Broken Arrow, page 2
The base was quietest before the changing of the guard at eight. The commander approved the use of a US Marine Harrier, requisitioning it for what he dubbed an urban training exercise, with his signature and stamp. Ground crew relocated the aircraft, fuelled it, and then plugged it into a mobile generator. They swapped theories about the so-called urban training op and filled in the blanks with what they had heard, what they guessed, and what they had invented about the events of the previous night in the bar. Rumours were rife, but lacked confirmation, until Ukaliina turned up on her street bike wearing the same clothes she had on the night before, with the addition of an aviator’s jacket to ward off the early morning chill. The ground crew watched as she parked her bike, tugged a thermos from the saddlebag, and poured herself a generous mug of coffee.
“It looks like she needs it,” said the oldest of the ground crew.
They watched her a little while longer, commenting on her jet-black straggly hair, big brown eyes, slim figure, and agreeing that they would tap that if given half a chance, and that it was too bad she was leaving.
That part of the story, at least, was confirmed.
The loser left town.
It was Addleton himself who suggested he accept the same fate as Ukaliina.
“But what are the chances of that?”
Ukaliina could still hear Addleton’s last words at the bar before he turned in for the night, promising quite the show in the morning.
“Tom,” she said, as he jumped down from the military pickup that deposited him and a gaggle of pilots who had come for the show. “No hard feelings?” Ukaliina thrust a mug of coffee into Tom’s hand as he joined her.
“Coffee?”
Ukaliina shrugged, and said, “I need to sober up.”
“Rough night, eh?” Addleton grinned, took the mug from Ukaliina’s hand and took a swallow. “It’s sweet,” he said, frowning. He took another gulp. “I like it.”
Addleton finished his coffee as Ukaliina walked him around her bike. He nodded when she told him about the previous owner’s modifications and suppressed a grin when she told him she had once cracked one hundred miles per hour. “But it shook so much I had to throttle down before I broke something.”
“Throttle down?”
Ukaliina nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
Addleton kicked the front tyre, gave the bike another inspection tour, then handed Ukaliina his empty mug. “You’re a good sport, Sled Dog.”
“Thanks,” she said.
Addleton pointed at the jump jet and said, “Ready to have some fun?”
“Always.”
Ukaliina stuffed the mugs back into the saddlebag along with the thermos flask. A small bottle slipped out of the front pocket and rolled under the bike, out of sight.
“Good luck,” Addleton said, offering Ukaliina his hand. He smiled when she gripped it, frowning at Ukaliina’s strength, and again when he caught her eye, and the glint of something when she looked at him—a flash of something he struggled to define. He let go of Ukaliina’s hand when the commander arrived, and they turned to snap a sharp salute as he got out of his vehicle. The doctor got out of the rear passenger seat and walked with the commander to greet the two pilots.
“All set?” the commander asked.
“We’re ready,” Addleton said.
Ukaliina nodded.
The commander turned to the jump jet and said, “A cold start, Tom?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well,” he said. “Carry on.”
Ukaliina plucked her aviator glasses from the front of her jacket and slipped them on, hiding her eyes and whatever it was Addleton thought he might have glimpsed when they shook hands. She nodded at the commander, smiled for the doctor, and then climbed onto her bike. The motor started with a throaty roar—impressive, by most standards. Until, of course, Addleton fired up the Harrier’s Rolls Royce Pegasus Turbofan, capable of lifting over nine tonnes of aircraft in a vertical take-off, before vectoring the four synchronized nozzles for forward flight.
The roar of the Harrier’s engine was legendary. As would be the race, once it got started on that chilly morning in California.
Ukaliina motored up to the start line, nodded at the ground crew, and again at Addleton as he tugged his flight helmet onto his head, before gripping the ladder leading up to the cockpit. He put his right foot on the first rung, as agreed when the rules of the race were confirmed.
The commander pressed a pair of foam plugs into his ears, while the doctor bent down to pick up something she noticed as Ukaliina pulled away.
“What’s that?” the commander said as Withers stood up.
“Just a bit of trash,” she said, slipping a small glass bottle into her pocket. “Don’t want it to blow away in the wash.” Withers pointed at the Harrier, and the commander nodded.
