Ill Wind (25 page)

Bobby squeezed his transmitter twice to click off an acknowledgment,
then
pushed the throttles. He felt an immediate surge as the engines gulped more kerosene-based JP-4 fuel. Pulling back, he slowed to match Barfman’s velocity and inched toward the A/F-18. He circled the fighter, craning his neck to inspect it. “Negatory, Barfman. Can’t see anything wrong.” He started to move behind his partner’s aircraft when he glanced at the altimeter. “Hey, watch your altitude.”

“I’m losing airspeed,” said Barfman, his voice grim.

“You ready to declare an emergency?”

He waited, listening to the static. “Ah . . . not yet,” Barfman said at last. “But we’d better find someplace flat to put this baby down.”

“Rog,” said Bobby, feeling a mixture of relief and deeper concern. “You keep her flying, I’ll check things out.” He eased back on the throttles.

Bobby reached into the leg pocket on his flightsuit and pulled out an airfield map of the southwestern states, unfolding it against the cramped front panel of the cockpit. Smoothing the map, he scanned it for the nearest runway, but saw nothing close. He clicked the radio. “Doesn’t look good, Barfman. I’m calling the cavalry.” Bobby glanced at his INS—the Inertial Navigation System—before calling. On their routine flight path, they had been handed over to the Albuquerque regional FAA control center some minutes before.

Barfman acknowledged only with two clicks on the radio, no words at all. Bobby swallowed. Barfman must be having a much harder time than he realized.

Bobby changed the frequency to pick up the FAA control center, keeping his voice calm and firm as he called in. “Albuquerque control, this is Navy Zero Six out of China Lake. We’re approximately a hundred thirty miles southeast of Four Corners. Request immediate location of the nearest airfield.”

“Navy 6, this is Albuquerque. Do you have an emergency?”

The option raced through Bobby’s mind. It was one thing for Barfman to try an bring the fighter in all by himself—if nothing was really wrong with the jet, they’d just refuel, hop back in and zoom to the beach. No problem, no worry, no messy paperwork. But if they declared an emergency, then all hell would break loose—at the very least they’d have to appear before an inquiry board.

Bobby wet his lips; the high-altitude air was bone dry. “Ah, Albuquerque, we’ve run into some difficulty but are not ready at this time to declare an emergency. Please advise ASAP on the location of the nearest airfield.”

“Roger, Navy Zero Sixer. You may divert to Santa Fe or Los Alamos to the north or keep coming in for three airfields in the Albuquerque area. Please inform of your situation.”

Barfman’s jet continued descending. Barfman’s voice came over the speaker, clipped with tension. “Getting kind of hard to handle, old buddy. Not sure I want to try to bring her down in the mountains around Los Alamos—”

Suddenly, large gaps appeared in Barfman’s contrails, as if the jet engines had been turned on and off in quick succession. Bobby gripped the control stick with his sweaty hand as icepicks of cold sweat stabbed up and down his back.

“Barfman, you all right?”

His partner’s voice sounded tight, under control. “I’m fighting engine-out, Rhino. This thing wants to shut down. Do you think somebody watered the fuel at Nellis? That damned Air Force JP-4—” Barfman’s voice cut off entirely and white noise filled the airwaves.

“Barfman, do you read?” Bobby waited a second, hoping and praying that something would improve. It didn’t. When Barfman didn’t answer, Bobby pushed his throttles to the max; the fighter leaped through the air. Barfman’s jet dropped like a rock. Bobby clicked his mike. He felt helpless, unable to do anything but watch. “Barfman, do you copy?”

Bobby nosed his craft over to follow Barfman’s descent. He peered through the scratched transparent canopy of his fighter. The contrails had vanished from Barfman’s jet; there was no flame in the engine—he must have had a complete power failure.
But what about the backup?
That should have kicked in. Without power, the electrical system would not work, making the radio inoperable. The rudders and stabilizers could be moved through hydraulics, so Barfman had some control; but with no thrust, the fighter would fall one foot for every ten it moved forward. Barfman didn’t have much time to eject.

