Upstairs, the HATCH NOT CLOSED AND LATCHED light on the forward instrument panel snapped on then, and before either Ormack and McLanahan could react it popped out.
“What was that?” asked Ormack.
“I don’t … Dave, did you open the hatch?” No reply. “Luger. Report.”
There was no answer.
Luger had never been outside a B-52 with the hatch closed and the engines running. It was a weird, almost overpowering feeling.
For an instant he visualized the faces of everyone he had just left behind. But one look at the menacing-looking armored half-track parked between two hangars off to the left of the nose of the bomber and he knew what he had to do.
The roar of the engines was deafening, acutely painful. Staying under the left wing, careful not to get either in front or behind the running engines, oblivious to the ear-shattering noise, he moved away from the Megafortress and toward the half-track, the gun in his fist.
Luger was only a few feet from the Megafortress’s shattered left wingtip when he inadvertently tried to put weight on his right leg. It immediately gave way, and he sprawled to the snow into a patch of black oil that had spilled out of the damaged number-two engine. The shock of the slimy snow on his face sent a surge of energy-or panic-through his body, and he half-stumbled, half-crawled to the fuel truck, which was still parked just off the left wingtip.
He heard several rapid-fire pop-pop-pop-pop shots coming from the Megafortress, turned, and saw Colonel Ormack firing a big pistol — General Elliott’s big .45, he realized — out the left cockpit window. Luger couldn’t see what he was shooting at, but he assumed it was the half-track. The heavy-caliber gun would slice the cockpit into ribbons in a few seconds …
Luger reached the fuel truck, crawled around to the driver’s side, and was about to get in when he saw the half-track’s gunner take aim at the Megafortress.
Luger threw himself forward onto the hood of the fuel truck, took aim, and fired his .38 at the gunner. The gun’s puny reports nevertheless sent slaps of shock waves against his face and eyes, but he held the gun as steady as his frozen fingers could manage. He wasn’t sure if he took proper aim or even opened his eyes, but to his amazement Luger saw the Russian gunner clutch his chest and fall down into the half-track.
“Luger! Get back here!” It was Ormack shouting at him over the roar of the engines.
In pain, Luger dropped the pistol and made his way around to the front of the fuel truck, starting back for the Old Dog. He had taken only three steps when another soldier appeared from behind the half-track, lifted a rifle with a long, curved cartridge magazine, and fired. Suddenly his left leg was thrust violently to his right and out from underneath him. He collapsed onto his left side, screaming at the pain from his left thigh-a bullet hole the size of a damn Ping-Pong ball had carved out a gory tunnel in the side of his thigh. He screamed again as the sounds of gunfire erupted all around him, and he kept on screaming-for Patrick, for his mother, for help from God-as he clawed to the relative safety and protection of the fuel truck.
Ormack could only fire his pistol again, forcing the Russian at the back of the half-track to retreat, but he didn’t notice another soldier sliding into the machine-gun mount on the half-track.
The soldier took aim on the Old Dog and let the machine gun rip.
The 20-millimeter shells plowed through the Old Dog’s left side.
Somehow Luger pulled himself up inside the cab of the fuel truck and lay down on the frozen bench seat, peeking out the side windows at the horrifying display outside.
The left cockpit windows were gone, and little black puffs of fibersteel were bursting all over the nose and left side of the crew compartment. A huge cloud of smoke erupted from the number-four engine, the one closest to the pilot’s side windows, and the bomber was shaking and bucking enough to make the big wings flap.
They’re killing the Old Dog, Luger thought. Ormack couldn’t have survived that gunfire-my God, the whole cockpit was gone. “You sons of bitches,” Luger screamed at the Russian half-track’s gunner. “You’re killing them!”
Luger’s shattered right leg touched the fuel truck’s accelerator and the engine revved — McLanahan or defensive-systems officer Angelina Pereira must have left it running when they’d used it to get the stolen fuel. Luger found the parking brake, eased it off, then reached down with his hand to lift his bloody left leg onto the clutch. He put the transmission into first gear, eased his left leg off the clutch, and stomped with all his might on the accelerator, leaving his near-frozen right leg on it, and steered the fuel truck toward the armored personnel carrier.
The fuel truck lurched ahead, bouncing and clattering on ages-old springs. He was about ten meters from the half-track before the gunner noticed him coming, swiveled the gun turret around toward him, and opened fire. Nearly passing out from the pain and the shock, screaming like an animal caught in a trap, Luger dived out the open driver’s side door…
… just as a fusillade of bullets shattered the windshield and ripped the interior of the truck apart.
Luger was lying facedown in two feet of snow, unconscious, when the fuel truck plowed into the half-track. Bullets from the half-track’s gun tore open the fuel tank, igniting the fuel-oil fumes inside, which turned both the truck and the half-track into balloons of fire. The concussion of the double explosion tossed Luger’s body another fifty feet away like a rag doll, but mercifully the young navigator was not awake to experience that final blast.
The bullets from the half-track had continued to walk down the left side of the Megafortress, eventually reaching the leading edge of the left wing and causing a terrific explosion as the red-hot shells found the fuel oil in the mains. Luger hadn’t stopped the half-track-it had missed, or the fuel truck exploded before reaching it, he didn’t know what had happened-but the Megafortress was dying. The left wing was afire and the left-center wing tank exploded and sheared the entire wing off Wendy and Angelina scrambled out of the hatch just as the Old Dog flopped onto its right wing, crushing it instantly and causing a huge explosion as the rest of the fuel tanks ruptured. The resulting fireball was at least a mile in diameter, swallowing up the two civilian women and engulfing the huge bomber in sheets of flame.
“Patrick!” Luger shouted “Patrick! Eject! Get out! Patrick! Patrick!”
Luger’s muscles convulsed. They quivered uncontrollably, but for some reason none of them wanted to function — he could move each one only a centimeter or two before they retreated into fits of spasms. Gasping for air, Luger fought for control, trying to ignore the waves of fear rising in his chest.
Something was wrong …
Slowly, the spasms ceased, and Luger was able to breathe evenly again. He felt as if he had run a marathon-his entire body felt weak. His fingertips felt puffy and soft, and the slightest exertion, like lifting the index finger of his right hand, caused the spasms to return. He decided to lie quietly and get his bearings — at least his eyes still functioned.
He was in a dimly lit room. He saw light fixtures overhead, and out of the corners of his eyes he saw hospital beds. So he was in a hospital ward. Luger could make out dingy white curtains surrounding some beds, a few intravenous bottle stands — thankfully, none near his bed. By straining, he could see railings on his bed and, thank God, even his feet under the white linen. Whatever had happened, they had saved his shot-up legs.