Eased back on the throttles.
Felt the tail sag and let it.
He wanted as much flare as he could get, using his lift until the last possible moment.
The F-4 floated in.
“Like a feather,” he said.
“What?” somebody asked.
He didn’t answer.
Nose down a little.
Little dunes hopping at him.
Long, smooth, downward slope coming up.
Chopped the throttles.
The Phantom touched ever so lightly.
He was a damned choreographer…
The tires began spinning against the surface of the earth.
Then digging in.
The nosewheel touched down.
Speed well down.
The airplane rose and fell with the terrain, but the unevenness wasn’t particularly drastic.
Slowing.
He tapped the brakes.
There weren’t any.
“Fuck.”
“What?”
The F-4 dragged to a stop after maybe a mile-and-a-half.
Barr let his breath out.
Killed the turbojets.
“That was nice, Bucky,” Demion said.
He opened the canopy and felt the heat swirl inside. “Hey, Karl.”
“Yo.”
“You want to ditch the rest of your missiles before you try it? I forgot to.”
“You got to think about these things, Bucky.”
“And Jim, your goddamned brakes didn’t work.”
“You told me you didn’t need them.”
“Oh. Right.”
“So what do you recommend, Nelson?” Formsby asked.
“Drag the tails on the fighters on approach and keep the nose gear up as long as possible. Once the nose tire’s down, you aren’t going to do much steering. Also, once the Phantoms are down, they’re not taking off again.”
“What about the Herc?” Demion asked.
“Let me get unhitched and jump down there, then I’ll tell you.”
Barr unclipped his mask and chin strap, slipped off his helmet, and hooked it over the HUD.
He worked his way out of his harness, saved his survival kit by tossing it out of the cockpit, slipped over the coaming, and slid to the ground.
It felt pretty solid under his feet.
He checked the ruts behind the main gear.
And then had a hell of a time climbing back up onto the wing, over the intakes, and into the cockpit.
When he finally reached it, he pulled the helmet close and spoke into the mike. “Two, here. My calculations say you’ll make it, Jim.”
“How good are your calculations?”
“I’m the best damned consultant in a five-or six-mile radius.”
“That’s all I need.”
Barr disconnected his helmet. The United States Air Force had issued it to him, and he was damned well taking it home with him.
Within twelve minutes, they had Gettman, then the C-130 on the ground. The Hercules, with its rough-field design and big, soft tires, had less trouble than he had expected, but the low ground clearance of the fuselage managed to level a few small hillocks. As soon as it slowed enough, Demion turned it around and headed it back toward the east.
Seven minutes later, Hackley appeared low out of the east and made one pass over the strip.
He made a circuit, then his approach. The touchdown was perfect, but as soon as the nosewheel settled, it hit a soft spot, and the Phantom lurched right, put its right wing down, caught the earth, and cartwheeled.
It spun laterally, ripping off a wing and the vertical stabilizer, dug its nose into the ground, and slithered to a stop.
Upright, fortunately.
Barr was already running by the time she had stopped, and mercifully, he heard the turbojets winding down. Hackley had killed them the instant he lost control.
The rear canopy was gone, but the forward canopy slowly raised as he approached.
He slid to a stop next to the fuselage which, buried in the dirt, gave him a clear view inside the cockpit.
Cliff Jordan said, “See if I ever ride with you again, Norm.”
Both men were shaken up, and Hackley had a big bruise on his forehead, but nothing was apparently broken. Barr and Formsby got them out of their seats, and Littlefield and Potter led them away toward the Herc.
Barr sighed.
“I’d say,” Formsby agreed.
“I hope my suitcase and civvies are still aboard the Herc,” Barr said. “I’m giving up the Noble Enterprises job.”
He stripped out of his G suit and the dove grey Noble Enterprises flight suit, then tossed them both into the cockpit of the F-4.
In his shorts, he leaned over the coaming of the cockpit, found the timer, and set it.
On their walk back to the Hercules, Formsby set the timers in the other two fighters. Barr didn’t want to destroy his own bird.
Twenty
Wyatt had been sorry to see Hackley go.
In the immense wasteland surrounding him, he felt terribly alone.
Ah, Jan. I wish I hadn’t given you anything to hope for.
He didn’t think he was a particularly pessimistic man, but it didn’t look good from where he sat.
He sat about eight hundred feet above an earth churned up by some earlier sandstorm. He figured his speed was down to around 180 knots because the F-4 was struggling. He had deployed his flaps and slats earlier in the effort to increase his lift. The flaps had moved only a third of the way into position before they grated to a stop.
He also figured he was sixty or seventy miles behind the others.
That was a long way in any desert, but particularly in this one, when there might be pursuit. He was worried about the transports Vrdla had been tracking.
On the other hand, he was relieved to know that the others had landed successfully, even if a little unconventionally on Hackley’s part. No doubt, Kriswell would give Hackley a constant ribbing from this day on.
Peering as far ahead as he could see, he could find nothing that looked promising in terms of putting the airplane on the ground in a fashion that even came close to Hackley’s performance.
A quarter-mile to his right was a wadi that appeared as if it hadn’t seen water in two or three decades. It was, however, the only depression in miles, and he would feel better if he had a depression to hop into. To the south of it was a line of dunes that might serve as a secondary hiding place.
Just in case.
She wanted to go down some more, and he couldn’t afford to lose much more altitude.
“Andy?”
“Right here, Bucky.”
“How you doing?”
“Bopping along the same course I was on. I think.”
“We’re all down.”
“I heard Sam reading it off. Everybody okay? Cliff and Norm?”
“Damn betcha. You going to make it?”
“As a matter of fact, Bucky, I’m going to punch out in about five seconds.”
“Don’t go wandering far from where you put down, okay?”
“Plan on it.”
The aircraft was humping now, wanting to drag her tail, slowing, struggling for lift. The air intakes were at full depression, attempting to maintain a clean airflow into the operating turbojet.
Wyatt reached down into the crevice next to the seat, lifted the flap on the box, and flipped the toggle on the tinier.
“Sorry, honey,” he said. “You’ve been a fine lady.”
He made sure the safety pins were out of the seat, pulled his heels back as far as they would go, let go of the stick, and pulled the ejection handle.
For a quarter-second, he didn’t think the seat was going anywhere.
Then the explosion blew him out of the cockpit, numbing his spine.
The wind blast caught him in the face and slapped his oxygen mask against his jaw.
The seat went over backwards, the sky flashing through his vision. He started counting, but knew he was counting fast, urging the release.