He turned his attention to the flight controls which filled the front instrument panel, left console, center pedestal and overhead panel. The staggering array of dials, switches and buttons was a testament to the age of the plan. Even planes ten years old had more AI flight control systems, but the C-130 held a special place in Andy’s heart. He’d flown them during his time smuggling for the blackmarket. Most of those weren’t modern by any standard, but at least they’d had automated systems and a VR heads up display on the windscreen. What museum did the Air Force steal this thing from?
Marc performed the familiar sequence of prepping the plane for takeoff. He smiled as he activated the gas turbine compressor knowing the sounds of the four turbo prop engines spinning up would startle the mechanics.
Outside, the mechanics involuntarily jumped as the engine’s huge turbines came to life with a scream.
“Tower, you moron!” yelled Spud. “Tell the pilot it’s not ready to fly.”
If there was any reply, Spud couldn’t hear it over the turbines and realized the tower couldn’t hear him. Spud grabbed a beefy wrench and gestured to the other mechanic that he was going inside the plane.
Marc was checking the fuel pressure gauges when he heard shouting from the cargo bay.
“Hey dickhead,” yelled Spud as he started climbing the ladder to the cockpit. “Shut this bird down before I bury my wrench in your…”
Spud stopped as his head cleared the cockpit floor and saw Andy’s gun barrel an inch from his nose.
“Hi there,” said Marc.
“Uh, hey,” said Spud.
“I’m gonna need this plane. Is that okay?” said Marc, tapping Spud’s nose with his gun.
“Yeah, sure,” said Spud. “Whatever you want.”
“You’re sure, now,” said Marc. “I’m not being a, uh… What’s that word? Don’t you hate it when you can’t remember a word?”
“An imposition?” suggested Spud.
“That’s it! An imposition.”
“No. It’s all yours.”
“Well,” said Marc, “If you insist.”
“I’m um, I’m gonna go now. Okay?” said Spud.
“That’s probably for the best,” said Marc.
Spud’s head slowly lowered below the floor with his eyes fixed on the end of the gun barrel until it and Marc were out of sight. As soon as his feet touched the cargo deck, Spud sprinted for the ramp.
Humming to himself, Marc put down his rifle and returned to the pilot’s seat. The turbines were at full power and he pressed a button on the overhead panel to start up engine number one.
He looked out the port window, as the four, fourteen foot long propeller blades on engine one quickly spun up to a blur.
“Nice guy,” muttered Marc as he started the next engine.
Outside, the mechanic’s truck trembled on its shocks as each of the turbo prop engines buffeted the vehicle with their prop wash.
Fighting the gusting wind, Spud strained to open the truck door and claw his way into the cab, quickly pulling in his leg before the door slammed shut.
Bucket looked at Spud with wide eyes, gripping the steering wheel in panic.
“Radio the tower,” shouted Spud. “Tell him someone’s stealing the plane.”
“The radio got blown into the field,” said Bucket, thumbing over his shoulder, “with everything else. Same’s gonna happen to us if we don’t get out of here right now!”
The truck rattled and squeaked as the front tires lifted off the ground and crashed back down. Bucket twisted the ignition key, starting the truck. He threw it in reverse and the truck launched backwards as he stomped on the gas. Propelled by the wind, Bucket fought to keep the truck from flipping over until he felt the truck respond to the steering wheel. Still rolling back, Bucket jammed the gears into drive and massed the gas pedal. Chunks of dirt and grass flew up as the truck fishtailed across the field to safety.
Spud watched as the C-130 lumbered onto the end of the runway. Sparks kicked up as the plane dragged the lowered ramp and, for an instant, he thought he caught sight of something disappearing inside the cargo bay, but then it was gone.
Humming to himself, with his hand resting on the engine throttle, Marc checked the status lights and saw the amber warning light that the loading ramp was still down. He flipped the switch and waited until the light went off.
High up in the control tower, Tower Monkey, aka Airmen Danny Trayberg, gaped at the action unfolding at the end of the air strip through his binoculars. As the C-130 turned onto the runway, Airmen Trayberg realized he, the air traffic controller, wasn’t controlling anything.
