He patted the side of the engineer’s station of the aging 727. The old girl is built like a brick shithouse. The boys at Boeing had so overengineered the ’27 that he was sure she’d share the same fate as the DC-3. With occasional engine replacements, she’d be demoted from First World passenger service to hauling cargo around the Third World for a good half-century beyond her expected lifespan. The new Airbuses that were entering the Pan Am fleet with their joysticks and glass cockpit would never hold up like the 727. He shook his head at the irony of a disposable airplane disposing with his job. He never did make captain, but then he never did make history as he had dreamed when he first flew his dad’s plane at eleven. Just when things were going right, life and women had a way of getting in the way. Maybe it was time to let go.
The kidnapping a few days before in Moscow haunted him. Faith might be dead now because of him. If he’d fought harder, he could’ve saved her. He shouldn’t have listened to Ian; he should’ve gone ahead and reported her abduction to the embassy. He let Faith down. He wasn’t useful for much nowadays. Maybe it was time to gracefully harden into the fossilized world of retirement. He looked at the worn photo of his chocolate Lab Clipper and smiled. Ever since he had rescued Clipper from the pound and Clipper had saved him from the loneliness of divorce, the dog’s picture rode along on every flight, propped up on the engineer’s station. I’ll be home soon, boy.
The first officer was flying and Captain Henning was monitoring the radio. Frosty noticed his countenance suddenly drop. He grabbed his headset and listened in on the radio chatter.
“Ich wiederhole, Pan American, you are ordered to leave the sovereign airspace of the German Democratic Republic, heading two-two-five,” the heavily accented voice crackled over the radio.
The afterburner of a MIG fighter flared in the distance. A few seconds later, it buzzed within meters of the American civilian craft.
“Jesus,” Frosty said.
The captain’s voice was steady, too steady. “Berlin Centre, Clipper six-six-one, we are experiencing substantial interference by unidentified craft.”
Sweat beaded on Frosty’s forehead. Of all the captains he could’ve been assigned, why did he have to get Captain Courageous?
“Say again, Clipper,” the American air traffic controller said.
The MIG pilot interrupted, “Pan American, you are ordered to heading two-two-five at once. Mach schnell. You are violating airspace of the German Democratic Republic. Leave our airspace sofort or you will be considered hostile.”
“Berlin Centre, Clipper six-six-one, we are being threatened by a MIG intercept. Probable Foxbat. Request heading two-two-five to return to West German airspace, best speed.”
“Pan American, here is your final warning.”
“Henning, fuck protocol. This guy is serious and not very patient. Get us the hell out of here. Now!”
The MIG buzzed them again at the same instant the captain took charge of the controls from the first officer and began to bank. The 727 shuddered and yawed to the right. Red lights on Frosty’s monitors flashed like a pinball machine. A deafening bell drowned everything out, but years of training shoved fear aside. Frosty silenced the bell, and then confirmed the central power selector was set to the number-one engine. He called out the engine failure checklist from memory and the first officer acknowledged each item.
“Number-two engine thrust lever-closed; start lever-cut off; engine fire switch-pulled.”
Frosty monitored the electrical load as he cut the power to the galley and shut off the fuel and hydraulics to the damaged engine. The fire-warning light for the number two was still illuminated. “She’s still on fire. Discharging the bottle now.” He hit the transfer switch.
The first officer followed the protocol while the captain struggled to control the machine as it dropped. And dropped.
Frosty’s breathing stopped when he saw the number-three engine’s low-oil-pressure light flicker and its generator trip off. Its EPR was going down faster than they were. The number two’s fire-warning light burned steady as he counted down the seconds until the next extinguisher discharge. He feared he was going to make history after all. Frosty McGuire, first casualty of WWIII. No, he wasn’t going to let the Red bastards win that easily. He prayed that the number one hadn’t ingested any shrapnel as he discharged the extinguishers for both numbers two and three. Frosty McGuire was going down fighting.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
NORTH OF MOSCOW
11:23 P.M.
The Kalashnikov fire came closer, but the tires of the Zil spun in place. The car slid sideways, splattering mud onto the windows. Summer eased up on the gas to creep out of the rut. It wouldn’t move. “Son of a buck.” Summer slapped the wheel. “I’ll push. Think you can drive a little ways, comrade?”
“Yeah, but hurry. They’ll be in range any moment,” Zara said, her right hand applying pressure to the bullet wound.
Summer sprang from the car. At the sound of another round of fire, Faith let out an involuntary whimper. Mud sprayed Summer as he rocked the car, careful not to slip underneath it. Stepping on a large stone for traction, he shoved until he could feel the veins popping on his forehead.
Then the car moved.
He jumped into the driver’s seat, nearly landing on Zara’s lap. An engine started in the distance. Just as he was closing the car door, he saw a flash of light and a second later heard the report from Faith’s mines. He then listened for the gas tank. Within seconds it lit up the forest. He threw the car into gear and stomped on the gas. The moon was bright enough that he could keep the headlights off. “You’re going to have to direct me. I don’t know where to go except away from here.”
“Straight about twenty kilometers.” Keeping her right arm stationary, Zara removed a cardboard box from under the passenger seat. She pulled out a package of gauze. Holding it between her teeth, she ripped it open. She slipped off the blazer, opened her blouse and pressed the gauze against the wound.
“How bad you hit, Zara?”
“Hurts like the devil, but doesn’t feel like it got the bone. Bleeding’s more than I’d like.”
“You’ve been hit before?”
“Couple times. One grazed my scapula in Grenada during the invasion.”
“Really? I took one there, too-in the butt.”
“Hope you’re not offended if I don’t want to compare battle scars.”
“So there definitely were Russian and not just Cuban advisers in Grenada.” He glanced over to Zara. The white gauze was turning dark from blood.
“Not really. The Cubans can hardly build an outhouse without us, but they’re not too bad with runways. I was based out of Havana at the time, doing some counterespionage work, and I was following up on reports of increased CIA activity when the invasion started. We suspected the CIA was establishing a station at the medical school.”
“Faith, how we doing back there? Want to tell me what happened, sweetie?” He looked into the rearview mirror. She was stretched out, covered with the blanket.