They should have, because there was a flight manual right next to the maintenance manual on the work bench in the corner. As I applied myself to it, I began to realize that this was a considerably different bird than the one Major Taft Beckman had shown me how to fly in the simulator. That had been a tiny little trainer, while this was some kind of combat troop ship, big and bulky, with machine guns and missiles and seating for ten in the back. Maneuvering it was going to require more muscle and concentration, and crashing it was going to be the difference between dropping a pocket watch onto a shag rug and dropping a grandfather clock out of a second story window into an empty swimming pool.
Still, there were enough similarities that I thought I could manage it, and I was just starting to feel like I might be ready to fire up the old eggbeater and see if it still worked, when the others came rushing back into the room and slammed and locked the door behind them. They were all coughing and choking and retching.
I looked around, confused. “What’s going on?”
They hurried towards me, Vargas in the lead.
“Get this thing up in the air,” he said. His eyes were red and running. “We’ve gotta go, now.”
“What? I — I’m not even half ready. Why the change of heart? Does this mean you didn’t find a secret door?”
“Oh no,” said Angie. “We did. But we couldn’t get to it.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because of the goddamn poison gas, is why!” snarled Hell Razor.
Ace clarified. “The Guardians are pumping the halls full of some kind of toxic fog, and they’ve come at us through a secret panel in full–body hazmat suits underneath their armor.”
“We’re fucked,” said Angie. “We gotta hit the sky.”
“But I haven’t even started it up yet. I haven’t even seen if I can fly it yet. I need to make a test run.”
Vargas looked back at the doors. “Well, you better get a move on then. You’ve got until those motherfuckers find us and break down the door.”
“Well, hell.”
“It’s not all bad news,” said Angie, flashing a map as I turned back to the chopper. “At least we know where we’re going now.”
“You found a map with Base Cochise on it?” I asked.
“It was in a desk,” said Angie. “We already knew Cochise’s general location from Max, but this gives us an exact fix — a hundred and sixty miles northwest of Vegas, just west of the Stonewall Mountains.”
“Great,” I said. “But I hope you’re not expecting me to fly this thing and look at the map at the same time. I’m gonna have a hard enough time just trying not to crash. Somebody’s gonna have to ride shotgun and help me spot these landmarks from the air.”
“Me,” said Thrasher.
Everybody looked at him.
He shrugged. “I like maps.”
Well, who was going to argue with him?
I handed him the map, then started my preflight as the others went back to guard the door.
I was shaking like a leaf. All the things I had wanted to do calmly and methodically suddenly I had to do at a sprint, my palms slick with cold panic sweat. I pushed the button to open the overhead door, then climbed up into the chopper’s cockpit as the roof started folding back on itself. I unlocked the pilot’s seat and set the training manual on the copilot’s seat so I could read it as I worked, then hit the ignition switch and fired her up.
The noise, even with the roof open, was deafening, and the others huddled by the door, hats in their hands and the wind from my rotors whipping their hair around as they watched me run through all the controls, making sure they moved what they were supposed to move. Finally I was ready to get her off the ground and gave them all nervous thumbs up.
They gave me the “hurry it up” rolling hand sign in return, so I turned back to the controls and took a deep breath. Concentration time.
I pulled up on the collective control and increased the engine speed. For a second the chopper just shivered and shimmied, but then I felt it leave the ground and weave around a little in the air. It was a sphincter–tightening sensation, but also a thrilling one, completely different from the simulation. I was floating!
Unfortunately I was also edging sideways toward the wall. Panicking, I tugged at the cyclic control and veered the other way, but too far and too fast. The chain–link fence zoomed up at me on my right. I corrected left again and the rotor blades nearly chopped into the stone wall.
“Shit! Shit! Shit! Calm the fuck down, boy!”
It took a conscious effort of will to move the stick gently, but I managed it and the chopper eased away from the wall instead of zigging. My heart was beating so fast I could hardly breathe. I depressed the collective and throttled down on the engine until the runners touched the ground again, then sat there and sucked in some deep breaths. Who knew that simulation and reality would be so different?
Before I could get my heart under control again, Angie jogged over and shouted up at me.
“So, are you ready?”
“Are you kidding? Didn’t you see? I nearly smashed into the wall!”
“Well, the Guardians are pounding on the door now, and that lock isn’t gonna last two minutes, so…”
“Christ, now who’s the one with a broken danger meter? Until I get this thing under control, flying with me is suicide!”
“It’s suicide either way, Ghost. At least with you, there’s a chance.”
I groaned. Talk about performance anxiety. “Okay. Fine. Poison gas. Ball of fire. Who cares. If you’re ready, I’m ready.”
“Great,” said Angie, then turned and waved to the others.
They backed away from the door, then ran over and clambered into the chopper, Thrasher taking the co–pilot’s seat and the others heading for the back.
Vargas clapped me on the shoulder as he passed me. “Make it good, brother.”
“Just strap in and shut up,” I said. “I need to concentrate.”
Not a chance. Just as I got the runners off the ground, I saw the hangar door fly off its hinges. A gang of guardians in gas masks and pseudo–chitin armor poured through the door in a cloud of green fog.
– Chapter Eight –
I flinched as the Guardians ran toward us, firing their lasers. The helicopter zigged wildly in the air.
“Shit shit shit!”
“Hold it steady!” shouted Vargas.
“Faster!” shouted Angie.
Very helpful.
Thrasher leaned forward and looked at the controls. “How do you operate the guns?”
I couldn’t look away from the walls, which were way too close for comfort. “Red buttons are machine guns. Yellow are missile launchers. Green is flares and chaff.”
“Do they work?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
He grunted and pushed the red button. The guns spun to life, unloading a stream of bullets that tore giant holes in the chain–link fence and the walls beyond it. The fire hit nowhere near the Guardians, but it seemed to impress them nonetheless. They scattered and ran for cover as we rose.
“Can you swing it around?” shouted Vargas from behind me.
“What? No! I can barely go up and down!”
“Fine. Hell Razor! Ace! Take position at the door!”
A quick glance behind showed me Razor and Ace tearing out of their harnesses and hurrying to crouch by the door, laser rifles raised.
I couldn’t watch. I just concentrated on holding steady as she rose toward the sky, but I saw the flashing blue and purple of lasers in the corners of my eyes. The trickiest moment was going through the hole in the roof. The clearance for my rotors was less than ten feet on all sides. I eyeballed it, made a sweaty little correction, and lifted as fast as I dared.