"Well, I'm not going to flip you seventy degrees off and pull power first. Feet flat on the ground is a good way to start." He waved that off, and she had to laugh. It felt good to laugh, letting some of the tension go.
"All right, then let's get started."
It was scarier in unverified theory. In practice, after she'd handled the gun a few times, it was still awkward and unfamiliar but wasn't very scary anymore. Even when he demonstrated stance and shot, it wasn't scary - just very loud. Loud enough the in-skin cut out all noise for a moment, and then the world came back in a rush. And at that point, she was so fully involved on stance, foot placement, and holding out a weight that the noise was just an added distraction.
Actually holding the gun, and managing the recoil, was awkward, uncomfortable, and… not that bad. It wasn't unlike flying; so many technical and kinesthetic details to learn and engage that she could easily lose track of the bigger picture for focusing on the processes. But making the can kick up and go rattling across the dirt was fun, and viscerally satisfying.
25
Michelle was reloading the magazines, stopping to flex and rub her wrists, when Rock started putting things up. "That's it, we're done for the day."
"Wait, what?" She looked up, caught by the sudden change without warning. "Why?"
"It's supposed to be fun." He reached over, and she held out the loader - but he caught her hand instead. "If you're hurting, it's not fun anymore."
"Hey, there's plenty of training that's not fun. I'm good for it." She handed over the loader anyway, because he was in charge, and it was his equipment.
"Nope. It only gets less fun and more painful from here, and the more it hurts, the more your accuracy goes to shit." He loaded a magazine, and put the rest away. "I'm not going to let you train sloppy, and fly sloppier."
"Copy that." She got out of the way as he picked up everything, including tossing the cans in a trash box in the back of the truck. "Ah… how often would you suggest we practice until I can solo?"
"Ideally, every day. Nothing builds muscle memory like repetition. With our workload? Catch as catch can, and might only be three times a week. We'll see. Are you up for that?" He stopped, and looked at her, waiting for her to give an honest answer.
"I am. It's a bit overwhelming, but…" She stopped, and shook her head. "I'll decompress later. For now, while I have the opportunity, I'll learn."
"Better to deal with it now. You keep storing it up for later, and later will bite you in the ass." He shook his head, and she wondered what experience led to such a dark tone. Looking out over the flats, he said softly, "This is much more useful for gunships than you can appreciate right now. You need to understand shooting to understand the systems, and how to use it."
She thought of her student pilot days, and the many buttons already on the stick. "Especially keeping the finger off the trigger?"
The look on Rock's face promised a story, if she could get enough beer in him. "Hell, yes!" After a moment, he shook his head, and turned back to her. "But this is even more useful, kiddo, for keeping you safe when you're not in the cockpit. Like when you go out drinking, or on a parts run. Or flying solo into some of these places."
She was silent for a long moment, thinking that over. "Are you expecting trouble?"
"Always. And…" He put the gun down between them, took off his ever-present cap and ran a hand through silvering hair. "Things are about to get rougher here. When they do, people will get malicious and stupid. And I won't always be around."
She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, and felt a chill from the wind as though the heat had been sucked right out of the day. If there was one thing aviation taught all too well, it was that you couldn't take for granted that you'd see someone alive again. Against all odds, she'd found a wonderful place to fly, a good company, a captain who rubbed along great… and there was no guarantee he'd be alive after the next flight. Or she would, either.
"Right." Her voice was little more than a croak. She needed to ask for his help now, since they weren't guaranteed a later. What if this was all she got? "I'm not ready for that, yet."
"No one ever is, any more than they're ready to solo. But you've got to spread your wings sometime and fly." He pulled up the foam to dig around in the ammunition, loaders, earpieces, and assorted stuff, until he came up with a scrap of stiff fabric. It turned out to be a pouch of sorts, that fit around most of the gun, swallowing all but the back of the grip and the tip of the muzzle. "This is a pocket holster."
