Orders of Magnitude (The Genie and the Engineer Series Book 2) (2 page)

Kuzman looked up and saw an Iranian, wearing a pilot’s hat,
framed in the plane’s doorway, peering outward, gun in hand.

Angered and without hesitation, Kuzman swung his P226 up and
fired three times. The pilot fell back into the plane and out of Kuzman’s line
of sight.

There were now shouts in the blackness of the night behind
them, cries of alarm. There wasn’t much time. Kuzman leaned down to Burkov and
struggled to roll the man’s body over. That accomplished, he checked for a
pulse, first in the wrist and then at the neck. Nothing. The sightless open
eyes convinced him of Burkov’s true condition and Kuzman groaned in sudden heartbroken
distress.

“I am very sorry, old friend,” he muttered, tears forming in
his eyes.

The cries of alarm were getting closer and he struggled to
get back to his feet. Waves of dizziness assaulted him, but he forced himself
up the ladder and into the plane.

The pilot, amazingly enough, was still alive, lying on the
deck in a fetal position, his hands tightly gripping his stomach.

“I obviously need more time at the gun range,” Kuzman
muttered angrily as he maneuvered for the tiny cockpit.

He fell in the pilot’s seat and nearly blacked out. Blinking
his eyes clear, he focused on the controls.

Only the starboard engine was going and it only at an idle.
Out the windows, he saw five soldiers running for the plane. His time was up.

“Goodbye, my friend. I’ll see you on the other side.” With
that, he released the plane’s brakes and shoved the throttle with his left
hand.

The plane snapped forward, the soldiers flinging themselves
out of the way barely in time. Kuzman let the plane accelerate into the night,
gathering speed. On one engine, it couldn’t take off so he let it run, his
knees against the steering yoke to keep the plane from turning. In the
meantime, he began running the checklist for starting the port engine.

A minute later, with the flip of several switches, the port
engine was spooling up. He pulled back the throttle on the starboard engine and
brought the plane to a stop with the brakes. He would be safe enough here for a
few minutes, since there were no cars or trucks back at the test site for Omar
or the soldiers to use. By the time they could run to this location he would be
ready to take off for real this time.

Getting back out of the pilot’s seat was one of the harder
things he had ever done in his life, or so he thought at that moment. Back in the
cabin, he found and collected the gun that the pilot had used to shoot Burkov.
With an evil grin on his face, he leaned downward, getting on his knees and
down to the pilot’s level.

“Hey, there! Hey! Listen to me!” he said, prodding the man
in the stomach with the barrel of the gun.

The Iranian was barely able to open his eyes and he groaned
again as he saw the figure above him.

“You shot my friend, do you hear me?” screamed Kuzman. “You
killed him! A man I’ve worked with for many years! The greatest friend I ever
had, you hear? And you shot him in the
back
! You gutless coward!”

Kuzman swung the pistol as hard as he could in his weakened
state, smashing the barrel against the Iranian’s nose. The pilot screamed in
pain, reaching out with one hand to ward off another blow.

But Kuzman instead grabbed one of the man’s ankles. Pulling
for all he was worth, he managed to drag the man the short distance to the
ramp, which was still in the down position. Then leaning forward again, he
aimed and shot the man point blank in both arms and then both legs until the
gun clicked on empty cylinders. By that time, the pilot was unconscious—indeed
hovering at death’s door.

Kuzman rolled the body out of the plane, letting it bounce
off the steps until it hit the ground.

After all of that exertion, he needed several minutes of
rest before he could move again.

He needed another minute after that just to pull himself to
his feet and then more time still to pull and latch the ramp door closed.
Wheezing like a man having a heart attack, he stumbled back to the cockpit and
back into the pilot’s seat.

The port engine had had more than enough time to reach
operational temperatures. Still wheezing, Kuzman released the brakes and worked
hard, left-handed, to run both throttles up again a bit, enough to taxi with.

