She sterilized the seat and straps first, shaking her head as the wipes turned black and the dirt soaked up the cleaning solution long before she could wipe it off with a towel. Contacts and wires next, and the yoke and throttles, and only then did she get to the many, many switches and the spaces in between. It was a soothing ritual she'd done a thousand times before, familiarizing herself with the layout as she wiped everything down, checking that everything worked. As she kept a link into the plane, she could tell when the load-in was finished, and the whine of the loading ramps going up echoed through the whole plane without the passenger-space insulation to muffle the noise. That was her signal to stash the bag of trash, plug in, and start the APU for ship's power.
The ground crew was highly efficient; fueling was already finished, and the last rampers were moving clear to the next bay that needed more hands onboard. This early in the morning, the only things moving were company planes; it was too early for local passengers. So she ran one last set of checks, bringing beacon and lights up, and hit the annunciator in the back. "Taxi in five; please take your seats." She had weather, and route already loaded. Clearance delivery had been down since shortly after Independence, as they were covering for air traffic controllers who'd gone back to the Fed, so she went immediately to ground, and monitored as she turned transponder on, verified all clear, and started the engines.
There was a rustle and thud behind her, and she heard someone say, "All ready in the back."
"Good." She replied, and hit the mic. "Tercia Ground, Coastal 970 Heavy at South ramp, request taxi to Runway 24 for southbound departure, with Charlie."
"Coastal 970 good morning, taxi behind company traffic to 24, number six for takeoff. Cleared as filed, squawk 6970."
"Taxiing to 24 behind company traffic, number six for takeoff, squawk 6970, Coastal 970. Thank you." She put a smile in her voice, for the poor controller who hadn't been planning on this much traffic before the sun had even cleared the mountains. Brakes off, she coasted gently on idle thrust, slow enough she wouldn't creep up on the line of planes in front as they stretched out, picking up speed on the taxiway, then bunched up at the hold-short line.
From behind her, she heard the same growling voice. "You can taxi a little faster than that."
"What, and put more wear on the brakes when we have to slow down at the far end? There's no need to race to the hold short line; we're still going to be stuck behind traffic." Not that long ago she'd have been worried about being criticized, but weeks of Rock's good-natured jibing meant whichever mechanic was second-guessing her now was easy to ignore.
Clearance to take off was going quickly; the five in front were down to two by the time she got there, and she had everything ready well before tower gave her the runway. The plane was heavy, near max gross, and she opted for a best rate climb-out and turn. It was a relief to suck the wheels up again and set climb thrust, after weeks of trying to do so only to realize that neither were on that plane's checklist. The hops today were short for a plane with this capability; she'd barely hit cruise when she was already running the decent checklist and switching to approach.
Unlike the short hop planes, a 600 series wasn't built for rough and unimproved strips. Michelle could do it, but Dispatch wisely set her up to drop major amounts of cargo at staging areas, and leave the last miles to the planes that were well behind and below her, coming in as fast as they could. Two other 600s were up in the air, and she wondered who was flying 'em. Not her problem; they were headed on to other points, rather than create congestion at any single point of landing. The sun was coming up, in a beautiful dawn; the land below her was swathed in long shadows even as the mountains shone with the brilliant colors of a new day, in purples and pinks and gold, reflecting the sky above.
The lights were still on, in the shadow of the mountains, as she landed and taxied straight to the ramp, sliding into the bay between waiting loading equipment. She was all clear, so she started dropping the cargo ramp and raising the door even as she spooled down. The announcement was superfluous over the whine and breeze of the opening doors, but she made it anyway. "Welcome to Anueterriza; you've got forty five minutes before I'm kicking the tires and lighting the fires."
That done, she turned, and looked at the mechanic for the first time, even as she disconnected from the plane and unbuckled. His shirt had a nametag of Michaels, and she could take the hint. "Michaels. Would I be more help, or in the way?"
"Do you know how to drive a lift or loader?" It was an honest question, and she colored slightly at the way she was useless on the ground.