"A holster for pockets." She nodded, and took it a little gingerly. "Any pocket?"
"Wouldn't recommend sitting on it for hours." He shrugged.
"Would that hurt it?"
"No, your ass’ll get sore." Rock tapped a thigh pocket on his pants, and she heard the thunk of something hard under the cloth. "When it gets colder, inside your jacket is good."
"Ah." She remembered, then, the large pockets inside her jacket. Of course, they'd be there for a reason. Turning away from him toward the berm, she unholstered the gun, and slid it back in. "Like this?"
"Finger extended. Finger always extended. Never go fishing for the trigger; you just might find it!" He stepped close to her, reaching along her arm and guiding her hands into the correct position. "There, do that again. Now, again."
"Got it." She did it a few more time to be sure, and then turned to give it back to him. He crossed his arms and looked at her, until she paused, trying to figure out what he wasn't saying. "Rock?"
"We'll go over cleaning it when we get back to base. For now, why don't you try carrying it?" When she hesitated, holding it, he flipped the case closed and latched it.
"It's your gun. I don't want to lose it." She awkwardly put it in her own pants pocket, grateful for once for the baggy company-issue flight suit.
"So don't lose it. You're responsible enough to track equipment." He gestured her toward the cab of the truck, and when she moved, flipped up the tailgate they'd been sitting on. She climbed in, feeling the extra weight as an unexpected and awkward difference - it pulled at her pants, dragging the cloth down. He stowed the case, and went round to his side of the truck, climbing in.
She nearly protested, and insisted on giving the gun back: but as they drove back up the access road, she thought about it. She needed to acquire a gun, as well as the training. And a holster. And bullets, or cartridges, or whatever the hell the right term was. And… she could hand it back, but then she’d still have to swallow her pride and ask him for help after she'd refused it. Or she could accept his help now, and use it to bridge the gap until she got her own equipment.
She didn't want to carry a gun. But he had a point, a very valid one. Especially the 'some customers' part; she hadn't contemplated just how very alone she'd be, picking up and dropping off cargo on the far side of the mountains. Not everybody in this world was honest. Some people were downright malicious.
They continued on past the cargo side of the airport, out toward the ring of bars and restaurants between airport, port, and downtown that were always open late. As he parked in a gravel lot, he looked over at her. "You good?"
"I will be." She nodded. The next words were harder. "May I keep this one until I can replace it?"
That got a smile. "Of course. Take your time; you want to find the right one, not the first one."
"Thank you." She meant far more than just the gun, and he met her eyes in understanding.
"You're welcome." They walked toward the building, and he paused before they went in. "Hey, Amber?"
"Yes?" The use of her name surprised her; she couldn't recall him ever using it before.
"Wash your hands. They've got contaminates all over 'em from the shooting. You don't want to eat that." At her nod, he frowned. "And don't get drunk when you're carrying."
"Wouldn't get drunk anyway. Don't do that where I can't trust everyone." She nodded, and he smiled.
"Wise. You've done well today; I'm proud of you." With that, he opene
d the door, and ushered her through. She nearly stumbled over her own feet, shocked at the unexpected praise. But then they were in, and a group of pilots were raising beers in welcome, and there was no time to think it over. She had to put the praise, and the gun in her pocket, and everything else behind her, in order to smile and act like everything was good.
And it really was.
26
"What are we flying today, Marv?" Michelle stuck her head into Dispatch, and followed it with the tray with take-out coffees for her, for Marv, and for Rock. It was five in the morning, but she'd noted the swarm of activity that had woken her up two hours before, on the ground side. It had gotten her out of bed and headed to the coffee shack, rather than waiting to find out what was up. "You've been burning the midnight oil; what's coming down the pike?"
"If you'd get an apartment like a normal pilot, you wouldn't notice." He grumbled at her, but took the coffee. She shut up while he drank it, knowing pilots who irritated Dispatch were likely to end up with loading and routes that were anything but fun. Marv had a long memory, and a fine collection of grudges; she aimed not to be added to the list. He finally put the cup down, and looked around. "Where's that mountain of yours?"
