Dreamland: Revolution Part 12

A C-130 configured for airborne training and recertification was used as the test plane. Danny joked that they ought to requisition an office chair with casters and use it to launch Zen into the air: They'd push him off the plane's ramp and see what happened.

Zen didn't think the joke was particularly funny, but the actual jump was nearly that informal: He put one arm around Danny and the other around Boston, and the next thing he knew, he was flying through the air, propelled with the others as they leaped off the ramp.

Within seconds he was free. It didn't feel as if he was falling, exactly, nor with the MESSKIT not yet deployed could he say that he was flying. He was skydiving, something he'd never really done, even before he lost the use of his legs. His head seemed to be moving through a wind tunnel, with his arms and the rest of his body playing catch-up.

His heart was bringing up the rear, pumping furiously to keep pace.

A small light blinked at the left-hand side of his helmet's visor. Activated by the abrupt change in alt.i.tude, the MESSKIT's system monitor was sensing the external conditions. Zen had ten seconds to take control either by voice or manually, or the system would a.s.sume that its pilot had been knocked unconscious by the force of the ejection and would then automatically fly him to the ground.

"Zen zero one, MESSKIT override to manual," he said.

The light stopped blinking. In its place, a ghosted grid appeared in front of his eyes. Numbers floated at the left, a compa.s.s and GPS coordinate points appeared on the right.

He was at 21,135 feet, and falling.

"Deploy wing kit at two-zero angels," Zen said.

The computer had to calculate whether this was practical before answering. It was another safety measure to prevent the MESSKIT from opening in unsafe conditions. Zen was also wearing a reserve parachute with an automated activation device set to open if his rate of fall exceeded eighty-three feet per second. deployment in 17.39 seconds flashed on the screen.

Zen pushed forward, doing his best to get into the traditional frog posture used by a skydiver. He spread his arms, as if trying to fly.

Unlike a parachute, the MESSKIT's wing deployment did not jerk him up by the shoulders or torso. Instead of a tug, he felt as if the wind had suddenly filled in below him, holding him up. He reached his hands up, the handlelike holders springing open below his wrists.

And now he was a bird-a very, very high flying one, but a bird nonetheless. He could steer by s.h.i.+fting his weight, or by pus.h.i.+ng hard against the tabs at the ends of each handle.

At first, he didn't think either method did very much. Then he realized that the compa.s.s in his visor was moving madly. He eased up, leveling into straight flight.

The view was spectacular, many times more impressive than anything he'd seen from the c.o.c.kpit of an F-15, let alone the video the Flighthawks fed him. All of Dreamland spread before him; beyond it, all of Nevada, all the way to the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Las Vegas was to his left; to his right...well, from this vantage point, it looked like Canada. The sun hung low over the desert, casting a pinkish light against the mountains, a beautiful shade that any painter would trade his soul to recreate.

The normal rate of fall in a modern parachute was in the vicinity of eighteen feet per second. But because it was more glider than parachute, the MESSKIT could descend very slowly-he was currently gliding downward at a rate of just over nine feet per second. Of course, that meant trading descent for linear progress, as Annie had put it-or flying. He soon found that by s.h.i.+fting his weight forward slightly, the pressure from his arms directed the MESSKIT's airfoil to slow his descent even further.

"Hey, Zen, you're headed toward the end of the range," said Danny over the radio. Both he and Boston were using traditional parachute rigs. They'd waited to deploy them until after Zen's wings had expanded and it was clear he was under control. Now they were falling off to his right, well below him.

"I forgot you guys were here," said Zen.

"Don't forget to come down," said Danny. "And somewhere in Nevada, all right? I have some things to do tonight, and I don't want to fish you out of the Pacific."

"Oh, I'll come down," said Zen, starting a turn to stay inside the test area. "I know one thing."

"What's that?"

"I'm going again. And again after that. I can't wait to see a full sunset from up here."

Northeastern Romania

23 January 1998

0550.

AMONG THE ITEMS STONER HAD STOCKPILED IN THE TRUNK of his rented Nexia was a medical kit. He pulled out a bottle of hydrocodone and chased five pills with his bottled water. Then, to counteract the effects of the synthetic codeine-the dose was two and half times a full-strength prescription-he took two capsules of Adderall, an amphetamine.

He pulled on a spare s.h.i.+rt and jacket, holding his breath against the pain. It was going to take a while for the codeine to kick in. Even then, all it would do was take the edge off.

"Can you drive?" he asked Sorina Viorica. "I can if I have to, but probably we'd be better if you did."

"I can drive," she said.

"We have to go south. To Bucharest."

She frowned. "I'm not going to your emba.s.sy."

"I wasn't going to take you there. I have an apartment. You'll be safe. The GPS unit-"

"I know the way," she said.

