“I’m glad I don’t have to climb on top of this thing, that’s all — and the weather is downright balmy now compared to then.”
“You’ve got that right,” Luger said. He regarded McLanahan for a moment, then added, “I see you got a little plastic surgery for your frostbite.”
McLanahan touched the pieces of stiff plastic that now made up the tips of his ears — he had suffered only a little frostbite during the Old Dog crew’s entire ordeal. “Courtesy of the Air Force,” he said. “One less thing they have to explain to someone.
“Unlike me,” Luger said.
Patrick looked at his friend sympathetically and wanted to say something, but nothing came out.
“What do you think they’re going to do with me, Patrick?” Dave asked.
McLanahan hooked the hose into the refueling adapter on the bomber, activated the pump, then returned to monitor the fuel flow and switch tanks at the proper time. He carried one of the MP5 submachine guns left behind by the Marines. “Debrief you, I guess,” McLanahan said. “Get inside your head, find out what the fucking Soviets did to you.”
“Do you think they’ll kill me?”
McLanahan pretended he didn’t hear the question, not wanting Luger to see his own fear. Through all these weeks after he’d learned Luger was in Fisikous, through the training, the planning, all of it, McLanahan had consciously blocked out considering the consequences of Luger’s return. He had no idea what Washington had in mind, but knowing the inquiry the Defense Intelligence Agency had begun, Luger might have to go through really intense questioning about the Old Dog mission after he finished his debriefing. The shit Luger might have to endure once he was back in the States—if they even made it out of here — might be worse than anything the Soviets could have done. But the last thing he was going to do was let Luger know, or even suspect, those fears.
“Hey.” McLanahan smiled easily. “Don’t torture yourself, Dave. Don’t do a number on yourself, man. We got a job to do here.”
“Patrick, you gotta tell me what you know, what you think,” Luger insisted. “I’m scared. I feel like I’m totally alone.”
“You’re not alone, Dave,” Patrick said. “You have some pretty powerful friends. Wilbur Curtis is still Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Brad Elliott is still at HAWC and still a three-star, and Thomas Preston is Secretary of Defense. They all owe you big time.” He patted the smooth skin of the Fisikous-170 and added, “And, of course, helping to bring back this trophy won’t hurt.”
Dave said nothing just then. The original idea of actually launching Tuman instead of just stealing tech orders and computer data was of course Dave’s, and after they checked the weapons available — AA-8 air-to-air missiles and X27 runway-denial cruise missiles, a free-flying version of the British Hunting JP233 mine dispenser — it was his idea to try to use Tuman to hunt down and strike the Byelorussian invaders. General Ormack had approved the idea immediately. He was a pilot, not a ground-pounder — they all were. Making war from the skies was what they did best.
Launching the Fi-170 created the first real glimmer of energy Luger had shown since his rescue — but now the fire was fading. The closer they came to launching Tuman, the more guilt he was feeling for ever having created it. That crushing guilt was threatening to throw Dave right into a serious depression, and they needed him sharp to help fly the Soviet stealth bomber.
McLanahan was no psychologist, but he knew he had to talk Luger out of his funk or this flight was going nowhere. “C’mon — let’s get Hal started on those missiles,” he said. Then, pumping every bit of enthusiasm he could into his voice, added, “Man, you’re going to make the brass pee in their pants when they see us land this thing on a NATO base.”
“I get the feeling,” Dave said, “that they might prefer I never made it back.”
“You’re wrong, Dave,” Patrick said finally. He realized that he not only had to conceal from his friend what he thought, but convince him: “They wouldn’t have brought us out here if they wanted you eliminated.”
“Maybe they thought we’d all get eliminated.”
McLanahan’s heart skipped a beat. The idea had never occurred to him. It was a ridiculous idea — or was it? “Dave … you’re getting paranoid, man. Just chill out.”
Suddenly they saw a large truck roll across the compound outside the security fence that surrounded the aircraft hangars. McLanahan could see a large-caliber gun sticking out the back of the truck, and his blood froze. It raced along at high speed right for the closed and locked gate to the parking ramp and crashed through it. Patrick clearly saw the red star on the side of the truck.
“Heads up!” McLanahan screamed. “Soviet truck in the compound!” He pulled Luger to his feet and half-carried him to cover on the side of the concrete aircraft hangar, then took aim on the truck with his MP5. The gun in the back of the truck swung in his direction. All he had was two extra magazines, about ninety rounds total, to fight off an entire truckful of Soviet commandos.
“Hold your fire, McLanahan!” someone shouted. The passenger-side door swung open and Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl hopped off the truck. “Damn, Colonel, maybe you were listening during all my drills. I hate to say it, but you’re starting to impress me.”
“Wohl! What in hell are you doing here? I thought you’d be in the embassy by now.”
“We were in the embassy, McLanahan,” Captain Edward Snyder said, hopping out of the truck along with Wohl and Gunnery Sergeant Trimble. John Ormack emerged from the Fisikous-170’s cockpit a few moments later and both Trimble and Snyder rendered him a salute. Ormack accepted it with a hint of surprise. “We made it to the embassy and we dropped off the wounded and the dead… and then we came back.”
“What? Why…
“Don’t fucking ask, sir,” Snyder said. He shook his head as he looked at the Fisikous-170 stealth bomber before him. “Maybe we wanted to see what was getting you all fired up, sir. Now I see why you decided to stay. This thing is cosmic.” He shrugged his shoulders, then added, “And we also saw the Lithuanians packing up and getting ready to meet the Byelorussian Home Brigade coming out of Smorgon, and we figured you guys would be all alone out here and required some adult supervision.
“We’re here and under your command, General. We don’t have enough guys or weapons to secure this base or even this part of the compound, but if you’re going to launch this thing we figured you could use some muscle and someone who can read Russian. Tell us what to do to get you and this black beast under way.”
There was nothing the eighteen Marines aboard the CV-22 could do except hold on and pray — pray that their PAVE HAMMER pilot’s luck would hold out once more. A few of the COBRA VENOM commandos were stationed in the windows and wearing headsets, using the age-old “Mk 1” threat-detection system — the eyeball — to spot the enemy fighter bearing down on them. Even though they knew they could be dead by the time they ever saw the fighter, they felt that searching for the enemy and calling out his position was a more worthwhile activity than just sitting tight and hoping to escape.
“I’m staying north of the border until we get closer to the LZ,” pilot Hank Fell said on interphone. “Where is that bastard?” Fell had the graphic engine readouts on his primary multifunction display — that way he could see any severe changes in the engine’s performance right away. On his IHDS, or integrated helmet display system, which projected electronic images onto his helmet-mounted targeting goggles, he had the graphic readout of the CV-22 millimeter-wave radar, an ultra-high-frequency, short-range radar that easily detected very small metallic objects in the aircraft’s flight path, especially the scourge of low-flying special operations crews all over the world — power lines. Fell was flying the CV-22 literally at treetop level, and many times far below that, hedgehopping from clearing to clearing and changing directions constantly every time the MiG-27 pursuing them popped up on the threat-warning receiver.