The next part was a risk. He didn’t have a regular runway
outside. The desert sand was soft in spots with rocks and holes in other
places. A stretch of desert had been marked off, not only for the Falcon’s use
but for the other aircraft in the test program as well. But he couldn’t see any
of those markers, not at night.

His only clue was the direction the Falcon had been aimed
in, back at the test site. Kuzman assumed that it had been lined up on the
‘runway’, ready for take-off. And the fact that he had moved the plane this far
without running into anything seemed to have proved out that theory.

But there couldn’t be enough ‘runway’ left ahead of him now
for takeoff, not with as far as he had taxied thus far.

The only real choice he had was to turn the craft around 180
degrees and take off back in the direction he had come instead.

There were two problems with that option. First and
foremost, all of the Quds forces and Omar were back there. They would shoot at
him and it was possible that they might bring him down. Second, he wasn’t sure
how far he had moved in the dark. If it was not far enough, then he might not
have enough space and he could crash into the C130 before he reached take off
speed. Or he might run off the ‘runway’ in that direction instead.

He laughed and spun the wheel, moving the plane in a tight
turn, aligning the compass in a full 180 degree rotation. Then throwing the
throttles all the way forward, he watched the airspeed carefully.

30 km/h. Now 50 and accelerating smoothly. A glance out the
cockpit window and all he could see was sand rushing at him, but the lights
only reached out forty feet or so. Beyond that was the dark of night. Anything
could be out there, just waiting for him to hit it at full speed. He would have
almost no warning if that happened. Another glance at the airspeed. 80 km/h and
moving higher. Now the plane was bumping along, hitting a few uneven spots here
and there.

Kuzman would rotate the yoke the moment he had enough speed.

100…130…almost enough…there, 160!

He yanked back on the yoke; the plane leaping for all of it
was worth into the air—

—and right over the nose of the Hercules C-130 which
suddenly appeared in front of him, passing quickly beneath the Falcon. He
couldn’t have missed the other large aircraft by more than a few feet.

Laughing again, he took the near miss as a good omen.
Reaching forward, he raised the landing gear before turning off the landing
lights and the plane’s transponder. Now they couldn’t track him, at least, not
easily. A glance at the fuel gauges told him he had plenty of range. He could
go nearly anywhere in the Middle East he wanted. He might even be able to reach
Russian airspace, if he wanted that.

No, that was a bad choice. His wound could not wait that
long before it got proper medical attention. Indeed, he needed to put something
on it now, to slow the bleeding as much as possible.

So, he would set the autopilot, as quickly as he could pick
a destination.

Nothing in Iran, of course. He had contacts in the country, yes,
but the Iranian authorities were too great a risk. Iraq to the east and
Afghanistan to the west were out. The meddling Americans still held a presence
in both countries. Kuwait too was not a good choice for the same reason.
Pakistan? Hmm, from here, too far. He needed something closer.

Ah, of course, Dammam, Saudi Arabia. At the Falcon’s top
speed, a little over an hour’s flight time. He’d be there before sunrise. And
there were people there, such as Karem Salib, that would help him with his
wound, no questions asked. The Russian might even trade the Falcon for that
service.

A gentle turn of the wheel and he lined up on a heading of
240 degrees. Only a few flips of some switches and he was on autopilot. Now, to
take care of the shoulder and in an hour, he would land in Dammam and get some real
professional help.

Poor Burkov. They had come so close to escaping together. Kuzman
was sorely going to miss his friend.

He grew angry thinking about that monster, Omar. As soon as
his wound was taken care of, Kuzman would see to it that the whole world knew
of the detonators that he had helped the Iranians build and the bomb design he
had given them. Yes, that would be a nice revenge. Burkov would like it.

Kuzman sneezed.

On top of the scoreboard

Lambeau Field

Home Field of the NFL Green Bay Packers

1265 Lombardi Ave

Green Bay Wisconsin, WI

June

Saturday 6:31 p.m. CDT

B
oth
Capie and Paul were seated precariously, perched on top of the field’s
scoreboard. Capie’s hands were locked on the metal edge, her knuckles white,
her eyes wide and focused on the far horizon, her forehead covered with a light
film of perspiration.

