“Take off,” she told it.
A message flashed in the screen:
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
“Why not?” she asked.
The computer didn’t reply. Breanna rephrased the question, but again got no response. The computer’s verbal command section was more limited than in the late model Megafortresses, and would not attempt to interpret commands it couldn’t understand. This was by design — the environment Ospreys operated in made it possible that an unauthorized person might attempt to take command, so the system had been purposely limited to help ensure that only trained and therefore authorized personnel could control it.
Breanna stared at the control screen, knowing something was wrong but unsure what it could be.
“Prepare for takeoff,” she told the computer.
The message changed.
PREPARED FOR TAKEOFF. ALL SYSTEMS GREEN.
“Take off.”
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
She saw a vehicle approaching from the terminal area. Was the computer worried about running into it?
“Prepare for vertical takeoff.”
PREPARED FOR VERTICAL TAKEOFF. ALL SYSTEMS GREEN.
“Take off.”
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
“Damn it.”
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
“I’ll bet,” she said. She slammed her hand on the side of the console.
Relax, she told herself. Think back to Dreamland. What did we do?
It was too many years.
She remembered one flight vaguely. She’d been working with one of the civilian test pilots. Johnny Rocket was his nickname; his real name was buried somewhere in her unconscious.
Johnny Rocket — frizzy red hair, goofy smile. He was a stickler for very precise preflights. “Plan the flight, fly the plan,” he used to say.
Over and over again. It was annoying.
The flight plan! The computer needed to know where it was going before it would take off.
Breanna opened up the window for the course plan and fed in the proper coordinates, directing the aircraft to fly at top speed in a straight line.
This time it accepted the command to take off. In seconds they were airborne and hustling toward the border with Sudan.
After consulting with his commanding general, the Ethiopian air force lieutenant was ordered to ground the American cargo aircraft until further notice. The Americans had not asked for permission to land, and therefore would have to wait until the proper protocol was worked out.
“And what proper protocol would you like us to follow?” asked Captain Fredrick when the lieutenant explained, with much apology, what his orders were.
“I just need permission,” he said. “These things are decided far over my head.”
Frederick didn’t like the order, but at the moment he had no intention of taking off without Breanna and the Whiplash people. Rather than arguing, he told the lieutenant that he would consult with his superiors.
“Yes, yes, an excellent idea.” The lieutenant turned and waved at the fuel crew, telling them to stop fueling the plane.
“Why are you stopping them?” said Frederick.
“Just until I have permission.”
The C-17 already had plenty of fuel, but Frederick protested for a while longer, somewhat in the manner of a basketball coach working the refs from courtside, figuring to gain an advantage in the future.
And in the meantime, the trucks continued to pour fuel into the jet. By the time Frederick gave in, the tanks were about three pounds from capacity.
“Where did the first aircraft go?” the Ethiopian lieutenant asked.
“The Osprey?”
“Yes.”
“Just testing the systems. It’ll be back in a little while.”
“I don’t know if I can allow that.”
“Maybe you should check with your commander,” said Frederick.
“Yes, yes, good idea.”
As soon as he was gone, Frederick trotted to Osprey Two.
“Better get in the air ASAP,” he told Greasy Hands. “Before Mickey Mouse comes back and tells you that you can’t take off.”
59
Sugar tracked the pickup trucks as they crossed off the road and headed toward the bus. She could see Boston running well off to her right, camouflaged by the smoke. With luck, she thought, he would escape to the hills without her having to fire.
No such luck. Someone in the rear of the lead truck noticed him just as he reached the road. They banged on the roof of the cab, and within seconds the truck and then the motorcycle veered in Boston’s direction.
Sugar started firing as soon as it turned. Her first shots missed low, the slugs burying themselves in the sand about thirty yards in front of the truck. She pushed down on the handle of the gun, bringing the machine-gun barrel up slowly until the stream of bullets sliced into the Toyota’s radiator. The men in the back of the vehicle threw themselves off as the.50 caliber slugs smashed the engine compartment and windshield to pieces, chewing through the vehicle like a pack of crocodiles going after an antelope at the edge of the river.
Sugar swung the gun left, taking out the motorcycle. Then she turned to aim at a second truck that had started to follow the first. But the driver had seen what was happening and jammed on the brakes. As he nose-dived to a stop, he jumped from the cab and got behind the truck for cover. The men in the back did as well — except for the machine-gun operator and his assistant, who began firing in earnest at Sugar.
The ground shook with the thick stutter of their Russian-made heavy machine gun. It was ancient but dependable; its ancestors had backed swarms of troops in suicide attacks against the Germans north of Moscow in the dead of winter. Sugar put a dozen rounds into the truck’s side and the sandbags protecting the gunners, then had to duck as the enemy weapon found its range, splintering the rocks she was hiding behind. Before she could get back up, one of the mercenaries manned the machine gun in the back of the first truck and began firing as well. All Sugar could do was hunker down and wait for the firestorm to let up.
Boston managed to reach an outcropping of rocks at the base of the hill before anyone remembered him. He ducked behind them to catch his breath and plot his next move. Daily PT may have kept him in decent shape, but it was no substitute for the decade or so that had passed since he’d last done something like this.
His rifle was with Sugar and Abul up in the rocks; the only gun he had with him was his Beretta sidearm. He’d never been a particularly good shot with a pistol, and at this range the weapon was practically useless. His only option was to circle back to Sugar and Abul around the sheltered side of the hill. The only way to get there, however, was to leave the outcropping and run across an exposed rise for about thirty yards.
The distance didn’t seem like all that much until one of the machine gunners spotted him and bullets began cascading around the rocks. By that time Boston was about halfway to cover and committed to moving forward. He pushed up like a sprinter, head low, legs pumping. As he reached the rocks again, he threw his arms out, diving head first into the small depression, curling his body into a ball as the fusillade intensified.
He didn’t just taste dirt in his mouth. He tasted the metal scent of the air, roiled by the passing bullets, the fury of the battle permeating everything.
On the other side of the fence, the Ethiopians crouched in a holding pattern, baffled and confused by what was going on. From their point of view, it seemed as if the bus and the trucks were part of the same unit, probably a rebel group trying to crash the border as they fled Sudanese army regulars. They concluded that the force in the hills was an advance group of regulars, assigned to ambush the rebels and hold them back until the main unit arrived.