“Are you saying, you can’t land without instruments?” New beads of sweat formed above Rigby’s brow.
Maverick grinned. “I can land this bird without anything else so long as I can see out the windshield. The problem is, I have to find somewhere to land first.”
“Whoa!” Rigby looked like he was just coming to realize the severity of the situation.
Maverick ignored him, trying to concentrate on the bigger problem. He looked at Davidson, the next person below him in the chain of command. “Broken Arrow!”
“What?” Davidson said.
“We’re carrying twenty AGM-69 SRAM nuclear missiles. If we don’t find land before we run out of fuel they’re going to the bottom of the ocean.” Maverick thought about the next step. “When the Strategic Air Force Command finds out they’ve had a loss of 20 nuclear weapons over Siberia, they’re going to think the worst!”
“They’re going to think we’ve defected?” Rigby pointed out.
“If we’re lucky,” Maverick said. “If not, they’re going to think Russia was responsible. This could trigger Armageddon.”
A red telephone handle and wire was attached to the ceiling of the cockpit directly above his head. It represented the most secure communication line directly to the Strategic Air Force Command — used only as a means of confirming nuclear attack orders.
Maverick picked up the phone and pressed the connect button. He shook his head, unable to comprehend a disruption in the secure link, as he heard only static. He spoke clear and firmly. “Strategic Air Force Command. This is Maverick’s Menace. Requesting break in radio silence for immediate assistance.”
More static.
He repeated his request. Waited for a response. And then hung up the phone.
“What did they say?” Davidson asked.
“Nothing. All I got was static.” Maverick didn’t wait for Davidson’s response to the news. With his right hand he flicked the radio over to 122.750 MHz — the standard channel for air to air communications. “Mayday, Mayday. This is U.S. Air Force Aircraft Maverick’s Menace. Seeking radio transmission from any aircraft or radio station in our vicinity. We have lost control of our navigational instruments and are seeking a radio signal to set our bearings. Over.”
The radio returned heavy static. Davidson increased the volume. The static seemed to worsen. “There’s nothing but white noise.”
Maverick reached forwards to rotate to another channel. Rigby put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Just wait a second. I think I hear something.”
“What do you hear?” Maverick asked, studying the face of the youngest man in the room. He could be the only person onboard whose ears hadn’t yet been damaged by the ever-present sound of the eight turbofans. Or his mind was already shot by the recent series of events and he was now delusional. Maverick couldn’t determine which category Rigby fit into, so he let him keep going. “What do you hear?”
“Music,” Rigby said, with certainty.
“You hear music behind the static?” Davidson looked doubtful.
“Yes. It’s very light, but I can hear piano music!” Rigby searched their faces for recognition. Finding none, he continued. “I played piano my entire life. I was quite good, too. My mother wanted me to go to Juilliard. She drove me hard and I ended up joining the Air Force out of retaliation.”
Maverick took a chance the kid might be telling the truth. “What’s the song?”
“I don’t know. It’s old, but not as old as the classical greats such as Beethoven or Chopin. Sounds sullen, almost depressing.”
“Well, that’s going to do us a lot of good!” Davidson flicked to the next channel. It was broken with the same heavy static. He switched between more than a dozen before leaving it on the original channel. “It’s useless. There’s nothing on any of them.”
“Except that damned music!” Rigby replied.
“The music’s on all of them?” Maverick asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. The same song. Every time. Same melody.”
After nearly twenty two hours of continuous flight the four turbofans on the right wing, unable to draw any more aviation fuel, misfired and failed. The engines on the left wing continued for a total of six more minutes, sputtered and then stopped completely.
Maverick naturally dipped the nose of the aircraft to avoid an immediate stall. He then brought Maverick’s Menace into a controlled glide. But without any land in sight, they were destined to end in the water.
“All right gentlemen,” Maverick said. His voice calm and confident. “We knew the fuel would run out eventually. Rigby, I want you to prepare the life raft, but don’t deploy it until right before we’re ready to eject or you’ll never see it again.”
Rigby nodded his head in silence.
“I want you all to know it has been a privilege and an honor working with you. We have a week’s supply of water and rations inside the life raft. Depending on the temperature, we might just live long enough to be picked up by a search crew.” Maverick grimaced. “Let’s just hope it’s one of ours.”
“Is that an island?” Davidson stared vacantly out the left windshield.
Maverick looked as the tiny island came into clear view through the port windshield. At a guess, it was somewhere in the vicinity of ten miles in width and perhaps eight in length. A small mountain, no more than a couple hundred feet tall could be observed at the far end of the island. The island was covered in snow and ice at least several feet thick. With the exception of the small mountain it was entirely flat. The only man-made structure he could see was a single runway which ran the entire length of the island. Although the island looked deserted the strip of blacktop appeared to have been cleared of snow only hours beforehand.
“My God! Thank you!” Maverick said. “If that isn’t some sort of Divine Intervention, I don’t know what is!”
The entire crew cheered.
Maverick made a shallow bank to the left, losing more altitude and lining up for an easy approach. He knew he only had one chance. In the process it gave him a clear view of the island. A small lake lay, unfrozen, near the middle of the island. Thick snow and ice reached the lake’s edge and then stopped short of the water, as though someone had taken a carving knife to it. It appeared in striking green and purple colors — most likely a sign it was made by a geothermal spring, releasing mineral rich warm water.
Through the port side window, Maverick was startled to see how deep it went. At a guess, it could be as much as 100 feet.
“Looks like a nice island,” Davidson said.
Maverick adjusted the flaps another ten degrees. “Yeah. Shame we’re unlikely to live long enough to enjoy it. We’ve got less than four hours to work out how to get rid of that bomb, remember?”
Davidson kissed his Rosary Beads for good luck. “Just get us on the ground and I’ll get rid of it myself even if I have to carry it by hand.”
Maverick banked left until he lined the B52 up perfectly to the runway for the final approach. He leveled both wingtips. Confident that he had been saved for a higher purpose, he said, “I’ll put us on the ground. Don’t you worry about that!”
The nose passed the edge of the island and he saw the start of the runway. Even without the instruments to tell him, after more than 20,000 hours in the cockpit Maverick instinctually knew his beloved aircraft was close to the ideal 136 knots recommended for landing.
He moved the wheel just slightly towards his chest, raising the nose of the aircraft, slowing his descent rate, and settling perfectly level to touchdown.