Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01

by Flight of the Old Dog (v1. 1)

  Elliott and Ormack began a gradual descent to fifteen hundred feet above the field’s elevation.

  “Clear of terrain for thirty miles,” Luger said. “Still nothing on radar.”

  McLanahan had already double-checked that Angelina and Wendy were secure in their ejection seats. Now he made his way forward to the cockpit and slipped into the steel instructor-pilot’s jumpseat. “Need an extra set of eyes?” he asked Elliott.

  “What the hell are you doing up here?”

  “Dave’s got the left seat downstairs. I’ll help you look for the runway, then I’ll go aft and help Wendy and Angelina with their seats in case . . .”

  “Patrick, that’s suicide. Get your butt back to your seat.”

  “Dave doesn’t have an ejection seat, sir,” McLanahan said quietly. “One of the details we never got around to.”

  “I didn’t know . . .”

  “Forget it. Dave’s as good on the radar as I am. If something goes wrong I’ll try to make sure Wendy and Angelina get out. Meanwhile I’ll help find that runway.”

  “This whole deal is still crazy ...” Ormack muttered.

  “Maintain the element of surprise,” McLanahan said. “We’ve kept the whole Russian air force off our backs by confusing ’em. This is just the next step.” And over the interphone he asked, “Dave? Anything?”

  “It all looks the same,” Luger told him, increasingly frustrated.

  “Keep tuning, you’ll find it. Remember, we’re setting up for a base-leg, not a straight-in. Don’t just rely on the nav computers—check shorter ranges.”

  “Rog,” Luger said, retuning the scope once more.

  “We’ll stay unconfigured at two hundred and fifty knots until we see the runway,” Elliott said. “We’ll turn final and check the runway and base and make a decision to land. Then we’ll turn onto the downwind, configure and—”

  “I’ve got it,” Luger suddenly announced. “Six miles, eleven o’clock.”

  “Six miles?” Ormack said.

  “The navigation computer must be way off,” McLanahan told him. All three heads in the cockpit swung to the left. Elliott found it immediately. “Got it,” he said. “We’re right on top of it. . . we’ll never get configured fast enough. Let’s go on straight ahead, check out the base from the end of the runway, then make a turn into a right downwind for landing.”

  “Roger,” Ormack said. “I’ve got the airplane. You check out the base.” He turned the cockpit lights down to bare minimum to make it easier to see the runway.

  Elliott muttered unhappily as the runway moved to his left window. “That runway looks like the rest of the tundra. Some of those snow drifts out there must be ten feet high.”

  “No signals,” Wendy reported. “Still a clear threat-scope. Not even any radio transmissions.”

  It was a small, almost obscure base in a mountain valley that reminded McLanahan of Hill Air Force Base in Utah, with snowy mountain peaks peering down from the sky. The most noticeable feature of the base was the “Christmas tree”-alert parking area at the end of the runway—two rows of six parking areas for Russian fighters, staggered on each side so that all twelve fighters could move at once and line up on the runway. Fortunately the parking areas were empty—more than empty, they appeared not to have been plowed out for quite a while. Some of the Quonset hut fighter shelters were partially dismantled, with snow piled in deep drifts everywhere.

  A big problem was the tiny village nearby, which McLanahan could see out Ormack’s right cockpit window. It was about ten miles from the base, but a B-52 made a lot of racket and would attract attention. What the villagers would do about the noise was another question. Did people in Russia complain about military planes waking them up at night? McLanahan prayed they didn’t.

  “The base isn’t completely deserted,” Elliott said as the runway moved out of view. “I saw some trucks parked out in front of a building near the main taxi way. They looked military.”

  The crew was suddenly quiet. Ormack started a slow, wide turn to the right to parallel the runway.

  Wendy said, “If it’s not deserted, they could have troops there . . .”

  “Fifteen minutes of fuel left,” Ormack said. “I guess we can make it back above ten thousand feet for ejection, but that’s all.”

  “If they had a military force there, there’d be more than just a couple of trucks,” McLanahan said, liking his logic but not altogether believing it.

  “Agreed,” Elliott said quickly. “Besides, the runway looked closed and the buildings looked deserted. And, we don’t have any choice.” He turned to Ormack. “Let’s do it. I’ll take the airplane. Run the landing checklists.”

