I didn’t even respond to him as he droned on. Glancing up, I saw U-hooks in the bottom of the Jimmy, and then I saw her name, the Kashmir IV. I cut off his chatter by pointing at the hooks and saying, “We’ll need strong rope or cables, so we can secure the Stanleys to the bottom of the zeppelin. I’ll go up and see about the engines.”
I crouched and picked up a fallen AZ3 and retrieved two fresh clips from the ammo belt of a fallen Regio. I didn’t bother to check the rounds in the gun. I ejected the clip and slammed in a fresh one and worked the action to chamber a round.
Dutch watched me. Let him look. I knew my way around firearms.
The Kashmir IV was about fifteen meters off the ground, tugging on the ropes and swaying. The valley was giving her some protection from the winds. I’d had my fair share of experience climbing rope ladders into airships, so it wasn’t a big deal for me to get on board. Unlike the Moby Dick, this zeppelin had rooms built in, and I found myself in a hallway with doors on either side. Some were open and revealed racks of weapons and supplies. In one room, a big crate of grenades was strapped to the wall.
Other rooms were floor to ceiling with cots, so it seemed the Kashmir IV was a troop carrier, but where were the troops?
I listened hard and heard footsteps ahead. Most likely from Wren ... but what if they weren’t?
I switched off the safety and put the stock of the AZ3 to my shoulder. Sapropel lights in sconces barely lit the hallway. I walked past doors, doors, doors. Any one of them could open and give me a fight.
The Neofiber floor under my feet had rubber ridges glued on it, to keep people from slipping. I could feel the ridges through the thin slippers. Still I went forward.
A door bashed open. A figure emerged carrying some kind of rocket launcher.
I remembered the last time I’d had to gun a girl down. It had all happened so fast; really, it had felt like it had all happened at the same time, like time itself had turned to sludge by the sweat and violence.
Before I fired, I checked my target—Wren. It was Wren. She moved into the light, looked at me, smiled. “Hey, Cavvy. Looky what I found.” She raised up a newer model of an RPG-7.
I let out a breath of relief and lowered my rifle. “Damn, that was close. I almost shot you.”
She leaned forward and squinted at my rifle. “You could’ve. Safety is off. Good for you. Good for me that you paused to confirm your target. You’re becoming quite the soldier.”
“Whatever,” I said, but still feeling kind of proud. Praise from Wren was a rare thing.
My sister went on. “I don’t think no one else is on this balloon. The pilot came out after me, and I put her down. But what were they waiting for? Why just hang out here?”
That was the mystery all right. And why the circle of lanterns down below?
“I saw U-hooks underneath,” I said, “so while I get the engines going, you secure the Stanleys.”
Wren saluted me. “Yes, ma’am. Ain’t this just too exciting? And I can’t wait to try this baby out. Already lowered down a whole crate of grenades. You speak German?”
“No, why?” I asked.
She showed me the name of her new toy: Panzerfaust. “That’s German, ain’t it?”
I nodded, “That’s the next generation of the RPG-7. Germany engineered them during the Sino. They went back to their roots, since the RPG series was originally modeled after the Panzerfaust from World War II.”
Wren grinned and slapped me on the back. “Listening to you talk about guns is almost as good as shooting ’em. Almost.”
I just had to ask. “So we were in a hole, weeks on end, barely fed, and the first day you get out, you get drunk, then you nearly die fighting Aces. Then not an hour later, we find ourselves running down the highway in the dark and into another fight. Aren’t you tired?”
Wren made a face at me, but then it cracked into a grin. “Tired? Hell no. Mrs. Panzerfaust won’t let me sleep until she’s killed herself a skank or three.”
She moved past me, and I ran forward to the door leading to the cockpit. I watched her go with the bazooka and a bad feeling crawled into my belly. Something wasn’t right. Not with her. Not with our current situation.
Then suddenly I felt a whole lot better: we could use the Jimmy to get to Burlington. Yes, we’d have to rescue Pilate and Micaiah first, but if we survived that, we could fly over the Rockies, cross the plains, sail above the hogs, if they existed at all, and arrive safely in my hometown.
I was feeling good as I opened the door.
Then I saw the controls: a panel of switches, levers, and a yoke. The label to every mechanism was a number and a letter, and that was it. I found the pressure gauge for the steam-engine which showed our pressure was low. Which meant I’d have to stoke the engine. Which was ... where?
Pedals were on the floor, but what did they do exactly?
One most likely was for acceleration, but the other? I needed Micaiah. I needed Sketchy.
The windshield in front of me showed swirling snowflakes pushed around by strong winds, uncertain winds—a bad breeze would send us crashing to the ground. The Kashmir IV bounced as the wind blasted it.
Even if I could get her flying without killing everyone, how would I see to find the ARK convoy? We’d
