Avery nodded his head. “I only recently drove through it with a Mack Truck carrying the cargo.”
“There’s a once in a decade blizzard raging. We wouldn’t make it off the runway, let alone to our destination.”
“All the same, we’re going to need you to try.”
Maverick stood up. Crossed to the other side of his desk and stopped just short of the stranger in front of him. The man was a good eight inches shorter than him. He had to duck just to look at the man’s eyes. “No way. I’m in command here, and there’s nothing you or any other idiot from the CIA can say to make me attempt to take off in this weather. It would be suicide. I’m not risking my life or the life of my men for no reason. And if you don’t like that, I suggest you go back to Langley and talk to your boss. Good night.”
The stranger smiled at him. It was coy and unctuous. “He said that you’d say that. Said that you’d need more convincing.” The hangar phone rang. “That will be him now.”
Maverick picked up the phone. Before he spoke he had a terrible feeling in his gut he was about to be royally screwed. “Hangar Three. Major James Maverick speaking.” Maverick grinned as he listened to the man on the phone — someone who had learned the skill of persuasion from the best of them. To make matters worse, he felt honored to be so used. At the end of the phone call he said, “Yes, Mr. President. I will tell my men that, and we’ll try our best not to get us all killed on takeoff.”
Maverick taxied to the end of the runway. He pressed his left steering pedal to the floor and the B52H Stratofortress Bomber spun to face the center of the runway. The headwind was pummeling the windscreen. Sleet reflected off the bright runway red lights and ran across the glass like a series of tracer bullets. His vision was down — below fifty yards at best. He increased the pressure on the balls of his feet until he felt the brakes lock tight and the tires grip firm to the runway’s blacktop.
With his right hand he moved all eight throttles to full. The eight Pratt & Whitney turbofans began to increase power until their high pitched whine drowned out the storm. He kept them there for a full minute. Checking all the gauges were in their correct ranges.
Davidson, his co-pilot looked at him with a worried look on his face. “We’re losing nearly fifty revolutions off the starboard turbofans.”
Maverick brought the throttles back to idle. “With this sort of crosswind? We should be thankful it’s not closer to a hundred.”
“Sure.” Davidson replied. Gazing pensively out the starboard window, he said, “The question is — will she get off the ground?”
Maverick smiled. He’d flown these aircraft for nearly a decade now. More than twenty thousand hours. Fifteen of them in command. Instinctually he knew precisely how much she could take. “She’ll get off the ground. It’s keeping her off that’s worrying me in this weather.”
“Copy that, sir.”
“Setting flaps down full,” Maverick said adjusting the levers.
Davidson visually confirmed the correct setting had been achieved. “Flaps down, full.”
“Adjusting the tail stabilizer upwards nine degrees,” Maverick said sliding the lever upwards to the ninth upwards marker. The massive tail had nine degrees of movement upwards and a further four downwards, giving it thirteen possible settings.
“Nine up,” Davidson confirmed.
“Rigby, please confirm the angle setting of the tail stabilizer.”
“Nine up, sir,” Rigby confirmed from the rear facing gunner’s seat.
Maverick looked at Davidson. The man had just finished with the last of his Rosary and nodded his head.
They were good to go.
Maverick pressed the intercom. “All right gentlemen. We’re ready to get this girl in the air. Mr. Avery, I hope you’re strapped in tight, because I believe we’re in for a bit of a rough ride.”
The B52 Bomber, nicknamed Maverick’s Menace, was loaded with a total of 312,000 pounds of aviation fuel, filled right to her filler cap. She was armed with nearly 70,000 pounds of nuclear and traditional bombs. And now a single 38,000 pound sealed crate — housing an unknown cargo had been taken onboard and secured midway along her fuselage, where their unwanted guest, Mr. Avery stared at it like it was the most precious thing in the entire world.
All in total she was 32,000 pounds overladen.
Maverick made a silent prayer, and then pushed all eight throttles forwards. The whine of the powerful Pratt & Whitney engines increased in pitch until they howled with the wind attempting to extract every single pound of thrust possible. He would need every one of their individual 17,000 pounds of thrust if they were to get off the runway.
The entire fuselage shuddered under the forces as Maverick’s Menace edged forward despite the wheel brakes locked firmly in place.
Maverick released the brakes. “Here we go, Davidson.”
The overladen aircraft crept forward. Slowly at first and then, building up momentum she began to revel in the challenge of the impossible task given to her.
He kept slight pressure on his left rudder. Trying to compensate for the additional torque of the strong crosswind on the starboard engines, which made Maverick’s Menace want to yaw to the right.
Through the windscreen Maverick could only just make out the red running lights on the port side of the runway. His eyes darted between the instrument panel and the runway outside. Concentrating on maintaining a straight line along the guts of the runway.
“We just passed the third mile marker,” Davidson stated.
“Halfway there,” Maverick replied. His eyes glanced at the speedometer. Maverick’s Menace had reached a sluggish pace of 90 knots.
For the first time he questioned himself if they would have enough runway. He pressed his left foot heavily on the rudder peddle trying to compensate for the crosswind, and keep them running straight.
“Five miles,” Davidson said. “Speed: 130 knots.”
“We’re going to need a lot more than that if we want to stay off the ground.”
They were approaching the minimum takeoff speed of the B52 Stratofortress Bomber under normal conditions. Overladen they would need to be traveling a lot faster. Maverick’s Menace shuddered under the pressure, begging to be released from the confines of gravity. Maverick pushed the wheel all the way forward, trying to keep the nose from lifting. Not until we’re ready darling. He needed all of the speed he could gather to get the overladen aircraft into the sky.
He looked down again. Their speed had just passed 140 knots — the minimum takeoff speed under normal circumstance, without any additional weight.
“We just passed the final mile marker,” Davidson called out.
“Just a little longer,” he replied.
Maverick knew this runway like he knew his aircraft. He’d used her nearly every day for five years. The runway finished with a flat field covered in snow and tundra. He was going to take Maverick’s Menace right to the very end of the runway before trying to takeoff.
The final warning lights that marked the end of the runway glowed at him. He smiled. He had done all he could. Now fate would decide whether his aircraft could fly.
Davidson stared at him. Terror in his eyes. “End of the runway!”
Maverick grinned. He pulled the wheel ever so gently towards his chest. The nose lifted slightly off the ground and he felt the massive change in force as the aircraft altered its angle. He carefully maintained some forwards pressure to stop the nose from over extending and causing them to stall.
At the end of the tundra-covered field stood more than a thousand pine trees. By the time Maverick’s Menace reached them its landing gear was just two feet off the highest tree.