Clive Cussler - Cyclops

"Never say never," Mitchell replied. "Now tell them we're getting on it. And try to sound cheerful."

"Cheerful?" Foley took a few seconds to brace himself, and then he pressed the Transmit switch. "Okay, Dave, we're going to work on the problem and get you to Key West. Are you on TAEM? Over."

"Affirmative. We're pulling every trick in the book to conserve altitude. Our normal pattern approach will have to be deleted to extend our reach, over."

"Understood. All air and sea rescue units in the area are being alerted."

"Might not be a bad idea to let the Navy know we're dropping in for breakfast."

"Will do," Foley said. "Stand by."

He punched in tracking data on the display screen of his console. The Gettysburg was dropping past 39,500 feet, and she still had eighty miles to go.

Mitchell walked over, his eyes staring at the trajectory display on the giant wall screen. He adjusted his headset and called Jurgens.

"Dave, this is Irwin Mitchell. Go back to auto. Do you copy? Over."

"I copy, Irv, but I don't like it."

"Better the computers handle this stage of the approach. You can go back to manual ten miles from touchdown."

"Roger, out."

Foley looked up at Mitchell expectantly. "How close?" was all he asked.

Mitchell took a deep breath. "Paper thin."

"They can do it?"

"If the wind doesn't get temperamental, they stand a hairline chance. But if it veers into a five-knot crosswind, they buy the farm."

There was no fear in the cockpit of the Gettysburg. There was no time for it. Jurgens followed the descent trajectory on the computer display screens very closely. He flexed his fingers like a piano player before a concert, anxiously awaiting the moment he took over manual control for the final landing maneuvers.

"We've got an escort," said Burkhart.

For the first time, Jurgens turned his eyes from the instruments and gazed out the windows. He could just make out an F-15 fighter flying alongside about two hundred yards away. As he watched, the pilot switched on his navigation lights and waggled his wings. Two other aircraft in formation followed suit. Jurgens reset his radio to a military frequency.

"Where did you guys come from?"

"Just cruising the neighborhood for girls and spotted your flying machine," answered Hollyman. "Anything we can do to assist? Over."

"Got a towrope? Over."

"Fresh out."

"Thanks for hanging around, out."

Jurgens felt a small measure of comfort. If they fell short of Key West and had to ditch, at least the fighters could stand by and guide rescuers to their position. He turned his attention back to the flight indicators and idly wondered why Houston hadn't put him in communication with the Key West Naval Air Station.

"What in hell do you mean Key West is shut down?" Mitchell shouted at a white-faced engineer standing at his side, who was holding a phone. Without waiting for an answer, Mitchell grabbed the receiver. "Who am I talking to?" he demanded.

"This is Lieutenant Commander Redfern."

"Are you fully aware of the seriousness of this situation?"

"It has been explained, sir, but there is nothing we can do. A fuel tanker crashed into our power lines earlier this evening and blacked out the field."

"What about your emergency generators?"

"The diesel-engine power source ran fine for about six hours and then failed from a mechanical problem. They're working on it now and should have it back in service in an hour."

"That's too damned late," Mitchell snapped. "The Gettysburg is two minutes away. How can you guide them in on the final approach?"

"We can't," answered the commander. "All our equipment is shut down."

"Then line the runway with car and truck headlights, anything that will illuminate the surface."

"We'll do our best, sir, but with only four men on flight line duty this time of the morning it won't be much. I'm sorry."

"You're not the only one who's sorry" Mitchell grunted, and slammed down the phone.

"We should have the runway on visual by now," said Burkhart uneasily. "I see the city lights of Key West but no sign of the air station."

For the first time, a faint gleam of sweat appeared on Jurgens' brow. "Damned odd we haven't heard from their control tower."

At that moment, Mitchell's strained voice broke in. "Gettysburg, Key West station has a power outage. They are making an effort to light the runway with vehicles. We are directing your approach from the east to land on a westerly heading. Your runway is seven thousand feet. If you overshoot you wind up in a recreation park. Do you copy? Over."

"Roger, Control. We copy."

"We show you at 11,300 feet, Dave. Speed 410. One minute, ten seconds and six miles to touchdown. You are go for full manual, over."

"Roger, going to manual."

"Do you have the runway on visual?"

"Nothing yet."

"Excuse the interruption, Gettysburg." It was Hollyman cutting in on the NASA frequency. "But I think my boys and I can play Rudolph to your sleigh. We'll go ahead and light the way, over."

"Much obliged, little buddy," said Jurgens gratefully.

He watched as the F-15s accelerated past, dropped their noses, and pointed them toward Key West. They fell into line as if playing follow the leader and switched on their landing lights. At first the brilliant rays only reflected on water, and then they lit up a salt flat before sweeping up the naval air station runway.

The effort of concentration showed on Jurgens' face. The shuttle went right where he aimed it, but it was never meant to soar through the air like a paper glider. Burkhart read out the airspeed and altitude so Jurgens could center his attention on flying.

"Gettysburg, you are three hundred feet under minimum," said Foley.

"If I pull up another inch, she'll stall."

The runway seemed to take forever to grow larger. The shuttle was only four miles out, but it looked like a hundred. Jurgens believed he could make it. He had to make it. Every brain cell in his skull willed the Gettysburg to hang in the air.

"Speed 320, altitude 1,600, three miles to runway," reported Burkhart. His voice had a trace of hoarseness.

Jurgens could see the flashing lights from the fire and rescue equipment now. The fighters were hovering above him, shining their landing lights on the concrete ribbon 1.5 miles long by 200 feet wide.

The shuttle was eating up her glide slope. Jurgens flared her out as much as he dared. The landing lights glinted on the shoreline no more than ninety feet below. He held on to the last possible second before he pushed the switch and deployed the landing gear. Normal landing procedure required the wheels to touch 2,760 feet down the runway, but Jurgens held his breath, hoping against hope that they would even reach the concrete.

The salt flat flashed past under the blinding beams and was lost in the darkness behind. Burkhart gripped his seat rests and droned off the diminishing numbers.

"Speed 205. Main gear at ten feet. . . five feet. . . three feet. . . two feet. . . one, contact."

The four huge tires of the main landing gear thumped on the hard surface and protested at the sudden friction with a puff of smoke. A later measurement would show that Jurgens touched the shuttle down only forty-seven feet from the end of the runway. Jurgens gently pitched the bow down until the nose wheel made contact and then pushed both brake pedals. He rolled the spacecraft to a stop with a thousand feet to spare.

"They made it!" Hollyman whooped over his radio.

"Gettysburg to Houston Control," said Jurgens with an audible sigh. "The wheels have stopped."

"Magnificent! Magnificent!" shouted Foley.

"Congratulations, Dave," added Mitchell. "Nobody could have done it better."

Burkhart looked over at Jurgens and said nothing, simply gave a thumbs-up sign.