by Gini Koch
It was because of Algar that every A-C and human working for and with them believed there was a full team of other A-Cs providing all the maintenance for every A-C facility worldwide. The most constant “proof” of this were the refrigerators—you asked for what you wanted, opened the fridge door, and, voila, whatever you wanted was sitting there waiting for you.
There was a supposedly scientific explanation for how these were portals—using a subatomic, spatiotemporal warp process, filtered through black hole technology causing a space-time shift with both a controlled event horizon and ergosphere that allowed safe transference of any and all materials and so forth—that had never made as much sense as there being Magical Elves hanging about. And one Magical Elf it turned out to be.
The Poofs had come with Algar, so they knew who and what he was. I and a few others—Gower and White specifically—were the only non-Poofs who knew Algar existed, though I was pretty sure the Peregrines had figured it out. Whether William, Walter, and/or Missy had been clued in yet to his existence I didn’t know. Because we were prevented from talking about Algar to anyone at any time unless he was there and allowed it, by his power. Jeff couldn’t even pick up what any of us were feeling when we were with or thinking about Algar.
Happily, either Algar was on the case or he’d never actually turned off my purse’s portal ability since Operation Civil War, because I pulled out a nice pair of goggles. They weren’t the super-duper ones that we’d used during Operation Epidemic, but they’d protect my eyes, and that was the important thing.
Additionally, I found SPF 100 sunscreen and a pair of thin gloves. Clearly the Turleen shells were going to be hot and Algar didn’t want me getting third degree burns all over my face and arms. Slathered the sunscreen on then put on the goggles, which had the added advantage of the strap helping ensure my earbuds would stay in my ears. Pulled the gloves on quickly and was happy to find they were a kind of thin neoprene, meaning they’d help me hold onto whatever I could manage to grab with less slipping.
Muddy and a yellow-green Turleen, who was identified as Lily, were with me. Each turned into their own dirigible. Lily was along to act as wing turtle and to catch me should I fall off of Muddy’s back. “Turn your face toward the ground if you fall off,” Lily instructed just before her shell encased her. Chose not to worry about that. I’d ridden katyhoppers on Beta Eight—I could handle this.
“Where do you want to go?” Muddy asked. His voice was muffled, but I could still make it out through his shell and my music, though the sound of the helicopters was going to make him hard to hear shortly.
“We need to take out the lead helicopter and, if at all possible, take control of it or any of the others.”
“Ah, we have some experience with that.” And so saying, we lifted off.
It was different, flying via Space Turtle. Due to the shape, it wasn’t uncomfortable, and Muddy’s shell wasn’t all that hot. But the katyhoppers had had legs for me to brace against, and horses normally had saddles and reins, and manes in the case of bareback riding. But Muddy was a smooth ovoid. Tried to bring back ancient horseback riding lessons from when I was little. Your seat on the horse mattered more than anything else. Decided that didn’t help much in this case and reminded myself that I’d fought Rapacians in the air while standing on the backs of katyhoppers and chose to tell myself that I’d be good.
Which was immediately put to the test as the choppers started firing at us and the Turleens, Muddy in particular, had to take evasive action. We turned on our side, or what I assumed was Muddy’s side and certainly was mine, and, as “Spin” by Splender came on my personal airwaves, I fell off.
Flipped in the air so I was facing the ground as I’d been instructed. Hoped Jeff would still want to have sex with me should I become permanently disfigured. Tried to move my purse so that it would hit the ground before my face did, but didn’t have a lot of success.
Thankfully, I landed on Lily, who swooped under me just in time. Sure, I hit kind of like a sack of potatoes, but I wasn’t too badly winded. And I discovered there was a small rim that went around the outside of her shell. It wasn’t much but it was enough to hold onto.
“Thank you!” Managed to shift around so that I was holding onto the rim near the front of Lily’s dirigible shape, but at ten and two, versus holding on at noon on the clock, so to speak, so she’d be able to see. Not that I knew how any of them were seeing in the first place.
