Collins’ copilot climbed to five hundred feet, stabilized, then began a slow orbit over the area. Collins activated the AN/AAQ-16 FLIR, or Forward Looking Infrared, sensor ball, which presented a thermal image of the forest below in his helmet-mounted sights. At the same time he keyed the microphone button: “Bullet, this is Able Zero-Seven on Guard. Bullet, if you read me, give me a tone on Rescue one. Over.”
A few seconds later, Collins heard, “Able Zero-Seven, this is Bullet on Guard. I read you loud and clear.” The DF direction-finder read southwest. The accent was strange, the voice clipped and precise — too precise. There Was also a lot of background noise. It could be his own rotors… or it could be someone else.
Collins said, “Bullet, go to Rescue One and hold down for ten. Over.”
“Able Zero-Seven, I cannot. Land on shoreline. I can see you. Land on shoreline.”
“Bullet, go to Rescue One. Over.”
“Able Zero-Seven, I am injured. I cannot work my radio. Land on the shoreline. I am just a few meters inland. Hurry. Over.”
The DF readout still read southwest — but that could mean a hundred yards southwest or ten miles southwest. The Navy pilot was not following orders because he was panicking — or because it wasn’t a Navy pilot talking. The term “meters” worried Collins, but more military guys were using metric measurements like meters and “klicks,” so that wasn’t a definite giveaway. On the Guard emergency channel, Collins said, “Stand by, Bullet.” To his copilot, Collins said, “Swing west a few miles. Let’s see if we can triangulate this DF steer.” The MV-22 swung west away from the coastline, keeping as close to the treetops as possible.
“Able Zero-Seven, this is Bullet, come in. Come in, Able.”
Bowman was groggy but awake. He had a pounding headache and completely washed-out vision. He felt paralyzed, and when he tried to move, a red-hot wave of pain rolled up and down his back. Same for his left arm — it wasn’t just his elbow anymore, the entire arm felt broken. His wrists were still handcuffed together and the survival radio was gone…
No, not gone. He could hear faint voices coming from somewhere. Fighting through the pain in his back and arm, he scratched his fingers across the mud and foliage toward the sound. Just as he thought he was going to pass out from the pain, his fingers brushed the thick rubber of the short antenna. A spark of hope shot through his pain-tortured brain, and he was able to grab the radio and drag it to his body.
“Stand by, Bullet,” Bowman heard. “Bullet, switch to Rescue One, if able. Over.”
“Unable to switch. Help me. Land on the shoreline. I will find you.”
Able… that was the call sign of the Navy rescue choppers on
But he suddenly realized that wasn’t right. Miller was dead. The voice on the radio didn’t sound American — it sounded too smooth, too practiced. It had to be Chinese! The Chinese were trying to coaX the Navy rescue bird into landing. No downed aircrewman would ever do that — a downed aircrewman’s responsibility was to first get himself located, then follow instructions from the rescue bird. He was not supposed to issue orders.
Bowman’s radio was set to the Guard channel. On the PRC-23D radio, there was a four-position rotary dial: full clockwise, toward the side with the antenna, was Guard, one click counterclockwise was Off, one more click was Rescue One, and one more was Rescue Two. With trembling fingers, Bowman depressed the rotary dial and twisted the knob once to the Off position; then, with a tremendous effort, twisted the dial to Rescue One and depressed a rubber switch on the side of the unit…
The DF readout on radio number one was moving slightly south. “Few more miles,” Collins said to his copilot, “and we can plot out his position…”
Suddenly, radio number two came alive with a distinctive
“That guy on Guard must be an eavesdropper,” the copilot said.
“I almost fell for it, too. Follow the DF steer from Rescue One.” Collins switched from Guard channel to Rescue One. “Bullet on Rescue One, I copy your tone. Give me a tone when we fly overhead.”
They were about sixty seconds on the new heading toward the east when Collins said, “I think I have something down there. PJs, stand by.” In the rear of the MV-22 tilt-rotor aircraft were four pararescue jumpers, or PJs, two sitting on the port and starboard cargo doors, wearing rappelling gear.
Collins tracked the warm spot below him with the FLIR.