Stoner slipped the seat to the rear, adjusting it so he could lean his head back and get a more comfortable. The seat belt sat right over his wound, but he managed to bunch his jacket to the side and relieve most of the pressure on it. The drugs didn't seem to have much of an effect at first, but after twenty minutes or so he realized his mouth was hanging open and his upper body was starting to feel numb. He pushed back up in the seat, wincing at the pain yet grateful that it helped wake him up.

A few minutes later, Sorina braked hard to avoid rear-ending a car stopped around a curve. There was a checkpoint ahead, soldiers checking IDs.

She started to put the car into reverse.

"Don't," said Stoner, putting his hand on the s.h.i.+fter. He fought against the shock of pain. "They already see us."

"I don't have identification."

"I'll deal with it."

"No."

"You're going to have to trust me," he told her.

"This isn't a question of trust."

Stoner reached beneath his belt to the small pouch where he kept his ID and took out his diplomatic pa.s.sport, along with a folded letter. He considered taking out money as well, but decided against it-better to play the arrogant American with nothing to hide, impatient at the delay.

"You're my interpreter. You work for the emba.s.sy."

"My name?"

"Pick something you'll remember. And I can p.r.o.nounce."

"Jon. It was my father's name."

"That's a last name?"

"Yes. Call me Ms. Jon."

Stoner undid his seat belt and brought his seat back up to horizontal. The line moved slowly. They were three cars from the front.

"You are sure of this?" said Sorina Viorica.

"We have no choice. If you get out, they'll probably start shooting. They'll hunt you down."

She frowned, probably thinking it wouldn't be that hard to get away.

Stoner noticed a bloodstain on his pants as they pulled near the soldiers, but it was too late to do anything. He folded his hands down against it and put an annoyed look on his face as the two soldiers peered into the car.

The sun was just rising, and it was dark inside the vehicle; the man on Stoner's side shone a flashlight around, hitting Stoner's eyes. He had to fight the reflex to cover his eyes with his hands.

The man on the driver's side rapped on the window. When Sorina Viorica opened it, he told her in Romanian that they must hand over their IDs.

Stoner didn't wait for the translation.

"Here," he told Sorina, giving her the pa.s.sport with his left hand. "Tell him we're in a hurry. If I'm late, you're going to be fired."

Something flickered in the man's face. Stoner realized he spoke English.

So did Sorina Viorica, though she pretended she didn't.

"You have to be patient," she said to Stoner. "They are just doing their job. Things are different in our country. You cannot be an arrogant American. It is an insult."

"I don't care. If I'm not in Bucharest by seven, the amba.s.sador will have a fit."

"I told you, we're not going to make it."

"Then you'll be finding another way to feed your kid, whether your husband was killed by the guerrillas or not. I didn't hire you for charity."

Sorina Viorica began explaining to the soldier that her boss was an American on official business and due in the capital.

The soldier grabbed his pa.s.sport and the letter from the defense ministry saying that Stoner was to be given free pa.s.sage and professional courtesies. The letterhead impressed the soldier, though he tried not to show it.

"You work for a jerk," the soldier told Sorina.

"My boy is only three. I work where I can," she said. "What's going on?"

"The rebels attacked the pipeline last night."

"No!"

"They did some damage. Not much." He flipped through the pa.s.sport. "And your ident.i.ty-"

"Get the d.a.m.n flashlight out of my face," Stoner snarled, rolling down the window and leaning out. "I'll have you busted down to private!" he shouted. "And if you are a private, I'll get you into a latrine!"

"I'm sorry," Sorina told the soldier near her. "These Americans."

She turned to Stoner. "Please. Just relax. Please relax. There's no sense getting angry. He's doing his job. Please. He probably has a family."

"What's his name? Get his G.o.dd.a.m.n name. I want to have him on report. I'm going to tell the amba.s.sador this is why I was late. Get his name."

Sorina pushed back in the seat, glancing toward heaven and muttering something Romanian.

"Get his name!"

"You can go," said the soldier at her window, handing back Stoner's pa.s.sport. "I'm sorry for you."

"Get his name!" demanded Stoner.

Sorina Viorica stepped on the gas.

Neither of them spoke for a full minute.

"That checkpoint was not normal," she said finally. "There was an attack last night, on the pipeline."

"I see."

"But there couldn't have been."

"Why not?"

"We decided six months ago that we wouldn't. That is not what we want. It must have been the Russians."

"Right."

"It's true," she said sharply. "And besides, I know."

"If your friends tried to kill you, what makes you think they'd tell you what they were doing?"

"My friends didn't try to kill me. It was the Russians. The movement itself-it's dwindled. Those who remain are misfits."

"How do you know they were Russians who attacked us?" asked Stoner.

"Their boots were new. None of our people have new boots. Not even a year ago. And now-the only ones left are misfits."

An interesting point, thought Stoner. A very interesting point.

College Hospital, Nevada