Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

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.