Authors: Christopher Pike
“How do we find you once we’re down?” Brutran asks.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find you,” I say as I grab the door handle. “Is everyone ready?”
They nod and I rifle open the door, using my strength to jam it so it won’t close. The roar from the wind is deafening. Jolie cringes and buries her face in her mother’s chest. Brutran looks determined but Seymour is pale as a ghost. Still, I’m confident they’ll be able to weather the storm. Leaning over, holding on to the edge of the door, I peek outside.
We’re inside the cloud bank. Giant cumulus clouds surrounding us on all sides. Nevertheless, the jets—two F-16s—are clearly visible behind us, their tail engines glowing a fiery red.
I know the planes. The F-16s are equipped with four Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles each. The Sidewinder dates back to the 1950s, but is so reliable it’s been repeatedly upgraded instead of replaced. I can’t tell by looking at the weapons if they’ve been armed. However, the missiles are still firmly locked in place, which reassures me that we have time.
The jet on my right—as I face toward the rear of our Gulfstream—already looks like my best bet. It’s separated from its companion by only thirty yards, and it’s directly behind us. Unfortunately, it keeps bobbing up and down. One moment it’s a few feet above us, the next below. I assume the pilot is fighting the turbulence created by our own engines. Whatever, it makes the timing of my leap more difficult. I only have one chance, and if I miss the jet wing, Matt will die.
The F-16 suddenly stabilizes at our height.
Spreading my arms wide, I jump out of the plane.
The fighter jet rushes toward me at insane speed. Even my well-tempered vampiric senses and muscles have to strain to compensate. It’s only in the last instant that I’m able to pivot in midair and place my feet behind me, toward the jet. A millisecond later I feel the tips of my toes inside my shoes scrape along the top of the jet wing. Immediately I thrust my arms down and grab. I don’t care what I grab, just as long as I make contact and don’t let go.
Luck favors me. I catch the front of the jet’s wing.
And hang on. God, the wind is a monster. I feel like
Dorothy riding a tornado into the sky. Only I know there’s no enchanted land waiting for me at the end of this day. I’ll be fortunate to disable the F-16 and escape in one piece.
The pressure on my fingers is immense. I feel as if my grip is actually tearing into the metal. My eyes sting from the impact of ice crystals inside the clouds. It might be summer at sea level but it’s cold at this altitude.
I’m above the wing, the missiles are below, the cockpit is to my right and forward. I felt the plane swerve when I grabbed hold of it but the pilot has compensated for the drag of my weight and the impact my dangling body is having on the aerodynamic flow of air around the jet. The guy is good but I can see him glancing anxiously in my direction while talking excitedly into his mask.
I’m every pilot’s nightmare—the mythical gremlin who suddenly appears on their wing in the middle of a lightning storm. Yet, except for a few clouds, it is midday over a peaceful green landscape, and I have long blond hair instead of horns.
However, I’m much more dangerous than a gremlin.
The pilot knows that. He’s been warned.
He suddenly yanks his jet through a 360-degree spin, almost catching me off guard. I tighten my grip so hard I hear the metal screech. My chest and hips briefly fly off the wing just before they smack back down like an angry fist. He tips the nose up, slams it down, and again my entire body strikes the wing. I’m amazed I’m able to hold on.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Seymour, Brutran, and Jolie leap from the Gulfstream. Both pilots in both jets are so preoccupied with me I doubt they notice them escaping. My friends quickly vanish into the clouds, their rip cords untouched.
Time, that’s my problem right now. I’ve created a distraction for the others, but both pilots can still fire their missiles any second, and when they do, the Gulfstream will be incinerated. I know what Matt told me, to rip off the cockpit canopy and force the pilot to eject, and let him worry about the other plane. But the more I think about his plan, the less I like it. If I attack my pilot, his partner’s going to get pissed and retaliate, and Matt’s not going to get a chance to show off his fancy ramming skills. A Sidewinder will strike his right wing and that will be it—game over, his plane will explode.
