Broken Wing: A million deaths were not enough for Cassandra!

by Konig, Artor

  The airport was swamped in fog, the locust-like shapes of the choppers dripping with dew as they loomed out of the mist. The sleek sedan purred quietly up to Edward’s craft, dwarfed by the three-bladed hulk. We spoke quietly to the mechanics who had serviced and fuelled the chopper. The mist seemed to demand that much respect, though it hadn’t the power to inhibit flight. Edward strapped my case behind his seat while I went over the pre-flight checklist automatically. My hands were reaching for the switches, ready with the activation sequence at my fingertips when Edward stopped me.

  “I’ll fly, Cassandra; It’s a long and obscure route. Anyway, I’d like to fly you there.” His eyes were steady on mine, almost a plea. He had accepted that I was the better pilot but he wanted to do me at least one last service; or thus I interpreted the gesture.

  I nodded silently, turning my attention first to my straps then to the cold and mist beyond the windscreen, which the heavy, curved glass could not hold at bay. The twin engines fired in succession, the whine of the turbines and the heavy vibration changing pitch. The rotors drifted above me, gradually picking up speed, slicing through the drizzle and fog.

  Edward flicked on the radio and the signal range-finder, had a thorough look at the dials and digitals, one hand on his lap, the other on the pitch stick. He opened the throttle gently, his sure movements uninhibited by the grey all around us. I watched as he reached up for the headphones, his mouth moving but no words apparently issuing therefrom. I reached down my pair of headphones, shielding my ears from the roar of the twin turbines. The rotors were no longer visible and the craft felt suddenly light.

  “Fox four-five to gee-see-air; permission to take off on vector seven-oh-four do you read?” His voice sounded detached and unemotional as he took the joystick gently, easing it forwards. The craft was already off the ground, the nose twitching in response to his feet on the pedals. The rudder, controlling the anti-torque rotors, was the most difficult aspect of controlling a chopper in a hover; Edward was competent with his feet but he did not have that fluidity of response that differentiated the ‘Dancers’ or master-class pilots from the common run. I watched his flying noncommittally, aloofly. I was feeling cut off, detached, as if I was already hundreds of miles away from home, from my father, Edward, all of them.

  “Gee-see-air to fox-four-five, you are cleared on seven-oh-four. Visibility poor to five-thousand, strong tail winds from ess-ess-eee, forty-two knots on polar maritime affecting local winds, your tail is at sixteen knots variable. Keep to the secondary level between six and seven thousand, do you read?” The voice was flat, emotionless, the delivery Spartan but clear. Edward eased the throttle out slightly more. “Roger wilco. Off.” He replied as the big craft surged into the air.

  Even at a thousand feet the air was unstable, buffeted by winds that cared nothing for any compass. The craft climbed steadily in a wide spiral through the drizzle and sleet. Ice rimed onto the windscreen then flashed away in the wet and the forceful power of the downdraught. Edward set a compass course to the north of north-west with the craft at three-thousand feet and still climbing steadily. There was nothing to be seen in that seething, grey pall; the craft could have been static for all its dynamic effort.

  The craft was almost alive, its breath the hot roar of the jets, its mind the flashing radiations from the digitals and the dancing dials. Its eyes were the radar and the radio-range-finder, pulsing out data and a vague, green ground clearance display. The craft was kicking to the right, buffeted by the strong tail winds. Up above our heads the grey pall was thinning, turning to silver before the vivid azure of the autumn sky presented itself to us. Below us the silver carpet was spread, above us the depthless blue, the sun white and fierce on the instruments. I looked beneath the dash, between my feet, seeing the wisps of cloud whipping past between the anti-torque pedals. The craft levelled out at six-one-fifty feet, its tail settling down as Edward familiarised himself with the tailwind. The flash of the rotors in the sunlight was mesmeric but I paid it no heed.

