The first engine turned over and sputtered to life, followed quickly by the other three. Then the auxiliary-power unit was unplugged, the chocks holding the wheels were pulled, and Vylander began taxiing the overburdened aircraft toward the end of the main runway. The security guards and the maintenance crew turned away and scurried for the warmth of a nearby hangar as the prop wash lashed their backs.
Admiral Bass stood in the Buckley control tower and watched the Stratocruiser crawl like a pregnant bug across the snow-swept field. A phone was clutched in his hand and he spoke quietly into the receiver.
"You may inform the President that Vixen 03 is preparing for takeoff."
"When do you figure its estimated time of arrival?" asked the stern voice of Charles Wilson, Secretary of Defense, through the earpiece.
"Allowing for a fuel stop at Hickam Field, in Hawaii, Vixen 03 should touch down in the test area approximately 1400 hours Washington time."
"lke has scheduled us for 0800 hours tomorrow. He insists on a detailed briefing of the upcoming experiments and a running report on Vixen 03's flight progress."
"I'll take off for Washington immediately."
"I don't have to paint you a picture, Admiral, of what would happen if that plane crashed in or near a major city."
Bass hesitated in what seemed a long and terrible silence. "Yes, Mr. Secretary, it would indeed be a nightmare none of us could live with."
"The manifold pressure and the torque read a shade low across the board," announced Sergeant Burns. He watched over the engineer's panel with the intensity of a ferret.
"Enough to abort?" Gold asked hopefully.
"Sorry, Lieutenant. Internal-combustion engines won't perform in the thin mountain air of Denver like they will at sea level. Considering the altitude, the gauge readings are par for the course."
Vylander gazed at the strip of asphalt ahead. The snowfall had lightened, and he could almost see the halfway marker. His heart began to throb a little faster, keeping time with the rapid beat of the windshield wipers. God, he thought to himself, it looks no bigger than a shuffleboard court. As if in a trance, he reached over and picked up his hand mike.
"Buckley Control, this is Vixen 03. Ready to roll. Over."
"She's all yours, Vixen 03," the familiar voice of Admiral Bass scratched through the headphones. "Save a big-chested native girl for me."
Vylander simply signed off, released the brakes, and shoved the four throttles against their stops.
The C-97 pushed her bulbous nose into the blowing snow and began her struggle down the long ribbon of pavement as Gold began calling out the increasing ground speed in a monotone.
"Fifty knots."
All too soon an illuminated sign with a large number 9 flashed by.
"Nine thousand feet to go," Gold droned. "Ground speed seventy."
The white runway lights blurred past the wing tips. The Stratocruiser lunged onward, the powerful Pratt-Whitney engines straining in their mounts, their four-bladed propellers clawing at. the rarefied air, Vylander's hands were cemented to the wheel, his knuckles twisted white, his lips murmuring intermingled prayers and curses.
"One hundred knots seven thousand feet left."
Burns's eyes never left his instrument panel, studying every twitch of the gauge needles, ready to detect the first signs of trouble. Hoffman could do nothing but sit there helplessly and
watch the runway dissolve at what seemed to him an excessive rate of speed.
"One twenty-five."
Vylander was fighting the controls now, as the vicious crosswind attacked the control surfaces. A trickle of sweat rolled unnoticed down his left cheek and dropped into his lap. Grimly, he waited for some sign indicating that the craft was beginning to lighten, but it still felt as though a giant hand were pushing against the cabin's roof.
"One hundred thirty-five knots. Kiss the five-thousand-foot marker farewell."
"Lift baby, lift," Hoffman pleaded as Gold's readings began falling one on top of the other.
"One hundred forty-five knots. Three thousand feet left." He turned to Wander. "We just passed the go, no-go point."
"So much for Admiral Bass's safety margin," Vylander muttered.
"Two thousand feet coming up. Ground speed one fifty-five."
Vylander could see the red lights at the end of the runway. It felt as though he were steering a rock. Gold kept glancing at him nervously, anticipating the movement of the elbows that meant the major had engaged the controls for the climb. Vylander sat still, as immovable as a sack of Portland cement.
"Oh God the one-thousand-foot marker, going, going, gone."
Vylander gently eased back the control column. For almost three seconds, which seemed an eternity, nothing happened. But then with agonizing slowness the Stratocruiser slipped the ground and staggered aloft a scant fifty yards before the asphalt stopped.
"Gear up!" he said hoarsely.
There were a few uneasy moments until the landing gear thumped inside their wheel wells and Vylander could feel a slight increase in airspeed.