The SWAT commander insisted that his team was best trained and armed to clear the buildings. Gunner had to agree. So the commander gave the necessary orders and the cleanup of Red Wing Airport got underway.
CHAPTER 59
The plane was climbing nicely. But there was more shudder and more drag than there should be — even in an old plane like this one.
Landing gear! He needed to raise them.
John knew where the levers were. He lifted all the gear at once with his left hand on both levers. His right arm still fought the plane’s desire to turn to port. In all the noise, he couldn’t hear the front landing gear retract into the nose of the plane. But he felt a thud under his feet. And when the rear gear folded out and into their specially designed spaces in the wings, the plane immediately felt different. Better. Smoother. Like grease had just been applied up and down the outside of the craft and it was slipping through the air on the new lubrication.
He continued straight forward on a heading of 270 degrees. He wanted to reach at least 1400 feet on the altimeter before he tried to turn. He knew the land was 900 feet above sea level at the Red Wing Airport. He might need all of the additional 500 feet to turn this beast without dropping out of the sky.
At 1400 feet his airspeed indicated 165 knots — sufficient to attempt a slow turn. He held the yoke with both hands and applied equal pressure to the rudder pedals. It took more strength than he had anticipated just to keep the plane headed straight. He didn’t know what to expect in a turn.
Despite the muscle strain, he knew any movements of the yoke and pedals needed to be subtle. He allowed the yoke to rotate a bit counter-clockwise, while shifting slight foot pressure to the left pedal. The plane rolled to port, more than he wanted. Again using both yoke and rudders, he turned back a bit to starboard.
He glanced at the altimeter. He was losing altitude. Of course. He knew better than this. He needed to increase elevation during a turn. He pulled back on the yoke to raise the nose and compensate for the reduced lift of the angled wing surfaces.
Slowly but surely, the plane returned to 1400 feet and gently rolled around a sweeping left hand turn. John glanced up from the instrument console.
Shit! He could see lights straight ahead of him through the canopy. At 1400 feet?
Damn it! The bluffs.
He pulled back on the yoke as hard as he could. It would not yield easily. But the nose did pull up. He couldn’t have cleared the bluff top by more than a couple hundred feet.
Perspiring profusely, he kept the plane climbing to 2500 feet, then reduced the throttle until he was cruising at 210 knots.
The plane still felt nose-up, even in level flight. The flaps!
He reached across with his right hand and returned the flaps to their neutral position. The nose went down and the plane felt more level. He could finally see a decent horizon over the console against the night stars.
I wasn’t able to stand during takeoff. So I lay on the floor of the aft compartment, holding onto a safety belt strap until we were in the air. I was lucky that he had needed to takeoff to the east. That gave me an extra few minutes. That extra time might be all I would need.
As we were climbing, the airplane wobbled, rolling left and right unpredictably. An inexperienced pilot. But it made my job harder. I had to keep my balance.
I would have preferred to put my parachute on. But there wasn’t enough room in the crawlway for me to work with the extra bulk around my torso. Reluctantly, I left the parachute secured to a safety strap on the wall. Then I worked my way to the front of the aft compartment and climbed the ladder to the crawlway.
On hands and knees, I maneuvered toward the forward area and what I hoped was the potassium. There just wasn’t room for me to stand and move safely with his erratic flying.
I didn’t care if he saw me now. What was he going to do? Let the plane fly itself? And even if he had a gun, he wouldn’t risk detonating his cargo — at least I hoped not. And if he did shoot at me, I could hide behind the containers. And if that didn’t work… I would have to hope he was a poor shot.
Unfortunately, I was in a similar predicament. I couldn’t get close enough to shoot the pilot and still expect to make a safe exit from the diving plane.
Slowly, I worked my way forward on the crawlway. Just ahead in the near total darkness, I could see the first canister. Stainless steel. I hoped the canisters weren’t locked somehow. I didn’t know if my multi-tool would get me into a locked steel container.
But locking the containers wouldn’t make sense. They needed to spill their contents on impact. Still, you never know.
After being thrown side to side a few times, I reached the first canister. I grabbed its lid on both sides and lifted gently. Even in the noisy aircraft I thought I heard a sucking sound, as if a seal had been released. I lifted the lid and set it aside.
Just as I did so, the plane banked sharply to port. Mineral oil slopped from the open canister — through the cat walk, onto the other canisters and onto the legs of my camo cargo shorts.
With my pants soaked in slippery oil, I braced my back against the metal grid on the starboard side of the crawlway until the left turn ended and we leveled off. I looked into the open container. All I could see was more mineral oil, its surface maybe six inches down from the top.
Steadying myself on one knee and one foot, I lifted the lid off a second canister. Again, all I could see was the dark reflection of the mineral oil. But the potassium had to be in there.
Suddenly the plane jerked upward into a steep climb. I was nearly thrown off the crawlway, but managed to catch a grip before falling. Both of the open canisters spilled backward, emptying their entire contents of mineral oil. Remaining inside were dozens of silvery white ingots of potassium!
I had to move fast now. The potassium was still coated in oil. But the oil would evaporate. I didn’t know how fast.* * *
John knew he had strayed farther into Wisconsin than planned. But no harm done. He would have a longer, straighter approach in which to make sure he hit the final target. He was beginning to get the feel of this bird. Even so, the yoke still fought him, trying to turn the plane to port.
It was time for another turn. He allowed the yoke to move just a bit counter-clockwise again, making corresponding adjustments to the rudder. This time he pulled back on the yoke at the same time and maintained his altitude during the ninety degree turn to the east.
Now he could see the lights of the nuclear plant glowing on the horizon outside his missing port window. If he flew a bit farther east, he could swing north and descend straight onto the plant.
As he continued on his course, John noticed a small reflection of light on the glass canopy. Where was that coming from? It quickly grew brighter. Soon he could also see light shining into the cockpit from aft.
What the hell?
He allowed himself a quick look over his right shoulder toward the rear of the plane.
"Jesus Christ!"
CHAPTER 60
The nuclear plant was a combination of chaos and sepulchre. Security forces scrambled around outside the fences. Men dressed all in black. Black flak jackets. Black helmets. Black Colt AR-15 assault rifles. Other employees milled about solemnly — nothing for them to do with the reactors shut down.
To aid with night vision, each security guard had an infrared viewer on one eye. Computer-controlled pole cameras also sought temperature changes in the brush. Guards visually scanned for any signs of warm bodies creeping through the sumac, or lying in the swampy hollows. Dogs hunted the woods ahead of them. The security circle slowly expanded until it reached a quarter mile from the fence.