Empire & Ecolitan (22 page)

“S
PECIAL
O
PERATIVE
W
RIGHT
,” announced the black-haired man as he leaned over the console. “You have a bird for me.”

“Wright?” asked the technician.

“That's right,” responded Jimjoy evenly. “For a recon run at 1400. Code delta three.”

“Oh…Major Wright. Yes, sir. That will be Gauntlet one, on the beta line. Sign-off and tech clearance are at the line console central.” The woman looked away, as if she had completed an unpleasant task.

“Beta line?” asked the Major. “Could you point the way?”

“Sir. Take the corridor outside until it branches. Take the left fork. That serves the beta flitter line. The maintenance section is the second or third portal on the right after the fork, depending on whether you count the emergency exit as a portal.”

The words rattled from her mouth with the ease and lack of enthusiasm created by frequent repetition.

“Thank you, technician.” He turned and headed for the portal through which he had just entered, but not without glancing back to catch the fingers flicking over the console before her, as if to send a message.

He looked back again, just before the portal closed, but the technician had not looked up from her console.

Once through the portal, he surveyed the corridor, empty except for two technicians wheeling an equipment cart toward one of the flight lines and a junior pilot who trudged unseeing toward Jimjoy, the vacant look of too many hours at the controls overshadowing any other expression on the young woman's face.

“Afternoon, Major,” the Lieutenant said mechanically, as she drew abreast of him.

“Afternoon, Lieutenant,” the Special Operative replied politely as he turned toward the flight lines, swinging the small pack in his left hand.

Jimjoy had no illusions about eluding the persistent Technical Specialist Herrol, who would doubtless appear within moments, if he were not already waiting at the flitter. Jimjoy had not told him about the flight, but Herrol would know, and would be waiting or on his way.

At the proper fork in the corridor the Major in the camouflage flight suit stopped, as if to ponder which direction to take. He wondered what would happen if he wandered down the alpha line side.

Nothing—except he would eventually be directed back to the specified flitter on the beta line, a flitter doubtless snooped and/or gimmicked to the hilt.

Shrugging, he resumed his progress down the three-meter-wide corridor of quickspray plastic and unshielded glow tubes. At the third portal he stopped, then stepped through the opening and into the maintenance line area.

“Major Wright,” he announced. “Gauntlet one ready for me?”

The technician beside the console jumped, but the black woman at the board merely looked up slowly.

“Yes, sir,” replied the seated tech. She gestured toward the empty seat in front of a second console. “Plug in your particulars, and she's yours. Second one back once you're on the line.”

Jimjoy wondered about the guilty-looking jump by the thin technician, but said nothing as he studied the small squarish room. Three consoles, two vacant, filled the center of the space. The walls to his left and right were nothing more than arrayed equipment lockers, but whether there were plastform partitions behind the lockers he could not see. Directly behind the consoles was another portal, presumably leading outside to the line where the base flitters squatted between missions.

The Special Operative glanced back to the chief technician, who had leaned forward in her swivel, but otherwise made no move to stand up. The other technician, who still wore a faintly guilty look, at least to Jimjoy's relatively experienced eye, had backed away, as if waiting for the Major to take a seat before bolting the maintenance line area.

“Appreciate your consideration, technician.” He spaced the words evenly, fixing the chief technician with a steady glance that was not quite an order.

“Not at all, sir.” But she stood up as he continued to study her, and her brown eyes finally flickered and dropped toward the plastone flooring.

“I do appreciate your working this flight in,” he said more softly as he slid into the armless swivel in front of the console and began to enter his own identification, the mission code, the expected times of departure and return.

The screen cleared and brought up the maintenance records for his inspection. Jimjoy frowned as he studied them. Given the time since the flitter's last overhaul, there should have been more equipment failures, a longer history of technical and mechanical problems, and more comments by pilots.

The lack of documentation meant either lax maintenance, a light flying schedule, or something prearranged about the flitter.

