Flight Of The Old Dog

ANADYR FAR EAST FIGHTER-INTERCEPTOR BASE, RUSSIA

Sergei Serbientlov was indulging in one of his few delights Chinese food. It wasn't exactly a popular dish in this remote corner of the Soviet Union but perhaps that was one of the reasons why he enjoyed cooking and eating Chinese food-it set him apart. Unfortunately it was that sort of anti — Sovie thinking-and eating-that got him stuck in Anadyr in the fir place, but everyone had to be somewhere.

Besides, it wasn't so bad. It wasn't a state of exile being here in the very northeastern tip of the Soviet Union; it was more like an unscheduled, involuntary reassignment. He had free housing, free food, vehicles at his disposal and a few hundred rubles extra every month being sent back to his family i Irkutsk.

Plus, he had responsibility and a lot of autonomy. During the preceding two months and for the next two, he had been an would be the chief custodian of a Far East Defense Force. Fighter-Interceptor Base.

It didn't matter that there were no fighters here-he was in charge of the base. He was the chief policeman, firefighters banker, lawyer, janitor and mayor of millions of rubles of equipment and buildings.

During the long dark winter months he was the richest and most powerful man in this province of fishermen, trappers, and loggers.

Sergei now deftly manipulated a hand-whittled pair of chopsticks to pick up a mass of noodles and fish. He had grow the seasonings and herbs himself in a greenhouse on the base and he frequently traded with the villagers and nearby fishermen for the fish and flour to make the noodles. They seemed to have everything, and Sergei was sure that the fishermen took their boats out into the wild Anadyrskij Zaliv across to Saint Lawrence Island or even Nome to trade with the Americans.

He passed his nose over the noodles and spiced fish. It was a strange concoction for breakfast, but his only other option was some four-month-old ryepa-turnips-from some old witch in town. No thank you.

He brought the savory, heavily spiced noodles to his lips and was about to take a bite when the double — doors leading to the outer hallway burst open and two figures rushed into the tiny office and half-stumbled, half-ran up to the chest-high counter that extended the length of the room.

The taller of the two was dragging his right leg, which was covered with blackened blood from toe to hip. He had an arm over the shoulder of his companion, who was wrapped in a coarse green blanket.

"Gdve poonkt skoray pomashchi!" the injured man screamed in thick monotone Russian. "My leg!Where's the hospital?"

Sergei nearly dropped his noodles in his lap. "What?"

"Where is the hospital?My leg-" "There is no hospital. What happened to your leg?" Sergei came quickly from behind the long counter to the two men.

Except on closer inspection he found that the man in the blanket was a woman. She had long, salt-and-pepper gray hair and deep, dark eyes-she could have been Oriental herself, Sergei guessed, or Latin. Her lips chattered in the cold as she looked quickly at Sergei, then averted her eyes to her injured companion.

The man dragged himself over to a rough wooden bench in a far corner of the office and dropped onto it. He was tall and ruggedly built, perhaps an old military man. He looked frozen as well, and his skin was gray and sunken-probably from loss of blood, Sergei thought.

"Gyde polizei?" the man said. His accent was strange, obviously not from the local area, although very few locals were from this obscure corner of the world.

"Why do you want the police?" Sergei bent to examine the man's leg.

He couldn't see the wound itself but the blood loss was obviously great. "There are no police here. The village constables won't come to the base. I will help you all I can, but only if you tell me-" — A@yet, spasiba. "Suddenly Sergei was looking into the barrel of a very big, very ugly blue-black automatic pistol. As the muzzle touched his nose, Sergei slowly rose and backed away.

The woman threw off her blanket and helped the injured man to his feet.

Her clothing made Sergei forget about the pistol.

She was wearing a short, rough blue jacket-denim. She was wearing denim. And then Sergei noticed her blue jeans ant fancy leather boots.

blue jeans?" Sergei said, one of the few foreign phrases he knew.

— Gdye mozhna koopit blue jeans?"

The woman turned to her companion. "What did he say, General?"

"I didn't catch it all, but the man likes your blue jeans," Elliott said. He turned toward the double doors. "Patrick!"

Crouching low, McLanahan rushed through the doors, a.38 caliber survival revolver clutched in his hand. He ran over to the Russian and pointed his revolver at the man's temple.

Sergei closed — his eyes.

"Search him," Elliott ordered. McLanahan quickly patsearched Sergei, keeping his revolver aimed at his head. Elliott then turned Sergei around and backed him into the bench, forcing him to sit. With both his own and McLanahan's guns still pointed, Elliott took Sergei's hands and put each one on top of his head. Sergei sat on the wooden bench, eyes tight shut.

"Vi gavariti pahanglivski?" Elliott was asking if he spoke English.

Sergei opened his eyes, forced himself to look at each of the strangers.

"A@vet. Please don't kill me "Pazhaloostal gavariti myedlinna, Elliott said, telling him to speak slowly. The man looked less terrified now, though very confused. "Kagda polizei virnyotsa?" Elliott asked when the police would be back.

"No police," Sergei replied. He kept his hands up, but his shoulders visibly relaxed. Slowly he said in Russian, "Police… do not come… to base."

"I understood the no," McLanahan said, taking a doublehanded grip on the pistol.

"I think he's saying there are no police," Elliott asked. "This asking if we have fish?I don't Then he did. He nodded at the Russian, who nodded in return. Elliott pulled him up off the bench and allowed him to lower his hands.

McLanahan didn't lower his revolver. "What's the story, General?"

"Black market," Elliott said, smiling. The Russian smiled back. "This gentleman runs some kind of black market out here. If my guess is right, he trades fish, meat, cheese, and stuff for gasoline."

Sergei let out a sigh of relief when the younger man finally lowered his revolver-his eyes had looked scared, but his hand didn't waver and Sergei had no doubt he would have pulled the trigger in an instant.

Followed by the younger man, Sergei went to a locker behind his desk and pulled out his hat, mittens and coat. As he pulled them on he had a chance to examine the young man's coat. It was thick, dark gray, and it didn't look like cotton or leather.

Slowly, carefully, he reached over to the man's collar and touched it.

It looked like cloth but felt like plastic. A plastic coat?It had pockets on the front and arms that fastened with strange zipperless fasteners. Who were these men?And why were they wearing plastic and warm while their women wore rare expensive cotton denim but was freezing to death?

"This is going to be rough-I can understand about every fifth word."

He leaned forward, still aiming his pistol at Sergei's forehead.

"Binzuh, binzuh. Gasoline. Binzuhkalonka?"

Sergei looked relieved. "Pazhaloosta!" Sergei asked. "Don't worry, tovarisch. Put down your gun, I won't turn you in, I know the routine "Whatever you said, General," Angelina said, "the man looks happy now.

What'd he say?"

"Hell if I know. I just asked him for gasoline. I'm his comrade now, that's all I understood."

They were speaking English, Sergei said to himself.

Obviously only the old man knew any Russian at all-the younger ones still wore blank expressions.

Sergei winked and tried to stand. McLanahan pushed him back down.

Sergei looked at the strangers with a mixture of surprise and humor.

"Yest 1i oo vas riba?" Sergei asked. "Sir?Kooritsa?I will 9 trade. No problem."

"Fish?Cheese?Chicken?" Elliott said to himself. "He's Elliott saw the fur-lined coat the Russian wore and glanced at the shivering Angelina.

— Mnye noozhnuh advezhda, " El said. He pointed at the fur billowing out from the Russ' collar. "Baranina.

Sergei nodded, reached into his locker and took out a severe-weather coat, a long, heavy sealskin greatcoat wolf-fur lining the hood, then went over to the woman and it out to her. Angelina, noticing the man's obvious interest in her denim jacket, slipped it off and held it out to him.

The Russian acted as if she had just given him the crown jewels.

Sergei examined every seam and stitch in the jacket, muttering the strange English words he found on the buttons, then carefully folded it and hid it far back on the shelf of his locker.

"I can make a fortune here," Angelina said as she pulled the coat over her shivering shoulders. "I've got a whole closet of those old beat-up jackets. "Her face brightened as, for the first time in hours, she felt her body warming up.

"Come," Sergei said in Russian. "Back to business. "He led the group outside. They climbed into a waiting Zadiv p truck and drove down the flightline.

Over the clatter of the truck's ancient heater, which stubbornly refused to emit any heat despite the racket, E said, "Keep an eye out for a fuel truck or fuel pumps "What do they say on them?" McLanahan asked, keeping his hand on the Smith and Wesson revolver in his pocket.

"I don't know."

Elliott breathed on the side window of the truck, which instantly froze.

Against the rumble and crunc motion of the truck he drew five Cyrillic characters-an with a flag on top of it, an "E," a backward "N," a c backward "E," and an "O."

"Binzuh," Elliott said.

means gasoline."

