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Authors: Allan Leverone
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fellow crew
member, and was now screaming obscenities at him.
Tracie dropped to
one knee and sighted down the barrel of the Beretta. “Drop it right now!” she
screamed, knowing Mitchell would never do so, but hoping to at least throw the
crazed officer off guard. She didn’t dare shoot because the angle was
wrong—there was every possibility the slug would strike Wilczynski and she
would end up killing the man she was trying to save.
Mitchell glanced
back in surprise at Tracie, his eyes wild, and Wilczynski took advantage of the
opening, pounding a fist into the side of Mitchell’s face. Tracie could hear
bones crack and she wondered as she waited for Mitchell to fall whether the
broken bones were in Wilczynski’s hand or Mitchell’s face. Or both.
But Mitchell
didn’t fall, and he didn’t drop the gun. He hung on, grappling with Wilczynksi,
the two men jockeying for position. The B-52 again began yawing to the left as
one of the fighting men jostled the yoke. “Dammit,” she muttered under her
breath, itching to put Mitchell down but still without a clear shot.
Then the situation
went from desperate to out of control. Mitchell released his grip on
Wilczynski, taking another fist to the face but slugging Wilczynski in his
wounded shoulder with the butt of his gun. Wilczynski’s eyes rolled up in his
head and he slumped back, but before Tracie could squeeze off a shot, Mitchell pulled
the trigger. The bullet caught Stan Wilczynski on the side of the head and
knocked him sideways, blood misting.
Tracie didn’t
hesitate. She fired, and Mitchell slumped against the B-52’s instrument panel
like a rag doll. She fired again and the second shot hit home as well. She
fired a third time, and Mitchell’s body crumpled to the floor. She kept her gun
trained on him, breathing heavily.
There was no doubt
Mitchell was dead.
It appeared
everyone was dead inside one of the most complex aircraft ever manufactured.
And she didn’t
know how to fly.
14
May 30, 1987
11:22 p.m.
Atlantic Ocean, 100 miles off
the coast of Maine
Stan Wilczynski had a headache. A
bad one. It wasn’t like waking up after having a few too many cold ones at the
OC, and it wasn’t like the dull throb at the back of the skull he was prone to
getting when overtired. It was more like someone had taken a ballpeen hammer to
the side of his head.
He groaned and
tried to roll over. Maybe if he could sleep a little longer the damned headache
would go away. But he couldn’t turn onto his side. He was stuck. Must have
gotten twisted up in the sheets. He opened his eyes reluctantly and the pain
intensified, a battering ram blasting through his head, building and building
until he was afraid his skull would explode.
He blinked hard
and his blurry vision doubled and tripled, and it occurred to him with sudden, terrifying
clarity that he was dying. He closed his eyes again, willing the pain to go
away. It lessened slightly. Thank God for small favors.
Then he realized
someone was talking to him. It was a woman’s voice, but it was not a voice he
recognized. The voice was tense, worried, speaking to him calmly but
insistently. Even with the pain blasting through his head, Stan could sense the
intensity behind the words. He kept his eyes closed and concentrated hard.
“Stay with me,” the voice was saying. “You can do it. Stay with me and
breathe.”
And Stan
remembered.
He wasn’t in bed
at all. He was in the cockpit of a B-52. He had been flying that female CIA
agent back to Andrews Air Force Base from West Germany when Tom Mitchell had
gone stark, raving mad, murdering poor Nate Berenger and then shooting Stan. He
remembered struggling with Mitchell for his weapon. He couldn’t remember how
the struggle had ended, although it seemed suddenly clear he had lost it.
Their passenger
must have subdued Mitchell and was now trying to save his life. He didn’t want
to open his eyes, having no desire to re-experience the agony associated
member, and was now screaming obscenities at him.
Tracie dropped to
one knee and sighted down the barrel of the Beretta. “Drop it right now!” she
screamed, knowing Mitchell would never do so, but hoping to at least throw the
crazed officer off guard. She didn’t dare shoot because the angle was
wrong—there was every possibility the slug would strike Wilczynski and she
would end up killing the man she was trying to save.
Mitchell glanced
back in surprise at Tracie, his eyes wild, and Wilczynski took advantage of the
opening, pounding a fist into the side of Mitchell’s face. Tracie could hear
bones crack and she wondered as she waited for Mitchell to fall whether the
broken bones were in Wilczynski’s hand or Mitchell’s face. Or both.
But Mitchell
didn’t fall, and he didn’t drop the gun. He hung on, grappling with Wilczynksi,
the two men jockeying for position. The B-52 again began yawing to the left as
one of the fighting men jostled the yoke. “Dammit,” she muttered under her
breath, itching to put Mitchell down but still without a clear shot.
Then the situation
went from desperate to out of control. Mitchell released his grip on
Wilczynski, taking another fist to the face but slugging Wilczynski in his
wounded shoulder with the butt of his gun. Wilczynski’s eyes rolled up in his
head and he slumped back, but before Tracie could squeeze off a shot, Mitchell pulled
the trigger. The bullet caught Stan Wilczynski on the side of the head and
knocked him sideways, blood misting.
Tracie didn’t
hesitate. She fired, and Mitchell slumped against the B-52’s instrument panel
like a rag doll. She fired again and the second shot hit home as well. She
fired a third time, and Mitchell’s body crumpled to the floor. She kept her gun
trained on him, breathing heavily.
There was no doubt
Mitchell was dead.
It appeared
everyone was dead inside one of the most complex aircraft ever manufactured.
And she didn’t
know how to fly.
14
May 30, 1987
11:22 p.m.
Atlantic Ocean, 100 miles off
the coast of Maine
Stan Wilczynski had a headache. A
bad one. It wasn’t like waking up after having a few too many cold ones at the
OC, and it wasn’t like the dull throb at the back of the skull he was prone to
getting when overtired. It was more like someone had taken a ballpeen hammer to
the side of his head.
He groaned and
tried to roll over. Maybe if he could sleep a little longer the damned headache
would go away. But he couldn’t turn onto his side. He was stuck. Must have
gotten twisted up in the sheets. He opened his eyes reluctantly and the pain
intensified, a battering ram blasting through his head, building and building
until he was afraid his skull would explode.
He blinked hard
and his blurry vision doubled and tripled, and it occurred to him with sudden, terrifying
clarity that he was dying. He closed his eyes again, willing the pain to go
away. It lessened slightly. Thank God for small favors.
Then he realized
someone was talking to him. It was a woman’s voice, but it was not a voice he
recognized. The voice was tense, worried, speaking to him calmly but
insistently. Even with the pain blasting through his head, Stan could sense the
intensity behind the words. He kept his eyes closed and concentrated hard.
“Stay with me,” the voice was saying. “You can do it. Stay with me and
breathe.”
And Stan
remembered.
He wasn’t in bed
at all. He was in the cockpit of a B-52. He had been flying that female CIA
agent back to Andrews Air Force Base from West Germany when Tom Mitchell had
gone stark, raving mad, murdering poor Nate Berenger and then shooting Stan. He
remembered struggling with Mitchell for his weapon. He couldn’t remember how
the struggle had ended, although it seemed suddenly clear he had lost it.
Their passenger
must have subdued Mitchell and was now trying to save his life. He didn’t want
to open his eyes, having no desire to re-experience the agony associated
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