by R. E. Fisher
For his part, Telerex was content with the calm, unhurried climb into the air. He wanted to ensure that his friend was safe and comfortable. He felt her begin stroking his neck, as was her custom when they flew. He would have smiled if dragons could.
He turned his head to look at her and asked, “Where are we going?”
“I am not sure. Any ideas?” Tetra asked.
The dragon knew that Tetra hadn’t traveled the lands since their completion of the tasks the gods had given them, but Telerex had. He wasn’t bound by what he believed to be their archaic decision to close themselves away from the world. He had left his home often to expand his knowledge and to seek out his own kinsmen. Once he learned that most dragons weren’t the type of beings to gather or socialize, he wept. Attacked and driven away on most occasions, he learned of his world while under the guise of a human, dwarf, or elf. His kind could take the form of any of them, though they could perform this feat but once a day. But should they desire, they could maintain that form indefinitely. He had on many occasions.
Telerex had learned the legends and lore of most of the races either by having watched it happen in his youth or by learning it from the sisters in the village. He had learned about people when out traveling on his own; his peaceful nature allowed him to be accepted in most races. Many of the races usually sensed his kindness, rewarding him with lively conversation and food. How so many of the races loved to talk over their meals, which was always to his benefit! As long as he hadn’t admitted to them that he was a dragon, that is. He knew that although he could change his form, his eyes always remained the same. For the observant, that was always a question that arose; he had learned long ago that it was in everyone’s best interests to lie to those people. He would tell them that it was a defect that had come because of his birth. A birth that had cost him his mother’s life, according to the story he had created. It was unfair to lie to those who befriended him, but he felt it necessary to get to know them while ensuring their safety—and his.
He was also aware that many of his kind were selfish and cruel. Because of that, most races either despised the dragons or feared them. More than likely it was both, he thought.
“We should seek out the Dragon Magi. They might help you,” he suggested.
“Why is that, my friend?” Tetra asked, knowing nothing of them.
“You don’t actually think I’ve spent all my life in that cave, do you?” he asked as he laughed. “I happen to have learned a few things in my travels, Mistress. They crave knowledge, and they would provide shelter while gleaning it from you.”
She had learned long ago to trust his judgment completely and simply replied, “So be it.”
Lavalor was almost giddy with anticipation after his discovery. He had cautiously begun exploring Tetra’s mind since the moment she had strapped him onto her waist. Lavalor knew that he could corrupt her as much as he had Quensi, but he was going to have to be careful and cautious. His wife had been wrong: she was not crazy because of the voices. It was because of them that she was still sane. Tetra’s will was much stronger than his wife’s had been. He would have to proceed much more slowly and with less violence than he had with her. He had overpowered Quensi in a matter of minutes.
This one is going to take much longer than that.
Chapter 8
“Those who would come unto me must prove their worth for my love, for it is I and I alone who will reward thy desires!”
(E.Mih., 1.1 - Book of Earth, Tenets of Mihra, Chapter 1, Verse 1)
Like the Americans, the Russians had designed their craft to have the complete cockpit itself become the vehicle of ejection. When he had determined that there was no way to save his aircraft, Dmitri pulled the ejection lever, and the cockpit separated from the rest of his craft and was blown from the aircraft’s frame. Once the cockpit was clear of the scramjet, his hypersonic jet shredded itself to pieces because of the speeds he had been traveling. Though the cockpit was designed to survive the separation and spare the pilot’s life, it was not aerodynamic; the cockpit, having only its own inertia to travel with, immediately began to spin and tumble violently, causing him to be knocked unconscious. Dmitri had been fortunate that the chute deployed once the weighted tip of the cockpit had stabilized, causing him to fall toward the earth like a spinning projectile.
He landed hard, causing the canopy of the cockpit to shatter into pieces and the cockpit frame to twist as a result. One of the heavy bolts holding his seat onto the base of the cockpit floor had sheared on impact, causing his head to strike the canopy frame, shattering his helmet and face shield. A shard of the plastic shield broke inward, and the hard plastic sliced his face open from underneath his eye all the way down to his lower jawbone.
The fibula of his left leg had snapped when the bolt holding the seat sheared, crushing his foot and leg against the wall of the cockpit. He had blacked out from the sudden, intense pain.
He awoke much later, still strapped to the seat, but the cockpit was now lying on its side and he was unsure how long he had been unconscious. He struggled to disconnect his safety harness, shoving his feet against the cockpit floor to alleviate some of the pressure from his body weight. He screamed in pain, suddenly realizing he had a broken leg. Still, he managed to get his harness undone and lie still in an attempt to let the pain subside. Once it had, he reached down between his knees to see if he could open the panel containing his survival gear. Because of the way he was lying in the cockpit and because the panel had twisted when the bolt sheared, he realized he was going to have to work his way out of the cockpit in a manner that would allow him to get to the survival pack. In agony, he began pulling himself from the wreckage, finding it hard to breathe as he attempted to work himself out of the cockpit. He removed the shattered face shield and saw blood covering the inside of what was left of it. He chose to ignore his facial wound and tossed the helmet off to the side, turning his body around as painlessly as possible so that he could reach the panel holding the items that would save his life. He paused to catch his breath and let the pain from his leg subside again, looking around to see where he had crash-landed. He saw that he was in a semi-mountainous, sandy terrain. It looked like a desert, but he was positive from the briefings he had received that there weren’t any deserts in the southeast part of America. He leaned his head back, resting his neck and eyes a bit before he decided to attack the panel again.
