Shadow Tyrants (Oregon Files 13)

EIGHT

DIEGO GARCIA

The flight from Dyess Air Force Base in Texas had been a long one, with two in-air refueling hookups on the way. Major Jay Petkunas was looking forward to putting his B-1B Lancer bomber on the ground. Camp Thunder Cove, the secluded island’s Air Force and Navy base, was considered one of the best postings in the military because of its tropical climate, but eight hours of rack time sounded better than spending some fun in the sun.

As he set the bomber’s swing wings to their widest position for landing, he looked out the side window at the U-shaped coral atoll. The thin strip of land around Diego Garcia’s central lagoon covered just twelve square miles. A dozen Navy ships were anchored in the protected harbor, and the rest of the bombers from his squadron were already lined up along one side of the twelve-thousand-foot runway, facing an array of cargo planes and refueling tankers in front of them.

His copilot, Captain Hank Larsson, who was currently flying the plane, futilely craned his neck to see the view and said, “How do the beaches look?” This was Petkunas’s third trip to the island but Larsson’s first.

“You’re not tired?”

“I can sleep on the sand. I have to work on my tan.”

Petkunas, who was dark-haired with an olive complexion, gave his pale blond copilot a skeptical look. “Good luck with that. You better hope they have a huge supply of aloe for when you fry that translucent Swedish skin of yours.”

“I have sunblock to keep me from burning.”

“Is your sunblock rated for nuclear radiation? Because that’s what you need.” The two combat systems officers behind them laughed. Petkunas radioed the control tower. “Thunder Cove tower, this is Bats 12 requesting clearance to land. We have a vampire here who wants to experience what sunlight will do to him.”

“Bats 12,” a woman’s voice said, “the runway is yours. We’ve got plenty of sun to—”

Her voice cut out abruptly. At the same time, all of the bomber’s instrument panels went dark. The engines flamed out, enveloping the cockpit in an eerie silence.

The joking attitude instantly disappeared, and the crew flipped back to the professionals they were.

Petkunas calmly took hold of the control stick and said, “I have the plane.”

Larsson let go of his own stick and replied, “You have the plane.”

“Anything working?”

“We’ve got a complete power failure.” The men behind Petkunas reported the same.

Petkunas tried calling the tower, “Thunder Cove, this is Bats 12. We’re declaring an aircraft emergency. I repeat, we’re declaring an aircraft emergency.”

No response. Not even static.

“Let’s get the engines restarted,” Petkunas said as the unpowered B-1B glided toward the ocean.

They raced through the checklist, but it was useless. It seemed like the entire computer control system had short-circuited.

“Isn’t anything working?” Larsson asked in frustration.

Petkunas moved the stick to one side, and the bomber sluggishly tilted in response.

“Hydraulics are intact,” Petkunas said. “Barely.”

“Without the electronics, we can’t put the gear down.”

Petkunas knew what he was saying. Even if they could get the huge bomber turned and lined up on the runway, they’d have to make a belly landing.

It was too risky. If he didn’t handle it just right, they could cartwheel down the runway, killing all four of them.

Petkunas made a snap decision.

“Prepare to eject,” he announced. They were close enough to the island to expect a quick rescue.

“Ready!” the three other crew members called out in succession.