I was lying flat but kind of curved, since she was kind of curved, and finally realized what this felt like. Swung my legs back and around, staying bent over, just like I did when I was riding a sport motorcycle. Lily was actually perfectly sized for my knees to hit at her rim, and I tucked my legs under what I was going to assume was her belly until told otherwise. Managed to shove my purse between my torso and her shell, too.
In this position, I was far more secure on her back, and we zipped around bullets at what wasn’t hyperspeed but was still pretty darned fast. Was definitely grateful for the goggles. And the gloves and sunscreen, because it was still hot as hell up here, and flying through hot air was just as comfortable as it sounds.
The cockpits were set up with the gunner in front and the pilot behind. Each was in his or her own compartment. Couldn’t make out much in terms of who the various pilots and gunners might be. They were all wearing sunglasses, caps, and headsets, which pretty much ensured that I wouldn’t be able to pick any of them out of a lineup. My only takeaway was that they were all dudes or chicks who were on the manly side of the house.
The other Turleens were causing issues for the helicopters. The Turleens were small and maneuverable, and that made them thankfully hard to hit. Muddy hadn’t been lying, either—the Space Turtles were working together to get the choppers to shoot at each other in a variety of ways that involved a lot of swooping and what looked like a lot of near misses.
My music changed to “It’s My Turn to Fly” by The Urge. Wasn’t sure if this was a clue or not, but by zipping, swooping, and swerving Lily had gotten us up to the cockpit of the lead chopper.
We were sort of sitting on the nose. Well, not really sitting. We were hovering but keeping pace with the chopper so that was the next best thing. Our staying low enough not to be taken out by the blades was the other best thing.
Lily was somehow flying backwards, since I was looking in at the guys inside the cockpit. I was hella impressed, not that I had time or ability to share this with her. Was thankful for the goggles because they were also keeping my hair from whipping around in my face, at least somewhat.
The positive of this was that the bad guys stopped shooting since I was in front of them but in a spot where they couldn’t hit me. The other choppers didn’t fire at us, either, in part because they’d be more likely to hit their own side and in other part because the Turleens were keeping them very occupied. All of this was good because they’d stopped firing at Caliente Base.
The bad part was that I had no idea how long we could last like this, the chances of one or more Turleens being hurt or killed was high, and at any moment the gunners might decide that they didn’t care about us and start firing on the Base again.
The wind in this position wasn’t awful, but chose not to look down because I sincerely doubted we were low to the ground. Not that I could tell. Lily was doing a great job of being a remora to this particular great white shark, and I honestly had no idea where we were in the not-so-friendly skies. Looking up at the blades was also right out—I didn’t need any more stress than I already had in this situation.
Knew the glass was reinforced, but we had to get through it somehow. Well, I had to get through it. Because it didn’t take genius or a song cue to tell me that the best way for me to protect everyone was to get inside this cockpit and take over. Not that I had a lot of helicopter flying experience, but Jerry Tucker, my favorite flyboy, had trained me how to fly pretty much anything, choppers incl
uded. I’d be fine. If, you know, I could get inside.
We were basically as steady as we were ever going to get. If there was ever a time to try to reach my Glock, this was it. Besides, if I fell off of Lily I’d land right on the chopper anyway.
Gripping her shell even tighter with my left hand and locking my legs as much as I could, let go with my right and started digging around in my purse. Being faced backwards helped keep the wind resistance on my side, so to speak, and the gloves weren’t a hindrance, for which I was ever so grateful.
Wasn’t sure if the crew in the chopper were aware of who I was and why I was trying to stop them, or if they just wanted to get me and Lily off of their machine, but the gunner flipped me off, then opened what looked like a side window, put out a gun, and started shooting.
Dug in my purse faster. Was rewarded by getting my gun in my hand. Didn’t have time to worry about extra clips right now, but that did mean I couldn’t shoot wildly.