The only way Matt will survive is if I take down both jets.
I have to get my pilot to eject, normally, without ripping off the canopy. It’s the only way to preserve the cockpit’s sensitive equipment—equipment I’m going to need if I’m to have a chance at shooting down the other jet. In other words, I need to boost my jet pilot’s total confusion into overwhelming panic.
I have an idea. It’s crude but it might work.
Crawling forward, I momentarily let go with my right hand and reach down and around the front edge of the wing, grabbing the tip of one of the missiles. It’s still locked in
place, of course, but not as tightly as before. That can mean only one thing. The missile is now armed and the pilot is preparing to fire.
I pull it free, half expecting it to detonate in my hand.
The pilot looks over at me and even with his mask I can see his eyes widen. They swell so big it’s clear he knows he’s entered that twilight zone known as the last few seconds of life. To drive home the precariousness of his situation, I point the tip of the missile at him and flash a wide grin.
The pilot immediately ejects.
The jet wobbles violently, and once more I’m almost thrown into the clouds. Tossing the missile aside, I scamper along the edge of the wing and reach for the cockpit. Unfortunately, it’s still out of reach.
The hard plastic canopy is still attached but the interior is taking a pounding from the wind. I have to get inside now! Yanking myself forward with both arms, I spin in midair and make one last desperate grab for the rear of the cockpit, catching it with my fingertips.
A moment later I’m inside, sitting on what’s left of the pilot’s chair, which is not much. Pulling down the canopy, I secure the latch and study the instrument panel. It’s coated with a layer of frost but it’s still intact. A pair of headphones lies on the floor of the cockpit. I put them on.
The other pilot is trying to raise me. Or, rather, his friend.
“Alpha One, this is Alpha Two. Please respond, over?”
Did the guy not see his buddy eject?
Or is he playing dumb on purpose?
I clear my throat and press the transmit button while simultaneously easing back on the engine so I drift behind the other fighter jet.
“Alpha Two, this is Alpha One,” I say. “Are you as stupid as you sound? Over?”
He doesn’t answer right away and I take the time to rearm my missiles—they apparently disarmed when I snapped the one loose—and take aim at the rear of Alpha Two’s engine. I can see the pilot twisting his head around and can only assume he has major denial issues. He replies in a bitter tone.
“This is Lieutenant Andrew Simmons of the United States Air Force and I’m ordering you to land and surrender immediately.”
“Alpha Two,” I reply. “Would a crash landing be acceptable?”
He struggles to speak. “Huh?”
“Alpha Two, you have three seconds to eject or else you’re going to get ripped apart when I blow up your jet. Over?”
I really wish he’d listen to me but he’s a stubborn SOB. He refuses to eject. My first concern is Matt. The other pilot can still shoot him down at any moment. I don’t have a choice. I break the connection and fire a single missile.
It strikes the glowing interior of the jet engine in front of me and explodes. The ball of flame is massive and I have to
thrust the control stick to the side to avoid it. I feel bad the man had to die for no reason, but what can I do? I creep up alongside the Gulfstream and wave to Matt.
He waves back. With hand signals, he makes it clear we should turn around and fly over the spot where we dropped the others, before bailing out. A smart move—in the short time since they jumped, we’ve flown at least thirty miles east of their position. Indeed, I can see Chapel Hill and Raleigh fast approaching.
Matt smiles and gives me a big thumbs-up.
I’m surprised how warm his approval makes me feel.
M
att and I parachute into a wide green field, not far from the others, and very near a dense forest we were fortunate to miss. I almost forgot how much of North Carolina is wooded. Just the thought of Seymour dangling from a strapping birch or massive maple makes me nervous. It’s wonderful to have him by my side on this adventure, and it scares me. He’s my best friend but when it comes to fighting he’s my child. I find myself constantly worried that I’m going to get him killed.
Like Teri.
