The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(109)

I checked the tie-down straps for the oxygen hose and the bolts, then hesitated, because I really didn’t know this plane. “What am I missing?”

“Make sure you check for obstructions.” He headed for the nearest intake with a slight limp.

“You okay?”

“You usually have to crouch to get a good line of sight through it, like this. Wait—” He lifted his head and beckoned me down. “While you’re down here, check this out. Look along the wing—see how you can see through the body of the plane?”

“Um…” Brilliant. I did as he told me, peering along the wing at the plane, which was a solid mass in front of me.

“Your angle has to be just right. The wings are actually a single piece that goes all the way through the plane.”

“Seriously? That is—oh!” I saw the glint of light and then a narrow view of the hangar on the far side of the plane. “Oh, wow.”

“All right. This intake’s clear, so take a look, then check the other side to see if it matches.” He stepped back, favoring his left leg. “Copy?”

“Roger.” I wanted to push it, because a pilot who was injured could directly affect me, but right now Parker was being nice. Or, at least, Parker levels of nice. Actually—wait. I have to be fair: when Parker was in pedantic mode, he was a patient and often generous teacher. It was just all the in-between stuff where we clashed.

Both sides were clear, and he walked me through checking the intakes for the engines with patience. But when I climbed into the rear cockpit, I had to resist dancing in my seat. It was such a pretty plane.

The act of going through every step of the preflight checklist helped focus me. Especially knowing that Parker was looking for any mistake at all.

That’s right. I was less worried about a mistake killing me than I was about looking bad in front of Parker. My priorities were, perhaps, not what they should be.

I snugged down my shoulder straps and pulled the helmet into place. The helmet hugged my head and muffled most of the outside world. I connected the oxygen hose, twisting it until it clicked into place, and clipped it to my flight harness. I let the face mask hang open until we were airborne and the oxygen started to flow. For the moment, the canopy stood open, letting in the breeze from the high silver overcast sky. Petrol and tar and the resinous funk of rubber.

“All right.” Parker’s voice crackled in my ear. “Ready to start the number two engine?”

“I’m ready.”

“All danger areas clear?”

I leaned to my left to look toward the back of the aircraft. Only the hanger stood behind us, and it was far enough back to be clear. Then I strained against the shoulder harness and checked behind us on the right. “All clear.”

In front of me, Parker went through the same motions. All I could really see was the dome of his helmet as he settled back in his seat and nodded. “Let’s signal for air. Hands clear?” In demonstration, he lifted his hands over his head, one fist pressed against the middle of his other palm. It wouldn’t do to accidentally hurt our crew chief by bumping something.

“My hands are clear.” They were clear, but my pulse was steadily speeding up. I took a slow breath to calm down. If I got this excited about a jet, a rocket would do me in.

Outside the jet, our ground crew ran back to feed air in to assist the engine ignition. From inside the craft, the whoosh of air rose to a steady whine.

“Thirty number two. There’s 14% rpm. Ready tach. Throttle to idle.”

The throttle matched the movement he was doing in the front and moved up. I wouldn’t do anything until he switched control over to me, but I could pretend that my actions were powering the jet. At least for a little while.

Parker kept up a steady monologue, letting me know what he was doing. “Fuel flow is two hundred. Oil pressure is indicating. EGT rising.”

So was my blood pressure. He was actually going to take me up in the jet.

“Seven seventy peak. Engine instruments look good. Hydraulics look good. Caution lights are out. Crossover is good.” He paused, his helmet turned a little as if waiting for a response.

There’s this weird thing in flying that makes it almost like a religion. Pilots do call-and-response as a liturgy of our own. “My engine instruments are good. Hydraulics check good. Caution lights are out.”

“Clear left?”

I checked again. “Clear.”

“Okay. Let’s divert air to number one. Hands clear?” Parker lifted his hands over his head.

“My hands are clear.”

Outside, the ground crew ran to switch the hose to the number two engine. Again, I had to marvel at the difference between Parker the teacher and Parker the asshole. His voice through all of this was calm and patient.

“Ready to start number one?”

“Ready.” My voice, on the other hand, might have cracked a little. It was all I could do not to cackle with glee as the aircraft came alive beneath us. We went through the same checks for the number one engine, and by the end of it, I had almost matched the calmness of Parker’s voice.

“Throttle gate is engaged. Okay … let’s disconnect air.” He lifted his hands over his head. “Hands clear?”

“My hands are clear.”

They were clear of all instruments and, somewhat remarkably, not shaking. All of my nerves seemed to be vibrating, but it didn’t show in my hands. Jets are infinitely easier than crowds, and much, much more alluring.