He took a deep breath, and being mindful of his leg, he began prying at the panel. After working at the heavy aluminum for several minutes, he winced as he twisted his leg a bit too painfully, also realizing that his grimace had caused the wound on his face to begin dripping with blood. Ignoring the blood, Dmitri finally managed to get the panel open, pulling out the dull gray nylon case. He unzipped the survival pack and took inventory of it.
He ignored the small rubber raft, pulling out a tightly rolled basic flight suit without any military markings on it along with the small survival machete. He found the Grach MP-443 with its two seventeen-round magazines and the flare launcher and cartridges. He set them aside for the time being. He also saw that he had maps of the southern United States, Cuba, and several Caribbean islands. There was a compass, a flashlight with red and blue lens filters, a signal mirror with a small hole in the center, water purification tablets, and a small medical kit. He opened the kit and found that it contained a sterilized, curved needle, a small amount of thread, several alcohol swipes, a small bottle of aspirin, ten morphine tablets in a blister packet, and various bandages, along with another blister packet containing salt tablets. Dmitri also found an inflatable splint, matches, a small card with emergency radio frequencies, the rescue radio, and a spare battery for the radio. He found the flare gun with two rounds and three smoke grenades. Looking at the bands of color encircling the neck of each of them, he could tell that they would release green, yellow, and red smoke. He also found a water bladder with one liter of water and six prepackaged meals and the small, folded silver surviv
al blanket. He picked up the radio and examined it, seeing that the auto-activator had already begun sending out a rescue signal.
After assessing his available equipment, he determined that his priorities consisted of getting out of the high-altitude flight suit, stabilizing his broken leg, stemming the bleeding from his cheek, finding shelter, and evading capture. He repacked everything but the pistol, the machete, the inflatable splint, the needle, the thread, and the mirror. He tore off two of the morphine tablets and tried opening them, but the blood he had wiped away from his face now covered his fingers, making it almost impossible to do. He finally managed to open one and took it with a small sip of the water, setting the other aside for the moment. He began using the machete to cut the flight suit from his body, avoiding his broken leg until the morphine had kicked in. Once it had, he cut the flight suit completely off above the top of the boot on his leg. He knew it was broken, and judging from the bruising and bend, it was a few inches above the ankle but below the top of his boot. He unlaced the oversized flight boot from his good leg and used the lace to secure the boot that held his broken leg to a portion of the empty canopy sill, where the plastic had broken out.
Dmitri waited for the morphine to kick in and when he felt his body begin to relax, he waited a while longer. When he finally became sleepy, he sat straight up, placing his hands behind him and lifting himself up and off the ground with his good leg, finishing the tripod effect. He took several deep breaths and pushed himself backward, hoping this action would set his leg. The pain surged up his leg, almost causing him to black out, but he felt the bone snap into place. To make matters worse, the grimace on his face increased its bleeding. Tears welled up in his eyes because of the pain. After wiping his eyes and untying the bootlace, he worked himself back up into a sitting position and untied the bootlace of the boot that had held his broken leg, removing it. Dmitri rolled up the remaining portion of his pressure suit and sock and then slipped the inflatable splint around the broken bone, pressing the cap of the small CO2 cartridge. The plastic bladder inflated, holding the broken bones in place. Downing the other morphine tablet, he grabbed one of the bandages and placed it over the open wound on his face. He lay back, using his arm to cover his eyes while he regained his composure. His body began to shake and he felt cold, despite his being almost naked and the heat from the sun beating down from high above him. Unable to lift himself up, he passed out where he lay. Shock had set in and overwhelmed him.
He awoke after the sun had gone down. Looking at his watch, he saw that he had been unconscious for more than three hours. His impromptu nap had resulted in his becoming scorched from the high desert sun. His leg still throbbed, but didn’t hurt as much when he moved now, while his face had stopped bleeding during the time he had been unconscious. He unrolled the cheap flight suit; not wishing to be shot as a spy, he transferred his military insignia onto it. After completing that part, he carefully slipped it on, zipping it up once he could do so. Because he no longer wore his pressurized flight suit, he realized that the normal boot he wore within the flight suit would not fit because of the inflatable cast he had applied to hold his broken leg in place. He took the rubber boot that he had cut off from the flight suit earlier and slipped it over his swollen foot and makeshift cast. Good enough! he thought to himself.
