by Dale Brown
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 asked. "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 comin up. "Three engines now 9 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, He 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 asked. "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 have 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 calleL out, "Luger, no."
McLanahan turned and looked outside. Wearing only his flightsuit 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, 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.
7, 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 tank truck.
"Dave, noo Damn!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 an 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 our buddy. Do it."
"Anadyr Control, this is Ossora one-seven-one, Elemei Seven.
Requesting landing clearance. Over."
No answer. Yuri Papiendreyov scanned his navigation instruments.
There was no error; he was only thirty miles from Anadyr Far East Fighter-Interceptor Base. Although the ba was not active someone should still be there.
Papendreyov switched his radio to the Fleet Communications frequency, the backup frequency for all Soviet air defense forces. "This is Ossora one-seven-one on Fleet Comm 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 special eme
rgency code, activated it. Any air-defense force!
he hoped, would see his beacon before they started shooting… with an Air Defense Emergency declared for if 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-andlanding 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 Nagode 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 41 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.
He thought once, very briefly, about his wife and family, safe and warm in his Kiev apartment while he chased over thousands of kilometers of Siberia looking for an intruder that might have already crashed. He also thought about consequences… His expertise, his zeal might get him through the inquiry that followed his unauthorized chase for the B-52 the old Squadron Commander might give him a year's worth of runway snow removal duty or a demotion. An Air Defense Emergency could forgive a lot of things, he told himself. Anyway, he didn't believe he'd actually face a firing squad or exile.
But only one thing could guarantee him a satisfactory return to his family-a promotion, a full pardon. As Anadyr Airfield popped into view, still thirty-six kilometers away, he knew that the only thing that would earn him that result was gun-camera film of the B-52 going down in flames after being shot apart by his GSh-23 twin-barrel guns or by one of his newer AA-8 heat seeking missiles.
Yes. The B-52 had to be destroyed.
The Old Dog seemed more like a hospital ship than a strategic bomber as it taxied down the narrow, snow-covered taxiway of Anadyr Airbase.
in command as it limped down the taxiway was Patric McLanahan. As the most experienced and now physically able crewman, he had taken the pilot's left seat. Icy wind blasted his face from the dozens of holes on the left side of the cockpit at from a completely blown-out glass panel just behind his ejection seat. He was trying to do too much at once — but most important was to keep the Old Dog roughly in the center of the taxiway.
Ormack, blood all over his left shoulder, barely strong enough to move a switch, had taken his co-pilot's seat again. He continued to read the pre-takeoff checklists and give McLan han a running last-minute lecture on how to accomplish takeoff.
Angelina remained at her gunner's position, checking and rechecking her equipment. She had two Scorpion missiles on the right external pylon, three Scorpions on the bomb-blauncher, two HARM anti-radar missiles on the interior launcher and twenty Stinger air-mine rockets in the target cannon-and no way in the world to guide any of them the target-acquisition radar-scope had been damaged in the attack at the airbase. The Old Dog might be still an adversary to be considered, its Scorpions and HARMs could be self guided to their targets-but their effectiveness was greatly reduced.
Wendy was back in her electronic warfare officer's seat beside Angelina.
Using computer-displayed instructions she had restarted the ring-laser gyro and satellite navigation syston in the freezing cold navigator's station below. There was little else downstairs-McLanahan's ten-inch radar scope had been destroyed by the Russian machine gun attack. The attack had also destroyed or damaged most of Wendy's electronic-warfare gear.
While she had been in the lower compartment she had looked over Dave Luger's notes and doodles, even picked up his headphone… wanting to offer it to him when he emerged from the aft bulkhead door, smiling and laughing and gabbing with his impossible Texas accent… she imagined she heard a knock on the belly hatch, and there he would be.
.. except, of course, he would not. Face it…
He was gone.
She had given Luger's coat to General Elliott, who was strapped into an emergency crash web chair on the upper deck between the cockpit and the defense crew's station, caught between a severe fever and the onset of deep shock.
Ormack continued with the checklists as they scrolled onto the computer monitor. "Flight instruments checked, pilot and co-pilot.
"Mine are gone," McLanahan asked. "Adjust your A.D.I. I can hardly see it but it's the only reliable one we have. "He watched as Ormack adjusted the artificial horizon. "That's it.
