Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (34 page)

 
          
Ormack
cross-checked the indicator with the TIP GEAR NOT IN TRAIL caution light—it was
showing unsafe too. “It might be hanging there, or it could be part-way up. We
probably ripped out the whole left wingtip.” He did some experimental turns
left and right. “Steering feels okay. The spoilers seem like they’re still
working.” He glanced down and double-checked that he had shut off* the fuel
valves from the left externals. “We can try emergency retraction later.”

 
          
He
ran a hand over his sweating face and scanned instruments, left and right, as
the
Megafortress
cleared the
snow-covered
Groom
Mountain
ridge line. “Looks like we lost all the
eighteen thousand pounds in the left external A tank—probably lost the whole
tank. The left external B is still with us but it’s feeding too fast, faster
than the right externals. It’s probably dumping all that fuel overboard.” He
shut off* the fuel transfer switch to the left external B. tank. “That means
we’re short about forty thousand pounds.”

 
          
He
looked over at McLanahan, who was still staring at the mountain ridges sliding
under the Old Dog’s sleek black nose. “Pat, check the hydraulics.”

 
          
McLanahan
scanned the quarter-sized hydraulic gauges on the left control panel. At first
he was diverted by the fancy schematics added on to the panel showing the
direction and metering of hydraulic power from the six engine-driven hydraulic
pumps.

           
“Well?”

 
          
McLanahan
then noticed it. “Pressure on the left outboard spoiler-tip gear is low.”

 
          
Ormack
shook his head. “Well, we’re going to lose the left outboard system pretty
soon. Make sure the standby pump switch is off.”

 
          
“It’s
off.”

 
          
“We’re
not going to try to emergency raise the tip gear,” Ormack said. “The entire
wingtip is probably smashed. We’d deplete the hydraulic system for nothing.” He
checked airspeed and altitude. “Okay. We’re airborne. Flaps coming up.”

 
          
McLanahan
watched the gauge closely. A half-minute later they indicated full-up.

 
          
“Well,
something’s finally working okay,” Ormack said.

 
          
“Good
job,” General Elliott said above the noise in the cockpit. Ormack and McLanahan
turned in surprise. The general was standing between the two ejection seats,
nodding approval. McLanahan looked at his leg. There was a large bandage and
elastic cloth wrapped around the calf and thigh.

 
          
“How’s
your leg, General?”

 
          
“Hurts
like hell, Patrick. Feels like something took a bite out of it. But Wendy and
Angelina did a fine job. Lucky we had so many first aid kits on board.”

 
          
“What
the hell
happened
’ General? Who were
those guys that attacked us?”

 
          
“I’m
not sure, Patrick. I was advised by intelligence of certain rumors, but I never
thought... It looks like maybe there was a leak somewhere. My hunch is that
whoever authorized that attack expected those B-ls to be still at Dreamland.”
Elliott cleared his throat. “I’ll take it now, Patrick.”

 
          
“You
sure you feel up to it, General? Your leg—”

 
          
“I’ll
let John push on the rudder pedal if I need to. Otherwise I can handle this
beast. Get everyone else on helmet and oxygen and stand by for a climb check.”
So saying, Elliott moved himself aside and let McLanahan climb out of the seat
and pass around him to go downstairs. Then with help from Ormack, he settled
himself into the pilot’s ejection seat and fastened the parachute harness.

 
          
“All
right,” he said, readjusting the headset and placing his hands around the yoke.
“I’ve got the aircraft.”

 
          
“Roger,
you have the aircraft,” Ormack acknowledged, assuring positive transfer of
control with a slight shake of the control column.

 
          
“Let’s
clean up the after takeoff checklist. Landing gear.”

 
          
“Gear
up, indicating five up,” Ormack replied. “Left tip gear is reading crosshatch.
Left outboard hydraulic system is low and will probably fail soon.”

           
“Confirmed.” Elliott rechecked the
hydraulic gauges. “It’ll be okay for the time being. Flaps.”

 
          
“Lever
up and off, flaps up.”

           
“Throttles.”

           
“Set for MRT climb. Nav, you up?”

           
“Nav’s up,” Luger replied
immediately.

           
“Outside air temp zero, anti-ice
off.”

           
“MRT EPR two point one seven.”

           
“Throttles set,” Ormack said,
checking the gauges.

           
“Start switches.”

           
“Off and FLIGHT.”

           
“Air conditioning master switch.”

           
“Seven point four-five PSI, radar
and defense, normal cooling air available,” Ormack said as conditioned air
rushed from the cabin vents.

 
          
“Offense
copies,” Luger replied as McLanahan buckled his parachute harness and rechecked
his equipment.

 
          
“Defense
copies,”
Pereira
said mechanically, watching as Wendy Tork
secured herself into her seat. Angelina scanned her instrument panels, then
opened her checklist and began to bring up her array of armament equipment.

 
          
“Slipway
doors, open then closed.” Ormack reached up and flipped the SLIPWAY DOOR switch
to OPEN on the overhead panel. The green CLOSED AND LOCKED light went on. He
flipped the switch to
NORMAL
CLOSED and the indicator came on again.

