The Chinese was already in the pilot's seat, revving up the engine of the plane. I started to climb aboard, and found myself looking into the barrel of his pistol. There was a nasty smile on his face. He motioned me to pass him the sub-machine gun I'd slung over my shoulder, and I did. Then he waved his gun at me to back off. I backed off. I saw his finger start to tighten on the trigger, and I dived under the plane. He'd only been waiting until I was clear of it to shoot.
But he didn't waste time chasing me. I guess he figured it was just as good to leave me there to freeze to death. So he gunned the motor and skimmed down the field for a take-off.
The plane had skis in place of wheels for landing gear. What the Chinese didn't know was that I was balancing on one of those skis as he took to the air. I began climbing up the strut supporting it as he leveled off.
It was touch and go, but I managed to pull myself to the top of the fuselage. I inched along it until I was just over the cabin. I grabbed the wing with both hands and swung sideways into the cabin, feet first, breaking the window and slamming into the face of the Chinese with the heels of my boots.
He was fast. I'll say that for him. He rolled with the kick, let go of the controls, and came up with the sub-machine gun from the seat beside him. I slammed the barrel with my arm just as he fired. He blew off the top of his own head. It splattered messily over the ceiling of the cabin.
Now I was in a fine mess. I was umpteen thousand feet up in mid-air and I had no more idea of how to fly a plane than the man in the moon. I hadn't meant for the Chinese to die. I'd just wanted to get the drop on him and force him to fly me to something approximating civilization. But he was dead now, and there was no sense crying over spilled won-ton soup.
I pushed his body out of the plane and sat down in the pilot's seat. The controls meant nothing to me. So far the plane seemed to be flying itself. Seemed to be? It was flying itself!
Then I spotted the radio. I may not know anything about planes, but I do know how to work a radio. When I was a kid, I had a ham set. Me and Barry Goldwater. Except that he knows how to fly a plane.
I turned the radio on for an all-stations alert. I picked up the hand mike and cleared my throat. "May Day!" I hollered. "May Day! May Day!" I wasn't sure what it meant, but it was what they always yelled when they were in trouble in all those old war movies I'd seen on the Late Show. "May Day! May Day!" I caught a sudden reflection of myself in the glass covering the instrument panel. It was a surprise to see my face and not Jimmy Cagney's. "May Day! May Day!" Oh, Pat O'Brien, do you read me? I thought irrelevantly. I switched over and a voice sounded in my earphones.
"This is the United States Weather Station in Greenland," it said. "Identify yourself. Identify yourself."
"Steve Victor," I told him.
"Identify your craft."
"It's an airplane."
"Identify your craft," the voice repeated.
"That's all I know about it," I told him. "This is an emergency."
"What is the nature of the emergency? What is the nature of the emergency? What is the nature of the emergency?"
Just my luck to get a redundant radio operator at a time like this. Or maybe he just stuttered. "The nature of the emergency is that I don't know how to fly a plane," I told him.
"Are you in the air? Are you in the air?"
"Yes. Yes."
"How did you get there if you can't fly? How did you-"
"It's a long story," I interrupted. "The fact is that I'm here and I don't know how to fly this thing."
There was a long pause. Then – "We have advised Air Traffic Control of your predicament," the voice said. "We are cutting you in on their frequency. We are turning you over to Air Traffic Control now."
"Hello," a new voice said. "This is Air Traffic Control. We have been advised of your May Day. What is your altitude?"
I looked at the instrument panel. "Two-fifty," I told them.
"That is your speed. Look at the dial on your extreme left. What is your altimeter reading?"
"Thirty gallons."
"That is your fuel gauge." The voice sounded disgusted. "What we want is the reading on the gauge beside it."
"Oh. Eight thousand."
"Good. Maintain that altitude."
"How?"
"We do not read your last transmission."
"How do I maintain that altitude? I mean, doesn't this plane have to come down sooner or later?"
"Roger. We understand your predicament. Do not touch any of your instruments. Repeat. Do not touch any of your instruments. Now, reply to this. Reply to this. What is your destination?"
"Anywhere!" I said fervently. "Anywhere I can put my feet on the ground."
"We have picked you up on our radar and must advise that you are over Russian territory. Repeat, you are over Russian territory. The United States government takes no responsibility for your unauthorized flight. This message is being broadcast over all frequencies now. The United States government takes no responsibility for unauthorized flight over Russian territory."
"Well, how do I get away from Russian territory?" I wailed.
"Your current course on our radar will take you deeper into Russia. If your fuel holds out, you may make it to the Chinese border if you continue on that course. But must warn you that Russians will undoubtedly fire on your unidentified flying object before you reach China. Also, the Chinese will fire if-"
"Hold it!" I shouted into the mike. "I can't hear you. There's some kind of an explosion outside the plane." I craned my head out the window. There were small puffs of black smoke all around me. I knew what they were. I smiled a Cagney smile and said the word to myself out loud: "Flak!"
The mike was still on, and it picked up the sound.
"Are you being fired upon?" the voice in my earphones asked.
"Yes."
"The United States government takes no responsibility for unauthorized flights over Soviet territory."
"Whose side are you on?" I asked. "Can't you tell me how to turn this crate around and get the hell out of here?"
"Turn your wheel until the reading on your compass shows thirty-five degrees. That will take you out of Russian territory and back toward Greenland."
I did as he said. A few moments later I was out of the flak-storm. After that, it was duck soup. They just told me what to do and I did it. I followed their radar beam straight to Greenland.
"Stand by for landing instructions," I was told. "All air traffic has been cleared for May Day landing. Now press your throttle forward so that the plane will lose altitude."
I did as he said and left my stomach somewhere up in the clouds. "I'm diving!" I shrieked.
"Pull back on your throttle. Do not panic. Do not panic."
"Who's panicking? It's just that I forgot to buy an insurance policy before I took off."
"Now, we are going to start you on a glide path. But before we do, keep in mind that your wheels and tail should touch ground at the same time so that you don't nose over."
"I don't have any wheels!" I remembered.
"Last transmission not understood. Repeat last transmission."
"I don't have any wheels. There's skis on this plane."
"Oy!"
"Can you talk him down, Irving?" I heard a new voice ask.
"I don't know how to ski," the first voice, Irving's, replied.
"Well, do your best."
"Yes!" I echoed. "Do your best. My bones break easy."
"Very well. Start your glide-path. Now, lower your flaps."
"What?"
"Your flaps! Lower them!"
"I wear jockey shorts. I can't-"
"The lever beside your knee. Pull it!" I pulled it.
"Now pull back on your wheel so that you're level… That's it… Up on the nose a little so you can skid right in and – Look out! You're heading right for this transmission tower! Look out! Look -!"
I shielded my face against the crash. The impact of it hurled me from the plane. I landed right in the lap of a guy sitting in front of a large radio and radar setup.