his eyelids twist like rivers on a roadmap. Just as instinctively, he reached for the ejection lever, as he had in Vietnam. But he pulled his hand back abruptly. He braced himself. He did not want his hand on the lever when this wave hit.
Up front, Kazaklis began counting even before he looked at Moreau. He continued to count as his own flash-shocked vision fought to focus on her one vacant eye. He ticked off the seconds as he implored her to help him push their aircraft higher, higher.
Three . . .
Four . . .
The Buff was tough. But he knew it broke, sometimes under natural forces they still didn't understand. More than once Kazaklis had felt the godawful shudder, heard the thunderous crack of the B-52 in whiplash, as he roared low over mountain ridges where powerful wind currents collided and clashed.
Five . . .
Six . . .
The Air Force kept the occasional crashes as quiet as possible. But Kazaklis heard. And Halupalai heard. And they both knew another Buffs back had been broken, snapped clean by the same kind of roiling forces that cracked a man's back in the ocean surf.
Seven . . .
Eight . . .
Kazaklis did not know what would happen now, for this would be no natural force and no man had ever felt it, no aircraft had ever been subjected to it. He knew only that survival was ninety percent luck of the draw, ten percent him. He would play the ten percent and climb, climb.
Nine . . .
Ten . . .
Moreau pulled with him, thank God for that. It would take both of them. He squinted, trying to readjust his eyes to the red light. The altimeter read 8,500 feet, 8,600.
Eleven . . .
The blast wave arrived with no noise interrupting the engine drone. But Kazaklis felt as if he had been hit in the gut first, then clubbed by a street fighter. The impact hurled him forward into the pinched embrace of his seat harness, then whipped him back. He could feel what he couldn't hear—the B-52's wings groaning under the immense stress. Groggily he fought to keep the plane climbing.
“Get the nose down, Kazaklis!” Moreau's steely voice hammered through the pilot's haze. “Dammit, you're going to stall us!”
Fuzzily Kazaklis concentrated on the air-speed gauge. It read under Mach point-five, about 325 miles an hour, two-thirds of the climb speed just seconds earlier. The horizon indicator seemed to have been blown completely out of kilter, showing them at a thirty-five-degree angle of attack, nose up, tail down. The altimeter was at ten thousand feet and still rising. It made no sense at all. His training told him the blast wave would drive the plane down, not up.
“Gauges malfunctioning!” Kazaklis shouted.
“No. Nose down!”
He ignored the copilot's dissent. The air-speed indicator dropped to Mach point-four, yellow alarm lights flashing like bonus lamps in one of his pinball palaces. He ignored them, too— little liars nuked—and held on as if he were strangling the wheel. Mach three-point-five. Kazaklis, following his instincts, was doing everything wrong. Pain stabbed at his forearm. He turned to strike back at Moreau, who had judo-chopped his right arm to loosen the grip that threatened to put them in a fatal stall. She sat hunched over her wheel, nudging the nose down. Mach three-point-seven. Then the aftershock hit, the wave sending a quiet shudder upward through the pilot's feet, and then again, twice more, rapidly, pocketa, pocketa, massaging his back like magic fingers in a cheap motel. All three aftershocks were soft, feathery, gentle—and telling. Kazaklis withdrew his upheld arm, took the wheel, and helped Moreau get the nose down.
“Jeezuz,” Kazaklis muttered absentmindedly, “that was closer than a tit when you're screwin'.”
“Missionary style,” Moreau said blandly.
Kazaklis cocked an eye at Moreau, as if he had lost track. She stared straight ahead, but he laughed anyway.
“Only way I know how, copilot. I'm just a country boy.”
“Uhm.”
They leveled the plane out at 10,500
Up front, Kazaklis began counting even before he looked at Moreau. He continued to count as his own flash-shocked vision fought to focus on her one vacant eye. He ticked off the seconds as he implored her to help him push their aircraft higher, higher.
Three . . .
Four . . .
The Buff was tough. But he knew it broke, sometimes under natural forces they still didn't understand. More than once Kazaklis had felt the godawful shudder, heard the thunderous crack of the B-52 in whiplash, as he roared low over mountain ridges where powerful wind currents collided and clashed.
Five . . .
Six . . .
The Air Force kept the occasional crashes as quiet as possible. But Kazaklis heard. And Halupalai heard. And they both knew another Buffs back had been broken, snapped clean by the same kind of roiling forces that cracked a man's back in the ocean surf.
Seven . . .
Eight . . .
Kazaklis did not know what would happen now, for this would be no natural force and no man had ever felt it, no aircraft had ever been subjected to it. He knew only that survival was ninety percent luck of the draw, ten percent him. He would play the ten percent and climb, climb.
Nine . . .
Ten . . .
Moreau pulled with him, thank God for that. It would take both of them. He squinted, trying to readjust his eyes to the red light. The altimeter read 8,500 feet, 8,600.
Eleven . . .
The blast wave arrived with no noise interrupting the engine drone. But Kazaklis felt as if he had been hit in the gut first, then clubbed by a street fighter. The impact hurled him forward into the pinched embrace of his seat harness, then whipped him back. He could feel what he couldn't hear—the B-52's wings groaning under the immense stress. Groggily he fought to keep the plane climbing.
“Get the nose down, Kazaklis!” Moreau's steely voice hammered through the pilot's haze. “Dammit, you're going to stall us!”
Fuzzily Kazaklis concentrated on the air-speed gauge. It read under Mach point-five, about 325 miles an hour, two-thirds of the climb speed just seconds earlier. The horizon indicator seemed to have been blown completely out of kilter, showing them at a thirty-five-degree angle of attack, nose up, tail down. The altimeter was at ten thousand feet and still rising. It made no sense at all. His training told him the blast wave would drive the plane down, not up.
“Gauges malfunctioning!” Kazaklis shouted.
“No. Nose down!”
He ignored the copilot's dissent. The air-speed indicator dropped to Mach point-four, yellow alarm lights flashing like bonus lamps in one of his pinball palaces. He ignored them, too— little liars nuked—and held on as if he were strangling the wheel. Mach three-point-five. Kazaklis, following his instincts, was doing everything wrong. Pain stabbed at his forearm. He turned to strike back at Moreau, who had judo-chopped his right arm to loosen the grip that threatened to put them in a fatal stall. She sat hunched over her wheel, nudging the nose down. Mach three-point-seven. Then the aftershock hit, the wave sending a quiet shudder upward through the pilot's feet, and then again, twice more, rapidly, pocketa, pocketa, massaging his back like magic fingers in a cheap motel. All three aftershocks were soft, feathery, gentle—and telling. Kazaklis withdrew his upheld arm, took the wheel, and helped Moreau get the nose down.
“Jeezuz,” Kazaklis muttered absentmindedly, “that was closer than a tit when you're screwin'.”
“Missionary style,” Moreau said blandly.
Kazaklis cocked an eye at Moreau, as if he had lost track. She stared straight ahead, but he laughed anyway.
“Only way I know how, copilot. I'm just a country boy.”
“Uhm.”
They leveled the plane out at 10,500
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