Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (61 page)

 
          
“Airbrakes
zero,” Elliott said as Ormack read from the computerized checklist on his
screen. “Ready for the gear and flaps, here they come.” He lowered the gear
handle, Ormack moved the flap switch to its first- stage position, Elliott
started a slow right turn to put them perpendicular to the snow-covered runway.

 
          
“Left-tip
gear shows unsafe,” Ormack said, watching the gauges. “All other wheels down.
Flaps twenty-five percent.”

 
          
Elliott
moved the throttles forward to regain speed as the huge flaps, large as barn
doors, lowered into the slipstream, allowing the bomber to fly increasingly
slower on final approach.

 
          
“Fuel
danger lights on for all mains,” Ormack announced.

 
          
“Okay,
crew, this is it,” Elliott said, forcing his voice to sound calmer than he
felt. “The fuel’s run out. We either land or eject. Dave, I’ll make sure you
get a few hundred feet altitude, but don’t delay pulling the trigger.”

 
          
“Nav
. . . copies . . Luger was not as successful in controlling his voice. His
shoulder harness was already locked, his back and neck stiff and straight, his
hands rested lightly on the trigger-ring between his legs.

 
          
“Patrick
..he whispered, fighting off the pain in his leg. McLanahan didn’t have a
chance. He would need several thousand feet to even attempt manual bailout,
much less survive it.

 
          
Elliott
started a slow turn to the right again to align the Old Dog onto the runway.

 
          
“Flaps
fifty,” Ormack said. “Starters on. Fuel panel is set. Running on fumes now ...”

 
          
“Lower
the nose,” Elliott said. Ormack flipped a switch and the long, pointed
SST-style nose slid down beneath the windscreen.

 
          
“Landing
lights,” Elliott ordered, and the four-thousand-watt lights on the landing gear
struts snapped on and the Russian runway leapt into view. A massive snowdrift
at least thirty feet high blocked the approach end of the runway. Elliott
shoved the power forward.

 
          
“Flaps
full
” he called out.

 
          
The
howl of the engines obliterated all sound. Luger had his eyes on the bailout
warning light on his front console, waiting for the command to eject, his
fingers closing around the trigger ring. Wendy and Angelina tensed.

 
          
The
right-front landing-gear truck plowed into the small mountain of ice, the Old
Dog heeled sharply to the right and plummeted down, its nose rushing toward the
frozen runway. Elliott stomped on the left rudder before realizing that their
rudder was useless, shot away long ago. He jammed the yoke full-back and
full-left to try to counteract the headlong tumble, but the Old Dog was a
freight train out of control.

 
          
McLanahan
folded his arms across his chest, waited. He felt the impact on the ice, felt
the plane lurch to the right at an angle so steep and so sudden he thought the
plane had flipped upside down. The right wing stayed down, and he found himself
wondering what the crash would look like from outside, a hundred tons of B-52
cartwheeling around on the frozen ground.

 
          
He
closed his eyes and waited for everything to grow dark and the sound to stop .
. .

 
          
For
the first time since he began his chase Yuri Papendreyov was beginning to feel
he had made a mistake.

 
          
Despite
stealing his MiG-29
Fulcrum,
he had
been receiving assistance from ground and air forces in trying to locate the
B-52 intruder. But so far he hadn’t found it. The climb to twenty-six thousand
meters, almost eighty thousand feet, was necessary to receive reports from the
elements of the Far East Air Defense Force searching for the B-52 ... at lower
altitudes the mountains would block out reports from coastal or partially
terrain-obscured stations. All had reported negative contact . . .

 
          
Yuri
had taken his
Fulcrum
nine hundred
kilometers along the
Korak-
skoje
Mountains
toward Trebleski and Beringovskiy, the main
coastal air-defense base and radar installation north of Ossora. He was sure
the B-52 would stay along the Korakskoje, hiding in the rugged mountain peaks,
then destroy or jam the Beringovskiy radar and head out across the
Gulf
of
Anadyr
toward
Alaska
. With the powerful Beringovskiy radar down,
the inferior MiG-23s of the Trebleski Air Reserve Forces, although very heavily
armed, would not be able to spot the low-flying B-52 or engage it.

