The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 2

by Christopher Cartwright

  He finished dismissing his men and watched until the last had left. Maverick had the first watch for the night, ending at 23:00. Not that much could be seen with the weather the way it was. It was good for him. It would give him time to write home to his baby sister. The only family he still had. Married to the Air Force, he’d never felt it was quite right to start a new family of his own. He was close to his sister though. It was about time he wrote to her. The last letter he received was nearly six months ago.

  He studied the picture of his niece in her new school uniform. Cute kid. Striking green eyes. She’s going to cause some man a lot of trouble someday, no doubt.

  He’d only met her once. It had been her second birthday. Alexis Schultz – her mother had kept the surname of the asshole who’d disappeared the same year she was born. Even back then, he knew the kid was going to be bright. She was a sweet kid, too. She called him Uncle Airplane because she struggled with the letter “J” in James.

  He took the pleasure of re-reading the letter his little sister had written to accompany the latest picture. She’d written to say the teachers thought her daughter was gifted. Very gifted. Apparently, this meant that she shared the same sort of IQ as Einstein.

  He watched the barometer drop further. The wind speed increased to 120 knots outside. He liked a good storm. It felt like it was his Maker providing him with protection and giving him some much needed rest.

  His pen ran along the first line of paper –

  Maverick stopped as the Staff Sergeant opened the door and approached him. There was a man with him. He wore a dark suit with a gray tie. Maybe mid-forties. Slightly balding in the middle, and his hair was noticeably combed over.

  The Staff Sergeant saluted. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. This is Mr. Avery from the Pentagon. He says he needs to speak to you regarding something of national importance.”

  “Okay, thank you Brian. You may go.” Maverick then looked at the stranger. “You got here rather quick.”

  The man stared at him with a vacant expression. “Quick?”

  Maverick stood up and approached the man. He offered his right hand out. “I assume you’re here about the photographs?”

  Avery gripped his hand and shook. It was a weak handshake and further supported Maverick’s impression the man was somehow slimy and had been sent to make trouble for his men. “I haven’t heard of any photographs. I’m here about another matter entirely different.”

  “Sorry,” Maverick said. He examined the stranger’s face. It was impassive and hard to read. Perhaps he really didn’t know about the photograph yet. Well, he’s about to find out. Then we’ll see how collected he really is. “We took the photographs of some men working on an iceberg in the middle of the Bering Strait a few hours ago. They’re still being developed.” Maverick smiled. “I figured with you being sent all the way here from the Pentagon the two incidences must have been connected.”

  “Men working on an iceberg in the middle of the Bering Strait?” Avery shook his head. “No one told me. Interesting.”

  Interesting what?

  Interesting good. Or interesting we’re about to see the missiles fly?

  Maverick studied the man. He wore a dark suit. His smile was grimy, the type generals seemed to practice. It meant, we’re on your side, just before they royally screw you by sending you on a mission where there’s no chance of survival.

  “All right. So tell me, what can we do for you?” Maverick asked.

  Avery handed him a piece of paper. “I was told to give you this. And then stay with you to see that your task is completed.”

  Maverick didn’t respond. He simply unsealed the envelope, and looked at it.

  On official Whitehouse paper, in a hastily written scrawl, were the simple words,

  Major James Maverick,

  Your aircraft and men are hereby formally seconded for a mission of utmost importance. Please follow Mr. Avery’s orders to their word. He will instruct you further on the details. May I please take this opportunity to thank you for your services? God willing, no one else will ever learn about them. Good luck. God bless you all. And God bless America.

  At the bottom of the letter it was signed. Ronald Reagan. President of the United States of America.

  Maverick grimaced. His day had just gotten worse. “All right Mr. Avery, what can we do for you?”

  “That, I will explain in good time. But right now, we have to begin loading the Bomber.”

  “Can I ask what it is we’re delivering?”

  Avery took out a notepad and pen. It had the names of each of Maverick’s aircrew. Avery placed a tick next to Maverick’s name. “No. You most certainly may not.”

