“Gear up,” he ordered.
“Gear up. I thought I’d never live to hear you say those words.” Faulkner griped as he moved the lever. The motors whined at a pitch only just audible above the heavy pelting of snow on metal, and all ten wheels retracted into their wells. Four up front, four behind and a single wheel on each wingtip for stability. All safely stowed. “Gear up and locked.”
With the drag of the landing gear removed, Maverick’s Menace was finally able to pick up speed and gain altitude. He set a course for a steady climb until they reached a cruising height of forty-six thousand feet. Above the worst of the storm and the heavy buffeting the wings finally settled into an almost eerie calm.
Maverick handed over control of the aircraft to his copilot.
He pressed the intercom, “Mr. Avery. Get up here. It’s time you tell me exactly what this mission is really about.”
Major Maverick looked over his right shoulder. Avery stumbled into the cockpit. He was pale, sweaty, and looked like he was about to lose the contents of his last meal. Before takeoff he’d suggested that Avery ride in the instructor pilot’s seat, but the man had refused stating that he’d feel more comfortable riding in the fuselage where he could keep an eye on his precious cargo. The outcome of such a decision meant Avery had to contend with an even more turbulent ride, and had just climbed through a series of ladders and maintenance vents to return to the main cockpit. Maverick thought the man was a fool, but had done nothing to dissuade him of his decision prior to takeoff.
Maverick looked at Avery and cursed. “You’re not going to vomit in my cockpit, are you?”
Avery leaned forward like he was about to be sick. “I don’t like to fly. And that was unlike any takeoff I’ve ever experienced, or ever want to in the future!”
“Nor any I’ve had either.” Maverick tapped the metal lining of the hull with the back of his knuckles for good luck. “Like I said, it’s a wonder we even got her off the ground, given her additional weight and the blizzard.” Maverick felt no sympathy for the man. “So, are you going to tell me where we are headed?”
Avery handed him a scribbled piece of paper with some numbers relating to latitude and longitude. “We need to reach here by 0500.”
Maverick took the piece of paper and looked at the coordinates. He knew the general location at a glance. “That’s in the middle of the Siberian Straight.”
“Yes.”
“There’s nothing there except water.”
Avery shrugged his shoulders. “So?”
“So, whatever our cargo is — it’s not currently set up to be deployed. Which means it’s not a bomb. So, where are we landing?”
Avery pulled the zipper on his jacket up to his face trying to keep out the bitter cold. “I’ll explain that when we get there.”
Maverick finished circling the location with a pencil and then threw the map on the floor next to him. “You’ve gotta be kidding me! How do you expect me to plan anything like this?”
“I don’t. I expect you to follow the President’s orders.” Avery then stumbled back towards the ladder and started climbing down without saying anything.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the fuselage. Uncomfortable though it is I want to keep an eye on the cargo. It’s more valuable than you could imagine.” Avery then disappeared down the ladder without waiting for a reply.
Davidson looked at Maverick. “What an asshole!”
“Yeah, well President Reagan says that asshole might just save humanity.” Maverick unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out of his chair. “I’m going down below to discuss these coordinates with Reynolds and Jacobs. I’ll come back with a more detailed route shortly. Until then, set a course due west.”
“Copy that. Setting a course — due west, towards Siberia.”
Maverick climbed past the instructor pilot’s seat, past the descending ladder, and poked his head into the rear facing gunner’s compartment. He nodded his head at the two gentlemen sitting there. Wakefield, their Weapons Systems Operator, sat on the left seat and was carefully studying a series of electronic instruments checking on the stability of each armament. Rigby, their Gunner and youngest man onboard had settled himself into his seat and was trying to get some early rest.
“Sir,” Wakefield acknowledged him.
Rigby straightened himself out before saying, “Sir.”
“At ease, gentlemen.” Maverick crouched down beside the two men. “I just came back here to say that we made it through the worst of the storm. We should be all right from here on in.”
“Do you know where we’re headed, and what our mission is?” Wakefield asked.
“I’m afraid not. We’re delivering our secret cargo to an island. According to Mr. Avery, it isn’t on any map and without our cargo its mission can’t be completed. He refused to say what its mission was, where the island is located, or what our cargo is. I’m in the dark as much as you both are. What I can say is President Reagan himself advised me that the outcome of this mission has by far the most far-reaching consequences of anything done since the start of the Cold War.”
“So you haven’t received any orders of a Nuclear Strike?” Wakefield asked.
“No.” Maverick looked at his Weapons Systems Operator. “What do you know?”
“Mr. Avery spoke to me before we left King Salmon Air Force Base.”
Maverick lowered his voice. “And — what did he say?”
“He wanted to confirm that we were fully equipped with our maximum armaments of nuclear warheads in case our mission fails.”
Rigby cursed. “What is President Reagan planning?”
“I have no idea.” Maverick shook his head. “All right gentlemen. I’ll let you know more when I do. Get some rest while you can. It will be at least six hours until we reach the first waypoint.”
Maverick returned to the middle compartment and climbed down the ladder. Jacobs, his Radar Bombardier stared vacantly at his radar screen. Reynolds was the first to spot him. “Evening, Sir.”
“At ease, gentlemen.”
“Do you have a location for me yet?” Reynolds, his Navigator, asked.
Maverick handed him the coordinates. “We’re heading here. I’ve left Davidson heading due west for the time being.”
Reynolds eyed the coordinates. “It’s in the Siberian Strait.”
“Yes,” Maverick acknowledged.
“You know that’s where they took the picture earlier today of the unidentified men working on an iceberg.”
Maverick shook his head, and his eyes lit up at the new revelation. “Avery lied to me! He said he didn’t know anything about the photographs. That son-of-a-bitch set me up. He knew damn well about the photograph.”
“So. What are you gonna do about it?” Reynolds asked.
“I have no idea. But I have six hours to find out.”
At 0430 Maverick unclipped his seatbelt and made the cramped journey of ladders and maintenance gangways until he reached the cargo bay inside the fuselage. There his unwanted guest no longer displayed signs of motion sickness as he had earlier. Instead, he stared at the cargo as though it was the most valuable thing on the planet. Maverick had seen that sort of look in a person’s eye before. It was the same sort of crazy luster one develops the first time they find gold.
“All right Avery, this is your show,” Maverick said. “We’re approaching the coordinates you gave me. What next?”
“Good. I’m going to need you to take us down to 1000 feet. Our guide will signal us from the surface.”
“The surface of what?”