Thirst No. 5: The Sacred Veil

by Christopher Pike

  “They’re fifty miles behind us and closing fast,” he says.

  “Can you ID them?” I ask.

  “Not specifically but they’ve got to be military jets. They’re traveling faster than the speed of sound. We have to assume they’re armed.”

  “And that they have orders to shoot us down,” I add.

  He nods grimly. “It’s possible they won’t bother to try to take us alive. Whoever’s after us clearly knows we’re hard to handle. We should assume they’ll fire on us when they have a clean shot.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “I have a few ideas.” Matt nods to heavy cloud banks not far in front of us. “Those might give us cover we need to make an escape.”

  “Are you kidding? The clouds won’t block their radar.”

  “I’m not talking about staying in the plane.”

  I shake my head and smile. “How did I know you were going to say that? What should we do?”

  Matt glances toward the rear of the plane. “We have parachutes for all of us, although I want Cindy and Jolie to jump in tandem. They can bail out when we reach the clouds, along with Seymour. Then you and I can take down the jets.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “They’ll want to look us over before they shoot us down to be sure they have the right target. They’ll come up on our rear. That will give them an easy shot with their missiles. That’s when we should strike. If you can time a jump precisely, you should be able to grab hold of one of their wings.”

  “I’ll need a little luck to pull off a stunt like that.”

  “Sure. But we all know you were born with more than your fair share. When you catch the wing, keep things simple. Rip the canopy off the pilot’s cockpit. Once he’s exposed to the howling wind, he’ll have no choice but to eject. You let go the second he does.”

  “How are you going to take down the other jet?”

  “I’m going to ram it.”

  I reach out and touch his arm. “You’re not talking about a suicide strike, are you?”

  Matt frowns as he studies the approaching dots on the radar screen. “It’ll be tight but I should be able to bail out just before the collision.”

  “You’ll be playing tag with a heavily armed jet that has twice your speed and ten times your maneuverability. I doubt their pilot will let you near.”

  Matt acts confident. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve even Top Gun pilots don’t know about. You take care of your end and I’ll take care of mine. Now get the others ready.”

  I stand. “Just one thought. I should be the first one to jump. If I’m able to grab one of the jets, it’ll cause a distraction for both pilots and give the others more cover to complete their jumps.”

  Matt nods. “You’re right. But don’t jump until you’re sure you can catch one of them.”

  “Understood.” I stop and lean over and kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you on the ground.”

  “It’s going to work, Sita,” he says.

  Brutran takes the news calmly when I explain our situation, and so does Jolie, but Seymour is another matter.

  “What is it with you?” he complains, not bothering to hide his fear. “You’re always having us jump out of something.”

  “True. But this time you’ll be wearing a parachute.”

  “Great. And I suppose it makes no difference to you that I’ve never worn a parachute before.”

  I smile. “A kid can do it. All you have to do is be sure to pull the rip cord when you reach a thousand feet.”

  “I’ll pull it the moment I jump,” Seymour says.

  “Listen to Sita,” Brutran warns. “Your chute will be easy to spot, even with the clouds. You want to get as close to the ground as possible before pulling the cord. A thousand feet is good. That way their pilots will have less chance of calling in your location.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “It will do us no good to escape the jets if they’re able to radio their people where we’ve landed.”

  Brutran has already taken out a parachute and is fitting it over her shoulders. She puts one on her daughter as well, but—following Matt’s advice—she has no intention of allowing Jolie to use the chute. She only wants her daughter suited up so she can buckle onto her and perform what’s called a tandem jump. Despite what Hollywood movies would have people believe, it’s physically impossible for a human being to hold on to someone else when they pull their rip cord. The jolt is too strong. But Jolie will be safe if she is locked on to her mother.

  “You and Matt are glossing over a major problem,” Brutran says as she preps her daughter, who looks excited at the prospect of jumping out of the plane. “You’re assuming the jets will line up behind us, in classic attack mode. Remember, these guys have been briefed. They’ll know you and Matt are to be treated with extreme care. They might fire on us as soon as they come into range, which could be any second. Their missiles can hit us from thirty miles out.”

