Bellara’s face lights up instantly. “Rodrigo!”
She scrambles down the slope back into the canyon, then around the edge of the mountain. I follow more carefully, then run to catch up when I get on level ground.
The plains to the northeast of our canyon are uneven and spotted with scrub. Narrow gullies dot the landscape, and anyone flying overhead would be hard-pressed to find a proper landing spot within a hundred miles.
The illusion, Bellara explained to me once, was easy to set and maintain. She used her sorcery to mimic a patch of land to our west. Throw in a bit of variance, and no one would ever suspect a runway out here in the middle of nowhere.
Even though I know it is there, I’m not able to spot the runway until I am actually on it. Scrubland turns to old, broken concrete beneath my feet, and forty paces later I see a shimmer of the light. Benny emerges from the morning haze. She is an old red and gray fighter, rusted and worn. Her engine smokes and whirrs, her propeller looking choppy. There are a few new bullet holes in her wings.
Rodrigo is a small man, not much bigger than his sister. He has olive skin and a frail-looking body, but he is all sinew and muscle like a piece of old leather. He wears a big grin as he climbs down and embraces his sister, and then grabs me and kisses me on both cheeks in greeting.
I look upon Rodrigo’s love of flying and his passion for life and realize that my conversation with Bellara was anything but surprising. The urge to perform, it seems, is in their blood.
“Teado!” he says. “I have news. We’ll take it to the commander.”
“Did you bring back any food?” I try to ask, but I’m cut off by Bellara, who points at the bullet holes in his wings.
“What happened?” she demands.
Rodrigo dismisses her concern with a gesture. “Close call. Some asshole shooting in the air. Nothing to be worried about. Your illusions held well, my sister. I got in and out of Bava.” He makes a kissing gesture to his fingers, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “I was only held up because the garrison captain was waiting for intelligence. Which I have!”
“We could hear you coming in,” I tell him.
They both look at me, and comprehension slowly dawns on their faces. Bellara’s illusions did not hold. The enemy couldn’t see him, but they could hear him. They hadn’t been shooting randomly.
Bellara’s face turns ashen. “Rod . . .”
“Shh!” Rodrigo says, putting a finger to her lips. “It’s fine. I survived, didn’t I? What’s war without a little risk? Besides, I’m back and I have news!”
“What kind of news?” I ask.
“Intelligence!”
“What kind of intelligence?”
Rodrigo is evasive the entire way back to camp. Bellara hangs back. I want to comfort her, to tell her we all make little mistakes, but I am too concerned with whatever Rodrigo is holding near his chest.
We interrupt the commander and Aleta, and within moments the whole platoon assembles. We sit on empty supply crates and rocks, or crouch in the dust, Rodrigo, Aleta, Bellara, the commander, and me in the middle.
“I have news,” Rodrigo repeats to the commander. His face is stretched in a clever smile, his eyes alight. Rodrigo is one of those loveable fools who lives on the edge between life and death, and I can tell that flying in and out of Bava and being shot at has given him new energy.
Giado chews on the stub end of a cigar that is more mush than paper and tobacco. “Food,” he says bluntly.
Rodrigo opens his mouth, looks around at the gathered faces, then leans into the commander. Only those of us closest can hear him. “I brought back ammunition and gas,” he says. “Condoms and some newspapers.”
“No food?” Giado asks, clearly stricken.
“Two tins of biscuits. Headquarters is straining. It’s all they could part with.”
The commander visibly struggles to keep his temper in check. “They could spare us bullets and condoms, but no food?” he says in a low voice.
Rodrigo’s smile has disappeared. Aleta gets up from her seat to hover, as if ready to swoop in and keep Giado from attacking our pilot. We all know that Rodrigo is simply the bearer of bad news, but the commander has gotten more bad news than any of us these last few weeks, and is clearly at the end of his rope.
Rodrigo hurries on. “There is good news, though. They’ve given us intel on the enemy.”
“Who cares,” the commander asks, “if we are all too weak to attack them?”
I reach over and put a hand on Giado’s shoulder. He does not look at me, but slumps in his camp chair, tired and angry. “What’s the intel?” I ask.
