Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (64 page)

 
          
“He’s
still coming,” Ormack said. McLanahan pulled the automatic from his jacket
pocket and tapped Ormack’s shoulder with it. Ormack turned, saw the gun. “If we
start a firefight here ...”

 
          
“We
may not have any choice.”

 
          
Ormack
nodded, took the gun, keeping it out of view. McLanahan pointed at the number
five RPM gauge. “RPMs are up to forty-five. Number five starter off. Starting
three, six, seven and eight.”

 
          
The
Russian militiaman walked right up to within fifteen yards of the Old Dog,
toward the left cockpit window, his pistol holster in clear view on his waist
but his weapon still in it. When he heard the number three engine start to
spool up he drew his right index finger across his throat.

 
          
“He
wants us to shut down,” Ormack said. He shook his head at the soldier. The
militiaman drew his finger across his throat several more times.

 
          
“Patrick,
we’re running out of time ...”

 
          
There
were several loud
bangs
on both wings
this time, and the Old Dog began to buck and rumble as if its insides had been
seized by a coughing fit. The Russian soldier backed away several feet as a
cloud of blue-black smoke from the number three engine hit him.

 
          
“Continue
the start,” Ormack yelled. Clouds of smoke began to enter the cockpit through
the open window. “Move the generator switch on number five engine from RESET to
RUN.” When he next saw the Russian soldier he was back beside his halftrack
shouting orders inside. Suddenly another soldier appeared at the machine-gun
mount on top of the halftrack. A moment later he was handed a large machine
gun, which he began bolting into its armor-plated mount.

 
          
Ormack
saw it and called out a warning.

 
          
“Number
three’s not starting,” McLanahan said. “Number six started.”

 
          
“We’re
set to taxi,” Ormack answered. “Continue the start. Hang on.” He tapped the toe
brakes to release the parking brake, scanned the engines, took hold of number
four, five and six throttles and jammed them to almost full military thrust.

 
          
The
Old Dog rumbled mightily but refused to move.

 
          
“She’s
not taxiing, we need all available engines,” Ormack told McLanahan.

 
          
McLanahan
kept a hand on the number seven throttle. As Ormack spoke he advanced that
throttle to IDLE power. “Seven started, three’s coming up.” Three engines now
running at almost full power, along with three sputtering and exploding.

 
          
Ormack
jammed the number-seven throttle to military, but the Old Dog still would not
move.

 
          
“C'mon,
you sonofabitch.”

 
          
Ormack
looked at the Russian halftrack, could see the first Russian soldier pressing
one hand to his ear, giving the “cut-engines” sign with his other, then
slapping it back over his uncovered ear.

 
          
“Three’s
started,” McLanahan said. “Eight coming up.”

 
          
“Get
the generators on-line for the running engines,” Ormack told him, keeping an
eye on the Russian at the halftrack’s gun-mount. “Anti-icing switch on.
Manifold switch closed. Hydraulic switches on. Stabilizer trim set—” Ormack
looked up from his checklists in time to see the gunner on top of the halftrack
point his gun just over the Old Dog’s fuselage and fire.

           
Ormack instinctively ducked, pulling
McLanahan down. The roar of the engines drowned out the chatter of the
heavy-caliber gun and the bullets whizzing a few feet above them. McLanahan
went on with the engine start, advanced the throttle on number eight to IDLE.
Both men looked up over the instrument-panel glare-shield. The lead Russian
soldier was again giving them the cut-engine sign, and this time the gunner had
his weapon pointed directly at the cockpit.

 
          
Ormack
did not look at McLanahan as he pulled on his headset. Over interphone he
called, “Everyone on interphone? Report by compartment.”

 
          
He
then brought all engine throttles to IDLE. “Crew, we’ve got a Russian armored
vehicle about a hundred yards off our left wing. They’ve got a machine gun.
They’ve ordered us to cut our engines—”

 
          
The
HATCH NOT CLOSED AND LATCHED light on the forward instrument panel snapped on
then and before either Ormack or McLanahan could react it popped out.

 
          
“What
was
that?”

 
          
“I
don’t... Dave, did you open the hatch?” No reply. “Luger. Report.” McLanahan
was about to unbuckle his safety belt and go downstairs but stopped when Ormack
called out, “Luger,
no.
”

 
          
McLanahan
turned and looked outside. Wearing only his flight suit and boots, Luger was
hobbling toward the fuel truck parked near the Old Dog’s left wingtip. He was
carrying one of the .38 caliber survival revolvers.

 
          
Nobody
could speak, only watch, horrified, as Luger stumbled, right leg flopping in
the air, then quickly rolled back up to his feet and half-crawled to the fuel
truck as the gunner swung his machine gun directly at Luger.

 
          
Ormack
came alive, stuck the .45 caliber automatic out his left cockpit window and
fired, the slug creating a bright blue spark as it ricocheted off the gun
mount’s armored shield. The gunner whirled his gun toward the cockpit, which
provided an opening to his right side. Luger had reached the truck, now
steadied his arm on the hood and emptied the revolver at the gunner. One of the
slugs found its target.

 
          
“Luger.
Get back here ...”

