The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 2

by Christopher Cartwright

  “Sir,” Wakefield acknowledged him.

  Rigby straightened himself out before saying, “Sir.”

  “At ease, gentlemen.” Maverick crouched down beside the two men. “I just came back here to say that we made it through the worst of the storm. We should be all right from here on in.”

  “Do you know where we’re headed, and what our mission is?” Wakefield asked.

  “I’m afraid not. We’re delivering our secret cargo to an island. According to Mr. Avery, it isn’t on any map and without our cargo its mission can’t be completed. He refused to say what its mission was, where the island is located, or what our cargo is. I’m in the dark as much as you both are. What I can say is President Reagan himself advised me that the outcome of this mission has by far the most far-reaching consequences of anything done since the start of the Cold War.”

  “So you haven’t received any orders of a Nuclear Strike?” Wakefield asked.

  “No.” Maverick looked at his Weapons Systems Operator. “What do you know?”

  “Mr. Avery spoke to me before we left King Salmon Air Force Base.”

  Maverick lowered his voice. “And – what did he say?”

  “He wanted to confirm that we were fully equipped with our maximum armaments of nuclear warheads in case our mission fails.”

  Rigby cursed. “What is President Reagan planning?”

  “I have no idea.” Maverick shook his head. “All right gentlemen. I’ll let you know more when I do. Get some rest while you can. It will be at least six hours until we reach the first waypoint.”

  Maverick returned to the middle compartment and climbed down the ladder. Jacobs, his Radar Bombardier stared vacantly at his radar screen. Reynolds was the first to spot him. “Evening, Sir.”

  “At ease, gentlemen.”

  “Do you have a location for me yet?” Reynolds, his Navigator, asked.

  Maverick handed him the coordinates. “We’re heading here. I’ve left Davidson heading due west for the time being.”

  Reynolds eyed the coordinates. “It’s in the Siberian Strait.”

  “Yes,” Maverick acknowledged.

  “You know that’s where they took the picture earlier today of the unidentified men working on an iceberg.”

  Maverick shook his head, and his eyes lit up at the new revelation. “Avery lied to me! He said he didn’t know anything about the photographs. That son-of-a-bitch set me up. He knew damn well about the photograph.”

  “So. What are you gonna do about it?” Reynolds asked.

  “I have no idea. But I have six hours to find out.”

  *

  At 0430 Maverick unclipped his seatbelt and made the cramped journey of ladders and maintenance gangways until he reached the cargo bay inside the fuselage. There his unwanted guest no longer displayed signs of motion sickness as he had earlier. Instead, he stared at the cargo as though it was the most valuable thing on the planet. Maverick had seen that sort of look in a person’s eye before. It was the same sort of crazy luster one develops the first time they find gold.

  “All right Avery, this is your show,” Maverick said. “We’re approaching the coordinates you gave me. What next?”

  “Good. I’m going to need you to take us down to 1000 feet. Our guide will signal us from the surface.”

  “The surface of what?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll fill you in when I know.” Avery grinned with slimy satisfaction. “I’ll follow you up to the cockpit. The next part of this mission might be a little delicate.”

  Maverick shook his head. “No way! We’re a Bomber.”

  “So?”

  “So I don’t feel safe taking us that low. If there’s an attack, we’ll be struggling to win it from that altitude.”

  “There won’t be an attack,” Avery said, his voice slow and confident. “These are friendly waters – for the time being, anyway.”

  Maverick tapped his knuckles on the side of the steel hull. “For the record, I don’t like any of this.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. Even so, the precise location of what we are after can be a little elusive.”

  “And what are we after?”

  “It’s an island. A very secret island.”

  “A secret fucking island!” Maverick swore. “That’s what this is all about?”

  “It’s not so much the island that we’re interested in. It’s what’s stored deep inside the island – which the President is after.”

  “So where exactly is this secret island?”

