Night of the Hawk Read online

  “If we start a firefight here . .” Ormack said.

  “We may not have any choice,” McLanahan replied.

  Maybe we are going to fight it out, Luger thought. But with what? Half the crew was injured, the plane was shot to hell, they were surrounded by Soviet militiamen.

  “He wants us to shut down,” Luger heard Ormack say over inter-phone. “Patrick, we’re running out of time. …”

  There were several loud bangs on both wings this time and the Old Dog began to buck and rumble as if its insides had been seized by a coughing fit. Down in the lower deck of the Megafortress, alone and shot up and half frozen, Luger felt useless to the crew who needed him the most. But they were continuing the engine start, and Luger realized Ormack and McLanahan weren’t giving up. They were going to get the Megafortress in the air or die trying. He smiled. Good old McLanahan. A real give-a-shit crew dog who was giving the finger to the Russians in their own backyard. If you’re gonna fight, this was the way to do it. The way they’d been taught. Never give up.

  Lights popped on in the belowdecks compartment as the generators were brought on-line. No, the nay equipment was okay-the GPS (Global Positioning System) satellite navigation system was working, the TDC (terrain-data computer) and COLA (computer-generated lowest altitude) terrain-avoidance computer was operable, even the AIM-120 Scorpion air-to-air missiles were on-line. Out of force of habit, if not by optimistic thinking, Luger moved the data cartridge lever on the TDC from LOCK to READ and got a TERRAIN DATA LOAD OK message on his computer terminal. But seconds later, when the generators popped off-line and put the entire system back into reset, he gave up trying to get the computers running.

  The engines were now screaming louder than ever, up to taxi power and almost to full military power. The Megafortress wasn’t moving. But Ormack and McLanahan were running through checklists, starting more engines, putting internal power back on-line…

  Suddenly the unmistakable rattle of a heavy-caliber machine gun split the air.

  They’re shooting at us… the motherfuckers! Luger cursed to himself.

  McLanahan, upstairs, went on with the engine start. Over interphone, he called, “Everyone on interphone? Report by compartment.”

  The engines were cut to IDLE. McLanahan said, “Crew, we’ve got a Russian armored vehicle about a hundred yards off our left wing. They’ve got a machine gun. They’ve ordered us to cut our engines—”

  Alone downstairs, Luger seethed. Cut our engines? As they say in Texas, when pigs fly…

  Luger rose out of his ejection seat and pulled himself aft, dragging his shattered right leg like a sack of heavy wet sand alongside him. He glanced up through the between-decks ladder well and saw electronic warfare officer Wendy Tork kneeling beside General Elliott on the upper deck. She was removing her flight jacket and laying it over Elliott to try to warm him up. Wendy saw Luger and her eyes raised an unspoken question. Luger stared expressionlessly at her, then removed his flight jacket, passed it upstairs to Wendy, and gave her a thumbs-up—and her eyes widened in disbelief.

  “Thanks, Dave,” Wendy Tork said, words that could not be heard over the screaming of the six operable turbofan engines. Luger smiled anyway, then dropped out of sight below the rim of the between-decks ladder well. She got a glimpse of his horribly injured leg and wondered where he was going. To repair a damaged relay? Close the aft bulkhead door? Double-check the lock on the entry hatch?

  Then she realized that he was not just offering his jacket to help Elliott keep from freezing to death … he was going to leave the plane.

  And she did nothing to stop him.

  Luger dropped to his left side on the deck, reached down, slid the hatch-lock lever over, and pulled the latch lever back. The belly hatch flopped open. He swung his good left leg through the hatch and braced himself in the hatch for a moment, sitting on the rear sill looking forward at the navigator’s crew stations, catching his breath.

  So the Soviets want us to cut our engines? No way. If Ormack and McLanahan can bite the bullet, then I’m sure as hell going to do my part. Sitting alone, strapped in my seat, freezing to death with a bad leg and a bad eye, isn’t doing jack-shit to help. But there may be a way…

  Luger saw a trail of thick dark blood staining the entry ladder and lower deck and realized there would be rivers of blood pouring out of this black beast if he didn’t do something—and do it now.

