Then he forced himself to his feet and way from the plane, yelling to Wong and the others on the truck that they had to hurry. He turned toward the hangar, consumed with the next problem, flight gear.
He could wear his own speed suit with the fudged hose connectors his survival experts had supplied. But it would be infinitely better to take the gear the dead pilot was wearing.
Preston ran to the figure he had dragged from the hanger. He bent his head away from the mess that had been the man’s face, took a deep breath, and began to undress him.
Using only his right hand, he pulled off the bib-type outer flight suit. Despite the bloody crust, neither the bib nor the g suit below appeared damaged. The leg material was covered with dark black figures, a sort of freehand graffiti that seemed more like a superstitious scrawl than a mark of ownership.
Preston stopped and undid his own boots, then stripped to his cotton long johns. He tried to use his left hand to pull off the man’s boots, and his wrist throbbed so badly he ended up using his knees and even briefly his head for leverage as he finished stripping the Iraqi.
The back of the g suit was stained black. The pilot’s intestines had released a stream of shit as he died.
Hack pulled the suit away from the sodden underwear, gingerly rolling the pants legs up with his right hand before standing to slide them up. The Iraqi pilot had been about two inches shorter than Preston and five pounds lighter. The suit snugged very tightly in the groin, but the top fit well enough for him to move his shoulders freely. He pulled his boots back on, grabbed the mask he had found and left nearby, then took one last look at the helmet.
Broken beyond use.
He went to his bag and ripped it open, scooping out his own liner and helmet, fitting them on as he ran back toward the plane.
The explosions in the distance had stopped; so had most of the gunfire. He heard a few soft clicks as he snugged the helmet down — then nothing.
Eugene had placed the AA-11 antiair missile below the wing, but not attached it. Hack ran to the knot of men helping fuel the plane, pulling at one and then another before finding the RAG mechanic.
“The missile,” he yelled, pointing. “Get the missile on. It’ll help.”
Eugene shook his head and started to say something, but Preston pushed the mechanic in the direction of the weapon. “Do it! Do it!” he shouted, then ran around the front of the plane, to see if anything obvious was out of place. It wasn’t exactly an FAA inspection, but the plane was there, all there. He touched the afterburner nozzles, their gray housing designed to lower IR signatures, then ran around the tailplane, around the wing — navigation light cracked by shrapnel — and back to the ladder. Eugene was stooped under the wing examining the hard points, he had not mounted the missile.
“You need help? What?” Hack asked.
“The missile is irrelevant,” said Wong, pulling at Hack’s shoulder.
“Not to me,” said Hack.
A pair of Chinooks shot overhead, their heavy rotors shaking the earth. Wong started speaking nonetheless.
“It is an AA-7 Aphid, not an AA-11. The type is thoroughly understood. Even if we can install it, the missile will only add needlessly to your weight, and time is short. You won’t need it,” added Wong.
The captain was right.
“Is it fueled?”
“Four thousand kilos, as you directed. That will cut your range…”
“It’s fine. I’m not going to California.” Hack pushed the ladder back against the plane. His left wrist collapsed but he ignored the pain, shoving the ladder with his shoulder.
Wong helped, but grabbed Hack as he started up. “Your left hand?”
“Banged my wrist.”
“Can you fly?”
Hack shrugged. “Let’s see if I can get the damn thing started. Get the fuel truck out of the way.”
Still holding onto Hack’s flight vest, Wong put his other hand around Hack’s wrist and squeezed. Even if it hadn’t been injured, the pressure would have hurt — but Hack did his best not to acknowledge the pain. He pulled away and climbed the ladder.
By now the cockpit seemed almost familiar, the ten-degree-canted seat a favorite La-Z-Boy recliner. The parachute harness attached with a single clasp at the chest. Hack had trouble with it, struggling to position his body and cinch it at the same time. His left hand was so worthless, he kept it in his lap as he donned the oxygen mask and mad the connections on the left side of the cockpit. He checked the brake, took a breath, and began working through the engine start procedure.
Do your best.
His flight board. He didn’t have it.
Screw it now. He had to go, go, go.
Designed from the very beginning to work under primitive conditions, the MiG-29 had an admirably austere feel that would not go unappreciated by an A-10A aficionado. Though a completely different aircraft with an entirely different mission, the Fulcrum had also been engineered to rely on mechanical systems — not cutting-edge computers and fly-by-wire gizmos. One of those systems was the doors that closed off the engine inlets to avoid ingesting debris when taking off. Another was the auxiliary power unit, which sent a big breath of compressed air across the left Tumanski R33D turbofan, spinning until it coughed and clicked and surged.
And died.
If Hack’s left wrist hadn’t been sprained already, he would have sprained it when he slammed it against the throttle bar, pissed that he had come this far only to fail. He screamed the whole way through a second start sequence, but couldn’t get the engine to kick again — he had no power, in fact, on the panel.
From the beginning, he told himself. Start over. Slow.
He was already trying to think up a way to have the tractor puff the Tumanski when the plane’s auxiliary unit managed to wind the power plant with a small huff of air. This time it coughed loud and whirled into a steady roar, everything vibrating wildly.
Hack checked the rpm — sturdy, in the middle of the gauge, but what exactly was the spec?
He’d blanked, but the number didn’t matter. He got the next engine up anyway. The rumble was firm; there was no doubt he was in the green.
Was there?
The dials were all over the place — he was sitting in an F-15 with instruments from an A-10 that had been arranged by a schizophrenic engineer.
Weren’t all engineers schizophrenic?
Go over the restraints again, check the flight gear, don’t fuck up. Oxygen — something was wrong, because he wasn’t getting anything out of the mask.
As he leaned over to examine the panel near his left elbow, he realized for the first time that the hose had been split between one of the coils. He’d need to repair it. He pulled it apart, then saw it wasn’t just split; shrapnel or bullets had blown a series of holes clear through.
He could just tape it.
No time.
Fly low.
F-14s expected him at thirty thousand feet.
Tough shit on that. Stay at five thousand feet, lower.
Get nailed by antiair. Forget the Iraqis, the Allies would nail him.
He would fly low, though not quite so low as that; it made sense. But it didn’t make sense to fly without an oxygen mask since he had his own, even if its hose fitting was only a kludge. As the MiG shook against its brakes, Preston loosened his restraints and leaned over the side of the plane. Wong and Hawkins were standing a short distance away with another member of the Delta team, both trying to listen to a single com set.
“My bag!” he screamed. “My bag! My bag!”