Turbulence Read Free

you are now? You’re near Gilgit. That’s about 260 kilometres in just more than a minute.”
    Far ahead, the F-16 goes through a sharp turn, its bubble canopy gleaming in the sun.
    “Make this quick,” Vir says.
    “Just a heads-up. You’ve killed the Viper, right?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Well, if you don’t, the Pakistanis have evidence of an act of war. Listen, he’s probably seen you and has good pictures of you. You need to take him out. Think like a pilot. Don’t race him. Dance with him. He’s a fatty.”
    “Go to hell,” Vir snaps.
    The fatty is close now, Vulcan hammering away. Vir flies up, making short, sharp, diagonal dashes, flitting bat-like closer to the F-16 until he can see the pilot, who’s chattering excitedly into his mouthpiece as he tries to steer his wobbling craft into position. A burst of speed, and Vir is directly above the Falcon. He drops gently on it, and hangs on. Panicking, the pilot cuts loose. Vir darts aside as the jet roars away, leaving him wobbling and coughing in its slipstream. When the roar has faded somewhat, he puts the phone to his ear.
    “That was good advice,” he says.
    “Hey, no problem. Excellent network on these satellite phones, huh? What is it? Thuraya? Globalstar? My phone usually gets cut off when I walk from my bedroom to my kitchen.”
    “Focus. What do I do now?”
    “Oh, yeah, babbling, sorry. I do that. You should head north. Don’t turn right until you reach Tajikistan. Come back through Nepal or Bhutan. Try not to provoke the Chinese.”
    “Has he got pictures of me? Is our secret out?”
    “I’ve been trying to jam his communications, but I don’t know — something might have got through. Why don’t you ask him? He’ll probably be back, get him then. He’ll have told them about you, but without pictures everyone will assume flying men are American.”
    True enough, the F-16 is back, and this time it’s locked in on Vir. There are two Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles on rail launchers on its wingtips — the pilot launches them both in quick succession and then comes in, cannons blazing.
    Vir pauses for a second and looks around, taking in the majesty of the scene. The Karakoram Mountains lie to the north, harsh cliffs and peaks cutting dagger-like shadows. No clouds here: the sun is bright, unrelenting. He breathes in, enjoying the mountain air. And then the missiles reach him. Vir darts aside politely, watches the Sidewinders shoot past, and then races towards the jet.
    Afraid now, the pilot swerves sharply. But Vir is faster, he joins the F-16 in flight and together they head for the hills. Ahead of them, the Sidewinders swerve and circle, sensing their target’s trajectory. The pilot now sees Vir’s face clearly for the first time: this is no small robot spy drone, this is another man, their skins are the same colour. His jaw drops; he stares at Vir with religious awe, unable to persuade his hands to move the controls any longer. Time stops; human and superhuman make eye contact.
    “Sorry,” Vir says. He streaks upwards as the Sidewinders close in on him and miss, smashing into the F-16’s canopy instead.
    The blast hits Vir hard, a flying wing from the shattered F-16 hits him even harder. He rolls and tumbles in mid-air, losing all control, and hurtles flailing towards the mountainside, seeing serious pain await him at rainbow’s end. Burning debris races with him. His mind begins to drift away in a torrent of fire and wind.
    Snapping to attention, he spots in the shadow of a rock-face a dark hole in the centre of a ring of flaming debris, a crack in the mountain: a cave. Using the very last of his strength, he aligns his body to the cave-mouth, swims into the right parabola, and manages to rocket into the darkness just as the broken jet smashes thunderously into the mountainside around him.
    Vir slides toboggan-like through the cave, the sudden coolness strangely relaxing even as his body screams with pain. He dimly hears the