They certainly weren’t in any condition to fight-maybe they should just surrender. The stolen fuel they had pumped into their tanks was contaminated fuel oil, not jet fuel. One of their eight engines had been destroyed, and another was leaking oil so badly that it was all but useless. The Old Dog’s fuselage was full of holes, and their stabilators-the odd-looking V-tail assembly that served both as rudder and horizontal stabilizer-had been shot out. The plane’s wheels were frozen in knee-deep snow, and it was doubtful that the plane could even taxi on six engines, let alone attempt a takeoff on the short, snow-covered Soviet runway. The pilot, Lieutenant General Bradley Elliott, had been dragged upstairs by some of the other crew, unconscious and nearly frozen to death.
Now they were surrounded by Russian militia.
Luger had been strapping himself into his ejection seat in the downstairs compartment, but had stopped when he realized how ridiculous the idea of trying to launch the Megafortress seemed right now-not much use in strapping in if there was no way the plane would ever get off the ground-so he laid the straps aside.
There was a gaping hole in the downstairs crew compartment big enough that he could see footprints in the snow outside. Just a few hours earlier his right leg had been in back of that jagged hole. For the first time since arriving at the Russian base, Luger surveyed the damage on his leg-and felt his stomach turn at the sight. Even heavily wrapped in bandages from the first-aid kit, he could feel his kneecap gone, see the limb twisted and his right foot pointing at an unnatural angle. The leg had frozen into an unrecognizable stick, thanks to both the windblast inflight and then spending several hours in freezing temperatures outside. He was probably going to lose the leg or, at best, be crippled for life. Most of the navigation equipment was damaged or in reset, and the weapons were probably shut down. Were they kidding themselves, or what?
Luger’s partner, Captain Patrick McLanahan, had finished helping Lieutenant General Elliott and the two women crew members up the ladder and was going to strap into the seat beside Luger when copilot Lieutenant Colonel John Ormack called McLanahan upstairs. Ormack had kept one engine running while they had refueled the Megafortress, and incredibly had started engine number five just a few minutes ago. The contaminated fuel was causing tremendous explosions in each engine during ignition, but amazingly the engines kept running. Now more engines were starting. Luger thought McLanahan was probably acting as copilot with Elliott incapacitated. He put on his headphones to block out the bangs and screams of the engines. He could hear Ormack and McLanahan on the interphone.
“If we start a firefight here…” Ormack said.
“We may not have any choice,” McLanahan replied.
Maybe we are going to fight it out, Luger thought. But with what? Half the crew was injured, the plane was shot to hell, they were surrounded by Soviet militiamen.
“He wants us to shut down,” Luger heard Ormack say over inter-phone. “Patrick, we’re running out of time. …”
There were several loud bangs on both wings this time and the Old Dog began to buck and rumble as if its insides had been seized by a coughing fit. Down in the lower deck of the Megafortress, alone and shot up and half frozen, Luger felt useless to the crew who needed him the most. But they were continuing the engine start, and Luger realized Ormack and McLanahan weren’t giving up. They were going to get the Megafortress in the air or die trying. He smiled. Good old McLanahan. A real give-a-shit crew dog who was giving the finger to the Russians in their own backyard. If you’re gonna fight, this was the way to do it. The way they’d been taught. Never give up.
Lights popped on in the belowdecks compartment as the generators were brought on-line. No, the nay equipment was okay-the GPS (Global Positioning System) satellite navigation system was working, the TDC (terrain-data computer) and COLA (computer-generated lowest altitude) terrain-avoidance computer was operable, even the AIM-120 Scorpion air-to-air missiles were on-line. Out of force of habit, if not by optimistic thinking, Luger moved the data cartridge lever on the TDC from LOCK to READ and got a TERRAIN DATA LOAD OK message on his computer terminal. But seconds later, when the generators popped off-line and put the entire system back into reset, he gave up trying to get the computers running.
The engines were now screaming louder than ever, up to taxi power and almost to full military power. The Megafortress wasn’t moving. But Ormack and McLanahan were running through checklists, starting more engines, putting internal power back on-line…
Suddenly the unmistakable rattle of a heavy-caliber machine gun split the air.
They’re shooting at us… the motherfuckers! Luger cursed to himself.
McLanahan, upstairs, went on with the engine start. Over interphone, he called, “Everyone on interphone? Report by compartment.”
The engines were cut to IDLE. McLanahan said, “Crew, we’ve got a Russian armored vehicle about a hundred yards off our left wing. They’ve got a machine gun. They’ve ordered us to cut our engines—”
Alone downstairs, Luger seethed. Cut our engines? As they say in Texas, when pigs fly…
Luger rose out of his ejection seat and pulled himself aft, dragging his shattered right leg like a sack of heavy wet sand alongside him. He glanced up through the between-decks ladder well and saw electronic warfare officer Wendy Tork kneeling beside General Elliott on the upper deck. She was removing her flight jacket and laying it over Elliott to try to warm him up. Wendy saw Luger and her eyes raised an unspoken question. Luger stared expressionlessly at her, then removed his flight jacket, passed it upstairs to Wendy, and gave her a thumbs-up — and her eyes widened in disbelief.
“Thanks, Dave,” Wendy Tork said, words that could not be heard over the screaming of the six operable turbofan engines. Luger smiled anyway, then dropped out of sight below the rim of the between-decks ladder well. She got a glimpse of his horribly injured leg and wondered where he was going. To repair a damaged relay? Close the aft bulkhead door? Double-check the lock on the entry hatch?
Then she realized that he was not just offering his jacket to help Elliott keep from freezing to death … he was going to leave the plane.
And she did nothing to stop him.
Luger dropped to his left side on the deck, reached down, slid the hatch-lock lever over, and pulled the latch lever back. The belly hatch flopped open. He swung his good left leg through the hatch and braced himself in the hatch for a moment, sitting on the rear sill looking forward at the navigator’s crew stations, catching his breath.
So the Soviets want us to cut our engines? No way. If Ormack and McLanahan can bite the bullet, then I’m sure as hell going to do my part. Sitting alone, strapped in my seat, freezing to death with a bad leg and a bad eye, isn’t doing jack-shit to help. But there may be a way…
Luger saw a trail of thick dark blood staining the entry ladder and lower deck and realized there would be rivers of blood pouring out of this black beast if he didn’t do something — and do it now.
Crew dogs rarely talked of things like fear, but he knew the rest of the crew had to be as scared as he was. But fear was no reason to bail out; fear accelerated one’s courage. It certainly did his. Feeling the blasts of frigid air rushing through the open hatch below him, hearing the scream of the engines, Luger reached down and felt the .38-caliber survival revolver strapped against his torso He withdrew it and counted the cartridges-five, with the hammer down on the empty chamber. It was a small gun, but it helped melt the last of his fear away. He slipped off the entry hatch rear sill, dropped down to the hard-packed snow below, and closed the hatch behind him.