Halo | Page 4

voice said, "You should engage your harness. If you need
instructions, please say so now."
Gonzales snapped closed the trapezoidal catch where shoulder and lap
belts connected, then stretched against the harness, feeling the sweat
dry on his skin in the plane's cool interior. "Thank you," said the voice.
The pilot was speaking to Myaung U Airport traffic control as the plane
lifted into twilight over the city. The soft white glow from the dome
light vanished, then there were only the last moments of orange
sunlight coming through the bubble.
The temple plain was spread out beneath, all murk and shadow, with
the temple and pagoda spires reaching up toward the light, white stucco
and gold tinted red and orange.
"Man, that's a beautiful sight," the pilot said.
"You're right," Gonzales said. It was, but he'd seen it before, and
besides, it had already been a long day.
The pilot flipped his glasses down, and the plane banked left and
headed south along the river. Gonzales lay back in his seat and tried to
relax.

They flew above black water, following the Irrawady River until they
crossed an international flyway to Bangkok. Dozing in the interior
darkness, Gonzales was almost asleep when he heard the pilot say,
"Shit, somebody's here. Partisan attack group, probably--no recognition
codes. Must be flying ultralights--our radar didn't see them. We've got
an image now, though."
"Any problem?" Gonzales asked.
"Just coming for a look. They don't bother foreign charters." And he
pointed to their transponder message flashing above the primary
displays:
THIS INTERNATIONAL FLIGHT IS NON-MILITARY.
IT CLAIMS RIGHT OF PASSAGE UNDER U.N. ACT OF 2020.
It would keep on repeating until they crossed into Thai airspace.
The flight computer display lit bright red with COLLISION
WARNING, and a Klaxon howl filled the plane's interior. The pilot
said, "Fuck, they launched!" The swing-wing's turbines screamed full
out as the plane's computer took command, and the pilot's hands
gripped his yoke, not guiding, just hanging on.
Gonzales's straps pulled tight as the plane tumbled and fell,
corkscrewed, looped, climbed again--smart metal fish evading fiery
harpoons. Explosions blossomed in the dark, quick asymmetrical bursts
of flame followed immediately by hard thumping sounds and shock
waves that knocked the swing-wing as it followed its chaotic path
through the night.
Then an aircraft appeared, flaring in fire that surged around it, its pilot
in blazing outline--a stick figure with arms thrown to the sky in the
instant before pilot and aircraft disintegrated in flame.
Their own flight went steady and level, and control returned to the
pilot's yoke. Gonzales's shocked retinas sparkled as the night returned

to blackness. "Collision averted," the plane's computer said. "Time in
red zone, six point eight nine seconds."
"What the hell?" Gonzales said. "What happened?"
"Holy Jesus motherfucker," the pilot said.
Gonzales sat gripping his seat, chilled by the blast of cold air from the
plane's air conditioner onto his sweat-soaked shirt. He glanced down to
his lap: no, he hadn't pissed himself. Really, everything happened too
quickly for him to get that scared.
A Mitsubishi-McDonnell "Loup Garou" warplane dived in front of
them and circled in slow motion. Like the ultralights it was cast in
matte black, but with a massive fuselage. It turned a slow barrel roll as
it circled them, lazy predator looping fat, slow prey, then turned on
brilliant floods that played across their canopy.
The pilot and Gonzales both froze in the glare.
Then the Loup Garou's black cockpit did a reverse-fade; behind the
transparent shell Gonzales saw the mirror-visored pilot, twin cables
running from the base of his neck. The Loup Garou's wings slid
forward into reverse-sweep, and it stood on its tail and disappeared.
Gonzales strained against his taut harness.
"Assholes!" the pilot screamed.
"Who was that?" Gonzales asked, his voice thin and shaking. "What do
you mean?"
"The Myanmar Air Force," the pilot said, his voice tight, face red
beneath the flight glasses' mirrors. "They set us up, the pricks. They
used us to troll for a guerrilla flight." The pilot flipped up his glasses
and stared with pointless intensity out the cockpit window, as if he
could see through the blackness. "And waited," he said. "Waited till
they had the whole flight." The pilot swiveled around abruptly and

faced Gonzales, his features distorted into a mad and angry caricature
of the man who had welcomed Gonzales ninety minutes before. "Do
you know how fucking close we came?" he asked.
No, Gonzales shook his head. No.
"Milliseconds, man. Fucking milliseconds. Close enough to touch," the
pilot said. He swiveled his seat to face forward, and Gonzales heard its
locking mechanism click as he settled back into his own seat, fear and
shame spraying a wild neurochemical mix inside his brain--
Gonzales had never felt things like this before--death