deep trouble.

Hail shot past him, going up, up, up. Wilson sensed himself turning, feeling it in his only flight instrument, the seat of his pants. As raw fear enveloped him, he remained braced for the next bolt of energy. Every hair on his body seemed to stand up as positive and negative electrons worked him over. He kept one eye shut and squinted with the other to defend them from the blinding flashes.

The twisting increased, and Wilson felt nauseous again. He became fearful the chute would collapse from the interaction of the turbulence and the barrage of hail from below. Wilson shivered with cold.

A thunderous bolt from behind almost knocked him unconscious, and he realized he had lost control of his bowels. He was amazed to see hail floating, just floating in front of him. Then, as the hail — and Wilson — reached the apex of the climb, they began to fall. As if caught in a runaway freight train of air, he and the hail were now riding the downdraft in the very middle of the storm. More rumbling, constant and muffled flashes. Wilson could feel the parachute’s nylon cords vibrate from the hail pounding the top of the canopy as the surrounding air became even colder. How could he escape? When would this end? Powerless, and damn near freezing, he wished he were on the ground, even if it meant having a Venezuelan soldier pointing a rifle barrel at him.