Cloud Warrior Page 3

  Glancing in his rearview mirror, Brickman saw to his surprise that the huge door behind him had risen noiselessly, cutting him off from the Federation.

  The voice of the controller came over his headset. ‘Easy X-Ray One, this is Ground Control. Light balance will commence in five seconds. The doors will open in ten. Do not attempt to taxi through until you see the green. Once you cross the double yellow line, you are clear for take-off. Transmit your callsign when you pass over the red, white and blue beacon on your return leg. Over.’

  ‘Easy X-Ray One, Roger.’ Brickman’s voice contained a tremor of excitement.

  ‘Good luck,’ said the voice in his ear.

  In the same instant, banks of neon tubes stretching along the walls from floor to ceiling and across the ceiling itself rippled into life, creating a glowing tunnel of light that grew progressively brighter towards the ramp door to match the intensity of the daylight that lay beyond.

  Brickman lowered his visor. Five seconds later, the twelve foot-thick inner doors slid apart and the lower section of the outer door sank level with the ramp presenting Brickman with a fifteen foot high slot just wide enough for the Skyhawk to pass through.

  Nosewheel on the centre line, Brickman taxied out on the green, passing under the equally massive concrete curtain that formed the top section of the outer door. Rolling clear of its threatening bulk, he paused on the double yellow line that stretched from wall to wall and took stock of his surroundings.

  He saw that he was in a concrete canyon with sheer, unseamed, fifty foot high walls. Ahead of him, the ramp sloped gently upwards. Brickman knew from his study of the model that the walls which now enclosed him angled out sharply, tapering down, as the ramp rose in the shape of a giant fan, to meet the overground.

  The canyon was roofed with a flat expanse of brilliant blue.

  With a sudden shock of recognition, Brickman realised that he was not looking at another illuminated ceiling – like those in the Federation’s central plazas – but at the sky.

  The ceiling of the world. ‘The wild blue yonder’ – that heartsurging phrase from the battle hymn of the Flight Academy that had fired Brickman’s imagination at the age of ten. Not wrought by concealed tubes of neon, but filled with a light of dazzling, almost overpowering, intensity that bounced off the bleached concrete and cast sharp, rich, dark shadows on the runway beneath the Skyhawk. The light of the sun; blazing down upon him so brightly that even his visored eyes could not bear to look at it directly; its raying heat piercing his body, making the marrow in his bones tingle with its warmth.

  Willing himself to remain calm, Brickman took a deep breath of the fresh oven-baked air, pushed the throttle wide open and aimed the Skyhawk up the centreline of the ramp and at the sky beyond. A wave of reflected heat floated the lightweight craft into the air unexpectedly. Brickman quickly adjusted the Skyhawk’s trim. The enclosing walls fell away and, as the ramp beneath him shrank into a shimmering slice of concrete pie, Brickman caught his first glimpse of the overground.

  And was engulfed by the vastness of the earth and sky.

  For the past sixteen years and fifty-one weeks of Brickman’s life, the most distant object he had gazed upon had never been more than half a mile away; the highest vaulted space, seven hundred and fifty feet above his head. He had seen video pictures of the recently completed John Wayne Plaza at Grand Central; a marvel of engineering a mile wide and nearly half a mile high. But even that was rendered totally insignificant by the vista that unfolded as the Skyhawk climbed higher. For now, Brickman could see for more than a hundred miles. A mind-blowing, eye-popping, heart-stopping panorama bounded by an impossibly distant, cloud-flecked horizon under the fathomless blue bowl of the sky.

  Brickman’s response to the overground welled up from the innermost depths of his being. CFI Carrol had been right. Nothing in his past life could have possibly prepared him for this moment. For years, he had prided himself on his clinical detachment; his ability to control his reaction to any situation; investing his words and actions with exactly the required degree of emotion. No more, no less.

  But not today.

  For one brief instant, Brickman let the mask slip; abandoning himself to the raw sensations that made his scalp tingle and his heart pound; that left him gasping for breath. He lay back and let the essence, the latent power, of the overground flood through his whole being; let its seductive beauty embrace him (had he known the phrase and understood its implications) like a long-lost lover.

