Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (65 page)

           
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 A A-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 taxiways of Anadyr Airbase.

 
          
In
command as it limped down the taxiway was Patrick 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 and
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 copilot’s seat again. He continued to read the pre-takeoff checklists
and give McLanahan a running last-minute lecture on how to accomplish a
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-bay launcher, two HARM anti-radar missiles on the interior launcher and
twenty
Stinger
air-mine rockets in
the tail 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 system 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 copilot.’’

 
          
“Mine
are gone,’’ McLanahan said. “Adjust your ADI. 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.”

 
          
“Off.”

 
          
“Flaps.”

 
          
“One
hundred percent down, lever down.”

 
          
“Fuel
panel. I think I have it set up right,” Ormack said, wincing from a stab of
pain that shot through the area around 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 OPEN. Checked. Next.”

 
          
“Starter
switches.”

 
          
“Okay,
we’re almost ready to go.” Using the rudder pedals, 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 said. “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’t 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 engine 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 the RPMs on the number-two engine went to idle settings, and
McLanahan 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 said. “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. “
TAKEOFF
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.

 
          
“Hold
it steady, Patrick—”

 
          
“I
can’t, it’s skidding too hard—”

 
          
“Easy
. . . you can do it.
Easy
...”

 
          
McLanahan
realized with a surge of fear that the one-thousand-meter sign had just whizzed
by. At the nine-hundred meter he pulled back on the control yoke, wrestled it
back, back, back until it was touching his chest. Still the Old Dog’s nose
refused to leave the ground.

 
          
“
C'mon
, baby, lift off, dammit.”

 
          
“Add
some nose-up trim,” Ormack yelled. “The big wheel by your knee.
Gently.
Keep the back pressure in but
get ready to release it when the nose comes up.”

 
          
“It’s
not lifting off. . .” The shaking, the turbulence almost made him lose his grip
on the wheel . . . Now he could see the end of the runway, a tall wall of
drifting snow and ice . . .