Bryce went through the checklist methodically. The procedures card was a simple laminated item, labeled Aviat A-1B. Bryce had heard of the type, but certainly never flown one.
“An airplane’s an airplane,” he told himself hopefully.
The runway, if three football fields of frozen taiga was worthy of the term, began directly outside the doors. The wind was coming off the sea, which was in his favor—the takeoff run would be a straight shot directly over town. After that, head to sea, a slight left turn, and start looking for Norway.
On the downside, he would have to fly directly over the squad searching for him. He wondered how they would react. Would they take the time to consider who was in the airplane? Or would they simply assume the worst and start taking potshots? And what of the HIND, still sitting in a clearing with its engine idling? Would the pilots take up pursuit? Bryce didn’t know the top speed of an Aviat A-1B, but he suspected it was considerably less than that of a turbine-powered combat helicopter.
In the easiest decision he’d made all day, he elected to keep the airplane’s exterior lights off, better to blend in with the Arctic gloom.
With everything prepared, he went through the start sequence:
Mixture—Rich
Carb Heat—Off
Prop—Clear
Master—On
Bryce engaged the starter. The engine coughed and the propeller spun. The engine didn’t catch, which he figured wasn’t unusual for a cold-soaked machine. He paused a beat, then tried again. This time a sputter, a puff of smoke, before everything ground to a stop. He closed his eyes, knowing what was at stake. A third try. The prop spun, another cough, then a chugging rhythm as the engine caught idle with all the charm of a top-fuel dragster.
Wasting no time, Bryce clambered out of the cockpit and hurried toward the doors. He started with the left side, leaning into it. The door didn’t budge. He looked down, saw bolts seated into sleeves in the ground—something he should have checked before. He heard shouting outside, an alarm being raised.
He reached down and tried to lift the locking bolt, but it was frozen in place. His weak right hand was little help. Desperate, he hobbled to the workbench and found a hammer. As he was reaching for it, he saw a bigger one. He hauled the minisledge over, and with a haymaker swing gave the locking bolt a mighty whack. The bolt gave way, its bracket parting from the splintered wood. A kick freed it completely, and he gave the same treatment to the right-hand door. The hinges turned out to be in decent shape and the doors swung open freely, the only resistance being the gusting wind.
After the second door was clear, he chanced a look toward town. There were lights on in nearly every building, and the helicopter’s searchlight was sweeping the docks. Framed against the dead-black Barents Sea at twilight, the village stood out like Times Square. Then he saw the inevitable—a member of the search team pointing toward the hangar.
Bryce rushed back to the cockpit, and without so much as fastening his lap belt he goosed the engine. Things didn’t go as planned. The Aviat jumped ahead, the skids sliding off the crates, but the moment it hit dirt the right ski seemed to grab. The nose jerked sideways before straightening. In any conventional airplane he would have some manner of directional control. A steerable nosewheel, or at least differential braking. A tail-dragger riding skis offered none of that. The only way to steer on the ground was to use the rudder on the tail, and that was useless until he gained more speed.
Knowing he was committed, Bryce watched helplessly as the plane accelerated on an angle toward the right-hand door. The wingtip clipped the door, nearly jolting Bryce out of his seat, but then the little airplane bounded outside in the general direction of the runway. The skis hit snow, and the decrease in friction brought a marked acceleration. Using his palm, Bryce firewalled the throttle. The engine roared and the airframe shuddered over the lumpy surface.
Bryce realized he’d neglected the Before Takeoff checklist, normally performed after engine start but before taking the runway. With no time, he ad-libbed what seemed important, lowering the flaps to full extension. The airspeed came off the bottom peg—thirty knots and rising. He stepped on the rudder pedals, thankful that the needed correction was to the left—his more useful leg. Directional control began coming alive. By the time the airspeed reached forty knots, he was centered on the snow-clad strip. Since the airplane had a tailwheel, he pushed the control stick gently forward. The nose lowered slightly, giving more acceleration.
Fifty knots.
A crosswind gust hit hard, and Bryce had the sensation of skiing down a mountain—barely in control and skidding sideways, but still accelerating. The Aviat bounced and buffeted, and soon its wings were gripping the air. He tried to hold the nose straight using the rudder. At the end of the glade, a hundred yards ahead, he saw three men at the edge of town. Two were raising their weapons—as if to answer his earlier question.
He felt the skids lift momentarily, followed by a bounce. Finally he was airborne. The men were fifty yards away now, their rifles shouldered. Bryce could think of only one defense. He pushed the nose lower and flew straight at them—a strafing pass without a gun from ten feet in the air, a buzz-saw propeller leading the way. He saw barrels settle on him in an absurd game of chicken, then the blink of muzzle flashes. Bryce ducked instinctively, and the forward windscreen shattered in one corner. He popped his head back up to hold the collision course.
At the last moment the soldiers flew aside as if parted by Moses. The little Aviat shot past only feet above the ground, one ski tapping the permafrost. As soon as he was past the soldiers, Bryce hauled back on the control stick. The airspeed had been building, and the airplane shot skyward like a raptor catching a thermal. He raised the flaps and looked over his shoulder, saw more sparkling muzzle flashes that quickly faded.
Bryce referenced the compass and turned west, leaving the throttle at maximum power. He looked back again, and in the dim light saw figures running toward the HIND. They would probably pursue him, and might even call to have air defense fighters scrambled. Bryce’s best ally was speed. If he could reach Norwegian airspace, only minutes ahead, he knew they couldn’t follow.
He turned back forward, and as he did the Aviat was swallowed by a cloud. The dim horizon, his only reference to the world, disappeared instantly. The little airplane shot ahead at speed, rushing into the misty void. There was suddenly no up or down. No sky or earth. The loss of his only attitude reference conspired with what had been an abrupt movement of his head. The sum result: Bryce became completely disoriented.
He looked at the instruments but they were little help. The attitude indicator showed a steepening turn, but he’d never initialized it on the ground. Was it even accurate? The airspeed was increasing, the compass spinning wildly. The seat of his pants told him he was flying straight and level. The instruments screamed otherwise. If he’d ever had the training to decipher it all, if he had experience flying on instruments, he might have had a chance.
Then, in an instant, the Aviat broke out of the clouds. The windshield was filled completely by a windswept black sea.