Bobby clicked to the emergency guard frequency. “Mayday, mayday. Navy Zero Sixer calling for help, southeast of Four Corners. We have a
flame-out
and are rapidly descending. Request emergency equipment immediately.”

He skinned close to Barfman’s jet, almost wingtip to wingtip. He breathed sharp cold air in staccato gasps. Bobby could see his friend’s helmet through the cockpit, his head down as he wrestled in vain with the unwieldy hydraulic controls.

Bobby knew of no way to stretch out the inevitable crash—at this rate, Barfman would impact the ground at five hundred miles an hour. Bobby glanced at his altimeter; they were passing through fifteen thousand feet and still accelerating downward.

Albuquerque control came over the radio. “We’ve lost your squawk, Navy 6. Do you copy?”

“Come on, Barfman—punch out!” Bobby slid the jet off to the side to give the other pilot room to eject—but nothing happened. The altimeter continued to run down. “Come on!”

Barfman didn’t have a chance in hell to land, even if he regained total control. Bobby glanced out his cockpit; rugged brown terrain swooped up to meet them.

“Navy Zero Sixer, do you read?”

Ignoring the ground controller, Bobby jerked his stick to the right, rolling until he was beneath Barfman’s jet, accelerating down faster than the A/F-18 fell. He had to get Barfman’s head up out of the controls! Holding his breath, Bobby shoved the throttles forward; when he was under Barfman, he kicked in the afterburners with a sound like a bomb blast. The sudden acceleration shoved Bobby back in his seat.

Barfman appeared to be struggling with his ejection handles. Bobby cut off the afterburners and pulled back on the stick. He felt the gees build up and squash him into his seat.

Pulling his jet into a loop, Bobby searched for Barfman’s fighter. The sky wheeled around him, the desert looked like brown scabs below him with baking sands and lumpy weathered lava outcroppings. “Barfman, where are you!”

A moment later, he saw a flash of light. A massive brown cloud rose from the desert floor as Barfman’s fighter slammed into the ground. Bobby winced for just a second, but he could not let himself believe his buddy had been trapped in the cockpit. Making an animal sound through his teeth, he wrenched the control stick to pull his fighter over. He scanned the sky for a parachute, an eject seat. “Come on, come on!”

Then he felt a shudder run through his own plane.

He found the fuel indicator—his pump appeared to be malfunctioning. The flow rate from the tank to the engine started dropping. Something had blown, just like in Barfman’s jet. “Oh, shit,” he said.

The speakers crackled to life. “Navy Zero Sixer, we have lost your squawk. We are standing by. Please engage your transponder. Estimate has you northwest of Double Eagle airport in Albuquerque. Do you copy?”

Bobby shook his head to clear the shock that gripped him. Adrenaline flushed his system of cobwebs, making him sharp. His altimeter showed that he had climbed back up to twelve thousand feet, and aside from the faulty reading on the pump flow indicator, there was nothing to show he was in any trouble. Not yet. He knew he should be doing something: trying to land his craft so he wouldn’t be taken by surprise like his friend. He still saw no sign of Barfman’s parachute.

Life or death.
He squelched the fear, the helplessness. No time for that now. Bobby shoved the throttles to full, kicking in the afterburners. As the surge of acceleration hit him, he realized he might have only minutes to find a place to land, especially if the sudden plague of breakdowns hit his own A/F-18.

 
He keyed his transponder and spoke into the mike. “Mayday, mayday, Albuquerque control. Navy Zero
Six
declaring an emergency. Attempting to reach Double Eagle airport. One plane in our flight is down, approximately thirty miles behind me. My flow pump reads faulty, and if I lose engine power I will not be able to transmit. Request immediate emergency assistance, foam and emergency vehicles—”

“We have you fifteen miles out, Navy Zero Sixer. Please be advised there is no emergency equipment at Double Eagle. I say again, no emergency equipment available.”

