Per aspera ad astra, p.12
Per Aspera Ad Astra, page 12
“Whatever happens, we’ll get by,” Ben said, gently pulling Emma into a sidearm hug, as if to prove the validity of her new hunch. “The world will unfold as it will, and we’ll play our part.”
Emma sighed as she leaned into Ben, unsure if her husband was right, but drawing strength from his confidence. “I don’t know how you manage it,” she confessed. “How can you be so certain of anything?”
“You mean, beyond basic anthropic principles?” he replied, patting her back affectionately and fixing her with a concerned look. “Frankly, I’m more worried about you, Em—you’ve been acting strange ever since we got home. What’s got you so hot and bothered?”
Emma nodded ruefully, considering the question for several moments. As she contemplated the source of her ill ease, for Ben was correct, a large gaggle of Japanese tourists bustled past, babbling merrily in their native language. One of them, a young woman, was wearing a T-shirt adorned with a stylized spaceship, curiously reminiscent of another vehicle she and her husband had seen through shared eyes many years before. It seemed ridiculous on the surface, but as she’d pointed out many times to quite a lot of people, memory was an odd and flighty trickster. At any given time, you could be reminded of the oddest things, by any seemingly innocuous sensation.
“Have you ever had the feeling,” she tentatively began, her eyes meeting his, “that you're being watched? I wish I could explain it beyond that base cliché, but it seems as if some entity I can’t fathom is tracking us.” She paused, hesitant, then plowed determinedly onward. “Yes, us, as in you and me, ever since you spoke in Spokane. It’s only gotten worse since our return, and I’ve an awful feeling it’s related to the visitor you intercepted.”
A shadow crossed his visage as Ben contemplated her supposition as only he could. “I believe you,” he said after a beat, his voice cast in cold steel. “I can’t and won’t pretend to comprehend what’s caused this feeling, but your reasoned intuition has never led the family astray before. Especially given what Ames told us.” Hearing a familiar voice among the babble, he glanced around the terminal, then nodded to his wife. “Now, given what we know and suspect, do you have any suggestions on what to do about it?”
Emma knew when she was being asked to turn her feelings into something concrete and was grateful for this, another of those intangible little aspects which continued to make their marriage an interesting one. She routinely challenged his logical analyses with empathetic counter-arguments, and he’d remind her of the obligation she bore as a doctor to use the scientific method to substantiate her intuitive nature. Neither had set out to implement such a system, it had simply evolved into being as Ben served his remaining time in the Air Force. It didn’t take her long to come up with an idea she knew her husband would agree with, as well as giving her a much-needed dose of comfort.
“I think we need to remain close,” she whispered, as Mike and Tony hailed them from across the broad walkway. “And I’m certain we’ll need to arm ourselves.”
Chapter 8
“What’s with the flying gear?” Tony asked without preamble, wiping goo from his eyes as he and Mike approached the couple sitting in the waiting area. They still looked far younger than they’d claimed, but that didn’t factor into his opinion of them. While the doctor was kind and warm, with a quiet strength lending itself well to her profession, there was a curious omission in how she comported herself. She seemed to work hard to conceal some aspect of herself, and though he didn’t begrudge her that, this was enough to pique his curiosity. The colonel, meanwhile, had been full of surprises from the word go, unveiling different aspects of his personality seemingly with every conversation.
Neither he nor Mike had had any trouble accepting his leadership and moral authority, this was partly why they couldn’t bring themselves to relate to him as anything other than their superior officer. The retired fighter pilot had delighted in being irreverent whenever possible, his unpredictable, biting sense of humor capable of humbling anyone. His wife reflected and reinforced these qualities in her own subtle way. The pair had concluded this undoubtedly contributed to the duration and effectiveness of the Marketts’ marriage, each hoping they might someday find companions of their own, who could be half as supportive as the good doctor.
The flights were long, but peaceful thanks to an ability they’d cultivated over the years, to quickly fall sleep after taking their assigned seats and stay that way, until the instant they were allowed to deplane. Burdened with the largest carry-ons the airline permitted, neither were looking forward to claiming the rest of their substantial baggage, fitting for two men uprooting their lives to move across an ocean. People of every description came and went, paying no heed to the officers clad in rumpled, tiger-striped “airman battle uniforms.” Neither wanted to chance messing up their neat service blues during the trip, expecting this to be the last time they’d wear the things before finally exchanging them for the new operational camouflage pattern. Despite the fact he’d been awake for ten minutes at most, Tony was quite certain Dr. Markett wasn’t at all happy in this environment. The feeling was confirmed by how quickly she hopped from her seat to greet them.
“Captain Parsons, Leftenant Martinez, how lovely to see you,” she said, giving each a quick embrace as her husband pumped their hands.
“As for the flight suits,” the old colonel added, “it’s down to how we got here, and how you’re coming with us. I hope yours are handy.”
“They’re packed in our luggage,” Mike said, letting slip a huge yawn and stretching. “Where’s the claims area?”