 
          
Papendreyov
checked his fuel. He would already be in emergency fuel status if he had not
taken along the largest external fuel tank available, but now he was again very
low on fuel. Only his long idle glide from high altitude left him with enough
to make some decisions . . . Trebleski was the most obvious choice for a
quick-turn refueling, but Anadyr, a small limited-operations base, was
available and within gliding range. He had been briefed, though, not to use
Anadyr
or other such warm-weather bases except in
an emergency.

 
          
He
had no choice—Trebleski it had to be. He switched his radios to Trebleski
Command Post, requested permission for landing and a “hot” refueling, a
battlefield-quick refueling technique where a high-pressure tank truck pumped
fuel while the aircraft engines were still running.

 
          
“Ossora
one-seven-one, Trebleski copies your request. Stand by.”

 
          
“Standing
by,” Papendreyov replied. Then: “Trebleski, say latest reports on intruder
aircraft.”

 
          
“One-seven-one,
intruder last reported by Ossora radar bearing two- eight-two true, range
twenty-one kilometers, heading three-four-one true.”

 
          
“That
report is hours old, Control. Any other reports? Has Beringovskiy reported
contact?”

 
          
“No
reports by Beringovskiy radar, one-seven-one. You are cleared for approach to
Trebleski Airfield, descend and maintain two thousand meters. Your request for
hot refueling has been delayed. Expect cold refueling support in bunker
seventeen on landing.”

 
          
“Control,
I am a priority air-defense aircraft. Request priority hot refueling.”

 
          
“Copy
your request, one-seven-one,” the Trebleski controller replied.

           
“Priority request is being delayed
by your headquarters. Stand by for confirmation of your flight-tasking. Reset
transponder to one-one-one- seven for positive identification. Stand by this
frequency.”

 
          
Papanedreyov
swore into his face mask. So that was the reason for the delay ... by
requesting priority refueling he’d forced Trebleski to run a check on his
flight-tasking order—which, of course, Yuri didn’t have. If he’d just accepted
a normal bunker refueling he would have gotten a fast turnaround because of the
air-defense emergency and Trebleski wouldn’t have double-checked. Now Ossora
would know exactly where he’d taken his fighter on its unauthorized chase. No
doubt they’d order him arrested after landing.

 
          
Yuri
checked his chart, saw he was now actually closer to
Anadyr
than Trebleski.
Anadyr
would have fuel, might even be set up for a
hot refueling. He could wait at
Anadyr
and
monitor the interceptor frequency for any sign of the B-52, then chase it down
and destroy it. If the B-52 didn’t show—but that was impossible—he could
refuel, cruise back to Ossora and try to talk his way out of a court-martial or
a firing squad.

 
          
He
ignored the request to set a new identification code and pointed his MiG-29
Fulcrum
toward
Anadyr
, switching radio frequencies to
Anadyr
’s command post. He would be in radio range
of the base in half an hour, and he would still have almost an hour’s worth of
fuel once over
Anadyr
. . .

 
          
S
ergei Serbientlov was indulging in one
of his few delights—Chinese food. It wasn’t exactly a popular dish in this
remote corner of the
Soviet
Union
but perhaps
that was one of the reasons why he enjoyed cooking and eating Chinese food—it
set him apart. Unfortunately it was that sort of anti-Soviet thinking—and
eating—that got him stuck in
Anadyr
in
the first place, but everyone had to be somewhere.

 
          
Besides,
it wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t a state of exile being here in the very
northeastern tip of the
Soviet Union
;
it was more like an unscheduled, involuntary reassignment. He had free housing,
free food, vehicles at his disposal and a few hundred rubles extra every month
being sent back to his family in
Irkutsk
.

 
          
Plus,
he had responsibility and a lot of autonomy. During the preceding two months
and for the next two, he had been and would be the chief custodian of a Far
East Defense Force Fighter-Interceptor Base. It didn’t matter that there were
no fighters here—he was in charge of the base. He was the chief policeman,
firefighter, banker, lawyer, janitor and mayor of millions of rubles of
equipment and buildings. During the long dark winter months he was the richest
and most powerful man in this province of fishermen, trappers, and loggers.

 
          
Sergei
now deftly manipulated a hand-whittled pair of chopsticks to pick up a mass of
noodles and fish. He had grown the seasonings and herbs himself in a greenhouse
on the base, and he frequently traded with the villagers and nearby fishermen
for the fish and flour to make the noodles. The area seemed to have everything,
and Sergei was sure that the fishermen took their boats out into the wild
Anadyrskij Zaliv across to Saint Lawrence Island or even
Nome
to trade with the Americans.