Sergei nodded and smiled… the old man was givin the youngsters a lesson in Russian. "Da," Sergei said in Russian. "We are going to get you gasoline."

"Look," Angelina said, pointing to the right.surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence, was a white cylinder twenty feet high and about thirty feet in diameter A lone white tanker truck was parked beside it.

"Binzuh?" Elliott asked the Russian, pointing to the tank. The Russian glanced at the tank but continued driving, "Niyet," Sergei said, pointing ahead. "Not gasoline. Kerosene. Elliott showed his puzzlement, not understanding the words. Sergei kept on driving.

"Pahvirniti napravah," Elliott asked. "Turn right. "He pointed at the tank once again. Sergei shook his head.

McLanahan pulled out his revolver and held it to the Russian's temple.

"Do as the man says, tovarisch. "Sergei stiffened. Elliott nodded and pointed to the tank.

Sergei turned toward Elliott, clearly puzzled. What did they want?

"Does your boat use kerosene?" Sergei said in Russian.

"That will do you no good."

"Boat?" Elliott said, trying to decipher the words. "I understood boat but nothing else."

Sergei was pointing more emphatically toward a road nearb that headed east. "Diesel," Sergei said in Russian, pointing.

This way. Don't worry. I won't cheat you.

McLanahan pressed the revolver's muzzle against Sergei's head.

"Pazhaloosta," Sergei said, holding up his hands. "All right. "With a shrug of his shoulders he bullied the old truck into a right turn and headed for the tank. A few minutes later, ith McLanahan holding his revolver in sight but not aimed at him, Sergei had opened the gate to the tank compound and led the group inside.

Now he opened a belly valve on the tank truck parked next to the large above-ground tank and a few gallons of liquid spilled onto the snow.

Angelina bent down and sniffed.

"It smells like kerosene," she asked. "It's not jet fuel or gasoline.

What do we do?"

"We may have lucked out," Elliott said, reaching into an inner pocket and taking out a yellow hand-held survival radio.

Depressing a black button in the center, he turned a channel select switch to an unmarked frequency position and pushed the transmit button.

"John, how do you read?" Elliott spoke into the radio.

Aboard the Old Dog, John Ormack pulled the boom microphone of his headset closer to his lips and raised his voice over the noise of the number four engine idling in the background.

"Loud and clear. General. Where are you?Any luck?"

"We're good. We may have what we need. Double-check section five of the tech order. Check on the use of alternate fuels. We might have enough kerosene here… " "Stand by. "Ormack reached behind his seat and pulled out the Old Dog's technical order, the plane's instruction manual, found the listing and keyed his microphone.

"Got it, General. Kerosene is an approved alternate fuel may have trouble with it if it has no anti-icing additive, but we can fly with it.

How much do you have?"

"We got a tank truck that looks like it holds ten thousand gallons.

That's sixty thousand pounds."

"Should do it," Ormack asked. "Dave figured a minimum of fifty thousand to get us to Nome.

"We'll call you back when we're headed toward you.""A B-52 can use kerosene for fuel?" Angelina asked doubtfully "The books says it can," Elliott told her. He turned to the Russian. He was no longer smiling and jovial.

"Kak vasha imva?Atkooda vi?" the Russian said stiffly, "Who are you?

Where are you from?You are not fisherme "Sputniks," Elliott said, getting the bare gist of questions. "Travelers. "Sergei was still looking suspicious. Suddenly he snatched at the yellow survival radio, and before Elliott could grab it back Sergei had read U.S. AIR FORCE on a back instruction plate. McLanahan quickly raised his revolver to Sergei's head.

"I think we lost our buddy here, troops," Elliott said and pointed at the truck. "Patrick, check out that tank truck.

how much kerosene it has."

McLanahan gave his revolver to Angelina, who pointed it with some expertise at the Russian. McLanahan found a dipstick in the truck's cab, climbed on top of the truck checked the amount of fuel inside through a cap.

"Probably one-quarter full," he said.

"Not enough. Okay, tovarisch, " Elliott said in Russian want gasoline in truck. Mnye noozhna binzuh he ta on the truck. Sergei did not move, unsure.

"I'll convince him, General," Angelina said. She propelled the Russian around to the side of the truck where McLan was busy lifting a high-pressure hose. McLanahan fast one end of the hose onto the truck, the other to one of the valves rising from the ground. Angelina motioned to the truck with her revolver.

"Help him," she said. The Russian looked at McLan lugging the heavy hose, then blankly back at Angelina. Angelina cocked the revolver and held it to the Russian's forehead. "Now.

Sergei held up his hands and nodded, walked to McLanahan and gestured for him to reattach the hose at another valve, then removed and replaced the end of the hose at the truck. When the hose was fully attached Sergei opened the valves and kerosene began rushing from the tank to the truck. Minutes later the truck was full.

"Patrick, you drive the panel truck," Elliott asked. "Angelina, go with him. I'll ride with our buddy here in the tanker."

McLanahan ran over to the Zadiv, started it up and waited for Elliott and the Russian to get in the tanker.

"Pazhaloosta, " Elliott said when he and Sergei had climbed inside the icebox-like cab of the tanker. He gestured at the truck outside the fence, then pointed his pistol at the Russian.

"Vetam napravIvend. Please. This way."in= watched the muzzle of the.45.When Elliott ntly swung it too high he reached out with his right hand and tried to grab it away. He'd been a clown too long…

A shot rang out, and the windshield of the tanker truck exploded, showering them with shards of glass. Sergei leapt out of the truck, running back around the fence. No longer a hero.

McLanahan and Angelina caught a glimpse of him just as he disappeared down a line of trees that paralleled the flightline road, and Angelina took a shot at him but the bullet ricocheted harmlessly away.

McLanahan ran for the tanker and jumped into the cab.

"You all right, General?"

"Yes, dammit, but things are going to get tense here real quick. "He turned to Angelina as she came to the right side of the tanker. "Take the panel truck to the plane. Patrick and I will take the tanker.

Sure as hell he's going to call for help, we won't have much time.

It took a few moments for McLanahan to figure out how to get the fuel truck moving, but soon the two trucks pulled up to where they had half-hidden the Old Dog in a wide parking area between two hangars.

Ormack came running out, the second survival revolver in hand. He saw the smashed windshield, looked to Elliott. "What… T' "We had a comrade but he bugged out on us. We've got to work fast before he calls in the Marines. John, you'll be u the cockpit on the fuel panel.

I think I can figure out how to work the pump on the tank truck so I'll be outside. "He went over to Angelina in the panel truck. "Pull the truck over to the right wingtip. Patrick, climb up on the right wing, open one of the fuel filler ports and we'll fill it from there.

Angelina help with the hose. Where's Wendy and Dave?"

"I've got Dave in the cockpit monitoring the engine Ormack said.

"Wendy is on the radios calling for help.

"Any luck?"

"Not yet. I'm not sure what anyone can do for us anyway unless we lift off out of here."

Ormack then began unreeling the refueling hose from the truck while McLanahan climbed on the Old Dog's right win screwdriver in his teeth.

"The main-wing tanks have dozens of holes in them," Ormack told Elliott as the general began to decipher and operate the truck's pump controls.

"The forward body tank had a few leaks too. McLanahan will pump fuel into the center tank. I'll plan on keeping the fuel in the center, aft and body tanks, but once we get up to engine start and takeoff v have to put fuel in the mains. We'll be losing fuel like crazy after that-" "Nothing we can do about it," Elliott said, "unless you got enough chewing gum to plug the holes. "Elliott started the truck's fuel pumps and waved to McLanahan, who had the cap off the center-wing fuel tank and was dragging the hose across the wing and over to the fuselage.

"Ready anytime you are, Patrick. "Huddled against the biting wind, McLanahan inserted the fuel nozzle into the open fuel port on the fuselage between the two huge wings and began pumping fuel. Below him, Orrr ran inside the Old Dog and took Luger's place at the controls.

Luger, right leg heavily taped and bandaged, limped downstairs and out to the fuel truck, carrying several quart cans taped together. "I found the spare oil downstairs near survival rations. I'll fill up the number two engine with oil-at least we should be able to use it for takeoff before it disintegrates."

"Good, Dave… how you doing?"

"Great," Luger said, dropping the case of oil on the fender to spell himself. "I have a blinding headache, freezing cold and my right leg looks like Swiss cheese. How are you, sir?"

"Got you beat, Dave, but if I talk too much I'm afraid I'll pass out."

"Let me handle the pump, General. You get inside."

"No, put the oil in, then see what you can do about ripping loose some of the metal and that broken tip gear off the wings It's all drag-we can do without it. Especially for a sevenengine takeoff.

"You got it, sir… you know, I still don't believe we're doing this. I mean, actually stealing gas from a Russian fighter base "We may be pumping water into our tanks, for all we know.