As the thin technician finally made her hasty exit, Jimjoy caught the relieved look on her face as she edged out through the portal.

The chief technician had not reseated herself, but slowly paced around the area as Jimjoy studied the records.

Finally he stood. “Authenticated.” He looked toward the remaining tech. “Second one back?” He picked up the small pack again.

“That's right, Major.”

“Thank you.” He nodded and stepped through the portal.

Outside, although the high clouds blocked any direct sunlight, the humid air seeped through his flight suit like heavy steam. Heat radiated upward from the plastarmac, and the olive-drab flitter squatted like an oversized insect waiting for its prey.

Jimjoy concentrated on the flitter as he approached, noting with amusement the carefully polished fuselage. The only way to conceal work on a flitter was to clean it thoroughly, which, he reflected with a twist to his lips, revealed that some work had been done.

The best way to conceal alterations would have been to assign him a bird straight out of the maintenance cycle, but that hadn't been done. No maintenance officer or senior tech would have allowed it. Which left an even more ominous implication.

He climbed up the handholds and triggered the pilot's side-door release. The puff of air that swept past him was warmer than the steamy atmosphere on the flitter line, but not much. After setting his equipment bag and all it contained on the seat, he descended to begin the preflight, wondering how long it would be before the ubiquitous Herrol arrived on the scene.

Rather than begin in the approved order, Jimjoy started by checking the turbines. Though the intakes showed signs of heavy abrasion, the turbine blades and casings were clean and spotless. Jimjoy filed the information for future reference as he continued his checks.

Nothing ostensible showed in the power system, but in several instances sections seemed far cleaner than normal or necessary. As he checked the connections on the tail thruster/stabilizer, he heard the hissing of the portal from the maintenance line. Jimjoy continued his preflight.

“Afternoon, Major,” offered Herrol.

“Afternoon, Herrol. Ready for a recon run along the hills?”

“Been ready for a while, sir.”

“Put your gear in the bird. Almost done with the preflight.”

“Mind if I watch?”

“Suit yourself. Not very exciting.”

Jimjoy continued the methodical checking, nodding occasionally as he went.

The skid linchpins were new. The cargo bay doors both worked, and showed signs of having recently been repaired.

At that, the Major did shake his head. He couldn't remember the last time he'd flown a beta-class flitter with fully operable crew doors. Most of the pilots ignored the door status, although a pilot could theoretically refuse to fly if the doors weren't fully operational. The only time anyone had bothered about that technicality was when the mission was a medevac or transporting brass or high-ranking civilian Impies.

“Everything looks good, Herrol. Let's strap in.”

“You're done?”

“Finished a lot before you got here.”

“Yes, sir.” Herrol's flat voice was the single indication of possible displeasure with Jimjoy's failure to inform him about the flight.

Jimjoy ignored the tone. He had deliberately provided Herrol with no notice. The lack of advance information had slowed his assigned shadow only briefly, as had been the case all along. Jimjoy had ignored the “technical specialist” as much as possible, but invariably Herrol popped up, always unfailingly polite, usually apologizing for his tardiness, but never overtly alluding to Jimjoy's attempts to keep him scrambling.

Before Jimjoy slid into the pilot's seat and snapped the safety harness in place, he tucked the equipment bag and its contents into the mini-locker under his seat.

Herrol's eyes darted to the bag quizzically, but he said nothing, and Jimjoy volunteered no explanation. The Major hoped he would not need the contents, but suspected that he would later, if not immediately.

The Special Operative began running through the checklist, answering himself as he did.

“Harnesses…cinched…

“Aux power…connected…

“Generator shunts…in place…”

Herrol watched intently but continued to maintain his silence as Jimjoy readied the flitter for light-off and flight.

“Starboard turbine…ignition…

“Port turbine…ignition…

“EGTs…in the green and steady…”

His fingers flicked across the board with the precision that had come from long practice. After clearing his throat, he keyed the transmitter.

