“All right, I’ve got it,” Breanna fought the big plane level. They were nearing the end of their restricted airspace. More importantly, she had run out of safe lake bed to land on, the ground below turning back into desert. The mountains loomed ahead.
“We’re going to have to turn ourselves around,” she told Chris.
“We’re on one engine,” he said.
She was so busy trying to hold the plane in the sky, she didn’t have time to snap back with something sarcastic.
Knife rocked the Eagle gently on her right wing as Fort Two banked away from the mountain range, one of her wing tips so close it was a miracle it didn’t scrape. Her wheels were down and he doubted she was flying more than a half knot over the stall speed. But she was still in the air.
He pushed his plane through a sharp turn to get behind the lumbering bomber, now slowing and then starting to descend. He put his own gear out to help himself slow down as he pulled parallel to Fort Two. He had a clear view into the Megafortress’s cockpit. Rap’s hands were working overtime; her head bobbed up and down in the cockpit, as if she were talking to the crew.
There were, at most, twenty meters – sixty feet – between the two planes. He kept one eye on her and the other on her plane, his hands ready to jerk the Eagle out of the way.
“She’s giving us a thumbs-up,” said his passenger, Dr. Jennifer Gleason, one of the computer scientists.
“Okay, give it to her back,” said Smith, nudging forward to give her a better view.
“She’s pointing down.”
“Okay. Ask if she has full control,” he said. “Make like you’re driving a truck –”
“I’m way ahead of you,” Gleason said sharply.
Dr. Gleason was in her mid-twenties and extremely good looking, with long strawberry-colored hair and a body that would melt a polar bear. But Smith found her, like most of the scientist and engineering personnel stuck- up.
“On a scale of one to five, she has about a three,” Gleason told him. “She only has one motor.”
“Engine.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Can she land?”
“Yes,” answered the scientist after a pause. “She, uh, she wants to loop back, I think.”
“She wants to land into the wind,” said Smith. “Oh, wait – she’s not trying to land on the main runway, is she?”
“How would I ask that?” said Gleason.
“She is. Okay. Hold on.” Smith radioed the control tower, mapping out the situation for them. All traffic had been cleared and emergency vehicles were standing by.
“She’s worried about the Soviet Kronos satellite,” he explained to his backseater. “It’s due overhead in twenty-five minutes. If she lands anywhere but close to the hangars, the satellite will catch her on the ground. She’s being a jackass,” he added.
“Why?”
“Ridiculous risk. She was ready to pancake in without gear a second ago. Now she’s flying like she’s out for a Sunday stroll in the park.”
“What would you have done?” Gleason snapped.
Knife didn’t answer. He’d have done the same thing.
“She’s pointing to the ground,” said Gleason. “She’s rolling her hands.”
“She wants us to make sure the gear is locked,” he said. “All right, look, do a little loop with your finger, like we’re swooping beneath her, then hang on.”
“Okay.”
As soon as Knife heard that Breanna gave the thumbs-up, he tipped the Eagle down, sailing under the large warbird.
“Gear extended and locked,” he said.
“I gave them an okay.”
Knife pulled off, trying to give Fort Two more room for its turn as it came around to line up for final approach. The plane was waddling now, its lone engine straining. It burped downward, caught itself, steadied into a bank.
“Is she going to make it?” Gleason asked.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly.
Smith popped up on her right side, easing the F-15E away. It would have been a hell of a lot more convenient to have a working radio, but Knife’s backseater gave them a thumbs-up. The wheels were locked for landing.
“Gear set,” said Chris. “We can trust the idiot lights and HUDs.”
“I’d rather not,” Breanna told him. “Temp’s critical in our one good engine.”
“Maybe we can get Parsons to crawl out on the wing and fix that,” said Chris.
“If we asked, he probably would.” Breanna pushed Fort Two into a shallow bank. It began shaking like hell. She eased off, gently negotiating the maneuver.
Wonder of wonders, she came out of the turn lined up perfectly with the main runway.
“You’re lucky today,” said her copilot.
“I was going to blame that one on you.”
“Two miles,” said Chris. “We’re redlining Engine Three.”
“I can glide from here,” she lied.
A very small percentage of people in the world were born to be pilots. Some fluke of genetics, some mystery of biochemistry, enabled them to fly by sheer instinct. They had some sort of sense about them, could tell exactly where they were and what the plane was doing without consulting instruments.
Breanna wasn’t one of those people. She had to work at it, struggling for everything. She’d flown umpteen hours in a B-52Gs and Hs, done more than four thousand in a simulated rigged to work like the Megafortress. Somewhere buried in that experience were situations somewhat similar to the one she found herself in now.
Somewhat similar, not exactly the same. There was no way to duplicate the whining complaint of the one good engine as it dragged more than 200,000 pounds of plastic, steel, and flesh through the thin desert air.
And no way to duplicate the flutter in her stomach as she passed the point of no return.
“We’re going to make it,” Chris yelled as they came down. “Oh, yeah.”
“With extra frosting,” she said, sensing she was right at stall speed, sensing she had it, sensing the wheels were about to slap against the cement. She felt good; she was in control.
Had Jeff felt that way right before the Flighthawk clipped his wing?
The thought evaporated as the big bomber’s wheels hit against the surface of Runway One. They sprang upward, but she had it, she was on top of it, letting the plane roll as she applied the brake gently, not wanting to blow the tires, knowing there was more than enough runway to stop safely, and in one piece.
Zen sat in the shadow of the hangar, eyes planted firmly on the ground as the sirens wailed. He could hear the support vehicles roaring out to Runway One as the stricken Megafortress came in. everyone on the base was watching.
“She’s down! She’s down! They landed okay!” someone yelled. Zen rolled his chair forward to see, then followed as everyone started running toward the apron area where the Megafortress was headed.
Had they done this when he’d gone down?
No. That had been a tragedy. This – this had somehow turned instantly into a triumph. People were yelling and shouting and high-fiving. The big EB-52 was rolling free and easy.
Anyone who thought Ken James, the bastard Russian traitor, had killed this place would be stunned to see the spontaneous celebration out on the runway as Fort Two turned and taxied toward the hangars. Demoralized? Downtrodden? Like hell. These were the best of the best, and when shit went down they pulled together. Zen found his adrenaline surging as he raced with the others, caught up in the jubilation. Vehicles were all over the place, blaring horns, wailing their sirens two or three hundred people, all buzzed with excitement, rallied to celebrate Dreamland’s survival. For somehow, Breanna’s successful landing of the stricken plane had turned into a metaphor for the base and its future. Zen could feel it.
She was alive, thank God.
