Harry Takes Off: Astounding Stories of Adventure (Iron Pegasus Book 1) Page 5

  Werner had been awake early and tending to his airplane when the faint and distant sound of a pumping engine had attracted his attention. He had seen the foreign ornithopter when the light from the rising sun glinted on the metal of its wings. The story unfolded in his mind. The girls had escaped and were even now on their way to warn the British forces in Zanzibar.

  He had already had the engine ticking over. There had been no time to alert anyone else. He threw himself into the cockpit and took to the air. He would bring it down, save the expedition and they would give him the credit he deserved.

  But the damned British plane would not go down.

  He knew he had hit something important because it went into a holding pattern, but he was unable to capitalise on it. His speed shot him past the ornithopter, giving him only a glimpse of the girl in the pilot’s seat before he flashed beyond it and had to pull round in a long sweep.

  The ornithopter was in a climb away from the bridge on the ground before he managed to get into position for another attack. This time he throttled back; he would not make the mistake of overshooting again.

  They must have seen him because they turned back towards the bridge. He was at a loss to understand the pilot’s thinking but then she was just some stupid girl, not a professional combatant.

  He watched as she pulled the wings in, like a bird diving, and the ornithopter accelerated. He laughed. There was no way she could outrun him. As he closed on them, taking his time, he lined up behind them. It made the target smaller, but she was effectively motionless in front of him.

  Werner opened fire and watched the tracers rake across her stern. One of them sparked off the propeller, the others deflected from the fuselage.

  The nose of the ornithopter dipped abruptly, the wings folded into the body and the machine fell away from him.

  He grinned. All the pilots had made fun of Tomas when she had switched off her Faraday to escape him and landed—crashed—into the town square. Seems she only had this one trick.

  Werner opened up the power and dived after her. She was already out of range but he would catch her soon enough. The ground was approaching fast. They were at only a few hundred feet when she re-engaged her Faraday and flipped the wings out halfway—enough to give her control.

  He was about to revise his opinion of her—thinking perhaps she was not entirely unskilled—when she dipped into the river. A wall of water exploded upwards. Clouds of flamingos erupted into the air. Hippos charged from the water. She lifted again, her speed reduced to almost nothing, and crashed down on the far side of the bridge.

  The ornithopter landed hard on the parapet. She smashed through the wall and into a lamp post, which toppled down the far side. The British were crazy. They built a bridge that should have been in a city in the middle of the savannah and gave it lamp posts when there was no gas or electric for a hundred miles.

  The ’thopter back-winged furiously to arrest its remaining momentum and came to rest half off the bridge.

  The bridge was coming at him at one hundred kilometres an hour. He pulled the firing trigger and raked it with powerful machine-gun fire as he yanked hard on the control stick to lift the nose. The plane responded by shooting over the bridge with barely thirty feet of clearance. He was not concerned. There was as much space beneath it; he could have gone under just as easily.

  Werner pulled up and craned his neck. The ’thopter was a sitting duck. He pulled his craft into the tightest turn he dared. It was critically important to keep the active Faraday beneath the main portion of the airplane. Otherwise, it would have no effect, and the plane would fall out of the sky—just as she had done deliberately, but upside-down.

  The ’thopter had not moved from its position. The right wing was flapping, the left one moving a little but not enough to provide any lift. Not just a sitting duck, but a wounded one.

  This time he would make sure. He prepared one of his bombs. While this was his least favourite method, against a ground target it was the best option. He lined up for the final run. The ’thopter was still flapping its right wing. He hoped they wouldn’t abandon ship. Destroying the plane was his main target, but he’d prefer to kill the girls as well. Get the whole job done properly.

  He kept the speed down to fifty, to ensure his aim was good. Descending to skim the surface of the river, he headed towards the bridge. The smile on his face grew in anticipation. His thumb held firm on the bomb-drop mechanism.

  Barely three hundred feet from the bridge, the river rippling from his low-level flight, it happened. Both the ’thopter’s wings beat in wide forceful strokes. At two hundred feet out, the nose of the ’thopter lifted. At one hundred feet, it was sitting almost vertical, wings outstretched, the propeller driving so hard it created a miniature whirlwind on the bridge.

  Werner was too close, and there was no time to pull up. He might want to kill the girls but he did not want to die in the impact. With a grim laugh he pushed the control forward and dived beneath the bridge.

  He panicked for a second when he saw the pile of rubble from the damaged bridge in the water ahead of him, but there was still enough of a gap. Except for the fallen lamp post protruding from the river bed, and the ’thopter dropping towards the river on the far side. There was no way out.

  His instincts took over and he tried to turn away. His right wing dipped and hit the water. The plane attempted to cartwheel. The left wing ripped off against the underside of the bridge and the airplane smashed into the shallow water.

  * * *

  The air blast from the exploding plane slammed the Pegasus forward. Harry barely managed to maintain control as a ball of fire engulfed them, then dissipated. She kept the wings beating as broken pieces of masonry and metal peppered the ship. Something ripped a hole through the fuselage above her.

  And then it was over.