  Maverick took a deep breath through his nose and then breathed out through his mouth before he spoke again. “Can I at least ask where it’s going?”

  “Not until we’re off the ground. Then I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

  “How do I know how much fuel we’ll need? Flight plans, safety redundancies, etc.…” Maverick was angry at the man in front of him, but he was angrier at the machine he worked for. The U.S. Air Force knew best how to manage its missions. Only a bureaucrat would think a mission like this could be planned by a number of pen-pushers from the other side of the country.

  “We have already planned that for you. You will have each of your fuel tanks filled to their caps. And your auxiliary tanks, too.”

  “We, who?” Maverick raised his eyebrow. “I thought you said you were from the Pentagon?”

  “I’m afraid I only informed your Staff Sergeant that to maintain secrecy.”

  “So then, where are you from?”

  “Langley.”

  “Langley? What the hell is the CIA doing borrowing a military plane?”

  “As far as anyone’s concerned, we never did.”

  “All right. So you’re not going to help me with any of this are you?” Maverick sat down. Took notes. “When do we leave?”

  “Tonight.”

  Maverick examined the man’s impassive face. He was definitely serious. Even insane men believed with conviction things which simply aren’t true. He laughed. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard today. Have you even looked outside?”

  Avery nodded his head. “I only recently drove through it with a Mack Truck carrying the cargo.”

  “There’s a once in a decade blizzard raging. We wouldn’t make it off the runway, let alone to our destination.”

  “All the same, we’re going to need you to try.”

  Maverick stood up. Crossed to the other side of his desk and stopped just short of the stranger in front of him. The man was a good eight inches shorter than him. He had to duck just to look at the man’s eyes. “No way. I’m in command here, and there’s nothing you or any other idiot from the CIA can say to make me attempt to take off in this weather. It would be suicide. I’m not risking my life or the life of my men for no reason. And if you don’t like that, I suggest you go back to Langley and talk to your boss. Good night.”

  The stranger smiled at him. It was coy and unctuous. “He said that you’d say that. Said that you’d need more convincing.” The hangar phone rang. “That will be him now.”

  Maverick picked up the phone. Before he spoke he had a terrible feeling in his gut he was about to be royally screwed. “Hangar Three. Major James Maverick speaking.” Maverick grinned as he listened to the man on the phone – someone who had learned the skill of persuasion from the best of them. To make matters worse, he felt honored to be so used. At the end of the phone call he said, “Yes, Mr. President. I will tell my men that, and we’ll try our best not to get us all killed on takeoff.”

  *

  Maverick taxied to the end of the runway. He pressed his left steering pedal to the floor and the B52H Stratofortress Bomber spun to face the center of the runway. The headwind was pummeling the windscreen. Sleet reflected off the bright runway red lights and ran across the glass like a series of tracer bullets. His vision was down –
below fifty yards at best. He increased the pressure on the balls of his feet until he felt the brakes lock tight and the tires grip firm to the runway’s blacktop.

  With his right hand he moved all eight throttles to full. The eight Pratt & Whitney turbofans began to increase power until their high pitched whine drowned out the storm. He kept them there for a full minute. Checking all the gauges were in their correct ranges.

  Davidson, his co-pilot looked at him with a worried look on his face. “We’re losing nearly fifty revolutions off the starboard turbofans.”

  Maverick brought the throttles back to idle. “With this sort of crosswind? We should be thankful it’s not closer to a hundred.”

  “Sure.” Davidson replied. Gazing pensively out the starboard window, he said, “The question is – will she get off the ground?”

  Maverick smiled. He’d flown these aircraft for nearly a decade now. More than twenty thousand hours. Fifteen of them in command. Instinctually he knew precisely how much she could take. “She’ll get off the ground. It’s keeping her off that’s worrying me in this weather.”

  “Copy that, sir.”

  “Setting flaps down full,” Maverick said adjusting the levers.

