“I’m not sure. I’ll fill you in when I know.” Avery grinned with slimy satisfaction. “I’ll follow you up to the cockpit. The next part of this mission might be a little delicate.”
Maverick shook his head. “No way! We’re a Bomber.”
“So?”
“So I don’t feel safe taking us that low. If there’s an attack, we’ll be struggling to win it from that altitude.”
“There won’t be an attack,” Avery said, his voice slow and confident. “These are friendly waters — for the time being, anyway.”
Maverick tapped his knuckles on the side of the steel hull. “For the record, I don’t like any of this.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. Even so, the precise location of what we are after can be a little elusive.”
“And what are we after?”
“It’s an island. A very secret island.”
“A secret fucking island!” Maverick swore. “That’s what this is all about?”
“It’s not so much the island that we’re interested in. It’s what’s stored deep inside the island — which the President is after.”
“So where exactly is this secret island?”
“We lost it shortly after December 1962. At first we thought it had been destroyed. Then we started to see evidence it might have survived. Then we prayed it had been sunk in the North Atlantic.”
“North Pacific?” Maverick complained about Avery’s inconsistency. “But we’re in the North Pacific — and last time I checked, islands don’t move?”
Avery ignored the question. “We’d better get back to the cockpit. I don’t want to miss the signal. Your concerns are duly noted, and you’re welcome to take them up with President Reagan, but for the time being, we need to complete the mission. This might be our last chance.”
Maverick swallowed his concerns without saying another word. He returned to the cockpit, strapped himself in with his harness and took over command of the aircraft’s controls again.
Commencing their descent in a steep decline, Maverick gently pushed the wheel away from his chest until he felt the nose drop off the horizon. He depressed the intercom. “Gentlemen. We are dropping to 1000 feet to receive a coded message from the surface. Maintain extreme vigilance. I have been kept in the dark as much as you have about the real purpose of our mission.”
Maverick watched the altimeter click below 30,000.
He swallowed trying to allow his middle ear to equalize with the sudden change in air-pressure.
Despite his outwardly calm appearance, Major Maverick was nervous as all hell. The B52 Stratofortress Bomber had a combat height of 48000 feet. Every 1000 feet below that its maneuverability decreased and it had less use for its bombs.
He swallowed harder when the aircraft descended below 5,000.
“All right gentlemen. Look sharp. We’re descending past 5,000 feet. Keep your eyes out for trouble.”
It made him nervous to fly so low.
“We have an incoming bird!” Jacobs said. “Bearing: 270 degrees. Height: 2,000 feet and climbing! Current speed: 95 knots.”
Maverick glanced at the altimeter. They had just descended below 3,000 feet. He looked out the left window “Anyone got eyes on it?”
“I’ve got it,” Davidson yelled. “Golden speck on the horizon — at your six o’clock.”
Maverick rested his right hand on the main throttle, preparing to increase power to the engines. “Is that what I think it is?”
Avery unclipped his seatbelt and leaned forwards to get a better sight of the incoming plane. “What is it? What do you see?”
“Looks like an old warbird from World War II,” Maverick said. “Something like a Spitfire or a Messerschmitt.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Davidson said. A large grin forming as he shook his head in disbelief. “That’s a de Haviland Tiger Moth. My old man used to own one when I was a kid. First thing I ever learned to fly. Although, what the hell its doing a thousand miles from land beats me.”
The tension in Maverick’s neck and arm reduced immediately. He took his right hand back from where it was resting on the throttles. He could see the plane clearly now. It was a bright yellow bi-plane. No way could it carry anything capable of piercing their armor let alone causing them any real threat.
“A yellow Tiger Moth.” Maverick looked at Avery. “Is that the guide you were expecting?”
Avery stared absently at the tiny aircraft. Sweaty beads of fear formed on his pale forehead. His jaw was rigid and his eyes appeared lost in an unknown horror of his past. “No. We were to pick up a signal from a submarine…”
“So where did this Tiger Moth come from?” he asked.
Avery ignored the question. He withdrew from the sight of the approaching aircraft. “No. It can’t be! They were certain they destroyed you — all those years ago!”
Maverick grabbed Avery’s jacket with his free hand and twisted until the man looked at him with the confusion of a person woken from a bad dream. “What happened with the yellow Tiger Moth?”
“That aircraft is not what it appears,” Avery said. “Major Maverick, tell me you have something capable of shooting it down before it reaches us?”
Maverick started to laugh, but stopped himself as he looked at Avery’s face, rigid with fear. “That’s an old plane. It probably isn’t even equipped with any weapons. And if it was, they wouldn’t be large enough to inflict any real damage on one of the most powerful bombers ever built!”
“Good.” Avery raised his voice in a confidence previously not displayed. “Then I suggest you shoot it down before you discover just how wrong you are.”
Maverick grinned. It pleased him to watch the discomfort in his unwanted guest. He almost wanted to wait it out and see what the strange aircraft wanted. “All right gentlemen. Let’s see what this old relic wants. Rigby, if it comes within range — take it out.” He depressed the radio transmit button on the side of the wheel. “Unidentified aircraft. You are approaching a U.S. Air Force B52 Stratofortress Bomber. Please turn 90 degrees to your right immediately.”
No response.
He depressed the radio transmitter again. “Unidentified Tiger Moth. You are on a collision approach with a U.S. Air Force B52 — I say again, please deviate direction to your right.”
The radio remained silent.
At the same time the Tiger Moth continued to narrow the distance between the two aircraft.
“Holy shit!” Avery swore. “What are you waiting for? Destroy it!”
Maverick ignored him and depressed the radio transmitter once again. “Tiger Moth divert or we will fire upon you.”
More silence.
Followed by the sound of corn popping in the distance. It came from the barrel of an old World War II hand held machine gun raking the side of the fuselage. The other pilot could do so all day and it wouldn’t penetrate the B52’s armored exterior.
Who fires a hand machine gun at a bomber?
Maverick increased power for the engines to full. Then pulled the wheel back towards his chest, lifting the nose as far above the horizon as he dared, and sending the Stratofortress bomber into a steep climb. “Rigby, don’t let them take another shot at us!”
“Understood!” Rigby grinned as he gripped the targeting arm of the aft mounted, remotely controlled six-barrel Gatling-style machine gun, and searched for his target.
Maverick held the bomber in a climb rate as close to its stall angle as he dared. He glanced out the left side windshield. The yellow Tiger Moth was so close he could make out the pilot’s face. The man, if it was a man, wore an old fashioned, leathery pilot’s cap and goggles. Maverick thought he could just make out a deep smile on the person’s face.
The pilot’s smile made him feel particularly uneasy. There was something wrong about the situation. Everything about it didn’t seem right. In an instant he wished he’d taken Avery’s advice and shot it down without attempting to communicate. Maverick strained his eyes to make more sense of the pilot’s expression.