Relentless

12

… Now they had turned to run before the storm, reaching for altitude to get above the mountains and never mind the Nellis radar. The weather front was uneven and when they crossed patches of it they were pitched violently around. Somebody—Hanratty?—was retching. The magnetic compass was not pointing at much of anything. A sudden downdraft, like the flat of a palm, pressed them sickeningly toward the ground and Walker’s stomach surged up into his chest. He had maximum power now, rich mixtures, but in this air and with this deadweight the Apache was heavy, sluggishly responding to his control. The downdraft had knocked them down more than fifty feet; the altimeter bobbed and flickered and began once again to climb through the “7” on the thousands dial but that was seven thousand feet above mean sea level, disregarding the variants in air pressure caused by the front, and up here the plateau was more than four thousand feet high and the mountains loomed eight thousand feet above that; Walker still had to pick up several thousand feet of altitude before it would be safe to turn across the razorback summit of the mountain range. With all this weight aboard he wasn’t sure the Apache could attain or keep that kind of ceiling but it was that or turn south instead of north, and south was where the highways were, where the airports and Nellis AFB and the police were.…

He glanced at the gauges; the tanks were out of balance—there was more fuel in the starboard wing tank than in its mate—so he reversed the flow switches to close off the port tank and draw on the starboard one. Momentarily he recalled that the threads of the starboard filler cap hadn’t looked good when he’d screwed it on after topping up the tanks this morning in Reno. But it would have to do. What the hell, another three or four hours and the whole plane could collapse for all he cared. But to make sure he leaned as far forward as he could without pushing the elevators down and peered around past the Major’s shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of the tank cap on the starboard wing—and saw a plume of grey-white liquid pouring straight back from the wing.

Baraclough, at the window behind the Major, was rubbing at the pane and talking in a taut voice thi

The Major twisted around. “What?”

“That does it,” Walker breathed. His hand shot forward. Switch back to the left-hand tank. Close off the leaking starboard tank. Bring up the trim.

He leaned forward to look out again. The Major was barking, at him: “What is it, man?”

But the fuel was still streaming out. It would: the low pressure of fast-moving air over the wing would pull it out. And with high-octane flowing straight across the hot exhaust system …

It was no good. He flicked switches again—cut all starboard power flow, switch off magneto, feather starboard propeller: the sudden drag pulled her severely around to the right and he had to stand on the rudder and crank the wheel left to keep her flying.

Hanratty was bawling and Eddie Burt exploded in oaths and Walker saw the Major’s hands gripped white on the edge of his seat

She was flying on one engine and the mountains were a looming threat off the port wingtip. The gasoline was coming out of the tank in a fine spray now and that was likely to keep up for a long time.

The Major grabbed him by the arm. “Captain …”

“Shut up.” He shook off Hargit’s hand. He was tipping her over on one wing to look at the ground below.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a place to land.”

13

“You’re out of your mind!”

“Major, it’s not as if we had any choice.”

“You’re panicking. Any twin plane will fly on one engine—every schoolboy knows that.”

“And every schoolboy knows what happens when you run high-octane vapor over a hot exhaust pipe in low-pressure air that’s charged full of storm electricity. If we can get on the ground before that wing catches fire we’ll be lucky.”

And because it would have been anticlimactic he didn’t add that the fuel remaining in the port wing tank would be hardly enough to carry them fifty miles single-engine.

The earth tilted away beneath the wing and then rose again, swooping, making Hanratty cry out. The ground was all buckled up—foothills. Walker made a tight economical turn to starboard without adding any u

“Too far. We must be forty miles north of it.”

“No highway,” the Major snapped. “Use your head.”

He had about two thousand feet and the Apache was noseup to the horizon, struggling, beating a jagged track through the turbulence; the stall-warning light was flickering a wicked red. He had to shove things forward to pick up a little airspeed. Flaps down full. “See those handles?”

The Major followed his pointing finger. Walker said through his teeth, “When I tell you, pull.”

“What is it?”

“Landing gear. I’m going to have my hands full.”

The hills were flattening out underneath. Nothing in sight but scrub. Cutbank gullies ran out onto the flats from groined foothill canyons and there were house-sized boulders scattered around like Easter Island statues.

Little shocks ran through the wings and the plane lurched: they were crossing the leading edge of the storm front again. Walker had one eye on the starboard wing: no sign of flames yet. “If anybody knows how to pray this might be a good time for it.”

Baraclough said, “If you’re half the pilot you think you are you’ll get us down in one piece.”

14

The sky was cut down the middle in two neat halves: black storm to the west, cobalt blue clarity to the east. In the cockpit it was cold and there was no more talk, only the gutteral growl of the port engine. The Apache had no more than five hundred feet and now there was a flicker of flame on the starboard nacelle. The wind whipped it away and for the moment it was gone.

He was looking for a flat stretch clear of boulders and uncut by gullies. The sun was behind the storm and there were no clear shadows; the bad light made it hard to judge the terrain. Walker’s eyes whipped from point to point.

Flame burst from the nacelle again and Walker toggled the starboard extinguisher. He heard the hiss of foam; he didn’t waste time looking. It wouldn’t matter now anyway.

With all power concentrated on the port side the plane had a heavy tendency to yaw and tilt. The little airplane silhouette on the turn-and-bank indicator was all over the gauge. She still had a hundred and ten knots airspeed but even at that she wanted to corkscrew.

“Over there,” the Major breathed. “Flat as an ironing board.”

“Don’t kid yourself. That’s soft clay. But it’ll have to do.” He had to turn counter to the plane’s tendency to spiral right; she fought him heavily and they were all pitched violently around in the cabin.

“You’re going to overshoot,” Baraclough hissed.

“Shut up. Gear down—pull!”

He could hardly budge the controls. His ears picked up the grind and thud of the landing gear going down. The straining port engine throbbed and chattered. “Brace,” he said.

The ground came up slowly and she was begi

The greasewood clumps were bigger than they had looked from the air. Silent flames began to flicker from the engine again. He shoved the nose down, dead stick, fishtailing with the rudder to reduce speed, and he thought Christ I’m coming in too fast.… He had overshot the first hundred feet and there was a gully ru