There just wasn't time to keep on looking And so saying, Elliott seemed to be drifting off, falling asleep, the rush of adrenaline wearing off…

j Chief Constable Vjarelskiv, the regional militia commander grimaced as he took a sip of what he was told was koffee, a thick liquid of grain and coffee. He took a bite of khl,lep to take the dusty taste away, glaring all the time at Serbientlov, who was standing wringing his hat in his hands in front of Vjarelskiv's desk.

"This is nonsense, Serbientlov," the constable asked. "You bring me tales of armed attackers at the base-two men and a woman… What did they steal?Your precious Chinese chopsticks?Are you sure you didn't dream up the whole story?

"This is no joke, tovarisch, " Sergei asked. "If we don't hurry they'll get away."

"With what?A snow plow?Your noodles?"

"They commandeered a fuel truck, and… and they had explosives.

They threatened to blow up everything. The whole base. You have to do something-" "Your story gets taller every moment, Serbientlov," the constable said. He leaned back into his chair, fixing Sergei with an icy stare. "Are you sure this is not a… shall we say, a falling-out of thieves?"

Sergei fidgeted uncomfortably but managed to sound indignant.

"Thieves?You are not accusing me, tovarisch?The only thieves here are the ones out-" "Stop it, Serbientlov. The little empire you've built at the base is well-known, at least to the citizens in the area.

You use more diesel in four months than the whole Soviet navy uses in a year, supposedly for your fleet of plows but the streets and runways are always clogged with snow and you feed your gut with Chinese noodles and real coffee. "Vjarelskiv threw his grain beverage into a garbage can.

"Now I'm busy, so you'll-" "Chief Constable, I demand that you send a unit out to investigate. That's your job. You convinced the Far East Defense Force that for a price you could handle any security vroblems at the base during the winter. They wouldn't be to happy to learn that fifty thousand liters of fuel that you supposed to be protecting have vanished- The constable stood and grabbed Serbientlov by the colllar.

"You maggot. You dare to threaten me?I'll throw your body into one of your snowdrifts where they won't find it till summer But as e watched the caretaker wilt under his tirade the chief constable also knew that the old man had already destroyed his own career and could take his along with him. "All right, I'll send a patrol out-" "An armed unit," Serbientlov asked. "I want-" "What you want is irrelevant.

I won't have my men wind up in a fight with your pirates. Now get out of my sight. "He pushed Serbientlov toward the door, watched him scramble away, then turned to his intercom. "Sergeant, take a Patrol-wait, take a squad with the halftrack out with Serbientlov to the base. Have him show you where he saw his so-called robbers. If you find anyone, bring him back to me. If you don't find evidence of robbery, bring Serbientlov back to me-in a set of CUffs.

"God, it's freezing up there," McLanahan said as he ran into Elliott near the cab of the tanker truck, trying to warm his hands. He'd been obliged to switch places with Angelina on top of the Old Dog…

after almost an hour of pumping kerosene in the bitter Siberian cold he had lost feeling in hands and feet. "Fifty thousand liters of fuel-kerosene should be enough to make it.

I'll feel better when we're out of here. "Elliott's voice came in weak, barely audible grunts. Instantly McLanahan forgot his own cold, reached into Elliott's pockets and extracted the survival radio.

"Ormack, this is McLanahan.

General Elliott is almost unconscious out here."

"Copy," Ormack asked. "We got enough-all body tanks are full. I've started putting fuel into the leaking mains. Get the general inside, then start wrapping things up down there."

"Roger. "McLanahan shoved the radio into his own pocket, then took hold of Elliott's jacket and started to pull him out of the tanker.

"Let's go, General. "McLanahan half-walked, half-carried him to the belly hatch, then called up to Wendy, who ran down and helped Elliott up the ladder to the upper deck, then over to his seat in the cockpit.

"Wendy, push in all the vent-control knobs at the left side station downstairs," McLanahan asked. "It'll pump all the heat to the upper deck. I'll get Angelina and Dave."

McLanahan ran back outside. Angelina called to him, "I'

In not getting any more."

"We're packing up," he said over the whine of the idling number — four engine. "I'll help you button up in a minute. "He 4 searched and found Luger near the left wingtip. He had just wrestled a big piece of hanging fibersteel skin off what remained of the left wingtip.

"Dave, we're done refueling. Let's go."

Two local militiamen in long, gray-green greatcoats, black fur caps and carrying forty-year-old bolt-action rifles came into the caretaker's office, made a quick check of the small flightfine building, hurried outside.

The squad leader called out to the halftrack. Sergeant Gazetii waved them back inside and turned on Serbientlov.

"There is no one here, caretaker. I would not like to be in your shoes when Comrade Chief Constable Vjarelskiv gets his hands on you."

Sweat broke out on Serbientlov's face despite the bitter cold of the early morning. "They were here… I swear-" "Show me this fuel tank and the truck, caretaker," Gazetii said. The halftrack rumbled down the road paralleling the deserted.snow-choked flightline and taxiway. A few minutes later they had pulled to a stop outside the fence surrounding the large white tank.

"This is the tank?" Gareth said emerging from the steel interior of the armored haiftrack. "A tank of heating oil?What would your terrorists want with a tank full of heating oil?"

"I don't know," Serbientlov said in exasperation. "But they forced me at gunpoint to fill the tank truck. I narrowly escaped with my life.

They had three guards on me and… a couple machine guns, but I escaped" Comrade Sergeant. "One of the militiamen pointed to tracks in the deep snow.

Gazetii studied them carefully.

"Fairly fresh And then, he heard it… the fused roar of a jet aircraft engine in the distance. He turned to Serbientlov. "Is that an aircraft?I didn't know you had aircraft here this time of year?"

Serbientlov listened, then blanched. "But we don't have a aircraft here.it… it must be the terrorists… English terrorists.

Gazetii waved his men back into the halftrack and directed them down the flightline toward the noise.

Angelina had just slipped off the Old Dog's right wingtip to the roof of the Zadiv panel truck. McLanahan was back on top of the Old Dog's fuselage just behind the ejection-hatch cover scraping snow and dirt off the center-wing-tank fuel cap a: replacing the cap. Luger, half-dragging his right leg, was pulling the fuel hose back toward the tanker truck.

Wendy had jumped out the belly hatch of the Old Dog to look for her fellow-crewmembers when she saw a large, square vehicle roll to a stop just around the end of one of the hangars surrounding their parking spot.

Her heart stopped. It was a Russian armored vehicle, with a Russian soldier sitting behind a shielded gun-mount.

"Patrick…"Wendy pointed her finger at the vehicle. "Over there "Yanimnogah simye," Gazetii swore as the halftrack driver stomped on the brakes. "Shto etah?" What he and the other saw in the dim three-month-long twilight was a huge, black unearthly winged creature with a long pointed nose and large ungainly wings.

"Etaht samalyot?" one of the militiamen asked. "I've net seen a plane like that before."

"It has no markings, no insignia," another asked. "It must be some kind of experimental aircraft "That's it," Serbientlov insisted.

"That's their plane, that's the plane that that the terrorists almost forced me into.

You've got to stop them. Destroy it-" "Control yourself, Serbientlov.

" Gazetii jumped out of the half-track. "What if it's one of our experimental aircraft?We have them, you know. Corporal, contact Chief Constable Vjarelskiv. Tell him we have an unidentified aircraft parked on the center parking ramp on the base. I am going to talk to the crew. Everyone else stay here.

Luger tossed the hose as far as he could away from the Old Dog's wheels. "Pat, Angelina. We've got us some company."

Angelina had already heard Wendy's warning and spotted the half-track.

She quickly climbed down off the Zadiv and sprinted for the Old Dog's belly-hatch. McLanahan screwed the tank cap closed, then slid down the fuselage to the right wing. When he saw a Russian soldier emerging from the half track he slid across the wing to the leading edge between the two engine nacelles, shimmied over the edge and dropped to the snow.

Hearing Wendy's warning, Ormack stopped strapping the nearly unconscious Elliott into an upper-deck crash-seat, jumped into the left seat, looked out the left cockpit window and saw the halftrack.

"Goddamn, " he shouted over his shoulder, hoping his voice would carry.

"Wendy, get everyone on board. "He then slapped the wing flap switch to full DOWN and double checked the fuel panel, opening the fuel supply from the fuselage tanks to the engines. He moved the number-four engine throttle to ninety percent power, leaned across the co pilot's seat and put the engine number-five starter-switch to START, using engine bleed-air from the running number-four engine to spin the turbine on the number-five engine. When that engine's RPMs moved to fifteen percent he jammed its throttle to eighty-five percent to begin pumping fuel into the engine's ignition-chamber.

A thunderous bang reverberated through the Old Dog, and the right wing shuddered. Ormack scrambled over to the right "Visa cockpit window.

