… Now they had turned to run before the storm, reaching for altitude to get above the mountains and never mind the Nellis radar. The weather front was uneven and when they crossed patches of it they were pitched violently around. Somebody-Hanratty? — was retching. The magnetic compass was not pointing at much of anything. A sudden downdraft, like the flat of a palm, pressed them sickeningly toward the ground and Walker’s stomach surged up into his chest. He had maximum power now, rich mixtures, but in this air and with this deadweight the Apache was heavy, sluggishly responding to his control. The downdraft had knocked them down more than fifty feet; the altimeter bobbed and flickered and began once again to climb through the “7” on the thousands dial but that was seven thousand feet above mean sea level, disregarding the variants in air pressure caused by the front, and up here the plateau was more than four thousand feet high and the mountains loomed eight thousand feet above that; Walker still had to pick up several thousand feet of altitude before it would be safe to turn across the razorback summit of the mountain range. With all this weight aboard he wasn’t sure the Apache could attain or keep that kind of ceiling but it was that or turn south instead of north, and south was where the highways were, where the airports and Nellis AFB and the police were…
He glanced at the gauges; the tanks were out of balance-there was more fuel in the starboard wing tank than in its mate-so he reversed the flow switches to close off the port tank and draw on the starboard one. Momentarily he recalled that the threads of the starboard filler cap hadn’t looked good when he’d screwed it on after topping up the tanks this morning in Reno. But it would have to do. What the hell, another three or four hours and the whole plane could collapse for all he cared. But to make sure he leaned as far forward as he could without pushing the elevators down and peered around past the Major’s shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of the tank cap on the starboard wing-and saw a plume of grey-white liquid pouring straight back from the wing.
Baraclough, at the window behind the Major, was rubbing at the pane and talking in a taut voice thinned by fear: “We’re losing fuel.”
The Major twisted around. “ What? ”
“That does it,” Walker breathed. His hand shot forward. Switch back to the left-hand tank. Close off the leaking starboard tank. Bring up the trim.
He leaned forward to look out again. The Major was barking, at him: “What is it, man?”
But the fuel was still streaming out. It would: the low pressure of fast-moving air over the wing would pull it out. And with high-octane flowing straight across the hot exhaust system…
It was no good. He flicked switches again-cut all starboard power flow, switch off magneto, feather starboard propeller: the sudden drag pulled her severely around to the right and he had to stand on the rudder and crank the wheel left to keep her flying.
Hanratty was bawling and Eddie Burt exploded in oaths and Walker saw the Major’s hands gripped white on the edge of his seat
She was flying on one engine and the mountains were a looming threat off the port wingtip. The gasoline was coming out of the tank in a fine spray now and that was likely to keep up for a long time.
The Major grabbed him by the arm. “Captain…”
“Shut up.” He shook off Hargit’s hand. He was tipping her over on one wing to look at the ground below.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for a place to land.”