  Crew dogs rarely talked of things like fear, but he knew the rest of the crew had to be as scared as he was. But fear was no reason to bail out; fear accelerated one’s courage. It certainly did his. Feeling the blasts of frigid air rushing through the open hatch below him, hearing the scream of the engines, Luger reached down and felt the .38-caliber survival revolver strapped against his torso He withdrew it and counted the cartridges-five, with the hammer down on the empty chamber. It was a small gun, but it helped melt the last of his fear away. He slipped off the entry hatch rear sill, dropped down to the hard-packed snow below, and closed the hatch behind him.

  Upstairs, the HATCH NOT CLOSED AND LATCHED light on the forward instrument panel snapped on then, and before either Ormack and McLanahan could react it popped out.

  “What was that?” asked Ormack.

  “I don’t … Dave, did you open the hatch?” No reply. “Luger. Report.”

  There was no answer.

  Luger had never been outside a B-52 with the hatch closed and the engines running. It was a weird, almost overpowering feeling.

  For an instant he visualized the faces of everyone he had just left behind. But one look at the menacing-looking armored half-track parked between two hangars off to the left of the nose of the bomber and he knew what he had to do.

  The roar of the engines was deafening, acutely painful. Staying under the left wing, careful not to get either in front or behind the running engines, oblivious to the ear-shattering noise, he moved away from the Megafortress and toward the half-track, the gun in his fist.

  Luger was only a few feet from the Megafortress’s shattered left wingtip when he inadvertently tried to put weight on his right leg. It immediately gave way, and he sprawled to the snow into a patch of black oil that had spilled out of the damaged number-two engine. The shock of the slimy snow on his face sent a surge of energy-or panic-through his body, and he half-stumbled, half-crawled to the fuel truck, which was still parked just off the left wingtip.

  He heard several rapid-fire pop-pop-pop-pop shots coming from the Megafortress, turned, and saw Colonel Ormack firing a big pistol—General Elliott’s big .45, he realized—out the left cockpit window. Luger couldn’t see what he was shooting at, but he assumed it was the half-track. The heavy-caliber gun would slice the cockpit into ribbons in a few seconds …

  Luger reached the fuel truck, crawled around to the driver’s side, and was about to get in when he saw the half-track’s gunner take aim at the Megafortress.

  Luger threw himself forward onto the hood of the fuel truck, took aim, and fired his .38 at the gunner. The gun’s puny reports nevertheless sent slaps of shock waves against his face and eyes, but he held the gun as steady as his frozen fingers could manage. He wasn’t sure if he took proper aim or even opened his eyes, but to his amazement Luger saw the Russian gunner clutch his chest and fall down into the half-track.

  “Luger! Get back here!” It was Ormack shouting at him over the roar of the engines.

  In pain, Luger dropped the pistol and made his way around to the front of the fuel truck, starting back for the Old Dog. He had taken only three steps when another soldier appeared from behind the half-track, lifted a rifle with a long, curved cartridge magazine, and fired. Suddenly his left leg was thrust violently to his right and out from underneath him. He collapsed onto his left side, screaming at the pain from his left thigh-a bullet hole the size of a damn Ping-Pong ball had carved out a gory tunnel in the side of his thigh. He screamed again as the sounds of gunfire erupted all around him, and he kept on screaming-for Patrick, for his mother, fo
r help from God-as he clawed to the relative safety and protection of the fuel truck.

  Ormack could only fire his pistol again, forcing the Russian at the back of the half-track to retreat, but he didn’t notice another soldier sliding into the machine-gun mount on the half-track.

  The soldier took aim on the Old Dog and let the machine gun rip.

  The 20-millimeter shells plowed through the Old Dog’s left side .

  Somehow Luger pulled himself up inside the cab of the fuel truck and lay down on the frozen bench seat, peeking out the side windows at the horrifying display outside.

  The left cockpit windows were gone, and little black puffs of fibersteel were bursting all over the nose and left side of the crew compartment. A huge cloud of smoke erupted from the number-four engine, the one closest to the pilot’s side windows, and the bomber was shaking and bucking enough to make the big wings flap.

