The engines scream louder, and I guess Raven’s kicked in emergency power. I’m thrown against my harness as she snaps the wings level. The Merlin’s still got a steep nose-down attitude, and all I can see ahead is the gray-brown water of the Columbia River, rushing closer every second. I tear my eyes from that hypnotizing sight and check the radar altimeter. Thirty meters, and dropping fast. Then the plane starts to lift out of the dive, pulling enough gees to feel like I’ve got Argent sitting on my chest. The water’s almost close enough to touch, whipping by at fragging near seven hundred klicks below the cockpit. I figure Raven must be trying to lose us in the surface effect. A good idea in theory, but from what little I know, flat water—like a river—isn’t the best place to try it. Your chances are much better over rough terrain. Not that we’ve got that much choice, of course.