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

by Philip Donlay

  “How is that even possible?” Michael looked from Montero to Donovan, then back out the forward windshield.

  Donovan held his hand out for the phone, then pressed it to his ear. “Merlin, confirm you have the Phoenix on radar?”

  “Donovan, it’s Calvin, we have a faint infrared signature. Lauren found him, it’s confirmed—we have the Phoenix. Be advised, the satellite needs to be above and behind the Phoenix for the IR signature to register. If Phoenix turns broadside, due to the tail configuration, we’ll lose contact.”

  “Is there any NATO fighter that can reach the Phoenix in time?” Donovan asked.

  “Not this close to the border,” Merlin said.

  Donovan handed the phone back to Montero then turned to Michael. “Calvin’s got him. He’s giving off an infrared signature.”

  “Where is he now?” Michael asked.

  “Right in front of us. He’s at fifteen thousand feet.” Donovan pulled all three throttles back to idle, extended the speed brakes, then banked the Boeing 727 steeply and let the nose drop far below the horizon while keeping the airspeed pegged just below redline.

  “Montero,” Donovan said over his shoulder. “Tell Calvin we’re going to need constant distance and altitude information to the Phoenix.”

  “He’s at eleven o’clock, five miles, still at fifteen thousand feet,” Montero reported. “We’re one hundred and fifty knots faster.”

  “I want to know what kind of terrain is below us,” Donovan said. “How much room do we have to play with?”

  “Merlin says stay above two thousand feet, and we won’t hit anything. Phoenix is still at eleven o’clock, four miles,” Montero replied. “We’re five minutes from the border.”

  Donovan did the math. He needed to lose fifteen thousand feet in two minutes. It was going to be close. “Michael, put the landing gear down!”

  “We’ll lose the doors!” Michael said as he reached for the lever and pulled it down.

  The sound of the wind shrieked as the massive landing gear was forced out into the three-hundred-and-twenty knot slipstream. Donovan knew, just as Michael did, that as fast as they were flying, the gear doors had instantly ripped away, but the massive gear and struts were still locked into place. The sudden drag made it feel like the bottom had dropped out from underneath them.

  “He’s eleven o’clock, two and a half miles,” Montero yelled above the noise.

  Donovan made a turn, first to the left, then to the right, as he continued to lose altitude. They blew through some clear air turbulence at twenty-two thousand feet that shook the plane violently. Donovan focused on the artificial horizon located in the center of his primary instrument cluster. Wings level, they flew into smooth air once again, and he and Michael desperately tried to spot the Phoenix out in front of them.

  “Eleven o’clock and two miles.” Montero said. “He’s ten o’clock and a mile and a half.”

  A great explosion of lightning illuminated the entire thunderstorm cell off to their left. Donovan winced and moved his head to the side at the sheer magnitude of the energy released.

  “I saw him!” Michael yelled. “Level off, we need to come in from above.”

  Donovan immediately stowed the spoilers, added power, and leveled the Boeing. “Where is he?”

  “I lost him. He was ten o’clock and a mile. All I caught was a momentary sight of the aircraft’s silhouette,” Michael said. “It’s him, I promise. Hold this heading.”

  As Donovan scanned the dark sky, waiting, until it was once again lit up by a rippled burst of lightning. Less than half a mile off the nose and slightly below them, Donovan spotted the Phoenix. He pushed the nose down until the small jet was centered in his windshield and threw the throttles forward.

  “The main gear strut and tires hang down six feet. No more than that, all it’ll take is a kiss,” Michael said calmly. “Whatever you do, don’t clip him with our wing or we’re all going down.”

  The dying lightning kept the Phoenix illuminated as Donovan held the 727 in a steep dive. All he needed to do was touch any part of the small composite Phoenix with the heavy-duty strut of the Boeing’s main gear, and the smaller airplane would fold up and disintegrate. Donovan clenched his teeth and added more power, ignoring the unnerving sensation of intentionally closing on another airplane at one hundred and fifty knots. The Phoenix nearly filled the entire windshield. The last of the lightning ebbed and there was only blackness as Donovan gripped the controls and waited for impact.