  “We lost it shortly after December 1962. At first we thought it had been destroyed. Then we started to see evidence it might have survived. Then we prayed it had been sunk in the North Atlantic.”

  “North Pacific?” Maverick complained about Avery’s inconsistency. “But we’re in the North Pacific – and last time I checked, islands don’t move?”

  Avery ignored the question. “We’d better get back to the cockpit. I don’t want to miss the signal. Your concerns are duly noted, and you’re welcome to take them up with President Reagan, but for the time being, we need to complete the mission. This might be our last chance.”

  Maverick swallowed his concerns without saying another word. He returned to the cockpit, strapped himself in with his harness and took over command of the aircraft’s controls again.

  Commencing their descent in a steep decline, Maverick gently pushed the wheel away from his chest until he felt the nose drop off the horizon. He depressed the intercom. “Gentlemen. We are dropping to 1000 feet to receive a coded message from the surface. Maintain extreme vigilance. I have been kept in the dark as much as you have about the real purpose of our mission.”

  Maverick watched the altimeter click below 30,000.

  He swallowed trying to allow his middle ear to equalize with the sudden change in air-pressure.

  Despite his outwardly calm appearance, Major Maverick was nervous as all hell. The B52 Stratofortress Bomber had a combat height of 48000 feet. Every 1000 feet below that its maneuverability decreased and it had less use for its bombs.

  He swallowed harder when the aircraft descended below 5,000.

  “All right gentlemen. Look sharp. We’re descending past 5,000 feet. Keep your eyes out for trouble.”

  It made him nervous to fly so low.

  “We have an incoming bird!” Jacobs said. “Bearing: 270 degrees. Height: 2,000 feet and climbing! Current speed: 95 knots.”

  Maverick glanced at the altimeter. They had just descended below 3,000 feet. He looked out the left window “Anyone got eyes on it?”

  “I’ve got it,” Davidson yelled. “Golden speck on the horizon – at your six o’clock.”

  Maverick rested his right hand on the main throttle, preparing to increase power to the engines. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Avery unclipped his seatbelt and leaned forwards to get a better sight of the incoming plane. “What is it? What do you see?”

  “Looks like an old warbird from World War II,” Maverick said. “Something like a Spitfire or a Messerschmitt.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Davidson said. A large grin forming as he shook his head in disbelief. “That’s a de Haviland Tiger Moth. My old man used to own one when I was a kid. First thing I ever learned to fly. Although, what the hell its doing a thousand miles from land beats me.”

  The tension in Maverick’s neck and arm reduced immediately. He took his right hand back from where it was resting on the throttles. He could see the plane clearly now. It was a bright yellow bi-plane. No way could it carry anything capable of piercing their armor let alone causing them any real threat.

  “A yellow Tiger Moth.” Maverick looked at Avery. “Is that the guide you were expecting?”

  Avery stared absently at the tiny aircraft. Sweaty beads of fear formed on his pale forehead. His jaw was rigid and his eyes appeared lost in an unknown horror of his past. “No. We were to pick up a signal from a submarine…”

  “So where did this Tiger
Moth come from?” he asked.

  Avery ignored the question. He withdrew from the sight of the approaching aircraft. “No. It can’t be! They were certain they destroyed you – all those years ago!”

  Maverick grabbed Avery’s jacket with his free hand and twisted until the man looked at him with the confusion of a person woken from a bad dream. “What happened with the yellow Tiger Moth?”

  “That aircraft is not what it appears,” Avery said. “Major Maverick, tell me you have something capable of shooting it down before it reaches us?”

  Maverick started to laugh, but stopped himself as he looked at Avery’s face, rigid with fear. “That’s an old plane. It probably isn’t even equipped with any weapons. And if it was, they wouldn’t be large enough to inflict any real damage on one of the most powerful bombers ever built!”

  “Good.” Avery raised his voice in a confidence previously not displayed. “Then I suggest you shoot it down before you discover just how wrong you are.”

