oOo
I was on the radio to Boston Traffic before I landed on the State Street roof. Usually, I just worked through the BPD dispatcher. But this was October and Conclave was in two weeks. BPD would never get a word in edgewise.
In all the world there might be two hundred witches that are capable of true flight as opposed to many more that can lift a couple of inches or float in the air. Every year, most of those witches came to Conclave for the Salem Olympics along with anybody else that has the ability to levitate, move objects, light fires or magnetize iron, whether or not that ability was useful. Here flyers competed for little more than bragging rights in acrobatics, speed and endurance. Flying was not the only recognized sport, but it was the only one that required the use of most of the Salem Sound and Nahant Bay as a staging area. It was also the only one regulated by the FAA.
In July of every year the Air Venture air show makes Oshkosh, Wisconsin, the busiest airport in the world. Traffic controllers work their fingers to the bone and their voices to a scratch managing all of the takeoffs, landings and acrobatic stunts. It’s a plum assignment. Participating controllers have a justifiable pride in what they’ve done. But the aircraft are still aircraft, not ninety-pound pilots flying literally cheek to cheek jamming a space smaller than one runway of the Boston airfield.
By tradition and inclination, Boston traffic controllers enforced scheduling and separation in both the practice and performance areas. It was hard, exacting work that had to be done visually—radar didn’t have sufficient acuity. Most of it was done from the rehabilitated Marblehead Light with spotters at Winter Island, Forest River, Lynch Park and Salem Willows Park, along with a few boats. While they respected their brother controllers in Wisconsin, they considered the Conclave problems far more difficult and unique.
The night after Halloween was by tradition the Controller’s Dinner, where the flyers hosted exhausted traffic controllers to an evening of seafood and beer. To me, this was one of the best parts of Conclave.
But now the controllers were just getting into the groove. The flyers were still disorganized and EMTs were moored out in Beverly Harbor trying to figure out if they could fish out an unconscious flyer from the cold water before he drowned.
“N75638, Boston Traffic request.” All flyers had their own N-number since they were the aircraft and not their stick. The ‘N’ part signifies United States. For reasons that must lie in the fallows of bureaucratic minds—I sure don’t know why—flyers always state the preceding N, though other pilots within the country of origin drop it. Go figure. I checked the ATIS: approach to the active runway was over the harbor. I’d be risking wake turbulence if I went up the coast that way.
“Boston Traffic, N75638.”
“N75638: request terminal transit to Broad Sound and the Conclave practice area.”
“N75638. Terminal transit denied. Too much traffic.”
Aircraft were taking off over a corner of East Boston so they had to observe noise reduction rules. Maybe I could slip underneath. “N75638. What’s my maximum altitude for an East Boston transit?”
“N75638. Eight hundred feet.”
That was a bare minimum. I didn’t like transits at low altitude. It was hard enough to remain the least bit incognito around Boston. Still, with Conclave so close, a flyer wouldn’t be completely unexpected. “N75638. Request East Boston transit at altitude eight hundred feet.”
“ N75638. Transit approved. Set your transponder to 4338. I’ll call your hand-off to Conclave Traffic.”
“N75638 roger.”
I descended to the Westin on the water, sighted on the entrance to the Callahan tunnel and crossed the bay, turned and flew north following the Chelsea River until it dried up near the Revere Beach Parkway, then over to the beach and north east.
I didn’t dawdle. I’d never been witness to the result of an encounter between a witch and the wake turbulence of a Boeing 747, but I’d seen pictures.
As soon as I came over Revere Beach, Boston Traffic came back on the line: “N75638: frequency change to 129.75 and hand off to Conclave Control.”
“N75638 roger.”
I changed the frequency and instantly there came the chatter: “N87JWH requesting acrobatic clearance.”
“N87JWH: Proceed to Misery Island and hold. N88TH8: Finish your current sequence and vacate the Northeast Practice Area.”
“N88TH8. I’ll need another run on the routine.”
“N88TH8: Hold in the staging area. There are four teams ahead of you. N87JWH: advance to the Endicott College practice area. You have forty-five minutes.”
There was a pause. I took advantage of it. “N75638, request.”
“N75638 proceed.”
“N75638: request a solo practice area for tight sprinting.”
“N75638: proceed to the Ocean Avenue entry by way of Swampscott and Atlantic Ave and hold.”
The practice area must have been even more crowded than I expected. I had to skirt Nahant Bay by flying over Swampscott. Then I cut off the very lower tip off of Marblehead and landed in the parking area of the bird sanctuary. Conclave didn’t expect me to hover while I waited for a spot.
Someone called: “Loquess.”
I turned and smiled sourly. “Sniezek.”
Bertrand Sniezek, the remaining BPD flyer, walked over to me, his black stick over his shoulder. He was bald, short and broad, heavier than a flying witch had any right to be. But every muscle was clearly defined—and on parade. He was wearing a skin-tight leotard to good advantage. There was no wind resistance against the body during flight; the bubble took care of that. It was pure affectation—and, of course, utterly different from when I did exactly the same thing in college.
