Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01

by Flight of the Old Dog (v1. 1)

  “Wendy, push in all the vent-control knobs at the left side station downstairs,” McLanahan said. “It’ll pump all the heat to the upper deck. I’ll get Angelina and Dave.”

  McLanahan ran back outside. Angelina called to him, “I’m not getting anymore.”

  “We’re packing up,” he said over the whine of the idling number-four engine. “I’ll help you button up in a minute.” He searched and found Luger near the left wingtip. He had just wrestled a big piece of hanging fibersteel skin off what remained of the left wingtip.

  “Dave, we’re done refueling. Let’s go.”

  Two local militiamen in long, gray-green greatcoats, black fur caps and carrying forty-year-old bolt-action rifles came into the caretaker’s office, made a quick check of the small flightline building, hurried outside.

  The squad leader called out to the halftrack. Sergeant Gazetti waved them back inside and turned on Serbientlov. “There is no one here, caretaker. I would not like to be in your shoes when Comrade Chief Constable Vjarelskiv gets his hands on you.”

  Sweat broke out on Serbientlov’s face despite the bitter cold of the early morning. “They were here ... I swear—”

  “Show me this fuel tank and the truck, caretaker,” Gazetii said. The halftrack rumbled down the road paralleling the deserted, snow-choked flightline and taxiway. A few minutes later they had pulled to a stop outside the fence surrounding the large white tank.

  “This is the tank?” Gazetti said emerging from the steel interior of the armored halftrack. “A tank of heating oil? What would your terrorists want with a tank full of heating oil?”

  “I don’t know,” Serbientlov said in exasperation. “But they forced me at gunpoint to fill the tank truck. I narrowly escaped with my life. They had three guards on me and . . . and machine guns, but I escaped—” “Comrade Sergeant.” One of the militiamen pointed to tracks in the deep snow. Gazetii studied them carefully.

  “Fairly fresh . . .” And then, he heard it. . . the diffused roar of a jet aircraft engine in the distance. He turned on Serbientlov. “Is that an aircraft? I didn’t know you had aircraft here this time of year?”

  Serbientlov listened, then blanched. “But we don’t have any aircraft here. It ... it must be the terrorists . . . the English terrorists.”

  Gazetii waved his men back into the halftrack and directed them down the flightline toward the noise.

  Angelina had just slipped off the Old Dog’s right wingtip onto the roof of the Zadiv panel truck. McLanahan was back on top of the Old Dog’s fuselage just behind the ejection-hatch covers, scraping snow and dirt off the center-wing-tank fuel cap and replacing the cap. Luger, half-dragging his right leg, was pulling the fuel hose back toward the tanker truck.

  Wendy had jumped out the belly hatch of the Old Dog to look for her fellow-crewmembers when she saw a large, squat vehicle roll to a stop just around the end of one of the hangars surrounding their parking spot. Her heart stopped. It was a Russian armored vehicle, with a Russian soldier sitting behind a shielded gun-mount.

  “Patrick . . .” Wendy pointed her finger at the vehicle. “Over there . . .”

  “Yanimnogah simye, ” Gazetii swore as the halftrack driver stomped on the brakes. “Shto etah?” What he and the others saw in the dim three- month-long twilight was a huge, black unearthly winged creature with a long pointed nose and large ungainly wings.

  “Etaht samalyot?” one of the militiamen said. “I’ve never seen a plane like that before.”

  “It has no markings, no insignia,” another said. “It must be some kind of experimental aircraft ...”

  “That’s it,” Serbientlov insisted. “That’s their plane, that’s the plane that... that the terrorists almost forced me into. You’ve got to stop them. Destroy it—”

  “Control yourself, Serbientlov.” Gazetii jumped out of the half-track. “What if it’s one of our experimental aircraft? We have them, you know. Corporal, contact Chief Constable Vjareiskiy. Tell him we have an unidentified aircraft parked on the center parking ramp on the base. I am going to talk to the crew. Everyone else stay here.”

  Luger tossed the hose as far as he could away from the Old Dog’s wheels. “Pat, Angelina. We’ve got us some company.”

  Angelina had already heard Wendy’s warning and spotted the halftrack. She quickly climbed down off the Zadiv and sprinted for the Old Dog’s belly-hatch. McLanahan screwed the tank cap closed, then slid down the fuselage to the right wing. When he saw a Russian soldier emerging from the half track he slid across the wing to the leading edge between the two engine nacelles, shimmied over the edge and dropped to the snow.

  Hearing Wendy’s warning, Ormack stopped strapping the nearly unconscious Elliott into an upper-deck crash-seat, jumped into the left seat, looked out the left cockpit window and saw the halftrack.

  “Goddamn, ” he shouted over his shoulder, hoping his voice would carry. “Wendy, get everyone on board.” He then slapped the wing flap switch to full DOWN and double-checked the fuel panel, opening the fuel supply from the fuselage tanks to the engines. He moved the number-four engine throttle to ninety percent power, leaned across the co-pilot’s seat and put the engine number-five starter-switch to START, using engine bleed-air from the running number-four engine to spin the turbine on the number-five engine. When that engine’s RPMs moved to fifteen percent he jammed its throttle to eighty-five percent to begin pumping fuel into the engine’s ignition-chamber.

  A thunderous bang reverberated through the Old Dog, and the right wing shuddered. Ormack scrambled over to the right cockpit window. The entire number-five engine was engulfed in smoke. He checked the engine instruments. The RPMs of that engine were slowly increasing but wondrously there was no indication of fire. Another loud bang and the engine RPMs stopped at forty percent.

  The HATCH NOT CLOSED AND LOCKED light on the front- instrument panel snapped off, and a moment later Wendy reported everyone was aboard.

  “Get Patrick up here,” Ormack called out, and McLanahan came scrambling up to the cockpit to see General Elliott limp in his emergency web seat, forehead and face dripping from sweat, head lolling back with fever.

  “He’s out of it,” Ormack said. “Get up here. I’ll fly the plane from the left seat. You get in the co-pilot’s seat and monitor the instruments.” McLanahan hesitated—

  “McLanahan!”

  Patrick shook himself, stepped carefully around Elliott. Just before climbing into the co-pilot’s seat he reached down and retrieved Elliott’s .45 caliber automatic from his holster. “Can we start the rest of the engines?” he said, looking at the gauges.

  “Not yet. When number five reaches forty-five percent shut off its starter and switch on three, six, seven and eight. Move throttles up to IDLE when each engine RPM reaches fifteen percent. Watch the fire lights—that kerosene has been giving us some hard ignitions.” McLanahan nodded and watched the number five RPM gauge, a finger on the starter switch.

  Ormack opened the left-cockpit window. The Russian soldier was now advancing on the Old Dog, more cautiously than before the engines were started. He did not hear Ormack open the sliding window.

  “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.

  If the intruder had tried to dodge north and west of the Kamchatka peninsula instead of toward Alaska, it would have fallen right into the waiting arms of two squadrons of MiG-29s from the regional defense force headquarters at Magadan. But no one had reported spotting the bomber there either. No. It was nearby. It had to be.

  After refueling he was determined to find the B-52. Its tail radar was going to give it away, and its hot engines would, literally, be its downfall. With twilight Yuri figured he wouldn’t need his pulse-Doppler radar to find the American plane. Using the infrared spotting scope and passive electronic scanners he could prowl about at will, virtually undetectable, until the B-52 gave itself away or was spotted by Beringovskiy radar.