  Maverick grinned. It pleased him to watch the discomfort in his unwanted guest. He almost wanted to wait it out and see what the strange aircraft wanted. “All right gentlemen. Let’s see what this old relic wants. Rigby, if it comes within range – take it out.” He depressed the radio transmit button on the side of the wheel. “Unidentified aircraft. You are approaching a U.S. Air Force B52 Stratofortress Bomber. Please turn 90 degrees to your right immediately.”

  No response.

  He depressed the radio transmitter again. “Unidentified Tiger Moth. You are on a collision approach with a U.S. Air Force B52 – I say again, please deviate direction to your right.”

  The radio remained silent.

  At the same time the Tiger Moth continued to narrow the distance between the two aircraft.

  “Holy shit!” Avery swore. “What are you waiting for? Destroy it!”

  Maverick ignored him and depressed the radio transmitter once again. “Tiger Moth divert or we will fire upon you.”

  More silence.

  Followed by the sound of corn popping in the distance. It came from the barrel of an old World War II hand held machine gun raking the side of the fuselage. The other pilot could do so all day and it wouldn’t penetrate the B52’s armored exterior.

  Who fires a hand machine gun at a bomber?

  Maverick increased power for the engines to full. Then pulled the wheel back towards his chest, lifting the nose as far above the horizon as he dared, and sending the Stratofortress bomber into a steep climb. “Rigby, don’t let them take another shot at us!”

  “Understood!” Rigby grinned as he gripped the targeting arm of the aft mounted, remotely controlled six-barrel Gatling-style machine gun, and searched for his target.

  Maverick held the bomber in a climb rate as close to its stall angle as he dared. He glanced out the left side windshield. The yellow Tiger Moth was so close he could make out the pilot’s face. The man, if it was a man, wore an old fashioned, leathery pilot’s cap and goggles. Maverick thought he could just make out a deep smile on the person’s face.

  The pilot’s smile made him feel particularly uneasy. There was something wrong about the situation. Everything about it didn’t seem right. In an instant he wished he’d taken Avery’s advice and shot it down without attempting to communicate. Maverick strained his eyes to make more sense of the pilot’s expression.

  And then the horizon disappeared and the entire windshield turned white. The flash was so bright it blinded everyone in the cockpit. Maverick didn’t have time to consider if they’d been destroyed by a bomb, before it was followed by a sonic boom a split second later.

  Maverick felt the slight jolt on the wheel. Nothing large enough to affect his ability to fly, but evidence the Tiger Moth had definitely hit them with something significantly more substantial than a hand machine gun. But with what? It was too small to be carrying anything capable of considerable damage.

  The lighting behind the instrument panel went completely dark. Possibly the result of a power surge after a direct hit on one of the main batteries. Maverick made small adjustments to the aircraft’s controls. His confidence returning as he discovered he still had full control of the B52 – For now. Rigby wouldn’t let the Tiger Moth survive long enough to take a second shot at them. Even so, there was something terrible about the fear in Avery’s eyes which told him to be frightened.

  In the aft facing weapon’s room behind them, Rigby looked at the small aircraft approaching. He lined the golden speck of the Tiger Moth, superimposed upon the horizon, with the cross hairs of his remotely controlled six-barrel Gatling-style machinegun.

  Without hesitation, he depressed the firing nipple.

  Immediately the defensive fire control system directed all four .50 caliber machine guns to fire. The entire cockpit vibrated to the sound of more than a thousand rounds of bullets being expelled in a matter of seconds.

  The Tiger Moth disintegrated in a blaze.

  *

  A moment later the massive B52 banked heavily towards the left. Maverick dipped the nose below the horizon to pick up airspeed. He fought violently with the wheel, which buffeted under the new strain. His right foot pressed hard on the rudder pedal in an attempt to stave off the imminent stall spiral known as a death spiral.

  “What the hell’s wrong?” Avery yelled. His face red with anger.

  “Your damn load’s shifted. That’s what’s wrong! Whatever it is you’ve got back there has now moved to the port side.”