Unlike the guy in the chopper, because he was laying down a steady stream of bullets. All his shots missed, but far too many of them came too close for comfort. Meaning he probably wasn’t going to miss with the next clip.
He pulled his arm back inside, presumably to reload. Took aim, for his head, and fired. Was shocked to see the glass take damage. It didn’t shatter, but it would after a couple more bullets. Fired those bullets.
My shots did break the glass, but none of them hit the gunner. The glass was also shatterproof, meaning it was now a pretty mosaic that was hard to see through. The current Enemy Mine kicked the glass out and it sailed over us—I ducked just in time to not get hit by any of it.
However, the next bullet did indeed hit, right by my left hand. I yelped and let go. Try as I might, started sliding off Lily’s back. My music appropriately changed to American Hi-Fi’s “Save Me.” Was now about ninety-nine percent sure that Algar was at the musical controls—he enjoyed his little jokes, after all.
The dude fired and he hit Lily’s shell again, very near to where my head would have been if I hadn’t been slipping.
Had no idea how much firepower Lily’s shell could take. Muddy had indicated they weren’t afraid of what was coming, but that didn’t mean they were correct in their assessment of the choppers’ weaponry. Besides, I needed to get into the cockpit.
Let go with my legs and slid back. Landed on the front of the chopper, feet first, which was something of a shock. Flipped flat as soon as possible, keeping a tight hold on my Glock.
Managed to keep myself on the chopper’s nose, but it was a lot harder than staying on Lily. Sure, I had all the room I needed to stretch out and luxuriate and all that, but the chopper’s ride wasn’t nearly as smooth as Lily’s. It was about the same as being on top of a runaway train, with almost the exact same terror and adrenaline rush, too. Traveling by Turleen was by far the better way to go.
On the plus side, as dangerous and ridiculous perches went this one wasn’t so bad, mostly because there was some kind of turret on the nose that worked nicely as a brace. However, the turret wasn’t all that large and it was the opposite from the way I needed to go, so didn’t choose to snuggle my butt into it.
Could try to crawl into the cockpit while the dude was shooting at me or I could shoot at him from this position. Decided this was choosing between the lesser of two evils. But I wasn’t slipping around at the moment, and that was definitely one for my meager win column.
Tried to ignore his bullets, which were getting closer to me. Instead, forced myself to relax and let the movement of the chopper become natural while telling myself that I wasn’t moving—the target was. Relaxed even as a bullet ricocheted right by my head. Aimed and fired.
Hit my target, though not in his head. However, a shoulder hit was darned good enough, especially since I’d hit the arm holding his gun. He fell back and, based on mouth movement, cursed.
Shot him again. Once again, missed his head, but hit his torso. Not a killing shot, though. Couldn’t tell if he was wearing a bulletproof vest or not, but while he was hit, he wasn’t stopped. However, he was out of ammo and had to reload again.
Each clip for my gun held fifteen rounds. I’d used five shots so far. I could keep on shooting at him then have to search for a clip, or I could try to get into the cockpit before the pilot decided to bank the chopper. “Fight from the Inside” by Queen came on my airwaves. Clearly Algar supported Plan B.
Figured that the pilot had to be thinking what I was thinking or would be so thinking sooner as opposed to later. Managed to sort of scramble into a blocks position, just like at the start of a race. Though most track meets weren’t held on flying helicopters, but I liked to really test the skills.
Decided I was in a good enough position for government work and shoved off as hard as I could. Because the chopper was coming toward me, in that sense, and I was leaping toward the open window using enhanced strength and a hyperspeed boost, sailed into the cockpit and hit the guy who I’d exchanged gunfire with.
The positive was that I was inside. The negative was that he’d had time to reload. And, you know, based on how I’d landed in the cockpit, his gun was shoved into my stomach.
Always the way.
CHAPTER 27
ONE OF MY BETTER QUALITIES, at least in my opinion, was that I could both think very fast and not think at all and merely react. While the latter doesn’t sound like the greatest skill, in hand-to-hand situations, she who reacts fastest has the most likely chance of surviving.
