Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01

by Flight of the Old Dog (v1. 1)

  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. 6iBaranina. ”

  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.

  “Nyet, ” Sergei said, pointing ahead. “Not gasoline. Kerosene.” Elliott showed his puzzlement, not understanding the words. Sergei kept on driving.

  “Pahvirniti napravah, ” Elliott said. “Turn right.” He pointed at the tank once again. Sergei shook his head.

  McLanahan pulled out his revolver and held it to the Russian’s temple. “Do as the man says, tovarisch. ” Sergei stiffened. Elliott nodded and pointed to the tank.

  Sergei turned toward Elliott, clearly puzzled. What did they want? “Does your boat use kerosene?” Sergei said in Russian. “That will do you no good.”

  “Boat?” Elliott said, trying to decipher the words. “I understood boat but nothing else.”

  Sergei was pointing more emphatically toward a road nearby that headed east. “Diesel,” Sergei said in Russian, pointing. “This way. Don’t worry. I won’t cheat you.”

  McLanahan pressed the revolver’s muzzle against Sergei’s head.

  “Pazhaloosta, ” Sergei said, holding up his hands. “All right.” With a shrug of his shoulders he bullied the old truck into a right turn and headed for the tank. A few minutes later, with McLanahan holding his revolver in sight but not aimed at him, Sergei had opened the gate to the tank compound and led the group inside.

  Now he opened a belly valve on the tank truck parked next to the large above-ground tank and a few gallons of liquid spilled onto the snow. Angelina bent down and sniffed.

  “It smells like kerosene,” she said. “It’s not jet fuel or gasoline. What do we do?”

  “We may have lucked out,” Elliott said, reaching into an inner pocket and taking out a yellow hand-held survival radio. Depressing a black button in the center, he turned a channel select switch to an unmarked frequency position and pushed the transmit button.

  “John, how do you read?” Elliott spoke into the radio.

  Aboard the Old Dog, John Ormack pulled the boom microphone of his headset closer to his lips and raised his voice over the noise of the number four engine idling in the background. “Loud and clear, General. Where are you? Any luck?”

  “We’re good. We may have what we need. Double-check section five of the tech order. Check on the use of alternate fuels. We might have enough kerosene here ...”

  “Stand by.” Ormack reached behind his seat and pulled out the Old Dog’s technical order, the plane’s instruction manual, found the listing and keyed his microphone.

  “Got it, General. Kerosene is an approved alternate fuel. We may have trouble with it if it has no anti-icing additive, but we can fly with it. How much do you have?”

  “We got a tank truck that looks like it holds ten thousand gallons. That’s sixty thousand pounds.”

  “Should do it,” Ormack said. “Dave figured a minimum of fifty thousand to get us to Nome.”

  “We’ll call you back when we’re headed toward you.”

  “A B-52 can use kerosene for fuel?” Angelina asked doubtfully.

  “The books says it can,” Elliott told her. He turned to the Russian. He was no longer smiling and jovial.

  “Kak vasha imya? Atkooda vz?” the Russian said sternly. “Who are you? Where are you from? You are not fishermen.”

  “Sputniks, ” Elliott said, getting the bare gist of the questions. “Travelers.” Sergei was still looking suspicious. Suddenly he snatched at the yellow survival radio, and before Elliott could grab it back Sergei had read U.S. AIR FORCE on a back instruction plate. McLanahan quickly raised the revolver to Sergei’s head.

  “I think we lost our buddy here, troops,” Elliott said. He pointed at the truck. “Patrick, check out that tank truck. See how much kerosene it has.”

  McLanahan gave his revolve
r to Angelina, who pointed it with some expertise at the Russian. McLanahan found a dipstick in the truck’s cab, climbed on top of the truck and checked the amount of fuel inside through a cap. “Probably one-quarter full,” he said.

  “Not enough. Okay, tovarisch, ” Elliott said in Russian. “I want gasoline in truck. Mnye noozhna binzuh ...” he tapped on the truck. Sergei did not move, unsure.

  “I’ll convince him, General,” Angelina said. She prodded the Russian around to the side of the truck where McLanahan was busy lifting a high-pressure hose. McLanahan fastened one end of the hose onto the truck, the other to one of the valves rising from the ground. Angelina motioned to the truck with her revolver.

