Medusa's Child

TWENTY-NINE

The two-ship formation of F-15 Eagles had been gulping fuel at a furious rate for the previous twenty minutes as they streaked across the southern edge of Hurricane Sigrid in pursuit of ScotAir 50. The coordinates of where the 727 had been when the flight of F-16's had left them were passed by their command post, and by a simple time and distance estimate, the lead F-15 pilot had figured about where the Boeing would be.

The unenhanced radar return of the 727 flared on their tactical screens right on schedule. The two Eagles punched down through the fury of the hurricane and closed on the target using only radar, just as their F-16 counterparts had done. At ten miles behind the 727 they slowed below supersonic speed, and at four miles began looking in earnest through the murky twilight for the cargo airliner ahead.

There were eighteen minutes left to detonation, and both pilots knew they had been assigned what could be a one-way trip. Even if they escaped the blast, they might not be able to reach a tanker in time.

But the lead pilot had also been briefed that their mission was focused on a single, critical objective: Avert a historic national tragedy by getting the crew of ScotAir 50 to insert the single digit "1" in the bomb's computer before the countdown reached zero.

Scott McKay placed his hands on the side of the Medusa Weapon as if it were a living thing, and waited for Doc's voice to signal they were ready.

If it went off on impact with the surface of the Atlantic more than a mile below, there would be an incredibly bright light—and then oblivion.

Scott glanced at the beautiful dark-haired woman next to him. She was similarly absorbed in the task they were about to perform, her face a mask of stress as she looked out the open door ten feet away. He assumed she was wondering the same things: How it would feel. How fast it would be over. What lay beyond.

Linda glanced around and caught him looking at her. Her eyes locked onto his and she smiled softly as she reached out to touch his arm, her voice necessarily loud against the ambient noise.

"WE'RE GOING TO MAKE IT, SCOTT."

He smiled self-consciously, his mind suddenly preoccupied with the thought that he should be reassuring her.

"YOU BET WE ARE," he replied.

More turbulence bounced the aircraft, sending chills down Scott's back. What if it happened again, and one or both of them ended up trapped beneath the weapon?

Why, why, why couldn't we find another solution?

Scott visualized the screen and the keyboard inside the small access hatch. They had taped it closed, but he'd been haunted by the thought that there might be a simple switch inside that would turn off the countdown and stop the bomb from exploding. Perhaps there was a code you could type in, one that Rogers Henry knew that no one would be able to figure out in time.

No, Scott reasoned, if Henry wanted to make absolutely sure no one could turn it off, either through logic or luck, he would have made certain no switch or combination of numbers or letters could stop the countdown.

But why have a keyboard if you're not going to allow meaningful input?

Still no word from Doc on the PA. The howl of the slipstream seemed to get louder, the sound of hail chattering against the aircraft's structure once again assaulting his ears.

Scott glanced at his watch. Seventeen minutes left.

His head almost hurt from the high-speed stream of thoughts, but lurking just beyond his conscious grasp was the promise of an answer. It wasn't logical that there'd be no solution.

Suppose it was something bizarre, like his wife's name, or a simple sequence of digits, like, say, Douglas Adams' "42," Heinz "57," or Joe Heller's Catch-"22"? There were thousands of possibilities, but there was virtually no time left.

Maybe I should try anyway, Scott thought.

"OKAY, SCOTT." Doc's voice filled the cargo cabin. "WE'RE AT SIX THOUSAND AND STABLE. I'M SLOWING NOW."

Linda glanced at the ceiling of the 727 at the same time, both of them aware that the whine of the two remaining jet engines was decreasing.

"SCOTT, I'M GOING TO GO NEGATIVE G FOR A COUNT OF FOUR. I'LL HOLD HER STRAIGHT AHEAD SO YOU CAN MOVE IT BACK ON THE ROLLERS."

Scott looked forward at Vivian, who was standing in the cockpit doorway, straddling Jerry's prone form. He flashed a thumbs-up sign at her and saw her nod, turn, and yell a confirmation at Doc.

Slowly, steadily, the gravity force diminished as Doc smoothly lowered the nose of the 727. The stainless steel Medusa Weapon on its aluminum pallet shifted slightly, and Scott pushed his shoulder into its side, waiting to feel it move.

Finally it yielded.

"NOW!" he said to Linda.

They pushed hard toward the open door, feeling the edge of the pallet slide off the rail and back in place on the rollers.

