The birthday girl

by Stephen Leather

  Tim pulled on the lever again, a short burst to maintain their altitude. He leant over his instruments, and then checked his chart. 'I thought you couldn't steer balloons,' Freeman said.

  'You said they blow with the wind.' Tim didn't answer. He was staring off into the distance. Freeman gripped his shoulder.

  'Tim, come on, man. How are we going to get to the other side of the trees?'

  'I'm looking for a current that will take us in the right direction.

  But I think we're going to have to go lower if we're going to make it.'

  'Lower?' Freeman repeated. The balloon was about 2500 feet above the ground, so they had plenty of altitude to play with, but he was reluctant to go any closer to the men with submachine pistols.

  'It's the only way we're going to get behind those trees,' Tim said. 'The higher we go, the more we drift to the right.'

  'Why's that?' Mersiha asked.

  'It's just the way it is,' Tim replied. 'In the northern hemisphere the wind veers to the right with altitude – it's something to do with the turning of the earth. "Right with height" is a balloonist's saying. So if we want to go more to the left, we're gonna have to descend.'

  'How low?' Freeman asked.

  'No way to tell,' Tim replied, keeping a close watch on his altimeter. 'It's never the same. We just have to go down and have

  a look-see. There's another problem, though. The lower we go, the slower we go.'

  'Is that another balloonist's saying?' Mersiha said, smiling.

  Freeman could see that she was trying to ease the tension.

  Tim grinned back. 'No, kid, that's just a fact. The faster winds are higher up, so we'll slow down as we descend.' He tapped the variometer. It was already showing a descent rate of two hundred feet per minute. The thermistor was showing the temperature of the air at the crown of the balloon at just below one hundred degrees.

  'How do we go down?' Mersiha asked.

  'Simple. We just go easy on the burners. We have to use them to maintain our height: the air in the envelope cools pretty quickly, especially in these temperatures. Cut back on the heat and we'll fall pretty quickly.'

  'Is that how you land these things?' Freeman asked.

  'That's part of it, but we have a parachute deflation system to let the air out of the top of the balloon. It's a circle of fabric which I can pull into the balloon using this rip-line.' He ran his fingers down a dark blue line which ran out of the neck of the balloon and was tied to the side of the basket. 'Pull it and air floods out; let go and the parachute reseals. That's how we get the balloon down in normal wind conditions. But if we really want to deflate the envelope, say if we were trying to land in high winds, then there's a Velcro rip which runs around the parachute.' He showed them another line. 'Pulling this rip-line effectively creates a huge hole in the top of the balloon. But we don't use that for normal descents – it's a way of quickly deflating the balloon on the ground.'

  Tim pointed at the wedge of pines. 'Once we're over the trees I can use the valley winds to take us around the rocky outcrop. They won't be expecting that, and we should pick up some speed.'

  'Then you drop us off? I'm still not sure that's a good idea,'

  Freeman said.

  'You'll be fine,' Tim assured him. 'The winds at ground level aren't much more than five miles per hour. I can take this baby down to a few feet above the ground and you can drop into the snow. The drifts are about six or seven feet – you won't get hurt. I'll hit the burners and go way up. All you have to do is lie still. The guys in the snowmobiles won't have a clue what's happened and they'll chase me as far as the ridge. Then I'll be free and clear.'

  'If you can find a place to land,' Mersiha said.

  Tim ran his finger across the chart. 'I can make it to here with just me on board.'

  'Are you sure?'

  Tim smiled, obviously pleased at her concern. 'Trust me,' he said. Below, the buzzing of the snowmobiles grew louder.

  Kiseleva took his left hand off the brake lever and fumbled in his pocket for the transceiver. The handlebars vibrated and he gripped tighter with his right hand, trying to steer as straight a course as possible. He was crossing a large snowfield and heading towards a forest of snow-covered pines. The skis slipped sideways as he drove across an incline and he felt the machine slip away from him. He started to fall but before he completely lost his grip he smacked his right hand down on the engine cut-off toggle. It died immediately and the machine came to a halt within a few yards with Kiseleva still hanging on grimly with one hand.