"No. I will learn, but right now is not the time; I'd slow you down." She grimaced.
"You'd be in the way, ma'am. Not risking a newbie around live warheads." He stood, and smiled. "Just like I'm in the way here. Can you sit tight up here?"
"Of course. Do you see how much cleaning there is to do?" She waved him off, and they set to their separate tasks.
Forty-two minutes later, she checked the cargo hold, and found the number of containers had rapidly diminished. The mechanics were all outside, other than the one carefully fitting the lift back into the hold. She started the beacon, lights, and APU, letting the whine sound like an early warning. Mechanics started coming on board from both ends, pushing rolling chests and carrying tools… and guns. She noted the number of rifles hanging on straps among the mechanics, the armor plating vests, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. But they were coming aboard at a good clip.
She located Michaels, and jerked a hand out at the mechanics. "How many left?"
He did a rapid headcount, and replied, "Four." That was followed by a command barked into a throat mic, and he pointed at the aft ramp. "They're coming."
"They have two minutes." She replied, and raised a hand, pointing at the nose as it started to fold down, in the intricate dance with the front ramp coming up faster to tuck inside. With that warning, she headed back up to the cockpit.
Three minutes and twenty five seconds later, she started the left engine as the last cart scuttled at top governed speed away from her right engine's blast area, and once they were clear, started the spinup on the right. The mechanic swung up into the cockpit, breathing hard as he flung himself into jumpseat. "All aboard!"
"Late, late." She muttered, and picked up the ramp, releasing the brakes as she did so. It would be noisy and windy as hell in the hold until the ramp was up, but she had her taxi clearance, and was on her way.
He stayed quiet until climbout, but she could feel him in the linkages, monitoring as she got everything coordinated to come together before takeoff, and then get up and on time and back on schedule. "How in the wide green world do you manage to make that look smooth?"
"Practice. Lots of practice." She replied, and shot him the weather reports. "We'll pick up four minutes with the tailwind here."
"Damn." He leaned back, and blew out a breath. "You can't load. Can you marshal?"
"I can. I can also fuel, if you need to free a ramper for loading, when we get to our refueling in Calm Bay." She knew a lot of pilots wouldn't offer. But then, a lot of pilots wouldn't be running missiles and their launchers around what would soon be a warzone. The sooner they were up, the better for her.
"I'd appreciate it." He was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "Cockpit looks good."
"You'd think so, but I have a list of maintenance squawks for when we get back. You won't be thanking me soon!" She didn't look back at him, but hoped he'd heard the teasing in her voice.
"You won't be so happy when you see my reply to 'em, either." He replied, and laughed.
They had three more stops to offload containers. On the last one, Michaels waved her over. "We're still a cargo company, and clients have a load to get back to Tercia. I know it's going to screw your schedule…"
"Everything always conspires to screw the schedule. Load it up, and I'll adjust the fuel load. Gross weight? Special requirements?" She folded her arms and waited.
He paus
ed before answering, and looked at her. "Expected you'd be more of a bitch about it, given how tight you are to schedule."
That got a shrug. "I'm used to leaving pax on the ramp if they don't make it. But loads are loads, and as you say, we need to get paid. Get it on board, and let me know what I'll have to make up."
He nodded, and held out a wrist - she took it, and he pinged the numbers to her, faster and more accurate that rattling them off. She frowned, uploaded them to the system, and recalculated. "Doable. Load it up the front ramp while you're taking things out the back, because I can't pull the fifteen minutes you're going to take out of thin air. We'll have to make it up elsewhere, or the duty day is going to get very, very long."
"Too true. Especially for you, since the rest of us can sleep on the longer legs. You marshal their load in, and I'll get ours out." As she walked away, Michelle rubbed her wrist and thought about the ping. He had a full pilot-capable inskin, suitable to flying the 600 himself. Why was he in maintenance instead of flying?
When they landed back at home base, she waited until she had engines shut down to ask. "So, why are you jump-seating up here? It's quieter, but I know it's less comfortable than the back. Run out of seats?" They hadn't.