  The higher peaks poked up here and there through the fog, their crowns brown or purple in the distance, dulling to a grey-green as we passed. It did not take long before we were out of the fog area, leaving the rolling fells exposed beneath. I watched the passage of the land under the craft, the snaky lengths of macadam, silvery streams, green hedges bordering roads and fields. Traffic was heavy on the roads, people on their way to work, busily doing whatever they were supposed to be doing, maybe noticing this noisy little locust cutting through their skies, maybe not. We passed to one side of a smoggy grey blot, seething with movement and a somehow sickly vitality; the cars on the city street oblivious to anything beyond their round. I felt even more detached, freed of those solemn cares, those tiny, niggling little worries about work and love and make-up and who was going to replace the light-bulbs now I was away from home. The release should have brought a sense of lightness but it did not. It left my every sense that more finely attuned to the hidden sense of menace now that there was nothing to distract me.

  The low basin passed behind, the city was hidden from sight; it is not possible or advisable to look behind when flying; nor is it really necessary, unless in a combat craft which is normally equipped with rear view facilities. The plain folded up, thrusting ragged peaks up and above the altitude of the craft. Edward threaded his way through the lacework of peaks and sharp valleys, his eye constantly returning to the readout of the radio-range-finder, mentally ticking off each beacon as it passed beneath or beside us. He was obviously intent on his flying so I left him to it, concentrating on the landscape and trying to work out just where we were heading to. Edward chose the right fork presented by a jagged peak and two sharp-edged valleys. At the bottom of the valley we were following there was a stream which was considerably larger than the stream in the other valley. Up ahead there was more fog, wispy tendrils of grey doom that were flowing slowly down to meet us.

  The fog was not thick; though no airman ever feels comfortable with it. I automatically started noting landmarks and elevations before the fog became too thick to see through. Soon Edward was flying nearly blind. He reduced altitude until we were able to make out the ground, murky green with trees a few hundred feet below us. The stream ended, replaced with shocking suddenness by the shore of a wide lake. The waters were black and dull, rippled in the gloom though in this valley there was no wind of which to speak. Edward headed almost due northeast over the black waters. Apart for three small skiffs I saw nothing on the surface of the lake. By craning my head around and peering with my face against the side window I was able to see the slight wake the helicopter was causing with its downdraught.

  I turned my attention back to where we were going, seeing the further shore of the lake appearing through the grey gloom. The sun was not yet high enough to peep over the flank of the jagged hills. Almost in front of us there was a gap through the rough cliffs. Edward guided the craft skilfully into the gorge. It was not long or deep, opening out into a wide basin surrounded by gloomy hills.

  The air was unclear but not actually foggy; I could see across the basin but details were hard to come by. Set almost in the middle of this wide valley was another, smaller lake; beside its grey waters a collection of grey buildings stood. The buildings were smaller than I expected, clustered to one side of the lake, hardly the collection of hangars and radio towers that I had expected. The buildings, as we drew closer, resolved themselves into a fairly ordinary collection of old stone farm buildings, barns and such. Not everything was old; an extensive tract of the valley had been fenced with shiny new wire, including in its enclosure the lake, the buildings as a central feature and a distinctive y-fork of a long runway. A large apron of macadam and concrete lay between the runway and the barns at the outer edge of the cluster of buildings.

  The radio crackled then the Doctor’s voice came clearly over the ether, “Black Wren base. Please identify yourself.”

  “Fox-four-five to Black Wren Base I’m requesting permis
sion to land.” Eddie replied laconically.

  “Right-ho Fox-four-five, landing cleared for ach-seven, out.” Came the slightly friendlier and certainly less menacing reply. It was then that I realised that, although the Doctor had not said as much, the craft he had designed were in fact war machines and we needed to tread with care when crossing his turf.

  The wind was stiff and blustery, whipping faint threads of mist around us. We were by that time over the perimeter fence. On the concrete apron a ring of circled letter H’s appeared, each appended by a number, clearly visible from our several hundred feet ground clearance. There were four other craft on the apron, three fixed-wings and a large chopper and a few people moved about on the macadam. Edward circled once, lining the craft skilfully with the circle indicated. Our chopper came to roost amongst the other craft with only a slight jar. Edward shut down all systems while I unstrapped myself and freed my case from its restraints. Edward heaved my case out beside him and leapt down onto the apron. I clambered down a bit gingerly; I was nervous about letting someone else fly me around. I did not like not being in control, ever since I had learnt to fly.

