Free Terraplane by Jack Womack Page B

position assault isn't intended," I said,
sizing the range; interpersonal assault, at least. "Front's cleared?"
    "Bug-ran proper," he said. "Safe as mother's bed. We're armed?"
    "Whether with working arms is question," she said. "Their
controls should be near." She examined the big board's uncountable dials, gauges, screens and knobs. "Start switch here, Jake.
Throttle before you. Altimeter here, powerfeed here, rudder here.
Radarscope to right. Here is control for ailerons and here for
landing gear. Here, now. Security systems."
    "What's the firepower?" Jake pressed the ignition and the motor's
whine came up.
    "I will tell you when I know, please," she said; he quieted.
"These two switches, the blue and yellow. Blue shoots flame.
Yellow directs machine guns, twelve housed in two phalanxes
under wingtips. Five hundred rounds per second."
    Jake grimaced. "No glorious Fourth there. What effects climax?"
    "For sustained attack press-" She eyed something she'd never
seen before, to guess from the terminology employed. "This
clickerlike object here. Is basic setup."
    "We'll make do. Prepped, Luther?"
    "Go." The engine revved, sounding as a beeswarm; exhaust
billowed from the riser unit below, enshrouding us from our
deforested onlookers for too-short seconds. Vibrations massaged
my feet through my soles as we lifted skyways.
    "Do they wait until good striking position is reached?" asked
Oktobriana; that thought reached me the moment we spotted
them.
    "We'll discover," I said.
    "Aimed ready," Jake said; he nodded rearward. "Tied him tight?"
    "Drumtight." It took a minute for one of these midgets to attain
altitude suitable for horizontal mode. Ascending above the cloud
we'd made, leaving the gray-brown Russian ground, escaping the
grasp of spider-fingered treetops, we vizzed below, seeing the bad
boys still paused at the brink of the field.

    "Movement'll show when it's realized we're not following
expected flightplan. What was the destination as programmed?"
    "Yevtushenkograd," said Oktobriana. "On Arctic Circle. A terrible place, we have always heard. Most troublesome go there,
disappear like fog in morning."
    I'd heard secondhand stories; shuddered to think of giving ear to
ones heard firsthand, and to imagine the chance to acquire personal
anecdotes-impossible; the most painful death would be preferred.
"How low can we go inside the border without detection?"
    "If we flew below the ground we'd still show onscreen," she said.
"Jake. Green button, third from your left, sixth row. Hit it and send
us on our way.
    "Pull up and hit sonic soon as possible," I said. "Motorize."
    When Jake pressed the button we lurched upward, our altitude
rising so fast as our speed increased. As we entered the opaque
cloud cover above I read understandable screens, judging that clear
air would show after eight thousand meters.
    "Anything radared?" I asked.
    "Nada," said Jake. Russian-accented static exploded from a
speaker concealed somewhere on board, shattering cockpit's cool
silence; best ignored, I thought. "What's inquired?"
    "Some people are unhappy with our behavior," she said. "We
violate secure airspace."
    "Nothing more?" I asked. "Once we're aced they draw up the
covers.
    "Identity already ascertained, I am sure," she said. "Planes
cannot simply zip from ground to sky in seconds. Be assured they
will come. Let us hope older models pursue us." She redoubled
effort, assisting Jake, her spirit aglow with healthy pessimism.
Leaving the grip of cloud's mud, we shot into clear blue sea. Jake
forwarded the throttle and we leveled, our speed reaching the point
where the feel of forward motion disappears.
    "How long till borderlined?"
    "Twenty minutes for complete safety," she said. "Mach one
approaches. Prepare yourself. " The plane shook when the boom
shot; we drifted again into seeming stasis. "If velocity can hold we perhaps can reach-" Something on the radarscope snipped her
thought. "Our attendants are