Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers)

by Philip Donlay

  Michael had already lowered the rear airstair and as Montero ran up, Donovan made a quick check of the 727’s exterior. He pulled the chocks from behind the nose tires, went back to the tail and climbed the airstair up through a narrow metal hallway and emerged into the rear of the plane. Without seats or cargo it seemed cavernous. The second he was aboard, Michael began raising the steps.

  “I never knew you guys flew Boeings,” Montero said, slightly winded. She looked at Donovan and then Michael, waiting for either to reply. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, you don’t fly Boeings, do you?”

  “I am a fully rated Boeing 727 flight engineer,” Michael said and shrugged. “I flew for Northwest Airlines for exactly eight months before I was furloughed. I never went back.”

  “While not technically a 727 pilot,” Donovan added, “when I was in Africa, the guys used to let me fly all the time when I was riding jump seat.”

  Montero pushed past them both as she left for the cockpit, her voice echoing in the empty fuselage. “I have about a hundred hours in a Cessna! Even with the three of us on board, we still don’t make a goddamned Boeing pilot!”

  “You’re going to have to fly,” Michael said as he held up his bandaged hand. “I’m going to put Montero in the copilot seat. I’ll run the engineer’s panel until we’re ready for takeoff then I’ll switch with her. I’ll need her to help. It might be a little clumsy, but it’ll work.”

  “We can do this, right?” Donovan asked. “Just the three of us?”

  “In our sleep,” Michael said as he stopped and secured the main cargo door.

  Donovan slid past Montero and eased into the captain’s seat. He adjusted the height, the travel, and the rudder pedals until he was happy and then secured his harness. Michael pointed for Montero to sit in the copilot’s seat and then began flipping switches on the engineer’s panel.

  “We’ve got thirty-five thousand pounds of fuel, so we’re good,” Michael said. “Call ground control for a start clearance and let’s get this thing in the air.”

  Donovan breathed in the familiar smells of the forty-year-old cockpit, shifted his mindset to his time in Africa, made sure his transmit button was for the correct radio, and then raised the microphone to his mouth. “Budapest, Skybridge 770 request start clearance.”

  “Skybridge 770, start approved,” the controller replied in a normal tone.

  Donovan stowed the microphone, and made room for Michael to lean in and flip switches on the overhead panel as well as the center console.

  “Fuel pumps on. Starting number one,” Michael said as the starter began spinning the first of the three Pratt & Whitney engines.

  Under Michael’s tutelage, Donovan did his part to start the other two engines while Montero kept her eyes on the ramp looking for anyone who looked like they might try to stop them.

  “There’s a car coming from the left,” Montero said. “Yellow lights flashing.”

  “Good, that’s the follow-me vehicle,” Donovan said as he, too, spotted the car. “He’ll lead us out to the runway.”

  “Generators are on, we’re good,” Michael said. “I’m shutting down the APU. Montero, I need you to swap seats with me. Donovan, call for taxi.”

  Donovan did as he was told, and moments later they were issued taxi instructions to runway one-three right. Michael threw on the taxi lights, Donovan released the brakes, added a touch of power, and the big jet began to move forward.

  “Go easy on the throttles, we’re really light,” Michael said. “I’m going to do everything quick and dirty. I’m setting the flaps at fifteen degrees for takeoff. Slats are down, trim is good, spoilers are stowed. Do we have a clearance yet?”

  “Not yet,” Donovan said as the follow-me car flashed his lights and pulled way. The departure end of runway one-three right was dead ahead. Donovan knew better than to question anything Michael was doing. Despite a bandaged hand, he was in a zone, and everything was flowing as it should. Donovan trusted Michael with his life—and was about to do it again.

  “Engine instruments look good, as do the flight instruments. Altimeters are set, three times. Takeoff data set. Get ready, I’m going to call for takeoff clearance.” Michael’s hands were flying around the cockpit as he spoke. Satisfied, he picked up the microphone. “Skybridge 770, ready for clearance and takeoff.”

  “Roger Skybridge,” the controller said. “Hold your position.”

