Delta G. David J. Crawford

started scratching into the shell’s outer surface. Dave thought, “Holy shit, I think this is going to work.”

      Just then Boop ran over. “Captain, we’re done pouring fuel in the bird. What the hell are you doing? Let’s get out of here. That thing is fifty miles out.”

      “Major, we’re making some progress here. I think I can cut a piece of the shell out.”

      Boop responded curtly, “You’ve got fifteen minutes, Captain.”

      Boop ran off towards the plane. He could see men clambering down the access stairs and heading over towards the plane following him. The crew chief was directing one of the crew members up the ramp with a snowcat. Dave figured it would take a few minutes to secure the plane, crew, and machinery. He gave the thumbs-up to Jorgen and continued on with the drilling. The bit was doing its work. It was biting into the shell. The shell was about a quarter inch thick. The hollow drill bit was about four inches in diameter, designed to take rock core samples. Whatever they were drilling through was tougher than any rock Jorgen had ever encountered.

      Both men looked up in time to see the ramp of the C-130 being sucked up off the ice and clam shell doors shutting. A couple of minutes later the engine propellers changed pitch to full reverse. The big C-130 was backing away from the complex. The C-130 had the capability to back up under its own power and was doing a good job of it now. Just then he heard the rpm of the auger speed up as the auger punched through the shell. A metallic clanking noise was heard as a four inch metallic disk fell out of the drill bit and onto the lip of the shell. Dave grabbed it and they both spun around and raced towards the moving C-130. The plane had backed off from the site about one hundred yards. Running in snow at nearly two miles above sea level was a very hard thing to do. The side door was open and Dave crawled in followed by Jorgen. Several crew members helped pulled them inside.

      Glenn was standing in the flight deck doorway. “For crying out loud, Dave, the Major was serious about leaving your asses out here.” Dave just smiled and held up the disk shaped piece of metal like some kid who’d caught a home run ball. He made his way to the cockpit to show off his trophy. Boop turned around and said, “Way to go kid. Now strap in. The chief has been busy, too. He’s only had time to hook up four of the JATO bottles. This might give us a running start. Probably won’t get us airborne but it’ll save a few hundred gallons of valuable fuel by getting us airspeed for liftoff.”

      Just then the plane made a hard turn to the left and taxied to the end of the skiway. It made a 180 degree turn into the wind. Boop applied full throttle and pitch. Carl called off the V speeds and once rotated, Rick hit the JATO switch. There was not as big of a kick in the ass as with the six bottles from the last time, but it still got your attention. The crew in back did not have ear protection and were deafened by the noise. The plane leveled off at a couple hundred feet and accelerated.

      Boop clicked his mike, “Okay, we’re going to level off at two hundred feet and hug the ice, no sharp turns. How are the engines, Glenn?” The copilot replied, “We’re burning JP-4 now. Ready to switch over to diesel on your command. We should see some rpm drop. Better be prepared for the power loss.” Boop acknowledged, “Roger, change tanks now.” Glenn turned a switch on the engineer’s panel and watched as the fuel flow meter started to click off. “Major, watch for the power drop in both inboards in about ten seconds.”

      “Roger that, Glenn.”

      The expected power drop happened on cue. The rpm surged and then dropped. “How are the engine temps?” The copilot responded with a cool tone, “Actually the temps have gone down. Must be the air flow around the cowlings. All in the green. We are twenty knots over stall speed.” “Roger that. Maintain heading one one zero and an altitude of two hundred feet. If we lose an engine or start torching one, we’re going to have to put her down fast.”

      Something caught Rick and Dave’s peripheral vision at about the same time off to the north. An orange streak was racing at them from the left. It was coming from a huge flying wing shaped like a boomerang about thirty miles to the north. Rick knew immediately what was heading their way from his days over the Hanoi trail. Somebody was firing a missile at them. “Shit, missile inbound, nine o’clock, ten miles. We’re too low and slow to take evasive action.” If Boop had turned the plane sharply, chances were he’d lose airspeed, dip the wing into the ice and cartwheel into a fireball. No choice, but to keep her straight and level. Boop also noticed that the missile was overtaking them. It was a good sign that there was some relative motion to the orange ball of fire. This was not the proverbial golden BB or object that just keeps getting bigger and bigger as it comes straight at you and smacks you between the eyes. Rick knew it was going to miss well in front of them.

      But “miss well” was a relative term. The missile struck the ice about a quarter of a mile in front of them. A huge plume of ice and snow shot up in the air. The plane flew straight into it. The windscreen was cracked by several large chunks of ice. The prop blades spun several large chunks completely through the fuselage with a loud bang. Luckily, no one had been sitting near the red line bulkhead. The plane had been pelted with a thousand snowballs doing over 200 miles an hour.

      “That damn thing just shot a warning shot across our bow.” Just then another orange streak raced in on them. The same thing happened only a little closer. Carl calmly reported, “Flameout in number two, rpm drop in one. We have no choice, sir. We’ve got to put her down.”

      Boop feathered the props on the dead engines. Just then the fire warning lit up on number one followed immediately by number two. “Hit the HALON, Carl. Left engines only.” Carl flipped up the switch guard and then toggled the fire extinguisher on the number one and two engines. Both port side engines were dead now. The plane was losing airspeed fast. Boop put the plane in a shallow nose down attitude to maintain airspeed. He had the right rudder peddle pushed halfway through the floor board to compensate for the adverse yaw. He told the crew chief to prepare the passengers for a crash landing. He was stating the obvious. Bob was way ahead of him. However, Bob had been too busy arming the JATO bottles. He didn’t have time to secure the snowcat. If the plane crash landed, the 10,000 pound vehicle would smash through the flight deck like a Mack truck through a Pinto. There was about one minute of flight time left. He threw the pallet straps over the vehicle. Luckily one of the DYE site crew members knew what to do with it on the other side and clipped the hook into the floor anchor and started cranking it down. A second strap sailed over the vehicle and another crew member secured it as well.

      Boop had his hands full with the control yoke. They were down to fifty feet. The stall warning horn was going off. Carl was on the radio calling, “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. Raven One going down two zero miles east of DYE-3.” Boop lowered the nose more and yanked back on the yoke just a few feet off the deck. The front ski bit into a drift. The nose gear was now bouncing back into the air. The main gear skis hit the ice and the plane ground to a quick halt. Bob was thrown forward along with the other two crew members into a mangled heap of bodies and cracked bones up against the front bulk head. Luckily, the snowcat held in place.

      “Carl, Glenn, get back there and see if everyone is okay. Dave, grab the fire extinguisher, exit the plane and hit the left inboard.” Dave opened the flight deck door and sprayed the contents of the fire extinguisher into the intake. There was no visible fire just a lot of smoke and steam hissing as ice was tossed onto the engine cowlings. Glenn came back up to the flight deck. “Bob and a couple of guys are busted up pretty bad; a few broken ribs, arms and legs, nothing compound and not much bleeding. Not sure about internal injuries. All three are conscious, but in a shitload of pain. Props on one and two are gone, with a massive hole in the left side of the aircraft. Could have been much worse.”

      Boop didn’t have to hit the ELT. It went off automatically. He just hoped DYE-4 could hear the Mayday and pick up the ELT. He doubted it. They were below the mountain crest on the east coast. They were too low for the Mayday. The radio was strictly line of sight.

      Just when everything seemed hopeless the radio crackled to life. “Raven One, Raven One……request you change frequency to 121.9.” Boop keyed the radio, “Who