The entire number-five engine was engulfed in smoke. He checked the engine instruments. The RPMs of that engine were slowly increasing but wondrously there was no indication of fire. Another loud bang and the engine RPMs stopped at forty percent.

The HATCH NOT CLOSED AND LOCKED light on the front-instrument panel snapped off, and a moment later Wendy reported everyone was aboard.

"Get Patrick up here," Ormack called out, and McLanahan came scrambling up to the cockpit to see General Elliott in his emergency web seat, forehead and face dripping fresh sweat, head lolling back with fever.

"He's out of it," Ormack asked. "Get up here. I'll fly the plane from the left seat. You get in the co-pilot's seat monitor the instruments."

McLanahan hesitated" McLanahan!"

Patrick shook himself.stepped carefully around Elliott. Just before climbing into the co-pilot's seat he reached down, retrieved Elliott's.45 caliber automatic from his holster. "Can we start the rest of the engines?" he said, looking at the gauges.

"Not yet. When number five reaches forty-five percent switch off its starter and switch on three, six.seven and eight. Move the throttles up to IDLE when each engine RPM reaches fifty percent. Watch the fire lights-that kerosene has been giving us some hard ignitions."

McLanahan nodded and watched number five RPM gauge, a finger on the starter switch.

Ormack opened the left-cockpit window. The Russian soldier was now advancing on the Old Dog, more cautiously than before the engines were started. He did not hear Ormack open the sliding window.

"He's still coming," Ormack said. McLanahan pulled the automatic from his jacket pocket and tapped Ormack's shoulder with it. Ormack turned, saw the gun. "If we start a firefight here "We may not have any choice."

Ormack nodded, took the gun, keeping it out of view. McLanahan pointed at the number five RPM gauge. "RPMs are up to forty-five. Number five starter off. Starting three, six, seven and eight. "The Russian militiaman walked right up to within fifteen yards of the Old Dog, toward the left cockpit window, pistol holster in clear view on his waist but his weapon still in it. When he heard the number three engine start to spool up he drew his right index finger across his throat.

"He wants us to shut down," Ormack said. He shook head at the soldier.

The militiaman drew his finger across his throat several more times.

"Patrick, we're running out of time There were several loud bangs on both wings this time, and the Old Dog began to buck and rumble as if its insides had been seized by a coughing fit. The Russian soldier backed away several feet as a cloud of blue-black smoke from the number three engine hit him.

Continue the start," Ormack yelled. Clouds of smoke began to enter the cockpit through the open window. "Move the generator switch on number five engine from RESET to RUN."When he next saw the Russian soldier he was back beside his halftrack shouting orders inside. Suddenly another soldier appeared at the machine-gun mount on top of the halftrack. A moment later he was handed a large machine gun, which he began bolting into its armor-plated mount.

Ormack saw it and called out a warning.

"Number three's not starting," McLanahan asked. "Number six started."

"We're set to taxi," Ormack answered. "Continue the start.

Hang on. "He tapped the toe brakes to release the parking brake, scanned the engines, took hold of number four, five and six throttles and jammed them to almost full military thrust.

The Old Dog rumbled mightily but refused to move.

"She's not taxiing, we need all available engines," Ormack told McLanahan.

McLanahan kept a hand on the number seven throttle. As Ormack spoke he advanced that throttle to IDLE power.

"Seven started, three's comin up. "Three engines now 9 running at almost full power, along with three sputtering and exploding.

Ormack jammed the number-seven throttle to military, but the Old Dog still would not move.

"C'mon, you sonofabitch."

Ormack looked at the Russian halftrack, He could see the first Russian soldier pressing one hand to his ear, giving the "cut-engines" sign with his other, then slapping it back over his uncovered ear.

"Three's started," McLanahan asked. "Eight coming up."

"Get the generators on-line for the running engines," Ormack told him, keeping an eye on the Russian/ at the halftrack's gun-mount.

"Anti-icing switch on. Manifold switch closed. Hydraulic switches on.

Stabilizer trim set-" Ormack looked up from his checklists in time to see the gunner on top of the halftrack point his gun just over the Old Dog's fuselage and fire.

Ormack instinctively ducked, pulling McLanahan down.

The roar of the engines drowned out the chatter of the heavy-caliber gun and the bullets whizzing a few feet above them.

McLanahan went on with the engine start, advanced the throttle on number eight to IDLE.Both men looked up over the instrument-panel glare-shield. The lead Russian soldier was again giving them the cut-engine sign, and this time the gunner had his weapon pointed directly at the cockpit.

Ormack did not look at McLanahan as he pulled on his headset. Over interphone he called, "Everyone on interphone'@ Report by compartment."

He then brought all engine throttles to IDLE."Crew, we have a Russian armored vehicle about a hundred yards off our left wing.

They've got a machine gun. They've ordered us to cut our engines-" The HATCH NOT CLOSED AND LATCHED light on the forward instrument panel snapped on then and before either Ormack or McLanahan could react it popped out.

"What was that?"

I don't… Dave, did you open the hatch?" No reply "Luger.

Report. "McLanahan was about to unbuckle his safety belt and go downstairs but stopped when Ormack calleL out, "Luger, no."

McLanahan turned and looked outside. Wearing only his flightsuit and boots, Luger was hobbling toward the fuel truck parked near the Old Dog's left wingtip. He was carrying one of the.38 caliber survival revolvers.

Nobody could speak, only watch, horrified, as Luger stumbled, right leg flopping in the air, then quickly rolled back up to his feet and half-crawled to the fuel truck as the gunner swung his machine gun directly at Luger.

Ormack came alive, stuck the.45 caliber automatic out his left cockpit window and fired, the slug creating a bright blue spark as it ricocheted off the gun mount's armored shield. The gunner whirled his gun toward the cockpit, which provided an opening to his right side.

Luger had reached the truck, steadied his arm on the hood and emptied the revolver at the gunner. One of the slugs found its target.

"Luger. Get back here… " Luger heard Ormack, started back for the Old Dog. But another soldier appeared from behind the halftrack, lifted a rifle with a long, curved cartridge clip, fired. Luger clutched his left thigh and pitched forward.

Ormack could only fire his pistol again, forcing the Russian at the back of the halftrack to retreat, but he did not notice another soldier sliding into the machine gun mount on the halftrack.

He took aim on the Old Dog, fired.

The twenty-millimeter shells plowed through the Old Dog's left side, showering the cockpit with glass. Ormack was thrown over to the center console, where he tried to shield his face from flying glass. Pain clutched his left shoulder.

"Get down," McLanahan yelled back to Wendy and Angelina.

7, Another fusillade of bullets erupted inside the Old Dog, sparks flying as the left load central circuit breaker panel was hit. Lights flickered, exploded. One of the engines faltered.

Wendy unfastened her parachute straps and flattened herself on the deck as bullets hit her defensive-systems jammers and threat-receivers.

Abrupt dead silence. Aft, McLanahan saw the two women crawling on the upper deck beside the unconscious General Elliott.

"You two all right?"

"Yes," Wendy said, "Oh. God… Colonel Ormack McLanahan turned, saw Ormack slumped against the center console and throttle quadrant, bleeding heavily, hands covered with blood. McLanahan pulled him back into his seat, searched out the window for his partner' And then he understood why they had stopped shooting at the Old Dog. Luger was no longer lying in the snow. Somehow he had managed to crawl back to the fuel truck, had started it up and was now barreling toward the armored halftrack, whose gunner had turned the machine gun muzzle on the cab of the tank truck.

"Dave, noo Damn!The halftrack's gunner had gotten off a half-second burst at the truck, and McLanahan watched what was left of the truck's windshield explode. A moment later the truck smashed into the halftrack.

"Dave…

The tank truck's remaining fifty gallons of unusable fuel an three thousand cubic feet of kerosene fumes ignited and ripped it apart like an overinflated balloon. The halftrack did some lazy cartwheels and landed upside-down eighty yards from the blast, scattering metal and men across the parking ramp.

The noise of the six running engines seemed a purr next to the force of the blast. When McLanahan looked outside where the truck used to be, he saw a blackened crater, a smoking hunk of metal on the other side of the ramp, smoldering mounds of human flesh in the snow.

No sign of Luger.

McLanahan couldn't, wouldn't accept it. "He can't be dead can't be "We've got to get out of here," Ormack said, hauling himself straight in the pilot's seat. "Patrick, you've got to make the takeoff, I can't do it-" "But Dave… we can't leave-" "Patrick. Dave… gave us our chance. We've got to take it… " McLanahan shook his head.

"I… I can't take off, never done it before Ormack climbed out of the left seat. "Climb in. You're our buddy. Do it."

"Anadyr Control, this is Ossora one-seven-one, Elemei Seven.

