Susan Shwartz - Straight Arrow.pdf - Susan Shwartz - widez2

Straight Arrow

Susan Shwartz

It wasn't just life flashing before Lt. Kyria Mavricos' glassy eyes as she punched out of her crippled

fighter, but a veritable mountain range of clouds. Below them was probably the nastiest part of what used

to be Yugoslavia. And some very hostile hostiles. And it was all coming up to meet her way too fast.

One instant, her F-15 had been on a high, fast overflight; the next, every instrument had gone dead, she'd

lost control, and she'd set off that damned explosion underneath her butt and prayed the canopy would

blow before she blasted through it.

Air-to-air couldn't have taken out her F-15 before something registered on her screens. Surface to air?

Here, where Serbs fought Croatians, Greeks fought Macedonians, and everyone hated Albanians and

Turks and dreamed of terrorists, you had to be prepared for Scud-like flying objects, but, in the instants

before power died, nothing had shown up.

EMP? She wouldn't have thought the locals had any technology left, let alone anything good enough to

mess with an F-15's electronics.

What was left? Wind shear? Those gray critters with the big eyes? What about a Bosnian branch of the

Bermuda Triangle that chowed down on F-15s?

She drew in arms and legs and plunged through the clouds. Maybe lower altitude would clear her head.

Her chute erupted with an impact like whiplash. If this doesn't kill me, my CO will . Any time a female

pilot ejected—let alone bored a hole in the ground—the Air Force didn't just conduct an investigation, it

threw a collective fit. And just let CNN sniff it out, or Rush . . .

It wasn't as if her squad had called her Little Ms. Congeniality before. Even if the fact that she'd grown

up speaking Greek at home let her translate some of the menus and local papers. Some of the other

NATO types were Greek, but they all spoke English. Regardless, some of the pilots—the other

pilots—nursed attitudes that could charitably be described as Neanderthal studying to be Cro-Magnon

without the blessings of Ayla and her posterity.

I don't want to be a poster child for Affirmative Action. I just want to fly.

Kyria jerked as something holed her chute not a meter from her helmet. Dammit, even if it didn't violate

the rules of war to shoot down people who had to eject from planes, it still was lousy manners.

The ground was coming up fast now. She tried to peer through the mist at the spinning landscape, hoping

to spot possible hiding places she could use, the nearest source of water, maybe an easy route out,

though "easy" was a misnomer in these mountains.

The whine in her ear made her whip her head around. Another hole in the chute. And what had made it

hadn't sounded like any bullet she'd ever heard.

Look out for that tree!

The last thing she saw before the tree clobbered her was two small figures standing in a clearing, bows

slung over their backs.

* * *

Why was some imbecile was singing "George of the Jungle" in a peculiar hoarse voice here on a Serbian

mountainside? If one of those damn archers was the comedian, that was two reasons the bozo deserved

to die.

That couldn't be right. Any locals would be singing in Serbo-Croatian or whatever. So she had to be the

one trying to sing. Trying . She spat a mouthful of blood and one tooth.

Testing, she thought. One . . . two . . . three. Arms and legs ached but were otherwise in working order.

So was the rest of her, even if her helmet felt like she had the brain bloat that Boomer in her wing

declared women got once a month, cancha take a joke, har har har.

He'd never made that joke around the CO or anywhere else he could be nailed for it. So help me, I'm

going to make it back and wipe his face with it.

But the chain of command wouldn't help her now. What would?.

Her survival vest held drugs, a knife, a radio, maps, matches, a First Aid kit, tools, and a side arm. And

face paint for camouflage. Really gorgeous with a bloody nose and probably shiners, but the regs said to

apply it right away. Her hands were hardly shaking at all now.

Her parachute billowed overhead, caught by the tree that had braked her fall and damn near broken her.

First, secure her chute. Then, look around for a place she could hide out in while she sent a message.

Come on, God. You helped get Captain Scott O'Grady out of the soup and into a book contract.