Ben favored the pair with an enigmatic smile, pointing. “Over there. Trust me, you’ll enjoy it.”
The little group deftly made its way through the bustling throng toward the baggage area. After several minutes of waiting about in a knot, they looked on as the carousel finally began vomiting bags and suitcases onto the meandering conveyor at a slow but steady pace. A half hour of idle chit-chat later, regarding various goings-on related to Mike and Tony’s trip and the Marketts’ activities over the past month, the travelers finished gathering their retrieved packing cases, placing them on a luggage trolley Ben had fetched.
“Here, let me,” Emma said, reaching for the handle.
“You sure?” Tony said, knowing how much they’d loaded.
“As my husband is so fond of saying,” Emma quipped, smiling sweetly, “I’m stronger than I look.”
“Come on, kids,” Ben said, smirking. “We don’t want to be late, or it’ll be dark by the time we reach our place. That won’t be very fun.”
“Why’s that, Colonel?” Mike said as they headed for the taxi stand.
Ben sighed, his expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Captain Parsons, need I remind you that I’m retired, and therefore a civilian? Just call me Ben.”
“You know he’ll never do that, sir,” Tony needled.
“The same goes for you, Lieutenant,” Ben retorted, shooting a glare at the wizzo. “I haven’t been anyone’s sir for seventy years.”
Emma chuckled mildly, grateful for the distracting banter. “Boys, that’s quite enough bickering for now. Can’t we just accept we all have our little peccadilloes, and move on?”
“Like you calling Toner ‘Leftenant?’” Mike shot back, grinning.
“Yes, like that,” Emma said with the meanest hint of a grimace, hidden by her left hand as she easily pushed the trolley with her right.
One of London’s black cabs met them at the curb mere seconds upon their arrival, the driver assisting the group in manhandling the visitors’ belongings into the boot. Once finished and all four had piled in, the middle-aged man in a neat blue turban asked for their destination in accented English.
“Denham Aerodrome, Buckinghamshire,” Ben said crisply.
The driver considered that for a moment. “There is construction on parts of the M25 today, but I believe we can avoid the worst of it,” he said, pulling away. “How was your flight?”
“Restful,” Mike said, gazing at the metropolis beyond the window, struck by how compressed everything seemed compared to American cities. He made a mental note to ask about the red double-deck buses crowding the streets.
“Ditto,” Tony chimed in, as he too beheld the scenery.
Once on the motorway there wasn’t much to see beyond the traffic, so Ben and Emma give a quick and dirty breakdown on the sorts of differences—and similarities—in culture between Britain and the United States. At one point Emma noted that, while their driver was Sikh, he was just as British as her, which he confirmed with an amused chortle. “Unfortunately, it’s the Muslims you have to watch for,” she added, unhappy the warning was necessary. “Certain neighborhoods, and entire towns, have been all but colonized by gangs of Islamic fundamentalists. Worse, the local constabulary won’t lift a finger to keep them in line.”
“Last I heard, there weren’t any where you’re going,” Ben pointed out. “But that was a while ago, and a few delightful little toerags have cropped up in Middlesbrough, near our place.”
“If you ever encounter one of their ‘vice patrols,’ those uniforms will only encourage them,” the driver advised. “Fortunately, they only venture out after dusk, and are easy to spot. They will have thick beards, and wear long garments with round white hats.”
“Yeah, we’ve seen that kind of dress before,” Tony said. “Mike and I were deployed to Southwest Asia a while back.”
“We know how vicious the hajis can be,” his pilot added tartly, scratching his collar.
Ben grimaced, deciding to change the subject. “The flying here tends to be smooth,” he pointed out. “The weather is usually predictable; it’s either suitable for flying or it isn’t, and you’ll quickly learn to tell when conditions will turn bad well in advance. The weather weenies here have one of the most boring duty stations in Europe.”
“Is it normally this hot? Tony said, adjusting his collar despite the cab’s air conditioning.
Emma shook her head in displeasure. “It has been for the last couple of years, but that’s a more recent development. There’s talk of a drought as well, which will only make things worse.”
The rest of the trip passed in companionable silence, occasionally broken by a remark or question from Mike or Tony, mostly about the passing cityscape and other features. After nearly an hour wending his way through the morning congestion, the driver turned into their destination. A positively tiny airport by American standards, its small control tower and cluster of low-profile buildings brought back pleasant memories of Mike’s teenage summers, spent taking flying lessons at a field not far from Spokane.
“Where should I stop, sir?” the cabby politely asked.
“Take us to the northern dispersal area,” Ben said. “Look for two biplanes, one red and one yellow, parked side by side.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Wait, you guys flew here?” Tony said. “Both of you?”
“Well, who d’you think flew the other one?” Emma said, a glimmer in her eye. “I’ll have you know, young man, I’ve been flying airplanes since your grandfather was in diapers.”