Requesting landing clearance. Over."

No answer. Yuri Papiendreyov scanned his navigation instruments.

There was no error; he was only thirty miles from Anadyr Far East Fighter-Interceptor Base. Although the ba was not active someone should still be there.

Papendreyov switched his radio to the Fleet Communications frequency, the backup frequency for all Soviet air defense forces. "This is Ossora one-seven-one on Fleet Comm Alpha. One-seven-one is making an emergency approach and landing at Anadyr Airfield. Over.

No answer on Fleet Common. He set his transponder to special emergency code, activated it. Any air-defense force!

he hoped, would see his beacon before they started shooting… with an Air Defense Emergency declared for if region he'd be lucky to get near the base without finding himself under attack from his own people.

Yuri flipped his checklist cards over to the approach-andlanding section, began to set up for landing. One more ridge line to cross and Anadyr should be within visual range ' With only a half-hour of fuel left he decided to wait until just a few kilometers from the base before lowering his gear and configuring for landing. He would make one pass over the runway to check it over-and hope to get someone's attention-then pitch out, enter the visual pattern and land. He had to save his fuel in case he had to orbit the field to wait for the runway to be plowed off enough to make it safe to land. Damn the luck, he was positive-still positive-that the American intruder was nearby, still a threat. He checked his chronometer… it had only been an hour and forty minutes since he last saw the B-52 near Ossora.

Flying in the Korakskoje Nagode mountain range at six hundred kilometers an hour maximum, the B-52 could not have gone farther than Uel-Kal or Egvekinot on the Anadyrskij Zaliv, only two hundred kilometers from Anadyr. But none of those coastal bases had picked up the B-52 on radar, so it must still be hiding 41 in the mountains around Anadyr, trying to pick its way around the defenses.

If the intruder had tried to dodge north and west of the Kamchatka peninsula instead of toward Alaska, it would have fallen right into the waiting arms of two squadrons of MiG-29s from the regional defense force headquarters at Magadan. But no one had reported spotting the bomber there either. No. It was nearby. It had to be.

After refueling he was determined to find the B-52.Its tail radar was going to give it away, and its hot engines would, literally, be its downfall. With twilight Yuri figured he wouldn't need his pulse-Doppler radar to find the American plane. Using the infrared spotting scope and passive electronic scanners he could prowl about at will, virtually undetectable, until the B-52 gave itself away or was spotted by Beringovskiy radar.

He thought once, very briefly, about his wife and family, safe and warm in his Kiev apartment while he chased over thousands of kilometers of Siberia looking for an intruder that might have already crashed. He also thought about consequences… His expertise, his zeal might get him through the inquiry that followed his unauthorized chase for the B-52 the old Squadron Commander might give him a year's worth of runway snow removal duty or a demotion. An Air Defense Emergency could forgive a lot of things, he told himself. Anyway, he didn't believe he'd actually face a firing squad or exile.

But only one thing could guarantee him a satisfactory return to his family-a promotion, a full pardon. As Anadyr Airfield popped into view, still thirty-six kilometers away, he knew that the only thing that would earn him that result was gun-camera film of the B-52 going down in flames after being shot apart by his GSh-23 twin-barrel guns or by one of his newer AA-8 heat seeking missiles.

Yes. The B-52 had to be destroyed.

The Old Dog seemed more like a hospital ship than a strategic bomber as it taxied down the narrow, snow-covered taxiway of Anadyr Airbase.

in command as it limped down the taxiway was Patric McLanahan. As the most experienced and now physically able crewman, he had taken the pilot's left seat. Icy wind blasted his face from the dozens of holes on the left side of the cockpit at from a completely blown-out glass panel just behind his ejection seat. He was trying to do too much at once — but most important was to keep the Old Dog roughly in the center of the taxiway.

Ormack, blood all over his left shoulder, barely strong enough to move a switch, had taken his co-pilot's seat again. He continued to read the pre-takeoff checklists and give McLan han a running last-minute lecture on how to accomplish takeoff.

Angelina remained at her gunner's position, checking and rechecking her equipment. She had two Scorpion missiles on the right external pylon, three Scorpions on the bomb-blauncher, two HARM anti-radar missiles on the interior launcher and twenty Stinger air-mine rockets in the target cannon-and no way in the world to guide any of them the target-acquisition radar-scope had been damaged in the attack at the airbase. The Old Dog might be still an adversary to be considered, its Scorpions and HARMs could be self guided to their targets-but their effectiveness was greatly reduced.

Wendy was back in her electronic warfare officer's seat beside Angelina.

Using computer-displayed instructions she had restarted the ring-laser gyro and satellite navigation syston in the freezing cold navigator's station below. There was little else downstairs-McLanahan's ten-inch radar scope had been destroyed by the Russian machine gun attack. The attack had also destroyed or damaged most of Wendy's electronic-warfare gear.

While she had been in the lower compartment she had looked over Dave Luger's notes and doodles, even picked up his headphone… wanting to offer it to him when he emerged from the aft bulkhead door, smiling and laughing and gabbing with his impossible Texas accent… she imagined she heard a knock on the belly hatch, and there he would be.

.. except, of course, he would not. Face it…

He was gone.

She had given Luger's coat to General Elliott, who was strapped into an emergency crash web chair on the upper deck between the cockpit and the defense crew's station, caught between a severe fever and the onset of deep shock.

Ormack continued with the checklists as they scrolled onto the computer monitor. "Flight instruments checked, pilot and co-pilot.

"Mine are gone," McLanahan asked. "Adjust your A.D.I. I can hardly see it but it's the only reliable one we have. "He watched as Ormack adjusted the artificial horizon. "That's it.

Standby altimeters are good. Standby turn-and-slip indicators are good.

"Electrical panel. "Ormack strained to read the tiny gauges.

"One and two are zero. All the rest are okay. "He advanced the computerized checklist. "Crosswing crab."

"Zeroed. Next."

Pitot heat."

It took McLanahan a moment.interrupted with a few small turns to stay on hard pavement, to find the switch. "On."

"Stability augmentation system."

"On."

"Stabilizer trim."

"That's this big wheel here, right?" McLanahan asked. "We don't have time to compute the right setting so I'm setting it to one-half unit nose up. Set. Next.

"Airbrake lever."

"OV, "Flaps."

"One hundred percent down, lever down."spiM.

"Fuel panel. I think I have it set up right," Ormack said wincing from a stab of pain that shot through the area arour his neck. "Check it for me. We've got minimum fuel in the main tanks because of the damage, so those pumps right there should be on, and those… there should be to OPEP Checked. Next.

"Starter switches."

"Okay, we're almost ready to go. Using the rudder pedal McLanahan nudged the Old Dog around a tight corner and turned onto the end of the Russian runway, then stepped on the tops of the pedals to engage the brakes.

"Angelina, Wendy, ready to go back there?"

"Ready," Angelina said over the interphone.

"Ready," Wendy asked. "Good luck."

"Thanks. "McLanahan gripped the control yoke. I'm gonna need it."

"All right," Ormack said, "we're going to start the number two engine.

Ready?"

Ready McLanahan moved the number-four engine-throttle to ninety percent. "Go!" Ormack moved the starter to START Slowly the RPMs on the number two engine began to increase McLanahan pointed to a yellow light on the forward panel "What's that?" Ormack said over the interphone. "I can see… " "A low oil-pressure light," McLanahan told him over the roar of the engines. "We've got to hope it'll give us enough thrust for takeoff before it seizes… " There was a tremendous bang on the left wing as the Old Dog bucked and rumbled so that no one could read the instruments.

"That's the bad gas," McLanahan said, "it should work okay, though Anxious moments later the RPMs on the number-two engine went to idle settings, and McLanaha pulled the power back on the number-four engine.

"Okay, starter on number two is in FLIGHT position generator on number two is on," Ormack asked. "Takeoff data. "McLanahan gave it over the interphone. "We roll until just before we run out of runway, then I pull back on the stick. If we fly, we fly. If we don't, we eject.

Next.

"Arming lever safety pins."

"All right, everyone," McLanahan told them, "get your seats ready for ejection. And don't hesitate. If you see the red bailout warning light, eject. Immediately."

"Couldn't have made a better takeoff briefing myself, McLanahan," Ormack said, trying to smile. "Takeoff checklist. Steering ratio selector lever. "McLanahan took a deep breath and tried not to think of Luger. Concentrate, he told himself. Get the job done.

Everybody was counting on him… including himself. He moved a lever on the center console. "TAKE-OFF LAND.

Set.

"Air conditioning master switch."

"RAM.

"Throttles.