Standby altimeters are good. Standby turn-and-slip indicators are good.
"Electrical panel. "Ormack strained to read the tiny gauges.
"One and two are zero. All the rest are okay. "He advanced the computerized checklist. "Crosswing crab."
"Zeroed. Next."
Pitot heat."
It took McLanahan a moment.interrupted with a few small turns to stay on hard pavement, to find the switch. "On."
"Stability augmentation system."
"On."
"Stabilizer trim."
"That's this big wheel here, right?" McLanahan asked. "We don't have time to compute the right setting so I'm setting it to one-half unit nose up. Set. Next.
"Airbrake lever."
"OV, "Flaps."
"One hundred percent down, lever down."spiM.
"Fuel panel. I think I have it set up right," Ormack said wincing from a stab of pain that shot through the area arour his neck. "Check it for me. We've got minimum fuel in the main tanks because of the damage, so those pumps right there should be on, and those… there should be to OPEP Checked. Next.
"Starter switches."
"Okay, we're almost ready to go. Using the rudder pedal McLanahan nudged the Old Dog around a tight corner and turned onto the end of the Russian runway, then stepped on the tops of the pedals to engage the brakes.
"Angelina, Wendy, ready to go back there?"
"Ready," Angelina said over the interphone.
"Ready," Wendy asked. "Good luck."
"Thanks. "McLanahan gripped the control yoke. I'm gonna need it."
"All right," Ormack said, "we're going to start the number two engine.
Ready?"
Ready McLanahan moved the number-four engine-throttle to ninety percent. "Go!" Ormack moved the starter to START Slowly the RPMs on the number two engine began to increase McLanahan pointed to a yellow light on the forward panel "What's that?" Ormack said over the interphone. "I can see… " "A low oil-pressure light," McLanahan told him over the roar of the engines. "We've got to hope it'll give us enough thrust for takeoff before it seizes… " There was a tremendous bang on the left wing as the Old Dog bucked and rumbled so that no one could read the instruments.
"That's the bad gas," McLanahan said, "it should work okay, though Anxious moments later th
e RPMs on the number-two engine went to idle settings, and McLanaha pulled the power back on the number-four engine.
"Okay, starter on number two is in FLIGHT position generator on number two is on," Ormack asked. "Takeoff data. "McLanahan gave it over the interphone. "We roll until just before we run out of runway, then I pull back on the stick. If we fly, we fly. If we don't, we eject.
Next.
"Arming lever safety pins."
"All right, everyone," McLanahan told them, "get your seats ready for ejection. And don't hesitate. If you see the red bailout warning light, eject. Immediately."
"Couldn't have made a better takeoff briefing myself, McLanahan," Ormack said, trying to smile. "Takeoff checklist. Steering ratio selector lever. "McLanahan took a deep breath and tried not to think of Luger. Concentrate, he told himself. Get the job done.
Everybody was counting on him… including himself. He moved a lever on the center console. "TAKE-OFF LAND.
Set.
"Air conditioning master switch."
"RAM.
"Throttles.
"Here we go. "McLanahan took hold of the seven active throttles and moved them slowly forward to full military power. Because of the dead number-one engine the Old Dog slid to the left on the snow-covered runway. McLanahan stomped on the right stabilator pedal to correct, then, realizing the dual rudders had been destroyed, slowly pulled back the number-eight engine throttle until he was able to straighten out the Old Dog along the runway, then slowly pushed it back almost to full power.
"Good. "Ormack strained to be heard over the roar of the engine. "No stabilators… do whatever you need to do to keep her on the runway. "He put his hands on the yoke but could not help. "Keep an eye on the distance-remaining markers if you can… they'll be labeled in hundreds of meters. Lift off with about a thousand meters remaining-" "I can't see them," McLanahan shouted. "They're going by too damn fast-wait… sixteen, fifteen, fourteen.. ' " The wild rumbling and vibrations made it tough to refocus his eyes on the instruments.
When McLanahan swung the control yoke to the right to correct the violent left skid, it seemed the Old Dog was sliding sideways down the runway. He scanned the instruments. A caution light was lit but he couldn't make out which one.