How about me?

The folds of her parachute jerked. More arrows, dammit. No guns?

In that case, I've got the bastards outnumbered.

Sure.

She drew her side arm, then wriggled into some covering underbrush just as someone jerked the chute

down from the tree.

Voices again. My God, they were speaking Greek. Not demotika , but something close, more

old-fashioned sounding than even her grandfather, who'd liked to pretend they were still living in the age

of Pericles, which also had been a lousy age for ambitious women.

A branch snapped, and she whirled round. Standing over her was a tall woman dressed in leather, if not

much of it, a curved bow slung across her back, high-laced boots, and holding a very

businesslike-looking hunting knife. If the woman hadn't stepped on that branch deliberately, she could

have slit Kyria's throat before Kyria heard her coming.

"The mists have brought us another one!" she called.

A wordless, high-pitched shout of triumph answered as Archer Number 2 strode forward. Not as tall as

the first woman, she was fair, as some Macedonians had been, time out of mind. She carried a long staff,

not a sword. And, as she folded Kyria's parachute into a bundle, her hands lingered on the fabric as if

she wondered at its smoothness.

Oh shit , Kyria thought, I've waked up in the Xenaverse.

Before she could even try playing Quick Draw, the tall woman's long staff slammed out at her head. The

explosion of pain, followed by blackout, was almost a relief.

* * *

Red light erupted, ejecting Kyria back into consciousness the way she had been hurled out of her

cockpit. She flailed against whatever it was tied her down.

Blankets. Coarse wool blankets and fleeces.

Rainbows erupted in Kyria's field of vision. What had Doc Dworkin said about concussion? Keep

awake. If you're dizzy or you vomit, get help. She glanced about. They'd settled her in some sort of

shelter, but what passed for a door flap was open, and the noise in the camp made it unlikely she'd be

getting any sleep. So did the idea of what a bunch of primitives could do with her gear.

I'm not doing very well , am I? she thought. First I punch out. Then I black out. Now I'm a prisoner.

"She's awake." Again, that curiously old-fashioned Greek. A woman's voice. Maybe she wasn't

hallucinating. This region had a history of female guerrillas.

"See if she'll drink something."

The blond woman crouched at her side, holding a steaming cup. Good thing she'd had all her shots.

The cup pressed against her bitten lip. She swallowed so it would go away.

"I'd hate to take a urine test right now," she muttered to herself. "Where's my gear?"

The woman was wearing her belt knife, she observed. Damn. That Marine-issue Bowie knife had been a

gift from one of the friendlier men in her outfit, who'd scrounged or traded for it.

"Until we got your clothes off, we thought you were male," said the blonde.

She sounded disappointed. You, my drill instructor, and half my flight. You'd think women warriors,

at least, would be half civil . . .

"We know of no Amazons who wear such garments," the woman continued. "Or carry such gear."

Kyria blinked and took a quick look south. If this woman was any example, it was a myth that Amazons

mutilated themselves so they could shoot better. This woman had the complete set . . . Encased in the

proverbial bronze bra.

Okay, so this is the uplift war, not ethnic cleansing. I still want out.

I'm nuts, right ? Maybe it was better than reality, considering that reality in this part of the world

consisted of ethnic cleansing, which meant genocide, rape, and anarchy.

A child holding something olive-colored with trailing straps ran toward the central fire.

"No!"

Before Kyria realized what she was doing, she was on her feet, out of the tent, and heading unsteadily

and quite bare-ass toward the blaze. If the kid threw that on the fire, they were all in trouble.

The blonde caught her round the ankle and brought her down. Someone else cuffed the child and whirled

it—him—around before returning him to the circle of women and children.

"What can you expect of a boychild? He's almost old enough to be sent to his father's tribe, and if you

ask me, he's enough trouble I say we set him loose before the mists arrive!" the blonde said.

"I am Demetria," her benefactor said. "And your name?"

Susan Shwartz - Straight Arrow.pdf

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