"Here we go. "McLanahan took hold of the seven active throttles and moved them slowly forward to full military power. Because of the dead number-one engine the Old Dog slid to the left on the snow-covered runway. McLanahan stomped on the right stabilator pedal to correct, then, realizing the dual rudders had been destroyed, slowly pulled back the number-eight engine throttle until he was able to straighten out the Old Dog along the runway, then slowly pushed it back almost to full power.

"Good. "Ormack strained to be heard over the roar of the engine. "No stabilators… do whatever you need to do to keep her on the runway. "He put his hands on the yoke but could not help. "Keep an eye on the distance-remaining markers if you can… they'll be labeled in hundreds of meters. Lift off with about a thousand meters remaining-" "I can't see them," McLanahan shouted. "They're going by too damn fast-wait… sixteen, fifteen, fourteen.. ' " The wild rumbling and vibrations made it tough to refocus his eyes on the instruments.

When McLanahan swung the control yoke to the right to correct the violent left skid, it seemed the Old Dog was sliding sideways down the runway. He scanned the instruments. A caution light was lit but he couldn't make out which one.

"Hold it steady, Patrick-" "I can't, it's skidding too hard-" Easy.

.

you can do it. Easy McLanahan realized with a surge of fear that the one-thousand-meter sign had just whizzed by. At the nine-hundred meter he pulled back on the control yoke, wrestled it back, back, back until it was touching his chest. Still the Old Dog's nose refused to leave the ground.

"C'mon, baby, lift off, dammit."

"Add some nose-up trim," Ormack yelled. "The big wheel by your knee.

Gent@v- Keep the back pressure in but get re to release it when the nose comes up."

"It's not lifting off… " The shaking, the turbule almost maae him lose his grip on the wheel… Now could see the end of the runway, a tall wall of drifting snow ice…

"Four… three… two… oh God, there's a snow drift out there, we're not-" With its nose still pointing downward the Old Dog left ground less than three feet above the peak of ice at the end of the runway. Buoyed then by "ground effect," the swirl of snow generated by the wings that bounced off the ground and back up at the plane, the Old Dog skittered only twenty feet on the snowy surface, the air pounding on the bomber's wings adding to the turbulence.

Like a blessing, the pounding began to decrease, and as airspeed slowly increased, the Old Dog's nose lifted skywa McLanahan at times swinging the control yoke all the way its limit to control the swaying as the huge bomber lifted in the Siberian sky.

Carefully now, McLanahan reached down to the gear-control lever and moved it up, also checking the main-gear indicate lights. "Gear up, Colonel, keep an eye on the-" He was interrupted by a blur of motion outside the cockpit window. Ormack spotted it first but was too shocked to speak. All he could do was point as the light gray MiG-29

Fulcrt, fighter flew just ahead and above the Old Dog, then banked erratically to the left and out of sight, its twin afterburners lighting up the sky.

It was impossible.

Yuri Papendreyov had been busy with landing checklist configuring his MiG-29 Fulcrum fighter for the penetration a, descent into Anadyr and following the navigation beacon and instrument-land-system beam. He had been taught not to rely on visual cues for landing until very close to the runway especially during long winter twilight conditions.

The young fighter pilot was less than two miles from touchdown when he finally had his Fulcrum configured and ready. It was then that he studied the runway. Since the first pass was going to be a visual inspection and flyover, he was moving almost twice as fast as usual.

The landing gear was up, but he had flaps and leading-edge slats deployed to make the relatively slow, low-altitude pass safer. He was flying his advanced fighter at a high angle-of-attack, which meant keeping the fighter's nose higher than normal during the pass.

In the dusky conditions Papendreyov didn't see the massive billows of smoke rising from the airfield and the sudden huge" black shape against the white snow-covered runway. When he did look out the cockpit windscreen, the huge ebony aircraft had left the runway, blending in with the rugged terrain and dark horizon.

Yuri made his pass, looking right toward the tower, the base operation building and aircraft-parking ramp. All empty. He was thinking he might be forced to pump his own gas, when he shifted his attention forward. His windscreen was filled with dark smoke. He jammed the throttles forward, igniting the twin Turmansky afterburners as a wave of turbulence shook his Fulcrum fighter.

And then, he saw it. He was close enough to touch it, close enough to see the pilot straining to lift his aircraft skyward.

The American B-52-lifting off from Anadyr!Yuri reacted instinctively, flicked the arming switch to his GSh-23 twin twenty-three-millimeter nose cannon, and fired.

The shots went wide as another giant wave of turbulence from the B-52 swatted at his Fulcrum fighter, and Yuri was forced to roll hard left to keep from plowing into the bomber's tail. As he passed to its left, he noticed with satisfaction that the huge gun on its tail did not follow him…

Marveling at his good fortune, he continued his left turn, retracting flaps and slats and selecting two AA-8 heat-seeking missiles… The initial shock of seeing the elusive American bomber here, of all the possible places to find him, dissolved back into the hard concentration of the hunt.

He had searched eleven thousand square kilometers, risked everything to hunt it down.

Now he had found it, The radar altimeter showed only a few hundred feet above ground, but he couldn't wait… McLanahan reached do and began to raise the flaps.

"Flaps coming up, Colonel. SST nose retracting. I don't believe it, but a Russian fighter just went past us… do you see him?"

Ormack looked out the right cockpit windows. "No."

"Keep watching for him. "McLanahan watched the fl indicator as the huge wing high-lift panels rose out of slipstream. With the flaps retracting, the Old Dog's lift be to erode and she began to sink.

McLanahan took the number eight throttle and jammed it to full military thrust, then fought the control yoke like it was a bucking horse as the differen thrust threatened to flip the bomber over and send it crashin the mountain below. Using what was left of the lateral controls, he struggled to keep the bomber level…

"Flaps up," he called out. Suddenly a blinking yellow light on the upper — eyebrow instrument panel caught his attention-the number two engine.

Its oil pressure had dropped below minimum. He pulled the number-two throttle to CUTC shutting down the engine before the lack of oil pressure caused it to seize and explode. Now, because of the two missing engines on the left side, McLanahan again had no choice but to decrease power on the number-eight engine-without rudder he couldn't hold the nose straight with such a difference in thrust.

"Number two engine shut down," he said over the interphone. "Number eight pulled back to compensate. Angelina, try to get your system working-" "I've tried, the pylon, bomb bay and Stinger ainr missiles are working but I've no radar guidance. I can release the missiles but I can't guide them."

McLanahan leveled the Old Dog at about a thousand feet, pressed the PAGE ADVANCE button on the computer checklist calling up the automatic terrain-avoidance procedures. "We're going into auto-terrain-avoidance, everybody Wendy, go downstairs and try to reload terrain avoidance data into the computers."

Behind the cockpit in the defense section Wendy quickly unbuckled her parachute harness straps, climbed out of the electronic-warfare officer's ejection seat, grabbed onto the "firepole" above the ladder, half-slid climbed downstairs, then plugged her headset into the radar navigator's station below.

"Patrick, I'm downstairs," she radioed to the cockpit.

"Now what?"

"Okay, good… hit the checklist button and enter TA on the keyboard. The terrain-avoidance checklist will come up.

Page ahead to the data-reload section. That has the steps."

The computerized checklist readout, and the unpopular Colonel Anderson's insistence that everyone know about everyone else's duties aboard the Old Dog, now paid off.

Wendy moved the terrain-data cartridge reader lever from LOCK to READ.

"Reloading terrain data, Patrick."

McLanahan had quickly read the terrain-avoidance checklist as it scrolled onto Ormack's computer screen. He activated the autopilot, and the computer-drawn terrain-trace zipped across his video monitor.

He found the auto-terrain-avoidance switch and threw it, setting the clearance altitude to two hundred feet.

And the crippled Old Dog began to respond.

As Yuri's Fulcrum fighter rolled out behind the B-52, the huge bomber nosed over and Yuri was positive the American intruder was going to crash. But at the last possible moment the plane somehow leveled off, skimming so close to the earth the rocks and jagged peaks seemed to be scraping the bomber's black belly as they rushed underneath in a blur…

McLanahan kept the engines screaming at full throttle. Using the number eight engine's throttle, he made a hard left turn, searching out his cockpit window.

Ormack, gripping the glare-shield for support in the tight turn, called to McLanahan that "we need to head east, we're heading the wrong way-" "We also need to get back in the mountains," McLanahan said. He rolled the wings level on a southwesterly heading back down the Korakskoje Mountains, aiming the Old Dog toward a low row of rugged, snow-covered peaks."if we get over the water with that fighter on our tail he'll nail us for sure.

"But our fuel- "We should have enough, but there's no alternative…

Angelina, can you steer your rocket turret at all?"

She activated the double handgrips on the Stinger airmine rocket turret. "The radar's working. I can move my controls But I don't know if the cannon is moving, I've lost all position indicators."

"Will the rockets still detonate?"

