Terraplane (11 page)

"Nearly just." Having answered, he switched on his mike.
"Landing permission request directive prime op Dryco priority.
List proximates for vertical craft descent pad guidance setup.
Directives required regarding incoming pattern. Over."

"Holmes Field here," hollered a nasal voice whose clarity surprised. Such a field's name was unfamiliared; I wondered if it was
one of Long Island's rogue strips. "Please identify yourself and your
airplane. Over."

"Uncoded flight, origin Moscow. Priority Dryco. Over."

"Moscow, Idaho? Over."

A thin pink glow silhouetted the earth's long line; the city of New
York. No lights evidenced Newark International's site.

"Negative. Moscow, Russia. Fuel availability crisis at hand
approaching mayday state. Advise approach, entering incoming
pattern prior to descent. Over. "

"Russia?" asked the voice. "What are you flying in? Over."

"Teterboro Field here," another voice said, breaking in. "Identify yourself and your aeroplane. Over."

Jake drew deep breath. 'Advise suitable approach immediately.
Pilot name nonessentialled sans plan filed pro forma. Instrument
GBL97 sweepwing, VTOL model A741-"

"What?" asked our first contact. "Speak English, man."

"Flight destination Moscow, Russia?" the second inquired.
"This Wrong Way Corrigan? You're way off course, buddy-"

"We're unfueled," Jake said, overloud. "Drytanked. Emergency
top leading to mayday situation. Advise suitable approach. Over!"

A sharper, gruffer third cut in. "Floyd Bennett Field here. Hey,
who the hell is this?"

Jake palmed his forehead, shutting eyes. "Priority Dryco!" he
screamed, as if to rain down law "Online, Newark, understood?
Respond, Newark, respond-"

"How'd you get onto this line?" asked our newest correspondent.
"This is an army channel, you son of a bitch, get off the air. Over
and out." He clicked off. Jake fisted the board, sending up a
harmless bouquet of sparks as the radio shattered. I reached across,
held his shoulders.

"I'm losing control, Luther," he said; he felt strychnined, his
muscles tightened so. "I despise to lose control-"

"Eye the radar and the locator. When we sight the stadia,
descend into the parking lot. If Newark's seen-"

"No signs show," he said, his color red as the fuel readout. "I'll
hold this altitude until centered and then lower slow"

"We'll make?"

"Maybe," said Jake. "Your friend's secure? Interrupt his solitude.
Idle minds stir boiling pots."

"I'll have to untie him in case of problem landing in any
event. "

"Keep him cuffed."

"How long's left?" Separate towers distinguished themselves
amidst the cityline. How short, I should have said.

"Three minutes. Two," he said. "Uncertain."

Oktobriana settled seatways besides him, anxious to calm and
comfort, to lighten his face's dark. As I aisled myself towards
Skuratov he looked at me, rich with smiles. His look was so bloated
with craft and mischief gone wasted that I couldn't keep back a
desire to knifetwist.

"Prep for landing, Mal," I said, kneeling near him, unknotting
ropes securing ankle and knee. "Could be rough and tough. I
could retie you into crash position-"

"Your superiors shall receive improper-treatment complaints,"
he said. "Standard violations of human rights. Where are we now?
Switzerland? Czechoslovakia, perhaps, if I am lucky. Such good
time we make in the dark."

"We're entering New York approach," I said, watching his eyebrows lift above his glistening eyes. As I ungirdled his stomach he
gasped, gaining free breath.

"Such romance," he said. "Is such quick travel possible?"

"Must have hit a good tailwind," I said.

"Then machine worked very well. You must feel proud of great
mission's success."

"Very," I said, unbinding his chest; only two knots holding his
neck remained placed. "Your failure certainly adds to our success. "

He shrugged free shoulders. "So we land and you ship me to one
of many American Lubiankas. I am but dilettante in these matters
and have nothing of interest to tell. I have no worry. America is not
nation that often tortures to death."

"Not to death," I agreed, slipping undone his final knot.
"Dream Team's but boys at play if you're a prime example, Mal-"

"Prime?" he said. "The best." Pulling his left hand from behind
his back, he flashed a wrist ragged with bloody skin, and a hand
whose thumb bent awkwardly inward; he'd broken his thumb,
somehow, to free his paw and loosed it before it swole. He swung
with his right, cuffs dangling from the still-secured wrist, knocking
me full faceways, over the seats opposite. Red washed my sight; I
heard him scramble, and blinked blood away in time to see him
land atop me as I struggled upward, throwing his cuffs downward,
towards my eyes. By jerking my head away I took no more than a
glancer.

