Ammon would taxi as if to follow. Once he approached the parking area, he would push up his throttles and pass it by. It would only take him a few seconds to taxi onto the runway. Seconds later, they would be in the air.
More than seven security police squads, hunkered down inside squat armored personnel carriers (APCs), had been following the progression of the B-1s as they made their way across the airport. They covered the movement of the aircraft from start to finish. As the Bones began to line up in the alternate ramp, all of the APCs pulled back and formed a protective circle around the bombers.
Except for one.
One of the APCs was sitting in the way. Hidden from view behind the last bomber, the three-ton truck, complete with a 50 caliber machine gun and multi-shot grenade launcher, was now situated at the end of the runway, positioned so no aircraft could take off.
The security police were no fools. They knew that the B-1s were only doing an emergency taxi. Fire or no fire, explosions or no explosions, none of the Bones were suppose to get on the runway. It would have been a disastrous breach of nuclear security if one of the bombers took to the air. So, as a final precaution, they stood in the way, a steel barrier to block off the runway.
Inside Reaper’s Shadow, Ammon was busy preparing the aircraft for his takeoff. Morozov began to help him with the checklist.
“Flaps and slats,” Morozov called out.
“Extended and down, set for takeoff,” Ammon replied.
“Wings.”
“Fifteen degrees. Set for takeoff.”
“Fuel panel.”
“Fuel panel set, sequence initiated.”
And so they went, going through some fifty-seven different items in less than two minutes. As they worked through the checklist, they continued to taxi out of the alert parking area and down toward the end of the runway. By the time they had finished the pre-takeoff checklist, they were only a hundred yards from the turnoff that would lead them into the alternate parking ramp.
“How much longer for the MACCS?” Ammon asked once again.
“Another thirty seconds,” Morozov replied.
“Come on baby, be a sweet little girl,” Ammon spoke to the aircraft in a gentle tone, trying to coax her to life. In less than fifteen seconds they would be on the runway. After that, he wouldn’t wait. He couldn’t wait. MACCS or no MACCS, he was going to take off.
Ammon taxied past the long row of bombers. Every eye on the airfield immediately turned in his direction as his intentions became very clear. Ammon pointed his nose to the runway as his aircraft began to pick up speed.
“How long?” Ammon demanded, his voice sounding squeaky and strained.
“Twelve seconds. That’s close enough now. Let’s go!”
Ammon didn’t need to be prodded. He immediately shoved his throttles up to fifty percent power. His aircraft pushed itself forward. He passed the last bomber. The APC finally came into view.
Ammon’s stomach churned in acid. His heart, already up in his throat, began to beat with the force of a hammer. He scanned the taxi-way ahead of him, judging the distance, hoping that there might be enough room to slip by the APC that stood in his way.
It wasn’t going to happen. There simply wasn’t enough space. Not by a long shot. Ammon wasn’t getting onto the runway.
He reached up and slammed on the brakes, throwing himself forward in his seat as the B-1’s computerized anti-lock braking system brought the aircraft to an abrupt stop.
“What are you doing?” Morozov cried out over the interphone. “What’s going on?” From the back cockpit, Morozov had no view out the front of the aircraft.
Ammon didn’t take time to respond. He was sitting just fifty feet from the APC. Ammon could see the driver of the armored truck. They stared at each other with equal displeasure. The driver began to frantically wave his arms, gesturing for Ammon to turn around. At the same time the top hatch of the APC popped open. Two wide-eyed soldiers stuck their heads through the hatch. One of them turned the 50 caliber machine toward the Bone, while the other began to load six grenades into his launcher.
There was just a fraction of a second’s pause while Ammon considered what to do. Morozov yelled into his microphone once again. “Ammon, what is going on!?”
“We’ve got an APC in our way,” Ammon called back.
“Go, man! Just go! Run it over if you have to. Push it off the taxiway. But don’t stop. What are you going to do, just sit here and surrender?”
But Richard Ammon had a better plan. Kicking in the nosewheel steering, he slammed the throttles forward. The aircraft began to shudder as it lurched ahead once again, turning sharply to the right, spinning around on its center axis. Ammon pushed up the outboard engines to a higher throttle setting and touched lightly on the inside brakes. The bomber began to swivel even tighter, spinning on its inside wheels. Ammon felt himself swinging sideways as the nose of the aircraft cut sharply through the air. In a very short time, the aircraft had turned completely around on the taxiway.
“What are you doing, you stupid fool!” Morozov screamed. “Ammon, I swear I will kill you! You coward! Why are you turning around?”
Ammon reached down and turned off his intercom switch, then pushed up his power. He began to quickly accelerate down the taxiway once again. It looked as if he were going back to his original parking spot. One hundred yards ahead of him, the taxiway turned. From there it extended for 13,000 feet, all the way down to the other end of the runway.
Inside the APC was Staff Sergeant Kevin Cutter. He was the squad leader and driver of the armored vehicle. Above him were his gunners. One of them manned the carrier’s grenade launcher, while the other one trained his 50 caliber machine gun on the Bone. Everyone inside the APC was agitated and confused.
When they first noticed the B-1 pass by its intended parking spot and head toward them on the runway, they had all assumed that the aircraft had simply missed its turn off. Some pilots were smarter than others, they had joked. This suspicion seemed to be confirmed when Reaper’s Shadow had came to an abrupt stop and immediately turned around. The soldiers inside the APC tensely laughed. What an idiot! They watched as the aircraft begin to taxi back, fully expecting the bomber to pull quickly back into the parking area.
But what was it doing now? Even as they watched, Reaper’s Shadow was rolling by the other bombers once again. Sgt Cutter watched the nozzles on the back of the Reaper’s engines swing closed as the pilot pushed the throttles forward. The aircraft accelerated quickly. In a few seconds, it would make a right turn down the main taxiway that led to the other end of the runway. What was this idiot pilot trying to do?
Cutter got on his radio and began to bark instructions in a hurried voice. “Break. Break. All sky cops. We’ve got a rambling bomber. I say again, we’ve got a rambling bomber. Looks like he’s heading for the other end of the airfield. Initiate stop gag. I say again, initiate stop gag. Do it now.”
Inside the cockpit, Ammon could see a half dozen security vehicles converging on the field. They came from all directions, racing toward the lone bomber in an attempt to cut him off or box him in. Half of the APCs were rushing toward the other end of the airfield. There they would form a line to block Reaper’s Shadow from getting onto the runway.
Meanwhile, the other APCs were following the aircraft as she taxied south. With an APC on each wing, and two right behind her, they would force her toward the barricade at the other end of the runway. There they would shoot out her tires. Then, if the bomber didn’t come to an immediate stop, a grenade would be sent up one of her engines. They all hoped that didn’t happen, but either way, they intended to see that the bomber never took to the air.