  'What the fuck happened?' Ostrovetsky shouted over his shoulder. The other snowmobile continued to race after the balloon, though Kiseleva could see that Vincenti was making a mistake in heading directly towards the trees. They'd have to go round, so it made more sense to approach the forest at an angle and then skirt around it.

  'I've gotta speak to the blonde bitch,' Kiseleva said, switching on the transceiver and pressing it to the side of his face. His breath fogged around his mouth as he spoke. 'You there?' There was no reply. His hands were tingling and trembling and his arm muscles ached like they did after he'd done a hundred push-ups. 'You there?' he repeated. 'Yeah, what's the problem?' It was the woman. She sounded as if she were a million miles away, her voice faint and crackling. Even through the static, he could hear the contempt in her voice.

  'The balloon's coming down. They're half as high as they used to be. I think they're trying to land. Where are you?'

  'Still heading down the hill. The trail's a bitch.'

  Yeah, thought Kiseleva sourly, so are you, sweetheart.

  'They're coming down on the other side of a valley. There's a sort of forest between two hills.'

  'Hang on. I've got a map here. How far away are you from the balloon?'

  Kiseleva peered up into the sky. Distances out in the open meant nothing to him. Drop him in the middle of Manhattan and he'd know to a block where he was, and how long it would take to get anywhere in a cab, assuming he was lucky enough to get a driver who could speak a close approximation of English. But out in the hills with everything covered in a thick layer of snow, he didn't have a clue. 'Six miles,' he guessed. 'Maybe seven.'

  The transceiver crackled and he had to ask her to repeat herself. 'Yeah, I think I see it. Okay, once I hit the road, I'll get over there. In the meantime, get the hell after them.'

  'Yeah, what the fuck do you think I'm doing?' he shouted, but he didn't press the transmit button as he said it. He knew better than to antagonise her.

  'Everything okay?' Ostrovetsky asked.

  'Everything's just fine,' Kiseleva said bitterly.

  'Think we'll make it?'

  'Damn right.' He sat down astride the snowmobile and pulled the D-ring savagely, imagining it was the blonde's hair he had in his hand. Nothing happened. He pulled again, harder this time.

  Still nothing.

  'The engine cut-offs still in,' Ostrovetsky said.

  Kiseleva glared at him. 'I was just warming it up,' he said. He flicked out the red toggle, pulled the D-ring, and the engine burst into life. 'See?' he said, daring his passenger to argue. He pulled his scarf up over his face and tied it behind his neck as protection against the biting wind. Way off in the distance he could see Vincenti's snowmobile approaching the forest. Kiseleva could see that he'd soon realise his mistake and would have to veer off to the right. He gunned the engine. It was his chance to take the lead. He patted the silenced automatic, snug in its leather holster under his left armpit. Soon, he thought. Soon.

  According to the variometer the balloon was descending at about two hundred feet a minute, but to Freeman it hardly felt as if they were moving downward at all. The only sensation of movement was forward, over the forest. Tim had been right. The lower they went, the less the drift to the right. Even so, he could see that they were only clipping the edge of the wedge of pines, and one of the snowmobiles was already moving off to go around the obstruction. Mersiha bit her lip nervously and Freeman squeez
ed her shoulder. 'It's going to be okay,' he said.

  She smiled, wanting to believe him, but they both knew that Tim was cutting it close. Her face began to crumple as if she had only just realised the danger they were in. Tm so sorry, Dad,' she said. 'If I hadn't been so stupid…'

  'Hush,' he said, pressing a finger to his lips. 'You were only trying to help.'

  She shook her head fiercely. 'No. You were right. Violence never solves anything. It only makes things worse. And that's what I've done. I've made it worse.' She began to shake.

  Freeman pulled her to him and hugged her as she sobbed quietly into his chest. 'It's all right,' he said.

  'I promise I'll never do anything like that again. I really promise. On my life.' She crooked her little finger on her left hand and offered it to him. Freeman smiled and did the same.

  They linked little fingers. He stroked her hair with his other hand and looked questioningly at Tim. The pilot shrugged. Freeman could see from the look on his face that he was worried.

  'It'll be touch and go,' he said. 'Literally. Twenty seconds at most. So when I tell you to jump, you'll have to go right away.

