Going Ballistic

by Dorothy Grant

  "Hey, you never pour drink for me!" The speaker had a thick accent, from the far north of the Fed.

  "He's my copilot; you're not. You can sit and spin, Durz." The response was far too well worn to evoke more than the reflexive smiles and hand gesture, and the beer was passed on. "Too bad OrbCon already published the pics at apogee. And that was definitely not a bomb."

  "What's the pilot say?" She waved off an offer for the beer, holding up her water, and it got passed on.

  "Wouldn't we all like to know that? The newsies are staking out the airport, and the investigators on both sides have been showing up at the crash pads. Nobody's seen hide or hair of 'em since the initial debrief." He frowned. "The pretty airline boys have been bitching all day, that they've been hitting every pilot crash pad in town, because he's not in any hotels. Feds and Rebs are racing to find him first."

  "One to give him a medal, and the other a quick bullet to the back of the head, unless I miss my guess." Black beard wasn't smiling now. "They haven't worked their way down to our crew houses yet, but I know a few guys that already took any flight out of town to avoid meeting up with their past. Seems likely he’ll show up here, sooner or later."

  "Pfft. A ballistic pilot mixing it up with the likes of us?" That got laughter. "They'd be worried about catching fleas from us cargo dogs!"

  "Well, look at that." The older pilot who'd invited her over pointed at the holo. They tapped implants to the channel, and the bartender turned on the sound for those who hadn't been paying attention. The newsie was standing in front of the fence that kept idiots like her away from the active ramp. She was speaking earnestly.

  "…has requested the Imperium's Transportation Investigation Board's Go Team as neutral, third-party investigators into the attack on TransCon 1453." She spoke earnestly into the camera, as if she believed any of the words she said. "They're already in the air as we speak, and soon, we'll find out the truth of what really happened to the passengers and crew of TransCon 1453."

  "Oh, bloody hell." A pilot spoke up, summing up the feeling in the bar. "The Feds shoot those bastards, and we're gonna watch the whole world burn."

  "Yeah." That wasn't why the ice crawled down her spine. The Rebs didn't have the equipment to access the cockpit voice recorder, but the Empire? They'd know she had a hijacker, and no matter how good she was at flying, her name would be mud once that got out. She drank her seltzer like it was whiskey, and tried to gather courage from it.

  As the newsie switched to the Federated State's demand for a second referendum by Nueva Terra on the question of independence, because they had gone for a popular vote instead of Federated guidelines of delegates and caucuses, the pilots tuned out the talking heads. Michelle settled down to the business of finding out who was good to fly for, and who was late and light on the paychecks, and where they flew. The cargo guys were game, asking her the same right back. In an industry as unstable as aviation, everybody who'd survived a furlough or bankruptcy, or missed a paycheck or three, traded information and rumors freely so they could know when and where to jump before their current employer stiffed them again or went under.

  Three hours and several pitchers of beer later, she was headed to the ladies' room when the chief pilot for a cargo outfit stopped her. He looked her up and down, and said, "Heard you been asking about openings in cargo out here."

  "Yes, sir." She swallowed, mouth going dry. She hadn't expected to work around to talking to him for another two days - one didn't just walk up to a chief pilot and ask for a job.

  He nodded, and looked around the bar, checking that no one was in earshot. "Just landed yesterday?" He lifted an eyebrow, and she nodded. He looked at the TV, looked back at her, and she grimaced, and nodded again. "Well, nice to meet you, Miss…” He stopped and looked up at the beer signs on the wall. "Amber Porter." A look back at her, with a small smile and a nod. "Come by for an interview anytime. Gate code's 1776." As she stared at him, too stunned for words, he winked. "I like the cut of your jib." He tugged on his jacket collar, and she belatedly realized it was an older, far more battered and worn-looking version of her own as he moved past her into the gents.

  7

  "Wow." Michelle stared up at her bird in the maintenance hangar, slowing to a halt instead of following the mechanic escorting her in. They'd moved her out of the weather and tagged things for repairs, which only made the extent of the damage more apparent. Tough as a suborbital bird was, built to survive re-entry, the sheer quantity of repair markers noting the extent of the damage only made it seem more of a miracle.