  “Shit! What does that mean?” Montero said, she jumped up from her seat and began looking out each window, searching to see if security was headed their way.

  Michael flipped on the radar, the probe heats, and waited on the landing lights.

  Donovan saw no reason for the delay. There was no other traffic. “I’m not sitting here all night. If we don’t get a clearance soon, I say we go anyway.”

  “Wait a little longer,” Michael said. “It complicates everything if we blow out of here without a clearance.”

  Donovan flexed his fingers in preparation to push the throttles forward.

  “Skybridge 770, Budapest tower, you are cleared to Vilnius as filed. Climb to flight level two-four-zero. Squawk 4721.”

  Michael blew out a breath as he set the transponder code, dialed in the departure frequency, read back the clearance, and then turned to Donovan. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Skybridge 770, you are cleared for takeoff one-three right, contact departure airborne, and have a nice night.”

  Donovan lined up with the centerline of the runway and pushed all three throttles forward. He felt Michael reach out with his left hand and fine tune the engines until they reached takeoff power. With no cargo, the 727 lunged forward and picked up speed rapidly.

  “V-one,” Michael said.

  Donovan knew that they weren’t stopping. In the event of an engine failure, they’d take the airplane into the sky and deal with the problem there.

  “Rotate,” Michael called.

  Donovan eased back on the controls and the nose wheel lifted free from the pavement, followed moments later by the mains. Donovan made a quick adjustment to level the wings and called for Michael to raise the landing gear.

  Michael threw the lever and the wheels retracted smoothly into the fuselage and the airspeed increased. “Pull back on the throttles until I can get the flaps up.” Michael said, as he set the flap lever, switched frequencies, and called departure control.

  “Budapest control. Skybridge 770 with you climbing to flight level two-four-zero.”

  “Radar contact, cleared direct LITKU intersection, climb to flight level three-zero-zero.”

  “Copy, direct LITKU climbing to flight level three-zero-zero.”

  “Uh, Skybridge 770, Budapest. Confirm you have SIGMET Charlie Six for thunderstorms along your route.”

  “That’s affirmative,” Michael said and turned to Donovan. “Give me a minute and I’ll find out what SIGMET Charlie Six is all about. Flaps and slats are up. Go as fast as you want.”

  Donovan nodded and pushed up the throttles. The airspeed needle climbed rapidly to the redline. Donovan felt the slight buffet from the impending overspeed and backed off the throttles enough to hold his speed just at the edge.

  “Navigate to this fix,” Michael said to Donovan as he engaged the flight management system. “Now, hand me your phone. I need to start entering those coordinates from the jump drive.”

  Donovan dug it from his pocket and handed it to Michael. Out ahead of them, he saw the first flash of lightning on the horizon, then another. The higher they climbed the more frequent the bursts. As he leveled the Boeing at thirty thousand feet, it looked like the entire northern sky was one continuous wall of lightning. Tendrils of white-hot cloud-to-cloud lightning spiderwebbed across miles of boiling clouds, punctuated by monstrous strokes of cloud-to-ground bursts.

  Montero leaned in between them. “I’m sorry about my outburst earlier. What can I do?”

  “Get that phone to work,” Michael said. “We need to talk to Calvin. He’ll kno
w about the SIGMET.”

  “What’s a SIGMET?” Montero asked.

  “It’s pilot talk for Significant Meteorological Information, as in the line of severe weather dead ahead.” Donovan said. “Oh, and just so you know—earlier, you weren’t wrong. Technically, there’s not a Boeing pilot among us.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “THAT’S SKYBRIDGE.” TREVOR pointed up to the lights of a rapidly climbing aircraft. “They made it off.”

  “They’re airborne,” Lauren spoke into her phone.

  “That’s good,” Calvin said. “How are you holding up?”

  “Really, we might be a few hours from Armageddon, my daughter is at ground zero, along with most of the other people I care about. What do you think?”