Rodrigo speaks up so that the rest of the crew can hear him. “We’ve got a target. The enemy has plans for a new air base closer to Bava.”
“That doesn’t sound like good news,” I say.
Rodrigo holds up a finger. “Maybe not for Bava, but it is for us.” He scoots his makeshift seat back and draws in the dust, though only Aleta and I are able to crane our heads to see. “Here is Bava.” He indicates a rock. “Here is the enemy’s current air base.” He draws a line in the sand. “And here is the new one. They’ve already sent their engineers ahead and have an operational runway cleared. They will begin moving supplies tomorrow at dawn, and the first three cargo planes will be nothing but food.”
I stare at his map. The new air base is farther from the mountains, making it harder for us to hit and run. But it also means their new air supply path is closer to our runway than it’s ever been before, and well out of reach of their normal patrols. I see Rodrigo’s point immediately—their cargo planes will be exposed.
There is an audible silence throughout the platoon. Aleta bites her bottom lip. People grin at each other. Even the commander leans forward, his interest piqued.
“You’re suggesting an air drop?” Giado asks.
Rodrigo glances at me and nods.
“We haven’t done one of those for four months,” Aleta protests.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t do it again,” Rodrigo says.
Aleta shakes her head. “The last air drop nearly killed both Teado and Selvie. We can’t risk it.”
I swallow, thinking of the possibilities. An entire cargo plane full of rations and equipment could last us out here for another six months. We wouldn’t have to depend on Bava for resupply. Hell, if the air drop works there is no reason we can’t do it again and again. We’ve already proved we could operate with impunity—that the enemy’s best scouts can’t find us. Bellara sees to that.
But Aleta is right. The last air drop did nearly kill me. Selvie, too, but when I glance in her direction she’s already staring at the sky, talking to herself—probably trying to remember how to fly one of those big cargo planes.
“Can Benny even handle it?” Giado asks. He’s talking to Rodrigo, but he’s looking at me, and I can tell he’s asking for silent permission to give it a try. Headquarters banned air drops last year because they lost too many Changers trying to capture supplies, then lifted the ban when the enemy pushed too far across the Bavares.
“She can handle it,” Rodrigo insists. “We’ll have to strip her down a bit, but carrying three people won’t be a problem.”
“Four,” Bellara speaks up. “You’ll need me to cloak the cargo plane the moment we touch it, or else they’ll just follow us back to our base.”
Rodrigo’s face sours, and it’s obvious he hasn’t considered putting his sister in harm’s way. “What did we do last time?” he asks.
“Last time,” Aleta says, “we captured a bomber and landed it in Bava.”
Rodrigo chews on his fingernails. “We can’t just do that again?”
“We need food,” Bellara reminds him, “and if we fly a cargo plane into Bava, headquarters will confiscate the cargo. We’ll be lucky to get one crate for ourselves.”
“If,” I cut in, giving the commander a small nod to indicate I’m on board, “we can take the cargo plane and land it back here, we’re
set for the rest of summer and most of the winter. I’ve heard rumors the enemy even has fresh coffee.” I don’t tell them that I heard that on one of their propaganda broadcasts. No one asks.
Rodrigo shakes his head. “No, no. We’ll have to think of something else.”
“This is your idea,” Bellara reminds him.
“And you’re my sister. I’m not taking you up in that death trap.”
The rest of us exchange knowing glances while Bellara glares at her brother. On every other day, Benny is his beauty, admired above all lovers. But Benny is relegated to a death trap at the thought of flying his little sister into a mission?
“Benny is not a death trap,” Selvie objects. “And I agree, she can carry four people no problem. I’ll get to work stripping her down right now.” Our mechanic takes off toward the runway before anyone can argue with her.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Aleta says to no one in particular, watching Selvie go. The objection is half-hearted. She knows as well as any of us that we need supplies, or we will starve.
I glance sidelong at Bellara. Her lips are pursed. She has never objected to, nor volunteered for, a dangerous mission before. I think back on our conversation and wonder if she’s going crazy. It is not unheard of for any fighter to become more and more reckless. I myself consider, from time to time, just walking off across the plains.
