“Coming up on initial point… ready, ready, now,” Fletcher called out. “Heading is good. Thirty seconds to release. Multiple GATOR release on heading one-eight-one, then right turn to heading two-one-six for a multiple QUICKSTRIKE mine release, then right turn to heading two-six-eight for a multiple HADES release. Stand by… fifteen seconds.”
The fires that were already burning in Dadaotan Straits and Bangoy Harbor were spectacular — there had to be at least a dozen large troopships burning, with spots of fires dotting the entire bay. “My God, it looks like the end of the fucking world,” the copilot muttered on interphone.
“Five seconds… stand by to turn…”
But the huge fires that made it so easy for the B-l crew to see the target area also made it easy for the Chinese troops to see the incoming bomber. A row of tracers from a few of the surviving amphibious assault ships arced into the sky, the undulating lines of shells sweeping the sky in seemingly random patterns — and suddenly several of those lines swept across the nose of the B-l bomber.
The impact of the 57-millimeter shells from one of the tank-landing ships felt like hammer blows from Thor himself. The cabin pressure immediately dumped, replaced a millisecond later with a thunderous roar of the windblast hammering in through the cockpit windows. Airspeed seemed to drop to zero, and the crew experienced a feeling of weightlessness as the B-l started to drift and fall across the sky.
Fletcher reacted instantly. While struggling to keep himself upright in his seat as much as possible, he selected all remaining stores stations, opened the bomb doors, and hit the “Emergency Armed Release” button once again. “All weapons away! Weapons away!” he shouted. “Right turn to escape, Doug!” He called to the pilot, Captain Doug Wendt. “Right turn! Head west!”
All of the mines and BLU-96 canisters made a normal release — except one. One of the racks in the forward bomb bay was hit by gunfire, the rack jammed, then released, and the canister was flung against the aft bomb-bay bulkhead and detonated. Fire and debris from the bomb and the damaged bomb bay flew into the right engine intakes, shelling the starboard engines and causing another terrific explosion.
There was a sound like a raging waterfall filling the entire crew compartment, and smoke began to fill the cabin. The B-l seemed to be hanging upside down, twisting left and right and fishtailing around the sky. “Doug? Answer up!” No reply. “George?” Again no reply. Without thinking of what he was doing, Fletcher pulled the parachute release mechanism on his ejection seat, which unclipped him from his seat but kept his parachute on his back. He dropped to the deck and began crawling on his hands and feet toward the clipboard.
“Pete!” Lieutenant Colonel Terry Rowenki, the DSO (Defensive Systems Operator), yelled behind him. “What the hell are you doing? Get back here!”
Fletcher ignored him. Flat on his stomach, he made his way through the howling windblast to the cockpit. Through the glare of flares outside, he could see that all of the windshields were blown in, and both Wendt and Lleck were slumped over in their seats, unconscious. The autopilot was not on, but the B-l was light and trimmed enough to maintain wings-level even without hands on the control stick.
“Terry! Get out! Eject!” Fletcher screamed, but he could not be heard over the windblast. Crawling forward another few feet, he pulled himself up onto the center console, keeping as far below the murderous wind coming through the shattered windows as he could, reached across, and lifted the right-side ejection handle on Doug Wendt’s seat. The large red “Eject” light snapped on in every section of the cabin — it came on automatically whenever the pilot’s ejection handles were raised. Fighting the force of the wind hammering on his entire body, he reached up and hit the ejection trigger with his left hand.
The inertial reel thankfully yanked Doug Wendt’s body upright in his seat a fraction of a second before the overhead escape hatch blew off and the seat roared off into space. But the ejection seat’s rocket motor flared right in Fletcher’s face, and he screamed again as his vision was replaced by angry stars of pure pain. He was on the verge of unconsciousness, and only another explosion from somewhere inside the bomber brought him back to his senses. Struggling through the pain to regain his vision, he finally gave up trying to open his eyes, groped around for Lleck’s ejection handle, found it, and pulled. This time the white-hot fire from the motor seared his chest and stomach, and he slumped to the deck.
“Pete! Pete, dammit, wake up!”
Someone was calling his name… someone… Fletcher raised his head.
“Pete! This way! Crawl this way! Hurry!”