  “That’s not what I was talking about,” Calvin replied. “Though as one of the people at ground zero, I appreciate your concern. I was thinking more along the lines of how you might feel about a side trip to Slovakia? I’ve talked with the Pentagon, and there are military assets being tasked with getting to the hangar where we spotted the Phoenix, but you’re our closest operative. I wouldn’t ask you to go back into Slovakia if it weren’t imperative we get there first.”

  “What are you asking?” Lauren said.

  “If you were to get there soon enough and found the proof we need about an attack on Moscow, perhaps the administration could be convinced to take a different stance on stopping the Phoenix.”

  “The Phoenix, if it makes it to Moscow,” Lauren asked, “how soon will it arrive?”

  “We can only approximate the takeoff time from the single satellite image we have,” Calvin said. “We’re estimating an ETA over Moscow in one hour and thirty minutes.”

  “How long does Donovan have until the Phoenix gets to the Russian border?” Lauren asked.

  “Forty-eight minutes,” Calvin said. “It’ll be close, but from what we know about the Phoenix, if Donovan flies the Gulfstream flat-out, he should be able to catch up.”

  “He’s not in a Gulfstream,” Lauren said. “He and Michael are flying a Boeing 727.”

  “Back up. I assumed he and Michael were going to give chase in the G-V they chartered. You’re telling me they hijacked an airliner?” Calvin asked. “Any idea what their exit strategy might be?”

  “I’m sure he’s got something in mind,” Lauren said. She didn’t want to contemplate the fact that there might be no need for an exit strategy. Instead, she factored in everything she’d just heard and considered the tactical implications of getting to the hangar before the Slovakian authorities. “Let’s discuss the Slovakian operation. To be honest, I don’t think we have the fuel.”

  “Talk to your group. I’ll send you the coordinates. You’re less than fifty miles away. In the meantime, can you help me reach Donovan? There’s an AWACS aircraft orbiting over Poland, and we need to all link up to establish secure communications throughout this operation.”

  “He’s got a satellite phone. I’ll text you the number but I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him shortly.”

  “What was that about?” Marta asked as Lauren finished the call and sent a text message.

  “The DIA wants us to fly to the hangar in Slovakia where they spotted the Phoenix,” Lauren explained. “It’s only fifty miles away. The tactical benefits might be significant.”

  “I get that,” Trevor replied. “But if we divert to Slovakia, we don’t have enough fuel to fly out of Slovakia. I don’t think that’s such a great idea, for you, especially.”

  “What kind of fuel do we need?” Marta asked.

  “Jet-A, it’s essentially aviation-grade kerosene,” Trevor said.

  “Lauren, can I borrow the phone?” Marta held out her hand. “Trevor, where are we, exactly?”

  “I’m following the M-1 highway to Győr.” Trevor held up his map of Hungary. “We’re about right here.”

  “Győr is here.” Marta pointed. “How long of a flight is it from our current position?”

  “Twelve minutes.”

  Marta punched a number into the phone from memory and spoke rapidly in Hungarian. Moments later she disconnected the call and handed the phone back to Lauren. “Győr Airport, there’s no control tower, only one man on the night shift. Land—and we’ll have our fuel.”

  “Trevor, how long will it take us to fly from Győr Airport to these coordinates? It’s the hangar where the Phoenix was spotted.” Lauren handed him her phone. The screen glowed with Calvin’s latitude and longitude message.

  “It’s only forty miles,” Trevor said after he entered the data. “No more than fifteen minutes.”

  “There’s the Győr Airport,” Marta said. “My man on the ground told me that there’s no one around. He said to land on the grass between the transient aircraft and the airport office.”

  “Do you own the place or something?” Trevor asked, but Marta remained silent.

  Lauren decided she knew the answer to that question. Smuggling was no doubt a part of Marta’s business, so it would make sense to control a small airport. “Marta, I don’t know what to expect when we get to Slovakia. How are we set on weapons?”

  “I thought of that too,” Marta said. “Trevor and I are both armed, Michael left his shotgun behind, so we have that. We’ll collect some more weapons when we’re on the ground.”

  “All I want to do is be quick about this,” Trevor said. “I’m not shutting anything down. It’s a quick turn. Be careful, the main rotor will be turning and also keep in mind there’s a tail rotor back there you can’t see. Grab what you need. As soon as we have fuel, we’re out of here.”