  “Help him,” she said. The Russian looked at McLanahan lugging the heavy hose, then blankly back at Angelina. Angelina cocked the revolver and held it to the Russian’s forehead. ‘Wow. ”

  Sergei held up his hands and nodded, walked to McLanahan and gestured for him to reattach the hose at another valve, then removed and replaced the end of the hose at the truck. When the hose was fully attached Sergei opened the valves and kerosene began rushing from the tank to the truck. Minutes later the truck was full.

  “Patrick, you drive the panel truck,” Elliott said. “Angelina, go with him. I’ll ride with our buddy here in the tanker.”

  McLanahan ran over to the Zadiv, started it up and waited for Elliott and the Russian to get in the tanker.

  “Pazhaloosta, ” Elliott said when he and Sergei had climbed inside the icebox-like cab of the tanker. He gestured at the truck outside the fence, then pointed his pistol at the Russian. “Fetam napravlyenil. Please. This way.”

  Sergei watched the muzzle of the .45. When Elliott inadvertently swung it too high he reached out with his right hand and tried to grab it away. He’d been a clown too long . . .

  A shot rang out, and the windshield of the tanker truck exploded, showering them with shards of glass. Sergei leapt out of the truck, running back around the fence. No longer a hero.

  McLanahan and Angelina caught a glimpse of him just as he disappeared down a line of trees that paralleled the flight line road, and Angelina took a shot at him but the bullet ricocheted harmlessly away.

  McLanahan ran for the tanker and jumped into the cab. “You all right, General?”

  “Yes, dammit, but things are going to get tense here real quick.” He turend to Angelina as she came to the right side of the tanker. “Take the panel truck to the plane. Patrick and I will take the tanker. Sure as hell he’s going to call for help, we won’t have much time.”

  It took a few moments for McLanahan to figure out how to get the fuel truck moving, but soon the two trucks pulled up to where they had half-hidden the Old Dog in a wide parking area between two hangars. Ormack came running out, the second survival revolver in hand. He saw the smashed windshield, looked to Elliott. “What . . . ?”

  “We had a comrade but he bugged out on us. We’ve got to work fast before he calls in the Marines. John, you’ll be up in the cockpit on the fuel panel. I think I can figure out how to work the pump on the tank truck so I’ll be outside.” He called over to Angelina in the panel truck. “Pull the truck over to the right wingtip. Patrick, climb up on the right wing, open one of the fuel filler ports and we’ll fill it from there. Angelina will help with the hose. Where’s Wendy and Dave?”

  “I’ve got Dave in the cockpit monitoring the engines,” Ormack said. “Wendy is on the radios calling for help.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet. I’m not sure what anyone can do for us anyway, unless we lift off out of here.”

  Ormack then began unreeling the refueling hose from the truck while McLanahan climbed on the Old Dog’s right wing, a screwdriver in his teeth.

  “The main-wing tanks have dozens of holes in them,” Ormack told Elliott as the general began to decipher and operate the truck’s pump controls. “The forward body tank has a few leaks too. McLanahan will pump fuel into the center tank. I’ll plan on keeping the fuel in the center, aft and mid-body tanks, but once we get up to engine start and takeoff we’ll have to put fuel in the mains. We’ll be losing fuel like crazy after that—”

  “Nothing we can do about it,” Elliott said, “unless you’ve enough chewing gum to plug the holes.” Elliott started the truck’s fuel pumps and waved to McLanahan, who had a filler cap off the center-wing fuel tank and was dragging the hose across the wing and over to the fuselage. “Ready anytime, Patrick.”

  Huddled against the biting wind, McLanahan inserted the fuel nozzle into the open fuel port on the fuselage between the two huge wings and began pumping fuel. Below him, Ormack ran inside the Old Dog and took Luger’s place at the controls.

  Luger, right leg heavily taped and bandaged, limped downstairs and out to the fuel truck, carrying several quart cans taped together. “I found the spare oil downstairs near the survival rations. I’ll fill up the number two engine with oil. At least we should be able to use it for takeoff before it disintegrates.”

  “Good, Dave . . . how you doing?”

  “Great,” Luger said, dropping the case of oil on the truck’s fender to spell himself. “I have a blinding headache, I’m freezing cold and my right leg looks like Swiss cheese. How are you, sir?”

  “Got you beat, Dave, but if I talk too much I’m afraid I’ll pass out.”

  “Let me handle the pump, General. You get inside.”

