While she was chewing, he loosened his shoulder straps for more comfort. “The Cherry Seven-Up bottle is yours,” he said. “The diet bottle’s mine.
Can’t fill ‘em again ‘til we land, and you keep your hands off mine.”
“Oh boy, but you are one tough guy,” she said acidly.
A shrug. “Those are the rules. They could get tougher,” he reminded her, dividing his attention between the keyboard and the mottled terrain that stretched away below, a rumpled coverlet with long parallel ridges made more flat and featureless as the aircraft continued to climb. He smiled to himself, tilting the control stick to the right, her own stick following suit.
The great bird banked obediently, almost silently, to the right, sliding down invisible corridors of air. Petra took a swallow of water and recapped the bottle. “Changed your mind already, Mr. Smith?”
“A piece of it,” he said, and pointed to the right, far ahead. “See that high ridge? Should be some nice thermal air above it, and we can throttle back. If I trusted this sucker for an in-flight restart, I could shut ‘er off for hours and let the ridge take us where we’re going.”
“And where would that be?” It did not occur to Petra until too late that her purring tone was one she generally employed on much younger men.
“You’re about as subtle as a tire-iron, kid. South, actually southwest for the moment, as any freshman engineering student should know by now. And you’re almost a senior. If I were fool enough, I could show you Roanoke or Asheville on the way but until I get chummier with the brains of this thing I intend to stay well clear of big towns.
“It’s been a long time since I was bewitched, bothered, and bewildered by a kid with a cute ass, so save it. We’re going to be together for a few days; don’t make me hurt you and don’t act empty-headed because that would piss me off. When I’m pissed off, I don’t care how bad you hurt. For that matter, you could just step out that side right now and things would be easier for me. All that matters is that people think you’re in here.”
Petra watched distant clouds drag shadows over ridgelines below, her ears popping as the aircraft began to descend with the tachometer needle at idle, and she swallowed hard. “What people? I’ve been kidnapped, I’m scared, and I don’t know what this is all about. Surely you can tell me something. You owe me that much.”
His glance held cynical amusement. “I owe you zip. All the same, when you’re scared enough you can do something stupid that’ll get us both killed.” Their descent, now, was carrying them parallel to a series of ridges that seemed to stretch toward the southwest like a single mountain as far as she could see, with vast popcorn bulges of cloud-hugging ridges here and there.
A thin, silver line scrawled a curving “Z” into the nearest ridge and a tiny, squarish black dot traversed it faithfully on tinier wheels. Petra could see the boundaries of farms as geometric shapes, the farm buildings as tiny rectangles, some with sheet metal roofs that glimmered in the sun. In the far distance lay two small towns. She realized now that the pilot was, as he had promised, keeping his distance from population centers.
A series of faint, buffeting pressures shook the craft lightly, and the pilot seemed to be hunting in the clear air for something elusive. As he searched, he said, “You’ll learn some things anyhow. I stole this thing from a spook hangar near Elmira, New York. I took you along and left your ID in the Ford so they’ll think twice before they shoot us down, assuming they find us. You can pray that they don’t find us. And heeere we go,” he said, nodding. “We’ve got some thermal air under us now. I’ve never flown this thing before last night, so I’ve still got my training wheels on.”
Petra loosened her harness as she had seen him do, sitting up straighter, beginning now to almost enjoy a ride she could tell her grandchildren aboutif she survived it. “It looks easy enough,” she said.
“It’s a tipsy bitch, but it’s got no power assists outside of tabs the autopilot can operate for straight-and-level flight. Even have to operate the waste-gate ducts by leg power. It’s a lot tougher than it looked on the prints, but your legs are your strongest muscles.”
“I’m a cyclist,” Petra said.
“I know. I followed you from the campus yesterday.”
“How long have you people been planning this, Smith?”
A faint smile as he shook his head. “One people. Me. I figure they owe it to meshit,” he finished, slamming the stick hard to the left.
Without warning, some invisible demon of clear air had thrust the craft upward, but not on an even keel. The left wing flexed in an impossible bow, not folding but tilting the entire aircraft so that Petra’s right-hand horizon lofted until it seemed that the wings must be as vertical as a telephone pole and Petra was staring straight down through her hatch window. Caught by surprise without snug restraints, her shoulders sliding past the straps, she slammed her right arm outward for support, striking the flimsy plastic hatch hard near its lower latch. An instant later the hatch lay ajar, Petra falling out as far as her torso, the sudden battering of wind on her face forcing her eyes shut, her taped wrists preventing her from helping herself. She could scream, though, as she felt her hips sliding from the loosened lap belt.
The rough hand at her belt jerked her inside so hard she yelped as the hatch edge scraped past her ear, and then she was holding tight to the seat with her bound hands between her thighs. Instead of sobbing, Petra lay back and gasped, shaky inhalations that continued long after the aircraft had returned to normal flight. Only when she looked at him, her teeth bared ferociously, did he let go of her belt.
“Secure that hatch, it’s not broken. And don’t ever do that again,” he said, as if someone were shaking him while he spoke.
She had already levered the latch tight again, needing to turn sideways because her wrists were bound, when she realized all of what he’d said. “Me? You’re flying this goddamn thing, you crazy old bastard!” She began to tighten her harness again as well as she could, now almost crying in a reaction her close friends could have predicted: rage. “Tie my hands and feet,” she snarled, and, “let me loosen these things,” she accused with a sob, and, “turn this rinkydink cardboard contraption on end, andand blame it on me,” she howled, watching him through slitted eyes as she regained her self-control. More quietly, and with the sweetness of ant paste: “But I promise to do better, Mr. Smith, really I do.”
He looked away, and when a sudden nudge of turbulence made him look ahead, Petra saw a blush fading under the tan on his craggy features. “Okay. You’re right, kid. I was justfuck it, you’re right.” He stared off, clearing his throat, and Petra realized that he was trying to keep his voice steady. Then he turned back toward her, gesturing with his free hand. “I’ll pull that tape off your wrists. You couldn’t be dumb enough to try anything up here.” She watched his hand unwind the tape, seeing the black hairs still standing erect, realizing that he, too, had been badly frightened.
If there was truth in wine, there was more of it in fear. The first question that occurred to her was, “If you didn’t care, why didn’t you just let me fall?”
“I don’t know. Probably should’ve, thanks for bringing it up. Maybe next time I will.”
“You need me alive for something, don’t you?”
“Not in any way you’d believe,” he said, “and I don’t want to talk about it. You got lucky. We’re both lucky, in fact. See that?” He pointed to the altimeter, recording their rise although the engine was idling. “I’m going to try something.”