  “Welcome, Cassandra. You are early; that’s good.” The Doctor shook my hand warmly before turning to lead the way across the macadam to the old farmhouse, looking incongruous in its new setting.

  Edward trailed behind us, having surrendered my case to a sandy-haired fellow called Jim who kept him company as they followed us.

  “Eight or nine of the candidates have already arrived, there are about twenty of them still to come. Most of them have already radioed in; they should all be here in under an hour.” The Doctor told me, “We’ll get you settled in your room and find you some tea. I’ll be giving a short lecture when everybody has arrived, then I’ll decide who stays and who goes. I require at least nine pilots, though more would be welcome. After the final sifting I’ll show you the Wrens. This way, please go through that door over there. Jim, please leave her case in her room, there’s a good fellow.” Even as he spoke there was the sound of a muted buzzer. He took up a radio microphone, looked at a radar panel peeking out from an oaken desk, and spoke briefly into the microphone. I glanced behind me as I wandered away to my new room; there were five distinct traces on the green dial.

  My room had been left almost exactly as the farmer had left it, though the furnishings were exquisitely cared for and the blankets and duvets on the bed soft and warm. The Paisley of duvet and curtain was soothing, the dark wood of the bed and tall wardrobes brooding but calm. Jim plonked my case helpfully onto the bottom of the bed, pointed out the adjoining bathroom and the sophisticated comlink beside the bedside lamp. “That’s the hell buzzer.” He told me cheerfully, “You’ll be getting a new cellular phone as well, tuned into this set so the good Doctor can keep tabs on you. The buzzer doubles as a hi-fi; there’s a music library at the back of the house. Don’t know what sort of beat you’re into, but it’s pretty inclusive.” He grinned at me and left me to find my feet. It turned out that he was a pretty heavy nuclear physicist with a brilliant analytical mind; but rather uncomfortable in the air. He was also the oldest person on the base; maybe thirty years older than myself.

  I drifted out of the room, having emptied my case into the nearest couple of drawers. Edward was waiting for me in the hall, his face unreadable. He took my hand, smiling up at me for a moment before leading me back to where the Doctor was overseeing the latest landings at the radar console. “Such a rum place, this; look at that antique spy scope.” He pointed at the radar with his nose, “But it’s hi-tech beyond the very latest I’ve ever seen. It’s three-dee, do you realise?”

  I looked at the green dial over the Doctor’s shoulder, seeing the blips arranged on the screen. I found it was easy to read off the height of each craft; the screen seemed to be inches thick. Then I saw that the craft were shown in clear detail, not as simple radar traces. A small monitor beside the main screen listed the available data on each craft, right up to its latest recorded flight-plan. In spite of my relative un-sophistication as far as air-traffic control was concerned, I was impressed. I watched as each craft was landed; three choppers and two small fixed-wings. Jim appeared from a doorway further down the hall with two other men and a small woman; all of them were dressed in more or less the same way; jeans and jerseys. It might have been a uniform of some sort.

  The two next to Jim were young, clear eyed and cheerful. Obviously at home and familiar with the Doctor, they hardly struck me as being scientists. The girl came up to me at once, her hand extended, “I’m June. Glad to see another pretty face amongst all these ruffians. What’s your line?”

  “I’m Cassandra,” I told her, amused by the small red-head’s forthrightness, “I don’t have any qualifications other than my license but I’m familiar with Advanced level Physics, Chemistry and Maths.”

  “The Cassandra?” She replied, slightly taken aback, “The Doctor is frightfully pleased to have you; and you don’t need anything more than that license.” Her voice had a slight Scots accent, her green eyes were level and direct for all she had to tilt her head well back to look into my face, “Come along love, let me find you some tea and a chair; I’ll have a stiff neck shortly if you don’t sit down at once.” She led me away into a comfortably furnished common room.