  McLanahan patted Elliott on the shoulder. “Good luck, see you guys in Russia,” he said, and made his way back to the defense instructor’s seat and strapped in. “Next stop, ladies, beautiful downtown Anadyr.”

  “Can they land the plane on all that snow?” Angelina asked McLanahan cross-cockpit.

  “Not recommended, but this is a tough bird and those are two tough pilots ...” Big brave talk, he told himself.

  “Airbrakes zero,” Elliott said as Ormack read from the computerized checklist on his screen. “Ready for the gear and flaps, here they come.” He lowered the gear handle, Ormack moved the flap switch to its first- stage position, Elliott started a slow right turn to put them perpendicular to the snow-covered runway.

  “Left-tip gear shows unsafe,” Ormack said, watching the gauges. “All other wheels down. Flaps twenty-five percent.”

  Elliott moved the throttles forward to regain speed as the huge flaps, large as barn doors, lowered into the slipstream, allowing the bomber to fly increasingly slower on final approach.

  “Fuel danger lights on for all mains,” Ormack announced.

  “Okay, crew, this is it,” Elliott said, forcing his voice to sound calmer than he felt. “The fuel’s run out. We either land or eject. Dave, I’ll make sure you get a few hundred feet altitude, but don’t delay pulling the trigger.”

  “Nav . . . copies . . Luger was not as successful in controlling his voice. His shoulder harness was already locked, his back and neck stiff and straight, his hands rested lightly on the trigger-ring between his legs.

  “Patrick ..he whispered, fighting off the pain in his leg. McLanahan didn’t have a chance. He would need several thousand feet to even attempt manual bailout, much less survive it.

  Elliott started a slow turn to the right again to align the Old Dog onto the runway.

  “Flaps fifty,” Ormack said. “Starters on. Fuel panel is set. Running on fumes now ...”

  “Lower the nose,” Elliott said. Ormack flipped a switch and the long, pointed SST-style nose slid down beneath the windscreen.

  “Landing lights,” Elliott ordered, and the four-thousand-watt lights on the landing gear struts snapped on and the Russian runway leapt into view. A massive snowdrift at least thirty feet high blocked the approach end of the runway. Elliott shoved the power forward.

  “Flaps full ” he called out.

  The howl of the engines obliterated all sound. Luger had his eyes on the bailout warning light on his front console, waiting for the command to eject, his fingers closing around the trigger ring. Wendy and Angelina tensed.

  The right-front landing-gear truck plowed into the small mountain of ice, the Old Dog heeled sharply to the right and plummeted down, its nose rushing toward the frozen runway. Elliott stomped on the left rudder before realizing that their rudder was useless, shot away long ago. He jammed the yoke full-back and full-left to try to counteract the headlong tumble, but the Old Dog was a freight train out of control.

  McLanahan folded his arms across his chest, waited. He felt the impact on the ice, felt the plane lurch to the right at an angle so steep and so sudden he thought the plane had flipped upside down. The right wing stayed down, and he found himself wondering what the crash would look like from outside, a hundred tons of B-52 cartwheeling around on the frozen ground. />
  He closed his eyes and waited for everything to grow dark and the sound to stop . . .

  For the first time since he began his chase Yuri Papendreyov was beginning to feel he had made a mistake.

  Despite stealing his MiG-29 Fulcrum, he had been receiving assistance from ground and air forces in trying to locate the B-52 intruder. But so far he hadn’t found it. The climb to twenty-six thousand meters, almost eighty thousand feet, was necessary to receive reports from the elements of the Far East Air Defense Force searching for the B-52 ... at lower altitudes the mountains would block out reports from coastal or partially terrain-obscured stations. All had reported negative contact . . .

  Yuri had taken his Fulcrum nine hundred kilometers along the Korak- skoje Mountains toward Trebleski and Beringovskiy, the main coastal air-defense base and radar installation north of Ossora. He was sure the B-52 would stay along the Korakskoje, hiding in the rugged mountain peaks, then destroy or jam the Beringovskiy radar and head out across the Gulf of Anadyr toward Alaska. With the powerful Beringovskiy radar down, the inferior MiG-23s of the Trebleski Air Reserve Forces, although very heavily armed, would not be able to spot the low-flying B-52 or engage it.

