Steven Boyett - Fata Morgana

Farley looked out the window. The sky was jet black shot with hard unwinking stars, yet the sun was visible as a harsh white circle like a spotlight in the sky. It looked like what Farley imagined outer space looked like.

The bomber flew above an enormous jagged canyon that looked like a crack in the foundation of the world. The crevice walls were sharp-edged and obsidian black, descending to a valley floor in shadow far below.

“It looks like we blew up all of Germany,” said Broben.
Farley didn’t look away from the window as he asked, “Altimeter working?”

“Hey, it is!” said Broben.

“Fuel?”

“Just over fifty percent.”

Farley nodded absently. “So everything electrical got knocked out. Fuel gauge is mechanical and the altimeter works on air pressure. What’s our altitude?”

“Sixteen five.”

Farley frowned. “That plateau can’t be four thousand feet below us. Where the hell are we?”

He turned his head and raised his voice. “Wen, you back there?” With the engines out, buffeting wind and creaking metal was all the noise there was.

Wen climbed down from the top turret and stood in the pit behind Farley and Broben. The bottom of his face was streaked where he’d wiped blood from his nose. “Here, boss,” he said.

“Tell Everett to crank the turret and get Martin out of there,” Farley ordered. “You get the gear crank and start winding the wheels down when I give the word. Get some help with it. And send Shorty up here.”

“I best check out that rear wheel.”

“Get to it.”

“You got it, cap.” Wen dropped down into the lower cockpit.

“What the living hell just happened to us, Joe?” said Broben.

“No idea. But it’s still happening, and I need you in the game. All right?”

Broben nodded. “I’m in,” he said.

“Good man.” Farley glanced out the window again. Everywhere he looked the ground was black and featureless as a sheet of smoked glass. The canyon directly below was a darker crack, some violent interruption in what otherwise would have been a vast smooth plain.

“You see anything out there?” Farley asked.

Broben shook his head. “Looks like an eight-ball,” he said.

“I’m gonna try for the canyon, then,” said Farley. “Maybe there’s a river on the valley floor where we can ditch. Or maybe it opens out into a broader space. In any case it’ll buy time.”

“Hell of a gamble,” said Broben.

“If we land on that plain we’ll still be at twelve thousand feet. You see anything to live on down there? Any objective to reach?”

“I don’t even see a rock.”

“All right, then.”

The bomber began to buffet as it caught updrafts spilling over the sheer cliff tops. Fata Morgana descended silent as a balsa glider into the enormous crooked canyon. The fissure looked to be about a mile wide. The bottom lay in shadow and Farley saw no gleam of water. He kept the aircraft centered between the sheer cliff walls and muscled her along the sharp contours.

Shorty stuck his head up from the lower cockpit. He was carrying the second of their two walkaround oxygen bottles. He lowered his mask and said, “Radio’s out, captain.”

“So’s everything else,” said Farley. “You’re my relay, got it?”

Shorty swallowed. “Got it,” he said.

“Tell Boney and Plavitz to stay in the nose and look for a place to land. We’re coming in unpowered, so we’re gonna need some room. Jerry, call out altitude.”

Shorty nodded. He relayed Farley’s order, breath smoking in the freezing air, while Jerry announced their altitude as fifteen thousand.

At his desk behind the bombardier station in the nose, Plavitz looked up from his charts and compass and lowered his oxygen mask. “Do we have any idea where the hell we are?” he yelled.

Shorty looked up at the command seats. “Navigator says he can’t get a fix on our position,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter where we are,” said Farley. “We’re landing on it.”

“Fourteen five,” said Broben.

Shorty saw Everett undog the hatch and swing it back. Martin struggled out and Everett helped him into the cabin. “Martin’s out of the ball turret,” Shorty called up.

“Fourteen,” said Broben.

“Tell Martin to get on the oxy feed in the radio room and stay put,” said Farley. “Tell Everett to seal the turret and crank it till the guns are level. Ask Wen if that rear wheel’s gonna lower.”

Shorty relayed the orders calmly but with growing horror at their predicament.

“Thirteen five,” said Broben.

“Bombardier wants to blow the Norden,” relayed Shorty. “Navigator sees lights ahead.”

“Affirmative on the Norden, but wait till we’re at a thousand feet. Some detail on the lights would be nice.”

Shorty felt faint and realized his face was numb with cold. He had to remember to keep using the walkaround. “He says it’s green pinprick lights on the valley floor in the far distance straight ahead,” he replied. “He doesn’t think it’s an airfield.”

“Thirteen thousand,” said Broben.

Farley held the bomber level as he could to keep the glide ratio as high as possible. More speed would give him more control, but would also put them on the ground sooner. Luckily a steady updraft of warm air from the valley floor was helping to keep their glide path shallow.

The cockpit darkened as the bomber descended into shadow. The stark sky now a crooked path between black borders of mountain-high cliffs.

“Twelve,” said Broben.

A few miles ahead the dark edges of the massive cliffs framed a large open area, and Farley thought he could make out tiny pale-green lights in the far distance on the opposite side. Plavitz had good eyes.

They were going to break out into the open area at around eleven thousand feet. Another stroke of luck. The surface would be sunlit and Farley would be able to order the crew off oxygen and get the landing gear cranked down while he found a place to set her down. He hadn’t relished setting twenty tons of aircraft on the floor of a pitch-black canyon on zero engines, no lights, and an unexploded thousand-pound bomb stuck in the bay.

At eleven thousand feet they broke into the open and everything went to shit.

Vortex winds that curled around the fissure entrance assailed the heavy bomber. Farley fought for control. The aircraft banked a sharp right and Farley felt the right elevator barely hanging on. He sailed her in a wide right turn and straightened out and then had to take her left because more cliffs rose dead ahead. The open area in which they now glided was a vast bowl ringed by sheer, planed walls with jagged peaks. A circular mountain range. In the center of the bowl rose a conical mound with a flattened top.

“Navigator says negative on a landing site so far,” reported Shorty. “Bombardier says we’re in a bomb crater.”

Broben looked back at Shorty. “Bomb crater? This thing must be ten miles wide.”

Shorty shrugged. “It’s what he said.”

Broben looked at the altimeter. “Nine five,” he said. “Those turns were expensive.”

“Everybody off oxygen,” said Farley. “Get those wheels down.”

He glanced at Broben as Shorty relayed the order. “It’s going to be close,” he said.

Broben nodded. It would take several minutes for a team working furiously with the hand crank to lower the landing gear one at a time. “When isn’t it?” he said.

“We’re still flying and we’re still in one piece,” Farley pointed out.

“Well, look whose glass is half full.”

“Look who still has a glass.”

Broben snorted. “You win.”

Farley nodded at the front window. “Unless you have any better ideas, I’m heading for Plavitz’s lights on the other side of the bowl there.”