Enemies

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Greek Captain Antipodes Spiros flipped his American-built Tomcat into a tight barrel roll. He tilted his head back, braced against the ejection seat and stared up through the canopy above — no, below — no, above — hell, it was outside, that was all that mattered. Swaths of green earth that ran between ancient ruins and brown craggy low hills swapped places with a sky so blue it hurt his eyes. Spiros squinted his eyes until the colors ran together, until everything outside his cockpit dissolved into streamers of color and light.

“Enough!” his backseater howled.

Spiros ignored him, concentrating on the delightfully befuddled feeling creeping into his inner ear. A few more rolls and he’d be… there. It hit him all at once, the dizzying disorientation as the fluid in his ears roiled and bubbled against the delicate aural bones. He switched his gaze to the instruments, thoroughly disoriented, and eased the aircraft back into level flight.

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