"That’s a Russian plane!" Gilligan almost shouted.
"This one’s Polish, actually," Charlie told him. "Design’s Russian though." Mick groaned. "We’re going to fly into a restricted area in a Russian plane." He looked over at Kuznetsov. "Why -didn’t you get us a Mig 29 escort while you’re at it?"
"No Mig 29s in town until air show next week," the Russian deadpanned. "Besides, we cannot get dragon into a Mig 29."
Mick just shook his head and turned away.
"Be reasonable, Mick," Kuznetsov said. "There are not many planes that can carry all this and still land in dirt."
"Reasonable?" Gilligan yelped. "You’re asking me to be reasonable?"
"Ivan’s right," Charlie said cheerfully. "These babies were made for hauling cargo in and out of rough fields. She’ll land on a dime and give you back a nickel’s change."
"Besides, I don’t think we’ve got much choice," Jerry said. "There’s no time to find another plane and we’re probably going to have company faster than that." Gilligan looked at the others and his shoulders slumped. That thing’s got a radar cross-section like a bam door."
Charlie grinned appreciatively but Gilligan just snorted. "What about you?" he asked Charlie. "Are you gonna come all the way?"
"They don’t have airplanes in this place?" Charlie asked.
"No," Jerry told him. "Just dragons."
"Dragons, hell!" He nodded to Moira. "Uh, no offense ma’am but it don’t sound like my kind of place. I’ll just drop you folks off." He took a map from tie leg pocket of his flight suit and unfolded it on the ground, nailing a corner of it with his knee.
"Okay," he said as the others gathered around, "our best shot is to head north to about here." He stabbed a finger down on the map. Then we drop to minimum altitude, pop over that ridge and run straight for the target."
"How fast can they intercept us?" Jerry asked.
"Fast," Kuznetzov put in. "Once they see us, first fighters arrive in three point five minutes."
Gilligan looked at the Russian oddly, but he was oblivious.
"Now the way I figure it," Charlie went on, "we can get to this place with, oh, two-three minutes to spare." He looked at Gilligan and his friends. "But son, this dingus of yours had better work because there’s no way in hell we are gonna get back out."
"How are you going to explain this?"
"Simple. I’ll tell them I was drunk and I did it on a bar bet." He smiled broadly. "No way in hell they won’t believe me. You people were just sightseers who were along for the ride. You didn’t know what I was gonna do until I did it"
"You know you’re going to lose your license over this."
The old man’s grin faded. "Son, I’m gonna have to give it up when I take my physical next month anyway. When this is over I’ll move to Costa Rica or someplace where they don’t have all these pissant rules for pilots." There was also an excellent chance he would go to jail, but Gilligan didn’t mention that.
"Don’t worry, it will work out." He glanced over Gilligan’s shoulder toward the rear of the plane. "As long as that talking lizard isn’t around. I’m a good bullshitter, but I’m not that good."
That’s okay," Jerry told him. "She won’t be there when the cops arrive and neither will we."
"Well, let’s do it people," Charlie said. "I hear sirens and I don’t think they’re fire engines." He looked at Gilligan. "You take the right-hand seat with me. The rest of you get in the back.
That ground isn’t that smooth," Gilligan said as Charlie refolded the map.
"We’re gonna land pretty rough."
"Nahh, don’t worry," Charlie said. They built these things in a tractor factory."
"Actually tank factory," Kuznetzov told him. Tractor factory was cover story." The sirens were getting closer. Jerry looked back toward where the truck was parked.
"Now what?" Kuznetsov demanded.
"I was just thinking. We really should turn the truck back in. Or at least call them to tell them where they can pick it up."
"Jerry."
"Yeah?"
"Shut up and get in the damn plane."
As Jerry scrambled aboard and Vasily slammed the door behind him, Charlie reached down and hit the starter. The big Kuznetsov radial chuffed two or three times as compressed air from the starter tank turned it over. Then one cylinder caught and fired, then two more and then the aircraft was filled with the roar of the engine.
Slowly, the plane turned out of its tie-down spot and started down the taxiway. Charlie used the rudder pedals to wiggle the nose from side to side so he could make sure the way was clear. From instinct Mick swiveled his head to check for possible interference. The older man was talking into his headset, obviously communicating with the tower, but Mick couldn’t make out the words over the engine.
They reached the turn-in and Charlie ran up the engine while standing on the brakes, scanning the gauges as he did so. Satisfied, he backed off on the throttle and turned the plane onto the runway.
"Okay folks, here we go," Charlie bellowed over his shoulder and shoved the throttle forward again. The engine noise rose to a crescendo and the big biplane began to gather speed. Out his side window Mick could see a couple of police cars coming out onto the field with their red and blue lights flashing. If those damn police cars don’t interfere, he thought.
It occurred to Mick, who hadn’t had so much as a parking ticket since he sold his sports car, that he was now involved in about half a dozen felonies. He found it was an odd sensation. He also realized he didn’t much care, not if it got him back to Karin and a place where magic and dragons ruled the skies. The police never had a chance. In what Mick thought was a suicidally short distance, at what he was sure was an insanely low airspeed, Charlie hauled back on the wheel and the plane swooped into the air, hanging on the big prop. Lift and thrust battled drag and gravity and for a stomach-churning instant Mick was sure gravity would win. Then the plane seemed to find itself, steadied, and began to climb like a contented cow on a hilly pasture. Now the only way to stop them was to shoot them down, Mick thought.
Then he remembered that could very easily happen.
SIXTEEN
LORD OF THE FLIES AND THE LORD OF THE FLIERS
It was the flies, Peter Hanborn told himself. I’m being punished for the flies. He was a thin, serious man with intent brown eyes behind heavy spectacles. He was not yet thirty but his increasing baldness made him look ten years older. Just now he felt about a hundred years older.