"Yes, I can set the detonation range manually, or the detonate themselves just before their propellant runs out "Okay, if we spot the fighter we'll call out its position.

the airmines for different ranges and-" "I see him, he's right behind us-" An explosion rocked the bomber-like a wrecking ball crashed into the Old Dog's midsection. McLanahan felt as if he were riding an elevator that had just dropped twenty floors in an instant. The Old Dog seemed to hover in midair, its working engines straining against the impact of a Soviet A-80 missile slamming into its fuselage.

Yuri Papendreyov, flying slightly high and to the right of his quarry, clenched a fist and allowed a smile. One of his heat seeking missiles had missed, but the second had hit the American bomber in the mid-body, just forward of the wing's leading edge. Clouds of smoke erupted from the hole it created. The bomber's tail sank down, the nose shot up Yet somehow it was still flying. Well, those Americans might lead charmed lives, but their luck had run out. He had two AA-8 heat-seekers and five hundred rounds of ammunition, and the bomber was badly crippled.

In his tight right-hand turn to set up for another attack, he checked his navigation instruments and saw he was only a few kilometers from Anadyr.

There was no greater prize than the B-52, he told himself, no greater victory… He widened his right turn and smiled broadly, seeing his destiny unfolding.

Choking and coughing from the thick clouds of black smoke, Wendy aimed a fire extinguisher out the open aft bulkhead leading to the bomb bay catwalk and squeezed the trigger.

She was bleeding from a gash in her forehead sustained when she was thrown against the forward instrument panel after the missile hit. A moment later Angelina was beside her, carrying the firefighting mask and another extinguisher bottle. W Wendy put on the mask and plugged it into the instructor's oxygen panel, Angelina moved as far as she could toward the fire on the catwalk and fired her extinguisher.

The flames had intensified the instant Wendy had opened the bulkhead door, but the blast of air racing from the breaks in the cockpit through the open door sucked the smoke and flames aft and gave her a clear and effective shot at the fire in the electronic countermeasures transformers and control boxes.

Wendy dropped back into the radar nav's seat, her forehead dripping blood, her arms and legs throbbing. She pulled off the firefighting mask, gasped over the interphone: "Fire's out, Patrick. Big hole in the fuselage and fire in the ECM boxes, but it looked like it missed the landing gear."

"We're blind up here," Ormack asked. "We can't see him, we can't see when he shoots at us McLanahan had already put the computer-controlled clearance plane setting to COLA so the Old Dog would seek its own lowest possible altitude. But because of the reduction in thrust and the severe damage, the terrain-climbing capability of the jo Old Dog was reduced. And as the terrain became more rugged, the altitude slowly crept higher, exposing the bomber more and more to the Soviet fighter.

"All right, everyone, check your areas for damage," McLanahan said, his grip on the control wheel so tight his hands began to cramp.

"We've got a leak in the aft fuel tank," Ormack said, blowing on his hands and scanning the fuel panel. "I'm opening valve twenty-eight, closing twenty-nine. Also pumping all fuel out of the aft body tank before it leaks out-" A sudden motion out of the left-cockpit windscreen drew his attention outside. "Patrick, look…"

McLanahan spun around to a sight that made him go rigid… The gray MiG-29 Fulcrum fighter was directly beside the Old Dog, just ahead of the cockpit, slightly above them and no more than a hundred feet away.

McLanahan could clearly see the pilot's right shoulder and head out his bubble canopy, along with a sleek air-to-air missile on its wing hardpoint.

The MiG was amazingly small and compact, resembling a twin-tailed American F-16 fighter. The Russian pilot apparently had little trouble flying beside the B-52, even at its low altitude, perfectly matching each of the Old Dog's computer commanded altitude adjustments.

"Angelina.he's on our left side, ten o'clock, about hundred feet.

Can we get him with the Scorpions on our rig pylon?"

"He's too close. The missile wouldn't have time to lock on.

The MiG pilot glanced over at McLanahan, rocked 1

Fulcrum's wings up and down three times. He stopped, then made one last rock to the right.

"Why is he doing that…?"

Ormack's jaw tightened. "It's the interception signal. He wants us to follow him."

"Follow him?" McLanahan said, stomach tightening."?

"No way, we can't-" "Patrick, we've got nowhere to run. He can knock us out of the sky anytime-" The MiG rocked up its left wing once more, very emphatically, as if underscoring Ormack's words. To back up the message the MiG pilot fired a one-second burst from his guns, the bright phosphorous-tipped tracer shells knifing into the twilight like deadly shooting stars.

"If we don't follow he comes back around and tags us Ormack said.

"We've got no chance-" "We can still fight," McLanahan asked. "As long as we got missiles we can't give up."

Ormack grabbed his arm. "If we try to run he'll just come around again and shoot us down. "He lowered his voice. "You did a great job, Pat, but it's over. It's-" McLanahan shrugged his arm free. The MiG had dropp back a few feet, his bubble-canopy now directly beside the Old Dog's narrow, slanted cockpit. The Russian pilot pointed down three times.

McLanahan turned and looked directly at the MiG pilot flying in unison with the fighter at a distance of fifty feet.

To Ormack's surprise, he nodded to the Russian, and the pilot pointed to McLanahan's right, indicating a right turn. Ormack looked away, not wanting to see what he insisted was necessary for their survival. The pain he felt was from more than his blood-soaked shoulder.

McLanahan nodded one more time to the MiG pilot. "Stand by to turn, crew," he said, gripping the wheel tight.

Yuri PapendreYov was flushed with pride. He had done it. The American was surrendering. Of course, he could hardly do anything else.

group the B AA-8 misile blow.

its mangled left wingtip, the destroyed bomber was flying slower and slower, without the bombs Yuri had seen before as it hugged the ground the small-caliber bullet holes all over in the nose to the wings, and figured the the final shot into their fuselage had been The B-52 began its very slow right turn, and Yuri had just begun applying pressure on his control stick to follow suddenly the right side of the canopy was filled with the dark, menacing form of the American bomber…

Instead of turning right toward Anadyr the insane plane had turned into Yuri's MiG-29.

He yanked is control stick hard to the left, rolling up into a hundred degrees of bank.

A moment later his world crunch of metal as the two aircraft, traveling kilometers a minute, collided. With both aircraft the top of the B-52 had plowed into the bottom of Yuri's fighter.

Somehow Yuri managed to continue his hard turn, standing his MiG on its left wingtip and pulling back on the stick to increase the roll rate.

The B-52 seemed to be turning right with him-even pushing him on, dragging him to the earth. The fighter was now at ninety-degrees bank, and the terrifying crushing and grinding sounds underneath him continued.

Yuri could see rocks and trees out of the top of his canopy. His controls refused to respond…

He ignited his twin afterburners, and like a snapping rubber band his MiG was flung away from the B-52.In the process Yuri found himself inverted, then in a wild tumble.

The roar of the B-52 was everywhere, he expected another impact any moment…

But the spin slowed and he managed to level his wings. He was barely at twenty meters. Rocks and trees were all around him-he was staring up at a huge ridgeline encrusted with jagged snow-covered boulders.

But his airspeed at last began to build and he felt the ground rushing away beneath him.

to Quickly he checked around for the B-52… nothing.

Gone. Shaking his head, Yuri started a slow right turn to check behind him…

Numb from the midair collision he had contrived, McLanahan watched transfixed as the gray MiG continued its spin down, heading for the rocks, reaching the point where McLanahan thought the pilot could never recover.

But he did. He must have been close enough to the rocks to get one in his boot, but his spin stopped and the MiG sped away from the earth, gaining breathtaking speed in seconds, and now McLanahan was fighting for control of his own plane.

The stall-warning buzzer sounded, and the Old Dog seemed to be floating straight down instead of flying forward.

"Get the nose down, we're in a stall," Ormack was yelling at him.

McLanahan shoved the yoke forward, fighting the initial-stall buffet that shook the entire hundred-ton bomber.

The buzzer stopped. McLanahan found he had control, leveled the nose until the airspeed came up, but he had to force himself to stop looking at the rugged ground that whizzed so close to the Old Dog's groaning wings.

"There he is, here he comes… Ormack shouted, pointing straight ahead.

He was coming, all right. Directly in front of them.

"I McLanahan called over the interphone. "Pylon "Angie missile… fire.

The MiG was in a thirty-degree right bank directly off the Old Dog's nose at a range of perhaps three to four miles when the missile left the right pylon rail. It ignited in a bright plume of fire, sped away toward the wide bubble canopy of the MiG.

But the Scorpion that left the Old Dog's rail was an unguided bullet, not a sophisticated air-to-air missile. Without radar tracking and uplink from the Old Dog to guide it, the Scorpion relied on either an infrared signature or an anti-radar jamming signal to home in on. It had neither. The MiG had kept its radar and jammers off, presenting no heat signature at all so long as it was in its right turn.