“Great,” muttered Bobby. From what he had seen on the map, he’d have to fly over the city of Albuquerque to reach the municipal airport, which meant putting thousands of people at risk if he couldn’t nurse his plane all the way to the runway.

He pushed the aircraft as fast as he dared, hoping to reach the Double Eagle airport before everything crapped out on him. He tried to keep a balance between altitude and speed, knowing that he could trade off one for the other; but he also didn’t want to fall into the same trap as Barfman, and lose stability while wrestling with the hydraulic controls.

The humped line of the Sandia
mountains
loomed in the distance. Below him the ground smoothed out, leaving the rugged terrain behind. He might make it.

“Navy Zero Six, please be advised—” The speaker went dead and the cockpit sounded weirdly silent except for the rushing wind. At the same instant he felt a gigantic sagging as the engines died, the A/F-18’s electrical systems shut down. What the hell happened to the backup? The system was isolated from the main engine—this couldn’t happen!

Adrenalin and split-second fear switched off the questions in his mind. Deal with them later. Bobby immediately pushed as hard as he could to lower all flaps to extend the camber in an attempt to increase his lift.

He spotted Double Eagle airport off to the left; he had vectored in too far south. Cursing under his breath, he inched the fighter’s nose to the left, trying not to do anything that would send the already precarious craft out of control. He had to punch out—no way could he bring this fighter in. No way.

But what had gone wrong with Barfman? Had he tried to eject, only to fail for some unknown reason? Or had Barfman simply waited too long, kept his head buried in the controls?

He saw a long stretch of green in front of him—the Rio Grande
river
. What a place to run out of gas! He frantically tried to turn the craft, but felt a growing wobble.

The craft would lose it any second now. Slamming his helmeted head against the back of his seat, he reached down and grasped the ejection handles. He’d crash through the canopy if it didn’t blow open, but better that than staying with the jet and digging a crater in the desert. He looked straight ahead, closed his eyes, and pulled up as hard as he could.

An instant later he felt the shock of cold air, a sound that overwhelmed him—wind, crashing, tearing. His right leg and mouth felt torn apart. He was thrown from the seat, twisting. Attached to the parachute a line in front of him snaked out, ripped into the howling wind.

 
He felt himself tumbling. The parachute started to open. He had to clamp his mouth shut to keep from vomiting.

It was going to be one mother of a hard landing. Bobby gritted his teeth and tried to keep conscious. The parachute tugged him upward in an effort to slow his plunge.

Below him, he watched his jet explode into the desert floor.

Chapter 31

Iris Shikozu’s portable phone no longer worked, but the clunky old model in the bedroom of her apartment still functioned. Different plastics broke down at different rates. The plague was spreading like a flood, wiping out the entire city.

She carefully pushed buttons, hoping the equipment wouldn’t fall to pieces as she dialed. She had to talk to somebody. The world seemed to close around her as everything broke down. On her bedroom wall, posters of middle-aged rock groups stared down at her, offering silent sympathy for her predicament.

In only a day the news had become
intermittent .
The plague had been spreading quietly since the Prometheus spraying, infecting numerous items, metabolizing gasoline first and then attacking other polymers, until components began to break down all at once.
All at the same time.

The radio news told stories of riots in South Africa, a major stock exchange crash in Tokyo, communications blackouts from various parts of the world. The President himself was stranded out of the country, and now the Vice President had been stuck in Chicago when all aircraft were grounded. Everything was happening too fast.

She listened to the buzzing ring against her ear as she waited for someone to answer. More often than not, the phones had been out of order. She suspected that plastics in the various telephone substations had dissolved, but the phone company had managed to reroute most of the calls.
So far.

Francis Plerry, her contact at EPI, answered the phone; Iris launched into her rehearsed speech before he could hang up on her.

“I’ve been waiting for you to return my calls, Mr. Plerry. I called five times yesterday. I have some information regarding the spread of the Prometheus plague and how it is attacking plastics.” She sat down on her double bed, pulling the phone after her, calmed now that she could finally speak to someone. “I need to be put in touch with the other research teams addressing the issue. Have you even established other teams?”