  The mechanic stopped, and grunted agreement. "Yeah, they tore hell out of this bird. Pilots are never good to 'em, but this one… damn! And this is all cleaned up. You should have seen her when she came in, dripping retardant and fuel!"

  "I know. I saw,” she replied, and started walking again, craning her head up as they walked out in the hangar proper, looking up at the wings with all their holes as they walked underneath, and the mangled remains of the landing gear. Scaffolding under wings and belly supported the weight, as mechanics didn't trust the abused gear to even do that. "I just… wow. I can tell you put in a lot of work, just getting her in here."

  "Thank you." He nodded, and lead her to two of the Imperial guards forming a loose cordon around the plane, who were watching them with hands resting on their guns. "They'll check out your ID and escort you to the meeting." She’d told the mechanic she was expected, when she’d slipped onto the tarmac via vehicle gate and a keen eye for the code a truck had punched in, and come in the back via an unlocked man-door. It wasn’t completely a lie; she’d found the invitation in her messages, and that and an air of assuming she belonged had gotten her this far.

  She bowed, thanking him, and he waved it off, heading back to whatever he'd been working on before she arrived. When she turned back, one of the two was frowning, and one was looking rather too pleased with himself. She wasn't sure which expression was more worrisome, but the frowning one said, "ID, now."

  "Michelle doesn't need ID,” the other one replied, and they both looked at him. "She's cleared."

  "I'm what?" She wasn't sure if she was more bothered by a stranger using her given name, or by the too-easy access. After the last few days of the Fed closing in on every hiding place, both felt completely wrong.

  "What, is she your girlfriend?" The frowning guard replied. "We have orders."

  "She's the captain of this plane we're guarding, idiot." The smiling one - he wasn't wearing a nametag or any patches, but he was wearing a very familiar jacket, twin to hers - gestured at her. "And nah, she's not my type. Besides, I hear all kind of rumors about what pilots prefer." He looked up at the airplane, looked at her, and winked.

  She snorted. "No, we don't screw the hardware." A half heartbeat, then she lifted her hands, palms out, "Well, there's always That One Guy, but…"

  His laughter rang across the hangar; she could hear a faint echo off the plane. "Don't worry; we have them, too." He put a hand on her shoulder, and said much more softly to the other guard, "Notice her jacket?"

  The man peered at her chest, and then his eyes went wide. "Ah, shit, ma'am. Wait, how'd you get one of those?"

  "Saved our lives. C'mon, lovely. You have a meeting to be bored in." He put a hand between her shoulder blades, and guided her away. From this close an angle, he did look familiar enough for her to place on a freezing cold ramp.

  She waited until they were well clear of people, and said, "I'm rather at a loss. I never did ask for your names, yet you know mine?"

  "We never were formally introduced, were we? I'm Tom Greenfield." He gave a soft half-laugh under his breath. "We would have introduced ourselves, but you advised sitting down, shutting up, and acting like a ramp rat."

  "It was the smartest thing to do at the time. Just because ramps are out of range of the face recognition cameras doesn't make them out of range of the pax watching from the terminals."

  "Oh, I'm not complaining, lovely. They had our pr
ofiles up and ready to catch us, as soon as we hit the main aisles." He gave her a crooked smile. "But we never did, because you cut us directly over into the gate area."

  She nodded. "That's why all airline crew who can manage it cut that way. If you're not tracked and tagged into a terminal, you can't be detained for skipping a checkpoint when you pop up at the far end." He grunted at that. "But what the hell are you doing here?"

  "Oh, we were coming in for some consulting. Since we were already here, though, we got asked to help guard the VIP's." He shrugged, with a grin. "Hey, if it's a free flight home, I won't knock it."

  "Yeah, they're the only ballistic-capable plane around." As they approached the office section, with the meeting rooms, she gathered up her courage. "Tom, I need your help."

  "Of course." He stopped, looking at her intently. "How can I help?"