"Haven't found him yet, but I have his coffee. We have something interesting on the load he needs briefed on?" She'd seen the headlights coming in trail after her, so he'd be there soon. Rock avoided the office since he'd gotten cussed out for knocking over a stack of paperwork two weeks ago, sending her instead, and Marv was usually happier for it. Demanding to brief them both could be anything from really nasty hazmat to flying a rancher’s frail old mother home from the hospital with a full monitoring suite still attached.
"You could say that. Go find your partner, and see the chief pilot." Marv waved her out. She got going, wondering if she should be worried or excited. By the unexpressive grunt from Rock as she told him the news, either was a possibility.
They headed up the stairs, and knocked on the door. Russ waved them in, and Rock closed the door firmly behind them. She smiled, trying to cut the odd tension as the two eyed each other. "If I'd known we were going to see you, I would have included you on the coffee run."
"And then everybody else who can count coffees would know something's up. Rock, you've had her living in your hip pocket for three weeks. What do you think?" Russ looked past her like she wasn't there, and she took the golden opportunity to shut up.
Rock shrugged. "Could have cut her loose two weeks ago, for all but off-airport."
"That fast?" They were clearly having more than one conversation, and she wasn't catching the subtext. "You haven't tried to get her out of your hair."
That got a grin, and not entirely friendly. "You didn't offer. I'm not throwing the betting pool for no return."
Russ leaned back, acknowledging the hit. "Fair point. I'm calling it, though. I need warm bodies in the air more than you boys need your fun."
"They incoming?" Rock was on point like a guard dog straining at two unfamiliar pilots too close to his territory.
"Not yet. We got the first shipment for the Dome defense in last night, and I need it distributed up and down the coast. We don't have much time before they decide to try an advance strike." Russ pulled out a map from a stack of paper, spreading it out. "I'm putting her and the mechanics in the C-600, and you in the C-53, with Jack, as he's my skinniest mech." His fingers tapped the map. "She's going to be in the team hauling them up to the staging areas, and the rest of you are going to be hopping them out to the strips they're clearing as we speak."
Rock nodded, and ran his prosthetic down the map, tapping each location, making circles around each one. "So the Legislature decided to go for a full coastal aerial defense instead of just protecting the cities? Pricey. And stupid."
"Politics. Everybody wants the resources, and they don't want the losers to burn 'em for a Pyrrhic victory." Russ gave an odd little laugh that raised the hairs on her neck. "Besides, it's all on promise to pay; they don't want to get caught short when the bill comes due."
"Politics." Rock spat the word. "We spend too much time setting this up, and it won't be ready."
"Hell, there's no way this country's going to be ready. Doesn't matter how much we prep them." Russ sighed, and scrubbed his eyes, letting weariness show for a moment. "We're too damned old to fight another war." At Rock's sour grunt, the chief pilot looked up with a half-smile. "We should leave the fighting to the young kids. Like her."
"No." Rock shook his head, and put his true hand on her shoulder. "We need to keep her in logistics."
Russ went still, waiting. When no further explanation was forthcoming, he said, "There's no depth to the battlefield. Everyone's going to end up on the front lines, here."
"If she ends up on the front lines, we'll lose her. She lacks the basic aggression necessary to fight. She spends too much time analyzing, and won't commit until she's sure." He squeezed her shoulder. "Makes her a very conservative pilot, and damned safe. But she's still going to be standing there trying to figure out what's going on when someone lines up on her and blows her brains out."
Russ smiled, then, a little crookedly. "She might surprise you."
"Do you want to risk it?" Rock looked at her, but his eyes bored straight through her, into the past. "I've lost too many of my kids already, Russ. That's why I'm out here, where I don't have to talk to people, and don't have to care, until you sodding well dropped a closed-mouth little beauty with wounded eyes into my lap."
