Free Air Battle Force by Dale Brown

get out. I’m ready to go. All you have to do is say the word.”
    Patrick paused—but only for a few moments. “No. We’ll make it.”
    â€œPuppeteer, you are too low,” the tower controller called. “Start a slow turn now, away from the final approach path, or you won’t make it.”
    â€œIt’s now or never, Patrick,” Rebecca said, firmly but evenly. “If you wait and try to turn too tight later, you’ll stall and crash. If we lose another engine, we won’t make it. And if we lose an engine while in the turn, we’ll spin in so fast they’ll need a dredger to dig us out of the ocean bottom. Turn now.”
    â€œNo. We can make it.”
    â€œGeneral, don’t be stupid—”
    â€œIf we ditch, Rebecca, we’ll lose a three-hundred-million-dollar plane,” Patrick said. “If we land and we end up crashing it on the runway, maybe even shutting the place down, so what? I doubt if we’d do more than three hundred million worth of damage.”
    â€œYou’re nuts,” Furness said. “You have much more than just a problem with authority—you have some sort of sick death wish. Need I remind you, sir, what happened to you the last time you violated a direct order from the National Command Authority?”
    â€œI was forced to retire from the Air Force within forty-eight hours.”
    â€œThat’s right, sir,” Rebecca said. “And you nearly took me down with you.”
    â€œWe’ll make it,” Patrick said. He keyed the microphone. “Diego Tower, Vampire Three-one on final for full-stop landing runway one-four.” He used his unclassified call sign on the open channel.
    â€œVampire Three-one, this is Diego Tower,” the voice of the British tower controller replied. “You do not have proper authority to land.”
    â€œDiego Tower, Vampire Three-one is declaring an emergency for a flight-control malfunction, five minutes of fuel on board, requesting fire equipment standing by.”
    â€œVampire Three-one, you do not have permission to land!” the controller shouted, his British accent getting thicker as he grew more and more agitated. “Discontinue approach, depart the pattern to the east, and remain clear of this airspace.”
    â€œPuppeteer, this is Rainbow,” the American naval air operations officer cut in on the secure channel. “I order you to break off your approach and leave this airspace, or I will bust you so hard that you’ll be lucky to get an assignment changing tires at the motor pool back at your home base rather than commanding it.”
    Patrick ignored him. Yes, he was taking an awful risk, not just to his career—which was probably over at this point—but to everyone on the ground. This was loco. Why risk it? Why . . . ?
    â€œPuppeteer, I order you to break off this approach, now! ”
    At that moment the computer said, “Configuration warning.”
    â€œOverride,” Patrick ordered. “I’m leaving the gear up.”
    â€œGeneral . . . ?”
    â€œI’m committed,” Patrick said to Rebecca’s unasked question. They weren’t going to make it. They were so low that Patrick couldn’t see the runway anymore.
    Just before he hit the water, Patrick pulled both throttles to IDLE, lifted them, and pulled them into cutoff. He then turned all the switches—ignition, power, and battery—off. They were passengers now, along for the ride.
    The big bomber sank out of the sky like a stone. It smacked into the ocean less than a half mile from the approach end of the runway. The bomber skipped off the surface of the ocean, sailed into the air, and started to roll to its left—but just as it did, it skittered up onto the beach, crashed through the approach-end runway lighting, through the security fence, rolled right, and careened up onto the large mass aircraft-parking ramp on