“HERK zero two, four niner six, this is Tower Monk… this is Tower,” said Trayberg. “You are not cleared for takeoff. Turn to taxiway and shut down your engines.”
Airmen Trayberg hefted his powerful binoculars and watched for the C-130 to turn off the runway, but it didn’t. He focused on the plane’s multi-paned windscreen and saw the faint image of someone in the pilot’s seat.
“HERK zero two, four niner six,” said Trayberg. “I repeat, you are not cleared for…”
Airmen Trayberg’s command came to a sputtering end as the pilot waved to him.
The thrumming pitch of the C-130’s four engines rose to a roar as the plane rolled down the runway, quickly gaining speed and lifted into the sky.
Boots pounded on the stairway and the door to the control tower flew open as a red faced Spud charged in. “Stealing the plane,” panted Spud.
Airmen Trayberg stared in disbelief as the C-130 shrunk to a dot and was lost from sight in the distance.
As the C-130 past eleven thousand feet, Marc put on an oxygen mask. The C-130 had a cruising ceiling of thirty thousand feet, but breathing above ten thousand feet began to get tricky. At fifteen thousand lack of oxygen got serious and above that you were on your way to, what was called ‘the death zone’.
He turned to the oxygen regulator on the port console and saw the pressure gauge for the oxygen cylinder was at zero.
“Oops,” said Marc and pushed the yoke forward, nosing the C-130 down. He pulled off the oxygen mask and watched the altimeter until he got below ten thousand feet, then leveled off.
“What kind of world do we live in,” mused Marc, “where you can’t steal a fully prepped plane?”
Suddenly, Marc felt the plane abruptly lurch, as if it had been tugged backwards. Warning lights came to life across the instrument panel as the air speed dropped and the plane began to shudder, buffeted by the wind. To Andy’s surprise the cargo ramp had just opened on its own.
“What do you mean, no?” demanded Spud.
“Why should I take the heat for you?” accused Airmen Trayberg. “You guys lost the plane. You call it in.”
“Maybe we could, you know, not report it,” offered Bucket.
Spud and Airmen Trayberg looked at him incredulously until Bucket shrugged his shoulders apologetically.
“Forget about who lost it,” said Spud. “How’s it going to look when they find out you just stood up here, in your little nest, and watched thirty nine tons of Air Force property disappear into the sun set?”
“Sun rise,” said Bucket. “The sun rises in the mor…”
“I know when the sun comes up!” snapped Spud. He turned back to Airmen Trayberg and jabbed his chest with his blunt finger. “The longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be explaining this mess.”
Airmen Trayberg looked out the window at the empty airfield then put on his radio headset. Sitting down in his chair he pulled himself up to the control console. He ran his finger down the frequency cheat-sheet taped above the radio controls until he found the number marked CAP (Combat Air Patrol).
Turning the knobs to the frequency he paused, his finger hovering over the transmit button. His mouth had gone as dry as chalk. Under the withering stare of Spud, Airmen Trayberg sipped from his glass of water with a shaky hand.
The transmit button lit up as Airmen Trayberg locked it down.
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“This is Potter air traffic control transmitting in the blind guard, requesting combat air patrol,” said Trayberg. After a few seconds he was about to repeat his transmission when a voice broke the empty static.
“Potter ATC,” said a professional, female voice, “this is Roughhouse one one seven, over.”
Spud grinned at the sound of the female pilots voice knowing it would double Trayberg’s embarrassment.
Tenson ratcheted up Airmen Trayberg’s spine as he prepared to reveal to the world, more accurately everyone in the Air Force listening into this conversation what had just happened.
“Roughhouse one one seven, Potter ATC,” said Trayberg. “I’m reporting an unauthorized aircraft. Requesting CAP intercept and escort aircraft to Potter airfield.”
“Potter ATC,” said Roughhouse, “are you reporting an intruder?”
“Uh, negative, Roughhouse,” said Trayberg. “Aircraft is United States Air Force, but uh, but left without authorization.”
Static spilled from the radio for, what seemed a painfully long time to Airmen Trayberg.
