Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (62 page)

 
          
“Nyet,
” Sergei said, pointing ahead.
“Not gasoline. Kerosene.” Elliott showed his puzzlement, not understanding the
words. Sergei kept on driving.

 
          
“Pahvirniti napravah,
” Elliott said.
“Turn right.” He pointed at the tank once again. Sergei shook his head.

 
          
McLanahan
pulled out his revolver and held it to the Russian’s temple. “Do as the man
says,
tovarisch
. ” Sergei stiffened.
Elliott nodded and pointed to the tank.

 
          
Sergei
turned toward Elliott, clearly puzzled. What did they want? “Does your boat use
kerosene?” Sergei said in Russian. “That will do you no good.”

 
          
“Boat?”
Elliott said, trying to decipher the words. “I understood boat but nothing
else.”

 
          
Sergei
was pointing more emphatically toward a road nearby that headed east. “Diesel,”
Sergei said in Russian, pointing. “This way. Don’t worry. I won’t cheat you.”

 
          
McLanahan
pressed the revolver’s muzzle against Sergei’s head.

 
          
“Pazhaloosta,
” Sergei said, holding up
his hands. “All right.” With a shrug of his shoulders he bullied the old truck
into a right turn and headed for the tank. A few minutes later, with McLanahan
holding his revolver in sight but not aimed at him, Sergei had opened the gate
to the tank compound and led the group inside.

 
          
Now
he opened a belly valve on the tank truck parked next to the large above-ground
tank and a few gallons of liquid spilled onto the snow. Angelina bent down and
sniffed.

 
          
“It
smells like kerosene,” she said. “It’s not jet fuel or gasoline. What do we
do?”

 
          
“We
may have lucked out,” Elliott said, reaching into an inner pocket and taking
out a yellow hand-held survival radio. Depressing a black button in the center,
he turned a channel select switch to an unmarked frequency position and pushed
the transmit button.

 
          
“John,
how do you read?” Elliott spoke into the radio.

 
          
Aboard
the Old Dog, John Ormack pulled the boom microphone of his headset closer to
his lips and raised his voice over the noise of the number four engine idling
in the background. “Loud and clear, General. Where are you? Any luck?”

 
          
“We’re
good. We may have what we need. Double-check section five of the tech order.
Check on the use of alternate fuels. We might have enough kerosene here ...”

 
          
“Stand
by.” Ormack reached behind his seat and pulled out the Old Dog’s technical
order, the plane’s instruction manual, found the listing and keyed his
microphone.

 
          
“Got
it, General. Kerosene is an approved alternate fuel. We may have trouble with
it if it has no anti-icing additive, but we can fly with it. How much do you
have?”

 
          
“We
got a tank truck that looks like it holds ten thousand gallons. That’s sixty
thousand pounds.”

 
          
“Should
do it,” Ormack said. “Dave figured a minimum of fifty thousand to get us to
Nome
.”

 
          
“We’ll
call you back when we’re headed toward you.”

 
          
“A
B-52 can use kerosene for fuel?” Angelina asked doubtfully.

 
          
“The
books says it can,” Elliott told her. He turned to the Russian. He was no
longer smiling and jovial.

 
          
“Kak vasha imya? Atkooda
vz?” the
Russian said sternly. “Who are you? Where are you from? You are not fishermen.”

 
          
“Sputniks,
” Elliott said, getting the
bare gist of the questions. “Travelers.” Sergei was still looking suspicious.
Suddenly he snatched at the yellow survival radio, and before Elliott could
grab it back Sergei had read U.S. AIR FORCE on a back instruction plate.
McLanahan quickly raised the revolver to Sergei’s head.

 
          
“I
think we lost our buddy here, troops,” Elliott said. He pointed at the truck.
“Patrick, check out that tank truck. See how much kerosene it has.”

 
          
McLanahan
gave his revolver to Angelina, who pointed it with some expertise at the
Russian. McLanahan found a dipstick in the truck’s cab, climbed on top of the
truck and checked the amount of fuel inside through a cap. “Probably
one-quarter full,” he said.

 
          
“Not
enough. Okay,
tovarisch,
” Elliott
said in Russian. “I want gasoline in truck.
Mnye
noozhna binzuh
...” he tapped on the truck. Sergei did not move, unsure.

 
          
“I’ll
convince him, General,” Angelina said. She prodded the Russian around to the
side of the truck where McLanahan was busy lifting a high-pressure hose.
McLanahan fastened one end of the hose onto the truck, the other to one of the
valves rising from the ground. Angelina motioned to the truck with her
revolver.

 
          
“Help
him,” she said. The Russian looked at McLanahan lugging the heavy hose, then
blankly back at Angelina. Angelina cocked the revolver and held it to the
Russian’s forehead. ‘Wow. ”

 
          
Sergei
held up his hands and nodded, walked to McLanahan and gestured for him to
reattach the hose at another valve, then removed and replaced the end of the
hose at the truck. When the hose was fully attached Sergei opened the valves
and kerosene began rushing from the tank to the truck. Minutes later the truck
was full.

 
          
“Patrick,
you drive the panel truck,” Elliott said. “Angelina, go with him. I’ll ride
with our buddy here in the tanker.”

 
          
McLanahan
ran over to the Zadiv, started it up and waited for Elliott and the Russian to
get in the tanker.