  “Matt feels they’ll want to eyeball us before firing,” I say. “Also, if they fire too early, our radar will alert us, which will give us a good chance of bailing out. Matt doesn’t think they’ll risk that. That’s why he’s pretty sure they’ll come in close and go for a kill shot.”

  “Why don’t we wait and see if they’ll let us surrender?” Seymour asks. “If they do, then you and Matt can overpower them.”

  “That ain’t going to happen,” I say.

  Seymour looks miserable. He glances out the cabin’s windows. “I hate heights,” he mutters.

  Matt and I have guessed right. Minutes later the twin jets come into view, but they make no effort to contact us by radio, nor do they fly up beside our cockpit and wave us down. Instead, they take up a position behind us, two hundred meters away. I have my parachute on but am still doing a last-minute check on Seymour’s equipment. I worry he hasn’t fastened all the necessary buckles. He can’t stop trembling.

  “I wish you were coming with us,” he says.

  “I’ll see you on the ground, don’t worry,” I say as I finish checking his chute. I stride toward the side door, which is located near the front of the main cabin. The door has a locking mechanism that prevents it from opening in midair, and I have to call out to Matt to override it. Just before I yank it open, I give the others final instructions.

  “We’ve dropped to eight thousand feet, so oxygen isn’t going to be a problem. But we’re cruising at two hundred miles an hour. The instant I open this door, it’s going to feel like a hurricane in here. Grab on to something solid and hold on tight. After I jump, wait half a minute, then follow me out the door. I want to give them time to react to the fact that I’m hanging on to one of their wings. But don’t wait any longer than that. They can shoot us down at any moment. Understood?”

  “How do we find you once we’re down?” Brutran asks.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find you,” I say as I grab the door handle. “Is everyone ready?”

  They nod and I rifle open the door, using my strength to jam it so it won’t close. The roar from the wind is deafening. Jolie cringes and buries her face in her mother’s chest. Brutran looks determined but Seymour is pale as a ghost. Still, I’m confident they’ll be able to weather the storm. Leaning over, holding on to the edge of the door, I peek outside.

  We’re inside the cloud bank. Giant cumulus clouds surrounding us on all sides. Nevertheless, the jets—two F-16s—are clearly visible behind us, their tail engines glowing a fiery red.

  I know the planes. The F-16s are equipped with four Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles each. The Sidewinder dates back to the 1950s, but is so reliable it’s been repeatedly upgraded instead of replaced. I can’t tell by looking at the weapons if they’ve been armed. However, the missiles are still firmly locked in place, which reassures me that we have time.

  The jet on my right—as I face toward the rear of our Gulfstream—already looks like my best bet. It’s separated from its companion by only thirty yards, and it’s directly behind us. Unfortunately, i
t keeps bobbing up and down. One moment it’s a few feet above us, the next below. I assume the pilot is fighting the turbulence created by our own engines. Whatever, it makes the timing of my leap more difficult. I only have one chance, and if I miss the jet wing, Matt will die.

  The F-16 suddenly stabilizes at our height.

  Spreading my arms wide, I jump out of the plane.

  The fighter jet rushes toward me at insane speed. Even my well-tempered vampiric senses and muscles have to strain to compensate. It’s only in the last instant that I’m able to pivot in midair and place my feet behind me, toward the jet. A millisecond later I feel the tips of my toes inside my shoes scrape along the top of the jet wing. Immediately I thrust my arms down and grab. I don’t care what I grab, just as long as I make contact and don’t let go.

  Luck favors me. I catch the front of the jet’s wing.

  And hang on. God, the wind is a monster. I feel like Dorothy riding a tornado into the sky. Only I know there’s no enchanted land waiting for me at the end of this day. I’ll be fortunate to disable the F-16 and escape in one piece.