“Potter ATC,” said Roughhouse, slowly. “Are you saying someone stole one of your aircraft?”
Airmen Trayberg squeezed his eyes closed and took a deep breath. “Affirmative, Roughhouse.”
“Potter ATC,” said Roughhouse. “Authenticate.”
The pilot asked for the authentication code, proving someone hadn’t hacked into a military frequency and was messing around.
Airmen Trayberg slowly read out his authentication code and waited for Roughhouse to reply, hoping his earphones didn’t fill with laughter.
“Potter ATC, Roughhouse one one seven,” chuckled Roughhouse. “I authenticate. Vector me to your lost dog.”
Looking at his radar scope, Airmen Trayberg looked for the transponder signal sent from the C-130. Every aircraft automatically sent a signal allowing for radar to identify and track it.
“Roughhouse one one seven, track north,” said Trayberg, explaining the C-130 was north bound. “Aircraft ident is HERK zero two, four niner six. The pilot is not responding on any frequency.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE PAST
Thirty thousand feet above the northern coast of Colombia, Roughhouse one one seven snapped her F-15 Eagle into a turn that made her stomach sink and her face smile. To the uninitiated, they’d be reaching for the barf-bag, but to her it was the payoff for years of busting her butt to be one of the select few qualified to be a fighter pilot.
The F-15 was old enough to be considered a ‘classic’. A respectful way of saying outdated, but nobody said that around Roughhouse. She’d proven what her F-15 could do in mock dogfights against modern fighters.
She switched her radio settings to the command frequency used by Mad Eye, her home base air traffic controller.
“Mad Eye, Roughhouse one one seven,” said Roughhouse. “Did you catch that call about the unauthorized flight?”
“Roughhouse one one seven, Mad Eye. Affirm,” said Mad Eye. “You are authorized to investigate.”
Roughhouse grinned under her oxygen mask. Finally! Something to do. Flying air patrol got boring fast. To break the monotony, Roughhouse would play Trivial Pursuit, or Battleship with Mad Eye, who was annoyingly good at that game. The thought reminded her it was her turn. She looked down at the grid-paper of their current game of Battleship. She was sure she knew where Mad Eye’s remaining ship was, ensuring a rare win, but she’d happily forfeit for the chance to let her F-15 do what it did best, intercept and kill.
“Tally ho!” said Roughhouse.
“Try not to break that ol’ school bus,” teased Mad Eye.
“Let’s see a school bus do this,” said Roughhouse and pushed the throttles up on the twin turbofan engines. Capable of two and a half times the speed of sound, the jets launched the aircraft forward as if it had been standing still. She took small gasps of air to counter the sudden g-force that shoved her into her seat.
The C-130’s cockpit shuddered from the turbulence of the open cargo ramp. It wasn’t significant, but it would eat into fuel which was needed if Marc wanted to make his destination. He pressed the ramp control to close it, but the warming lights continued to blink.
He switched on the auto pilot and watched the altitude readings making sure it still worked and the old plane wouldn’t nose dive without him at the controls. Marc stopped as he was about to climb down the short ladder to the cargo bay. Reaching over, he grabbed the backpack containing the satellite and slung it over his shoulder. I worked too hard to let you out of my sight.
Wind whipped and tugged at Andy’s clothing as he stepped off the bottom of the ladder in the cargo bay. At the other end, the loading ramp lay open creating ten by nine foot open window into open air. Holding the airframe against the buffeting wind, Marc made his way towards the ramp control, but before he reached it, he saw wet splatters on the deck panel beneath the switch and realized it was hydraulic fluid.
He nodded in confirmation as he located the small hydraulic hose used by the ramp control. He wiped away the excess fluid on the open hose and smiled when he saw it had been cleanly cut. Marc turned around and chuckled as he saw Jack Tate leaning against the supply pallet.
“Really, Jack?” shouted Marc over the roar of the wind. “This is why I can’t have nice things,” said Marc.
Marc picked up the end of the severed hydraulic hose. “You wouldn’t have any duct tape would you?”
Tate stared at Marc until his smile was diluted by the cold silence.
