Free Parallax View by Allan Leverone

with
doing so a moment ago, but he knew he had to. He screwed up his courage,
praying for strength. Then he blinked his eyes open, doing his best to ignore
the accompanying flash of pain.
    The CIA agent—he
tried to recall her name and couldn’t—knelt over him, holding her blood-soaked
jacket to his head. Stan knew the blood was his and tried to ignore it. He felt
light-headed, weak and disoriented. He focused on his rescuer and her stunning
red hair, and after a moment three blurry CIA agents became two, and then one.
She was still talking to him, calm and encouraging, but her ashen face gave
away her concern. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” she said tightly.
    “Great to be
back,” he mumbled. “But I’m not sure how long I’ll be here.” He felt woozy and
his stomach rolled. “How bad is it?”
    “I’m not going to
lie to you,” she said. “It’s bad. I’m not even sure how you’re conscious right
now. Mitchell’s second shot struck you in the head.”
    “Who’s flying the
plane right now?” he asked, struggling to stay conscious.
    “No one. I managed
to straighten the wings and return us more or less to a straight flight path,
but we’re slowly descending.” Her voice sounded thin and reedy and she was
clearly fighting panic.
    “Have you radioed
for help?”
    “Not yet. I’ve
been a little preoccupied.”
    “Right. Sorry
about that.” Stan nodded and instantly regretted doing so. The pain in his
head, which had diminished slightly, returned full-force. The battering ram had
taken a break and a sledgehammer took its place. He closed his eyes and
concentrated on settling his upset stomach. He knew if he tossed his cookies,
the pain would explode and he would probably lose consciousness. If that
happened, he doubted he would ever reawaken.
    Stan forced
himself to focus. The lure of sleep was almost overwhelming; he wanted nothing
more than to let go and leave this nightmare behind. But it was obvious the CIA
agent wasn’t a pilot and would never be able to land the B-52 herself. It was
impressive that she had managed to straighten the wings—the BUFF must have been
in the slightest of rolls—but after that she had clearly run out of ideas.
    He opened his
eyes. The pain rolled back in like a massive tsunami but stopped just short of
unmanageable. “Let’s get this big hunk of metal on the ground, shall we?” His
vision blurred and then cleared.
    She sighed, her
relief palpable. “Absolutely. What do I do first?”
    “You get the hell
out of my way and let me fly.”
     
     
    15
    May 30, 1987
    11:27 p.m.
    Atlantic Ocean, 70 miles off the
coast of Maine
    The badly injured pilot was out of
his seat, crumpled on the floor, and Tracie knew sliding him upright would be a
risky proposition. He had already lost a lot of blood by the time she reached
him, and she had been forced to pick one of his two bullet wounds to apply
pressure to. The choice had been easy—the head trumped every other part of the
body in terms of importance—but blood continued to ooze sluggishly from his
shoulder wound whenever he moved.
    She would have to
let go of the jacket she was pressing against Wilczynski’s skull in order to
lift him. He was not a huge man, but she was much smaller, and although she had
no doubt she could lift him, she knew she could never manage it one-handed.
    The same thought
seemed to occur to Wilczynski and he said, “Wait. We have a first-aid kit
aboard the aircraft. I think you should bandage my head wound before we try to do
anything else.”
    Tracie felt the
steady descent of the B-52 and her panic began rising again, threatening to
overwhelm her. “How much time do we have?”
    “It depends on how
much altitude we’ve lost. You’ll have to check the altimeter.”
    She craned her
head but couldn’t read the instruments from her position, crouched over
Wilczynski’s seat. “You’re going to have to maintain pressure on the jacket
yourself for a second. Can you do