"Jake!" I shouted. "Help!"

He hauled himself away; feeling warmth comfort my forehead, I
saw him make for the Shrogin, which I'd pitched at cabin's far end,
cockpit-near. To slow him I fell forward, falling close, snaring a
trouser leg, tossing him aisleways. His twotones heeled me underchin while I gripped. He kicked repeatedly, never catching me full.
"Jake!" Skuratov's fingers, stretching for handhold, brushed the
gunstock closer, into seizure distance. Shouldering it quick, kicking loose, he rolled, raised and aimed my way. I dived into the
trench between two rows of seats. Whether in moment's heat he
forgot rapid depressurization's effects, or whether he cared no
longer, I never knew; the latter, I suspect, for he showed no amateur's touch to my mind. Before he could fire more than a single
burst he was felled by take's foot as it landed at skull's base.

"Fool!" Jake shouted; Skuratov fell forward as the plane hissed,
its breath blown; his barrage had punctured the plane wall. I
brushed back the oxygen hoses tumbling forth as I rose, seeing no
need for them at our low altitude. Depressurization's effect, however, only sent us down with less control toward the grand slam
sooner.

"What happens?" Oktobriana screamed as our angle declined;
the engine song ascended five octaves. Jake threw Skuratov's
Shrogin into the antechamber; dragged our friend from the floor
and shouted instruction to our aviatrix.

"Engage stabiles," he shouted. "Glide us. Cut the engine and
drop the tank if there's time. Settle us between buildings if able."

Jake then walloped Skuratov twiceover as if to barefist his skull
ashatter. As my head itched with fluid's trickle I looked onward
with stranger's eyes, calmed by the sight of newflooding blood,
watching as if seeing a film preview. The plane settled into horizontal drop; Jake pulled Skuratov's limpness rearward. In still engine's
fearful silence I heard the sound of his cuffs scraping the floor. Jake
opened the side exit. With pressure's equalization there came no
further outrush when the world beyond appeared. Jake, keeping
inside, lifted Skuratov onehand, clutching a frame support so as
not to overbalance. "Out!" he wailed, pitching. "Flyaway!"

"Don't-" my voice cried. Even had I pleaded, there could
have been no change; Skuratov entered an unclaimed airspace.
Jake pounded the walls as if regretful. We struck, bouncing airways
once more. So many structures stood quadrant-wide through here
that I bore no doubt that one would surely slow us down too
quickly. Flitting seemed like tumbling from a height onto a haystack; the impact was not nearly so great as that for which I'd
readied, but it was great enough to sail Jake frontways as I headed to
the floor. Coming ultimately earthward, spinning as if on a carnival ride, the plane skidded along something much more than soft.
As thought slipped free I heard the recognizable sound of splash,
the liquid hug, the kiss of water.

Consciousness crawled back minutes later; I vizzed Jake stumbling downaisle, Oktobriana slung across his shoulder, his left arm
adangle. Emergency lights cut cabin haze; ozone's scent sweetened
the smoke like lobby fragrance. The plane tipped downward thirtyodd degrees. No fire evidenced; the smoke was obviously electrical,
and no danger showed from asphyxiating fume arising from the
safety padding.

"Luther," he said, eyeing my rise; I shook my head, jarring sense
into correct place. "You movable?"

"Sure," I said, my legs buckling when I stumbled aisleways. My
vertebrae seemed supplanted by roughened bricks held fast by
layers of stone.

"Gather and grab. It's not prime to blow but I've no will to
chance." With delicate motions, he seated Oktobriana, taking her
from his shoulder with onehanded care. His left arm kept its hang.
She murmured soft Georgian phrases. Retrieving suitcases nearest,
he stroked her head, smoothed her hair.

"How bad?" I asked, feeling my balance return.

"Concussion's guessed. " He swaddled her within blankets seized
aboveseat. "A miracle she's preserved. I shot her full with Extamyl.
That'll sedate." His face shone as if flame-glazed. "Shock's forestall
essentialled. Hospitaling's sole certification. "

"Her other case's frontways?"