 
          
“
Pazhaloosta,
” Elliott said when he and
Sergei had climbed inside the icebox-like cab of the tanker. He gestured at the
truck outside the fence, then pointed his pistol at the Russian. “F
etam napravlyenil.
Please. This way.”

 
          
Sergei
watched the muzzle of the .45. When Elliott inadvertently swung it too high he
reached out with his right hand and tried to grab it away. He’d been a clown
too long . . .

 
          
A
shot rang out, and the windshield of the tanker truck exploded, showering them
with shards of glass. Sergei leapt out of the truck, running back around the
fence. No longer a hero.

 
          
McLanahan
and Angelina caught a glimpse of him just as he disappeared down a line of
trees that paralleled the flight line road, and Angelina took a shot at him but
the bullet ricocheted harmlessly away.

 
          
McLanahan
ran for the tanker and jumped into the cab. “You all right, General?”

 
          
“Yes,
dammit, but things are going to get tense here real quick.” He turend to
Angelina as she came to the right side of the tanker. “Take the panel truck to
the plane. Patrick and I will take the tanker. Sure as hell he’s going to call
for help, we won’t have much time.”

 
          
It
took a few moments for McLanahan to figure out how to get the fuel truck moving,
but soon the two trucks pulled up to where they had half-hidden the Old Dog in
a wide parking area between two hangars. Ormack came running out, the second
survival revolver in hand. He saw the smashed windshield, looked to Elliott.
“What . . . ?”

 
          
“We
had a comrade but he bugged out on us. We’ve got to work fast before he calls
in the Marines. John, you’ll be up in the cockpit on the fuel panel. I think I
can figure out how to work the pump on the tank truck so I’ll be outside.” He
called over to Angelina in the panel truck. “Pull the truck over to the right
wingtip. Patrick, climb up on the right wing, open one of the fuel filler ports
and we’ll fill it from there. Angelina will help with the hose. Where’s Wendy
and Dave?”

 
          
“I’ve
got Dave in the cockpit monitoring the engines,” Ormack said. “Wendy is on the
radios calling for help.”

 
          
“Any
luck?”

 
          
“Not
yet. I’m not sure what anyone can do for us anyway, unless we lift off out of
here.”

 
          
Ormack
then began unreeling the refueling hose from the truck while McLanahan climbed
on the Old Dog’s right wing, a screwdriver in his teeth.

 
          
“The
main-wing tanks have dozens of holes in them,” Ormack told Elliott as the
general began to decipher and operate the truck’s pump controls. “The forward
body tank has a few leaks too. McLanahan will pump fuel into the center tank.
I’ll plan on keeping the fuel in the center, aft and mid-body tanks, but once
we get up to engine start and takeoff we’ll have to put fuel in the mains.
We’ll be losing fuel like crazy after that—”

 
          
“Nothing
we can do about it,” Elliott said, “unless you’ve enough chewing gum to plug
the holes.” Elliott started the truck’s fuel pumps and waved to McLanahan, who
had a filler cap off the center-wing fuel tank and was dragging the hose across
the wing and over to the fuselage. “Ready anytime, Patrick.”

 
          
Huddled
against the biting wind, McLanahan inserted the fuel nozzle into the open fuel
port on the fuselage between the two huge wings and began pumping fuel. Below
him, Ormack ran inside the Old Dog and took Luger’s place at the controls.

 
          
Luger,
right leg heavily taped and bandaged, limped downstairs and out to the fuel
truck, carrying several quart cans taped together. “I found the spare oil
downstairs near the survival rations. I’ll fill up the number two engine with
oil. At least we should be able to use it for takeoff before it disintegrates.”

 
          
“Good,
Dave . . . how you doing?”

 
          
“Great,”
Luger said, dropping the case of oil on the truck’s fender to spell himself. “I
have a blinding headache, I’m freezing cold and my right leg looks like Swiss
cheese. How are you, sir?”

 
          
“Got
you beat, Dave, but if I talk too much I’m afraid I’ll pass out.”

 
          
“Let
me handle the pump, General. You get inside.”

           
“No, put the oil in, then see what
you can do about ripping loose some of the metal and that broken tip gear off
the wings. It’s all drag—we can do without it. Especially for a seven-engine
takeoff.”

 
          
“You
got it, sir . . . you know, I still don’t believe we’re doing this. I mean,
actually stealing gas from a Russian fighter base—”

 
          
“We
may be pumping water into our tanks, for all we know. There just wasn’t time to
keep on looking . . .” And so saying, Elliott seemed to be drifting off,
falling asleep, the rush of adrenaline wearing off. . .

 
          
Chief
Constable Vjarelskiv, the regional militia commander, grimmaced as he took a
sip of what he was told was
kofye,
a
thick liquid of grain and coffee. He took a bite of
khlyep
to take the dusty taste away, glaring all the time at
Serbientlov, who was standing wringing his hat in his hands in front of
Vjarelskiv’s desk.

 
          
“This
is nonsense, Serbientlov,” the constable said. “You bring me tales of armed
attackers at the base—two men and a woman ... What did they steal? Your
precious Chinese chopsticks? Are you sure you didn’t dream up the whole story?”

 
          
“This
is no joke,
tovarisch,
” Sergei said.
“If we don’t hurry they’ll get away.”