  Papendreyov checked his fuel. He would already be in emergency fuel status if he had not taken along the largest external fuel tank available, but now he was again very low on fuel. Only his long idle glide from high altitude left him with enough to make some decisions . . . Trebleski was the most obvious choice for a quick-turn refueling, but Anadyr, a small limited-operations base, was available and within gliding range. He had been briefed, though, not to use Anadyr or other such warm-weather bases except in an emergency.

  He had no choice—Trebleski it had to be. He switched his radios to Trebleski Command Post, requested permission for landing and a “hot” refueling, a battlefield-quick refueling technique where a high-pressure tank truck pumped fuel while the aircraft engines were still running.

  “Ossora one-seven-one, Trebleski copies your request. Stand by.”

  “Standing by,” Papendreyov replied. Then: “Trebleski, say latest reports on intruder aircraft.”

  “One-seven-one, intruder last reported by Ossora radar bearing two- eight-two true, range twenty-one kilometers, heading three-four-one true.”

  “That report is hours old, Control. Any other reports? Has Beringovskiy reported contact?”

  “No reports by Beringovskiy radar, one-seven-one. You are cleared for approach to Trebleski Airfield, descend and maintain two thousand meters. Your request for hot refueling has been delayed. Expect cold refueling support in bunker seventeen on landing.”

  “Control, I am a priority air-defense aircraft. Request priority hot refueling.”

  “Copy your request, one-seven-one,” the Trebleski controller replied.

  “Priority request is being delayed by your headquarters. Stand by for confirmation of your flight-tasking. Reset transponder to one-one-one- seven for positive identification. Stand by this frequency.”

  Papanedreyov swore into his face mask. So that was the reason for the delay ... by requesting priority refueling he’d forced Trebleski to run a check on his flight-tasking order—which, of course, Yuri didn’t have. If he’d just accepted a normal bunker refueling he would have gotten a fast turnaround because of the air-defense emergency and Trebleski wouldn’t have double-checked. Now Ossora would know exactly where he’d taken his fighter on its unauthorized chase. No doubt they’d order him arrested after landing.

  Yuri checked his chart, saw he was now actually closer to Anadyr than Trebleski. Anadyr would have fuel, might even be set up for a hot refueling. He could wait at Anadyr and monitor the interceptor frequency for any sign of the B-52, then chase it down and destroy it. If the B-52 didn’t show—but that was impossible—he could refuel, cruise back to Ossora and try to talk his way out of a court-martial or a firing squad.

  He ignored the request to set a new identification code and pointed his MiG-29 Fulcrum toward Anadyr, switching radio frequencies to Anadyr’s command post. He would be in radio range of the base in half an hour, and he would still have almost an hour’s worth of fuel once over Anadyr . . .

  23 Anadyr Far East Fighter-Interceptor Base, Russia

  Sergei Serbientlov was indulging in one of his few delights—Chinese food. It wasn’t exactly a popular dish in this remote corner of the Soviet Union but perhaps that was one of the reasons why he enjoyed cooking and eating Chinese food—it set him apart. Unfortunately it was that sort of anti-Soviet thinking—and eating—that got him stuck in Anadyr in the first place, but everyone had to be somewhere.

  Besides, it wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t a state of exile being here in the very northeastern tip of the Soviet Union; it was more like an unscheduled, involuntary reassignment. He had free housing, free food, vehicles at his disposal and a few hundred rubles extra every month being sent back to his family in Irkutsk.

  Plus, he had responsibility and a lot of autonomy. During the preceding two months and for the next two, he had been and would be the chief custodian of a Far East Defense Force Fighter-Interceptor Base. It didn’t matter that there were no fighters here—he was in charge of the base. He was the chief policeman, firefighter, banker, lawyer, janitor and mayor of millions of rubles of equipment and buildings. During the long dark winter months he was the richest and most powerful man in this province of fishermen, trappers, and loggers.