Doc began increasing back pressure on the yoke at the same moment, and the weapon settled back down as the 727 pulled into a slight climb, the engines once again winding up.

Scott leaned over to Linda's ear.

"This is it! The next one is the jettison."

She nodded, and he could feel her hair brushing his face, a familiar sensation that triggered the urge to kiss her, an incongruous reaction he quickly suppressed, glad she couldn't know.

"We push together as hard as we can," he continued, "but do not go beyond the centerline of the cabin. Let go at that point. If it needs more, I'll do it."

She nodded again, and Scott pulled away and resumed his position, hands against the side of the Medusa, feet firmly planted against the sidewall of the cabin where it met the floor. He looked down and visually tracked the safety straps. Both lay on the floor, cleanly away from the weapon's path, still attached to the cleats in the forward floor near the cockpit entrance.

The aircraft pitched forward slightly again and the engines retarded to idle.

This is it, Scott told himself. Once the weapon was out, they would have only a few minutes to dash away from the impact point, praying every mile of the way.

Scott looked at Vivian, who had a questioning look on her face as she held her thumb in the air.

He nodded and returned the thumbs-up, and she once again ducked her head inside.

The sound of the PA system being triggered reached their ears. At first there was no voice, then Doc's familiar tones.

"OKAY, SCOTT. I'M STARTING THE LEFT SLIP NOW."

The outline of the Boeing 727 slowly emerged from the dark clouds ahead as the two F-15 pilots pressed in toward their target.

"He's dead ahead, about a mile. Take my left wing. We'll come up on his left side from below his left wing."

"Roger" was the only reply.

The closing rate was in excess of fifty knots as the 727 began to take on detailed shape slightly above and to the right. The lead pilot could see damage to the T-tail on the right side of the horizontal stabilizer. Cables and torn metal hung from the left stub wing where the number one engine had been.

"His number one engine is gone!"

"Rog, I see it. The left side cargo door's open, too. In fact, it's gone."

The leader moved left a bit to gain the same vantage point, as his wingman followed the correction. The gaping opening where the cargo door had been, and the jagged area where the hinge had been, were perfectly visible.

"Move on up, Two, and get visible in his left windscreen at this lateral spacing. I'm going in closer to look at that door."

In one smooth motion Doc Hazzard rolled the 727 into a fifteen-degree bank to the left and pressed the right rudder to keep the airplane aimed in the same direction as before. The effect was the same as tilting the floor to the left while sitting stationary on a ramp: Gravity began tugging left on everything within the fuselage.

"NOW!" Scott yelled.

Scott and Linda gave a mighty shove and felt Rogers Henry's Medusa device begin to move toward the door, slowly at first, and then with a sharp acceleration as the gravitational vector tugged it toward the abyss.

They scrambled after it, their feet working to find traction on the slick floor.

The pallet moved to the left and into the slipstream, still accelerating, and Scott decided momentum would do the rest. He fell forward on his hands and knees just past the middle of the floor. Linda had stopped in place, stooped over but standing. The pallet was halfway out and moving in slow motion as Scott glanced at Linda—and then at the safety strap tightening around her ankle.

His eyes followed the strap as it curled around the edge of the pallet, and he lunged forward to grab it and flip it away, but slipped and landed short, his hands inches from the target.

Linda was being pulled along with the departing bomb, her right foot dragged from beneath her, her left foot trying to find something to grasp as she landed on her rear end between the cargo rollers.

Scott scrambled to reach her, his legs frantically working to propel himself in her direction, his feet still slipping wildly on the slick metal floor.

The pallet entered the slipstream and moved with a sharp jerk off the last of the rollers and into space, dragging Linda's safety strap with it.

Scott heard himself yell, "NO!" as he reached with all his strength and grabbed Linda's right leg, his fingers struggling to close around the material of her jumpsuit. He felt her body accelerate toward the abyss, her hands frantically trying to find something to grasp, her leg sliding away from him.

As she slid backward over the edge, Linda lunged forward and found his hands.

The bomb and its pallet began to drop away. The safety strap that had carried her out uncoiled from the pallet's corner and fluttered free.

Scott was holding her full weight, both of his hands and wrists hanging over the edge, but he, too, began slipping toward the opening. His right foot found the corner of a roller and he worked frantically to dig the toe of his boot against the bracket holding it, but couldn't hold on. Slowly, inexorably, he felt Linda's weight pulling him into the void.