I let it go, and tell Aleta that I think the mission will be a success. She smiles at me, face hard, having said her piece. The commander’s brief moment of awareness seems to pass, and he sinks back into himself, glaring and muttering.
The camp becomes more animated. People smile, and talk in normal voices. Harado repeats the joke he told earlier, and some people laugh out loud. The prospect of a rations coup gets them more excited than any night-time ambush, and I hear my mention of fresh coffee repeated around the canyon. I go with Rodrigo and Selvie down to the runway to see if there’s anything I can do to help to prepare for tomorrow’s mission.
* * *
The next morning proves poor light for a mission. A cloud cover hangs low over the plains, with dew dripping off Benny’s wings as our tiny group gathers beside the cockpit. Rodrigo argues that we call off the mission, but the first hour of daylight quickly burns off the moisture.
Benny has been stripped down to her bare bones, with fuel reserves removed and cargo containers emptied. Selvie removed the seat, replacing it with a plank of wood and an old cushion so that two people can fit behind the stick. She’s also wrapped each wing with a pair of leather straps, and the sight of them makes my stomach do a backflip. I tug on the one on the right wing. It seems stable.
“It’ll be fine,” Selvie tells me.
Rodrigo squints into the distance, silently cursing the clearing sky. “Our runway is too short to land a cargo plane,” he says in a last-ditch effort to excuse his sister from the mission.
“No it’s not,” Selvie says. She seems to search her memory, then corrects herself. “The cargo planes the enemy uses are only a little bigger than the ones the smugglers who flew in and out of here used to pilot. Besides, we’re not capturing the plane to have a plane. If I run out of runway and shear the landing gear, we still have the supplies.”
I turn away from my examination of Benny’s wing. This last bit gets me nervous. Not only do I like Selvie, but she’s our spare pilot and our only mechanic. Lose her, and our jeeps and motorbikes will give up the ghost in weeks. “That sounds like a good way to get you killed,” I say.
“Any of this could get me killed,” she responds, rolling her eyes.
Commander Giado smells of gin, if you can call what we distill in the back of the canyon gin, but he stands upright through the entire conversation. He looks more like his old self: hard, but fatherly. “This is happening,” he declares. “The weather is good and you’ve got a schedule to keep. Rodrigo, stop waffling.”
“Yes, sir,” Rodrigo says, ducking his head. He finishes his inspection and helps Bellara onto the wing and into the cockpit, then settles in front of her to start his pre-flight.
Giado shakes my hand and hugs Selvie. “You two take care,” he says, speaking louder as the engine roars to life, propeller spinning. “You let Rodrigo circle twice, and if you don’t see those cargo planes then come back to base or you’ll run out of fuel. Understand?” He’s shouting by the end, barely holding his hat on. I nod and climb up onto the wing.
They’ve given Selvie the warmest clothes they can find. She’s wrapped in leather and wool, and I am jealous of how comfortable she looks. I remove my shoes, socks, and jacket, and hand the bundle over to Giado before climbing up onto the wing and strapping myself in. On the opposite side Selvie does the same, checking her counterweights so that my size doesn’t unbalance Benny. The metal is frigid beneath my touch, and I hope I don’t freeze to death before the mission is over. My only luxury is an old pair of aviator’s goggles.
“Everything okay?” Rodrigo shouts from the pilot seat. I put on my aviator’s goggles and give him a thumbs-up, wondering how long it has been since Bellara flew. This mission depends on each of us being able to do all our jobs, and the last thing we need is her passing out or vomiting on her brother’s neck. Will she be able to handle her illusions midflight?
As if in answer, the sound suddenly cuts out. There is no sputter of the engine dying, and I can still feel the rattle of the metal beneath me. I hold up my thumb once more, this time for Bellara, as it is her sorcery that has extinguished the sound of Benny’s engine.
I worry about Rodrigo’s flying, and Benny holding together. I worry about Selvie’s ability to fly an enemy cargo plane.
I worry about anything but my white-knuckle grip on Benny’s wing and the fact that I am truly terrified of heights. My stomach lurching, Benny begins to taxi.