  Sergei now deftly manipulated a hand-whittled pair of chopsticks to pick up a mass of noodles and fish. He had grown the seasonings and herbs himself in a greenhouse on the base, and he frequently traded with the villagers and nearby fishermen for the fish and flour to make the noodles. The area seemed to have everything, and Sergei was sure that the fishermen took their boats out into the wild Anadyrskij Zaliv across to Saint Lawrence Island or even Nome to trade with the Americans.

  He passed his nose over the noodles and spiced fish. It was a strange concoction for breakfast, but his only other option was some four-month- old ryepa—turnips—from some old witch in town. No thank you.

  He brought the savory, heavily spiced noodles to his lips and was about to take a bite when the double-doors leading to the outer hallway burst open and two figures rushed into the tiny office and half-stumbled, half- ran up to the chest-high counter that extended the length of the room.

  The taller of the two was dragging his right leg, which was covered with blackened blood from toe to hip. He had an arm over the shoulder of his companion, who was wrapped in a coarse green blanket.

  “Gdye poonkt skoray pomashchi!” the injured man screamed in thick monotone Russian. “My leg! Where’s the hospital?”

  Sergei nearly dropped his noodles in his lap. “What?”

  “Where is the hospital? My leg—”

  “There is no hospital. What happened to your leg?” Sergei came quickly from behind the long counter to the two men. Except on closer inspection he found that the man in the blanket was a woman. She had long, salt-and-pepper gray hair and deep, dark eyes—she could have been Oriental herself, Sergei guessed, or Latin. Her lips chattered in the cold as she looked quickly at Sergei, then averted her eyes to her injured companion.

  The man dragged himself over to a rough wooden bench in a far corner of the office and dropped onto it. He was tall and ruggedly built, perhaps an old military man. He looked frozen as well, and his skin was gray and sunken—probably from loss of blood, Sergei thought.

  “Gyde polizei?” the man said. His accent was strange, obviously not from the local area, although very few locals were from this obscure corner of the world.

  “Why do you want the police?” Sergei bent to examine the man’s leg. He couldn’t see the wound itself but the blood loss was obviously great. “There are no police here. The village constables won’t come to the base. I will help you all I can, but only if you tell me—”

  “Nyet, spasiba. ” Suddenly Sergei was looking into the barrel of a very big, very ugly blue-black automatic
pistol. As the muzzle touched his nose, Sergei slowly rose and backed away.

  The woman threw off her blanket and helped the injured man to his feet. Her clothing made Sergei forget about the pistol. She was wearing a short, rough blue jacket—denim. She was wearing denim. And then Sergei noticed her blue jeans and fancy leather boots.

  “. . . blue jeans?” Sergei said, one of the few foreign phrases he knew. “Gdye mozhna koopit blue jeans?”

  The woman turned to her companion. “What did he say, General?”

  “I didn’t catch it all, but the man likes your blue jeans,” Elliott said. He turned toward the double doors. “Patrick!”

  Crouching low, McLanahan rushed through the doors, a .38 caliber survival revolver clutched in his hand. He ran over to the Russian and pointed his revolver at the man’s temple. Sergei closed his eyes.

  “Search him,” Elliott ordered. McLanahan quickly pat-searched Sergei, keeping his revolver aimed at his head. Elliott then turned Sergei around and backed him into the bench, forcing him to sit. With both his own and McLanahan’s guns still pointed, Elliott took Sergei’s hands and put each one on top of his head. Sergei sat on the wooden bench, eyes tight shut.

  “Vi gavariti pahangliyski?” Elliott was asking if he spoke English. Sergei opened his eyes, forced himself to look at each of the strangers.

  “Nyet. Please don’t kill me . . .”

  “Pazhaloosta, gavariti myedlinna, ” Elliott said, telling him to speak slowly. The man looked less terrified now, though very confused. “Kagda polizei virnyotsa?” Elliott asked when the police would be back.

  “No police,” Sergei replied. He kept his hands up, but his shoulders visibly relaxed. Slowly he said in Russian, “Police ... do not come ... to base.”

  “I understood the no, ” McLanahan said, taking a double-handed grip on the pistol.

  “I think he’s saying there are no police,” Elliott said. “This is going to be rough—I can understand about every fifth word.” He leaned forward, still aiming his pistol at Sergei’s forehead. “Binzuh, binzuh. Gasoline. Binzuhkalonka?”