Even Paul was not too comfortable. Only his greater
experience with heights and his magical powers was helping him deal with the
challenge.

Jaret, on the other hand, was nonchalantly standing on the
very end of the scoreboard, totally oblivious to how far off the ground he was.

“Not bad,” he said as he surveyed all of the playing field
and stadium seats below them. “And man-made too. What is this place again?”

“Lambeau Field,” Paul repeated. “It’s a sporting arena, for
playing football. Seating capacity is over 81,000.”

“Ah, football?! When I was still a genie, one of my former
‘owners’ wanted to win a string of bets made on this game’s outcomes. I never
got to see the games themselves.”

“They are widely watched,” Paul informed him. “The typical
pro NFL game lasts three hours. They are played from September through January
each year. If you decide to watch one, I suggest you study the rules first,
learn a little about the teams. It can be a complicated sport.”

Jaret smiled broadly. “If there’s time. But for now, let us
talk of you. Why did you want me to bring you here? Is this where you want to
spend your honeymoon? Strange choice for that.”

“No, we have a different location for our honeymoon picked
out,” Paul explained. “But this place made a good choice to say our goodbyes. I
thought it might impress you.”

“Not bad,” Jaret said again. “So, this is goodbye?”

“Not quite yet,” Paul said. “First, I want to thank you
again for helping us acquire the gold from upstate Nevada for an amulet for
Capie. Your help made it go a lot faster.”

Jaret shrugged and grinned. “It is such a small thing. She should
really have a talisman, you know. For that matter, so should you. We still have
time to acquire the materials, if you like.”

“Making a talisman would draw too much attention,” Paul
said, shaking his head but offering a bemused smile. “Not a good idea, just
yet. And Capie needs time to learn how to use her powers first.”

“Probably wise,” Jaret acknowledged. “Is there anything else
you want to talk about before I go?”

“Yes, there is,” Paul affirmed. “Is there a way I can
contact you in the future if the need arises? Some method that does not involve
altering my mind?”

Paul was referring to a spell, one that Jaret had placed
upon him when the ex-genie first gave Paul magical powers, a spell that Jaret
had just the previous day removed from Paul’s mind.

“Hmm, that would also be wise, I think. There is a way.”
With a flourish, Jaret held out his hand and a small portal appeared. Through
it, two three-inch diameter crystals emerged, settling into Jaret’s palm.

Even from where Paul was seated, the crystals looked exceptional,
both of them half spheres and perfectly smooth, both a blend of colors ranging
from dark blue up to a light pink.

“They’re gorgeous!” remarked Capie, stretching out a hand
for a closer look. “What are they?”

Jaret bowed and levitated one over into her hand and the
second one over to Paul.

“They are officially known as a
duhšiu
-
idȗ
or crystal communicators. However, unofficially, they are known as Raconteurs. ”

“Raconteur?” Paul asked, curiously while holding one of the
crystals up to the light. “That’s a teller of stories.”

“Quite correct,” Jaret said, with a mysterious smile.

“It’s heavy,” Capie noted, twisting and turning the crystal
to examine it. “I like all the colors. They seem to shift when looked at in
different angles.”

“How do they work?” Paul asked.

“The crystals are very old, made by the first wizards. They
take years to form properly, a blend of diamond, rhodonite, covellite and
Lazurite. They are made as one crystal and then, in a certain step in the
process, they are divided into two halves, as you see now. They are magically
linked and can be used to pass messages back and forth, no matter how far apart
they may be separated or where they are located.”

“Perfect,” remarked Paul with an appreciative chuckle. “If
you can loan one to us, then if we ever need to talk to one another, we can.”

Jaret’s grin grew larger. “Yes, we could do that. However, I
should warn you that there is a reason why the crystals are called Raconteurs.”

Capie rolled her eyes. “There’s always a catch, isn’t there?”

Jaret laughed and put his hands on his hips. “If by that you
mean a disadvantage, then yes, there is one.” He waved a hand and said, “
Awȗ!
”

Both of the crystals began flashing soft yellow and white
light.