 
          
“Open
then closed, check closed.”

           
“This beast climbs like an angel,”
Elliott said. “We’re past twelve thousand already. Crew, oxygen check.” He
glanced around his seat. His helmet was nowhere in sight.

 
          
“Go
ahead and check them in, John,” he said. “I’ll check mine when I get leveled
off.” Ormack looked slightly embarrassed. He pulled the boom mike closer and
said, “Defense?”

 
          
“Uh
. . . defense is not complete.”

           
“Neither is offense.”

           
Elliott looked in surprise at his
copilot. “We don’t . . . ?”

           
“Nobody,” Ormack said.

           
“Nobody
has an oxygen mask? No helmet?” Elliott said over the interphone.

 
          
“We
didn’t exactly have time to pack a lunch, General,” McLanahan said.

 
          
“God
damn
it,” Elliott said. He checked the
cabin altimeter on the eyebrow panel; it held steady at seven thousand feet.
“Cabin altitude is steady at seven thousand. How about any masks at all?
Emergency masks? Anything?’’

 
          
Ormack
checked behind his seat. “The firefighter’s mask is in place,’’ he said,
pulling the bag around and examining the mask. It was a full-face mask with a
bayonet clip for the ship’s oxygen system, designed for a crew member to plug
into a portable oxygen “walkaround” bottle and battle a cabin fire.

 
          
“One
oxygen mask,” Elliott said. “No helmets.”

 
          
“We’ll
just have to stay below ten thousand feet,” Ormack said. “We can’t risk a
higher altitude. A subtle loss of cabin altitude, the entire crew gets
hypoxic—we’d be dead before we knew it.”

 
          
“We
can’t do that,” Elliott said. “This aircraft is top secret. We’ve got to get to
a higher altitude and isolate ourselves until my staff or
someone
comes up with a suitable landing base. Under ten thousand
feet, too many air and ground eyes can watch us.”

 
          
“Then
I’ll just keep this thing on until we land, sir,” Ormack said. “A few hours at
best. I can handle it.”

 
          
“No,”
Elliott said. “The mask restricts your vision too much, and there’s no
communications hookup. Okay, ladies and gents, listen up. Until we get back on
the ground, we’re all in jeopardy. No one has any oxygen, at least not a safe
supply. You can stick your oxygen hose in your face and go to ‘EMER’ to get a shot
of oxygen—as a matter of fact, we’ll do that—but it’s a real danger. We’ll do
station and compartment checks every fifteen minutes. Check around more often.
Keep alert for signs of hypoxia. The copilot and I will take turns with the
fire mask. Check around your stations to see what else we’re missing.”

 
          
“Does
it matter, General?” Wendy asked. “We’re going to land soon, aren’t we?”

 
          
“When
it gets dark, and when we find a base that can take us. Obviously, Dreamland is
out. Tonopah or Indian Springs might be alternates. Angelina, Wendy, get in
contact with mission control and—”

 
          
“Problem,
General,” Angelina interrupted. “No secrets.”

 
          
“No
communications documents? No encoding tables? IFF?”

 
          
“I’m
afraid not.”

 
          
“What
do
we have on board?”

 
          
“The
whole world will know about us in no time, General,” Ormack said. “The attack
on Dreamland, this plane, the whole thing. They can’t keep all this secret.
When this plane lands, the whole world will be on hand to see it.”

 
          
Elliott
pushed on the yoke to level off at seventeen thousand feet, staring straight
ahead over the long, sleek nose of the
Megafortress.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Level-off checks, John. Angelina, get a UHF
phone patch through Nellis to Cobalt Control. That’s my section in
Washington
. Advise them that we’re okay and request a
secure radio setup and frequency as soon as possible.”

 
          
“Roger.”

 
          
Just
then a loud voice over all the UHF radios on board interrupted them. “This is
Los Angeles
Center
on guard. Aircraft heading two-eight- five,
altitude seventeen thousand feet, squawk five-two-one-nine and ident if you can
hear me.”

 
          
“That’s
us,” Ormack said. Elliott reached down to his side panel, set the IFF
frequency, turned the transmitter to ON, and hit the IDENT button.

 
          
“Aircraft
is radar contact,” the air traffic controller replied. “Change to frequency
two-nine-seven point eight.”

 
          
Elliott
changed the frequency. “
Los Angeles
Center
, this is Genesis on two-nine-seven point
eight.”

 
          
“Genesis,
ident and spell full call sign,”
Los Angeles
came back. Elliott spelled the name.

 
          
“Genesis?”
Ormack said. “What’s that?”

 
          
“It’s
an old classified collective call sign for military experimental aircraft from
Edwards,” Elliott told him. “We used it when we wanted to go to the
high-altitude structure but didn’t want anyone, even the military airspace
controllers, to know who we were. Dreamland has launched a lot of aircraft
without flight plans all over this area. I hope the guy asks someone else about
it instead of me.”