"No." Michaels smiled and spread his hands, trying to take the sting out of the words. "Chief pilot tasked me to monitor and replace you if you were incompetent."
She stopped, and looked at him; he wasn't kidding. "Okay, now I'm pissed. Why the hell would you let me fly if there was ever a question of my competence? And if there's not, why the hell aren't you on your own plane, increasing our operating capacity?" Her voice rose to a shout on the last question, and she grimaced at the silence that fell, expecting him to yell back.
Against all her expectations, he laughed. "Lady, I like you."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" She was caught between irritation and bewilderment.
"Means… forget it. We're going to be loading for another round. You good for it?" He was still grinning. Michelle gave up on kicking him out of the cockpit ahead of her, and took to the stairs.
"Why wouldn't I be? Only been a seven-hour duty day so far. However, I'm not helping you. I'm going to go get food while you load." She relented, just far enough to say, "I'll bring back burgers. Either ping me with your orders before I get there, or you get whatever I got."
"Fry Daddy's?" Amazing how much hope could go into a restaurant name. He already had his handbrain out, holding it to pass contact to hers.
"Good as any." She pulled out her little burner handbrain, and accepted contact.
"We'll have a list before you get there. Need cash now?"
"I'll hit you for it when I get back." She headed out, leaving the plane in his hands. Less than an hour later, she was back bearing a box full of bags and cups, and her mechanics descended faster than flamingos on a Rex to swoop in and pick her clean, leaving only her highly-defended burger, fries, and shake.
Michaels had taken care of rounding up the cash, and handed it over to her. When she took it, he held up a strange-looking patch kit. "Give me your jacket for a moment."
"Why?" She put the cash away, frowning at him.
"So I can patch your armor." He waggled it at her. "You don't want to leave a gaping hole in the shoulder; it affects system integrity."
"Ah." She shrugged out of it, and handed it over. He cleaned off his hands with a wipe, pulled a diagnostic out of a pocket, and plugged it into a port that she'd thought was a decoration. "Mind if I go ahead and eat while watching?"
"Be my guest. Eat it while it's hot." He was checking lining, seams, opening the pockets and pulling out her kit, then putting it back as the diagnostic ran. The inside pocket… he pulled the gun out of its holster, and smiled. "Good choice for carry."
"I'm borrowing it until I can get my own." She replied, and he shook his head.
"May I?" At her nod, he unloaded it, and tried the trigger. "Beautiful. That's custom work, right there. See the mark? It's a Kandros. You won't find anything as nice off the shelf, and you’ll have to hit the Imperium to get your own." He loaded it back up, and slid it back into the holster, putting it away. The diagnostic pinged, and he hooked it up to the patch, so it could calibrate… something. Once that was finished, the wrapping changed color, and he peeled it apart, applying one side to the inside of the shoulder, and one to the outside, taking care to line everything up. "This is a nice clean cut, not a bullet. How'd you manage that?"
She frowned. "I was a little busy at the time. They missed, which is why I'm here… must have been shrapnel."
"Shrapnel from what? A sodding mortar?"
"Shoulder-fired… something. We didn't stop to ask questions." She shrugged.
"Where the hell was this? You're civilian enough it hurts to see you wearing one of these. I figured it was one of the high fashion imitations, right until I got close enough to ping you." He kept working, even as he asked.
"Elsewhere." She looked away, at the other mechanics. "Hey, looks like time to grab the trash. Be back." She got up, snagging her box, and went to cheerfully gather the trash as the others were finishing and getting back to work. As she came back from tossing it, he put down his burger, and stood up.
"Elsewhere, huh? I know that secret squirrel shit. Well, she's fixed up, and good to go." He stuffed the last fries in hand into his mouth, and held her jacket out for her like a gentleman for his lady. "And whoever wanted to keep you safe, they coded it to you, so no one's asking for it back. Hope the poor bastard survived."
She shrugged the jacket into its familiar, comfortable position. "I hope he did, too. Don't expect it; last time I saw him, he was rolling down the road with the car's engine shot out and the rest of it on fire."