So, didn’t think about it. Just slammed my head into the gunner’s head. As hard as I could. At hyperspeed.
This slammed his head back against the cockpit. My head hurt, but not as badly as his, because he was knocked out. Got lucky because his hand went limp and I had the time to grab his gun and move it away from my body, using my left hand, too. Hyperspeed again. Took a moment to wonder, as I always did, why the Flash wasn’t a bigger, more popular hero. Truly, superspeed had it all goin’ on.
There wasn’t a lot of room in here. Shockingly, the Apache’s cockpit wasn’t designed to host a kegger. Had a momentary moral quandary of what to do with the unconscious dude. I could toss him or sit on him, but until I got him out of here, I couldn’t do much else.
Looked up to see the pilot gaping at me. Made the “put the chopper down” sign, which was me pointing down emphatically. The pilot responded by flipping me off. Clearly that was this team’s go-to move. And so much for that quandary. I had a gun in each hand, and the gun I’d taken from the unconscious guy had a full clip in it.
Braced myself by putting one foot onto the unconscious guy’s chest and my butt against his instrument panel. Hoped this didn’t mean that I launched rockets but decided I’d deal with that later. Then I started shooting at the glass that divided the cockpit.
Took a few more bullets than the front window had, but the glass shattered. Dropped my Glock into my purse, picked up the unconscious guy with my free hand, and tossed him at the broken window. Hard.
Which turned out to be the right choice for two reasons. One because his body knocked the glass out and onto the pilot, and two because the pilot also had a gun he was firing at me. Only the bullets went into his gunner.
The now presumably dead body hit him. The pilot lost control, which wasn’t all that surprising, really, because he had a ton of broken glass and a dead body on him. The chopper started to spiral, nose heading toward the ground.
Decided that jumping and taking my chances with the ground was in my best interest. Didn’t even need the song change to Van Halen’s “Jump” to tell me that, but it was always nice to get confirmation. Dropped the empty gun and dived over the side.
To land stomach first on a Turleen.
Wasn’t sure who this was and didn’t care. Just grabbed on as best I could as my new ride zoomed away from the crashing chopper.
The chopper hit and exploded, with dangerou
s debris flying everywhere. Whoever I was riding on flipped and spun to avoid it. And I wasn’t able to hold on.
Landed on another Turleen, who flew me farther away. This one had to avoid both debris and bullets and—at this point, surprising no one—I fell off again.
Hit another Turleen and started to slide almost immediately. But this one was joined by a buddy, who was able to sort of shove me back up. Managed to get a hold and straddle my current ride while the other stayed with us. They were side-by-side, and while I wasn’t able to lie across both of them, having the one on my right was sort of comforting.
Three more arrived, so we were in a formation with me and the one Turleen in the middle and the other four covering me slipping off to either side or front to back. Had no hopes that this formation would last the moment one of the gunners in the remaining choppers decided to shoot at us, but for right now, I’d take it.
Unfortunately, the crashing of one chopper appeared to remind the others of what they were here to do. The shooting increased, and several loosed missiles hit what I was pretty sure was the top of Caliente Base. It was hard to be certain from my current vantage point, which was pretty high up.
My music changed to “Here Come Cowboys” by the Psychedelic Furs. Took a look—sure enough, there were five jets on the horizon. “I think the cavalry’s coming,” I shouted to the Turleens around me. Had no idea if they heard me or knew what I meant.
Recognized the flying signatures—Matt Hughes, Chip Walker, Jerry, Reader, and Tim. Wondered where the hell Joe and Randy were while at the same time I sort of pitied the pilots in the choppers—no matter how good they were, they were no match for Reader and Tim, let alone any one of the flyboys.
My phone rang, interrupting the Psych Furs. Hadn’t gone hands-free, but my earbuds allowed me to answer calls, so I risked it and let go with one hand so I could answer the phone. “FLOTUS Airlines, how may we help you?”