           
He passed his nose over the noodles
and spiced fish. It was a strange concoction for breakfast, but his only other
option was some four-month- old
ryepa
—turnips—from
some old witch in town. No thank you.

 
          
He
brought the savory, heavily spiced noodles to his lips and was about to take a
bite when the double-doors leading to the outer hallway burst open and two
figures rushed into the tiny office and half-stumbled, half- ran up to the
chest-high counter that extended the length of the room.

 
          
The
taller of the two was dragging his right leg, which was covered with blackened
blood from toe to hip. He had an arm over the shoulder of his companion, who
was wrapped in a coarse green blanket.

 
          
“Gdye poonkt skoray pomashchi!”
the
injured man screamed in thick monotone Russian. “My leg! Where’s the hospital?”

 
          
Sergei
nearly dropped his noodles in his lap. “What?”

 
          
“Where
is the
hospital?
My leg—”

 
          
“There
is no hospital. What happened to your leg?” Sergei came quickly from behind the
long counter to the two men. Except on closer inspection he found that the man
in the blanket was a
woman.
She had
long, salt-and-pepper gray hair and deep, dark eyes—she could have been
Oriental herself, Sergei guessed, or Latin. Her lips chattered in the cold as
she looked quickly at Sergei, then averted her eyes to her injured companion.

 
          
The
man dragged himself over to a rough wooden bench in a far corner of the office
and dropped onto it. He was tall and ruggedly built, perhaps an old military
man. He looked frozen as well, and his skin was gray and sunken—probably from
loss of blood, Sergei thought.

 
          
“
Gyde polizei?”
the man said. His accent
was strange, obviously not from the local area, although very few locals
were
from this obscure corner of the
world.

 
          
“Why
do you want the police?” Sergei bent to examine the man’s leg. He couldn’t see
the wound itself but the blood loss was obviously great. “There are no police
here. The village constables won’t come to the base. I will help you all I can,
but only if you tell me—”

 
          
“Nyet, spasiba
. ” Suddenly Sergei was
looking into the barrel of a very big, very ugly blue-black automatic pistol.
As the muzzle touched his nose, Sergei slowly rose and backed away.

 
          
The
woman threw off her blanket and helped the injured man to his feet. Her
clothing made Sergei forget about the pistol. She was wearing a short, rough
blue jacket—
denim.
She was wearing
denim.
And then Sergei noticed her blue
jeans and fancy leather boots.

 
          
“.
. . blue jeans?” Sergei said, one of the few foreign phrases he knew. “
Gdye mozhna koopit
blue jeans?”

           
The woman turned to her companion.
“What did he say, General?”

 
          
“I
didn’t catch it all, but the man likes your blue jeans,” Elliott said. He
turned toward the double doors. “Patrick!”

 
          
Crouching
low, McLanahan rushed through the doors, a .38 caliber survival revolver
clutched in his hand. He ran over to the Russian and pointed his revolver at
the man’s temple. Sergei closed his eyes.

 
          
“Search
him,” Elliott ordered. McLanahan quickly pat-searched Sergei, keeping his
revolver aimed at his head. Elliott then turned Sergei around and backed him
into the bench, forcing him to sit. With both his own and McLanahan’s guns
still pointed, Elliott took Sergei’s hands and put each one on top of his head.
Sergei sat on the wooden bench, eyes tight shut.

 
          
“Vi gavariti pahangliyski?”
Elliott was
asking if he spoke English. Sergei opened his eyes, forced himself to look at
each of the strangers.

 
          
“
Nyet
. Please don’t kill me . . .”

 
          
“
Pazhaloosta
,
gavariti myedlinna,
” Elliott said, telling him to speak slowly.
The man looked less terrified now, though very confused. “
Kagda polizei virnyotsa?”
Elliott asked when the police would be
back.

 
          
“No
police,” Sergei replied. He kept his hands up, but his shoulders visibly
relaxed. Slowly he said in Russian, “Police ... do not come ... to base.”

 
          
“I
understood the
no,
” McLanahan said,
taking a double-handed grip on the pistol.

 
          
“I
think he’s saying there are no police,” Elliott said. “This is going to be
rough—I can understand about every fifth word.” He leaned forward, still aiming
his pistol at Sergei’s forehead. “
Binzuh
,
binzuh.
Gasoline.
Binzuhkalonka?”