  Was reunited.

  Heard voices.

  Sensed danger.

  Recovered. Regained control. Returned his being to the service of the Federation; purging himself of all feeling; crushing his new found sense of wonder beneath the iron heel of his Tracker psyche.

  Outwardly restored, Brickman throttled back for the climb to altitude, checked that he was on the correct course heading for the first leg of his flight, and turned his attention to the land below.

  The overground. The despoiled birthright of the Trackers. Overrun by the shadowy, hostile Mutes. The blue sky world which the First Family, in the name of the Federation, had vowed to cleanse and repossess.

  Brickman consulted his map. The ramp above the Flight Academy from which he had taken off was situated some five thousand feet above sea level, and halfway between two pre-historic sites called Alamogordo and Holloman AFB. All that remained of Alamogordo was a few jagged walls sticking up out of the ground in vague rectilinear patterns among the bright red trees. Holloman AFB, below his port wing, consisted of three enormous overlapping craters partially filled with wind-blown sand.

  Brickman turned his attention back to the giant cottonwoods.

  Trees…

  Like the distant clouds, they were something else Brickman had only seen pictures of.

  At this point, Brickman’s altitude was two and a half thousand feet and climbing, above terrain that had been described by the Academy’s Chart Officer as ‘high plains country’. Over his right shoulder, beyond the ramp, Brickman could see the towering summit of the Sierra Blanca, part of the mountain range barring the way to the east. Ahead, lay the San Andreas range which he would cross between Black Top and Salinas Peak. From here, his course lay in a straight line over the Jornada del Muerto to the northern end of a large overground reservoir that formed part of a giant river cutting deep into the bedrock of the land as it snaked its way south.

  The Rio Grande.

  Despite all he had been told, Brickman found it hard to accept that the overground could be as deadly as it was beautiful. Yet he could not deny the first-hand evidence provided by his guard-father who, as a wingman, had put in a double-six up the line and was now a shrunken shadow in a wheelchair; his body ravaged by the all-consuming sickness that lay in wait for all those who survived the allotted number of overground tours of duty.

  The sky above, the land below, the crisp fresh air that now filled his lungs, was charged with lethal radiation that, even on this first sortie, had already begun its silent attack on his own unshielded body. Every square inch of ground, every cubic inch of sky harboured the kiss of death.

  It was this ever-present danger, lying across the world like an invisible funeral shroud, which had caused the subterranean birth of the Federation; had kept it, for nearly a thousand years, from assuming its rightful place in the sun. Anti-radiation top-suits did exist but they were ungainly garments that were scorned by Trail-Blazers who, like the pre-Holocaust American Green Berets and British Paras, regarded themselves as élite shock-troops; the cream of Amtrak. The standard-issue closed helmet with its air filtration system and ‘flak’ jacket were considered an acceptable form of protection; anti-radiation top-suits did not even form part of a wagon train’s inventory. The refusal to wear them was viewed by Grand Central not as a breach of discipline, but as proof of the Blazer’s readiness to die for the Federation.

  The cross-country course Brickman had been given to fly was in the shape of a roughly equilatera
l triangle, and covered a total distance of two hundred and twenty-five miles. The first seventy-five mile leg was angled north-west to the head of the Elephant Butte Reservoir; the second almost due south, running parallel to the Rio Grande and crossing it at another prehistoric ruin bearing the name of Hatch to reach the peak of the Sierra de Las Uvas. The return leg ran E.N.E, skirting the eight thousand foot peak that marked the high point of the San Andreas mountains, then across the dazzling, desolate expanse of White Sands and back to the ramp.

  Aware that the Adjudicators might possess the means to monitor his flight pattern, Brickman flew a perfect course at the required cruising altitude of eight thousand feet, at a ground speed of seventy-five miles an hour. He searched the sky around him but could see no sign of any other craft.

