Farley’s lips pressed tight. Son of a bitch.
“Combustible liquid fuel powers four reciprocating engines turning propellers for motive power at subsonic speed. Maneuverability and range projections indicate a strategic heavy attack aircraft and not a fighter. But there’s this.” Grobe dragged his finger along the panel in the opposite direction until the view on the table looked down a jagged length of canyon fissure. The cliff walls looked as solid as the little Redoubt had.
A speck entered the dusky air of the canyon diorama. Grobe dragged a finger up the edge of his panel and the scale enlarged until the speck resolved as an approaching B-17. Even though it was only a few inches long, it was easy to see that the bomber was bad off—shot to shit; right rear stabilizer askew; only one engine running, and the props not feathered on Two, Three, and Four; one wheel down and one still lowering.
Tiny tracer rounds streaked from the right-side gun port. The bomber banked right—and Farley got his first good look at the thing that had fought them through the canyon and annihilated the troop carrier that had pursued them on the valley floor. It appeared at the top of the diorama angling sharply down, and it streaked by the angled bomber from above and behind, firing some kind of weapon that hung beneath one wing. It was bigger than the Flying Fortress, though clearly lighter, and it flew like a bird and fought like a Focke-Wulf 190. More rounds streaked toward it from the B-17. The thing shot ahead of the bomber and arced up with a suddenness that would have torn a wing off any fighter plane. It spread sail-like membrane wings and snap-rolled right and out of the scene.
Garrett and Wen had argued about whether the thing had been a creature or a machine. What Farley had just seen was both.
He realized he was holding his breath. He let it out.
Grobe tapped the table again and the image froze. “The video shows the aircraft firing what appears to be a combination of targeting, incendiary, and kinetic ammunition at eight rounds per second,” he said, “with a muzzle velocity of eight hundred meters per second.”
“Enough to drive off the Typhon and destroy two armored personnel carriers,” said Vanden, looking at Farley.
Farley made his face a mask and stared back.
Vanden turned to Wennda. “You said they used these directly against Redoubt troops.”
She nodded. “From the aircraft and from a less powerful firearm they moved to a sheltered emplacement.”
“It went through their armor?”
She glanced at Farley. “They might as well have been naked,” she said.
Vanden stared at the bristling metal war machine suspended above the table. “They still use the same armor we do?”
“Networked carbon filament mesh,” said Grobe. He hesitated. “I should mention that Captain Farley’s crew brought one of the mounted weapons here with them,” he said. “In addition to personal firearms.”
Vanden glanced at Wennda. This time she met his gaze unblinkingly.
Farley leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “What is your interest in my aircraft?” he asked.
Vanden raised an eyebrow—the most expression he’d shown since he came into the room. “Your aircraft defeated the Typhon,” he said.
“You call that a defeat?” said Farley.
“You weren’t killed.”
“I think I have a different definition of victory.”
“No one has ever gone against the Typhon and survived,” said Vanden.
“You should see what we do to Messerschmitts.”
Vanden regarded Farley blankly. He laced his fingers and pressed his palms tightly together. “Based on the reports from Wennda and her … accomplices … and based on your actions against the Redoubt troops, I have to concede that her theory that you’ve come here from somewhere else may have merit.”
Farley rubbed his face with both hands. He didn’t know how much longer he could stay awake. He felt worn so thin you could probably shine a candle through him. “Well, I guess that’s a relief,” he said.
“Why would that be?”
“Because we don’t want to be here any more than you want us here. Maybe we did fly through some big hole in the sky, but we sure as hell didn’t mean to. We just want to get our ship back and go home.”
“And you think it will be that simple.”
“I think the goal is. I couldn’t tell you about achieving it.”
“And that’s your objective. To go back to where you came from.”
Farley shrugged. “What else?” he asked, more testily than he’d intended. “You all seem like very nice people, and I’m grateful for your help, but we didn’t mean to come here.”
Vanden tapped the tabletop and the miniature Morgana reappeared between them. He turned his hand and spread his fingers, and the bomber rotated and enlarged and rotated until the nose art hovered in the air. “Then please explain to me,” said Vanden, “how you didn’t mean to come here in an aircraft with a picture of my daughter on it.”
“Your—” Farley looked from the coldly furious commander to Wennda, who shrugged helplessly.
FOURTEEN
Farley opened his eyes and blinked up at a paneled ceiling. The light directly above him was out. Voices murmured in conversation but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
He smelled coffee. He sat up.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Broben sat with Yone at a small table that hadn’t been there earlier. Jerry was smoking a Lucky, and both men were drinking coffee. Jerry lifted his cup at Farley. “Still hot,” he said. “I ate the last doughnut, though.”
“Shit. If this place ever heard of a doughnut, I’ll eat my hat.” Farley saw that he had slept curled against a wall with his flight jacket rolled up for a pillow. He got to his feet and went to the table and sat down heavily in a folding chair. The table seemed to have emerged from the wall like a retractable counter supported on two thin folding legs. Farley pushed on it. It didn’t feel as rickety as it looked.
Yone poured coffee from a plastic pitcher with a screw-on cap and held the cup out to him. Farley accepted it with a grateful nod. The stackable plastic cup was thin but did not get hot in his hands. He held it beneath his nose and inhaled. He felt the coffee lighting up his veins before he even took a sip. “That’s the stuff, all right,” he said.
He set the cup down and Jerry lit a cigarette off of his and handed it over. Farley saluted with it. He closed his eyes and dragged. Coffee and a smoke. Hell, he was practically back home.
He ran a hand over his stubble, then opened his eyes and frowned at Broben. “How the hell did you shave?” he asked.
“Razor in the survival kit. No soap, though.” Broben rubbed a cheek. “My face feels like a peeled potato.”
“You should see it from this side.” Farley blew smoke up at the ceiling, enjoying the return of the nicotine rush. He glanced around the barracks. “So they brought us some furniture?” he asked.
Broben shook his head. “It was here the whole time. Show him, Yone.”
Yone smiled his quick on-off smile and stood up. He went to the wall and pulled out what Farley at first took for a tall, narrow drawer. Except that the drawer kept pulling out, to reveal a kind of cross-section of a staircase. The hollows beneath the steps were storage units. Yone went up the steps and pressed on the wall, then slid a section of it aside to reveal a recessed bunk. “There are eight bunks in this unit,” he said. He went to the opposite wall and folded down a section and pulled it out to reveal a boxy sofa. “Two couches.” He folded it back and pulled out another drawer that had a flat top. Perfectly fitted beneath it were two tall chairs. More shelving and more storage was tucked away in other recesses.