His foot touched another roller and flailed at it, but that one, too, rotated and let go.

Scott kicked his legs back and forth, trying to find something to hang on to. There was no way to remove one hand from Linda's two hands without losing her, and there was nothing to grip at the edge of the opening.

His right foot slid past another roller, his arms now hanging over the lip of the door as Linda began swinging wildly at the end of his hands, her weight testing his grip.

He could see her struggling below, twisting in the wind, straining to maintain her grip on his hands. The safety straps whipped wildly in the breeze, distracting him.

Once more he felt his right toe snag the housing of a roller, but this time it held!

Scott's body stopped sliding, his leg muscles stretching painfully as the one patch of leather on his boot held him in place. Linda's hundred and twenty pounds were becoming a dead weight, increasingly difficult to hold, let alone pull back in.

It was an impossible situation, her body dangling in midair, his own body prevented from following her into space by only a tenuous toehold on a rain-slick roller.

The Medusa device had passed under the left wing, but Scott heard a distinct metallic impact at the same moment he spotted another shape below them that looked like an F-15. There was another Eagle in his peripheral vision off to the side, neither image making any sense. His whole being was focused on holding Linda, but she was slowly slipping from his grip.

Linda McCoy's eyes locked on to Scott's and passed a silent message of resignation.

Slowly the left bank diminished as the 727 returned to level flight.

If Doc pulls up sharply, Scott thought, I'll lose her for sure.

But whether he did or not, Scott could feel his grip on Linda's hands loosening.

The F-15 lead pilot had been flying a hundred feet beneath and slightly behind the 727's left wing to examine the open cargo door when the Boeing suddenly banked left. He had dropped the twin-engine fighter down a few dozen feet for safety and checked the position of his wingman, who was moving forward to make visual contact with the 727's captain.

What the hell is he doing? the lead pilot had wondered. The rapid movement of something large in the maw of the cargo door had escaped his notice, but as it departed the aircraft and seemed to hang in midair for a split second, the F-15 pilot realized it was a cargo pallet and it was descending directly toward his cockpit.

"Jesus Christ!" he'd exclaimed as he popped the stick downward and jerked the fighter to the left. The pallet had raked across the underside of the 727's wing and disappeared into the clouds below, barely missing his Eagle.

Adrenaline now coursed through the pilot's veins at the close call, which his wingman had not witnessed. He looked to the right at the 727's cargo door and noticed something else, something dangling from the entrance.

My God! he thought. It's one of the crew!

As the 727 rolled wings-level, the lead pilot moved in closer. The dangling figure was a woman, being held by a man who was himself hanging over the edge and losing the battle.

The pilot's mind was racing. Maybe he could come closer and help somehow.

No, that wasn't possible without hitting the 727.

Maybe he could pop his canopy and catch her.

No, if she let go and he missed her by an inch, she'd end up consumed by one of his engines.

Helpless and horrified, the Air Force major held his jet thirty feet away and tried to wish Linda McCoy back into the aircraft as his conscious mind arrived at a terrible reality: What had been jettisoned was probably the Medusa Weapon, and it would impact the surface of the ocean below in less than a minute with unknown consequences.

Their mission, obviously, had failed.

"ScotAir Fifty, do you read me on UHF guard?" His wingman was transmitting, trying to get the flight crew on the radio.

There was no answer.

Does the pilot know what's going on back here? lead wondered.

The man hanging over the edge tried to pull the woman up, but the man was tiring. He could see their fingers grasping, trying to hang on.

Every professional instinct and every bit of training crackled in conflict with his emotions as a human being. There was a someone out there in trouble, and there had to be some way to help her.

But there wasn't.

It was obvious the man and woman were losing the battle.

The major had never felt so utterly helpless.

Vivian Henry had been slow to accept what she had seen as Linda went over the side, almost followed by Scott. For many seconds she had stood in frozen horror at the cockpit door, not knowing whether to run to Scott's aid or dash back in the cockpit to tell Doc. She chose the latter and quickly stepped over Jerry.

"They're what?" Doc asked, eyebrows lifted, as he shallowed the bank and rolled wings-level.

"Linda fell out! Scott… Scott's holding on to her, but he's almost over the edge, too! Can you do something?"

"Jesus!"

The image of an F-15 swam into view in the left window over Scott's empty chair at the same moment, momentarily confusing Doc as he realized Vivian was moving toward the door.