And then they spoke, simultaneously, trying hard, it would
seem, to drown each other out.

“I wish my brother would learn a trade, so I would know what
kind of work he’s out of,” one of the crystals shouted at a very loud volume.

“Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a
dog it’s too dark to read,” screamed the other.

Paul winced, putting his hands over his ears. “Make it
stop!”

“You told that joke wrong! Really, you can never get it
right!” shouted the crystal in Capie’s hand.

“Like you would know a joke if it fell out of the sky on top
of you!”

“
Hatāmu
!” commanded Jaret.

Both crystals ceased talking. The ex-genie shrugged. “They
do better when they are not together like this. But they are tellers of stories
and jokes, endlessly talking. If you want to pass a message from one to the other,
you must first listen to them for a bit. At least one story and one joke. Then
they will listen to your message and pass it on. That is the catch, as you say,
madam.”

Capie chuckled and sent the Raconteur back to Jaret through
the air. “I recognize that second joke. Classic Groucho Marx. I think we can
live with the catch. What think ye, Paul?”

“I suppose it could be amusing,” he said. “Sure, we’ll take
one. And thanks, Jaret. For all the things that you have done for us.”

He bowed deeply in return. “My warmest wishes for you, your
health and your success. And may the two of you be blessed with many fine
strong sons. Once again, I feel that we shall see one another in this life
time. Peace be upon you.”

Paul bowed as well. “Take care, my friend. May the Force be
with you.”

“Goodbye, Jaret,” Capie added, as she smiled. “We will miss
you.”

• • • •

As the first stop on their honeymoon, Paul, using his
enhanced block of tantalum as his amulet, took Capie a few miles further south
in short portal hops to the Osthoff Resort in Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin, and
rented a two bedroom suite. Perched near the lake itself, the westward facing
suite of the large resort gave them a wonderful scenic view of the evening sunset
over the water. It was a most idyllic setting for the first night of their
honeymoon.

• • • •

“Almost but not quite,” Paul said with a small smile the
next afternoon. “You have to establish the correct mindset to go along with the
spell. And yes I know that’s not very scientific. I still don’t know why words
are important to casting spells. But they are. So the wording of the
incantation can be very critical. The more energy used in the spell, the more
important a role your mindset plays and therefore the wording of the
incantation.”

“So you’ve said,” Capie complained as she sighed. “More than
once too. I just can’t seem to get it right.”

“It took me nearly a week to get the hang of creating
portals,” Paul pointed out. “You’ve only had magical powers for two days now
and you’ve, ah, had other things on your mind too.”

Capie grinned and snuggled closer to him on the sofa. Across
from them, the crackle and warmth of the gas fireplace added to the romantic ambience
of the room, the firelight dancing across the richly appointed accommodations
of the Corner Lake View Premier Suite.

“Yes, the wedding was quite a distraction,” she purred in
his ear. “And then there was last night too.”

Paul positively beamed and hugged her more tightly. With a
leer, he responded, “Ah, yeah, ‘distraction’ is not anywhere near the right
word for last night. Um, did you want to talk about creating portals or did you
want to conduct more sessions in ah, biological hanky-panky?”

Capie laid her head on his shoulder. “We could say enough of
portal practice, for right now, hmm, my husband?” She lightly stroked his arm.
“We could take this back to the bedroom and do what any normal newlyweds do.
Ones who aren’t hunted by evil wizards and mysterious monsters, that is.”

He moved closer, both of them closing their eyes as their
lips and tongues met. The taste, the fire, the ignition of passion. A newlywed’s
kiss, born of both love and desire.

Capie sighed as the kiss ended. “‘Since the invention of the
kiss, there have been five kisses rated the most passionate, the most pure.
This one left them all behind.’”

“A wonderful quote, my dear,” Paul observed in an abstracted
tone of voice.

“
Princess Bride
,” she said, hugging him close. “Peter
Falk. You’re going to love the movie.”