  An instant later, another flash of lightning told Donovan the entire story. The Phoenix was below him, diving and beginning a tight turn—fully intact. Donovan yanked the throttles all the way to idle and banked as hard as he dared in an effort to give chase. He could feel his arms grow heavy in the two-g turn. He twisted his neck to try and find the small black airplane, praying for another bolt of lightning.

  “Calvin says they’ve lost him!” Montero yelled, her voice shaking.

  “Come on,” Donovan said to anyone who might be listening. A series of cloud-to-cloud bursts lit up the northern sky, but neither Donovan nor Michael could locate the Phoenix. “Damn it!”

  Montero called out. “They’ve reacquired him! He’s back on his original course, down at three thousand feet. He’s twelve o’clock, two and a half miles. We’re two minutes from the border.”

  Donovan pushed all three throttles to the stops and pointed the nose down. He knew he wouldn’t get another shot. The airframe began to buffet, but he ignored the dangerous message and continued the dive. Lightning ripped overhead. In front of them, a massive cloud-to-ground stroke of lightning arced downward and lit up the entire sky. The Phoenix was straight ahead. Donovan didn’t dare blink. He held the vibrating controls, making dozens of tiny corrections to try to hold the Boeing steady while screaming down at over three hundred knots.

  “He’s turning,” Michael called out. “And he’s headed down.”

  “He knows we’re here, but he can only spot us when there’s lightning,” Donovan said as he urged the 727 to close the gap. “He doesn’t know we can find him in the dark.”

  “Calvin says he turned south, and then they lost him, but they’re plotting his arc,” Montero called out. “Turn fifteen degrees left, there should be a small town out there.”

  Donovan banked hard. The ground was coming up fast, and he felt the dryness of his mouth as he focused on the glow from the village. In an instant, he saw the Phoenix create an eclipse, its silhouette revealing both its course and altitude. Donovan kept the Boeing in the turn, picturing the Phoenix in his mind as he turned and descended to intercept.

  “AWACS says we’re less than a thousand feet above the ground!” Montero cried out.

  Donovan had hoped for one more burst of lightning to show him the way, but the sky remained frustratingly dark. “Michael, turn on all the landing lights!”

  Twin beams of intense light erupted from the wings and expanded outward, illuminating the Phoenix. The Boeing was close enough that Donovan saw the pilot snap his head around as the 727 overtook the small jet.

  Donovan watched in frustration as the pilot of the Phoenix climbed away and snapped the nimble jet to the side. Without hesitation, he pulled the throttles to idle and cranked the Boeing in a punishing turn to stay behind the Phoenix.

  “Kill the lights!” Donovan ordered as lightning rippled from the base of the storm in front of them.

  Michael once again made them black—and waited.

  Pressed in his seat by the g-forces, Donovan craned his head forward to try to spot the Phoenix in the turn. The lightning wasn’t as blinding as it discharged deep within the cloud. The subdued orange background was perfect, and seconds later, Donovan spotted the Phoenix.

  “I’ve got him in sight,” Michael said. “Do you?”

  “Yes,” Donovan kept the Boeing in the turn; the 727 was accelerating quickly. “Get ready with the lights.”

  The Phoenix had leveled its wings. Donovan, in the blacked-out
727, going a hundred knots faster, thundered toward the Phoenix from behind. There was no way the pilot of the other plane could see what was coming. “Lights!”

  The landing lights lit up a cone of the sky in front of the Boeing, and in the middle was the small elusive black jet. Donovan held the controls tightly and didn’t flinch. An instant later they all felt the impact of the Phoenix as it resonated through the entire 727. On the instrument panel—the right main landing gear safe light winked from green to red.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “CALVIN SAYS HE’S down!” Montero called out. “The Phoenix broke up in flight and the debris landed in Poland.”

  Donovan slowly eased the 727 out of the dive, thankful that the controls still felt firm in his hands. A bright flash of lightning just off his left told him the leading edge of the cold front was almost on top of them.

  “Merlin says we’ve crossed the border into Belarus airspace,” Montero yelled above the noise of the slipstream. “We need to turn back. Fighters are four minutes out.”

