"The engines… they're starting "Ormack's on board. Get going."
Elliott noticed a huge gash on Anderson's head, struggled to push himself off the floor to help Anderson get to the hatch. The scream of the engine changed to a roar, and soon the number five engine sounded.
"Jim hurry Elliott managed to rise to his left leg. As he did a line of six red holes, big as quarters, appeared on Anderson's gray flightsuit from his collar bone to right thigh. Anderson did not seem to notice. He continued to walk toward the open hatch, then stumbled into the bomber's sleek black side and crashed to the floor, leaving a red streak on the Old Dog's polished surface.
Suddenly Hal Briggs was beside Elliott, firing his automatic pistol one-handed at whatever moved outside. Again he dragged the general to his feet, the Uzi smoking in his right fist. "We've got to get you on the plane, General."
"No, I've got- "Get on that plane.
"Chocks… got to disconnect the-" "I've done all that, General.
Chocks, air, power, pins, streamers. Now get your ass on board." Briggs fired at a running figure in the doorway, then hauled the resisting general up into the hatch, where a pair of hands McLanahan's — grabbed the general by the lapels of his fatigues and hauled his feet clear of the hatch.
"Briggs," Elliott yelled. "Get up here, now."
McLanahan put Elliott's hands on the ladder, and the general realized what he had and pulled himself painfully up to the upper deck.
McLanahan then turned back to the open hatch and extended a hand to Briggs, who was on one knee, firing into the distance.
"Get on board, you jerk," McLanahan said.
"Not my plane, my friend," he said as a loud ringing started in McLanahan's ears. "Adios."
Briggs was gone, and a second later the hatch snapped shut and the outside latch locked into position.
McLanahan was about to open the hatch, but the Megafortress made an incredible lurch and he was thrown toward the back of the offensive crew compartment.
"We're movin'," Luger said in amazement.
"Either that or they just blew half the fucking plane away," McLanahan said, got back to his feet and went for the ladder to the upper deck.
What McLanahan saw on the upper deck made his guts turn.
Wendy Tork and Angelina Pereira were standing over a dazed and bleeding Bradley Elliott. Pereira had been knocked off her feet by the sudden motion of the bomber and was just regaining her balance, her jeans and blue workshirt covered with blood.
Elliott looked as if he had been wading in red dye. His right leg was covered with dark, clotted blood. Blood was everywhere-on Pereira, on Tork, on Elliott, on the deck, on the circuit breaker panels-everywhere. Wendy was trying to wrap an arm of her flight jacket around the two large openings in Elliott's calf. Elliott himself was hovering just above consciousness; awake enough to feel the intense pain, groggy enough to be unable to move or help anyone. Sweat poured down his face.
McLanahan. "Ormack swung around in his seat. "Get up here. "Ormack was in the co-pilot's seat, checking the gauges.
McLanahan half-ran, half-crawled up front and knelt between the pilot and co-pilot's seats. He stared out through the sleek cockpit windows over the drooping needle nose of the Old Dog.
"We're moving."
"Damn right," Ormack said, "Sit down. Help me."
McLanahan stared at Ormack.
"Well, sit down. "Ormack grabbed McLanahan by the jacket and yanked him forward into the pilot's seat. He grabbed Anderson's headset and slappej it over his head.
"We taking off?"
"If we can," Ormack said.
"We have clearance?"
"I got an order. From him."ormack jerked a thumb toward Elliott.
"He owns the six thousand square miles we're sitting on, not to mention this plane. And this hangar, which they're about to blow up on to.
Now listen. Just watch the gauges-RPMs, fuel flow the left."
Ormack pushed, EGTs. If anything looks like it's winding down, yell.
Watch me on the throttle forward, and the huge plane rushed toward the hangar opening.
"The door's down, we won't make it. Cut it right-" Ormack gripped the wheel, moved the steering ratio lever on the center console from TAKEOFF LAND to TAXI, nudged the right rudder pedal. The bomber swung gently to the right.
Ormack reached down to the center console and moved the steering ratio lever back to TAKEOFF LAND."That's all the room I got."
"I don't think it'll make it McLanahan watched as the hangar door came toward them.
Before they reached the opening he saw Hal Briggs kneeling at the door opening, trying to take cover behind a fallen steel beam. Letting the Uzi He saw the wingtip rushing toward drop onto its neck strap, Briggs held his hands out and apart as far as he could, gave McLanahan a thumbs-up, then took off at a dead run outside the hangar.
"How're we looking?"
"Hal said four feet."
"Four feet what?"
His answer was a head-pounding, wrenching scream of metal that thundered from the left wingtip. The Old Dog veered sharply to the left. A less painful but still frightening crunch of metal exploded from the right wingtip.
Ormack looked at the fuel gauges. "We lost the left tiptank.
Maybe both of them."
McLanahan didn't want to look back. All he could see were dozens of bodies littering the road ahead of them, a burning fuel truck and overturned security police trucks. There was still a handful of cops firing into the wooden barracks outside the fence surrounding the black hangar.
"Lucky this whole dry lake is a runway," McLanahan said.
Ormack nodded. "Just watch the gauges. I hope they can get the fence open-" A Jeep pulled up beside them, sped ahead of the bomber easily-although Ormack had jammed the Old Dog's eight throttles up as far as they could go, the half-million-pound bomber accelerated slowly.
"It's Hal!"
In the distance McLanahan could see Briggs' Jeep speed toward the closed gates. He could tell brakes were being applied, but the Jeep crashed headlong into the right side of the gate going at least fifty miles an hour. Intentionally or not, it did the trick. The right side of the wide gate burst open. The Jeep did two full donuts in the sand-covered concrete, then came to a stop. Steam poured out of the radiator. The right side of the gate was half-open, the Jeep was stalled on the runway driveway, and the left side of the gate was free but still closed.
"C'mon, buddy," McLanahan murmured, "you can do it. "The distance between the bomber and the gate was decreasing rapidly. Briggs was trying to get the Jeep restarted. He gave it a few seconds, then jumped out and started pushing.
Ormack brought the throttles back to idle, which seemed to make no difference.
"We gotta slow down."
As if in reply, three mortar shells exploded in front of the bomber.
Briggs tripped and sprawled in the sand. Another explosion created a huge waterspout of sand off the right wing, and Briggs and his Jeep were lost in the rolling cloud.
The explosions rocked the bomber as if it were caught in a typhoon.
Ormack checked the airspeed. "Seventy knots. If we hit the brakes at this speed, they'll explode. We can't stop in time anyway. Briggs Briggs had managed to get the Jeep cleared off the runway behind the fence. He ran over and hauled on the right side of the gate. The heavy wide fence slowly opened. Briggs sprinted through the sandstorm and pulled on the left gate. A securing pole was dragging in the sand, and Briggs had to throw his entire skinny body against the fence to move it.
"It's stuck," Ormack said.
"This is going to be a real short flight if he doesn't open that gate," McLanahan said.
But the fence wasn't moving. Briggs' legs were pumping, his once spit-shined boots scraping against the sand, but it wasn't helping.
half-open when Briggs slipped and slumped. The fence was to the sand, then rolled to his right to jump back to his feet. As he did he saw the Old Dog.