Dmitri pulled the aspirin out of the medical kit and swallowed two of them with a small drink of his precious water, hoping to cut the swelling. He then pulled out one of the larger bandages and the alcohol wipes. He considered the needle and thread, and the thought of trying to sew up his own face made him queasy. He covered his wound with the bandage after cleaning it with the wipes. He took two more of the morphine tablets. Dmitri noticed that the temperature had dropped down to about ten degrees, so he reached into the survival pouch and pulled out the silver survival blanket, wrapping it around himself. He resigned himself to a cold night ahead. He slid himself over to the cockpit seat and used it to shield himself from the slight breeze that had picked up sometime while he had been unconscious.
Sitting alone in the dark, he decided that he mostly likely was going to be found and taken prisoner by the Americans. He was on American soil, which would preclude any real rescue attempt by his country at this stage of the war. He figured he could last three or four days at the most in the desert if the Americans didn’t pick him up. His water supply was lacking, and if he didn’t find more, there was zero chance of survival. On the other hand, he didn’t think he would be able to hike away from his position with a broken leg. He picked up the radio after looking at the frequency card using the flashlight. The filter he had placed over the bulb made everything look blood red as he shone it on the radio, ensuring that it was on the proper frequency. He sat for the remainder of the night in the dark, alone, listening to the silence of the radio. No less lonely than he ever had been.
“What do you think caused that?” Ollie asked.
Laz continued repacking his survival kit. “I’ve got no freakin’ idea. I figure we’re on the east coast of Georgia. What do you think?”
“Ain’t no way, dude. We were more than 60 miles out over the water of the Atlantic Ocean. For us to be where you think we are, we would have had to drift on the wind 60 miles, unconscious, with over 300 pounds pulling down on the chute. We would have had to hit the water long before we would have hit land.”
“Well, what’s your explanation?”
“I don’t have one yet. I say we sit tight and wait for the cavalry.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, we haven’t been able to raise anyone on the radio, so which cavalry are you talking about? I say we pack up and start hiking down. The GPS hasn’t worked since we unpacked it. Well, it’s working; it’s just not picking up a signal. Care to explain that?”
“I don’t know, Laz; but right now, the only threat out here is chiggers. What’s your rush? If the signal is being picked up, they already know where we are, and they will pick us up within a few hours. If I’m wrong, we’ll still know within a few hours. Let’s wait here for the night, and if they haven’t picked us up by then, we go with your plan. Deal?”
“All right; what’s the worst that can happen?”
“Let’s get some wood and start a fire. At least we can heat up these MREs. Now help me up.”
Smiling, Laz pulled Ollie up. “All right, but you’re cooking!”
Laz and Ollie split up to look for firewood. Laz had walked a few hundred yards out, looking up at the huge trees that filled the forest. He could tell there were pines scattered throughout the maples and oaks. Smelling the pine scent, he felt like a little kid again. It was funny to him how certain smells seemed to send him back to his childhood in upstate New York. Running around the woods, playing army with his friends. He remembered the first time he had seen a jet. His father had driven him down to Plattsburgh and he’d watched in awe as the noisy, fast planes flew above Lake Champlain. The thick, oily trails of smoke billowed out behind the jets as they passed in front of the crowds gathered along the lakeshore. His uncle had come along with him and his father, and while they stood waiting for the show to start, his uncle began telling him that a sea monster lived in the lake. He even remembered the name of the monster. “Champ,” his uncle had said, smiling.
Laz remembered looking across the water and watching the whitecaps as they folded from the lake and crashed back down, creating a light-green foam that washed onto the shore. As he was staring at the water, a jet had flashed by so low and close, it had scared him. A split second later he heard the rush of noise that followed in the jet’s wake.
After the jet had passed by, he’d never thought about Champ again. It took an awful lot to make a little boy forget about a monster, but jets had done it. He still remembered telling his father on the way home that he wanted to fly jets when he grew up. His father didn’t laugh and told him he could do anything he wanted to. From then on, everything he did was in preparation to pilot jets; his father never once told him he couldn’t
but helped him any way he could. He remembered getting his pilot’s license before he received his driver’s license, and the look of horror on his mother’s face when he had come home with it. He and his father had kept the flying lessons a secret from her. The next morning, his mother had told him he couldn’t fly by himself until he was eighteen and no longer her responsibility. He had felt sorry for his father for the rest of the month, but his father had smiled at him and winked when his mother wasn’t looking.
“Laz! Wake up!”
He woke to Ollie shaking him, still feeling drowsy and out of it. Ollie was trying to pull him to his feet.
“Get up, you big bastard! Wake up!” he said, concerned. Ollie looked at his friend and continued to help him to his feet. “What’s the matter with you?”
Laz struggled to get to his feet. Looking around, he realized he had sat down and leaned back against one of the maples. He didn’t remember sitting down, and he certainly didn’t remember getting comfortable enough to fall asleep. He never fell asleep sitting up. It was a bad habit for a pilot to get into. He didn’t understand what had happened, and he was still so sleepy. Ollie walked him back to their campsite. Looking around, Laz observed that the sky had become darker, and Ollie had started a fire. The closer he got to the campfire, the more alert he became.
“What happened?” he asked.
“You tell me. You were gone for over an hour. I thought you had gotten lost, so I went looking for you. I found you asleep, and it took ten minutes to wake you up. Are you feeling all right?”