When I had first joined BPD, it had been with the understanding I’d be a team flyer with Sniezek. But Sniezek had pulled me aside and made it clear in no uncertain tones that he was only interested in solo pursuit. Team flying was not one of his interests. Not to mention, he would never fly with such an underpowered partner.
“Heard you talking to Conclave Control. Are you entering this year?”
“No. But I wanted to get a good workout.”
Sniezek nodded. “Good. I’m going for the zig-zag. It’s going to be hard enough without competing against a waif like you.”
I could feel myself bristle. He always found some way to get at me. “I’ve been thinking about changing my mind.”
He held up his hands in conciliation. “I meant no offense. I was referring to the mass difference. I have a lot of power but a lot of mass, too. It’s tough on the turns.”
I nodded, suppressing my irritation. Sniezek was mean-spirited and selfish but mass was mass. Flying still had to allow for Newtonian mechanics.
“I have a proposition,” he said calmly.
“Yeah?”
“How would you like to run some z-sprints with me?”
“I thought I was underpowered.”
“And a woman,” Sniezek said comfortably. “In the straights I’d blow you away.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I said, irritation returning instantly.
He waved that away. “We can do a straight race some other time. The z-sprint is something you’re good at. Better than me.”
“Really?” I lifted an eyebrow.
He shrugged. “Of course. No mass. You way more maneuverable than I am. If I can work against you, I’ll do better. Besides, it’s more fun to compete against somebody than work out on your own.”
“Generally, I like to work out with someone I like.”
He grinned. “Life is full of disappointments.”
In spite of myself, I grinned back. It would be nice to hand Sniezek his head. “Make the call,” I said.
A moment later he turned to me. “The z-sprint area is going to clear in fifteen minutes. Ready?”
I nodded. The starting area for the z-sprint was just over the water in Lady’s Cove so we didn’t have to transit. Sniezek took the chance to stretch out but I fel
t pretty limber. Pretty soon, they called our numbers and we glided over to the starting point at the Marblehead Yacht Club.
Unlike the rest of the flying events, the z-sprint is specifically over a combination of water and land. It’s a sprint over uneven terrain—think of it as a slalom course for skiers, if they were skiing in the air and could go up as well as down. It was always a hit with the crowds—a collection of ten or twenty high-speed witches shooting forty miles an hour a hundred feet over their heads.
This course was about five miles long. There were six colored pylons starting at the yacht club. The course proceeded straight from the club to Dolliber Cove and a near 180-degree turn—almost a reverse. Then down to Fort Sewall and a merely difficult 90-degree turn to the west. Past the beach at the foot of the Waterside Cemetery and another mild turn, this time to the south. A fairly long leg to the Marblehead High School but a screaming reverse turn back towards the center of Marblehead and the Village School. Then, another screaming 180 and the flyers ran the same course in reverse. A ten-mile course in total.
Like in slalom skiing, you had to pass the pylon on the outside of the turn—cutting inside lost you points. The reverse was tricky since the leader then had to thread back through the pack without a collision. The z-sprint had the most injuries of all of the events, but no witch had ever suggested the reverse be eliminated.
We hovered over the start of the z-sprint.
“I have a countdown timer.” Sneizek set it. “Ten seconds?”
I nodded.
I leaned down against the stirrups, holding myself loosely against the handlebars. Relax, I told myself. Never lose energy from mere tension.
The timer rang and we were off. I ticked off the markers in my head. Crocker Park, John Glover House, Alpha Whisky.
As I expected, Sneizek pulled ahead quickly. This was a part of the course that favored raw strength—something I couldn’t match.
But the pylon on the island in Dolliber Cove was marked green, meaning a minimum turning altitude of two hundred feet. Sniezek had to start his ascent early to account for the extra mass he carried.
I didn’t bother but kept accelerating, barely over the water when we passed the Hood Yard. By the time I had to start trying for altitude, I had passed under him.
Then I pulled up and quit trying to keep up speed—I just added a strong vertical vector. This had the effect of lifting me like a bullet and sacrificing horizontal speed I needed to dump for the turn anyway.
I peaked just over the required height a scant second behind Sniezek—better than I had feared but not as well as I had hoped. Sniezek turned out, but I had the vertical momentum. I looped back upside down and flew directly toward Fort Sewall. We were neck and neck.
With the advantage of a straight descent, Sniezek began to pull away. I didn’t try to catch up, just kept the gap as small as possible. This leg was short. He didn’t have time to muscle ahead.
As we approached Fort Sewall, Sniezek again had to step outside to make the turn. I had no ascending advantage at this point.
Still, I didn’t slow down. I blew past him. This pylon required a quarter turn west. I counted down the distance and started a hard snap roll to the outside. I timed it perfectly: my head spun past the midpoint and was coming back around towards the pylon as I turned, killing side momentum when I started the turn. I pushed high off the stick to get the most benefit of the roll and felt the g-force pulling at me, slowing down the roll but keeping me in the turn. I came out of the turn rolling upright, dizzy but unbowed, lined up for the next pylon across the town.
I glanced back. Sniezek had not only had to go wide to preserve his speed, without the momentum transfer of the roll, he was forced to slow down and then re-accelerate.