  "I know what I'm walking into. In post-crash investigations, pilots get raked over the coals. Everything possible gets blamed on us, and usually we can count on losing our wings, if not jail time and getting our implants plugged." She looked away, not wanting to admit to the nightmares that had kept her awake and restless since the landing. "I don't have a rep here to fight for me. Usually it's the pilot's union rep versus the crash board, the insurance rep, the airline rep, all cutting deals out in the hallway and announcing the decision without giving us a chance to defend ourselves."

  "That’s not how we run things." He'd taken both of her shoulders in his grip, and was looking at her intently when she looked back at him.

  "In the Imperial Army, or whatever branch you're in? Maybe not. But in aviation?" She grimaced. "It is what it is. We're forgiven anything but crashing." She took a deep breath, and looked away, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper. "There are ways around it. And they can't plug me right away - there are procedures to follow. I helped you slip around security, once… so, after the board, can you look the other way? I just need to make it across the ramp, and I'll be gone. Got a job offer lined up already that'll get me out, under another name. All I need is a chance."

  She looked up at him, at the last, putting the pleading in that look she didn't dare voice. This was the entire reason she was here: she couldn't hide forever from the local government, the Imperials, and the Fed. Over the last few days, she’d nearly gotten caught, and shot, more than she wanted to think about. But if two out of three weren't interested anymore, she could load cargo and be overlooked all day long.

  He met her gaze, and nodded. She let out her breath, going limp in his hold. Before she could thank him, he squeezed her shoulders. "I think we can get you better second chance than that." She gave him a wary look, and received a grin in return. He let one shoulder go, and chucked her under the jaw. "Chin up, captain. You'll be fine. You've got friends in low places."

  8

  The crash investigation team were all old enough to be on regen - and from the looks of some of them, they were. Michelle tried to get her back to a wall, looking around the room at the people standing there chatting, and finally sidled over toward the coffeepot. No one told her she couldn't, after all. She was glad Tom had left her at the door, as there were other military in here, and they always seemed to notice and salute and call attention to each other in passing.

  As she was carefully pouring the coffee into the creamer and sweetener at the bottom of the cup, so she wouldn't have to find the stir sticks or risk splashing it about, a man joined her at the coffee bar. She looked over as he unscrewed the lid on his own coffee mug, noting the golden slashes on his uniform went from elbow to shoulder. Even without knowing a thing about military ranks, she guessed that the slashes served the same purpose as the yellow color of nearhornets. The bright glow of each one, and the sheer mass of them, was a warning to the rest of nature.

  “I’ll be out of your way in just a moment, sir,” she said. His nametag said Grunveld, but she didn't know what rank to put on the front of that.

  "Take your time. I know better than to get between a pilot and the coffee." Grunveld had a kindly face and a soft, mild voice. She finished pouring, and handed the carafe over - only to find sharp, intent eyes watching her, putting lie to the unassuming air.

  "Here you go, sir. Careful, it's hot." She didn't know how to answer that thoughtful, demanding look - and after the words were out of her mouth, she cringed at how idiotic they sounded. "Sorry."

  "Oh, you never need to apologize for hot coffee. Far better than stone cold, with something floating in it." He replied, and she wrinkled her nose at the thought as he turned that laser gaze on the carafe.

  "And burnt. You might or might not get eau de diesel oil, but it's always going to be burnt." She grimaced, and he chuckled, and poured it straight into his mug without cream or sugar.

  As he topped it off, he spoke without looking up. "Thank you for coming. We were worried something had happened to you, when no one could trace your handbrain."

  "Something would have, with everybody who was trying to trace it. First time I made the mistake of turning it on when checking up on my flight crew, the place got swarmed." She couldn't quite hide the shudder at the memory of scrambling through neighbor's back yards and hiding with her crew in the bushes like a bunch of delinquent teens trying to escape after a prank. Or the way they'd come by later to find the doors smashed in, and the place trashed.

  All the mildness evaporated out of his voice, and his next words were flat and harsh. "I see." After a moment of silence, he drew a breath, and hid the predator again. "If you would care to sit? This room is very well guarded. You will not come to harm here." He guided her to a chair without quite touching her, and pulled it out for her.

