bass. Its spots picked out a ten-meter circle of white light that
the aircraft dropped into, blowing clouds of sand that swept over
Gonzales in a whirlwind. The inverted fans' roar dropped to a
whisper, and with a creak the plane kneeled on its gear, placing
the cockpit almost on the ground. Gonzales picked up his bags and
walked toward the plane. A ladder unfolded with a hydraulic hiss,
and Gonzales stepped up and into the plane's bubble.
'Mikhail Gonzales?' the pilot asked. His multi-function
flight glasses were tilted back on his forehead, where their
mirrored ovoid lenses made a blank second pair of eyes; a thin
strand of black fiberoptic cable trailed from their rim. Beneath
the glasses, his thin face was brown and seamedno cosmetic work
for this guy, Gonzales thought. The man wore a throwaway
'tropical' shirt with dancing pink flamingos on a navy blue
background.
'That's me,' Gonzales said. He gestured with the shock-case
in his right hand, and the pilot toggled a switch that opened the
luggage locker. Gonzales put his bags into the steel compartment
and watched as the safety net pulled tight against the bags and
the compartment door closed. He took a seat in the first of eight
empty rows behind the pilot. Cushions sighed beneath him, and
from the seatback in front of him a feminine voice said, 'You
should engage your harness. If you need instructions, please say
so now.'
Gonzales snapped closed the trapezoidal catch where shoulder
and lap belts connected, then stretched against the harness,
feeling the sweat dry on his skin in the plane's cool interior.
'Thank you,' said the voice.
The pilot was speaking to Myaung U Airport traffic control as
the plane lifted into twilight over the city. The soft white glow
from the dome light vanished, then there were only the last
moments of orange sunlight coming through the bubble.
The temple plain was spread out beneath, all murk and shadow,
with the temple and pagoda spires reaching up toward the light,
white stucco and gold tinted red and orange.
'Man, that's a beautiful sight,' the pilot said.
'You're right,' Gonzales said. It was, but he'd seen it
before, and besides, it had already been a long day.
The pilot flipped his glasses down, and the plane banked left
and headed south along the river. Gonzales lay back in his seat
and tried to relax.
They flew above black water, following the Irrawady River
until they crossed an international flyway to Bangkok. Dozing in
the interior darkness, Gonzales was almost asleep when he heard
the pilot say, 'Shit, somebody's here. Partisan attack group,
probablyno recognition codes. Must be flying ultralightsour
radar didn't see them. We've got an image now, though.'
'Any problem?' Gonzales asked.
'Just coming for a look. They don't bother foreign
charters.' And he pointed to their transponder message flashing
above the primary displays:
THIS INTERNATIONAL FLIGHT IS NON-MILITARY.
IT CLAIMS RIGHT OF PASSAGE
UNDER U.N. ACT OF 2020.
It would keep on repeating until they crossed into Thai airspace.
The flight computer display lit bright red with COLLISION
WARNING, and a Klaxon howl filled the plane's interior. The
pilot said, 'Fuck, they launched!' The swing-wing's turbines
screamed full out as the plane's computer took command, and the
pilot's hands gripped his yoke, not guiding, just hanging on.
Gonzales's straps pulled tight as the plane tumbled and fell,
corkscrewed, looped, climbed againsmart metal fish evading fiery
harpoons. Explosions blossomed in the dark, quick asymmetrical
bursts of flame followed immediately by hard thumping sounds and
shock waves that knocked the swing-wing as it followed its chaotic
path through the night.
Then an aircraft appeared, flaring in fire that surged around
it, its pilot in blazing outlinea stick figure with arms thrown
to the sky in the instant before pilot and aircraft disintegrated
in flame.
Their own flight went steady and level, and control returned
to the pilot's yoke. Gonzales's shocked retinas sparkled as the
night returned to blackness. 'Collision averted,' the plane's
computer said. 'Time in red zone, six point eight nine seconds.'
'What the hell?' Gonzales said. 'What happened?'
'Holy Jesus motherfucker,' the pilot said.
Gonzales sat gripping his seat, chilled by the blast of cold
air from the plane's air conditioner onto his sweat-soaked shirt.
He glanced down to his lap: no, he hadn't pissed himself.
Really, everything happened too quickly for him to get that
scared.
A Mitsubishi-McDonnell 'Loup Garou' warplane dived in front
of them and circled in slow motion. Like the ultralights it was
cast in matte black, but with a massive fuselage. It turned a
slow barrel roll as it circled them, lazy predator looping fat,
slow prey, then turned on brilliant floods that played across
their canopy.
The pilot and Gonzales both froze in the glare.
Then the Loup Garou's black cockpit did a reverse-fade;
behind the transparent shell Gonzales saw the mirror-visored
pilot, twin cables running from the base of his neck. The Loup
Garou's wings slid forward into reverse-sweep, and it stood on its
tail and disappeared.
Gonzales strained against his taut harness.
'Assholes!' the pilot screamed.
'Who was that?' Gonzales asked, his voice thin and shaking.
'What do you mean?'
'The Myanmar Air Force,' the pilot said, his voice tight,
face red beneath the flight glasses' mirrors. 'They set us up, the