He nodded; eyed me updown. "You'll need stitching, judging
the flow "

Moving upaisle I touched hand to head, and felt as if I'd drawn
knife through brain; detected, still, that my wounds weren't overlarge, and had ceased to bleed. "What's with your arm?" I asked,
finding her stray case.

"Shoulder's dislocated," he said; looking at his pale-lit features,
tightdrawn as if embalmed, I saw how more bloodless than usual
his face showed. "Let's exit first. Assist me, popping it back once
outside. What's sought, Luther?"

"My cam," I said. "It's gone."

"Gone?"

"While he was upright," I said, "he must have plucked it. Kept it
on him. After he slammed me the first time I heard him scrabbling." I tossed aside debris and nonrecoverables, hoping for its
reappearance.

"Then it went with him," Jake said, eyeing the door. "We
weren't too high when I birded him. He swipe the tracker you
held?"

"No." Feeling it in my jacket pocket, I pulled it, switched it on.
Two dots blinked thereon: hers and his. Underscreen the green
winked bright.

"Survived?"

"Looks so. Whether cam and cassette did is another matter-"

"Will not matter," Oktobriana said, shifting beneath blanket's
wrap, her face frost's color.

"Why?" I asked.

"Sanya adjusted cassette I had," she said. "In event of capture
and abuse by unapproved."

"Adjusted how?"

"Ours takes us over. Will not bring us back." Jake and I stared at
each other momentslong.

"Can you readjust?" I asked; if we had it still, I should have
added.

"Don't know," she said. "Sanya was only one to work out final
principle." She blinked her eyes quickly, as if signaling. "Caused
great rift between us, his paranoia-"

"Why didn't you tell-"

"No other option at time of use," she said, barely audible. "Correct? Your option. Mine. We live with unavoidable decisions-"

The Extamyl took; she nodded, and slept. For the moment there
was much to do and naught that could yet be known. Jake pressed
her hand as if to warm a fallen sparrow, so that it wouldn't be cold
when it died. "Sleep," he said, winding her blanket closer about
her. "Sleep now" After a moment's silence, Jake laughed.

"What?" I asked, wishing to be home; knowing we wouldn't be
soon.

"Your friend's trick retricked," he chuckled, his laugh slowing
every few seconds, whenever shoulder pain overwhelmed. "Hoped
to strand us and return to glory, undoubted."

"We are stranded," I reminded. Jake, excluding logic's sobriety,
ignored. Under circumstance his was surely the wiser reaction.
"We've got to hospital ourselves. He'll stay where he fell, surely.
We'll return for him. You've the Shrogin?" Freehanding, he
flipped it from undercoat. "I'll do the cases. Hoist her. Let's exit."

Cradling her onehanded beneath her hips, he downaisled
towards the door; I trailed, heaving cases. Feeling greater warmth, I
left my coat behind, estimating to later retrieve. Shallow water
lapped entranceways; sauna's air beaded us with sudden sweat. Jake
peered outside, and deadstopped, his thinned smile gone.

"Fucking O'Malley-" he said, barely heard. I looked. To the
horizon showed nothing but an ocean of grassy waves, in which
our plane floated like a great stabbed whale. Night breeze rustled the cattails, sending forth modal notes; insects buzzed and chirped
and peeped as in entomologist's dream. Laying foot in ankle-deep
water, we circled our sight. Southwestways deep orange evidenced
Newark's poison sky; eastways, beyond the ridge safeguarding Jersey's ports from inland attack, rose the Empire State Building.
South direct, kilometers distant, I discerned a trestle rising above
the limitless marsh. A train rolled over its length, wailing its
warning; the call split the darkness with long-whistling whine,
echoing through the wet, still night. Northward, a few hundred
meters away, was an ill-lit road; the whoosh of speeding cars rose
from its body as breath. Overhead's full moon cast shadow across
the swamp. Tracing distance by the Empire State-something in
its look was wrong, though I couldn't say what-I estimated that
our standing point should be occupied, so far as I knew by what
now seemed but dream's logic, by PriTel's twenty-floor parking
unistructure.

"Where've we come?" Jake finally asked.

"Home," I said, wishing to hold further speculation until fully
facted. "There's New York. This must be Jersey. We've come down
in the Flats Preserve"-that is, the old Jersey Flats acreage remaining, set aside by the government as a public park, where buried
wastes made the tumorous foliage especially lush.

"I've been," said Jake. "It's not wide enough to spit across."

"Road's there. Let's make for it. Get ourselves citied quick."