  They’re killing the Old Dog, Luger thought. Ormack couldn’t have survived that gunfire-my God, the whole cockpit was gone. “You sons of bitches,” Luger screamed at the Russian half-track’s gunner. “You’re killing them!”

  Luger’s shattered right leg touched the fuel truck’s accelerator and the engine revved—McLanahan or defensive-systems officer Angelina Pereira must have left it running when they’d used it to get the stolen fuel. Luger found the parking brake, eased it off, then reached down with his hand to lift his bloody left leg onto the clutch. He put the transmission into first gear, eased his left leg off the clutch, and stomped with all his might on the accelerator, leaving his near-frozen right leg on it, and steered the fuel truck toward the armored personnel carrier.

  The fuel truck lurched ahead, bouncing and clattering on ages-old springs. He was about ten meters from the half-track before the gunner noticed him coming, swiveled the gun turret around toward him, and opened fire. Nearly passing out from the pain and the shock, screaming like an animal caught in a trap, Luger dived out the open driver’s side door…

  … just as a fusillade of bullets shattered the windshield and ripped the interior of the truck apart.

  Luger was lying facedown in two feet of snow, unconscious, when the fuel truck plowed into the half-track. Bullets from the half-track’s gun tore open the fuel tank, igniting the fuel-oil fumes inside, which turned both the truck and the half-track into balloons of fire. The concussion of the double explosion tossed Luger’s body another fifty feet away like a rag doll, but mercifully the young navigator was not awake to experience that final blast.

  9 FEBRUARY 1989, 0531 MOSCOW

  The bullets from the half-track had continued to walk down the left side of the Megafortress, eventually reaching the leading edge of the left wing and causing a terrific explosion as the red-hot shells found the fuel oil in the mains. Luger hadn’t stopped the half-track-it had missed, or the fuel truck exploded before reaching it, he didn’t know what had happened-but the Megafortress was dying. The left wing was afire and the left-center wing tank exploded and sheared the entire wing off Wendy and Angelina scrambled out of the hatch just as the Old Dog flopped onto its right wing, crushing it instantly and causing a huge explosion as the rest of the fuel tanks ruptured. The resulting fireball was at least a mile in diameter, swallowing up the two civilian women and engulfing the huge bomber in sheets of flame.

  “Patrick!” Luger shouted “Patrick! Eject! Get out! Patrick! Patrick!”

  Luger’s muscles convulsed. They quivered uncontrollably, but for some reason none of them wanted to function—he could move each one only a centimeter or two before they retreated into fits of spasms. Gasping for air, Luger fought for control, trying to ignore the waves of fear rising in his chest.

  Something was wrong …

  Slowly, the spasms ceased, and Luger was able to breathe evenly again. He felt as if he had run a marathon-his entire body felt weak. His fingertips felt puffy and soft, and the slightest exertion, like lifting the index finger of his right hand, caused the spasms to return. He decided to lie quietly and get his bearings—at least his eyes still functioned.

  He was in a dimly lit room. He saw light fixtures overhead, and out of the corners of his eyes he saw hospital beds. So he was in a hospital ward. Luger could make out dingy white curtains surrounding some beds, a few intravenous bottle stands—thankfully, none near his bed. By straining, he could see railings on his bed and, thank God, even his feet under the white linen. Whatever had happened, they had saved his shot-up legs.

  And then he realized there were sounds of pain coupled with the sights. A lot of men in pain. He could make out a door at the far right side of the ward, and by the sound and numbers of men moaning, he expected a nurse or doctor or even an orderly to enter the room—but none did. Luger waited several minutes, but the men’s cries went unanswered. He could see shadows move past the doors, but no one entered.

  What kind of hospital was this? If this was a Russian military hospital, Luger could understand getting poor treatment as a prisoner—but these other men weren’t foreigners. Some of them cried out in the Russian language. Didn’t they bother taking care of their own?

  Luger extended a shaking hand to the railing on his bed. It rattled easily. He continued to rattle it and was rewarded a moment later with the rail collapsing alongside the bed. The sudden noise caused the moans to intensify, as if the men knew a nurse was nearby and wanted to be sure they were heard. Luger waited for what he thought was a few more minutes to see if anyone would come, and was surprised to find he had dozed off—for how long, he did not know.

