The Romanov succession

Pappy Johnson batted into the room and wiped drizzle off his face. He blinked and whooshed. “Always the early bird.”

“A month ago you’d have had to send someone to my quarters to root me out of bed.”

“Why the change then?”

“If they expect me to lead them I’d better be ahead of them, hadn’t I.”

“You’re all right, Your Highness.”

“I suppose we’ll have another stand-down for today?”

“No,” said Pappy Johnson. “We’re going to fly.”

“In this soup?”

“Uncle Joe Stalin may not hand us a sunshine day. I just phoned Fort Augustus. It’s not raining over there. It may not be raining over our drop zone.”

“Good enough.”

“Your turn to have me ride right-seat with you tdoay, Your Highness. Your copilot will take the flight engineer’s post.”

Two of them arrived in ground clothes because they didn’t expect to fly in the weather. Pappy Johnson looked at his wristwatch and said mildly, “You misters have exactly four minutes to get into flying gear,” and the two pilots exploded through the door.

When the door slammed Johnson said to Felix, “Those two are always a little behind everybody else. They’ll be flying right-seat in the transports when we go to war. I suppose they know that-maybe that’s the way they want it. Not everybody wants to be a stupid hero.” He grinned at Felix and slid the cigarette pack out of his shoulder pocket.

The two pilots reappeared out of breath and still shouldering into their leather jackets and Johnson made a circular motion overhead with his cigarette. They all gathered around him.

“We’re going to stations six minutes from now. The mission is the same as it was two days ago. But this time your targets will be moving.”

One of the pilots said, “What about the drivers?”

“No drivers for Christ’s sake. The steering wheels are tied to go in something that’ll approximate a straight line and they’re tying bricks on the accelerator pedals. They’ll be moving about thirty miles an hour across the meadow. The ones you miss will crash into the trees and that’ll be a hell of a waste, won’t it. So don’t miss any.”

“How many in each cluster, sir?”

“That’ll be for you to determine when you get there.” Johnson gave them all his wicked grin. “Maybe one of them, maybe five. It’s your job to stop every one of them before it gets across the meadow.”

The four of them got out of the shuttle van and stood momentarily under the wing in the rain: Felix and Pappy Johnson and Ulyanov, who would fly as engineer this flight, and Chujoy the bombardier. Felix turned his collar up and went around the outside of the airplane: he kicked the tires, he did a visual inspection of the nacelles and control surfaces. Finally Felix nodded and Ulyanov opened the forward hatch and they chinned themselves into the bomber.

It took seven minutes to go through the preflight check-the final line inspection before starting engines. It was a chore many pilots left to their copilots but Felix wanted to know the exact condition of the plane he was going to fly. It was a habit he’d drilled into himself with racing cars: more than once he’d detected a defective tie rod or brake cylinder that way.

He handed the clipboard to Pappy Johnson and his eyes searched the crowded instrument panel once more and then he put the control yoke in his hands and planted his feet on the rudder pedals and… She’s mine.

Through the windscreen he watched the tower-barely visible in the fine rain-and finally he saw the double red flare go up: Start Engines.

“Mesh one… Mesh two…”

Pappy Johnson’s fingers sped over the toggles and buttons. Out the side screens Felix watched the oil-smoke chug from the exhausts, the props begin to turn. He swiveled his attention to the starboard side. “Mesh three… Mesh four.”

“Jigsaw Flight-go to stations.” That was the tower.

There were no runway lights. He saw Calhoun walking away dragging the chocks in the gloom; he taxied around in a tight circle and went bumping along toward the end of the runway.

He stood on the brakes and ran up each engine in turn-watching the gauges, using his ears. Inside him he felt the thrill he’d never lost in a thousand takeoffs: the Icarian desire to climb high, detached and free.

The green flare went up. He stood hard on both brakes. “Military power.”

Johnson thrust the four throttle handles forward. The rpm’s yelled at him, reaching 2700 and the plane quivered like a hound straining on a leash. Manifold pressure fifty inches… He let go the brakes and she burst forward, fishtailing a little until he steadied her.

He had to lift off within twenty-five seconds after reaching full power. The panel clock gave him eighteen seconds and the airspeed indicator gave him 75 knots; the tail wheel lifted off.

Pappy Johnson reached out and chopped the number-two throttle dead.

With the number-two prop feathered the imbalance of power wanted to slew her around to starboard and he had to stand on the left-hand rudder pedal.

Twenty-four seconds. He pushed the yoke forward. To hold her on the ground. Airspeed 80… 85… Twenty-eight seconds…