  Davidson visually confirmed the correct setting had been achieved. “Flaps down, full.”

  “Adjusting the tail stabilizer upwards nine degrees,” Maverick said sliding the lever upwards to the ninth upwards marker. The massive tail had nine degrees of movement upwards and a further four downwards, giving it thirteen possible settings.

  “Nine up,” Davidson confirmed.

  “Rigby, please confirm the angle setting of the tail stabilizer.”

  “Nine up, sir,” Rigby confirmed from the rear facing gunner’s seat.

  Maverick looked at Davidson. The man had just finished with the last of his Rosary and nodded his head.

  They were good to go.

  Maverick pressed the intercom. “All right gentlemen. We’re ready to get this girl in the air. Mr. Avery, I hope you’re strapped in tight, because I believe we’re in for a bit of a rough ride.”

  The B52 Bomber, nicknamed Maverick’s Menace, was loaded with a total of 312,000 pounds of aviation fuel, filled right to her filler cap. She was armed with nearly 70,000 pounds of nuclear and traditional bombs. And now a single 38,000 pound sealed crate – housing an unknown cargo had been taken onboard and secured midway along her fuselage, where their unwanted guest, Mr. Avery stared at it like it was the most precious thing in the entire world.

  All in total she was 32,000 pounds overladen.

  Maverick made a silent prayer, and then pushed all eight throttles forwards. The whine of the powerful Pratt & Whitney engines increased in pitch until they howled with the wind attempting to extract every single pound of thrust possible. He would need every one of their individual 17,000 pounds of thrust if they were to get off the runway.

  The entire fuselage shuddered under the forces as Maverick’s Menace edged forward despite the wheel brakes locked firmly in place.

  Maverick released the brakes. “Here we go, Davidson.”

  The overladen aircraft crept forward. Slowly at first and then, building up momentum she began to revel in the challenge of the impossible task given to her.

  He kept slight pressure on his left rudder. Trying to compensate for the additional torque of the strong crosswind on the starboard engines, which made Maverick’s Menace want to yaw to the right.

  Through the windscreen Maverick could only just make out the red running lights on the port side of the runway. His eyes darted between the instrument panel and the runway outside. Concentrating on maintaining a straight line along the guts of the runway.

  “We just passed the third mile marker,” Davidson stated.

  “Halfway there,” Maverick replied. His eyes glanced at the speedometer. Maverick’s Menace had reached a sluggish pace of 90 knots.

  For the first time he questioned himself if they would have enough runway. He pressed his left foot heavily on the rudder peddle trying to compensate for the crosswind, and keep them running straight.

  “Five miles,” Davidson said. “Speed: 130 knots.”

  “We’re going to need a lot more than that if we want to stay off the ground.”

  They were approaching the minimum takeoff speed of the B52 Stratofortress Bomber under normal conditions. Overladen they would need to be traveling a lot faster. Maverick’s Menace shuddered under the pressure, begging to be released from the confines of gravity. Maverick pushed the wheel all the way forward, trying to keep the nose from lifting. Not until we’re ready darling. He needed all of the speed he could gather to get the overladen aircraft into the sky.

  He looked down again. Their speed had just passed 140 knots – the minimum takeoff speed under normal circumstance, without any additional weight.

  “We just passed the final mile marker,” Davidson called out.

  “Just a little longer,” he replied.

  Maverick knew this runway like he knew his aircraft. He’d used her nearly every day for five years. The runway finished with a flat field covered in snow and tundra. He was going to take Maverick’s Menace right to the very end of the runway before trying to takeoff.

  The final warning lights that marked the end of the runway glowed at him. He smiled. He had done all he could. Now fate would decide whether his aircraft could fly.

  Davidson stared at him. Terror in his eyes. “End of the runway!”

  Maverick grinned. He pulled the wheel ever so gently towards his chest. The nose lifted slightly off the ground and he felt the massive change in force as the aircraft altered its angle. He carefully maintained some forwards pressure to stop the nose from over extending and causing them to stall.