  “I’m assuming you can you handle a gun?” Marta asked Lauren.

  “Yes.”

  Marta raised her right pant leg, removed a small automatic, and handed the weapon to Lauren. “Hopefully you won’t need it, but best to be prepared.”

  Lauren took the weapon, pointed it to the side, and slid back the action to check that there was a round in the chamber. There was. She cupped the gun in one hand and the phone in the other, feeling more in control than she had for days.

  “Here we go,” Trevor announced as he made a tight turning approach into the wind while feathering off the speed. They touched down softly, and Trevor reduced the turbine engine to idle.

  Lauren and Marta made their way out into the warm night air. In the distance an engine growled to life and a set of headlights flashed as a fuel truck gathered speed across the ramp, pulling onto the grass just out of the rotor arc. Marta holstered her weapon when she saw the driver jump from the cab. She spoke to him and then turned away as he reeled out the thick hose. Trevor stepped out of the pilot’s seat, stretched, and then hurried to open the fuel door. Moments later, the heavy aroma of kerosene filled the air as the truck began to pump their badly needed fuel.

  “We need weapons,” Marta yelled to the man fueling the helicopter.

  He pointed toward the truck. Mindful of the rotor blades, Lauren followed Marta, who climbed up into the cab and handed down an automatic rifle and extra clips of ammunition. Lauren carried the additional items to the helicopter and secured them in the back row of seats. The pump pushing the fuel wound down, signaling that the helicopter’s tank was full. The hose was rewound onto the reel and after a quick thank you, the truck drove off, and they climbed back aboard the helicopter.

  Lauren and Marta now rode up front with Trevor. He spooled up the engine, the rotor accelerated, stabilized, and he pulled the machine into the air and headed north toward Slovakia.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “CALVIN? IT’S MONTERO.” She winced as lightning lit up the entire cockpit, the line of thunderstorms seemed to sit directly off the left wing.

  Donovan turned to her and held out his hand for the phone. “It’s Donovan. We’re about to deviate from our original flight plan so we can cross each waypoint looking for this guy. What’s our weather situation?”

  “Give me your exact position,” Calvin said, dispensing with any pleasantr
ies.

  “We’re ten miles west of waypoint number three.”

  “The line of weather shouldn’t be a factor. The worst of the thunderstorm activity is north of your route, until you approach the border of Belarus, which is where you’ll have to break off pursuit, anyway.”

  “Okay, next issue. We’re about to cause some problems with Air Traffic Control, but we can’t help that right now. It would be nice to know if we draw the attention of anyone’s military.”

  “We’re patched in with an AWACS flight,” Calvin announced. “This connection is secure. You’re talking with the tactical director—his call sign is Merlin.”

  “Merlin here, I’m fully briefed on your mission, and we’re in a position to extend a watchful eye for as long as it’s required.”

  “Merlin, call us Skybridge 770,” Donovan said, relieved at the sound of the calm professional voice coming from the nerve center of the unseen AWACS flight. The venerable Boeing 707 with a massive rotating antenna perched on top of the fuselage, gave it eyes and ears that covered vast segments of the sky. “We’re going to throw the rulebook away. Please keep us advised if we’re about to have any company.”

  “We copy, Skybridge 770. With the weather to your north, you’ve got the sky pretty much to yourself. Closest traffic is forty miles south of your position, and it’s all civilian.”

  “Merlin, I’m going to hand you off to another member of our crew. She’ll relay anything we need to know.” Donovan handed the phone to Montero. “We’ve got an AWACS watching over us, call sign Merlin, we’re Skybridge 770. I suggest you tighten your seatbelt.”

  Michael had the microphone in his hand, waiting.

  Donovan used his thumb and clicked off the autopilot. He could feel the rumble from the three powerful engines behind him. He watched the mileage to the next waypoint counting down toward zero. When they arrived, it would be time. They roared across waypoint three and Donovan banked the Boeing hard to the right, added power, and allowed the nose to climb without losing any speed.