  “No, put the oil in, then see what you can do about ripping loose some of the metal and that broken tip gear off the wings. It’s all drag—we can do without it. Especially for a seven-engine takeoff.”

  “You got it, sir . . . you know, I still don’t believe we’re doing this. I mean, actually stealing gas from a Russian fighter base—”

  “We may be pumping water into our tanks, for all we know. There just wasn’t time to keep on looking . . .” And so saying, Elliott seemed to be drifting off, falling asleep, the rush of adrenaline wearing off. . .

  Chief Constable Vjarelskiv, the regional militia commander, grimmaced as he took a sip of what he was told was kofye, a thick liquid of grain and coffee. He took a bite of khlyep to take the dusty taste away, glaring all the time at Serbientlov, who was standing wringing his hat in his hands in front of Vjarelskiv’s desk.

  “This is nonsense, Serbientlov,” the constable said. “You bring me tales of armed attackers at the base—two men and a woman ... What did they steal? Your precious Chinese chopsticks? Are you sure you didn’t dream up the whole story?”

  “This is no joke, tovarisch, ” Sergei said. “If we don’t hurry they’ll get away.”

  “With what? A snow plow? Your noodles?”

  “They commandeered a fuel truck, and . . . and they had explosives. They threatened to blow up everything. The whole base. You have to do something—”

  “Your story gets taller every moment, Serbientlov,” the constable said. He leaned back into his chair, fixing Sergie with an icy stare. “Are you sure this is not a . . . shall we say, a falling-out of thieves?”

  Sergei fidgeted uncomfortably but managed to sound indignant. “Thieves? You are not accusing me, tovarisch? The only thieves here are the ones out—”

  “Stop it, Serbientlov. The little empire you’ve built at the base is well- known, at least to the citizens in the area. You use more diesel in four months than the whole Soviet navy uses in a year, supposedly for your fleet of plows but the streets and runways are always clogged with snow and you feed your fat gut with Chinese noodles and real coffee.” Vjarelskiy threw his grain beverage into a garbage can. “Now I’m busy, so if you’ll—”

  “Chief Constable, I demand that you send a unit out to investigate. That’s your job. You convinced the Far East Defense Force that for a price you could handle any security problems at the base during the winter. They wouldn’t be too happy to learn that fifty thousand liters of fuel that you are supposed to be protecting have vanished—”

  The constable stood and grabbed Servientlov by the c
ollar. “You maggot. You dare to threaten me? I’ll throw your pig body into one of your snowdrifts where they won’t find it until summer ...”

  But as he watched the caretaker wilt under his tirade the chief constable also knew that the old man had already destroyed his own career and could take his along with him. “All right, I’ll send a patrol out—’’

  “An armed unit,’’ Serbientlov said. “I want—’’

  “What you want is irrelevant. I won’t have my men mixed up in a fight with your pirates. Now get out of my sight.’’ He pushed Serbientlov toward the door, watched him scramble away, then turned to his intercom. “Sergeant, take a patrol—wait, take a squad with the halftrack out with Serbientlov to the base. Have him show you where he saw his so-called thieves. If you find anyone, bring him back to me. If you don’t find any evidence of robbery, bring Serbientlov back to me—in hand-cuffs. ”

  “God, it’s freezing up there,” McLanahan said as he ran over to Elliott near the cab of the tanker truck, trying to warm his hands. He’d been obliged to switch places with Angelina on top of the Old Dog . . . after almost an hour of pumping kerosene in the bitter Siberian cold he had lost feeling in his hands and feet. “Fifty thousand liters of fuel—kerosene or not . . . should be enough to make it.”

  “I’ll feel better when we’re ...” Elliott’s voice came out in weak, barely audible grunts. Instantly McLanahan forgot his own cold, reached into Elliott’s pockets and extracted the survival radio. “Ormack, this is McLanahan. General Elliott is almost unconscious out here.”

  “Copy,” Ormack said. “We got enough—all body tanks are full. I’ve started putting fuel into the leaking mains. Get the general inside, then start wrapping things up down there.”

  “Roger.” McLanahan shoved the radio into his own pocket, then took hold of Elliott’s jacket and started to pull him out of the tanker. “Let’s go, General.” McLanahan half-walked, half-carried him to the belly hatch, then called up to Wendy, who ran down and helped Elliott up the ladder to the upper deck, then over to his seat in the cockpit.