Then Katia raised hand. “Tempted youngests might wanting some peek. Eyes should covering olders with hands?”
Unscrambling syntax without a blink, Danni nodded approvingly. “That's a very good idea.”
But Katia's concerns only beginning to hit stride: “Knowing eyes how to closing Maggie?" Question followed by chorus, approaching mob-growl tone as closely as non-voice-changed-yet kids’ larynxes could achieve; sentiment (loosely edited) generally translating to: “Yeah! What about Maggie ... ?”
Even as elder Foster sister concentrated on descent, easing out of slip, prepositioning ship for engine cutoff, found self torn between need to suppress smile over children's fierce loyalty to newfound four-footed friend—plus sudden need to blink rapidly to keep vision clear of personal reaction to selfsame fierce loyalty.
“Maggie's eyes cover I am being,” Tasha announced over shoulder, promptly suiting actions to words.
Quickly sent comforting thought to BC: Game—hold still; don't try to pull away; don't look. More importantly, promised freeze-dried liver cookie for successful performance.
Tail, momentarily stilled in uncertainty, gayly swung back into action, acknowledging game's rules, acceptance—but most especially promise.
“All right, people,” called Danni; “it's flashy time. Those of you who are going to help the youngest children, cover up their eyes now and close your own. I'll tell you when you can look again.”
Announcement followed by chorus of agreement; forest of heads turning to display closed eyes.
Turned own eyes front with smile—just as hand slid across face. Yanked head back, sputtered, “Wait! I'm not ready. Let me do the Zen thing first.”
“Do it quickly! If any of the detonators is going to premature, we are within seconds of its going off.”
Took deep breath, expanded awareness to encompass plane; our position within/relative to surrounding airspace; relationship to rocky terrain rising about us; slipstream's hissing...
Then reached out, flipped off ignition, plus avionics bus master switch, feathered prop. Panel went dark; cabin became very quiet as turbine spooled down to stop.
“Okay. Now.” Closed eyes as Danni's hand again settled in place over them.
Eyeball lockdown had occurred only moments prior to turn from downwind approach leg to crosswind. Began feeding in aileron, coordinating with rudder.
“Are you certain?” inquired mentor softly, for my ears only. “Even for a really conservative, dead-stick approach, this seems high.”
“Positive. It's safer to come in with lots of extra altitude, then cross-control and slip it off if you need to, than try to stretch a glide because you've let yourself get too low, too far out.”
“Particularly when the plane is so heavily loaded,” agreed Danni after moment's reflection. “Very well. You are our Stallion jockey, as well as pilot-in-command. I will shut up now unless I become certain that you've gotten lost or tumbled your inner ear.”
No doubt mentor regarded assurance as comforting, Posterity, calculated to bolster confidence. Actual effect on impromptu Braille-flying Intrepid Girl Aviatrix, however, more on order of reminding her of potential physiological traps.
But now not the time to allow negative thoughts to intrude, distract. Stilled swirling emotions; reached out, felt for airplane, felt airplane—became airplane: Heard, felt, experienced rush of air over wings, aerodynamic control surfaces, past cockpit windows. Barely aware of responding unconsciously to plane's imperceptible motions with preemptive microcorrections, but...
Fingers, toes knew when to make them...
Knew also when in position to begin turn from crosswind leg onto final...
Knew when to roll out of turn, lined up with makeshift runway...
Knew when to cross controls, induce slip to bleed off excess altitude...
Knew, from slight increase in airflow's gentle hissing sounds reflecting back from ground, and from almost imperceptible nose-up trim change with which ship announced settling into ground-effect, that wheels had begun groping for turf...
Knew, from ship's feel, from sounds, from location in picture in head, when moment came to ease back yoke, edge nose up, begin flare-out prior to simultaneous stall/touchdown...
Felt plane slow further...
Felt initial trembly signs of impending stall nibbling at controls...
Held Stallion poised in three-point touchdown attitude, allowed ship to begin gentle mushing downward through final few feet of ground-effect cushion to
—Darkly reddish world beneath eyelids turned intolerably, dazzlingly brilliant!
Could see every backlit capillary in eyelids, as well as actual outlines of bones in Danni's fingers gently resting over eyes, as...