  She gained height with strong wing beats and brought the Pegasus round. Khuwelsa came to stand beside her.

  They looked at the wreckage of the bridge. An entire arch had been blown out and the adjoining sections didn’t look too stable.

  “He was carrying bombs,” said Harry in surprise. “So I guess that went all right.”

  “All right?”

  “Better than expected, really.”

  “Better than expected?”

  “Well, we’re not dead,” said Harry. “I’d call that a success.”

  “Harry,” said Khuwelsa. “Can we not do that again?”

  “Yes,” said Harry. She brought the ship round and made as much speed as she dared towards Zanzibar. “Let’s not.”

  xii

  The Pegasus thundered across the sea between the African mainland and Zanzibar. Small fishing boats with triangular sails dotted the water. A large ferry steamed for the island and two British gunboats—outmoded and obsolete in the Faraday world—stood at the entrance to the bay. Harry could see their guns following the Pegasus as they went past. Probably just practising, she thought.

  Stone Town of Zanzibar was a different world. The influence of the Arabs on its architecture and culture was evident along the slave trade routes across East Africa.

  But Stone Town was Araby. The city had been ruled by the sultans for hundreds of years; they had made their mark, not only in the buildings, but also in the people. The skin tones and features of Africa were far less common than those of the Middle East.

  Harry would have preferred to skirt around the city and approach from inland, but Khuwelsa was fussing about the damaged steam pipe. Harry couldn’t deny that her bird was not behaving normally. The propeller vibrated unnaturally at high revolutions and she could feel the lack of response in the port wing.

  She had never been to Zanzibar and had no idea of the best place to land. The city was built on a promontory sticking out into the sea, surrounded by an ancient wall. A difficult place to attack from the sea but the advent of air transportation made all such defences redundant.

  Inside the wall the buildings were crammed together with b
arely more than alleys between them. To the north was a massive fort. Just to the fort’s south was a large building with the only open spaces in the city. From what her father had said, Harry guessed it must be the sultan’s palace.

  “You’re not planning on landing there,” said Khuwelsa, leaning on her chair.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “It aches but I’ll live,” she said. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  Harry yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Technically, you didn’t ask one.”

  Khuwelsa slapped the back of her head.

  “Can you see anywhere better?” said Harry. She rubbed her eyes, she would be glad for the chance to rest.

  Khuwelsa said nothing for a while as Harry put the Pegasus into wide turn so as not to stress the damaged wing.

  “We could land outside the walls inland.”

  “Every minute counts.”

  “You’ve decided then.”

  Harry hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Fine, I’ll just get dressed.”

  Harry checked the steam pressure. It was down, but that was probably a good thing; landings and take-offs put the greatest strain on the wings. This was going to be a bit of a ticklish landing.

  “What on earth!”

  As she circled for the final time a tethered balloon drifted up from the sultan’s garden. She saw several others being prepared. Turning again she saw big baggy balloons, tethered to great winches, rising all across the city. What was more, they had gondolas hanging beneath holding two or three men, soldiers, with what looked to be small artillery weapons.

  “Why is nothing easy!” Harry shouted in despair, remonstrating whatever god might be listening. Something shot across the bows. “Can’t they see the flag?”

  “Maybe the other side is still in charge.”

  The Pegasus jerked and the tail went sideways. Their airspeed dropped fast. “We’ve lost the rotor!” shouted Harry.

  “I can’t fix that up here.”

  There was no choice now.

  “Lie down, Sellie, this is going to be rough.”

  “Again?”

  Harry angled down and hoped they didn’t take out any part of the Faraday grid. Another hit blew a hole through the fuselage.

  It was difficult to focus. Harry dipped the nose and let the Pegasus have her head. There was no point worrying about the wing giving out; they couldn’t stay up here any longer.

  Harry saw the cable tethering one of the balloons just in time, yanked the controls instinctively and banked sharply. She knew immediately something was wrong. The port wing had ceased to respond. But it was still providing lift, so it must be locked open.

  She took a deep breath and continued the turn which took her away from her landing point. She kept the turn going. When the ship had done a full rotation she saw the flat area again. It was too far away. Without wing or propeller there was no way she could get over the wall.

  The guns had stopped firing. She was below all the gondolas now, which meant they would be firing on the city itself. That was a small mercy.

  Could she land in the road approaching the gate? No, it wasn’t wide enough to accommodate the wings. Did she have any choice? No.

  She took a deep breath and made another full turn. At the end of it Pegasus was heading directly at the wall around the palace, a few yards to the left of the gate. She used the remaining steam to back-wing furiously with the right.

  Pegasus almost spun on the spot. When they were over the road and sideways on, she killed the Faraday and the ship crashed to the ground. Harry was thrown from the chair and fetched up against the control panel. She found herself hoping for the second time in as many days that she hadn’t hurt anyone. And then she thought of nothing at all.

  * * *

  Khuwelsa pulled herself to her feet and checked the cabin. The furnace had been banked and was designed to work at almost any angle. There was no hint of breakage or embers leaking out. The water reservoir was likewise solid. Steam leaked from a few places and the temporary mend they had performed on the main port pressure tube had blown apart. The cloth they had tied around it was in tatters.