  She let him push it in as she looked around the room. Someone must have given a signal, because they all came back to the table and gathered around, making sure everyone had a mic, including her.

  The lead, a gray-haired man with a placard of Dr. Wilson, leaned forward and spoke into his mic. "Thank you. This is the Imperial Transportation Investigation Board's preliminary interview, date June 17, 751 After Landing, at 8:30 in the morning local time, here at Tercia airport. I am Doctor Terrance Wilson, Investigator In Charge. We are interviewing Captain Michelle Lauden in relation to the forced landing of TransCon Flight 1453." He took a breath, and smiled at her. "I've been a member of the board for eighteen years now, and we usually don't have - oftentimes don't have - the flight crew here to talk to. It's a pleasure having you here today. We're very glad you're here, physically, to give your testimony." Despite all the formalities, he was trying hard to make it easier.

  She swallowed, and leaned forward into her mic. "Not as glad as I am, sir."

  That didn't get the laughter she'd hoped for, but at least it made a few people smile. He nodded. "To begin, would you please describe your experience as a pilot, and also your experience at TransCon, what aircraft you've flown, and how many hours you have?"

  She hadn't had to think that through in a while. "I learned to fly at 18, in the Misty Isles. I flew the usual odd jobs, like fish spotting and flight seeing, then cargo for 8 years with Albatross Express, working up their fleet range from C-21s through C-445's. Then I hired on to TransCon for Ballistics in the T-600's. Been with them… nine? Nine years now. I haven't really looked at my totals since I passed 20,000 hours, to be honest. It logs automatically in the pay system, and the check airmen just pull that up at recurrent." She grimaced. "Sorry I can't be more specific, but I don't have my logbooks, or any other reference material at hand."

  "That's quite all right, ma'am." Grunveld replied, and smiled at her. "It's been a hell of a last few days for you; you're doing fine."

  Dr. Wilson waited a moment, then took the conversation back. "Thank you. On the morning of June 13th, 751 AL, you were the pilot of TransContinental Flight 1453, out of Lasku with intended destination of Anueterriza, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Can you please describe that morning to us? Start as far back as you think is relevant." He sat back as she o
rganized her thoughts.

  "Well, it was morning in Lasku, but it was almost the end of my duty day. I'd started in Landing, and this was… my final leg of my duty day was Lasku, and I was scheduled to overnight there." She blew out her breath. "It was going to be a short day, but the next one was coming back the other way, and going to be a long one. I was past apogee and inbound to Lasku when I got the schedule update that I was reassigned to this new leg. That did not make me happy, because it meant I'd clear my max duty day with less than 5 minutes to spare." She looked up, and caught Grunveld's grimace; he understood. For the others with blank faces, she clarified, "That means I would be working about 18 hours, and have to push hard if there were any headwinds, to make sure I didn't go over clock and have to be grounded in Anueterriza at least a full day while my rest clock reset. I don't have a crash pad rented there, so that's all out of pocket."

  "You were inbound to Laska. How much time did you have to prepare for the new leg?"

  "Working around the necessary flight duties for the one I was currently flying? About ten minutes. I got weather, airspace, runway lengths, route of flight. ACARS most emphatically, I want you to note, did not say there was a war on, or even a state of emergency!" She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, silently damning the abbreviated information system for everything it left out. "All I could tell before I landed was that it looked like a routine flight to a destination I haven't been to in several years."

  From the looks on the board's faces, she'd definitely been the last one to know. Dr. Wilson said, gently, "Thank you. Please, continue?"

  "When I got to Lasku, the passenger side was a mess. They had checkpoints up everywhere, completely snarling the flow. There was no way I'd get to the plane in the schedule’s estimated ten minutes. Flows were calculating 45 minutes to get across the terminals, gate estimated worse. So I caught a ride across the ramp to my gate, and came up that way." She paused, and said softly, "If I'd gone through, there would have been no way for me to reach the plane and still be safe to fly on the far end. It's too long a leg, too long an actual working day. I know my limits, and I cannot work a 19 hour day without rest. But that also meant I didn't see the security warnings or updates around checkpoints. That’s why I didn’t learn what I was walking into. If I had, I’d have canceled."