“I don’t need God’s help,” said Mack, practically spitting Dog’s very unofficial and not exactly flattering nickname.
“Major, this isn’t going to affect you adversely. It’s just a little bump.”
“Screw yourself, Thomas, okay? Just fucking screw yourself.”
Chapter 21
Even the people who flew B-52’s Called them BUFFs — Big Ugly Fat Fellas, or Fuckers, depending on whether there was a reverend around. The venerable Cold War bombers looked clean on the first sketch pads, but even by the late sixties wore a variety of blisters and stretch marks across their approximately 160-foot bodies. Each modification made the bomber a more potent weapon, but most also took a slight nick out of its aerodynamic qualities. Never fast to begin with, latter-day Stratofortresses positively labored in certain flight regimes, including low-level maneuvers.
Not the Megafortress. With a sleek needle nose, an ultra-clean fuselage, carbon-fiber reinforced wings, and a modified tailplane assembly, the EB-52 could accelerate through a forty-five-degree climb from one thousand feet, its speed touching 423.5 knots even though it carried a simulated weapons load of 28,000 pounds of iron bombs.
“We can go faster,” Cheshire said as they climbed through seven thousand feet. She’d let him take the pilot’s seat to continue his training.
“Engines at max,” said Dog.
“Engines at maximum power,” concurred the computer. “We should have more thrust,” complained Cheshire. “Eight thousand feet, going to ten thousand.”
The outboard J57’s rumbled noisily, as if Major Cheshire had annoyed them. Still, the airplane’s indicated airspeed slipped back toward four hundred knots. Cheshire made some adjustments on her side of the control panel, but nothing seemed to have an effect. They reached ten thousand feet; Bastian began pushing the nose down, trimming the plane for level flight.
“Air speed 380 knots,” reported the computer.
“How can that be?” said Dog.
“Problem with Test Engine Two,” reported Cheshire, a moment before the computer flashed a warning on the status screen. The PW4074/DX engine’s oil pressure shot down, then up off the scale. The temperature went red as well.
“Shutting down Two,” reported Cheshire.
“Two, yes, shutting down Two,” said Dog. His mind hesitated for a moment, his brain momentarily caught between a dozen different thoughts. The synapses were temporarily clogged by the memory of the only time in his life that he’d lost an engine in flight and couldn’t get it relit.
Unfortunately, it was in an F-16 over the Atlantic. No amount of restarts, no amount of curses, could bring is back. He’d bailed out into a moonless night at ten thousand feet — and even with plenty of time to contemplate how cold the water would be, he’d underestimated the chill by half.
But he was in a Megafortress now.
“Trimming to compensate,” Dog said calmly, remembering the routine Bree had taught him during the simulations.
“Good,” said Cheshire. “Okay. Okay,” she sang, running through the instruments on her side.
The Megafortress wobbled slightly. Mo’s speed continued to drop steadily, but he was still in control.
“I’m going to bank around and try for Runway Two,” Bastian told Cheshire.
“Two’s no good,” said Nancy. “The Flighthawks are using it for touch-and-go’s. Three is our designated landing area.”
“Three then.” Bastian clicked his radio transmit button. “Dreamland Tower, this is Missouri. We have an emergency situation. One engine is out. Request permission to land on Runway Three.”
“Tower. We acknowledge your emergency. Stand by.”
Dog started to bank the plane. His hands were a little shaky and the artificial horizon showed he was tipping his wing a little too much.
“Temp in Engine Three going yellow, going — shit — climbing — red,” reported Cheshire.
She said something else, but Dog couldn’t process it. His stomach started fluttering to the side, as if it had somehow pulled loose inside his body.
Relax, he told himself. You can do this.
“Nine thousand feet, going to eight thousand,” said Cheshire.
“Shut down Engine Three,” said Dog.
“Through the turn first,” prompted Cheshire. “I’m on the engine, Colonel,” she explained.
Dog came out of the turn, leveling the wings while still in a gentle downward glide. Cheshire did a quick run through the indicators on the remaining engines, reporting that they were in the green. The tower came back, clearing them to land.
“Six thousand feet,” said Cheshire. “One more orbit?”
“I think so,” said Dog. But as he nudged into the bank, his left wing started to tip precipitously; the Megafortress began bucking and threatening to turn into a brick.
“Problem with the automatic trim control,” reported Cheshire. “System failure in the automated flight-control computer, section three — the backup protocol for the engine tests introduced an error. All right, hang with it. This won’t be fatal.”
She then began running through some numbers, recording the section problems that the flight computer was giving her on the screen. Under other circumstances — like maybe sitting on the ground in his office — Dog would have appreciated the technical details and the prompt identification of the problem. Now, though, all he wanted was a solution.
“We’re going to have to fly without the computer,” said Cheshire finally. “I can’t lock this out and it will be easier to just land and we can debug on the ground.”
“I figured that out,” said Dog, wrangling the big plane through the turn.
“If you want me to take it, just say the word.”
He felt his anger boiling up, even though he knew she didn’t mean it as an insult. “No, I’m okay,” he said. “Tell me if I’m doing anything wrong.”
“Wide turns,” she said. “Very wide turns. We’re more like an airliner than a fighter jet.”
“Yup.”
Part of him, a very, very small part of him, wanted to turn the plane over to Cheshire. A strong case could be made that it was the right thing to do — when all was said and done, he was a green pilot trying to deal with a very big problem. Even if he wasn’t in over his head, it made sense to turn the stick over to Cheshire.
But Dog was way too stubborn for that. And besides, he wasn’t in over his head — he came through another orbit much more smoothly, having worked the plane down to two thousand feet. They legged into final approach with a long, gentle glide.
“Come on, Mo,” said Cheshire, talking to the plane. “You can do it, baby.”
“Yeah, Mo,” said Dog. “Go for it, sister.”
Whether she heard them or not, the EB-52 stepped down daintily on the desert runway, her tires barely chirping.
She poked her nose up slightly, perhaps indignant to find a full escort of emergency vehicles roaring alongside her. But Bastian had no trouble controlling her, bringing her to a rest near the secondary access ramp at the middle of the field.
“Good work, Colonel,” said Cheshire. “You handled that like a pro. Maybe we will use you as a pilot when Pistol and Billy leave.”
Chapter 22
Kevin nodded at the guard as the gate swung back from the road, the panel of chain links groaning and clicking as the metal wheels whirled. While the path was wide enough for a tractor-trailer, no vehicles were allowed past the checkpoint, not even the black SUVs used by Dreamland security.