Wheels brushed grass; gently at first, then more firmly as hauled yoke all the way back, inducing full stall. Immediately retracted flaps to kill balance of lift, bring ship's weight firmly down onto wheels.
Fed in rapid aileron corrections to keep wings level as we bounced, skipped awkwardly over uneven terrain, even as awful glare through eyelids seemed slowly to be fading.
Concentrated on maintaining straight rollout with gentle dabs at rudder pedals, clinging to mental orientation, image of our location on ground. Knew turn coming up, but worried about introducing possible destabilizing effects by misjudging rudder application, failing to apply independently toe-operated brakes evenly, until...
Danni lifted hand: “You can look now.” Glare may have been fading, but world that greeted eyes still was obscenely, jarringly bright. So intense was glare that light seemed reflected off air molecules, washing out shadows, somehow leaving nothing but almost painfully contrasty, black-and-white images; bright enough, in fact, to trigger momentary spate of blinking before vision cleared.
And then—amazing—physical location, direction, speed corresponded almost precisely with mental picture through which had been navigating: just approaching bend in runway, speed under control. Tapped brakes, added touch of rudder along with aileron for stability, negotiated curve cleanly (i.e., without groundlooping or snagging wingtip—always a plus).
Moments later, just before Stallion eased to halt, kicked rudder one last time, applied single brake, to pivot plane around inside wheel, swinging nose out away from cliff.
Then set parking brake. Because...
Only belatedly, during rollout, had occurred to Intrepid Girl Aviatrix: Fringes of atmospheric shock-wave might well curl down over cliff's edge, descend into valley in form of high-speed, horizontal-axised vortices, generating significant turbulence, which would be better dealt with, if such proved at all possible, head-on.
(Having survived all those load/drag/lift takeoff factors, not to mention potential excess-speed breakup dynamics, would have been embarrassing as well as fatal to get flipped over, “crash” while safely stopped on ground....)
As eased to halt, Danni leaned over, squeezed shoulder, kissed cheek; breathed, “Damn, you're good....”
Sigh of “You're welcome” may have come out sounding more heartfelt than intended. (Darn, another setback on road to Girl Scouting's coveted sang-froidiness merit badge.)
Momma Spook's left eye seemed tearier than normal; kept blinking asymmetrically, dabbing at it, but said nothing as turned to passengers. “Did we all manage to keep our eyes closed? Is anyone having trouble seeing now?” Paused for responses. “No? Wonderful.”
Tasha released Maggie's eyes. BC turned, kissed girl's nose.
Then head snapped around; The Eye focused on elder sister, drilling home prefireball-cookie-promise reminder.
But at that moment, ground heaved beneath wheels. Stallion bounced, rocked, shuddered for long seconds; then motion tapered off as swaying ground slowed, became still once again.
“Right on time,” observed Danni dryly, glancing at watch. “Six seconds for 30 miles. Artificially generated, major-structure-leveling seismic waves have so few redeeming qualities, but they are punctual.”
Tried
not to react to dry silliness, but between sudden tension-release, then meeting Momma Spook's eyes—all was lost. Giggle born deep inside, ballooned outward; emerged as sputter, then whooping, rib-cracking, almost physically debilitating, convulsive belly-laugh as relief spilled over. For once, Danni's control equally fractured.
Kids had no idea what had come over us; Tasha, Katia, others began to look almost worried as laughing jag continued breathlessly, until—
Ding!
Marble-sized pebble impacting aluminum skin of fuselage's roof after 2,000-foot fall does generate curiously recognizably sound.
Journeyperson assassin, apprentice froze midgasp, -whoop, respectively. Eyes met again. Went round.
“Go!” snapped Danya—but Intrepid Girl Flying Ace already in motion: flipping switches, hitting starter, releasing brakes, pulling prop-pitch lever to low (i.e., maximum “traction") to encourage plane to begin taxiing away from cliff very first moment rpms reached useful thrust levels—
Even as first isolated harbingers of rain of stone jarred loose from cliff by aforementioned artificially generated, pseudotectonic event began thudding down all around us.