  The pressure on my fingers is immense. I feel as if my grip is actually tearing into the metal. My eyes sting from the impact of ice crystals inside the clouds. It might be summer at sea level but it’s cold at this altitude.

  I’m above the wing, the missiles are below, the cockpit is to my right and forward. I felt the plane swerve when I grabbed hold of it but the pilot has compensated for the drag of my weight and the impact my dangling body is having on the aerodynamic flow of air around the jet. The guy is good but I can see him glancing anxiously in my direction while talking excitedly into his mask.

  I’m every pilot’s nightmare—the mythical gremlin who suddenly appears on their wing in the middle of a lightning storm. Yet, except for a few clouds, it is midday over a peaceful green landscape, and I have long blond hair instead of horns.

  However, I’m much more dangerous than a gremlin.

  The pilot knows that. He’s been warned.

  He suddenly yanks his jet through a 360-degree spin, almost catching me off guard. I tighten my grip so hard I hear the metal screech. My chest and hips briefly fly off the wing just before they smack back down like an angry fist. He tips the nose up, slams it down, and again my entire body strikes the wing. I’m amazed I’m able to hold on.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Seymour, Brutran, and Jolie leap from the Gulfstream. Both pilots in both jets are so preoccupied with me I doubt they notice them escaping. My friends quickly vanish into the clouds, their rip cords untouched.

  Time, that’s my problem right now. I’ve created a distraction for the others, but both pilots can still fire their missiles any second, and when they do, the Gulfstream will be incinerated. I know what Matt told me, to rip off the cockpit canopy and force the pilot to eject, and let him worry about the other plane. But the more I think about his plan, the less I like it. If I attack my pilot, his partner’s going to get pissed and retaliate, and Matt’s not going to get a chance to show off his fancy ramming skills. A Sidewinder will strike his right wing and that will be it—game over, his plane will explode.

  The only way Matt will survive is if I take down both jets.

  I have to get my pilot to eject, normally, without ripping off the canopy. It’s the only way to preserve the cockpit’s sensitive equipment—equipment I’m going to need if I’m to have a chance at shooting down the other jet. In other words, I need to boost my jet pilot’s total confusion into overwhelming panic.

  I have an idea. It’s crude but it might work.

  Crawling forward, I momentarily let go with my right hand and reach down and around the front edge of the wing, grabbing the tip of one of the missiles. It’s still locked in place, of course, but not as tightly as before. That can mean only one thing. The missile is now armed and the pilot is preparing to fire.

  I pull it free, half expecting it to detonate in my hand.

  The pilot looks over at me and even with his mask I can see his eyes widen. They swell so big it’s clear he knows he’s entered that twilight zone known as the last few seconds of life. To drive home the precariousness of his situation, I point the tip of the missile at him and flash a wide grin.

  The pilot immediately ejects.

  The jet wobbles violently, and once more I’m almost thrown into the clouds. Tossing the missile aside, I scamper along the edge of the wing and reach for the cockpit. Unfortunately, it’s still out of reach.

  The hard plastic canopy is still attached but the interior is taking a pounding from the wind. I have to get inside now! Yanking myself forward with both arms, I spin in midair and make one last desperate grab for the rear of the cockpit, catching it with my fingertips.

  A moment later I’m inside, sitting on what’s left of the pilot’s chair, which is not much. Pulling down the canopy, I secure the latch and study the instrument panel. It’s coated with a layer of frost but it’s still intact. A pair of headphones lies on the floor of the cockpit. I put them on.

  The other pilot is trying to raise me. Or, rather, his friend.

  “Alpha One, this is Alpha Two. Please respond, over?”

  Did the guy not see his buddy eject?

  Or is he playing dumb on purpose?

  I clear my throat and press the transmit button while simultaneously easing back on the engine so I drift behind the other fighter jet.

  “Alpha Two, this is Alpha One,” I say. “Are you as stupid as you sound? Over?”