We’re soon in the air and the first couple of minutes are the worst. I stare at the ground off the wing to my right as Benny dips and circles, then watch as it pulls farther and farther away, the scrub brush becoming a blurry, flat sea of pale greens and browns beneath us.
My uneasiness wanes, and I lower my face, pressing my cheek to the reassuring metal of Benny’s wing. I stare at the horizon. Despite Bellara’s sorcery, I can still hear the hum of the engine through the metal struts of the wing and it lulls me into a sort of tranquil peace. I shiver violently, fighting the urge to close my eyes.
Slowly, careful not to loosen my straps, I pull myself onto my elbows and gingerly look over the top of the wing. I am immediately shocked by how close we are to the ground—no more than a few hundred feet—and wonder if there’s been a problem. I glance toward Rodrigo, but his focus is on the stick between his legs. He doesn’t seem concerned.
I watch the plain race away beneath us. We’re hugging the mountain range, heading north, and soon we begin to ascend. My airsickness returns as we pull up, but I successfully ignore it until I’m struck by the sight of a shadow on the ground behind us. My heart leaps into my throat, and I desperately signal to Rodrigo. There is an enemy plane on our tail, and none of us are the wiser!
I realize my mistake by the time Rodrigo notices me. The shadow I see does not belong to an enemy plane, but to Benny. I breathe a sigh of relief and make my gestures less desperate. I point to Bellara, then at the ground. After several repetitions, Bellara pulls herself part way out of the cockpit and stares toward the ground, then nods at me.
The shadow winks from existence, and Bellara sinks back into her seat.
We slowly peel away from the mountains. The enemy air base becomes clearer in the distance. It looks bigger than our last raid, with nine large hangars and three full-sized runways. Bombers sit lined up beside the runways, looking like toys from so high up. We can see a few of them taking off, heading toward Bava. I wonder if they are filled with bombs or leaflets, and if any of them will return after meeting our anti-aircraft guns.
Rodrigo gives me and Selvie a thumbs-up, and then I feel Benny shake violently as he lets off the thro
ttle. We drop a few dozen feet and I clutch the edge of the wing. We are now barely flying—gliding, more like it—as we wait, invisible, for our quarry. Rodrigo grins like an idiot beneath his goggles.
We are forced to do a full circle around the enemy air base before we see our prey. Twenty minutes behind schedule, I watch as three cargo planes, each of them filled to capacity and wobbling like fat geese, take off from the main runway.
The engine revs, and the world suddenly falls out from under me as Benny descends toward our targets. We halve our altitude and fall in behind them. I watch their shadows on the plain, and glance over my shoulder as the air base fades on the horizon, half expecting enemy fighters to come after us.
But we are invisible and silent, and the enemy owns these skies. Why would they bother with an escort?
The enemy cargo planes practically cling to the ground, their pilots still wary of anti-aircraft fire. Rodrigo creeps Benny up behind them, easing us into position with the focus of a cougar stalking a llama. I try to breathe evenly, knowing that my time is almost at hand.
We settle toward the last plane, falling slowly into place until Benny is just fifty feet above her cockpit. Then thirty. Then twenty. Then ten. We are so close that I worry Benny’s landing gear will smack their roof. I can see the back of the pilot’s head in the cockpit, and realize that if he happened to look up and behind him he might see through Bellara’s sorcery at such a close distance.
Rodrigo holds up two fingers. Two minutes. I respond in kind and unlatch one of the straps. Rodrigo holds up one finger. I unlatch the other strap, gripping it with frozen fingers for dear life, knowing that a single slip will send me tumbling a few hundred feet to the hard plain below.
I try not to think about the fall, and focus on the one thing I have complete control over. I take a deep breath, the cold wind catching in my throat. I brace myself on the wing and I Change.
My skin becomes leathery, unyielding, though still flexible like the hardest of rubber. Spines grow from my back, slicing through my shirt, creating a parallel set of ridges down either side of my spine. All four limbs elongate and widen, and my back becomes hunched. My fingernails grow into claws, and a long, scythe-like talon grows from each foot like some prehistoric monster. My face broadens, jaws becoming wide and blunt to accommodate rows of razor teeth. Horns sprout from my head.
War Cry Page 2