The fuel truck lurched ahead, bouncing and clattering on ages-old springs. He was about ten meters from the half-track before the gunner noticed him coming, swiveled the gun turret around toward him, and opened fire. Nearly passing out from the pain and the shock, screaming like an animal caught in a trap, Luger dived out the open driver's side door...

... just as a fusillade of bullets shattered the windshield and ripped the interior of the truck apart.

Luger was lying facedown in two feet of snow, unconscious, when the fuel truck plowed into the half-track. Bullets from the half-track's gun tore open the fuel tank, igniting the fuel-oil fumes inside, which turned both the truck and the half-track into balloons of fire. The concussion of the double explosion tossed Luger's body another fifty feet away like a rag doll, but mercifully the young navigator was not awake to experience that final blast.

9 FEBRUARY 1989, 0531 MOSCOW

The bullets from the half-track had continued to walk down the left side of the Megafortress, eventually reaching the leading edge of the left wing and causing a terrific explosion as the red-hot shells found the fuel oil in the mains. Luger hadn't stopped the half-track-it had missed, or the fuel truck exploded before reaching it, he didn't know what had happened-but the Megafortress was dying. The left wing was afire and the left-center wing tank exploded and sheared the entire wing off Wendy and Angelina scrambled out of the hatch just as the Old Dog flopped onto its right wing, crushing it instantly and causing a huge explosion as the rest of the fuel tanks ruptured. The resulting fireball was at least a mile in diameter, swallowing up the two civilian women and engulfing the huge bomber in sheets of flame.

"Patrick!" Luger shouted "Patrick! Eject! Get out! Patrick! Patrick ~"

Luger's muscles convulsed. They quivered uncontrollably, but for some reason none of them wanted to function-he could move each one only a centimeter or two before they retreated into fits of spasms. Gasping for air, Luger fought for control, trying to ignore the waves of fear rising in his chest.

Something was wrong.

Slowly, the spasms ceased, and Luger was able to breathe evenly again. He felt as if he had run a marathon-his entire body felt weak. His fingertips felt puffy and soft, and the slightest exertion, like lifting the index finger of his right hand, caused the spasms to return.

He decided to lie quietly and get his bearings-at least his eyes still functioned.

He was in a dimly lit room. He saw light fixtures overhead, and out of the corners of his eyes he saw hospital beds. So he was in a hospital ward. Luger could make out dingy white curtains surrounding some beds, a few intravenous bottle stands-thankfully, none near his bed. By straining, he could see railings on his bed and, thank God, even his feet under the white linen. Whatever had happened, they had saved his shot-up legs.