  The damage to the fuselage had not broken anything more important; they were just a couple of holes. It could have been worse. Repairs to the pipe and replacing the propeller would get them airborne again. The feathers and wing controls would need a more thorough check.

  It occurred to her there had been no smart comment from Harriet.

  The deck was at an angle and she had to climb to reach her sister who was lying curled up with her head resting on her arms. Khuwelsa checked her over and couldn’t see any bleeding, or even bruising. In fact she could have sworn Harry was sleeping which, considering the fact she had barely slept since yesterday morning, was entirely likely.

  She stood up and looked out but couldn’t see anything except a wall. She clambered back to the main hatch and undogged it. Taking a deep breath she pushed it open and peered out along the port wing and into the streets of Zanzibar.

  Her heart sank as a man in a dark suit and a wide-brimmed straw hat strode towards her.

  “Khuwelsa Edgbaston! What on God’s green earth are you and your damnable sister playing at?”

  xiii

  Khuwelsa stepped down awkwardly from the hatch, having to jump the final distance into the sun-baked dust, stone fragments and broken roof tiles. She turned to face him, expecting the full force of his anger. Again.

  “Good morning, Daddy.”

  Jonathan Livingston Edgbaston did not make an impressive figure. He was neither tall nor short, thin nor ample. He kept out of the sun so had managed to maintain a fair complexion despite living in Africa for so many years. Like his daughter he had red hair, though his was thinning on top. He did not attempt a moustache because, as he said, unless one were a burly Scotsman, ginger facial hair invited ridicule.

  Though his physique was less than imposing, he had risen through the ranks of the British diplomatic service to be … well, Khuwelsa didn’t actually know what he was, except important. He often had official house guests with names that began with significant titles at the family home outside Mombasa, but she and Harry were instructed to stay out of their way.

  He was often away for weeks at a time. The only person they had to obey was Mrs Hemingway, their tutor, and then only in regard to lessons. Khuwelsa and Mrs Hemingway did not get along. In some ways Khuwelsa was grateful because the situation had taught her how some white people felt about the blacks.

  It had prepared her in some ways for the treatment she received when she and Harry went into Mombasa, or even smaller towns. The sisters had come to an agreement over how they would conduct themselves in such situations. It had taken a fight—a real fight that had started with hair pulling, pinching and slapping, then degenerated into punching, arm twisting and throttling—before Khuwelsa had forced Harry to agree. And she had sulked for days afterwards.

  They pretended that Khuwelsa was not Harry’s equal, just a native companion, while Khuwelsa kept her mouth shut and followed behind. Khuwelsa didn’t like it but the alternative was worse. They hadn’t told their father though; he might dislike it as much as Harry did. And Khuwelsa suspected a twisted arm would not persuade him.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said as he clambered beneath the wing. She looked at her arm; she’d almost forgotten about it. It wasn’t bleeding but the temporary bandage was still stained.

  “Just a scratch, really,” she said. He grabbed her hand and stretched her arm for a closer look, prodding at the bandage. She suppressed the sudden intake of breath as the pain shot up to her shoulder, and forced a grin onto her face. “It’s fine.”

  The look he gave he suggested he was not convinced. “Where’s Harriet?”

  “Asleep.”

  “Unconscious?” he said with alarm. Khuwelsa thought he had good reason; the Pegasus looked a complete wreck, though she knew it was superficial damage, apart from the propeller.

  “No
, really, she’s just asleep.”

  His eyebrows knotted. “And that’s why you crashed? She was asleep?”

  “Oh no, she was awake for that bit,” she stopped, realising she wasn’t making it any better.

  “So she crashed the ornithopter.”

  “The propeller had been shot off.”

  “Yes. I saw that.”

  “And the port wing was out of commission so we couldn’t manoeuvre properly.”

  “I see.”

  “She was aiming for the palace.” She pointed and then thought that he probably knew where the palace was.

  “She missed.”

  “Under the circumstances this was a really good landing, Papa.” Khuwelsa had discovered that word was very good for softening him when his sentences were getting this short. “We’re alive.”

  “Yes.” He sighed and squinted through the shadows of the buildings towards the palace. A number of guards in sand-coloured uniforms and turbans had accumulated on the inside of the fence and more were arriving. Every one of them was brandishing a rifle and looking quite unfriendly. The bystanders hanging out the windows and in the side streets faded away.

  “You can’t just fly into a potential war zone, Khuwelsa, it’s dangerous.”

  “Yes, I know,” she replied with such vehemence that he looked at her askance before returning his attention to the soldiers.

  “Are you sure Harriet is all right?”

  “I checked her before coming out,” she said. “She hasn’t slept since yesterday morning. She was really tired.” She realised she had said something else that would need explaining. Khuwelsa didn’t mind doing the talking but it was a lot better when they were both together, because then he had to divide his anger between them.

  “Very well,” he said his tone changing from concerned father to efficient civil servant. “You stay here. Check on your sister while I smooth things out.”