Stealing Trinity (36 page)

Alex finally spoke. "Lydia. What in God's name are you doing here?" He began to move closer.

"Stay where you are!" she shouted.

He seemed not to hear. His eyes were locked to hers, not even seeming to register the suitcase she had thought would command his attention. What is he thinking? She cracked the case further, and a handful of pages fluttered out and were swept away in the windstream. Alex stopped a few feet away.

I'll do it, Alex! You know I will!"

He lunged and grabbed for her arm. Lydia was ready. She swung the case outside and it snapped open. Stacks of paper flew out, a flurry of white swirling behind into the empty sky. Alex was on her. In the struggle Lydia lost her grip on the handle, and the suitcase was gone. They fell to the floor in a tangle, Lydia slipping toward the door.

"No!" he screamed.

Just like on the train, Lydia thought she would fall. But this time Alex had her. He pulled her back inside. With a fierce grip on her shoulders, he brought her away from the door. Alexs grip loosened, but he kept holding on, locking her at arm's length. Lydia braced for a strike, the back of a hand across her face. She expected anger, but what she saw instead was carved into his every feature. Confusion. The mercurial, indomitable Alexander Braun seemed utterly bewildered.

"Do you know what you just cost me?" he said.

Lydia was defiant. "And how can you say that to me?"

They stared at one another for a long moment. Then an engine sputtered.

The pilot spewed a stream of harsh Russian that could only be expletives. The starboard engine coughed again, then shuddered to a stop with a sickening vibration. The Ilyushin lurched to one side as the pilot slapped at levers up front. The port engine went to full power.

"Fuel!" the pilot yelled.

They all looked out at the affected engine. Liquid was streaming out from a pair of jagged holes in the metal cowling.

Thatcher said, "The MP's were shooting at us -- they must have nicked a fuel line! Can you do anything?" he shouted to the pilot.

The Russian shook his head violently. "We fly on one engine, but not far!" He pointed behind as the aircraft began a turn. "We must to go back -- Guam! This is only way!"

The port engine screamed at full power. Alex broke away from Lydia. He went up front and looked at the gauges, trying to make sense of it.

"We can t go back! Head somewhere else!" he ordered the pilot.

The man ignored him. "I am pilot. There is no choice. Forty minutes, and we are back in Guam. Either that, or --" he pointed down to the indigo blue Pacific.

Chapter 44.

The stricken Ilyushin was level at three thousand feet. It was the best she could manage on one engine, but they'd made it halfway.

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.

Alex dragged him out of the left seat and took his place. He struggled fiercely against the control column.

"Can you fly it?" Lydia shouted.

"It's a glider now! All I can do is try to crash it well!" Alex looked over his shoulder. "Get up here, Lydia."

She scrambled forward. The ocean grew larger in the windscreen.

"Strap into that seat," Alex ordered. "We're going to hit hard."

There were no other seats, and Lydia said, "What about Michael?"

Alex looked back. "Go stand by the door, Thatcher! I'll get her as slow as I can, and right before she hits, jump!"

"Jump? He can't do that!" Lydia argued.

"No," Thatcher said, "he's right." He pried himself up and moved to the door.

Lydia put on her seatbelt.

Alex fought with the controls. "It's really heavy," he said, "mushy. I don't know if I can control it."

He looked her over. "Shoulder straps!"

Lydia wasn't sure what he meant. Alex reached across with one hand and pulled two straps from behind her seat. He secured it all and pulled everything tight. The two locked eyes for just a moment, then Lydia looked out the side window. It seemed like they were skimming across the waves.

"Get ready, Thatcher!" Alex shouted. "Now!"

Lydia saw Thatcher disappear out the door. When she turned back around, the right wing clipped a wave, and a curtain of white enveloped everything. The airplane cartwheeled a half turn before the windscreen imploded in a wall of water. Everything disappeared.

Braun was stunned. He felt a cool wetness enveloping his body -- strangley calm and serene. Then he realized he was face down in the water.

Braun snapped his head up and shook it violently, taking the water from his eyes and the fog from his brain. When he tried to move, everything seemed surprisingly intact. He began to remember. Looking around, he saw the Ilyushin, or what was left of it. Only the tail and the spine of the fuselage were still visible, wallowing atop the ocean swells a hundred yards away. He had somehow been thrown clear. Yet again, Braun had survived.

The thought nearly brought a smile until he remembered -- Lydia. Had she been thrown clear as well? Braun quickly scanned the ocean around him. He saw a wing and a few bits of debris. But no Lydia. The Ilyushin already appeared to be lower in the water -- she was sinking fast.

"Lydia!" he shouted, hoping for some weak response. He heard nothing. Braun began to swim. He tore through the waves as the big airplanes fuselage began to disappear. When he reached it, the cockpit was already under, but Braun found a gaping hole midway back along the fuselage. He pulled himself though, flowing easily inside with the torrent of water. Getting back out might not be as simple, he realized.

The water inside the barrel of the airplane was up to his shoulders. He scrambled forward, a mix of running and swimming, until he heard a sound that gave him an incredible lift -- a soft, unintelligible moan.

"Lydia!" Braun found her semiconscious, still strapped into her seat. She was battered and incoherent, but alive. Water rushed in from the other side of the cockpit. There, the sidewall, windows, and captains seat were simply gone.

"Come on! Weve got to get you out!"

The water was nearly up to Lydia s neck. She moaned again as Braun worked his hands blindly in the water to release her straps. He found the latch and pulled, but just at that moment the airplane lurched. There was a terrible noise, a groan, as if the big ship was expelling its last painful breath, and then the fuselage buckled behind them. The aft section seemed to fall, and everything rotated. What was left of the cockpit now pointed straight up. For a moment, Braun saw blue sky through the window, but then it disappeared in a swirl of foam and slapping waves. They were headed down.