"They're doing a good job," Zavala said. "I'm spooked."
In fact, Zavala looked anything but spooked. He would have retired from the Special Assignments Team long before if he succumbed easily to panic. His eyes calmly scanned the interior of the hangar looking for something that would give them even the slightest edge.
The reverberations from the blast had barely faded when there was a loud hammering on the steel door at the rear of the hangar.
"So much for our pitfall," Austin said.
They raced behind the plane and grabbed tool chests, benches, and storage lockers, anything they could move, stacking them against the door. The makeshift barricade would stall deter mined attackers only a few minutes. They were more concerned with the front of the hangar, where the main firepower appeared to be concentrated. As they darted under the plane's fuselage Zavala glanced up at the jet engines. The yawning black exhausts protruding from the rear of the wing resembled cannon barrels lined up on a fort. He grabbed Austin by the arm.
"Look, Kurt, those jets are pointed right at the rear wall. If we got the engines started, we could give those guys coming in the back door a warm welcome."
Austin calmly walked under the plane's fuselage, seemingly oblivious to the steady thumping from the rear of the hangar. He stood in front of the plane, where the wing's thin edge came to a point, his hands on his hips, and gazed up at the cockpit.
"Even if we somehow made it out of the hangar, we'd have no place to go. Maybe I've a got better idea," he said thoughtfully.
Working with Austin had given Zavala insight into the un orthodox way his partner's mind functioned. He caught Austin's drift instantly. "You're kidding," he said.
Austin's eyes were deadly serious.
"You said the systems are working. If we can crank up the engines, why waste fuel toasting a few bad guys when we can simply leave them in the dust? Admit it," he said, catching the gleam in Zavala's eye. "You've been itching to fly this thing."
"There are a lot of ifs here. The engines may not start, or the fuel could have gone sour," Zavala said. He listed a few more un desirable possibilities, but from the way the corners of his mouth were turned up in a smile it was clear he was discounting disaster. Austin had tapped into Joe's desire to fly every type of air craft that had ever been built.
"I know it won't be easy. Those trucks over there were probably used to tow the plane outside where it could take off. We won't have that luxury. We're going to have to make a running start."
"I'd be happy if we could make any kind of start. Those engines haven't been cranked over in fifty years," Zavala said.
"Just keep thinking about the scene in that Woody Allen movie, where the Volkswagen starts right up after centuries in a cave. Should be a piece of cake."
Zavala grinned. "This isn't exactly a Volkswagen," he protested, although it was clear from his excitement that the idea had gone beyond a matter of life and death. It was now a challenge. "First I'll have to see if I can get this old buggy cranked up. We're not going anywhere with those flat tires. We'll have to get air into them."
"I saw some air hoses, but we don't have much time."
"We'll start with the two outside tires under the fuselage and the nose wheel. We'll get to the inside tires if we can."
They quickly uncoiled the air hose and fed the air into the tires. The rattle of the compressor was slightly slower than their heartbeats. Austin stopped pumping air and listened. The pounding had stopped although the back door was still firmly secured. Austin didn't like it. The halt could mean the attackers were preparing to blow the door. He didn't have time to worry. Another horrendous explosion came from the front of the hangar. The blast sent them both sprawling face-first onto the oil-soaked concrete floor. A second rocket had been fired to open up the gap below the first hole. Smoke from burning vegetation hovered near the ceiling.
"We're out of time!" Austin yelled. "We'll have to stop for air at a gas station. Leave the belly hatch open. As soon as I hear the engines cranking I'll hit the wall switch. While the door's on its way up I'll run for the plane."
"Don't forget to detach the plane from its power umbilical," Zavala said as he ran for the belly hatch.
Austin took up his post next to the wall with his hand on the switch. He knew the odds were against them but hoped American wartime engineering would prove its worth.
Zavala scrambled into the pilot's high seat and peered through the plastic cowling. The dials blurred as he stared at the strange instrument panel. This was going to be a fast learning curve. He blinked his eyes and relaxed, trying to remember the procedure he used to fly the Catalina, trying not to look at every dial, only for needles that indicated trouble. All systems checked out fine. The center-line console between the two pilot stations contained the radio and the fuel and air speed gauges. His fingers flew over the switches, and the dials lit up like a pinball machine display.
Holding his breath, he hit the ignition switches for the engines one at a time. The turbines began with a throaty rumble and worked themselves up to a high pitch. Satisfied that the engines were working, he waved at Austin, who stood next to the wall. Austin waved back.
As Zavala jumped into the copilot's seat and adjusted the fuel feed, Austin hit the wall switch. A thin line of daylight began to shine under the rising door. Kurt dashed beneath the plane and disconnected the umbilical. Then, using the sledge hammer he had set aside for the task, he knocked the wooden wheel chocks away. Austin groped his way through the smoke, pulled himself into the plane, and battened the hatch.
The hot exhaust from engines blasted the rear of the building. Anything not nailed down was blown against the wall by the tremendous force or melted by the intense heat. The noise was so loud it was almost impossible to think, and hot, choking fumes and smoke filled the hangar.
Austin crashed, gasping for breath, into the copilot's seat. "She's all yours, pal."
Zavala gave him the thumbs-up sign. "She's a little cranky but not bad for an old gal."
Zavala's eyes were glued on the rising door. He kept the brakes set and pushed each throttle forward until they were at full power. If they had the luxury of a full crew, Zavala would have relied on a flight engineer to tell him if the engines were running the way they should, but the best he could do was rely on his experienced ear. It was impossible to distinguish individual engines, but the unbroken roar was a good sign.
The door seemed to catch for an instant, then it pulled free. He released the brakes, and the plane lurched forward. Zavala pushed the throttle levers smoothly forward and let out a rebel yell as the power from thousands of pounds of thrust pushed the plane out into the open, but his jubilation was short-lived.
The big green helicopter was directly in the line of takeoff.
The helicopter had landed after blasting the second hole, and now it sat on the tundra about a half mile away. Men in dark green uniforms were outside the hangar preparing for an assault when the wing emerged like a monstrous black bird hatching from its egg. Their surprise quickly turned to terror, and they scattered like leaves before the wind.
The helicopter pilot was leaning against the chopper smoking a cigarette when he saw the monstrous aircraft bearing down in his direction. He jumped back into the helicopter, where he was faced with an immediate decision. He could stay where he was and be rammed. He could fire his rockets or guns at the oncoming wing and hope that his hurried shots would hit the slim fuselage. Or he could head for the sky.
Austin was distracted by the sound of a giant woodpecker rapping on the fuselage. Zavala thought it was one of the engines falling apart and was only partially relieved when Austin said, "They're shooting at us. Are you going to fly this rig or drive it all the way to Nome?"