  “Can we get back in time?” Michael asked, the urgency in his voice undisguised.

  Donovan had no illusions about the Russians’ intentions. Without hesitation, he threw the Boeing into a steep left turn and slammed the throttles to the stops. Against every ounce of training against retracting damaged landing gear, Donovan turned to Michael and called. “Gear up!”

  Michael never hesitated as he took the gear lever in his hand and pulled it upward. “Montero, tell them we need a heading for the closest border!”

  Donovan felt the Boeing surge forward as the landing gear tucked into the wings. He began converting their energy into a climb.

  “The fighters are now in missile range,” Montero relayed. “The closest border is on a heading of three-zero-five degrees, but it takes us into the worst of the thunderstorms.”

  “This is going to get rough!” Donovan kept his turn until they were headed three-zero-five. The 727 was climbing and accelerating straight at the wall of weather.

  “We don’t have any idea if making contact with the Phoenix caused any structural damage,” Michael said as he pulled hard on the straps of his harness. “Rough air penetration speed is two hundred and seventy knots.”

  “I do know one thing,” Donovan said as he glanced down at the airspeed indicator, which read three hundred knots. “Russian missiles most definitely cause structural damage.”

  “Ignition and the anti-ice are on,” Michael said, his hand on the altitude alerter. “What altitude are we climbing to?”

  “Lauren told me something once and I believe her. We’re going up to twenty-eight thousand feet,” Donovan shouted as the first blast of heavy rain pelted the windshield and serious turbulence rocked the Boeing. Donovan grimaced as he pulled the throttles back to avoid an overspeed. A moment later they were pressed in their seats as the 727 was forced upward in a massive updraft. Donovan’s control inputs did nothing as the Boeing flew upward, helpless in the violent thunderstorm. Lightning crackled in the air around them, and in a rare occurrence, the thunder could be heard above the beating of the rain and the three-hundred-knot slip-stream. The altimeter spun wildly up through fifteen thousand feet.

  “We’ll never get above this thing!” Michael shouted as he put one hand on the glare shield to brace himself. “Lauren knows better than most that the worst turbulence is going to be at the freezing level. This is only going to get worse the higher we climb!”

  “That’s what I’m counting on!” Donovan replied. “They’d be crazy to follow us!”

  “They don’t have to,” Michael replied. “Only the missiles do.”

  Another burst of lightning bombarded the cockpit like a strobe light, freezing everything in the moment. Donovan saw the strain as well as the determination on Michael’s face, and the distress on Montero’s. The next bolt of lightning struck the Boeing on the nose and millions of volts coursed harmlessly through the aluminum tube and exited the airframe somewhere behind them in a huge flash.

  The staccato pounding from the turbulence rocked the 727. Behind him in the night sky, Donovan knew the massive wings were flexing wildly from the thunderstorm’s punishment. The noise from the slipstream rose and fell in the maelstrom. The rain decreased, and then a different roar drowned out everything else. Donovan sat helpless as hail pounded the glass and aluminum. The radar was worthless. All it painted was solid red echoes. Lightning lit up the sky around them. Donovan saw the cracks in the glass of his windshield. He hoped it would hold.

  “I’ve lost them,” Montero shouted. “The phone went dead.”

  Donovan understood that the storm would interrupt the satellite signal. The connection didn’t really matter, as there was nothing anyone could do to help them now. They were through twenty-six thousand feet and the hail stopped as abruptly as it began. The turbulence worsened, and Donovan could only maintain their altitude plus or minus a thousand feet. The lightning seemed to fill the air around them. Donovan couldn’t remember a thunderstorm as bad as this. Every muscle in his body was wire taut as he willed the Boeing to stay together and reach the calm air on the other side.

  “How bad could a few missiles have been?” Michael quipped as another round of severe turbulence tossed the 727 around the sky.

  “It can’t be much further to the backside of this thing,” Donovan replied, “Right?”

  “I hope not,” Michael said. “Look, I can see lights, dead ahead.”

