The heat at sixty thousand feet was fifty-two degrees below zero.
The wind howled through the silver-steel lattice struts with the screech of a thousand circular saws.
At this height, the air was so thin that a man without a padded pressure suit and an oxygen bladder would lose mind in less than twenty seconds.
Before dawn, Giles Croft had inspected every single flight suit in the staging hangar at Mount Granite-Spur.
He had personally checked the brass control valve valves, tested the hardened rubber seals with soapy water. Then he checked that every rigger carried dual forged carabiners on six-foot safety lanyards.
“A dropped wrench at sixty thousand feet achieves end-post speed and can punch through the armored roof of a locomotive,” Giles had warned the shift. “Every tool must be tethered to your harness. No loose sockets. No untethered drift pins. If you drop a spud wrench, you’re buying the engine it lands on.”
Now, Giles stood on the open bridge of the flagship sky-barge High sky-One.
He wore an airtight vulcanized canvas flight suit over his heavy bison-leather coat.