  Avery didn’t wait to respond. He unclipped his seatbelt and moved fast. Racing towards his precious cargo.

  Maverick depressed the intercom. “Rigby, Wakefield! Get back there with Mr. Avery and see what you can do to stabilize the load before it sends us into a deadly spiral!”

  Davidson looked over. Concern painted heavily on his face. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Slowly decrease power to the starboard engines. See if we can compensate for the shift of our load with a change in engine torque.”

  “Copy that,” Davidson said. “Decreasing power to sixty percent for all four starboard engines.”

  Maverick felt an immediate change in the aircraft’s maneuverability. Less pressure was required to adjust the movement to the wheel. The rudder pedals became easier to manage. It was working. He glanced at his instrument panel. The lighting behind was still out.

  Nearly twenty thousand flying hours reassured him by the weight in his seat that he was currently flying straight and level. “Davidson, see if you can replace the blown circuit breakers. It would be great to be able to see the instruments again.”

  Davidson moved quickly. “I’m on it.”

  A few moments later the light behind the instrument panel returned to its usual red glow. Maverick grinned. Everything was going to be all right. “Good work, Davidson.”

  The reassuring sensation was fleeting. Maverick took one glance at the instruments and knew his day was about to get worse. Every single one of them was broken – or worse, functioning correctly. He ran his eyes along them.

  The altimeter ticked slowly in a counter clockwise direction. He adjusted the pitch of the nose and it made no difference to their rate of descent as far as the aircraft’s electronics were concerned. Even when he dipped the nose downwards, the rate of descent should have sped up, but instead it remained steadily rotating counter clockwise.

  Maverick straightened the aircraft into what felt like straight and level flight. Then tapped on the altimeter. “What the hell’s wrong with it?”

  Davidson shook his head. “Beats me.”

  “All right, let’s set a course east and head for home. I’m done with this stupid mission!” Maverick glanced at the compass. Double checked it and then swore. It was the first time he’d ever cursed in front of his men.

  The gimballed compass arrow rotated counter clockwise in the exact same slow and steady manner as the altimeter. He looked at Davidson. “What’s your compass doing?”

  Davidson checked the seco
nd compass. The one on his side of the cockpit. “Something’s wrong. It’s just ticking counter clockwise.”

  “Yeah, mine too.”

  Maverick scanned the rest of the instruments. Every gauge, ranging from airspeed to oil pressure and right down to fuel readings was broken – they all simply rotated in a counter clockwise direction.

  At least a thousand miles out from King Salmon Air Force Base, above only water, and with no means of calculating their direction, Maverick knew only too well that they were out of luck. He was about to start working the problem when the aircraft’s controls became cumbersome.

  “We’ve got the load secured, sir.” Rigby’s voice was rushed and panicked over the intercom. “I’m afraid Mr. Avery was crushed in the process.”

  Maverick cursed. Then, correcting his settings to maintain straight and level flight, he said, “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Avery. Good work securing the load. Get back up here – we might be in for some rough flying.”

  Rigby’s voice was softer this time when he spoke. “There’s something else, too, sir.”

  “What now?”

  “The cover for the cargo came off during the move.”

  “And?” Maverick’s heart pounded heavily in his chest.

  “You’re going to be mad as hell when you see what we’ve been carrying.”

  *

  “A nuclear bomb?” Maverick stared vacantly out the windshield. “You’ve gotta be kidding me! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. We’re a nuclear bomber for goodness sake! If President Reagan wanted us to destroy an island, why all the cloak and dagger spiel? I mean, he could have just told us he needed a secret island nuked and we’d have done it?”

  “What if it was one of our allies he wanted removed?” Davidson asked.

  Maverick adjusted the aircraft’s nose so it balanced on the horizon – the only accurate means of maintaining straight and level flight without instruments. “Doesn’t make any sense. He could have sacrificed us, but why would Avery have gone along with the plan knowing it was a suicide mission?”