Free Ill Wind by Doug Beason Kevin J Anderson Page B

an oncoming car. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Reinski frantically trying to fasten his seat belt.
    Bayclock fumbled at the dashboard and brought up a microphone. “Tower, Eagle One. I’m heading to the break-for-final. What’s the status of Guzzle 37?”
    The radio crackled. “We’re foaming the runway now.”
    “Is that plane going to crash?” asked Reinski. His voice seemed to carry a mixture of dread and anticipation.
    “Maybe.” Bayclock shot a glance at the scrawny mayor fidgeting in the front seat. “But not if I can help it.”
    When they reached the runway, Bayclock jumped out of the car, leaving the door rocking on its hinges. He held a hand up to his eyes, searching for the incoming plane in the bright desert sky. The smell of hot asphalt rose up from the tarmac. The overtaxed staff car made ticking noises as it sat under the sun.
    When Reinski joined him, Bayclock spoke without turning. “There’s a flying fuel tank up there with a gas hose they can’t pull in. The problem is the hose isn’t made out of rubber—it’s a twenty-foot-long hollow steel pole that juts down. The crew thinks it’ll be like lighting a fuse if it scrapes on the runway. They can’t dump their fuel, so they want to eject.”
    “And you’re not allowing them?”
    “Hell no!” said Bayclock. “Not without seeing for myself. People in situations like this tend to panic and overreact. It’s my call, and I’ll make it. What is this, twenty questions?”
    Reinski’s eyes were wide as he stared into the sky. He was looking in the wrong place. “But if those men die because of—”
    Bayclock glared. “I’m not going to let them do anything stupid, Mr. Mayor. Once they fly over our position, I’ll tell them what to do.” He didn’t want to be distracted right now. He had to concentrate, ready to change his mind in a flash. “My people trust me.”
    Reinski kept scanning for the crippled tanker aircraft in the sky. Bayclock could hear stuttered transmissions over the radio as the tower communicated with the tanker. Three miles behind them, trucks crisscrossed the runway, spraying fire-retardant foam. Ambulances, emergency trucks, fire engines, and Kirtland AFB police vehicles waited at the edge of the runway.
    Bayclock patted his pockets, looking for a cigarette, a pack of gum, anything to keep him busy. He picked up the microphone. “Tower, Eagle One. Give me an update.”
    “No change, Eagle One.”
    “Patch me directly into the cockpit.”
    Tower sounded reluctant. “Ah . . . Rog.”
    Bayclock fingered the microphone. “Guzzle 37, you there?”
    The reply came back in irritation. “Rog, rog, Eagle One. You sure you know what the hell you’re doing, sir?”
    “Affirmative,” said Bayclock. “Listen, I’m three miles east of the runway—you bring her down to 500 feet and I’ll give you a reading. That’s plenty of time to either land or keep going to the desert if I wave you off. You copy?”
    The voice over the radio sounded clipped and tired. “That’s a rog, Eagle One.”
    Bayclock spotted the plane coming low over the Manzano mountains east of Albuquerque. He felt a sudden rush as he focused his attention even more on the problem. He knew he could do this. Bayclock had never been wrong in an emergency before. Never. “Got you, Guzzle—looking good. ” The enormous KC-10 moved so slowly it seemed like a zeppelin in the air.
    The giant wide-body roared past, low to the ground. Bayclock would have to make a decision fast. His heart pounded. He knew the crew of the tanker would be white-knuckled up there, praying, counting on him. The import of the situation buoyed Bayclock. Beside the staff car, Reinski was saying something, but Bayclock shut the distraction out of his universe.
    He squinted, taking a split second to spot the refueling boom. He glanced quickly away, then back again to confirm what he had really seen. He spoke rapidly into the microphone. “Guzzle 37, your boom is rigid and