And then the horizon disappeared and the entire windshield turned white. The flash was so bright it blinded everyone in the cockpit. Maverick didn’t have time to consider if they’d been destroyed by a bomb, before it was followed by a sonic boom a split second later.
Maverick felt the slight jolt on the wheel. Nothing large enough to affect his ability to fly, but evidence the Tiger Moth had definitely hit them with something significantly more substantial than a hand machine gun. But with what? It was too small to be carrying anything capable of considerable damage.
The lighting behind the instrument panel went completely dark. Possibly the result of a power surge after a direct hit on one of the main batteries. Maverick made small adjustments to the aircraft’s controls. His confidence returning as he discovered he still had full control of the B52 — For now. Rigby wouldn’t let the Tiger Moth survive long enough to take a second shot at them. Even so, there was something terrible about the fear in Avery’s eyes which told him to be frightened.
In the aft facing weapon’s room behind them, Rigby looked at the small aircraft approaching. He lined the golden speck of the Tiger Moth, superimposed upon the horizon, with the cross hairs of his remotely controlled six-barrel Gatling-style machinegun.
Without hesitation, he depressed the firing nipple.
Immediately the defensive fire control system directed all four .50 caliber machine guns to fire. The entire cockpit vibrated to the sound of more than a thousand rounds of bullets being expelled in a matter of seconds.
The Tiger Moth disintegrated in a blaze.
A moment later the massive B52 banked heavily towards the left. Maverick dipped the nose below the horizon to pick up airspeed. He fought violently with the wheel, which buffeted under the new strain. His right foot pressed hard on the rudder pedal in an attempt to stave off the imminent stall spiral known as a death spiral.
“What the hell’s wrong?” Avery yelled. His face red with anger.
“Your damn load’s shifted. That’s what’s wrong! Whatever it is you’ve got back there has now moved to the port side.”
Avery didn’t wait to respond. He unclipped his seatbelt and moved fast. Racing towards his precious cargo.
Maverick depressed the intercom. “Rigby, Wakefield! Get back there with Mr. Avery and see what you can do to stabilize the load before it sends us into a deadly spiral!”
Davidson looked over. Concern painted heavily on his face. “What do you need me to do?”
“Slowly decrease power to the starboard engines. See if we can compensate for the shift of our load with a change in engine torque.”
“Copy that,” Davidson said. “Decreasing power to sixty percent for all four starboard engines.”
Maverick felt an immediate change in the aircraft’s maneuverability. Less pressure was required to adjust the movement to the wheel. The rudder pedals became easier to manage. It was working. He glanced at his instrument panel. The lighting behind was still out.
Nearly twenty thousand flying hours reassured him by the weight in his seat that he was currently flying straight and level. “Davidson, see if you can replace the blown circuit breakers. It would be great to be able to see the instruments again.”
Davidson moved quickly. “I’m on it.”
A few moments later the light behind the instrument panel returned to its usual red glow. Maverick grinned. Everything was going to be all right. “Good work, Davidson.”
The reassuring sensation was fleeting. Maverick took one glance at the instruments and knew his day was about to get worse. Every single one of them was broken — or worse, functioning correctly. He ran his eyes along them.
The altimeter ticked slowly in a counter clockwise direction. He adjusted the pitch of the nose and it made no difference to their rate of descent as far as the aircraft’s electronics were concerned. Even when he dipped the nose downwards, the rate of descent should have sped up, but instead it remained steadily rotating counter clockwise.
Maverick straightened the aircraft into what felt like straight and level flight. Then tapped on the altimeter. “What the hell’s wrong with it?”
Davidson shook his head. “Beats me.”
“All right, let’s set a course east and head for home. I’m done with this stupid mission!” Maverick glanced at the compass. Double checked it and then swore. It was the first time he’d ever cursed in front of his men.
The gimballed compass arrow rotated counter clockwise in the exact same slow and steady manner as the altimeter. He looked at Davidson. “What’s your compass doing?”
Davidson checked the second compass. The one on his side of the cockpit. “Something’s wrong. It’s just ticking counter clockwise.”
“Yeah, mine too.”
Maverick scanned the rest of the instruments. Every gauge, ranging from airspeed to oil pressure and right down to fuel readings was broken — they all simply rotated in a counter clockwise direction.
At least a thousand miles out from King Salmon Air Force Base, above only water, and with no means of calculating their direction, Maverick knew only too well that they were out of luck. He was about to start working the problem when the aircraft’s controls became cumbersome.
“We’ve got the load secured, sir.” Rigby’s voice was rushed and panicked over the intercom. “I’m afraid Mr. Avery was crushed in the process.”
Maverick cursed. Then, correcting his settings to maintain straight and level flight, he said, “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Avery. Good work securing the load. Get back up here — we might be in for some rough flying.”
Rigby’s voice was softer this time when he spoke. “There’s something else, too, sir.”
“What now?”
“The cover for the cargo came off during the move.”
“And?” Maverick’s heart pounded heavily in his chest.
“You’re going to be mad as hell when you see what we’ve been carrying.”
“A nuclear bomb?” Maverick stared vacantly out the windshield. “You’ve gotta be kidding me! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. We’re a nuclear bomber for goodness sake! If President Reagan wanted us to destroy an island, why all the cloak and dagger spiel? I mean, he could have just told us he needed a secret island nuked and we’d have done it?”
“What if it was one of our allies he wanted removed?” Davidson asked.
Maverick adjusted the aircraft’s nose so it balanced on the horizon — the only accurate means of maintaining straight and level flight without instruments. “Doesn’t make any sense. He could have sacrificed us, but why would Avery have gone along with the plan knowing it was a suicide mission?”
No one had the answer.
“There’s another thing, too,” Rigby said.
“What?” Maverick and Davidson said in unison.
“There’s a timer. Wakefield is looking at it now, trying to see if there’s a way to disarm it. He says it’s doubtful. Whoever built it wanted to make it impossible for anyone to make changes while the plane was in the air —”
“How much time?” Maverick interrupted.
“Fourteen hours,” Rigby replied. “But Reynolds says not to worry because our fuel will run out after ten hours, which means we’ll be on land with plenty of time to get this thing off, right?”
Maverick looked at the young gunner. Nineteen years old, this was the boy’s first rotation of active service. He pointed at the instrument panel. “Every single reading is wrong. We’re flying blind. We should have enormous fuel supplies, but that won’t help much if we can’t point ourselves in a straight direction towards land — our land. If we go anywhere near the soviet bloc we’re going to get ourselves shot down. Without a working compass we’re just as likely to fly in circles.”