  Donovan saw them as well, and even though the thunderstorms had allowed them a glimpse out the backside of the front, it wasn’t done with them yet. The next onslaught of turbulence caused Donovan to wince. It sounded like a sledgehammer was pounding the skin of the plane; the instrument panel was shaking so violently it was almost impossible to read. Two more rapid explosions of lightning lit the entire sky. Donovan’s eyes swam with pinpricks of brightness, and he blinked furiously to clear them. With one more intense onslaught of turbulence, the Boeing seemed to float upward as if weightless, then plummeted with such force that the final jolt threw Donovan’s chin down into his chest and he bit the side of his cheek. The metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth as the 727 burst from the clouds and sailed into the clear night air.

  Donovan took a finger and gently probed his cheek, it came away stained red.

  “I told you thunderstorms could hurt you,” Michael said as he spotted the blood.

  “No shit,” Donovan loosened his harness. “My windshield’s cracked, how’s yours?”

  “About like yours. It’s not too bad.”

  “Guys,” Montero leaned forward. “I just reconnected with Merlin. He says they detected three missiles launched by the Russian fighters.”

  Michael shot Donovan a surprised look.

  “As fast as they were coming, I didn’t think they were kidding,” Donovan said.

  “Did you know?” Montero asked. “Lightning, hail, and missiles? Did Lauren tell you that would work?”

  “It’s all we had,” Donovan said. “Lauren and I had a conversation once about thunderstorm activity, the freezing level, lightning and hail versus heat-seeking missiles. I had my doubts, but it seems she was right.”

  “First of all, she’s a genius, a weather guru. Secondly, she’s your wife. She’s always right,” Michael said. “Automatically, every time, it’s a rule, even when she’s wrong. Ask anyone. Though I’m glad she was right this time.”

  Donovan knew the moment had served its purpose, Michael’s rant had momentarily lifted the stress, but they had problems. “Michael, are those the lights of Warsaw?”

  “Probably, let me find a chart.”

  “Merlin, hang on,” Montero said. “Calvin, say that last part again.”

  Montero’s tone troubled Donovan enough for him to turn and look at her.

  “Calvin, I’m handing the phone to Donovan. You need to explain to him what you just told me.” Montero placed the phone into Donovan’s outstretched palm.

  “Calvin, what’s go
ing on?” Donovan said as he turned over the controls of the Boeing to Michael.

  “We’ve lost contact with Lauren, the helicopter—everyone,” Calvin said. “Can you try to reach them?”

  “Shouldn’t she be in Austria by now? Where was she the last time you spoke to her?”

  “She was at the hangar in Slovakia where we spotted the Phoenix. She found a second stealth under construction, which is how she figured out it was vulnerable to infrared detection.”

  “You lost contact with her in Slovakia?” Donovan could barely contain his disbelief.

  “She volunteered. They were only thirty miles—”

  “Calvin, how soon can assets go in to rescue her?” Donovan did his best to rein in his growing fury. “Don’t bullshit me, I want reality, not estimations.”

  “SEAL Team Two is being scrambled as we speak. Someone in Washington finally woke up, and solutions are being explored.”

  “Ask him for Lauren’s coordinates,” Michael said, his fingers poised above the flight management system.

  Calvin rattled them off, and Donovan repeated them and watched intently as Michael began punching the buttons on the flight management system.

  “At best speed, she’s forty-five minutes away,” Michael reported.

  “What are you three thinking about doing?” Calvin asked.

  “Calvin, hang on for a second,” Donovan said. “Merlin, can we get to, say, Bratislava, Slovakia, without getting shot down?”

  “I can keep the Polish Air Force from attacking, but when it comes to Slovakia, no, you wouldn’t get very far with a straight-up border incursion. Mayday or not, you’re starting to be classified as a terrorist who hijacked an airliner.”

  Donovan glanced over at Michael, who ran a finger across this throat to signal Donovan to put Calvin and Merlin on hold. Donovan put his palm over the phone so they could talk privately.

  “The Carpathian Mountains,” Michael said. “They’re between us and Lauren.”

  Donovan hesitated for a moment as he processed what Michael was telling him, and then an understanding smile crept onto his face.