 
          
Sergei
looked relieved. “
Pazhaloosta
/”
Sergei said. “Don’t worry,
tovarisch.
Put down your gun, I won’t turn you in, I know the routine . . .”

 
          
“Whatever
you said, General,” Angelina said, “the man looks happy now. What’d he say?”

 
          
“Hell
if I know. I just asked him for gasoline. I’m his comrade now, that’s all I
understood.”

 
          
They
were speaking English, Sergei said to himself. Obviously only the old man knew
any Russian at all—the younger ones still wore blank expressions.

 
          
Sergei
winked and tried to stand. McLanahan pushed him back down. Sergei looked at the
strangers with a mixture of surprise and humor.

 
          
“Yest li oo vas riba?”
Sergei asked.
“Sir? Kooritsa?
I will trade. No
problem.”

 
          
“Fish?
Cheese? Chicken?” Elliott said to himself. “He’s asking if we have fish? I
don’t ...” Then he did. He nodded at the Russian, who nodded in return. Elliott
pulled him up off the bench and allowed him to lower his hands.

 
          
McLanahan
didn’t lower his revolver. “What’s the story, General?”

 
          
“Black
market,” Elliott said, smiling. The Russian smiled back. “This gentleman runs
some kind of black market out here. If my guess is right, he trades fish, meat,
cheese, and stuff for gasoline.”

 
          
Sergei
let out a sigh of relief when the younger man finally lowered his revolver—his
eyes had looked scared, but his hand didn’t waver and Sergei had no doubt he
would have pulled the trigger in an instant. Followed by the younger man,
Sergei went to a locker behind his desk and pulled out his hat, mittens and
coat. As he pulled them on he had a chance to examine the young man’s coat. It
was thick, dark gray, and it didn’t look like cotton or leather.

 
          
Slowly,
carefully, he reached over to the man’s collar and touched it. It looked like
cloth but felt like plastic. A plastic coat? It had pockets on the front and
arms that fastened with strange zipperless fasteners. Who were these men? And
why were they wearing plastic and warm while their woman wore rare expensive
cotton denim but was freezing to death?

 
          
Elliott
saw the fur-lined coat the Russian wore and glanced at the shivering Angelina.
“Mnye noozhnuh adyezhda,
” Elliott said.
He pointed at the fur billowing out from the Russian’s collar.
⁶ⁱ
Baranina.
”

 
          
Sergei
nodded, reached into his locker and took out his severe-weather coat, a long,
heavy sealskin greatcoat with wolf-fur lining the hood, then went over to the
woman and held it out to her. Angelina, noticing the man’s obvious interest in
her denim jacket, slipped it off and held it out to him.

 
          
The
Russian acted as if she had just given him the crown jewels. Sergei examined
every seam and stitch in the jacket, muttering the strange English words he
found on the steel buttons, then carefully folded it and hid it far back on the
top shelf of his locker.

 
          
“I
can make a fortune here,” Angelina said as she pulled the coat over her
shivering shoulders. “I’ve got a whole closet full of those old beat-up
jackets.” Her face brightened as, for the first time in hours, she felt her
body warming up.

 
          
“Come,”
Sergei said in Russian. “Back to business.” He led the group outside. They
climbed into a waiting Zadiv panel truck and drove down the flightline.

 
          
Over
the clatter of the truck’s ancient heater, which stubbornly refused to emit any
heat despite the racket, Elliott said, “Keep an eye out for a fuel truck or
fuel pumps.”

 
          
“What
do they say on them?” McLanahan asked, keeping his hand on the Smith and Wesson
revolver in his pocket.

           
“I don’t know.” Elliott breathed on
the side window of the truck, which instantly froze. Against the rumble and
crunching motion of the truck he drew five Cyrillic characters—an “O” with a
flag on top of it, and “E,” a backward “N,” a curly backward “E,” and an “O.”
“Binzuh,
” Elliott said. “That means
gasoline.”

 
          
Sergei
nodded and smiled . . . the old man was giving the youngsters a lesson in
Russian.
“Da,
” Sergei said in
Russian, “we are going to get you gasoline.”

 
          
“Look,”
Angelina said, pointing to the right. There, surrounded by a tall barbed-wire
fence, was a white steel cylinder twenty feet high and about thirty feet in
diameter. A lone white tanker truck was parked beside it.

 
          
“Binzuh?”
Elliott asked the Russian,
pointing to the tank. The Russian glanced at the tank but continued driving.