Michaels shook his head. "They're all crazy, and damned tough. Don't count him out just yet."
28
Three days later, Michelle brought the bird in to home base as the last bit of sunset slipped up the mountains, and the sky faded to dark purple behind them in the east, while the cirrus clouds were limned in red. She came down the stairs for the last time, to find Michaels waiting for her. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, and he was trying to conceal a yawn. She couldn't resist teasing him. "Still think you should have flown that last leg?"
He shook his head. "Didn't even wake up for the landing. How the hell do you do it so smoothly?"
"Unlike some of us who only take birds up for maintenance checks, I actually fly these things regularly." She hit him in the arm gently, and dodged his half-hearted attempt to ruffle her hair. "You all right to make it home?"
"Probably going to crash in the bunkroom. How the hell are you not dead on your feet?"
"I caught a nap on the ground, at the last turnaround." She smothered a yawn - his were contagious. "Trust me, I was tempted to just nap up in the cockpit before coming down. But you know, the fear that I'd wake up to find Dispatch standing there going "Well, as long as you're here…"
Michaels laughed. "And now you know why everyone that can afford it stays the hell off base. Trust me, they hunt us down in the bunkroom, too." He pitched his voice to imitate Marv’s cadence. "Wake up. I need this flight out in four hours, and its A-check is due."
"Ugh." She made a warding sign at him, and he laughed. It was a beautiful evening, with a gentle breeze, light and variable playing around the ramp, cooling off the hot crete and tarmac, and full of scents of greenery and teasing hints of the sea.
As they got close to the hangar doors, she recognized the person walking out, looking far too intently in their direction. Michaels breathed, "Oh, shit."
"Dammit." She agreed, as they closed with the chief pilot. She'd avoided him in the rush of getting everything out for three days, but her luck had run out. There was no point in trying to avoid the gaze of authority, so they walked up to him with a sinking feeling and leaden, sore feet.
"Porter. Need you to do another run." Russ was looking grim. "Michaels, you're dismissed. Get some sleep."
"Sir." They split, Michaels grabbing the bag of trash from her, and she headed back out to the plane with the chief pilot at her side. "Where am I headed? I'm at quarter tanks." As she spoke, she saw the fuel truck pulling up under her wings.
"I'll let you know when you're airborne." He bit it off, and she eyed him sidelong. There was no playfulness in that grim face, so she shrugged, and looked out at the airport as night started to pool in the long shadows. The taxiway lights and runway lights were always on, but they shone now in the gloaming like so many ground-hugging stars.
He followed her up to the cockpit, and looked around, lips pulled back from his teeth. "You wasted a mechanic's time on cleaning up?"
"Cleaned it myself. A mechanic would have done a better job." She wasn't going to have that fight. A smile touched her lips. "You have good mechanics."
"I do." He sat in the jumpseat as she pulled up weather, and plugged in to monitor her as she ran through the full checklist.
"Am I filing, or flying visual?" If she was filing, he'd have to tell her where. These birds never flew off plan, but if he wanted it…
"Visual." He replied, and she resisted the urge to bow her head and pinch the bridge of her nose in a migraine salute.
"That's fine. Northbound or southbound turnout?" She kept her voice soft, gentle, because she really wanted to scream at him. He was wired far too tight, and she'd be damned if she let him have an excuse to take it out on her.
His reply was a smirk. "Pick one. I'll let you know if it's wrong."
Once airborne, with a north turnout, she climbed to the lowest altitude with favorable tailwinds, and set cruise checklist. After ten minutes of silence, she decided to wait him out. It couldn't be Anueterriza, or she'd be descending already. The land was fully engulfed by night, with only the faintest deep purple blush of evening still on the far western horizon. Lights of farms and towns were strung out along the coast and sparse scattered spots inland, against a pitch-black sea that swallowed the moonless starlight. It made a false horizon that reached out to the true horizon, where stars overhead were out in brilliance and beauty, and the milky way was a river of light, a bright and ethereal ribbon across the sky.
Going Ballistic Page 15