Fervently hoped none would strike propeller as turbine continued windup toward peak rpms: Doubted unyielding, high-speed, mineral impact would enhance blades’ symmetry, high-speed balance. If that happened, takeoff power setting probably would result in centrifugal imbalance failure: shedding prop blade, as first step in complete, catastrophic propeller disintegration—grounding us to wait for dark, invisibly glowing, ersatz snowfall.
Except for occasional deeper-toned bong!s from larger pebbles, stone shower on aluminum structure faintly reminiscent of rain on tin roof—until first house-sized chunk thundered into ground almost directly in front of us.
Stamped on right-rudder/brake pedal, felt plane rock clumsily as swerved to miss boulder, teetering back, forth on main gear. Left wingtip tank's underside actually scraped lightly across huge rock's upper surface; then left brake pivoted us back on course away from escarpment disintegrating astern.
Astonishingly, got clear of avalanche before primary rockfall arrived. Shortly thereafter, found selves stopped just over football field's length from cliff, staring wide-eyed back at massive jumble in horrified amazement.
At which point detonation's airborne, audible component arrived. Volume of nearly subsonic roar seemed to turn air solid. Ground trembled once more, Stallion's structure rattled dramatically in sympathetic vibration. All of us clapped hands over ears—all but Tasha, who attempted without notable success to retract head, hunch shoulders to provide own coverage, while nobly using hands to protect Maggie's ears.
Moments thereafter, shock wave roared past overhead, and, as guessed might happen, turbulence curled down over edge, swirled into valley, triggering brief flurry of disorganized wind gusts, which tugged momentarily at wings, control surfaces. Disturbance proved relatively minor: Plane rocked in place again for probably three seconds. No big whoop.
“Well,” sighed Danni as situation stabilized for third time, “that was stimulating.”
Maggie disagreed; multiple excitement doses had in no way distracted BC's attention from promised cookie. The Eye intensified. Dog jumped down from Tasha's lap, sat up between seats, put front feet on big sister's leg, stared.
Okay then; commitments must be honored. Again set parking brake, shut down engine. Unbuckled harness, slid from seat, headed astern.
Retrieved unopened freeze-dried liver canister, broke seals, popped off lid. Had promised her only cookie, singular; however, math skills in general not BCS’ forte, plus had behaved so well under trying circumstances, not to mention payment delayed by avalanche/noise/ wind, relented, gave her several.
As closed, set down container, noted children eyeing it with predatory interest—however, within moments, freeze-dried-but-unmistakably-raw-liver whiff reached them; whereupon, interest abated. Had, after all, access to my onboard people-food stores—not to mention nearly 300 pounds of Maggie's holistic/organic, hypoallergenic dog food, which all had sampled back at campsite, found acceptable.
(Hmm, 300 pounds’ dead weight which could have been discarded during—or perhaps more constructively before—overgross takeoff panic ... Which never occurred to Intrepid Girl Flying Ace. Really is hard to get good help.)
In fact, at that point noted open bag lying on deck in very aftmost starboard corner. Had been half full when Foster sibs departed plane to commence rescue op; likewise upon return. Now visibly empty.
(Sighed: Hoped canine dietary supplementation wouldn't lead to pack of kids who had to turn around three times before lying down, sniffed new acquaintances with impolitic familiarity, perhaps “marked” trees—or even furniture....)
At which point experienced sudden flash of guilt—followed by jolt of grief: Realized hadn't thought about Daddy even once since battle in woods. Prayed Kazimirov really had put pére straight on plane—hoped even more intensely plane had gotten off in time. Wondered where, what Meyrin was—hoped had heard “Meyrin” correctly.
Curiously, at that point realized that, despite fact that thermonukes had killed hundreds, maybe even thousands of Khraniteli within, at, in vicinity of Serdtsevina Rasovyi, which toll surely dwindles into insignificance own recent efforts with bare hands, personal weapons, apparently not going to be wracked with separate overlay of guilt concerning causative role.
Yes, did indeed contribute to bringing on turnabout holocaust. But my people didn't start this. Neither did we choose all-or-nothing stakes: Unsuccessful genocidal aggressors have little standing to complain when plans backfire.
In this case, in most literal sense.