"NO!" he yelled at her. "Don't go back there without a restraint!"

The F-15 pilot was gesturing at his helmet. Doc was trying to decide whether dumping the nose would help or hurt Scott. If he did it too fast, Scott's grip could fail. He needed to let him know, yet there was no time.

Doc fumbled to turn on the UHF radio and select the guard channel.

"… Fifty, are you listening?" coursed through his headset as soon as the switch was flipped on.

Doc stabbed the transmit button.

"Yeah, we're here," he said. "We have a crew member over the side!"

"I can see her. A male is hanging on to her. Have you dumped the weapon yet?" the fighter pilot asked.

Maintain speed! No acceleration! Dump the bird over smoothly, not quite zero G, and maybe he can pull Linda back in!

"Ah, F-15, I'm pushing over to try to get her back in."

Doc edged the yoke forward as he began retarding the throttles.

Linda's left hand slipped from Scott's grasp, and the two of them clawed the air, trying to reconnect. For a second Scott thought he'd lost her, but he tightened the grip of his right hand beyond pain and held on until his left hand found her right and reattached. But he couldn't pull her back in, and he was tiring, his toehold threatening to let go, though the wings-level attitude had helped immensely. The slipstream was whipping Linda mercilessly as gravity tried to pull her away.

Suddenly he felt himself getting lighter as Doc pushed the nose over, and Scott instinctively tried to propel Linda up and rearward. If he could just swing her over the lip of the door and back into the 727…

But the added motion was too much. He watched her fall away from him toward the leading edge of the left wing, the decreasing G-forces causing her to float upward slightly as her body moved backward into the slipstream, their hands grasping only air.

The F-15 lead pilot deployed his speed brakes and leveled off as he watched the Boeing descend alongside him. He was seeing the 727 from a different angle now and realized there was fuel venting from a damaged spot on the forward underside of the wing. He looked closely at the Boeing as he let his Eagle lag behind slightly, then dropped down for a better look. His wingman was hanging in formation by the Boeing's left side, aligned with the cockpit. That was what he expected to see.

It was what he didn't see that turned his stomach. The woman who had been hanging below the cargo door was gone.

Linda McCoy knew her life was over. She flailed for something to grab as Scott's hands slipped from hers, her mind rebelling at the reality of the long, cold fall ahead of her, when her feet touched a solid surface.

As the two-hundred-mile-per-hour wind blast accelerated her rearward, the 727 had descended faster than her body, and instead of dropping below the leading edge of the 727's left wing, she was sliding over the top of it.

With a frantic burst of energy, Linda grabbed for anything to hold on to, but the rain-slick aluminum slid beneath her as the crest of the wing began to disappear in front of her, her body oozing over the top and toward the trailing edge.

A sudden, unexpected tug beneath her armpits left her stationary and facedown on top of the wing. The wind pushed her up against the side of the fuselage where the wing met the cabin structure.

The safety strap! she thought.

Linda looked sideways and upward. She could make out the outline of the cabin windows just above her. The slipstream was brutal. Her hair streamed behind her, hurting her head, and she felt as if her eyelids would be blown away.

But the safety strap was holding, still fastened to the floor anchor inside the cargo cabin.

She reached forward and closed her hands around it, trying to pull herself forward against the amazing force of the wind. Using her legs and knees, she pulled forward hand over hand until she was lying across the crest of the wing.

The 727 was pulling out of its dive and she felt herself getting heavier, her ears popping frantically as the effort to stay in place increased.

She managed to peer forward. She could see Scott through the doorway holding on to the strap, looking at her in helpless amazement, then suddenly he was gone.

She looked at the yawning gulf between the leading edge of the wing and the opening where the cargo door had been. The distance was greater than ten feet. Even on the ground, she wouldn't have been able to jump from the wing to the door. The only way back in would be to dive off the front of the wing and dangle from the strap in hopes of being pulled back in.

Impossible! Scott couldn't pull her in alone.

Linda closed her eyes and put her face down again as a swarm of raindrops battered at her, and just as quickly ended. A flash of lightning and a clap of thunder reached her eyes and ears from somewhere to the left. Maybe the flash was the expected nuclear blast—but it was only lightning and faded instantly.

I'm going to die out here! she realized. An immense sadness consumed her. There was no way she could survive for long on the wing, even if the strap held.

Scott was momentarily in shock when Linda slipped away from him, but when he saw her land on top of the wing, being held by the safety strap, he sprang into action with one thought flashing through his mind: Overwing emergency exits!

