carried revolvers, but Tombstone had always favored the satisfying heft
of the M-1911A1. The big .45 automatic was virtually a relic now,
replaced years before as the Navy’s standard-issue sidearm by the 9mm
Beretta, but still carried by some personnel who felt that the Colt was
more reliable.
Not that a pistol would do them a hell of a lot of good. They were
almost certainly behind enemy lines. Tombstone had two seven-round
magazines, one in the pistol, the other in a flight suit pocket.
Fourteen shots …
against MVD troops or Naval Infantry with full-auto assault rifles.
Still, it was something. Drawing and checking the weapon, he dragged
the slide back, chambering a round, then flicked up the safety. “Cocked
and locked” now, he hurried toward Tomboy’s chute.
1330 hours
Intruder 504
Over the Kola Inlet
“Okay, Navy. You’re clear to land, south-to-north. There’s only one
runway so you shouldn’t get lost.”
“Thanks, Marine,” Willis replied. “Have a corpsman standing by. My
B/N’s pretty badly shot up.”
“That’s a roger.”
It had been sheer luck that he’d found the place, a Russian airstrip on
the coast overrun by the Marines a few hours earlier. They’d been using
it as an advance base for their Harriers and Hornets, but they’d cleared
it now as an emergency runway for the incoming Navy Intruder.
Sunshine groaned. The blood on her face was bright, bright red.
“Sunshine? Sunshine, you hear me?”
No response. Oh, God, don’t let her die!
The vibration was getting worse, and he wasn’t getting any response from
his right-side flaps. When he flipped the landing-gear switch, he
didn’t get any response there either. Shit! His wheels were stuck up.
He’d have to belly in.
The Marines were sending out a radio beacon for him to home on. He
could see the airstrip now, a single runway on the brown tundra, next to
a handful of buildings. Smoke stained the sky to the east. There was
still fighting going on out there.
His altimeter was reading 650 now. The air controller had already told
him that the base he was angling toward was at an altitude of 275 feet,
so the ground was sweeping past his belly just 375 feet below. Easing
back on the throttle, he kept the Intruder’s nose high, balanced just
ahead of a stall, dropping now at a thousand feet per minute … lower
… lower …
The runway expanded in front of him with breath-taking speed. He tried
the air brakes–no good–and the flaps again–still nothing–and cut the
throttles back to nothing, and then he was over the runway and dropping
like a stone. His tail struck first with a sound of rasping metal …
and then the Intruder’s keel struck tarmac, tortured steel and aluminum
shrieking, and he was battling the controls, trying to keep sliding in a
straight line, but his right wing was coming around anyway, and he was
out of control, sliding, sliding, sliding down the runway as flames
exploded behind him like the wake of a powerboat.
Stopped! With a final lurch, the Intruder halted, its nose tipped into
a rubble-filled crater, smoke boiling away from the aircraft’s engines.
He hit the canopy release, praying that it would work, and it did. Then
he was fumbling with his own harness and with Sunshine’s. The aircraft
was on fire, and he had to get the two of them out!
“That’s okay, Mac,” a gravel voice said beside him. Hands grasped his
arms, pulling him from his seat. Fire extinguishers shooshed and hissed
as Marines hosed down the flames. “We’ll get your buddy.”
“Get her out! Get her out! She’s hurt bad!”
“Her? Oh, Christ …”
“Quit staring, Mike,” another Marine snapped. “Lend a hand!”
“Easy there. Get her into the Stokes.”
“For God’s sake, take it easy with her,” Willis said. “Best fuckin’ B/N
I ever had …”
His legs gave way as he stepped onto the tarmac. He never did remember
being helped away from the plane.
1340 hours
Near Sayda Guba
The Kola Peninsula
Tombstone saw both the parachute and the man and broke into a run, the
heavy Colt clutched in his hand. The guy wore a camo uniform but had a