  At the end of the tundra-covered field stood more than a thousand pine trees. By the time Maverick’s Menace reached them its landing gear was just two feet off the highest tree.

  “Gear up,” he ordered.

  “Gear up. I thought I’d never live to hear you say those words.” Faulkner griped as he moved the lever. The motors whined at a pitch only just audible above the heavy pelting of snow on metal, and all ten wheels retracted into their wells. Four up front, four behind and a single wheel on each wingtip for stability. All safely stowed. “Gear up and locked.”

  With the drag of the landing gear removed, Maverick’s Menace was finally able to pick up speed and gain altitude. He set a course for a steady climb until they reached a cruising height of forty-six thousand feet. Above the worst of the storm and the heavy buffeting the wings finally settled into an almost eerie calm.

  Maverick handed over control of the aircraft to his copilot.

  He pressed the intercom, “Mr. Avery. Get up here. It’s time you tell me exactly what this mission is really about.”

  *

  Major Maverick looked over his right shoulder. Avery stumbled into the cockpit. He was pale, sweaty, and looked like he was about to lose the contents of his last meal. Before takeoff he’d suggested that Avery ride in the instructor pilot’s seat, but the man had refused stating that he’d feel more comfortable riding in the fuselage where he could keep an eye on his precious cargo. The outcome of such a decision meant Avery had to contend with an even more turbulent ride, and had just climbed through a series of ladders and maintenance vents to return to the main cockpit. Maverick thought the man was a fool, but had done nothing to dissuade him of his decision prior to takeoff.

  Maverick looked at Avery and cursed. “You’re not going to vomit in my cockpit, are you?”

  Avery leaned forward like he was about to be sick. “I don’t like to fly. And that was unlike any takeoff I’ve ever experienced, or ever want to in the future!”

  “Nor any I’ve had either.” Maverick tapped the metal lining of the hull with the back of his knuckles for good luck. “Like I said, it’s a wonder we even got her off the ground, given her additional weight and the blizzard.” Maverick felt no sympathy for the man. “So, are you
going to tell me where we are headed?”

  Avery handed him a scribbled piece of paper with some numbers relating to latitude and longitude. “We need to reach here by 0500.”

  Maverick took the piece of paper and looked at the coordinates. He knew the general location at a glance. “That’s in the middle of the Siberian Straight.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s nothing there except water.”

  Avery shrugged his shoulders. “So?”

  “So, whatever our cargo is – it’s not currently set up to be deployed. Which means it’s not a bomb. So, where are we landing?”

  Avery pulled the zipper on his jacket up to his face trying to keep out the bitter cold. “I’ll explain that when we get there.”

  Maverick finished circling the location with a pencil and then threw the map on the floor next to him. “You’ve gotta be kidding me! How do you expect me to plan anything like this?”

  “I don’t. I expect you to follow the President’s orders.” Avery then stumbled back towards the ladder and started climbing down without saying anything.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the fuselage. Uncomfortable though it is I want to keep an eye on the cargo. It’s more valuable than you could imagine.” Avery then disappeared down the ladder without waiting for a reply.

  Davidson looked at Maverick. “What an asshole!”

  “Yeah, well President Reagan says that asshole might just save humanity.” Maverick unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out of his chair. “I’m going down below to discuss these coordinates with Reynolds and Jacobs. I’ll come back with a more detailed route shortly. Until then, set a course due west.”

  “Copy that. Setting a course – due west, towards Siberia.”

  Maverick climbed past the instructor pilot’s seat, past the descending ladder, and poked his head into the rear facing gunner’s compartment. He nodded his head at the two gentlemen sitting there. Wakefield, their Weapons Systems Operator, sat on the left seat and was carefully studying a series of electronic instruments checking on the stability of each armament. Rigby, their Gunner and youngest man onboard had settled himself into his seat and was trying to get some early rest.