He kissed her again, lightly this time. “What were you
saying about portals?”

“Portals? Ah, yes, I was talking about those, wasn’t I? I
think I was saying that creating a functional portal is hard work for me. Quite
hard. I’ve watched you and all you do is wave a hand or snap your fingers and
poof—there’s a portal big enough to walk through, one that can transport a
person miles away. But I can’t seem to create a marble sized portal across the
room!”

“Practice, my dear. Practice.” Paul leaned back, giving her
more room to work with. “Here, try again. Concentrate on the mental visual
images, from both ends of the portal. Work on your words too,” Paul suggested.

Capie sighed and answered with a small nod and, with her
right hand, gripped the three pound gold band she was wearing on her left wrist,
using it as an amulet to magnify her magical powers. Closing her eyes, she
muttered something too quietly for Paul to hear. In response, two small shiny
circles appeared in midair on opposite sides of the room. One was rather
elliptical and canted at an angle. The other was nearly circular as well as perfectly
upright. The only problem was its size, with its diameter closer to that of an
orange, not a marble.

“Much better,” Paul commented encouragingly. “Erase those.
Try again.”

“You really are getting the hang of it,” he declared a few
minutes later as Capie swept the latest portal out of existence. “I know you’re
tired, so why don’t we wait until tomorrow to go to the next step.”

“Which is what?” Capie asked, leaning away from Paul a
little and studying him thoughtfully. “How many steps are there?”

“Well, bigger portals, of course. And further apart too. And
then sending objects through them without disintegrating the object in
question—”

“That can happen?” she asked, crossing her arms over her
chest and then shuddering slightly. “I’ve stepped through more than a dozen of
your portals. Are you saying…?”

“You can see why it’s important to get it right.” He cocked
his head almost imperceptibly to one side. “If I can do it, you can too,
guaranteed.”

“Okay, I’ll practice, if that’s what it takes,” she said
with a sigh as she shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to disintegrate myself or
anyone else going through a portal.” She lay back down against Paul’s side.

“I was thinking.” Paul announced after a few moments of
watching the crackle of the fire.

“Does it involve portals, dear?”

“No, not portals. Pet names. All couples have them. Terms of
endearment. What shall I call you?”

Capie squeezed him gently. “I haven’t given it any thought.
I suppose a nickname for you would be nice too.”

“Dumpling, Lamb-chop, Babushka, Peaches, Gorgeous, Bambi,
Poopsie, Honey Cakes, Angel, Cupcake, Sweetiepie, Princess, Sugar, Tootsie
Wootsy—any of those tickle your fancy?”

“Not in the least,” she replied, cuddling even closer to
him. “Try some imagination.”

“Imagination, heh? Okay, I got it. I’ll call you CB.”

She pulled back and shot him a questioning look. “CB?”

He stroked her hair. “Yep. My child bride.”

Capie made a face. “Very funny. I guess it is accurate and
original. Still, I would encourage you to try harder. In the meantime, if you
call me CB, then I know the perfect name to call you.”

“You do? That fast?” He leaned forward, with an interested
smile. “What name would that be?”

“Dom.”

“Dom?” he asked, puzzled. “What sort of name is Dom? Is that
an acronym too?”

“Yep. It stands for Dirty Old Man.”

Paul laughed, his eyes aglitter. “I like it! And so
appropriate too. Dom it is. And I love you too.”

Leaning forward, they kissed again, tenderly and unhurriedly.

“I could do that forever,” Paul declared with a blithe
smile.

“It’s my turn now,” Capie said with a candid smile. “Can I
ask you a personal question?”

Paul coughed, trying to hide a sudden chuckle. “Personal? But
of course, CB. Ask away.”

“You don’t cuss, do you, Dom?” she asked. “Don’t
misunderstand, I love that about you. Some men are so foul mouthed that I can’t
stand to be around them. Some women too. But you’ve never…not since I’ve known
you. Is there a reason?”

Paul stroked her hair and stared at the fire. “My father was
a drill sergeant in the Marine Corps.”