Lydia watched Alex, who was in the copilot's seat. He was arguing with the pilot in a mix of English and Russian, trying to find an alternative to going back to North Field. Thatcher sat next to her, still in restraints. Alex had not bothered to bind her hands, and Lydia wondered why. Did he not consider her enough of a threat? Given a chance, she'd be happy to prove that notion wrong. In any event, the airplane was headed back to Guam now. They might all get out of this yet.
She was studying Thatcher's bindings, wondering how quickly she could undo them, when Alex and the pilot had a particularly heated exchange. The Russian tapped an instrument on his panel. Alex went to the port side window and looked at the good engine.
"What now?" Thatcher asked.
"The port engine," Alex replied.
Lydia looked out and saw a thin black streak along the side of the metal casing.
"It's operating at such a high power setting, we're losing oil. The engine's going to seize." Alex turned to the pilot. "How long?"
"Five minutes!" came the reply. "Maybe ten!"
"How far to shore?" Lydia asked.
Thatcher replied, "More than that."
"So that's it," she said. Lydia looked down at the ocean. "There's still a chance," she said hopefully. "If we can survive the impact."
Thatcher addressed the pilot, "Where's the service port?"
The Russian gave him a look like he was crazy.
"Where?" Thatcher demanded.
The Russian pointed to a small door at the midpoint of the engine.
"It might work," Thatcher said. He explained his idea.
Lydia agreed with the pilot — he was mad. "You can't be serious, Michael."
"There's a strut right there to hang on to. We break the window, and pull back power to lessen the wash from the propeller. Someone crawls out and adds oil — we have a case of it in back. It's simple, really."
The pilot certified the idea as insane, but had no objections if someone wanted to try.
"Who's going to do it?" Lydia wondered.
Thatcher looked at Alex. "You're the strongest."
Alex seemed to think it over. He looked outside, down at the water. He eyed Lydia.
"No, Major. I'm afraid if I went out there, I might find my way back inside blocked." He pointed defiantly at Thatcher. "You do it."
Thatcher met his gaze, and raised his bound hands. "All right. Get these off."
They punctured two cans and poured the oil into an empty vodka bottle — the pilot had watched forlornly as they'd poured his personal stash out the door. Thatcher figured the bottle's long neck would give him a better chance. He took off his jacket as Braun broke out the window with a monkey wrench. Thatcher stood at the opening and mapped out his steps. He had a screwdriver in a pocket. The bottle of oil would stay in his left hand.
Braun returned from talking to the pilot. "He says you'll have about two minutes before he has to add power. When it's coming, I'll pull your leg twice to give you twenty seconds notice. He doesn't think you'll be able to hold on once the prop wash hits at full power."
"Michael," Lydia said, "if you show me what to do, I can try." She looked him in the eye and said, "I've got two good legs."
"No!" Braun said. "Absolutely not!"
Thatcher agreed. "No, Lydia. I can manage."
With that, Thatcher looked up to the pilot and nodded. The engine went to idle, its rumble almost gone, and the nose of the airplane fell slightly. They were now gliding down.
Thatcher wedged through the window and placed his good leg on the thick wing strut. The big Ilyushin was flying at her minimum speed — sixty knots was the least she'd do without falling out of the sky — but even then, the wind was nearly hurricane force. Thatcher leaned into the stream, finding his balance, and stretched out toward the access panel. He pulled the screwdriver from his pocket, and when he got the door opened it flipped back in the windstream. He tossed the screwdriver away, and found himself watching as it twirled into the ocean below.
The filler cap came off by hand. Thatcher switched the bottle between his hands, but as it came across his face, oil splattered into his eyes. Blinded, he wiped his face across a shirtsleeve that was rippling in the wind. His vision was blurred by the viscous brown goo, but he got the long bottle neck in place and began to pour.
His right leg was tiring, the muscles straining at odd angles as it wrapped around the strut. He looked down and saw the Pacific. It seemed incredibly clear. Incredibly close. Thatcher felt two tugs on his leg. Twenty seconds. The bottle was only half empty. He kept at it, the brown liquid spilling and spraying, but most of it going to the engine. When the bottle was finally empty, Thatcher tossed it away. He fumbled with the filler cap. If he couldn't get it back on, it would all be for nothing — the oil would only have another avenue of escape from the engine. Thatcher wondered how many more seconds he had.
He got the cap in place, but when he looked down Thatcher thought it was too late. They were no more than twenty feet in the air. He braced, and then it hit — the engine roared to life. Wash from the propeller struck like a massive wave, pulling every part of his body back, tearing him away from his handhold. Thatcher felt his oily fingers slipping. He tried to wrap around the strut, hooking one elbow and his good leg. It was no good. The rush of air was too strong, his grip too slick from the oil. His hand gave way.
Thatcher braced for the fall, but then his belt caught on something. His upper body flailed back in the windstream, but he still didn't fall. His eyes were closed against the maelstrom of wind, and he reached back to grab whatever was holding him in place. He felt a hand.
All at once, the engine fell back to idle power. Thatcher squinted to see Braun halfway out the window. He pulled Thatcher toward the fuselage, and seconds later they were both back inside. The pilot instantly reapplied full power, and the Ilyushin began another sluggish climb.
Thatcher hunched over breathlessly, his hands on his knees, Lydia at his side. He scanned the pilot's instrument panel, trying to find the port engine oil quantity gauge. He then looked up at Braun. The man was completely disheveled — bloody face, clothes torn, hair askew. Thatcher nodded to the spy. "Thanks for that."
Braun paused to eye Thatcher for a moment. He then shrugged it off. "We may need you again, Major. It is possible we'll require one more service to make land."
Thatcher gave no reply.
Chapter 45
"Are you all right?" Lydia asked.
"Couldn't be better,"Thatcher said.
Lydia found a first-aid kit and tended to him. As she did, she eyed Alex. He was in the copilots seat studying charts, talking to the pilot in Russian. She spoke in a low voice, "Michael, he's not going to let the pilot take us back to North Field. The place is already swarming with MPs."
"I know," he said. "Hes probably trying to convince the man to land elsewhere."
The pilot shouted excitedly in Russian, and pointed out the front windscreen.
Alex turned toward the back. "Land-ho," he announced.
"Where are we going?" Lydia demanded.
"That is for me—" Alex stopped in mid-sentence. He shot a look at the pilot.
Then Lydia heard it — a vibration, steady but growing.
Everyone looked to the port engine. It had been running at full power for a very long time. The pilot pulled back on the throttle, but the vibration only increased. Soon the entire craft began to shake. Lydia could barely see, her vision rattled to a blur. Then the engine exploded.
Parts sprayed into the fuselage, ripping through glass and metal. Lydia ducked to cover Thatcher. When she looked up, the left wing was on fire, the engine a tangled mass of metal. Then she saw the pilot. The Russian was slumped to the side across the control panel, his head covered in blood.