Sullivan took three quick steps and vaulted over the railing into space, drawing deep on his Power the whole time. The stubby wedge wings started getting lift and the rate of climb increased dramatically. They were far enough away from the tower now to safely fire up the propellers, which coughed and began to turn. 45 caliber holes weren’t going to make a lick of difference. He could empty an entire magazine into that gas bag and they’d still have enough helium to make it to California. He could have shot at it, but he might as well try to poke holes in the moon. The dirigible’s cabin was thirty feet up and rising quick. The rain was pounding around him in giant sheets. He stepped back and kicked the window out, careful not to slice himself open on the jagged edges, and stepped onto the platform. There was no way he could heed his own advice and his ears stung from the concussion in the enclosed space. “Cover your ears,” Sullivan ordered as he drew his 1911 Colt. “It was worth a try.” The dirigible was rising, loose cables whipping about it in the wind. Even if he could, he wasn’t going to admit it in front of people who could get him fired. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said quickly.
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