“PriOps, this is Gauntlet one. Ready for lift and departure.”

“Gauntlet one. Understand ready for lift-off.”

“Affirmative. Recon plan filed. Estimate duration one plus five.”

“Stet, one. Cleared to strip yellow. Cleared to strip yellow.”

“Gauntlet one lifting for strip yellow.”

Thwop…thwop, thwop, thwop
…

The regular beat of the rotors increased as Jimjoy added power, and the flitter lifted from the plastarmac and began to air-taxi westward toward the designated takeoff strip. The one farthest from the main flight-line structures, Jimjoy noted humorlessly.

“PriOps, Gauntlet one. On station, strip yellow. Ready for lift-off and departure.”

“Gauntlet one, cleared for lift-off. Interrogative status.”

“PriOps, this is Gauntlet one. Lifting this time. Status is green. Fuel five plus. Departing red west.”

“Cleared for departure red west.”

Thwop, thwop, thwop…thwop, thwop, thwop
…

The flitter shivered as the beat of the rotors stepped up, and as Jimjoy lowered the nose fractionally. As the aircraft gained speed, he eased the nose back and established a steady rate of climb.

From the corner of his eye, Jimjoy noted how Herrol's right hand stayed close to the emergency capsule ejection lever.

All the power indicators and engine readouts remained in the green.

“PriOps, this is Gauntlet one. Level at five hundred, course two nine zero.”

“Stet, one. Understand level at five hundred, course two nine zero.”

“That's affirmative. Out.”

Beneath, the even green of the synde bean fields stretched for kays in every direction visible for the canopy. Had he looked back, Jimjoy would have seen the Impie base as an island of grayed plastic amid the seemingly endless fields.

New Missou itself was a good hundred kays south of the base, and its low structures were invisible at an altitude of less than around three thousand meters.

What else besides agricultural vistas could you expect on an agricultural planet modified to supply the Imperial fleet?

Scarcely the place for a Special Operative, but here he was, with his deadly shadow seated beside him.

The EGT flickered as Jimjoy eased the nose back momentarily to begin the rotor retraction sequence. As soon as the blades were folded back, he dropped the nose again and began to twist on additional power with both port and starboard thrusters, letting the airspeed build, rather than stopping at a normal cruise.

He was gambling that whatever surprises had been planned for him were based on timing, not on fuel consumption or speed, and he needed to be as close to the badlands as possible as soon as possible.

“Really burning up to get there, aren't you, Major?”

“The sooner the better,” replied Jimjoy, half surprised at Herrol's observation. “Plenty of fuel. No reason not to use it.”

“You're the pilot. Let me know if you want me to point out any of the key landmarks.”

“Stet,” replied Jimjoy evenly.

The EGTs remained steady, as did the fuel flows and the airspeed.

“Gauntlet one, this is PriOps. Plot indicates position ahead of flight plan. Interrogative position. Interrogative position.”

The pilot smiled tightly. Didn't anyone realize they were tipping their hand? Or did it mean they didn't care?

He scanned the navigation readouts, compared them with the visual representation screen and the view outside.

“PriOps, this is Gauntlet one. Position is delta one five at omega three. Delta one five at omega three.”

“One, PriOps. Understand position is delta one five at omega three.”

“That is affirmative.”

Not exactly, thought Jimjoy to himself. He had reported a position slightly behind the flitter's current position. He would have liked to fudge more, but Herrol's presence in the cockpit made any wild misstatement of location out of the question, at least until Herrol's position became clearer.

“Gauntlet one, say again position. Say again position.”

“Stet, PriOps. Current position is delta one seven at omega four. Delta one seven at omega four.”

Herrol was leaning forward, as if to take a greater interest in the series of transmissions. The technical specialist's eyes ranged over the position plots, as if to compare what he had heard with the flitter's position on the small screen.

“PriOps, this is Gauntlet one. Interrogative difficulty with base track?”

“One, that's negative. Negative this time.”