  He doesn’t answer right away and I take the time to rearm my missiles—they apparently disarmed when I snapped the one loose—and take aim at the rear of Alpha Two’s engine. I can see the pilot twisting his head around and can only assume he has major denial issues. He replies in a bitter tone.

  “This is Lieutenant Andrew Simmons of the United States Air Force and I’m ordering you to land and surrender immediately.”

  “Alpha Two,” I reply. “Would a crash landing be acceptable?”

  He struggles to speak. “Huh?”

  “Alpha Two, you have three seconds to eject or else you’re going to get ripped apart when I blow up your jet. Over?”

  I really wish he’d listen to me but he’s a stubborn SOB. He refuses to eject. My first concern is Matt. The other pilot can still shoot him down at any moment. I don’t have a choice. I break the connection and fire a single missile.

  It strikes the glowing interior of the jet engine in front of me and explodes. The ball of flame is massive and I have to thrust the control stick to the side to avoid it. I feel bad the man had to die for no reason, but what can I do? I creep up alongside the Gulfstream and wave to Matt.

  He waves back. With hand signals, he makes it clear we should turn around and fly over the spot where we dropped the others, before bailing out. A smart move—in the short time since they jumped, we’ve flown at least thirty miles east of their position. Indeed, I can see Chapel Hill and Raleigh fast approaching.

  Matt smiles and gives me a big thumbs-up.

  I’m surprised how warm his approval makes me feel.

  SIX

  Matt and I parachute into a wide green field, not far from the others, and very near a dense forest we were fortunate to miss. I almost forgot how much of North Carolina is wooded. Just the thought of Seymour dangling from a strapping birch or massive maple makes me nervous. It’s wonderful to have him by my side on this adventure, and it scares me. He’s my best friend but when it comes to fighting he’s my child. I find myself constantly worried that I’m going to get him killed.

  Like Teri.

  We all meet up in the center of the field and I quickly note a dark stain of blood on Brutran’s slacks. My nose picks up the odor of freshly burned gunpowder. There’s a bulge beneath Brutran’s blouse, at the belt line, that wasn’t there before.

  “Have any of you seen the pilot who ejected?” I ask.

  “He’s not going to be a problem,” Brutran says.

  I give her a hard
look. “I want you to leave such decisions to either Matt or me,” I say.

  She shrugs. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here.”

  Seymour blinks. “Am I missing something?”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence, until Jolie speaks. “Mommy shot a man in the head,” she says, once again excited for all the wrong reasons.

  Seymour glares at Brutran. “We’re not murderers,” he snaps.

  Brutran smiles thinly. “Why don’t you ask your sweet Sita where the other pilot is.”

  “That was different,” Matt interrupts. “She tried to get him to eject but he refused. She was forced to shoot him down.”

  “Of course,” Brutran says. “She weighed the risks and acted. I did the same thing. I’m not going to apologize. That pilot could have called a squadron of helicopters to this spot. They might still be on their way here. We have to get moving.”

  Matt points toward a sloping rise. “As I was coming down, I saw a road two miles north of here. We can reach it in a few minutes if you guys will let Sita and me carry you on our backs. I can take you, Cindy, and Jolie.”

  Jolie claps with pleasure. “Will it be like horseback riding?”

  Brutran kneels beside her and wipes the hair from her daughter’s big green eyes. “This will be even more fun. Uncle Matt’s faster than a horse. But you’re going to have to hold on to Mommy real tight while I hold on to Matt. Okay?”

  Jolie is raring to go. “I want to hold on to Uncle Matt’s hair!”

  Seymour looks at me and blushes. “I feel kind of weird treating you like a horse,” he says.

  “Just don’t put a saddle on me,” I say.

  Our race to the road takes five minutes and could have taken even less time if Matt and I had wanted to push it. Still, our timing is good. A freight truck swings by moments after we reach the asphalt. The driver, a crusty middle-aged man who obviously likes to listen to his country music at full volume, pulls over and offers us a ride. Since I’m the cutest, I speak for the group.