The flatbed tractor-trailer heading north on I-5 was passing the Lakeview exit south of Tacoma. In one of the hollows on top of its load of timber planks stacked in bales, the KJ-3 swayed precariously, a dab of color among the pine. While they were passing through the dead zone where the two mecs aboard the KJ-3 temporarily died, Kevin had briefly reactivated Tigger to let Eric know that his situation hadn’t changed, but he had learned little new apart from that Eric was an hour away and driving riskily for the conditions. Then the truck came within the lab’s signal range, and its two stowaways resumed functioning.
Once more at the controls as Lancelot, Kevin primed the fuel and got ready for startup. Coordinating the two mecs would be trickier this time. There would be no run-up to takeoff speed since they were moving already—and in any case there wasn’t room. A step of sawn endgrain buttressed the plane’s tail, and ahead of it the slope of the boards led up into the full force of the truck’s slipstream. The best he could hope for would be a catapult launch at maximum power, trusting that the air flow would create enough lift to hold the plane until the motor took over. Kevin wasn’t sure if he had figured out the aerodynamics accurately, but he was about to find out now. This was about as close to Neurodyne as they were going to get.
He switched channels to become Dreadnought, already standing outside, hanging onto the airscrew for balance on the lurching mountainside of wet wood. Wind roared through gaps in the timber higher up; unseen wheels sizzled on the roadway far below. He straightened up, worked a foot tighter into the crack that he had found for anchorage, and jerked down hard with both arms. . . . The motor fired first time.
Channel select, back to Lancelot.
The plane was already trying to lift and break loose—he had visions of being swept into the wooden step behind. . . . Need maximum thrust now to clear. What about Dreadnought? . . . The wings were lifting, catching air stream. No time! . . .
Full throttle, ride the flow. An invisible river of wind hammered up under the flimsy plane, snatching it away. It veered to the right, went into a nose-up stall, and pitched down toward the southbound highway. Kevin fought to steady it, holding a power dive until he felt he was up to flying speed again, and pulled up just in time to avoid a swerving pickup coming the other way in the fast lane. He eased into a climb, moving closer to the timber-laden truck again and rising past it. He had a brief glimpse of Dreadnought standing motionless among the topmost planks, and then it disappeared behind the wing. Kevin picked out the landmarks that would guide him to Neurodyne, banked into a turn to bring them sliding slantwise around behind the airscrew spinning in front of him, and then leveled out.
He wasn’t sure what he intended to do now that he no longer had Dreadnought. Lancelot’s only role in his plan had been to fly the plane to get Dreadnought to Neurodyne in order to turn the computer off. Almost certainly, Lancelot wouldn’t be big enough.
However, one thing at a time, he told himself. At least he was still on his way.
It wasn’t any of Ollie’s business to know what was going on, but sometimes you couldn’t help wondering. It seemed that the woman they’d picked up at Garsten’s was another lawyer who had been somehow remote-controlling a break-in from the van into Garsten’s computers. Lawyers! They were no different from the rest, he told himself. Next thing, they’d be shooting each other in back alleys too. Ollie wasn’t sure what the other woman who’d been at the company that morning had to do with the kid they were supposed to bring in from Tacoma, but according to Kyle she was Payne’s girlfriend. What was this kid doing on his own on some other company’s premises that were supposed to be closed for the holiday, anyhow? Probably, he’d sneaked in to fool around with stuff he’d been told to stay away from, Ollie guessed. It sounded like some rich people’s kid. Ollie decided he might quite enjoy this. He didn’t like smartass, spoilt-brat rich kids.