“Yes,” Yana replied. “The first ever for the American military. Everything inside is pressurized except for the belly’s bomb bay.”
They moved forward. Yana sat in what Hammet figured was the pilot chair. He sat across the narrow walk space between seats in what must have been the copilot’s chair.
He pointed to the lone station in front of them. It sat lower than theirs and was positioned forward into the nose of the plane. “What’s that?”
“Best seat in the house. That’s the bombardier’s seat.”
Hammet looked at the oddly placed chair with new eyes. “So, whoever sat there is the person who dropped the bombs during the war.”
“The same,” she replied, hunting and pecking particular buttons and flicking seemingly random switches. “He could take over the controls of the entire aircraft at will and get them into position for their next run.” She looked at him. “This
“You really like these things, don’t you?” he asked.
She snorted. “Who doesn’t? The B-29 is what the kids would call ‘OG.’” She patted the top of her instrument panel. “This is as authentic as it gets.” She raised her hand to a foursome of switches. “Here we go…”
She flicked them one by one.
The first engine fired up with little trouble.
“Yes!” Yana yelled, pumping her fist.
The second engine coughed a cloud of black smoke but also came to life. Hammet wondered if jet fuel could even hold this long — perhaps the cold climate helped it. Or perhaps those working here had perfected some other alien-based fuel.
Either way, they were all about to find out.
The third engine struggled and poured smoke, but it also started.
The fourth engine didn’t turn over at all.
Yana tried it again, but still, nothing. “Eh, good enough.”
“Good enough?”
She nodded. “We won’t get airborne, but we’ll still be able to get rolling.” Yana stroked her armrest. “I will call her
“Firebird?” Hammet asked. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t they seen as harbingers of death in your culture?”
“Yes, but not always. Sometimes they are a blessing.”
Hammet looked around the cockpit. “Well, let’s hope your Firebird plays nice.”
“Yes, let’s hope. She tilted her head back toward the hatch. “Come on. Let’s go check on Zahra.”
They descended the stairs beneath the nose of the aircraft and looked for Zahra.
“There!” Yana said. “She just made it to the control console.”
The South Wing elevator safely returned him to the uppermost level. He took a deep breath, nearly tasting freedom. The stale air of the Underworld had become an unwelcome stench. He rushed right, bypassing dozens of small rooms in a blur. When he was directly beneath the southern archway into the wing, he was thrown to the floor as the entire facility shook with the force of an earthquake.
Henri’s forehead hit hard and was cut open, though he didn’t pay it any attention. He launched to his feet and made a mad dash for his former team’s Sno-Cat. It wouldn’t be the fastest means of exit, but it would still be a hell of a lot faster than his tired legs.
He hurriedly climbed inside and slammed the door, plopping down in the driver seat with a sigh of relief. But Henri knew better than to celebrate. He still had to make it outside before Ritscher Peak turned him into a pancake.
Henri gently laid his hand on top of his chest, feeling the slight lump in his chest rig’s admin pouch. He visualized the priceless remnant from a time past. Even if he couldn’t use it as a means to an end, he knew a few people who would pay handsomely for the information inside of it.
He started the engine and pulled away.
Zahra took the steps two at a time and made it to the top on the raised control console in what she believed was record time. She took in the state of the workstation and saw that she had chosen correctly regarding the east platform. The controls belonging to the southern bomber now wore a boulder as a hat. She didn’t need to look up and confirm where it had originated from. Zahra knew the ceiling was falling apart all around her.
She had dodged smaller ones on her way here, but nothing the size of the rock that had crushed one-third of the control console. Zahra skidded across the catwalk flooring and caught herself against a bolted-down chair. She counted eight individual buttons and had no idea which one to press. Then, she looked closer and saw the word for
“Oh, that’s convenient.”
She mashed it with her palm. A hiss and chorus of grinding gears filled the air in front of her as she watched the gargantuan underground platform elevator activate.
The 140-foot-wide
“Oh, shit.”
