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"Seven! Okay, seven it is." And that was exactly what they did. Like a roller coaster car, they went up, then down, each time not so high and a little lower and slower. When they came down from the eighth peak, Blackhawk held the controls steady and waited for Mueller to tell him to pull up, but he never did. A minute after he would have normally called for it, he leaned back.
"The temperature never quite reached 1200 and now it is dropping. We have made it. We can glide to our landing site now. Where is our landing site?"
At the moment they were over the middle of the Pacific Ocean, so that was a legitimate question.
"Muroc Army Air Field, in California," Blackhawk said. "It's on a large dry lake bed. We'll have miles of landing room, if we need it. And it's secluded. The Army Air Corps uses it for testing experimental aircraft."
"A logical choice, then," Mueller said. "And since our original flight plan was to take us over New York, this will require very little deviation."
"That's what I thought," Blackhawk agreed. "Since we are cutting the trip short by 5,000 miles, we'll have plenty of altitude to circle a few times looking for it. I know it's about a hundred miles northeast of Los Angeles, but I've never been there."
The rest of the flight was made in silence. They saw the coast of North America on the horizon and Blackhawk steered toward where he thought Southern California should be. He didn't miss by much and they did have plenty of altitude to circle looking for it. As they banked he looked out the window, trying to spot the dry lakebed.
"They will put me in a POW camp, won't they?" Mueller said. Blackhawk's mind was on finding the airfield so he grunted an assent.
"And the Americans will use my knowledge and this ship to build more like it to use against the Fatherland." Mueller continued in a quiet voice.
"That's the idea," Blackhawk agreed absentmindedly. Mueller grabbed his control stick and pushed hard forward. The ship nosed down into a steep dive. Blackhawk, lulled by Mueller's seemingly complete capitulation, was caught off guard by the Luftwaffe officer's sudden move. "What the hell!"
Straight out the forward window laid the city of Los Angeles. Mueller aimed the orbital bomber directly for the heart of the city. Blackhawk pulled back on his control stick and the ship came up a bit but Mueller placed a foot against his stick and pushed. He was young and strong and Blackhawk didn't have the leverage to overcome him. The altimeter needle swept around the dial, wiping thousands of feet off their altitude. Blackhawk unbuckled his safety harness and pushed himself up from his seat. He reached over and smashed a left jab into the side of Mueller's head. The German reeled but came back up, and Blackhawk hit him again. This time, Mueller went down for good, his eyes rolled back in his head.
Blackhawk grabbed his control stick and pulled back hard. The nose came up and Los Angeles disappeared from view. He spotted Muroc off to the north, but he barely had enough altitude now to make it. And the big space plane had a glide ratio not much better than a brick, so when he saw that the Army had marked out a landing strip on the lakebed, he took it. It was a good thing there was plenty of room, though, because he was going fast when the wheels touched down.
The orbital bomber rolled to a stop, and Blackhawk popped the hatch over his head and stood up, enjoying the dry desert air. Miles away, a dust cloud marked where a dozen Army vehicles raced toward him. He looked at his watch. Less than two hours from Norway to California, and the long way round at that. How long would it take to get back to Blackhawk Island?
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