I gained ground until he came back around from the turn, but this was a medium leg followed by the long leg of the course. I lost ground on the straight but regained some on the turns. Now, we were on the home stretch of the first round, getting ready for the reverse. I had another trick up my sleeve.
I shot towards the last pylon, glanced back. Sniezek wasn’t far behind. I jogged to the inside and low to the ground of where I had to run to make the turn. Then, I abruptly goosed the stick into a quick ascent. A vertical 180 twist and now I was flying backwards. I held on to the stick with my legs, spread my arms wide, and stopped flying.
The wind, held back by the bubble, suddenly roared against my back. I held my arms wide as long as I could, feeling the wind slow me down, then grabbed the stick and wrapped the bubble around me. I killed the remaining momentum and accelerated back up to speed going south on the reverse.
Sniezek shot past me, his mouth wide open.
I had a good lead now but I needed to conserve my energy. I was breathing hard and sweating like a pig. Like a sparrow flies, I thought. Pushing for speed and then release, just holding the bubble to cut wind resistance. Just enough to let me catch my breath.
Sniezek caught up with me as we reached Fort Sewall. But I got my lead back on the next two turns.
Now it was straight along the edge of the water, speed against speed. But I’d been resting as much as I could since the reverse and Sniezek had been forced to use up his wind closing on my lead.
I leaned on the stick and pushed.
I was able to hold six feet of lead, but Sniezek was creeping up. Four feet. Three feet.
It wasn’t enough.
I passed the Marblehead Yacht Club pylon with a foot to spare.
Sobbing with breath, I didn’t even try to use anything to slow down. It was all I could do to keep myself above the water as I shot over the Lady’s Cove and curved slowly back to Ocean Ave.
As soon as I was back over land, I eased the bubble. The wind slowed me down and I settled onto the crusty beach, dropped the stick and stood, hands on my knees, barely able to breathe and trying like hell not to throw up.
Sniezek walked up a few seconds later. He waved to me and collapsed on the sand, unable to speak.
Finally, he grabbed a bottle of water from the storage compartment of his stick and weakly tossed it to me. I weakly caught it. He pulled out one for himself.
“That,” he said between deep breaths, “was a damned fine run.”
I nodded, still catching my breath.
“That roll into the turn looked dangerous as hell. But the wind stop—is that even legal?”
I grinned at him and shrugged, speaking between gasps. “I don’t think it’s ever been tried.” I looked around. There were a few people watching from up on the hill but most were down on the piers following the acrobatics. “You be the first. Maybe you’ll get some points.”
“Where did you learn it?”
“Sam Kozak taught me the snap turn when I was sixteen. But I can’t say I learned it then. I spent a week running snap turns over the Missouri River and I fell in more than once. It takes a lot of practice to keep from getting disoriented in the turn. I discovered the wind stop by accident when I lost the bubble and went sailing about forty feet.”
Sniezek watched me for a minute, sipping his water. “Sam was my teacher, too.”
“Until the day he died, I think Sam had a hand in the training of every cop flyer still flying.”
“He must have thought a lot of you, teaching you at sixteen.”
“Yeah,” I said. Maybe he did; maybe he didn’t. He probably wouldn’t now. Had it been seven years? No, eight. I met David in 1994. I met Sam in 1991. Sam died in 1993 .
I stood up and shivered. I hadn’t thought to bring a towel with me and I was dripping with sweat.
“I have a towel you can use. If you want.” He gestured towards his stick but wrinkled his nose.
I laughed. “Thanks but no thanks.”
“Don’t forget I offered.”
I regarded him with something approaching friendliness for the first time. “How come you’re always such a bastard to me? And why not now?”
Sniezek sipped his water and capped the bottle before answering.
“There’s a story, eh? You’re a good flyer, Loquess. Very good. But I never thought you were serious about anything. Even with Sean—especially with Sean. First you were with Sabado. Then, when that went south, you started playing around with Sean.” He put the bottle back in his stick. “I’m a flyer and I’m a good one. More importantly, I’m a cop. My daddy is a cop in Framingham. My granddaddy was a cop over in Poland before he came over here. I’m a cop first and a flyer second. You were always hung up on your men first, then your life, then your flying, and somewhere at the tail end of things came BPD. I can’t trust someone like that. Dooley was your handler, not Sean’s or mine. Because you needed one.”
I was stung. I picked up my stick. “Then, why be nice today?”
Sniezek stretched. Looked around. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s a beautiful day. Maybe because you are such a damned fine flyer. Maybe I’m getting old. Or maybe it’s because you’re really working a case with Dooley and acting like a real cop. For once.”
“Thanks,” I said shortly and mounted my stick.
Sniezek waved at me languidly. “Have fun.”
oOo
I cancelled myself out of the practice area and requested a transit across town. After I was cleared, I heard Sniezek request more time.
Eli’s house was on Essex Street in Salem. The minimum altitude for the non-practice area was six hundred feet from ground or forty feet from the tops of buildings. I followed the waterfront, just off of the water and above the boats. Salem and Gloucester were two places in the world where I didn’t care about being seen. Every witch in the world was on parade this week. I was a needle among needles.
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