That got a grimace. "You were supposed to toss her out on her ear. Wasn't expecting her to last out a week." He waved her off like a fly.
Michelle kept her mouth shut, but her jaws ached at the force of keeping words behind her teeth, like her chest ached at the stab of betrayal. He'd asked her to promise five years, when he hadn't expected to return the loyalty… Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and she didn't dare blink, lest they spill over. Rock looked over at her, then glared back at the chief.
"What I'm hearing, chief, is that you fucked up. You made her my responsibility, and I'm not screwing her over and sending her to her death just because you're half-assing it." They engaged in a staring match, and Michelle knew they were all too close to words that couldn't be taken back. She wasn't ready, not just yet…
She looked down at the map, the staging sites for air defense marked out. That was a lot of material to move. She could wait until they finished, and hope that it didn't hurt her or Rock, or she could speak up now, and prevent anything truly unforgivable from being said. Ready or not, it was time to act. So she took a deep breath, and cut in. "How long do we have to get the sites set up?"
"Ma'am?" That was the chief pilot, startled.
She looked up, and caught the look on his face - trying to wall off a naked anger, and focus on business at hand. She understood that feeling all too well, right down to the icy knot in her guts. "How long are we looking at? Hours? Days? Weeks?"
"Depends on how soon the Feds recognize it. Hours, after that." Rock spoke between gritted teeth.
"Then we'd better get moving." She replied, and pitched the still-full coffee in the trash. The ringing crash as it slammed against the metal was altogether too loud in the small office, making Rock jump at her side. "Do you have the manifest, or does Dispatch?"
"Dispatch will." The chief pilot was staring down at the desk, voice too quiet.
"Then we'll be on our way. Soonest begun, soonest done." She stepped past Rock, opening the door, and pulled him by the wrist out of the room, down the stairs. He didn't speak until they had their manifests and were out on the ramp.
"Amber…"
"You can scream at him when we're back, and we have defenses overhead." She didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to think about it, because she'd just risked her job, risked his. Because she didn't know how to say goodbye. She wanted to focus on the mission, instead of the rising pressure of tears against her eyes, and the wobbly feeling all along her frame.
"I won't
scream. Might shoot the bastard, but I don't scream." Rock cleared his throat, and said roughly, "You stay safe, woman."
"You too, Rock. There aren't so many fine things in this world that I can afford to lose you." She nodded, and walked away with her head held high, spine straight, and heart in her throat.
27
The 600-series should have felt like coming home, after all the hours in the bare-bones systems that Rock ran. Instead, it felt like a step down. The cockpit was dirty, from dust on every surface to worn-in grime darkening the panels, and the prior pilot had clearly had no problem eating things that left traces of old food and stale smells permeating the cockpit. No matter the time limit of the overcrowded schedule, or the urgency with which she'd all but fled the chief pilot's office, nothing was going to make her put those implant cables into her skin until she'd thoroughly disinfected and cleaned them. She turned right around, and headed back to the hangar for cleaners, and grabbed her jacket while she was at it to further insulate herself from the cockpit.
The delay wasn't noticeable anyway, because the mechanics were still loading containers on the bird; she came back to find the chief mechanic saying, "Make sure you test the batteries after you swap them, and before you load the lifts! If we get there and the lift doesn't work, I'll make you drag everything out on rollers!"
He turned, and eyed the cleaning products in her hands, and barked, "Who told you to get those?"
"I did. The last pilot in the cockpit was a slob, and you're busy." She met his eyes, not backing down. "I have exterior preflight done; let me know when you're buttoning up, so we can get this show on the road. I'll be cleaning until then!"
He frowned, but decided to keep whatever he wanted to say behind his teeth. "Twelve minutes." With a small touch of his fingers to his temple, he turned away and dismissed her, already headed for the next problem on his chain.
Going Ballistic Page 14