Besides, weapons on that scale simply too vast, too impersonal; connection to own activities too remote—whole monstrous business too cataclysmic to activate sense of personal responsibility.
(Of course, given history, eventually Plucky Savior of Our People no doubt will figure out some way to feel guilty over relief lack of guilt engenders.)
“Outfalling, how long to being here?” Very small boy, whose name had never had occasion to ascertain, looked up from Maggie-tummy-scritching detail. Viewed lad with borderline amazement: Would have thought too young even to grasp concept. Then realized had fallen into trap of using H. sapiens’ perspective, among whom mostly had grown up, to judge hominem child. Wondered how many of own prior-to-Doomsday peers had made similar mistakes with regard to self. (Or even current peers...)
More importantly, however, question brought Plucky Girl Aviatrix back to here/now; reminded her might not be worst idea to get on with dumping excess fuel, getting back into air, before further unforeseen complications could arise.
Performed quick weight/balance review in head. Decided to empty Lennel's custom fuselage tank. Dumping 135 gallons it contained would reduce load by 945 pounds, which should restore design-spec performance, and then some.
Exited with Maggie listening, sniffing; Danni guarding backs, freshly reloaded sniper rifle in hand. Mind-directed Maggie to nearby comfort bushes for preemptive relief prior to beginning first leg of flight home.
Glanced back at cliff; experienced momentary shiver as took in massive rockfall now obscuring base. Largest accumulation centered more or less where Stallion had been parked only moments before.
Shook off mood. As favorite violence coach fond of saying, “What doesn't kill you makes you more alert.” Or was that revengeful? Or merely paranoid....
Slid under fuselage, opened valve; watched Jet-A gush out onto ground. Managed then to drum up modicum of guilt over nonrenewable fuel waste, local hydrocarbon pollution. Soothed psyche, however, by reminding self that nothing we did here could compare with what had just taken place 30 miles east.
Small comfort: “Yeah—but you should see the mess Vladislav made....”
Presently flow dwindled to trickle. Closed valve. Adjourned back inside.
Tasha joined Katia, Maggie, other children in back. With Danni now serving as copilot, Plucky
Girl Flying Ace once again fired up turbine, trimmed for takeoff, aligned ship with openest stretch of ground (i.e., boasting lowest big boulder count), brought power up to maximum, released brakes, conducted textbook short/soft-field takeoff: Kept tail low both to minimize noseover potential as power forced big, soft, main gear tires through open sand traps, bounced us over smaller rocks, as well as to maintain wings at optimum angle-of-attack, to get us airborne just as soon as physicsly possible.
And sure enough, just as manual promised, after little more than hundred yards of wallowing, jolting over fundamentally uncooperative terrain, Stallion shrugged off “surly bonds,” etc., pointed nose at blue sky, accelerated to maximum angle-of-climb speed, clawed its way up out of ravine.
As cleared rim, towering mushroom cloud, still roiling inexorably skyward, drew eyes like magnet. Younger children's excited chatter, begun during scary-fun excitement of bumpy takeoff roll, died instantly. Even very youngest recognized how terrible an event had just taken place—and how close we all had come to being at very heart of it.
Great circle course for home led nearly straight through Khraniteli's pyre, but didn't have to be told to give ghastly column widest possible berth. Wispy fringes drifting out from center revealed which way bulk of fallout drifting; we went very much other way.
Finally, after nearly 75-mile detour, were able to lay in course for home. And found self seized by sudden attack of homesickness. Wanted Daddy, but in enforced absence, craved bosom of family; had accumulated serious hug deficit.
So decided to pass go, not bother with $200—plus just got out of jail. Decided as well not drop in for visit en route at Father Toys’ hominem community. Would be lovely to see him again, but after things settle down, AAs can follow-up, establish contact; let him know new young friend's Quixotic quest had turned out at least partially well.
Planned merely to retrace path (Plucky Girl Aviatrix nothing if not creature of habit), though of course would be stopping more frequently for fuel. For first leg, set GPS to take us straight to Surgut, on River Ob. Even with 135-gallon reduction in useful fuel capacity, range ample to reach destination with roughly two-hour fuel margin.
Analog SFF, October 2008 Page 23