“Hey, where’s the ammo?” Everett called. He was scowling at the .50-caliber Browning on its swivel mount in the right-side window.
“I’m working on that,” said Wen.
“Well, what the hell are we supposed to shoot with?”
“You got the .30 and a bunch of pistols. Improvise.” Wen hurried after Broben.
Broben climbed into the pilot seat. It felt like years since he’d been in the cockpit. It felt like hours. He frowned at the controls as Wen climbed up to the pit behind him. The C-1 autopilot box below the throttle was gone. In its place was a white box the size of a cigarette pack, with a single button on one side.
He glanced out the window at the box truck heading their way. It was a lot closer than he wanted it to be. “How long before I can start her up?” he asked Wen.
Wen pressed a button on the white box and a light glowed green. “You can start her now.”
Broben looked up at him in disbelief. “We can go,” he said.
“Whenever you want.”
“I want now.”
“All right, then. I’ll be up top.” Wen dropped down.
Broben looked at the oncoming truck. It couldn’t be a minute away. He glanced at the battery and inverter switches and verified that they were on even though he could hear their faint hum. The volt meter hovered around twenty-five. He engaged the hydraulic pumps and heard them whine. When they cut off he opened the fuel shutoff valves and engaged the booster pumps, then slid the red bar of the master switch to on and flicked the ignition switches for Engines One through Four. He glanced out windows and saw that Wen had left the cowl flaps shut to warm the engines faster.
The milk truck was driving on the open staging area now and moving much faster.
Mixture-cutoff levers to Full Rich, throttle to ten percent, parking brake and tail wheel lock engaged. Prop RPM high, magneto switch One & Two on.
He hit the Number One engine starter switch for ten seconds, then flicked mesh. The engine caught right away. No bronchial wheezing, just the sudden deep cough of start. Broben glanced left and saw the prop spinning up. No smoke had coughed from the engine. The cabin vibrated gently and Broben smelled high-octane fuel. The fuel-pressure gauge began to climb.
The milk truck was two hundred yards away now. Broben slipped on his headset and switched on the interphone. “Pilot to crew,” he said. “Skip the check-in, we’re raising anchor. Bombardier, close the bomb bay doors.”
“Close doors, roger,” Boney said immediately.
Broben heard the whine from back in the fuselage as the doors began to close. He hit the Number Two starter switch, then hit mesh. Number Two started up like butter.
He remembered the belly turret guns pointing down into the floor divot. “Belly gunner, level the turret,” he ordered.
“Belly gunner, I’m already leveled.”
Fifty feet from the Morgana the transport cut left and stopped.
“Waist gunner here,” said Garrett right away, “I’m taking the .30 up front.”
Number Three started up without a hitch. Instead of the usual guttural roar and shaking there was a rich bass thrum and a steady vibration.
Broben started Number Four and motion caught his eye. A panel had opened on the roof of the truck and something shaped like a sideways bowl was rising up on a pole.
“Shoot it,” Broben ordered. “Shoot whatever the hell that is.”
“Thirty’s not in the gun port yet,” Boney said calmly.
The bowl swiveled toward the bomber and a keening whine began to rise, like a turbine spinning up. It reminded Broben of those nerve guns. The economy-size version.
Broben glanced at the closed main door across the staging area and looked at the throttle. God damn it. “Wen, I can’t drive through that friggin door,” he said. “How do we get out of this shithole?”
A quick burst of automatic gunfire came from up front, and rounds sparked off the bowl antenna poking out of the milk truck.
“Screw this,” Broben muttered. He was reaching for the throttle when the bomber rang like a bell and the gunfire cut off. His vision went blurry and his eyes wouldn’t move. His head wouldn’t turn. His mouth felt shot with Novocaine and his ears rang. He couldn’t talk. All his muscles went rigid. His face, his scalp, his toes. The cockpit went liquid and wavy. Lights smeared. The breath locked in his chest. Black fog skirted the edges of his vision. His thoughts were mud. The cockpit darkened and he felt a sense of pressure. Sinking to the bottom. Red flashes now. A white burst of adrenaline. Lungs on fire. Oh please I want to breathe please let this wear off so I can—
His muscles let go a notch. He pushed air out his throat, the tight hiss of it like a slow leak in a tire.
“Belly gunner here.” In his headset Martin’s voice came from far away. “I think we’re hit. I’m fine. Maybe because I’m in the ball? That truck just popped open. They’re getting out on both sides. Maybe ten troops. Does anybody have a shot? Anybody? Over.”
Breathe in. It’s like sucking air through a wet paper straw, but you can do it. You have to do it.
“Anybody read me?” said Martin’s distant voice. “They’re going for the main hatch. Ten men with zap guns and armor. They’re right in front of me. God damn it. I’d have ’em all if I had a yard of ammo. Can anybody take these guys? Over?”
Broben moved his fingers. The control panel swam into view. He could hear the props idling. He tried to release the brake.
“They’re at the main hatch,” Martin said. “I’ve got my sidearm, can someone get me out, over?”
Dimly Broben heard the hydraulics as the ball turret rotated.
“Main hatch is open. Main is open.”
Broben released the parking brake and got a hand on the throttle.
“They’re coming in. They’re inside, they’re in the bomber. Some still on the ground. They see me. I’ll try to—”
The voice cut off.
“God damn you,” Broben tried to yell. And couldn’t.
Heavy footsteps on the deck behind him now. Accented voices. He tried to reach his pistol and felt hard hands on his shoulders.
Close. We were so close.
THIRTY-THREE
The gently curving hub corridor had white walls, white ceiling, white floor. Pale gray rectangles evenly spaced along the right-hand side seemed to float in a universe bleached of detail. Farley thought they had to be doors, but there were no knobs, hinges, keyholes, card slots, hand panels, or anything he associated with the idea of door.
Then they found one that had not shut flush. Farley hooked his fingers around the exposed edge and pulled.
“If these were sealed airtight, they might have been built to keep germs out,” Wennda pointed out. “Or to keep germs from getting out.”
Farley let go the door and stepped back. “Germ warfare?” he asked, scowling at the door.
“Why not? They built every other weapon they could.”
Farley indicated the white corridor. “So a hundred doors around this thing and we shouldn’t open any of them?” He banged the off-plumb door. “We have to get out of here somehow.”
From the wall came a loud ratcheting like a missed gear.
Farley jumped back, one hand sweeping back to protect Wennda as the door grated open. The three of them stared at the entryway. Then Farley shrugged. “Hell with it,” he said, and went in.
Wennda wanted to stop him but couldn’t think why. She was having a hard time focusing.