Burn Like Cold Iron

Chapter 8: What Goes Up

This was going to be more difficult than I thought.

And that was saying a great deal, because my whole body was already shaking with the sheer impossibility of what I was about to do, so much so that I nearly stumbled over my own feet just loading the supplies I'd stolen from Saruman's stores into the helicopter.

There was more room for the stolen goods than I'd thought there'd be in the backseat of the vehicle. Camping gear was strewn on the floor, left in disarray by their previous owner. Some wealthy adventurer used to own all this, I supposed. They probably took their friends or family out skydiving and camping in the mountains, and were baffled when their helicopter and gear went missing one day. They would never—could never imagine that it had ended up in Middle Earth. "Poor thing, bless their heart," I muttered out loud.

But I couldn't afford to think about that right now. I climbed into the pilot's seat and slammed the door shut decisively.

Closed inside the tiny, egg-shaped cockpit, I nearly lost my nerve then and there. My eyes darted back and forth across the helicopter's dashboard, panic swelling in my chest. There were so many buttons and dials, a joystick and pedals and levers and a weird sci-fi throttle and how did I ever think I could do this? Maybe stealing a gun and taking off on foot would have been easier. But I knew I couldn't shoot at anyone. And I knew Saruman would catch me not five miles out of Isengard, if I even made it that far.

No, it was too late to turn back now.

It took me a long moment to even find the ignition on the dashboard. My hands shook so badly it took even longer to actually stick the key in and turn it.

I flicked through the heavy instruction manual as lights sprang to life behind some of the dials and screens. Thankfully there was a labeled diagram on one of the pages, and I slowly started to make sense of the controls. The lever on my left was the collective; the joystick thing in front of me was the cyclic; the yaw pedals were at my feet. Having names for all the gears helped me calm down, creating some order out of chaos. I made a list in my head, committing the diagram to memory as I read through their functions. Maybe I could do this.

I buckled my seatbelt, and buckled my violin case into the passenger seat for good measure, feeling oddly protective of it.

Now it was time to test the throttle. Keeping my eyes on the manual, I reached for the lever, braced myself, and—

The blades whirred to life above me.

"Ha!" I exclaimed breathlessly. "Ha ha, yes!" Hell, maybe I really could do this.

The helicopter was ridiculously loud, almost loud enough to drown out my thundering heartbeat, and the rotors stirred up a cloud of dirt in the air. I released the throttle hastily, letting the rotors die back down.

I pored over the instruction manual one more time. I'd already read aloud some of the basic flight instructions at Saruman's bidding, that first night in Isengard. He had been stunned by the concept of a flying machine: "a great mechanical bird," he'd said, and I'd let out a derisive laugh before quailing at the look in his eye.

I'd learned not to laugh at Saruman. I knew now just what he was capable of, and who he really was. And yet here you are, trying to escape from him with a piece of equipment you've never even set foot in before. I swallowed with difficulty. Hell, back home people took lessons, got pilot's licenses, worked for years and years to fly one of these things, and here I was like a complete idiot, trying to do the same, just like that. God, what was I thinking?

A panicked sob escaped me, and I was suddenly overwhelmed. I felt faint. The world seemed to spin beneath the pilot's seat. I couldn't do it. Why I'd even gotten into the helicopter was baffling. But I had to try, didn't I? Saruman was never going to send me home, but there had to be someone else out there who could. This world was full of magic, after all, wasn't it? I saw my mom's face clear in my mind, the faces of my friends and coworkers; I saw my old run-down apartment, the lime-green couch and chipped paint on the walls. Tears welled in my eyes. I reached for the throttle again.