  Once clear of the mountains, he began losing altitude for his final approach. Ahead of him, he could see the thousand foot high, pencil-slim red, white and blue striped beacon balanced on its point as if by magic. Below him, the white sand, wind-shaped into curving lines, stretched away on all sides like a vast frozen sea.

  The sea…

  Brickman had heard about it, but had never seen pictures of it. He only knew that it lay beyond the southern horizon. He fought down a mad impulse to break away in search of it and continued his slow descent towards the South-West ramp. When he was some two miles from touchdown, he saw a tiny, triangular speck of blue rise from the take-off ramp, becoming a flash of silver as it banked round and caught the sun. High in the sky to the south-east hung another micro-dot. Someone else on their way back in.

  Brickman throttled right back and drifted down through the warm air with the tranquil ease of a seabird, putting all three wheels on the ramp three hours after take-off; matching – to the second – the estimated time he had filed with Overground Flight Control.

  A final, flawless performance.

  As he taxied down the ramp, the converging walls seemed to leap upwards, cutting him off from the overground; hemming him in; suffocating him. Within seconds, all that remained of the sky world was a flat slab of blue visible through the clearview wing panels above the cockpit.

  The ramp doors slid open noiselessly as the Skyhawk reached the double yellow line. The green light signalled he was clear to taxi in.

  Brickman knew that the brightly-lit tunnel beyond represented safety; offered total protection against the dangers of the overground yet he found himself momentarily paralysed; gripped by an inexplicable fear.

  A fear of being buried alive.

  With an involuntary movement, he hit the brake pedal, holding the Skyhawk’s nose on the double yellow line. One, two, three, four, five seconds. Six, seven –

  A warning klaxon blared harshly. The controller’s voice spoke quietly into his ear. ‘Clear the ramp, Easy X-Ray One.’ The voice paused then added, ‘Your data line is down but we have no malfunction signal. Check system, over.’

  Brickman moved his right arm back and glanced down at the data transmitter to which his body was wired. A chill shiver ran through him. It was switched off! Somehow he must have unwittingly knocked it with his elbow. Oh, Christopher Columbus! How could he have done such a stupid thing? And When?! He quickly flipped the switch back into the ‘on’ position and berated himself silently. Oh, shit, shit, and triple shit. You bonehead! You’ve blown it!

  The bland, disembodied voice of Ground Control cut across his mental confusion. ‘Okay, we have your data. Roll it in, Easy X-Ray One.’

  Willing an inner and outward calm upon his body, Brickman eased his foot off the brakes and taxied in under the raised section of the outer door. As soon as he was inside, the lower section rose with a barely audible hiss and the inner doors slid out of the walls. As the bright rectangle of daylight in his rearview mirror shrank rapidly and disappeared behind the overlapping curtains of concrete, Brickman did his best to bury the strange, troubling feelings that had assailed him during the flight. Dangerous, treacherous sensations that he could not put into words; that would be better forgotten but which he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  What Brickman had experienced was a sense of freedom. His inability to perceive this, or to put a name to it, was perfectly understandable. The word ‘freedom’ did not appear in the Federation’s dictionary. It was, of course, known to the highest ranks of the First Family but officially, the concept did not exist.

  CFI Carrol waved the senior classmen back into their seats and took his place at the lectern. The six assistant FI’s led by Mr Triggs lined up against the wall behind him.

  ‘It’s been a long haul,’ said Carrol, ‘but we’ve come to the end of the line. After home-base leave, you’ll be shipping out on your first unit assignments. Between then and now you’re going to be busy drilling for the big anniversary parade so, as this is probably my last opportunity to address you as a group, I thought I’d mark the occasion with a few farewell words.’

  Carrol paused and let his eyes range slowly over the seated cadets. ‘I’ve seen the results–’

  The senior year reacted with a rustle of excitement.

  Carrol held up a hand. ‘Hold it. The marks and places will be screened as scheduled tomorrow. However, what I can tell you is that there are no wipeouts, and no retreads.’

  The news was received with total silence.

  Carrol shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it and turned to the AFI’s. ‘Amazing. None of them look at all surprised.’