 
          
Luger
heard Ormack, started back for the Old Dog. But another soldier appeared from
behind the halftrack, lifted a rifle with a long, curved cartridge clip, fired.
Luger clutched his left thigh and pitched forward.

 
          
Ormack
could only fire his pistol again, forcing the Russian at the back of the
halftrack to retreat, but he did not notice another soldier sliding into the
machine gun mount on the halftrack.

           
He took aim on the Old Dog, fired.

 
          
The
twenty-millimeter shells plowed through the Old Dog’s left side, showering the
cockpit with glass. Ormack was thrown over to the center console, where he
tried to shield his face from flying glass. Pain clutched his left shoulder.

 
          
“Get
down,” McLanahan yelled back to Wendy and Angelina.

 
          
Another
fusillade of bullets erupted inside the Old Dog, sparks flying as the left load
central circuit breaker panel was hit. Lights flickered, exploded. One of the
engines faltered. Wendy unfastened her parachute straps and flattened herself
on the deck as bullets hit her defensive-systems jammers and threat-receivers.

 
          
Abrupt
dead silence. Aft, McLanahan saw the two women crawling on the upper deck
beside the unconscious General Elliott.

 
          
“You
two all right?”

 
          
“Yes,”
Wendy said, “Oh, God . . . Colonel Ormack . . .” McLanahan turned, saw Ormack
slumped against the center console and throttle quadrant, bleeding heavily,
hands covered with blood. McLanahan pulled him back into his seat, searched out
the window for his partner. And then he understood why they had stopped
shooting at the Old Dog. Luger was no longer lying in the snow. Somehow he had
managed to crawl back to the fuel truck, had started it up and was now
barreling toward the armored halftrack, whose gunner had turned the machine gun
muzzle on the cab of the truck.

 
          
“Dave,
noo
...”

 
          
The
halftrack’s gunner had gotten off a half-second burst at the truck, and
McLanahan watched what was left of the truck’s windshield explode. A moment
later the truck smashed into the halftrack.

 
          
“Dave
. . .”

 
          
The
tank truck’s remaining fifty gallons of unusable fuel and three thousand cubic
feet of kerosene fumes ignited and ripped it apart like an overinflated
balloon. The halftrack did some lazy cartwheels and landed upside-down eighty
yards from the blast, scattering metal and men across the parking ramp.

 
          
The
noise of the six running engines seemed a purr next to the force of the blast.
When McLanahan looked outside where the truck used to be, he saw a blackened
crater, a smoking hunk of metal on the other side of the ramp, smoldering
mounds of human flesh in the snow.

 
          
No
sign of Luger.

 
          
McLanahan
couldn’t, wouldn’t accept it. “He can’t be dead, can’t be . . .”

 
          
“We’ve
got to get out of here,” Ormack said, hauling himself straight in the pilot’s
seat. “Patrick, you’ve got to make the takeoff, I can’t do it—’’

 
          
“But
Dave ... we can’t leave—”

 
          
“
Patrick
. Dave . . . gave us our chance.
We’ve got to take it . . .”

 
          
McLanahan
shook his head. “I ... I can’t take off, never done it before ...”

 
          
Ormack
climbed out of the left seat. “Climb in. You’re up, buddy. Do it.”

 
          
“Anadyr
Control, this is Ossora one-seven-one, Element Seven. Requesting landing
clearance. Over.”

 
          
No
answer. Yuri Papendreyov scanned his navigation instruments. There was no
error; he was only thirty miles from Anadyr Far East Fighter-Interceptor Base.
Although the base was not active
someone
should
still be there.

 
          
Papendreyov
switched his radio to the Fleet Common frequency, the backup frequency for all
Soviet air defense forces. “This is Ossora one- seven-one on Fleet Common
Alpha. One-seven-one is making an emergency approach and landing at Anadyr
Airfield. Over.”

 
          
No
answer on Fleet Common. He set his transponder to a special emergency code,
activated it. Any air-defense forces, he
hoped,
would see his beacon before they started shooting . . . with an Air Defense
Emergency declared for the region he’d be lucky to get near the base without
finding himself under attack from his own people.

 
          
Yuri
flipped his checklist cards over to the approach-and-landing section, began to
set up for landing. One more ridge line to cross and
Anadyr
should be within visual range.

 
          
With
only a half-hour of fuel left he decided to wait until just a few kilometers
from the base before lowering his gear and configuring for landing. He would
make one pass over the runway to check it over—and hope to get someone’s attention—then
pitch out, enter the visual pattern and land. He had to save his fuel in case
he had to orbit the field to wait for the runway to be plowed off enough to
make it safe to land.

 
          
Damn
the luck, he was positive—still positive—that the American intruder was nearby,
still a threat. He checked his chronometer ... it had only been an hour and
forty minutes since he last saw the B-52 near Ossora. Flying in the Korakskoje
Nagorje mountain range at six hundred kilometers an hour maximum, the B-52
could not have gone farther than Uel-Kal or Egvekinot on the Anadyrskij Zaliv,
only two hundred kilometers from
Anadyr
. But
none of those coastal bases had picked up the B-52 on radar, so it must still
be hiding in the mountains around
Anadyr
,
trying to pick its way around the defenses.