We all meet up in the center of the field and I quickly note a dark stain of blood on Brutran’s slacks. My nose picks up the odor of freshly burned gunpowder. There’s a bulge beneath Brutran’s blouse, at the belt line, that wasn’t there before.
“Have any of you seen the pilot who ejected?” I ask.
“He’s not going to be a problem,” Brutran says.
I give her a hard look. “I want you to leave such decisions to either Matt or me,” I say.
She shrugs. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here.”
Seymour blinks. “Am I missing something?”
There’s an uncomfortable silence, until Jolie speaks. “Mommy shot a man in the head,” she says, once again excited for all the wrong reasons.
Seymour glares at Brutran. “We’re not murderers,” he snaps.
Brutran smiles thinly. “Why don’t you ask your sweet Sita where the other pilot is.”
“That was different,” Matt interrupts. “She tried to get him to eject but he refused. She was forced to shoot him down.”
“Of course,” Brutran says. “She weighed the risks and acted. I did the same thing. I’m not going to apologize. That pilot could have called a squadron of helicopters to this spot. They might still be on their way here. We have to get moving.”
Matt points toward a sloping rise. “As I was coming down, I saw a road two miles north of here. We can reach it in a few minutes if you guys will let Sita and me carry you on our backs. I can take you, Cindy, and Jolie.”
Jolie claps with pleasure. “Will it be like horseback riding?”
Brutran kneels beside her and wipes the hair from her daughter’s big green eyes. “This will be even more fun. Uncle Matt’s faster than a horse. But you’re going to have to hold on to Mommy real tight while I hold on to Matt. Okay?”
Jolie is raring to go. “I want to hold on to Uncle Matt’s hair!”
Seymour looks at me and blushes. “I feel kind of weird treating you like a horse,” he says.
“Just don’t put a saddle on me,” I say.
Our race to the road takes five minutes and could have taken even less time if Matt and I had wanted to push it. Still, our timing is good. A freight truck swings by moments after we reach the asphalt. The driver, a crusty middle-aged man who obviously likes to listen to his country music at full volume, pulls over and offers us a ride. Since I’m the cutest, I speak for the group.
“Where are you heading?” I ask, flashing my all-American smile.
“Miami,” he replies with a southern accent, which tells me he’s from a small town in Virginia or West Virginia. He’s fifty and has a beer gut but there’s a strength in his heavily lined red face. The man’s spent most of his life on the road, the sun staring through his open window. “Where are you folks going?” he asks.
“Raleigh would be fine. Chapel Hill even better,” I say.
“Geez, Chapel Hill’s just down the road a ways. I can drop you there if you want.”
“Great,” I say. “We don’t mind riding in the back. You got a spread?”
“You know it, girl. I don’t spring for no motel rooms, not
in this economy and with the money I’m making. You can climb in the door on the passenger’s side. It’s open.” He pauses and looks me over. “But if one or two of you want to ride up front, that’d be fine with me.”
“I’ll take you up on your kind offer,” I say, giving the others a look that says I want him all to myself. My reason is simple. If we run into a roadblock, it will be less suspicious if I appear to be alone with the man. Of course, if things go bad, I can always hypnotize the guy and have him tell the authorities what I wish. But I’d rather not fool with his head, especially since he’s being so friendly.
We’re on the road in minutes, and Mr. James Jackson—“call me Jim, honey”—does me the favor of turning off his radio. Jim hasn’t gone to college but reads the paper every day and is up on current events. He quickly begins to talk about politics and what a mess the president has made of the country. However, he’s not as right wing as I’d expect, and when he admits he voted Democrat in the last election, I have to laugh.
“Jesus, Jim, you’re a home-fried Confederate if I ever met one,” I say. “What got into you?”
Jim chuckles and fiddles with a piece of tobacco caught between his yellow teeth with a toothpick. “I thought that’d surprise you, Lara. It shocked my buddies. Some of them haven’t spoken to me since. But if you search the history of this part of the country, you’ll find that it was the Democratic
party—after the war—that stopped them damn Yankees from stealing what was ours to begin with.”