“Tail gunner to pilot,” said Francis. “There’s one of those milk trucks headed our way at six o’clock. It’s got a big antenna on top.”
Broben looked up at the overhead panel and held his palms out. “Milk truck at six o’clock, roger,” he said. “Open fire the second it’s in range. Go for the bowl or the tires. Martin, get back downstairs.”
“Back in the ball, roger.”
Broben turned on the running lights and saw that the hangar door had begun to move. A slit of outside canyon slowly widened. Wen’s crawly little friends had come through after all.
Beyond the opening door Broben saw the troop transport returning from its encounter with the demolition team. It was headed straight toward the Morgana.
Broben deathgripped the control wheel. God damn it. Friggin glaciers move faster than this door. He needed a hundred and four feet and it had opened maybe thirty.
A brief burst of loud jackhammering from the back of the bomber.
It’ll have to do, thought Broben, and shoved the throttle full forward and let off the brake. The engines roared and the brake shoes squealed and the Morgana lumbered toward the widening exit. Broben gritted his teeth. It was going to be awfully—
The left wingtip brushed the door as it swept by. The bomber transitioned from smooth floor to canyon ground. They were out. They were out.
A bright red thread shot past the bomber and a patch of ground erupted ahead of them.
“Top turret here,” came Wen’s voice. “We’re taking fire from the wall.”
“Right waist gun,” said Everett. “Sten says it’s their automatic system.”
Broben headed straight toward the approaching troop transport. “Come on, sweetheart,” he told the bomber. “Just give me ten feet.”
At the last second he pulled back on the yoke. The nose came up and the bomber lifted. The transport shot beneath the ball turret and the tail wheel rolled across the transport roof. Then the bomber dropped back down to the canyon floor.
“Holy crap that was close,” came Martin’s voice.
Broben steered past boulders barely visible in the bomber’s up-angled wing lights and looked for a long stretch of level ground.
Something hit the top of the fuselage hard enough to rock the aircraft. Broben forced himself not to look away from the canyon floor. “Pilot here, what’s the damage?”
“Flight engineer here, we took a hit, no idea what. Rochester’s taking a look.”
“Who the hell is—” Broben began, then remembered who Rochester was. “Roger,” he said, and tried to focus on steering the bomber. They were jouncing hard now, and Broben had to back off on the throttle until he found ground he could use as a runway. The Morgana may have been a great bomber, but she was a lousy bus.
There. A long flat stretch of level ground, right where he remembered. Thank you, Jesus, I promise I’ll stop gambling when I’m back.
The engines didn’t sound anywhere near loud enough, but the RPM gauges rose smoothly, the manifold pressure looked good, and the bomber was accelerating quickly.
“Top turret to pilot. That zap truck’s gaining, lieutenant.”
“Unless they got wings, I don’t give a shit.”
The throttle was full forward and the RPM hit 2500. The control wheel began shuddering. Broben surveyed gauges: Tachometer; fuel, oil, and manifold pressure; oil, engine, and carb temperature. Everything was sweet as could be, and the engines were purring like kittens. The airspeed indicator read eighty. Now we’re talking. The ground ahead looked clear.
“Top turret to pilot. I dunno what they got under the hood, but they’re catching up.”
“Roger.” Flaps up, rudder neutral, elevator trim minus nine percent. One hundred miles per hour, and the canyon walls were rolling by. One-fifteen.
Arrivederci, chumps, Broben thought, and pulled back on the yoke.
Nothing happened.
He pushed forward on the wheel and looked to see if anything lay in their path. “Shorty, get up here!”
“On my way.”
“Boney, call out anything in front of us!”
“Roger,” came the bombardier’s laconic voice as he sat in the front bubble. “Looks good up ahead.”
Shorty climbed up from the pit. The left wheel hit a bump and he grabbed at the copilot seat.
“Siddown!” yelled Broben. “Grab the folder by the seat and read the top page.”
“Tail gunner to pilot,” came Francis’ voice. “The truck’s a thousand yards and closing.”
“Roger.” Broben glanced at Shorty, who was frowning at the sheet. “Out loud, genius,” he said.
“Um—” Shorty frowned at the checklist. “Form 1A—checked?”
“Skip it.”
“Controls and seats—checked?”
“Yeah yeah.”
“Fuel transfer valves and switch—off.”
Broben glanced at the controls. “Check.”
Boney’s voice crackled in Broben’s headset. “Big rock, eleven o’clock, two hundred yards.”
Broben glanced out the forward window. “Bombardier, don’t report anything unless we’re gonna hit it or fall into it.”
“Roger,” said Boney. “We’re not going to hit it.”
“Mr. Dubuque?” said Broben.
Shorty tore his gaze away from the window. “Sorry. Uh, intercoolers—cold.”
Broben looked. “Check.”
“Top turret here; they’re five hundred yards and closing at six o’clock.”
“Gyros—uncaged.”
Broben didn’t look. “Check,” he said.
“Fuel shutoff switches—”
“Open,” Broben interrupted.
“That antenna’s aiming at us.”
“Smoke ’em if you got ’em,” Broben ordered.
“Roger,” said Francis. The tail gun hammered.
“Gear switch neutral?” Shorty said.
“Yes, god damn it.”
From the top turret Wen opened fire on the pursuing transport.
“Bombardier to pilot, there’s a ridge dead ahead, three hundred yards.”
Broben glanced out the window. A frozen lava ripple ten feet high and hundreds of yards long lay directly ahead.
“Elevators unlocked?” asked Shorty.
“Darn,” said Francis. “I’m jammed.”
“Say again, Shorty,” said Broben.
“Um—” Shorty glanced at the sheet. “Elevators unlocked?”
“Bingo!” Broben reached out and unlocked the elevators. He pulled back on the yoke and the bumping stopped and the ground drained from the windshield as the Fata Morgana left the alien ground.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The cliff rose flat and smooth from dense white mist, too regular to be natural. Its top was flat and bare, too level and too square. Identical cliffs rose in the distance, little islands in an even fog, floating rocks on top of clouds. Castles in the air.
The sky was blank.
Farley sat on the edge of the cliff with his feet dangling and looked down on the undifferentiated carpet of mist, following it out until it blended with the jejune sky. No horizon could be seen.
Beside him Wennda said, “I like the view.”