Luger reached the fuel truck, crawled around to the driver's side, and was about to get in when he saw the half-track's gunner take aim at the Megafortress.

Luger threw himself forward onto the hood of the fuel truck, took aim, and fired his .38 at the gunner. The gun's puny reports nevertheless sent slaps of shock waves against his face and eyes, but he held the gun as steady as his frozen fingers could manage. He wasn't sure if he took proper aim or even opened his eyes, but to his amazement Luger saw the Russian gunner clutch his chest and fall down into the half-track.

"Luger! Get back here!" It was Ormack shouting at him over the roar of the engines.

In pain, Luger dropped the pistol and made his way around to the front of the fuel truck, starting back for the Old Dog. He had taken only three steps when another soldier appeared from behind the half-track, lifted a rifle with a long, curved cartridge magazine, and fired.

Suddenly his left leg was thrust violently to his right and out from underneath him. He collapsed onto his left side, screaming at the pain from his left thigh-a bullet hole the size of a damn Ping-Pong ball had carved out a gory tunnel in the side of his thigh. He screamed again as the sounds of gunfire erupted all around him, and he kept on screaming-for Patrick, for his

mother, for help from God-as he clawed to the relative safety and protection of the fuel truck.

Ormack could only fire his pistol again, forcing the Russian at the back of the half-track to retreat, but he didn't notice another soldier sliding into the machine-gun mount on the half-track.

The soldier took aim on the Old Dog and let the machine gun rip.

The 20-millimeter shells plowed through the Old Dog's left side .

Somehow Luger pulled himself up inside the cab of the fuel truck and lay down on the frozen bench seat, peeking out the side windows at the horrifying display outside.

The left cockpit windows were gone, and little black puffs of fibersteel were bursting all over the nose and left side of the crew compartment. A huge cloud of smoke erupted from the number-four engine, the one closest to the pilot's side windows, and the bomber was shaking and bucking enough to make the big wings flap.

They're killing the Old Dog, Luger thought. Ormack couldn't have survived that gunfire-my God, the whole cockpit was gone. "You sons of bitches," Luger screamed at the Russian half-track's gunner. "You're killing them!"

Luger's shattered right leg touched the fuel truck's accelerator and the engine revved-McLanahan or defensive-systems officer Angelina Pereira must have left it running when they'd used it to get the stolen fuel. Luger found the parking brake, eased it off, then reached down with his hand to lift his bloody left leg onto the clutch. He put the transmission into first gear, eased his left leg off the clutch, and stomped with all his might on the accelerator, leaving his near-frozen right leg on it, and steered the fuel truck toward the armored personnel carrler.