Farley heard a motor start up inside the Morgana. He recognized the steady chug of the auxiliary generator. He wondered if Wen were trying to start the engines, but then the bomb bay doors whined down.
The waist-gun firing resumed in short bursts just as the girl dropped from the front hatch and darted to a cover position behind the right wheel. She fired on the rear transports while the waist gun covered her against the new arrival away to her right. She was efficient as hell, and smart: Fire, duck back, sight from a different angle, fire again, all without predictable rhythm.
She brought up a fist and yanked it down like a semi-truck driver blowing his horn, and Martin jumped down from the bomb bay. He turned back and reached up and Francis was lowered into his arms.
What the hell was that Indian thinking? Farley was about to yell for Martin to take the dogtags and leave the body, but then the ravaged sky went bright. A bluewhite arc of burning flare descended, wavering shadows as it floated down.
Farley saw two soldiers setting up some kind of apparatus behind the third transport. Maybe the bomber didn’t have a line on them, but Farley sure as hell did. He pointed them out to Broben and both men aimed and fired, the twin pops overlapping. The two soldiers sat down hard and looked at themselves and then resumed their work.
“Stay dead, you son of a bitch,” said Broben, and fired again. Either he missed or the shot had no effect.
The machine-gun fire from the waist port cut off abruptly as Wen jumped down and ran toward Plavitz and Martin struggling with Francis, waving Martin on as he came. Martin shrugged out from under Francis’ limp arm and sprinted for the rocks when Wen took over, and only then did Farley understand that Francis was still alive.
Then a thin thread of red light ran straight as a ruler from the apparatus the two troops had assembled to the rock where Farley and Broben knelt. Farley frowned and Broben cocked his head at the pure red beam that swirled with dust motes.
Farley heard a hollow whunk. He turned and yelled, “Mortar! Mortar! Down down down!”
The ground erupted in front of his boulder. Even with the mass of stone before him Farley was thrown back. As he fell he saw another glowing red line leading from the number-two transport to the slope where Garrett and Everett lay prone with their machine gun. He heard another, more distant whunk. Garrett and Everett were already sliding down the scree with the .30-cal. Three seconds later their former firing position exploded. Rock shrapnel whistled off in all directions.
The girl stood up from behind the bomber’s wheel and ran back toward the rocks, firing as she came. Beyond her Farley saw helmeted figures advancing. He glanced right. The troops from the third transport were taking advantage of their vehicle’s cover to pin down Farley’s men while the other troops went after the bomber.
The crewmen were out of the Morgana and now the girl looked imploringly at Farley.
Farley nodded at her. “Blow it!” he yelled. “Wen, light it up!”
Wen and Plavitz still struggled with Francis. Wen looked pained and let go of the wounded tail gunner, and Plavitz took up the slack. The smaller of their new friends in black jumped out from behind the cover of his boulder and ran to Plavitz and got a shoulder under Francis’ free arm.
Wen turned back to the bomber and pulled the flare pistol from his waistband. He aimed it at the bomber. Farley heard another high-pitched whine. Wen held position and didn’t fire. Farley was about to yell for him to shoot when Wen toppled over like a statue, still holding the flare gun out and not moving a bit to soften the impact as he hit the hard ground with a sickening thud like a ballbat hitting a watermelon.
Plavitz and the small man reached the rocks with Francis. The girl stood by them returning enemy fire. More black-clad figures ran to fortify the ones already taking up positions against the bomber crew. Another electric whine and click sounded nearby, and one of the approaching soldiers keeled over the way Wen had.
Farley was about to go after the flare pistol when someone gripped his arm. He looked down at Broben and Broben slowly shook his head. “We’re in over our head here, Joe.”
Farley’s face went tight. He looked at Garrett and Everett, pinned down in a new position where they’d set up the Browning. At Shorty reloading his pistol behind his rock. At the girl returning fire while at her feet the small man pressed Francis’ chest where bandages showed spreading dark as Martin jabbed a morphine syrette into Francis’ thigh and squeezed. At Wen lying in the open with the flare gun in his hand. At the helmeted figures now climbing up the bomb bay into his aircraft. His aircraft, god damn it.
“Shoot it,” Farley whispered. He cupped his hands by his mouth and shouted. “Shoot the bomber! Light it up!”
The Browning immediately chattered. The huge rounds slammed home and the bomber shuddered from the impact. But it did not burn.
“Jesus,” Farley said, “what do you have to do.”
“Never thought we’d complain about it,” said Broben.
Farley tried to think about what else they could do but there was nothing they could do. All around him handguns popped and the machine gun jackhammered and those Buck Rogers guns buzzed like high-tension wires. Red threads from the troop transports incised the darkness. The girl was looking at him. The face painted on his Flying Fortress.
He made the call. “Move out!” he yelled. “Move out!”
Broben turned his back to the bomber. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he said, and ran in a crouch, keeping the boulder in line with the first two transports.
Farley gave his Flying Fortress one last look. Raked, defiant, powerful, beautiful, dangerous, and wholly seized. He looked at the flying woman painted on the nose, pointing the way out. Then he turned and ran the other way.
ELEVEN
They ran doubletime for a solid hour, keeping to the shadows by the western canyon wall, before they stopped to rest. One of their four new friends immediately took up tail-end charlie position while the others checked their gear and tended to Francis.
The wounded tail gunner was bad off. Shrapnel had flayed the left side of his head and upper left chest. He’d lost an eye and a lot of blood. His breathing was labored and Farley was sure his left lung had collapsed. Apparently one of their new friends was sure, too, because the first time they stopped to catch their breath he fixed a needle to a tiny hypo, threw away the plunger, and jabbed it into Francis’ chest. Farley heard air hiss into the needle and Francis immediately breathed easier. His respiration was shallow and he was in and out of consciousness. The morphine probably helped, but the man treating Francis didn’t seem happy that they’d juiced him.
The medic, whose name was Sten, said he thought his people might be able to save Francis if they could get him back in time. It would mean running all night and stopping only long enough to catch their breath and quickly eat. Farley was all for it if it gave Francis a fighting chance, but it was also hugely frustrating. He had a thousand questions and no opportunity to ask them. For now he had to bottle it up and keep an eye on his crew and the four strangers and the terrain.
As Farley ran, a part of his mind that was purely Walter and Amanda’s boy Joseph needled the rest of him like a playground bully. You lost Wen to enemy fire, it whispered. You’ll probably lose Francis. An hour ago you lost your second bomber in as many missions. You know how long you were at her controls? A whopping four, count ’em, four measly hours.