“You always were a buzzkill, Jack,” said Marc. He slipped the pack off his shoulder and held it in front of him. “So, what? You humped all night through the jungle for this?”
“No. I’m here for you.”
Andy’s face dropped in momentary stunned silence then he burst out laughing. “Just you?” said Marc. His laughter didn’t reach his eyes which flicked over Tate, taking note of what weapons he carried.
If Tate had his assault rifle, Marc didn’t see it.
“Just me,” answered Tate.
“Who was that I left all busted up and bleeding in the mud the other day? Oh, right.” Marc waved his finger at Tate. “It was you, and by the way, have you looked in a mirror because, MAN, I did a number on your face.”
Tate wordlessly pushed away from the supply pallet and headed towards Marc.
Marc tucked the backpack into a pocket of cargo netting hanging from the side of the airframe then closed the distance on Tate.
Neither man saw the F-15 Strike Eagle slip into position off the port wing. In the C-130’s empty cockpit the radio crackled as Roughhouse demanded the big cargo plane turn around.
“Mad Eye, Roughhouse one one seven. They’re not talking,” said Roughhouse. “Executing a headbutt.”
Roughhouse dipped her wing and slipped under the nosed of the C-130 then accelerated ahead. Once clear, she climbed five hundred feet in front of the cargo plane, leaving a wake of turbulence in the path of the C-130. Roughhouse banked and took up position off the port of the C-130. She slid in closer attempting to see through the glare of the cargo plane’s windscreen and did a double take.
“There’s nobody flying the plane!”
“Say again,” prompted Mad Eye.
“The cockpit is empty,” said Roughhouse.
Roughhouse banked away until she could see the entire plane and noticed the lowered cargo ramp. “I think the pilot might have bailed out. Mad Eye, if they maintain this course, can it threaten any military or civilian locations?”
There was a short pause as Mad Eye plotted the C-130’s course on a map. “That’s affirmative. Your current course intersects restricted air space for US Army base Merril, in uh, twenty minutes.”
“Copy,” replied Roughhouse. “Two zero minutes.”
Roughhouse briefly slowed to let the C-130 pull ahead then slid behind and edged in closer. As the cargo bay came into view Roughhouse’s jaw fell open in disbelief.
“Mad
Eye,” said Roughhouse. “I think I found the pilot. There’s two guys beating the hell out of each other in the cargo hold of the plane.”
“What?”
“I have a ring side seat. Both are in camos, but there’s no identifying markings.”
Roughhouse carefully closed the distance to the C-130. She could feel the stick tremble in her hand as the turbulence from the big cargo plane got stronger.
The instant he was in range, Tate swung, but Marc easily dodged out of the way. “If you came to finish the job,” he chided, “you’ll have to do better than that, Jackie boy.”
“You always did talk too much,” said Jack and stepped with a quick jab at Andy’s head with a punch to his ribs. They both missed, Marc easily dancing out of the way.
Marc faked to the left, catching Tate off guard and landed three quick blows, the last one connecting with the side of Tate’s head. Stars bloomed in front of his eyes as Tate staggered back and fell.
As he lay groggy on the floor, Marc casually removed a fire extinguisher from its mount. Hefting the steel cylinder, he pursed his lips while glanced up, mentally judging it’s weight.
“This’ll be messy,” said Marc as he returned to Tate and raised the fire extinguisher over his head. The inside of the cargo bay dimmed and to his amazement Marc saw a fighter jet mere feet from the end of the ramp.
Marc walked up to the edge of the cargo deck and took a moment to appreciate the view. From this height he could see the gentle curve of the earth’s horizon behind the sleek bulk of the fighter jet.
He waved at the pilot who gestured, in return, for Marc to turn the plane and follow.
“I’m a little busy right now,” said Marc. He pointed to himself then mimed holding a phone. “I’ll call you.”
The pilot began go sign something, but Marc turned his back on the pilot and headed for Tate.
The F-15 banked away and was lost from sight as Marc reached Tate who was still on all fours.
Grave Mistakes (The Grave Diggers Book 3) Page 16