  No hesitation. And once you're in the snow, lie still. Don't sit up to check that she's okay, don't say anything, just lie exactly where you are. I'll hit the burners and hopefully they'll be too busy watching me to realise that you aren't in the basket.' Freeman nodded. He rested his chin on the top of his daughter's head.

  He could see himself and Mersiha reflected in the twin lenses of the pilot's sunglasses, their faces weirdly distorted. 'It might not be so bad,' Tim said. 'The lower we go, the more distance we'll put between them. So long as they're the other side of the trees, they won't see us.' He fingered the dark blue rip-line. 'When I pull this, we'll drop like a stone.'

  'When do we do it?' Freeman asked.

  Tim looked down at the pursuing snowmobiles. They were still some distance away. He did a quick calculation in his head.

  'Three minutes, maybe four.'

  'I'm ready,' Freeman said.

  'It might be an idea if you and your daughter sat down in the bottom of the basket, so that they get used to not seeing you standing up.'

  Freeman nodded. 'Come on, pumpkin,' he whispered in Mersiha's ear. 'Let's sit down.' She'd begun to shake again, and Freeman didn't think it was from the cold. She slowly slid down against the side of the basket and clutched her knees with her arms. Tears were running down her cheeks though her eyes were tightly closed. Freeman sat down next to her and patted her shoulder, overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness. Now it was all down to Tim.

  Kiseleva remembered Vincenti's warning and kept the throttle full on as he raced across the virgin snow. If the snowmobile sank into the deep drifts they'd never be able to dig it out.

  Every bone in his body ached, and it required a constant effort to keep the vehicle on course. He'd lost all feeling in his right thumb and his eyes were watering. It felt as if he'd been on the machine for an eternity. He couldn't remember a time when his body hadn't been racked by pain and his ears assaulted by the never-ending drone of the engine between his legs.

  Over to his left, the balloon was still descending. Kiseleva looked over his shoulder to see where Vincenti was. The other snowmobile was gaining quickly, now racing on a course parallel to his. He crouched forward over the handlebars to cut down the wind resistance and to give his eyes a respite from the wind.

  Ice was crusting on his eyelashes and he blinked, trying to clear them. The skis hit a snowdrift and the snowmobile pitched up and then slammed down, knocking the breath from his body.

  Instinctively he throttled back, but immediately the skis began to sink. He forced the throttle forward and leant back, and the snowmobile powered forward once more. The sound of Vincenti's machine grew louder and he realised that he was about to be overtaken. He cursed. He didn't want to be beaten to the kill. Not after all he'd been through. He could think of only one way he'd be able to get to the balloon before Vincenti – he'd have to go through the trees instead of around them. He kept looking anxiously to his left, searching for a way into the forest.

  Vincenti drew level. He nodded over at Kiseleva. There was something condescending about the gesture, Kiseleva thought, and he turned away to concentrate on the treeline.

  Vincenti pulled away with no apparent effort. Kiseleva couldn't work out how the man managed to get the extra speed from his snowmobile. He had his own throttle pushed as far forward as it would go, yet he was clearly falling behind. He cursed, rocking backwards and forwards as if that would coax extra speed from the vehicle. Suddenly Vincenti veered towards the trees and Kiseleva realised that they'd both had the same idea.

  Vincenti had seen a gap in the pines which appeared to be the start of a narrow trail. The snowmobile shot into the forest like a rabbit disappearing into its burrow. Kiseleva yanked hard on the handlebars and followed him.

  The trail Vincenti was following was peppered with hoof prints, obviously well used by deer and elk. The snow was light and fluffy and considerably less deep than it had been out in the open. Both snowmobiles had to slow down because the trail twisted and turned and in places it seemed to vanish completely.

  Kiseleva followed closely as Vincenti navigated through the maze of snow-laden trees. He hoped that they'd made the right decision. From the ground there was no way of knowing how deep the forest was, or if the trail actually led anywhere. For all they knew, they could be pursuing a dead end. The snowmobile bucked from side to side on the uneven trail, like a small boat riding out a storm. Kiseleva's arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Ahead, Vincenti slowed and stood up, peering through the trees for the best way to go. His passenger pointed off to the right but Vincenti shook his head. Kiseleva could see why – heading to the right would take them further away from the balloon. He took his thumb off the throttle and the snowmobile slithered to a halt. 'What's wrong?' Ostrovetsky shouted behind him.