  But the brief rest was helpful. He found he now had the strength and control to move his legs to the edge of the bed. As first his right leg, and then his left emerged from under the sheets, he was overjoyed to see little evidence of his injuries—a lot of deep scars, large hairless spots where skin grafts were taken from farther up his thigh, thick bandages all around his legs, but little pain or discomfort. Skinny as hell, but all in one piece. He commanded his toes to wiggle, and after having to wait a measurable moment, was rewarded with a faint movement. He was weak and obviously emaciated, but he was in one piece, and the collective pieces seemed to be operable. Thank God for that.

  With renewed vigor Luger swung his legs off the right edge of the bed and onto the floor. The linoleum was gritty and cold, but at least he could feel it. The movement forced his torso to turn to the right, and he let his body roll right until he was facedown on the bed with his knees almost touching the floor. Luger dragged his feet closer to the bed, took a deep breath, braced himself, and began putting weight on his feet. His legs immediately began to shake, but with a lot of effort he managed to push himself upright.

  Success!

  Luger found a plastic hospital I.D. bracelet around his wrist, but there was not enough light to read it. He was dressed in a long armless hospital gown, much like a poncho, made of rough white cloth with the back slit open but with no ties to close it. No matter—he was going right back to bed anyway, right after he explored a little and got someone’s attention at the nurses’ station outside. The thought of escape crossed his mind, but the room was really cold and he didn’t think he had a chance—even if he did manage to get out of the hospital, he was probably still in eastern Siberia. Where was he going to go? Alaska? Yeah, right. Not even if he had two men’s strength.

  For an instant his mind drifted back to the Old Dog. Had the rest of the crew made it out of Siberia? Or had the Old Dog given out before they could take off? And if so, where was McLanahan? Ormack? Wendy and the rest? Were they here as well? Or had the Soviet Union already “dealt” with them? He blocked out the thought. If the latter had happened, he could only imagine … Glimpses of those final moments, hazy as they flow were, drifted through.

  No, Luger decided, they must have made it out.

  He was the only one who had not.

  Depressed by the thought, Luger took in more of the room. There wasn’t a condition chart at the foot of his bed, which was unfortunate. It could have told him a lot a
bout himself. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t find out about himself on his own. He heard voices coming from outside the room. He didn’t want to get caught wandering around the ward, but he had to get to know this room and then slip back into bed—then, at least, he could figure out a way to escape while his body rested. After all, he was going to need his strength to resist the interrogations he knew were waiting for him. Luger counted the other beds, noted the other doorways, found lockers and washbasins, a bathroom, and a drug cabinet. Perfect. Steal a little something every opportunity you get, hide it under the mattress—you never knew what could be used as a weapon, or an escape tool, or a signaling device.

  Painfully, unsteadily, he made his way over to the cabinet and tried the first large stainless-steel knob. Locked. He tried another, and this one opened. All right, let’s see what we got.

  “Ay!” a voice shouted from the bed to his right. “Stoy! Stoytyee yeevo!”

  The voice startled Luger and he stumbled backwards, bounced off the adjacent bed, and fell forwards. His jaw slammed on the cold linoleum hard enough to draw blood and send a shower of stars obliterating his vision.

  The man kept on screeching, “Ay! Vrahchyah! Ay! Pahzahveetyee bistrah kahvonyeebood nah pomahshch!”

  His head pounding, Luger said, “Oh, shut up, will ya?” His voice was raspy and hoarse, barely audible. The alarmed Russian looked at Luger in shock, muttered something, then continued his shouting even louder, more in fear than in warning. Luger wiped blood off his chin from a fairly deep gash—and was suddenly blinded as the ward lights snapped fully on. The lights made him dizzy … weak .

  Luger was lifted off the floor by two strong sets of hands and dragged back to his bed. He couldn’t see who carried him, but he could hear their voices, and they seemed surprised, not angry. He was effortlessly hoisted back onto his bed, and they held his arms and legs securely on it, obviously not realizing Luger didn’t have the strength to resist even if he wanted to. A few minutes later he felt the inevitable prick of a needle in his arm. That was unnecessary, too—his exertion had left him totally drained.