Scott dashed rearward to the overwing area, his heartbeat accelerating. He realized he'd never checked the overwing exits before, but if the exit windows hadn't been removed when they converted his airplane to carry cargo, he could open one and pull Linda inside.

He pressed his face to one of the windows and looked down. He could just see Linda's clothes blowing in the incredible wind flowing over the wing. He said a small prayer as he reached up and snapped the lever to the open position.

It yielded, and in one fluid motion he yanked the exit window toward him and swung it around, tossing it unceremoniously to the center of the cargo floor.

Fifty yards to the side, the lead F-15 pilot changed to the interplane frequency and keyed his transmitter.

"Two, lead."

"Two."

"Get on button five, talk to the command post, and get the tanker headed eastbound to meet us, flight level two-five-zero. Get him out here as far as he can go. We're going to be critical on fuel at this altitude and speed."

"Roger."

Lead moved to the left and slightly below and behind the 727 to monitor the fuel leak. As his wingman joined him, he brought them slightly above the level of the Boeing's wing and realized there was something on the left wing root. The recognition of what it was caused him to gasp.

He fumbled for the transmit button.

"ScotAir! ScotAir! The woman is on your left wing at the wing root! She's on the wing! I thought she'd fallen, but somehow she's holding on up there. Do you copy?"

In the cockpit of ScotAir 50 Doc sat in shock for a second before grabbing the microphone to reply.

"Roger."

With no way to know Scott was already aware of the situation, Doc picked up the PA mike, his voice booming through the cabin.

"SCOTT! LINDA'S HANGING ON TO THE LEFT WING! THE FIGHTER PILOT SEES HER ON THE LEFT WING!"

Scott was already thrusting his upper body through the hatch into the slipstream. There wasn't a moment to spare. He knew there was nothing for Linda to hang on to on that part of the wing—except the strap, which was fraying, strand by strand, from the sawing action of the sharp door edge.

Linda was just aft of the exit window opening, her face down on the surface of the wing, her eyes closed.

He spread his legs behind him to achieve a firm anchor for his lower body, then leaned down and grabbed her shoulders.

Linda jerked her head up, shocked to see Scott suddenly appear above her.

She looked at the opening where the hatch had been, as Scott slid his hands under her arms and over the loop the strap formed around her chest. Linda's body was still straining against the strap, and just as Scott began to pull her toward him, the last strands of the cargo strap parted, the loose end snaking over the top of the wing and fluttering off behind them.

She saw the remains of the strap flash by and understood instantly. His grip was the only thing holding her on the wing now. Linda tried to thrust herself forward toward the door. She was numb with cold, her movements sluggish, and the two-hundred-mile-per-hour torrent of air was starting to freeze him as well. The angle was excruciating. He had to bend out, down, and sideways to try to move her forward toward him, and then sideways into the hatch, while trying not to be pulled completely through the window himself.

A sudden wall of rain threatened to loosen his grip as it blinded him momentarily, but he didn't need to see to pull her in. Slowly, very carefully, he inched her toward the opening, feeling her matted hair hit the side of his face as he locked his arms behind her back and pulled harder, slipping her head through the opening as her legs fought to help.

Her shoulders came through as Scott pulled himself completely into the cabin and guided her hands inside. Linda grabbed the window frame and propelled herself the rest of the way in, catapulting her body into Scott's and knocking him backward onto the floor as she fell alongside him.

Scott put his arms around Linda and held her tightly, his left hand cupping the back of her head. She held him tightly in return, neither of them able to let go.

She was shaking, shivering, windburned, and freezing cold. Her voice was hoarse. "Thank you, Scott! I thought…"

"I know!"

"It didn't explode!" she said.

"What?" He seemed puzzled.

Linda pulled back slightly and wiped the water off his forehead with a shaking hand. Her words came in slightly jumbled bunches as she tried to fully regain her voice.

It was no use trying to shout, so she leaned next to his — ear again.

"The Medusa Weapon."

He nodded his head as she pulled back. "So far, so good. We've got a few minutes left, if the timer's still working."

Scott realized with a sudden chill that the other end of the cargo strap tied around her was still hanging out the window and tugging in little jerks at her body. He quickly removed it before helping her stand. Her legs were like lead and she could barely shuffle forward. Scott put his arm around her waist and looped her arm over his shoulder. He half-carried her to the cockpit door.