  'We're waiting for Vincenti to make up his mind.'

  Vincenti turned to look at them. He shrugged theatrically, clearly unable to decide which way to go. On all sides the pines seemed to have closed ranks. Kiseleva gestured to the left. That was the only way to go. Vincenti rolled his snowmobile forward, still standing to get a better look ahead. Kiseleva followed, gunning his engine impatiently, the snowmobile lurching forward like a bull preparing to charge a matador. Vincenti managed to negotiate a way through the packed pines, frequently squeezing through gaps so narrow that the handlebars scraped the reddish bark. Kiseleva fumed. They were barely managing a walking pace. 'Come on!' he screamed. 'Get a fucking move on!'

  Whether Vincenti heard him above the noise of the engines or not, he sat down and accelerated. The trees seemed to have thinned, and while the trail had petered out there was still considerably more room to manoeuvre and he made full use of it. 'About time,' Kiseleva growled to himself. The pines began to flash by as he opened up the throttle. They were still managing only thirty miles an hour, but the nearness of the trees gave the illusion of greater speed. They passed in a blur, often only inches away from the skis.

  Several times Vincenti's snowmobile banged into low branches, starting small snowfalls which infuriated Kiseleva as he drove through them. His face and scarf were plastered with wet slush, adding to his discomfort. He was mentally cursing Vincenti when suddenly the snowmobile ahead veered off to the right and pitched over on its side, the rubber caterpillar track whirring around uselessly. The two men were thrown off, the passenger slamming into a tree. Snow poured down in a miniature avalanche, half covering him. Vincenti lay trapped under the vehicle, his leg jammed under one of the skis.

  Kiseleva braked. Vincenti was conscious but his leg was bleeding badly. The right ski had buckled. Kiseleva realised that Vincenti must have caught it on something – a concealed rock or root. Whatever had done the damage, the snowmobile clearly wasn't going anywhere. Neither was Vincenti. 'Help me,' he groaned. The engine was still racing – the throttl
e must have jammed. Vincenti tried to lift himself into a sitting position but the effort was too much for him and he fell back into the snow.

  'Hit the engine cut-off,' he pleaded. He was bleeding from his mouth as if he'd bitten his tongue.

  'No time,' Kiseleva said. He gunned the throttle and accelerated away, spraying snow over the injured man.

  'We could have helped them,' Ostrovetsky shouted.

  'Later,' Kiseleva yelled. 'We'll come back for them.' He smiled under his scarf as he picked his way through the trees.

  He was secretly pleased that Vincenti had screwed up. Now he'd get all the credit for killing Freeman and the girl.

  Tim tightened his grip on the rip-line and looked down on Freeman and his daughter, who were crouching on the floor of the basket. 'Okay, get ready,' he said.

  'What do we do?' Freeman asked.

  'Stay just as you are while I take the balloon down. When I give you the word, slip over the side of the basket. We'll be six feet above the ground so there'll be a bit of a drop, but the snow's soft and fairly deep. You'll be fine. When we get down low we'll be in the shelter of the trees so the wind speed will drop dramatically. We'll probably be down to a walking pace.

  Just remember what I said – lie still and don't move until the snowmobiles have passed.'

  'Can you see them?'

  'No. They're the other side of the forest somewhere. You can still hear them off in the distance. I don't know how much time we'll have so when I say go, you go.'

  Freeman forced a smile. 'Ready when you are,' he said. He put his arm around Mersiha's shoulders. 'Are you okay, pumpkin?'

  She nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  'This is it,' the pilot said. He pulled the rip-line and almost immediately Freeman felt the balloon drop. His stomach turned over and he took deep breaths to fight the nausea.

  'Six hundred feet to go,' Tim said.

  Kiseleva pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go and the snowmobile leapt forward and burst out of the forest in a shower of snow and broken twigs. The balloon was only a few hundred yards away, its envelope partially deflated and falling fast. The pilot was standing up, peering over the side of the basket.