The big pilot from the bar—call sign, Papa Bear—stood between the two pilots and their machines. He was the heaviest of all the commander’s pilots, and the one most likely to stand his ground in the wake of the Harrier’s launch. He nodded at each pilot, waited for them to wave, and then raised his arms above his head. Addleton gripped the ladder. Ukaliina gave the bike a quick twist of the throttle.
“Pilots ready?”
Ukaliina and Addleton gave the thumbs up.
“Race!”
Papa Bear dropped his arms and Ukaliina gunned the bike over the starting line.
The young fighter pilot dipped her head, tucking in and holding a low profile—as low as possible—to defeat the wind. She grinned at the snap and ripple of her jacket as the wind pressed against her body, the shudder and shake of the motorcycle frame as she traced the surface of the pitted asphalt with the threadbare tread of the tyres. She thought about looking over her shoulder to see how close Addleton was to launching, but it wasn’t necessary. Even with the wind, and the throaty roar of the old bike’s engine, the thunder of the turbofan behind her told her all she needed to know.
The race was on!
Addleton screeched past Ukaliina at an altitude of a couple of hundred feet, as she passed the halfway mark. If he had maintained his course and speed, he would have won.
He should have won.
But as Ukaliina resigned herself to the fact that her time as a fighter pilot—a naval aviator—in California was soon over, as she throttled down to spare the old bike any permanent damage, Addleton changed course.
Ukaliina slowed to watch as Addleton vectored the nozzles for landing, bringing the Harrier to an abrupt stop on a patch of desert to the right of the asphalt. She heard the approach of support vehicles and guessed that something was wrong with the aircraft. The sirens suggested as much. But as the Harrier settled into a perfect—if a little hard—landing, and the dust cloud settled, Ukaliina spotted Addleton as he popped the canopy and clambered out of the aircraft. She watched him run a couple of feet before he stopped to fumble with his flight suit. Ukaliina grinned as Addleton gave up trying to wriggle out of his suit and simply squatted a stone’s throw from the jump jet.
Ukaliina spread her lips in what some might describe as a satisfactory, if a little smug, smile.
Others might call it evil.
Captain Withers called it something else: justice, as she gripped the glass bottle in her pocket and pictured the young Greenlander—call sign Sled Dog—racing the last five miles of the racetrack on her way to the finish line, and what Withers imagined would be a very interesting career.
She picked at the edge of the label with the tip of her nail, peeling it away from the bottle before depositing both in the nearest trash can. The label would confirm what Withers already guessed the bottle had contained. But she didn’t need to read it to know what it said. Osmotic laxatives were pretty common and easily available over the counter. But Withers had prescribed this one herself. That the wrong pilot had taken it was simply unfortunate. That he had taken the whole bottle, even more so.
Yes, she thought as Commander Short cursed the day the Greenlander set foot on his airbase. Lieutenant Sled Dog Nakinngi’s career promised to be very interesting indeed.
Ukaliina crossed the finish line at a modest eighty miles per hour. She considered taking a victory lap, but changed her mind once her win was confirmed. She kept going, sticking to the base speed limits all the way to the hangar. Ukaliina parked her bike in the spot reserved for the commander and made her way inside. The first hop was scheduled for midday, and she didn’t want to be late.
It was a perfect day for flying.
The End
About the Author
Christoffer Petersen is the author’s pen name. He lives in Denmark. Chris started writing stories about Greenland while teaching in Qaanaaq, the largest village in the very north of Greenland – the population peaked at 600 during the two years he lived there. Chris spent a total of seven years in Greenland, teaching in remote communities and at the Police Academy in the capital of Nuuk.
Chris continues to be inspired by the vast icy wilderness of the Arctic and his books have a common setting in the region, with a Scandinavian influence. He has also watched enough Bourne movies to no longer be surprised by the plot, but not enough to get bored.
You can find Chris in Denmark or online here:
Christoffer Petersen
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events, are entirely coincidental.
BROKEN ARROW
This edition. January 11, 2023.
Copyright © 2023 Christoffer Petersen.
Cover Design Chris Paton.
Written by Christoffer Petersen.
Christoffer Petersen
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