Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (carter reed .txt) 📕

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Danya didn’t wait to see how the high-speed chase was going to end.

“Stay here,” she told Toby, and then hurried back to the workbench and grabbed the rifle.

Even as she dashed out of the hangar, she opened the bolt just enough to ensure a round was chambered. Then she locked the bolt down and proceeded to the center of the runway.

The Explorer was off to the side, apparently stuck. And then she saw that Flynn had the presence of mind to feather the gas pedal and maneuver the vehicle back onto firm soil rather than continue to sink the rear wheel.

As the SUV renewed its pursuit of the Mirage, now under full throttle and accelerating rapidly, she knew it was too late for Flynn to intercept the plane.

She dropped to a prone firing position, her side and shoulder aching in protest, and pulled the sporting rifle in tight against her shoulder. The airplane bounced around, light on its landing gear. In the magnified image offered by the scope, the plane jittered left, right, up, and down. As she worked to center the crosshairs on the nose, she hoped the .30-06 rounds were loaded with heavy bullets and not varmint loads. The latter were designed to fragment quickly on small animals, rather than to hold together and penetrate deeply. If she was really lucky, she’d be firing 180 grain jacketed bullets into the engine. At fifty yards, those rounds would penetrate a half-inch of stainless steel—on an unprotected engine, they’d deliver some serious damage.

As she concentrated on the image in the scope, the fast-approaching plane was close enough that she could discern Sacheen’s face. She focused on her eyes, and it seemed Sacheen was staring back. But more likely, she was merely concentrating on keeping the plane pointed straight forward and gaining speed.

When Danya judged the distance to be under two hundred yards, she fired the first shot. Although she was certain she hit the nose of the plane, there was no evidence of a strike. No puff of smoke or sound of the engine faltering. She turned the bolt handle, extracted the spent brass cartridge, and rammed home the next round.

She fired again, continuing to aim for the engine, rather than risk firing at the much smaller pilot. If she missed Sacheen, the bullets would not strike any vital machinery.

The butt stock pressed into her shoulder simultaneous with the report. Rather than wasting time assessing damage, she reloaded and fired again.

The roar of the engine was almost loader than the blast of the rifle. The Mirage was barreling down on her. She saw the cockpit lift slightly, weight being removed from the undercarriage. Any second now, the craft would take to the air. Whether it ran over the top of her body first was anyone’s guess.

Down to her last round, she aimed just below the hub of the prop, and fired.

With a woosh and roar, the plane cleared Danya by a few feet. Her clothing was flapping wildly, threatening to be ripped from her body by the hurricane wash of the propeller as the performance aircraft scooted over her and clawed for altitude. She’d dropped the rifle and covered her head—not that it would have made any difference if the wheels were two feet lower.

With the overwhelming fatigue that comes with failure, she rolled over and gazed at the receding plane. As she watched Sacheen angle the aircraft ever higher, her frustration mounted.

And then the plane seemed to level off. Danya blinked, thinking it an optical illusion. She didn’t notice the SUV stop off to her side. Flynn hopped out and shaded his eyes. He, too, stared at the aircraft making its escape, the drone of the engine steady, but diminishing in intensity.

While she watched, the plane made a turn to the left, and Danya thought she saw a plume of gray smoke trailing. Seconds later, the engine drone stuttered.

And then the Malibu Mirage dipped, angling toward the desert a few thousand feet below.

By now, Toby had joined Danya.

“I think you hit the engine,” she said.

They all watched as the plane continued its descent at an ever-steeper angle.

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Sacheen knew she was in a race for her life. Her turn at the end of the runway had been reckless. She was moving too fast and nearly overshot the edge of the prepared surface. If she’d misjudged the turn, the tires would have been stuck in the soft earth for certain.

Her piloting skills prevailed, and she swung the nose around just in time, then throttled up and raced forward, urging more speed from the Lycoming engine. As the plane accelerated, each bump came closer and closer to tossing the aircraft into the air, as if it had been bounced on a trampoline.

Ahead, Danya appeared out of the hangar and positioned herself in the middle of the runway. She saw the rifle Danya was cradling, and cursed for not having rendered the weapon useless. Now, all she could do was hold the yoke firmly and guide the plane straight forward.

The first round struck somewhere in the engine compartment. At first, she wondered why it had hit so low. It wasn’t even close to her. Then Sacheen realized that she was not the target.

Come on! She encouraged the plane to go faster.

The airspeed indicator showed that she was close to minimum takeoff speed. She resisted the urge to pull back on the yoke, and kept the nose down, concentrating on keeping the plane straight. It was as if she was looking through Danya, rather than at her.

The ping of additional rounds hitting metal carried over the roar of the engine, but she ignored them. A quick scan of her instrumentation indicated everything was normal. She pulled back on the yoke, and the nose lifted first. Then the rest of the plane followed. She was airborne.

She kept the engine at full throttle, and the aircraft continued to gain speed, leaving the hangar and dirt runway