  The three hundred cadets, over a third of them girls, broke into laughter. They all knew no one would be choked for airing their teeth today. Not by Carrol, anyway.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ continued Carrol.’ “Here it comes. The CFI’s standard address to every graduation class.” Not so. I have to tell you that three years ago when you joined the Academy, we thought we’d been landed with a bunch of zed-heads but – you all did well. Some better than others.’ His eyes rested briefly on Brickman. ‘In fact, all of you turned in such terrific grades, the average pass-mark is the highest ever in the Academy’s history.’

  The class of 2989 gave themselves a congratulatory cheer. The six AFI’s allowed themselves an impassive smile.

  Carrol gestured soberly for silence. ‘Yes, I suppose I should congratulate you but, the truth is, you people have just made life more difficult for the rest of us. Because now, Grand Central are going to expect us to do even better next year.’ Carrol looked over both shoulders at the AFI’s. ‘Which means, gentlemen, that, as from tomorrow, you and I are going to have to kick ass.’

  The six AFI’s responded with mock resignation. ‘We could always put in for promotion,’ said Triggs.

  Carrol cocked a finger at the senior AFI. ‘Good thinking.’ He turned back to the class, placed his hands purposefully on the upper corners of the lectern and cleared his throat.

  The class of 2989 straightened their backs and faces.

  ‘Okay. Hear this. In a few days you’ll have a badge pinned to your chest. You’ll be wingmen. The frontline force of the Amtrak Federation. It’s a great moment. Savour it. But don’t think that life’s going to get easier, that the hard work is over. You have another twelve months operational training ahead of you when you join your wagon trains. And if you’re smart, it won’t stop when you swap your silver badge for a gold. You’ll go on learning. Because it’s the only way to become a better flier. Always remember that when the chips are down and you’re fresh out of luck, it’s the hot pilots that make it back to base.’ Carrol paused and ran his eyes along the rows of bright, eager young faces, his mouth tightening with a hint of regret. ‘Who knows? If you don’t power down, or pull a trick, some of you could even end up making speeches to classes like this.’

  His audience greeted this with a dry, ragged laugh. To ‘power down’ was Trail-Blazer jargon for a crash in hostile territory – usually with fatal results; like ‘buying a farm’ or ‘going into the meat business’, for it was well known that Mutes ate any prisoners they caught alive. To
‘pull a trick’ was another euphemism for death – from what the Federation medical establishment had labelled a TRIC: a Terminal Radiation-Induced Cancer.

  Most of the wingmen on the Academy’s Roll of Honour had powered down, or pulled a trick. Usually before they reached the ripe old age of thirty. Carrol knew that at least half of the young faces now fixed on his would never see the sun rise on their twenty-first birthday. His audience knew it too. And didn’t give a damn. Every year, the Academy was swamped with thousands of applications for the three hundred places available for Squabs – the derisive name applied to first-year cadets.

  That – according to the Manual – was the great strength of the Amtrak Federation. The raw courage and dedication of the Trackers. Two of the Seven Great Qualities possessed by the founders of Amtrak. The Foragers and the Minutemen. Qualities now enshrined in the First Family and the members of the two élite companies that bore their name. ‘They died so that others might live.’ The message was emblazoned on wall surfaces throughout the Federation and every Tracker was encouraged, from birth, to emulate their example.

  Without question.

  When the examination results were screened, Brickman found to his amazement that, after three years of dedicated, relentless effort, he had been placed fourth with 188 points, behind Pete Vandenberg, from Condor Squadron, the cadet Brickman had judged most likely to come a poor second to his brilliant first. That was bad enough but there was worse to come. Gus White, a wingman in the same flight as Steve, who had not even figured in his calculations had landed in the No. 2 slot, ahead of Vandenberg by one point at 190; Donna Monroe Lundkwist, another cadet from Eagle Squadron who Steve had thought might make the first ten had come top of the heap with a score of 192, and had been nominated as Honour Cadet; winner of the prized Minuteman Trophy.