Mike laughed as the cab halted at the indicated patch of grass, lined with a double handful of light aircraft of all shapes, sizes and colors. “There they are,” he said, smirking at Tony. “Whoa, is that a JN-4?”
“Sure is,” Ben said proudly, once he paid the fare and thanked their driver. “An original production model, too.”
“No way,” Mike said, utterly smitten, as everyone got out to unload cargo. “That thing has to be a hundred years old!”
“A hundred and three this March, actually,” Ben replied as the cab beat a hasty retreat. “My father bought her at a surplus auction when he started his crop-dusting business.”
“That second plane, the red one, what model is it?” Tony said.
A look of wistful pride in his eyes, Ben beamed broadly. “That’s Mists of Glory,” he said in a hushed whisper, as if speaking of a cherished relation. “Misty for short. She’s mine, an original Stearman C-3 Dad and I also rigged for crop-dusting. See the paintwork along the fuselage?”
“Nice kill tally,” Mike said, he and Tony dragging their gear through the grass toward the two planes. “At least, I’m assuming that’s what those black marks are.”
“You got it,” Ben replied. “Dad always knew he couldn’t prevent me from testing my limits while flying, so he made a game of it. Whenever we could spare the gas, he and I went head to head in mock dogfights for the amusement of the local farmers, as well as giving rides. I’d paint a new mark on Misty whenever I managed to beat the old man.”
“Where did he learn to fly?” Tony said, unable to tear his eyes from the ludicrously old pair of planes, adorned with the stylized logo of Jim and Ben’s Crop-Dusting Team.
“Tell you what,” Ben said as they stopped next to the JN-4. “You two figure out which of these birds you’ll be riding, then put on your flying gear, you’re going to need it. While you’re busy doing that, I’ll tell you the whole story.”
“I’m guessing Dr. Markett’s flying the JN-4?” Mike speculated.
“Very astute,” Emma said, donning a leather helmet and goggles.
“Shotgun!” Tony cried impishly, before Mike could claim the front seat of the Jenny for himself. He tossed the lieutenant a filthy look as he hauled his gear toward the Stearman.
“Cheer up,” Ben said lightly as he too got ready to fly. “Misty’s a bit sportier than Sunshine, anyway.”
It took a while to divvy up the cargo and get each plane loaded up, particularly given the weight concerns inherent with planes of such age. They ended up loading almost all of it into the Stearman. It took several more minutes for Mike and Tony to extract their flight suits from the last case and put them on, over top of their ABUs at Ben’s suggestion. “It gets colder than you’d think at angels three,” he said. “It’s also quite windy in an open-cockpit bird.”
At last, it was time to mount up.
“Hey, this seat’s wide enough for two,” Mike said, peering into the front cockpit as he stood on the starboard wing root. “And there’s a few instruments missing.”
“Just pick whichever side you want,” Ben said, strapping himself in. “Dog those belts tight, and keep off the controls unless I say so.”
“Affirmative, sir,” Mike said with a trace of uncertainty. He’d never before flown in an open-air plane, nor had his wizzo, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to try his hand at flying one yet. Gingerly stepping over the coaming, he managed to get himself onto the right side of the wide cushion without much fuss. Securing the lap belt, he looked up in time to see Tony gleefully waving at him from the front seat of the JN-4, a borrowed helmet and goggles already atop his head. Showoff, Mike thought bitterly as he tightened the shoulder harness. Little prick doesn’t appreciate the history these birds represent.
“Here, take this,” Ben called from behind, and Mike turned around in time to catch the thrown bundle that was his own protection against the elements. “There’s a lead from the left earpiece that plugs into a socket on the panel right in front of you.”
It took Mike a few seconds to work out how to wear the soft, wool-lined helmet, and several more to get it on and the interphone plugged in. “Got it,” he said into the boom mic, adjusting the goggles. “Ready!”
“NC One One Niner Seven to EGLD Tower,” Ben said into his own mic, and Mike immediately realized the colonel must be speaking to air traffic control. “Requesting VFR taxi and takeoff to the northside grass, for myself and NC Zero Six Three Five. We’ll be taking off in echelon.”
The reply, whatever it was, seemed directed toward the pilot. Mike could only hear a faint muttering.
“Understood, Tower,” Ben continued. “Our exit point will be Maple Cross, heading north northeast on a bearing of zero two three, to a private field.”
Ready for it this time, Mike thought he could discern the controller’s affirmation. Whatever the reply, there was a great buzzing and the propeller began to rotate as the starter was engaged. With a series of mechanical grunts and farts, the engine caught, roaring dully through the insulated earpieces of the helmet. He looked to his right in time to see the Jenny’s prop blur as its own engine came to life, the pilot giving a thumbs-up to indicate her readiness. They must’ve hooked up electric starters, Mike wondered. Makes sense, otherwise one of us would’ve had to prop each motor.
“Off we go,” Ben said into Mike’s ear. “Just relax and enjoy the ride. If you’re feeling up to it later, I may let you have some stick time.”
