Simon Morden - The Curve of The Earth

They stared back at him in return. He’d rather not have had them on the flight, and it would have been straightforward for him to have made the carrier lose their tickets. But a wave of their badges and they’d have been allowed to board anyway. Only US planes could fly to the US, and the carrier depended on a permit from the government to fly. Petrovitch still had to work within the bounds of what was possible. He wasn’t omnipotent enough to just wish his dreams into being. Not yet, anyway.

“Problem?” asked Newcomen when Petrovitch had sat down again. He’d been leafing through the safety information on the little handheld screen tucked in the pocket of the seat in front.

“Spooks. Back of the cabin. Don’t worry about them for now. They’re as trapped here as we are.”

“Doesn’t mention your name in any of the literature.”

“Bet you it doesn’t mention Frank Whittle, either.”

The cabin staff toured the seats, checking all the passengers were sitting comfortably and securely. The pilot started to taxi them to the edge of the runway, nudging the jets to above idle. They rolled on their fat black wheels out away from the terminal buildings, and Petrovitch watched the cracks in the concrete slide by.

By bending lower, he could see a China Eastern flight coming in from Shanghai, the vast torpedo shape occluding the sky as it drifted overhead. Its undercarriage was down, ready to receive the ground, and its engines pushed it forward until it had a clear space to land on.

The fat, rocket-shaped body rumbled away into the distance, and it was their turn.

The pilot engaged the repulsors. The airframe creaked as the weight shifted, and when the wheels were clear of the runway, they retracted with a series of positive clunking sounds.

The ground dwindled away. With no forward power, they spun slightly, giving Petrovitch a view of the towers of the Metrozone, then the wilds of the Outzone looking towards Windsor down the Thames valley. Tangled trees held their bare arms up in amongst the sighing walls and fractured roads.

They passed through a layer of cloud. The map of the ground was obscured, and they spiralled upwards into the thinner air unsighted.

With the aircraft’s nose pointing north-west and bright pillows of cumulus beneath them, the engines started with a rumble that grew into a roar. Shortly into the flight, they passed over Ireland, almost directly above the domes of the Freezone.

Petrovitch felt a pang of longing, and wondered if he’d ever see his home again.

Five and a half thousand kilometres later, Petrovitch landed at John F. Kennedy airport at the same time he’d left Heathrow.

It didn’t feel right, like so many things. They’d come in over frozen Newfoundland, and he’d shivered at the sight of so much ice and snow. Yet he’d been brought up in a city ten degrees further north. He was out of practice, and he knew he had to get back up to speed quickly. Lives might depend on it. Lucy’s. His. Even Newcomen’s.

They slid down the east coast until they were poised above Long Island Sound, where they made their descent. It wasn’t like at Heathrow, where the airspace outside the M25 was Outie-controlled, and on the off chance one of them had a still-working surface-to-air missile, the planes landed straight down. Here they glided in old-style, lining up with the runway while they were over Long Beach.

The plane touched down with barely a shudder, but next to him, Newcomen visibly relaxed.

“Back on home soil, yeah? Don’t let it go to your head.”

“The land of the free,” sighed Newcomen. Even his fingers had softened from the stiff claws they’d been from the bouncing around they’d had just south of Greenland. Just in case someone had accidentally boarded the wrong flight and needed it pointing out to them where in the world they were, the tannoy started the opening bars of “The Star-Spangled Banner”. A legal requirement, apparently.

“Oh, please.”

Newcomen stood, along with most of the other passengers. Petrovitch stayed resolutely sitting down.

The woman in front of him noticed his unseemly rebellion and raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. Her chiffon scarf would have cost more than Petrovitch’s entire ensemble, and she thought it only fair to deliver her judgement to the unbeliever.

“Communist.”

“Yeah. What of it?”

The woman’s husband noticed the sudden chill flowing from his spouse. He turned and frowned.

“Henry, this… man; he says he’s a communist.”

What would they have seen? A thin-faced blond-haired man, cheekbones sharp and Slavic, eyes the colour of old ice. They would have seen the fine white scar that ran from one side of his face to the other, and that he was missing an earlobe. No suit or smart casual for him, either. The last time he’d worn a jacket was on his wedding day. He had an ex-EDF combat smock, and cargo trousers with a hundred pockets.

Definitely not Reconstruction. Anti-Reconstruction: put the two together and wait for the explosion.

“Newcomen? Sort this out. I haven’t got the energy.” Petrovitch pushed the agent into the aisle and levered himself across the seat. “It’s not like I’m going to be leaving copies of Das Kapital in hotel rooms across America any time soon.”

“Ma’am, I’m sure he meant no harm.” Newcomen reached for his badge. “He’s on his first visit, and he’s not used to our ways yet.”

Petrovitch, his back turned to the stuffily indignant couple, caught sight of the secret service men. Against all the rules of engagement, he stopped on his way past.

“What did you expect me to do? Parachute out over Massachusetts? Or were you just making sure I wasn’t going to hijack the flight?”

They, sticking to their roles, refused to acknowledge him.

“Hey. Spooks. Talking to you.” He was blocking their exit. They had no choice but to listen to him. “Where’s Lucy? You know anything about that, do you? Or are you too low in the food chain?”

Newcomen, having placated the McCarthyites, found himself with a completely different level of altercation.

“Not here,” he said into Petrovitch’s ear, and tried to bundle him along.

Petrovitch was the immovable object, and Newcomen’s force was far from irresistible.

“Not here? Then where? Maryland? And before you say I shouldn’t piss these guys off, tell me why they’re even here. They’re just getting in my face, and I don’t like that.”

The whole cabin had fallen silent when Petrovitch had said the word “piss”. Newcomen was gritting his teeth and had one eye closed, just so he could see fewer shocked expressions.

Petrovitch didn’t bother lowering his voice. “Is this what it’s going to be like? Your government have agreed that I can come and watch while you fail to find my daughter, and yet I’m treated like a criminal before I’ve even left neutral ground. Yobany stos , I’ve been here less than five minutes and already I want to kill someone.” He eyed the nearest NSA agent. “You, specifically. If I see you on my tail again, I’ll blank your bank account.”

He growled and headed for the door, while Newcomen had to explain that the sweary man had diplomatic immunity and wasn’t going to be hit for the usual twenty bucks profanity fine.

“Have a nice day, Dr Petrovitch,” said one of the cabin staff as he passed through the outer door. “Welcome to America.”

“Someone is,” he muttered, “but sure as hell isn’t me.” He kept on going.

“Did you have any hand luggage, sir?” came the worried voice from behind him.

“No. No, I didn’t. It gives them less to bug.”

Once out of the transit tube and in the airport proper, he loped along the travelator, past his fellow travellers, who seemed content to let the moving walkway take them to baggage reclaim.