The Scorpion streaked forward, passing a hundred feet in front of the MiG.Ten seconds after it automatically armed its warhead after launch, the Scorpion's computer asked itself if it was tracking a target. The reply was no, and the Scorpion harmlessly detonate MiG-29.And its warhead almost two miles past the…

Papendreyov saw the American bomber and the missile at the same time.

There was no time to turn, to dive, or accelerate not even time for him to close his eyes and brace for the impact And then, just as quickly, the missile was gone. Yuri watched for a second missile-a B-52 bomber launching missiles? — but there was none.

He continued his wide right-climbing turn, keeping a close watch on the B-52.which now was a serious adversary, not just a helpless whale resigned to its fate.

He watched it far below him.making a left turn, heading east. With his own speed regained, it looked to Papendreyov as if the B -52 was almost hanging suspended in midair. Not dead, but an inviting target.

He maneuvered behind it, stalking it, closing slowly for the kill.

Noting the tail cannon sweeping back and forth in a rectangular pattern, he rolled out high and to the right of the bomber. The cannon continued its erratic box-pattern sweep occasionally seeming to be altogether out of control and useless… yes, it could launch missiles, but it had no way of guiding them.

Yuri armed his GSh-23 cannon and maneuvered behind and slightly above the B-52, slowly closing the distance. He no longer considered trying to force the bomber to land-his gun's cameras would record his victory over the intruder.

He edged closer to the bomber, then began his strafing run…

"We've lost him. "Ormack was searching his side cockpit windows.

"He's out there," McLanahan said, reengaging the terrain avoidance autopilot. "He can find us easy. We've got to find him before he gets a shot off Angelina watched her rocket-turret-position indicators as they oscillated in random sputters and jerks. The radar was Jammed, locking onto ghosts, starting and stopping, breaking lock.

Frustrated, she turned the radar to STANDBY, waited a few moments, then turned it back to TRANSMIT…

A large bright blip appeared on the upper left corner of her radarscope.

She waited for it to disappear, just like all the rest of the electronic ghosts.but this one stayed.

She stomped her foot on the interphone button. "Bandit five o'clock high, break right!"

McLanahan swung the control yoke hard right.

Ormack's head banged against the right cockpit window bi he pulled himself upright and scanned as far behind the bomber as he could "Pereira, five o'clock.one and a half miles, twenty degrees high and comin' down. Nail him.

Yuri had the shot lined up perfectly.a textbook gun-pass. He had just squeezed the trigger on his control stick, squeezed off a hundred precious rounds.before realizing that the B-52 wasn't in his sights.

It had moved. He tried to rudder-drag his sight around to the right but it wasn't enough and he was force to yank off power and roll with the B-52 to reacquire it.

He was almost aligned again when a sharp white flash popped off his left side not a hundred meters away. He yanked his MiG into a hard right turn and accelerated away, saw another white flash and a cloud of sparkling shards of metal exploding above him. The B-52 was shooting at him, and that was no machine-gun round-the intruder had tail-firing rockets Yuri expertly rolled out of his turn, perpendicular to the bomber's flight path and out of range of the strange fl.

missiles.

A blinking warning light caught his attention.e was no, on emergency fuel-less than ten minutes time left and with no reserve. He didn't even have the time to set up another gun pass. He rearmed his last two remaining AA-8 missiles rechecked his infrared spotting scope and checked the location of the bomber.

Time for one last pass.and it had to be perfect. At least lAA-8s had to have greater range than those tiny missiles. He would roll back in directly behind the B-52 and fire at maximum range when the AA-8s locked onto the bomber's engine-exhaust.

He made a diving left-turn, staying about twelve kilometers behind the bomber. His infrared target-spotting scope with large supercooled eye locked onto the B-52 immediately and sent aiming information to the AA-8 missiles. The B-52 was making no evasive maneuvers. Slowly.the distance decreased to The American bomber, Yuri noted.had maneuvered itse onto a flat plateau just above Anadyr Airbase, heading east toward the Bering Strait. It had nowhere to hide, nowhere to evade. Yuri hoped it wouldn't smash into Anadyr. On the other hand, what better place to deposit the evidence of his victory?

His vindication?

The range continued to decrease. Yuri could see the B-52's tail now, and the missile-firing cannon, still pointing up and to the right, jammed in position. Yuri put his finger on the launch trigger, ready.

A high-pitched beep sounded in his helmet-the AA-8's seeker heads had locked onto the B-52.Yuri checked his target once more, waited a few more seconds to close the distance fired. The green LOCK light stayed on STEADY as the two Mach-two missiles streaked from their rails..

.

Ormack searched the skies from the cockpit window. "I can't see him, I lost him.

"Angie, can you see him?"

"No, my radar's jammed. I can't see anything."

4 The plateau dropped away into a wide frozen plain, Anadyr Airbase centered within the snow-covered valley McLanahan did not wait for the terrain-avoidance system to take the Old Dog down. He grabbed onto the yoke and pushed the Old Dog's nose down, then shoved all six operating engine throttles to full power.

The Old Dog had only dropped about a hundred feet down into the valley when McLanahan suddenly realized the implications of what he was doing and used every ounce of strength left to pull back on the control column.

"Patrick, what the hell are you doing?" Ormack shouted.

"He's behind us," McLanahan told him. "He's gotta be behind us. If we dive into that valley we're dead meat."

Shattered fibersteel from the Old Dog's damaged fuselage screamed in protest but somehow stayed together. The stall warning horn blared, but McLanahan still held the yoke back, forcing the Old Dog's nose skyward at a drastic angle.

The AA-8 missiles, only a few hundred meters from impact, lost their lock-on to the engine's hot exhaust when the Old Dog nosed upward. The missiles then immediately reacquired a warm heat-source and readjusted to a new target-the base operation building and the vehicles parked near it at Anadyr Airbase, which was now manned by several squads of the Anadyr constabulary. Surrounded by a meter of unplowed snow in all directions, the halftracks and jeeps were the only hot objects for miles.

Chief Constable Vjarelskiv, who had run from the hangar area to the flightline to watch the chase unfolding in the skies above Anadyr Airbase, now watched in horror as the missiles screamed directly at him.

Before he could shout a warning, the missiles hitplowing into the wooden base operations building, the one finding an unoccupied truck with its hood open because of an overheated radiator. The twin explosions scattered troops in all directions.

Properly enraged, Vjarelskiv pulled his nine-millimeter pistol from his holster and raised it toward the American B-52, then stopped, realizing how absurd he must look.

Yuri had expected the American bomber to try to duck into the valley.

Well, it would do him no good — actually it would improve the intruder's heat-signature.

What he never expected was a climb… the B-52 appeared out of nowhere from behind the ridge, streaking skyward, its nose pointed straight up in the air.

No missile, not even the new AA-8s, could follow that.

Yuri flicked on his cannon and managed a half-second burst, but his overtake speed was too great and he was forced to climb on the B-52.

The huge black bomber had disappeared beneath him.

He could only keep his throttles at max afterburner, try to come around and align himself once more for another cannon run before his fuel ran out.

McLanahan was now fiercely pushing the control column, fighting the lumbering Old Dog. Its airspeed had bled off below two hundred knots.

Over the blare of the stall-warn horn Ormack shouted to him that they had stalled and to get the nose down…

McLanahan somehow did it. He had just leveled the Dog's nose on the horizon when a blur and a roar erupted outside his left window.

The fighter had rushed past, its twin afterburners glowin.

It was so close McLanahan felt the heat of its engines through broken glass and bullet holes. Then it began a shallow climb, arcing gracefully up and to the left.

Ignoring the blaring stall-warning horn, McLanahan pulled back on the control column and pointed the Old Dog's nose skyward once again.

But with the number-eight throttle at full power, the Old Dog began to slide to the left, its nose reaching a forty-degree angle, knifing skyward.

"Patrick, release the controls, now McLanahan ignored Ormack's order, waited, bone-tired, wrestling with a hundred tons of near-uncontrollable machine.

Then seconds before the MiG disappeared from sight, he ordered: "Angie, right pylon missile-FIRE."

It took a few seconds, but with a screech and a long plume of fire the Scorpion missile sped free of its pylon rail and in the cold semi-darkness of the long Siberian night, with two bright turbofans in full afterburner dead-ahead, there was only one possible target.

The missile plunged into the fighter, detonating as the hot afterburner exhaust hit the propellant. The entire aft section of the fighter + the twin-tailed MiG broke apart, shredding the nearly empty fuel tanks and adding thousands of cubic feet of fumes to the fury of the explosion.

McLanahan watched the fireball fly on for several moments in a wide bright arc, before plunging into the snowy peaks of the Koraksko e Mountains below.

Silence. No cheers. No gloating. And then the Old Dog turned eastward toward the Bering Strait-and home.