  Edward drifted along behind us, plonking himself down onto an old but comfortable couch. The dark green fabric was velvety and soft; I sat myself down beside him as June went out in search of tea.

  “This makes me rather uncomfortable.” Edward told me, “This place is out of tune; a professionally organised amateur outfit, the latest high-tech in these old stone buildings and enough money spent on that runway; I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either but I’m frantically curious. They’re all so young but they obviously know what they’re up to.” I replied seriously.

  “Ha.” Edward retorted, “You’re the youngest person here, guineas to farthings, and I’m not sure that you know what you’re doing.”

  “It was your idea, Eddie, don’t back out on me now.” I chastened him, hurt by his tone, “It is a well set up sort of place, and at the very least I’m going to learn a bit more about flying.”

  He turned to look carefully at me, “Are you sure? Do you really think you’re going to be happy with this crowd? Because I must think of getting back home shortly; I want you to be sure before I leave.”

  “Yes.” I nodded firmly, “I can always phone you if there are any problems; I will phone you anyway, when I can, and let you know how much fun I’m having.”

  “Right.” He put his hand over mine for a moment before turning away.

  The doors on either side of the common room opened; the far side to admit June and two others, laden with tea trays. The door just beside us opened to admit ten or more tall lean characters, obviously airmen. With them was the Doctor, Jim and his two colleagues. “Ah June, you have jolly good timing. Gentlemen, we’ll have a spot of tea while we wait for the rest of the pilots to arrive then we’ll adjourn to the lecture hall.”

  The men settled themselves down, for the most part quiet. There were one or two amongst them whom I recognised; Edward was familiar with most of them.

  “So you’re in this rum swizzle as well, Cassandra?” Asked Paul, the owner and pilot of one of the jet-rangers I had flown, a lanky, dark fellow with brilliant grey eyes and a master-class pilot who had often flown through cyclones with the few meteorologists who had the nerve for that sort of thing. He had recorded a few thousand hours of combat and high-peril flying; he was one of the oldest pilots in the room.

  “One lump or two, Cassandra?” June demanded, depositing a cup into my hand. The aroma of the tea was fine and strong.

  “What’s the whole scene about, anyway?” A fellow across the room demanded of the world at large, “I was under the impression that this was a government outfit, not a jerry-job.”

  “High tech choppers, that’s what I thought.” Another chimed in, “Mach-plu
s, turbo jets or some other such thing.”

  “Choppers can’t go supersonic.” The first fellow replied, “The slipstream would rip the rotors off the hub.” He was a rather disagreeable young fellow, maybe in his early twenties, but possessed of an unprepossessing visage.

  “That’s all you know, Bernhart.” The second fellow, a jolly sort of chap with black, curly hair, told him at once, “The latest materials for rotors, laminated porcelain-fibreglass composites, can stand up to Mach-three in the tunnel. All we need is the right approach to the chopper itself, and Bob’s yeruncle. I’m just glad we beat the yanks to it, eh, Doctor?”

  Doctor Tregont smiled noncommittally as he sedately sipped his tea. He obviously had his own answers on the topic and just as obviously he had his own timetable as well.

  “Are your choppers supersonic?” Bernhart asked the Doctor, a plaintive expression on his face, “I just don’t see how it can be done.”

  “You need a bit of lateral thinking and one or two obscure bits of information, and then it become relatively easy.” Jim told him, “Keep an open mind, old buzzard, the doc will explain what he’s been occupied with for the past eighteen months or so.”

  “Must be a swizz chasing jet-fighters with a chopper.” Someone else mused, “If you have that sort of speed, rotors and all, it would give you the edge.”

  “At three mach you are not all that manoeuvrable whatever you have on the upper deck.” The Doctor contributed, “The Wren is more manoeuvrable than any other craft of which I know at high speeds, but momentum is momentum after all.”

  “Hear, hear.” Bernhart agreed, “I’ve seen jets losing wings because of the fatheads taking too much of a turn at speed. Not a nice sight.”

  “Doc, there’s the last busload coming in now,” A head at the doorway informed him, “They’ll be down in five minutes. There are three big choppers.”