Outside, ground personnel plugged in electrical power and the components around him hummed to life, heating up rapidly. Fans whirred, blowing hot, moist air over his inert form and somewhere in the core of his cerebrum he registered the temperature of the compartment racing past 65 degrees Celsius. In a detached, clinical observation he noted he would not live long under these worsening conditions.
Ten minutes later a cooling hose was plugged into an opening on the aircraft’s fuselage. Conditioned air rushed through the ducting creating a mini tornado in the electronics bay, and the commando transitioned from roasting to violent shivering as the chilled air blasted his sweat-soaked frame. The small part of his cortex still taking notes assessed that overall, this was an improvement.
An hour later he was dry and the shivering ceased. He widened the reaches of his consciousness further, registering the footsteps of caterers and cabin cleaners on the floor just above him. Then, after a few minutes of silence, the heavy steps of booted security personnel scanning and searching, leaving no pillow unturned. He slipped the thumb safety off the NP 42 9mm pistol in his right hand as the boots paused over his head. There was a round chambered and the hammer was back. With his left hand he fingered a short lanyard. He would need just a moment to pull the ring incinerating any lasting evidence of his existence, along with most of the plane. The voices above murmured and then the boots retreated, posting themselves at the door. He listened as the two pilots climbed aboard the now-secure and cooled aircraft and made their way to the cockpit to load the navigation data. The radio patch in his ear came alive as the crew transmitted their request for clearance, receiving it a few minutes thereafter.
A short while later he heard the heavy doors to a pair of armored SUVs slam shut and a dozen or so people clambered aboard. Almost instantly the engines fired up as the cabin door was yanked closed and fastened securely.
“Manila Ground, Royal Brunei One, ready for taxi.” The pilot’s call came through loud and clear in his earpiece, and the plane began to move, bouncing gently along the taxiway. The commando forced himself to stay as relaxed as possible, but adrenaline was leaking into his system, revving his motor and making his muscles ache to unfurl. No, not yet. Not even close.
“Manila Tower, Royal Brunei One, holding short runway zero-six.”
The answer from the tower came back immediately. “Roger Royal Brunei. Cleared for takeoff runway zero-six.”
The commando felt the twin engines surge the Gulfstream forward as the plane aligned with the painted stripes. Once the nose was straight, the pitch of the engines increased to full power and the plane leapt from the runway into the muggy night air.
As the G650 climbed steeply for cruising altitude the commando felt his ears pop. He wriggled both hands in front of his face, managing to hit a button on the device strapped to his left wrist illuminating the dim green screen. Again, his earpiece crackled, “Good night Manila Tower. We are direct Brunei at this time.”
“Roger that Royal Brunei One. Safe flight.” The plane continued its climb to 40,000 feet for the quick transit down the southeastern reaches of the South China Sea. The flight plan called for a direct route, skirting just off the coast of the long Philippine island of Palawan, crossing the brief gap over to the northeast tip of the Malaysian coast and then dropping into Bandar Seri Begawan airport in the Bruneian exclave. It would take just over an hour at the speeds the G650 could attain.
The plane leveled off and the commando felt the engines ease back to cruise power. As the flight attendant busied herself in the galley just over his head, he laboriously reached into a pocket by his thigh and removed an explosive device about the size and shape of a deck of cards. He then peeled the adhesive backing and affixed the explosive to the side of a black box. He gave the device a small tug then, assured it would stay, felt for the switch on top. A quick mental inventory of his situation satisfied him that all was ready, so he turned the switch. The red arming light flicked to life.
The flight attendant continued her preparations as he slowly maneuvered a silencer from another pocket to the muzzle of the NP 42, screwing the well-oiled ends together firmly. Finally he heard her pick up her tray and move through the curtain separating the galley from the plush cabin. He had folded himself into this compartment more than eight hours ago and there were parts of his body reluctant to respond, but time was now critical. He pushed the lid of the compartment up a crack, facing aft toward the cabin. The flight attendant’s feet were just visible under the gap of the curtain as she made her way down the aisle, slowly working her way aft. He pushed the lid open and lifted himself from the compartment in one fluid motion rolling silently onto the galley floor.
It was painful to stand but he did it, pulling himself erect, hand over hand. Once upright, he closed his eyes and gave himself fifteen seconds to shake some life back into his badly tingling legs. Right on schedule, he opened his eyes and looked at his wrist device. It was time.
Opposite the cabin curtain was the cockpit door, not locked on this private plane. He took a step forward, raised his pistol to shoulder level and yanked the door open. The darkened cockpit was aglow with gauges and switches and the startled pilots turned to face him. As their jaws dropped, the commando shot them once each in the center of their foreheads and their lifeless bodies slumped forward against the shoulder restraints of their seats. He took a step into the cockpit and reached for two spring-loaded red fire switches, flipped up the caps, and depressed the buttons in quick succession. As ear-splitting alarms sounded and warning lights flashed, both engines quit simultaneously, their fuel supply shut off by the fire buttons. The Gulfstream was now a glider on autopilot and it was rapidly running out of speed.
The commando donned his oxygen mask.
In the cabin, the diplomats and government officials exchanged concerned looks. The deafening silence of the motors combined with the clamoring alarms from the cockpit needed no interpreting. Their routine transit home had suddenly become anything but.
One of the soldiers in the front row jumped to his feet and sprinted for the cockpit. As he tore through the galley curtain, the commando pressed a button on his wrist. In the electrical compartment, the light on the explosive cycled from red to green and a shaped charge blew a three-foot hole in the bottom of the Gulfstream. The soldier was thrown from his feet to sprawl in a tangled heap at the cockpit door as the cabin air was sucked into the cold, thin atmosphere outside. The cabin pressure instantly equalized to 40,000 feet, leaving a precious ten seconds of useful consciousness for anyone without oxygen. Gasping like a fish pulled from the water, the soldier hyperventilated and grasped feebly at his attacker’s boot.
The commando kicked the hand away and passed through the curtain into the cabin, surveying the scene of absolute panic before him. The passengers were screaming as they clawed for the oxygen masks that dropped automatically from the ceiling. Their hysteria increased a notch as they took in the ominous figure standing before them donning a pair of thick gloves. He watched them for a moment, then turned to the cabin door and yanked violently on the release handle, stepping back as it fell open. The plane yawed sickeningly as the door hung for an instant in the slipstream before it was wrenched from its hinges and fell away into the blackness. The commando took one last assessment of the cabin and its passengers before he gathered himself at the side opposite the open door like a sprinter in his starting blocks. Then he took two quick accelerating steps, wrapped his fingers on the forward jam of the door, and somersaulted into the roaring wind in a tight, protective cannonball.
Almost instantly the roar was gone, replaced by the whistling of wind racing by his ear. He stayed tight in the tuck as his body tumbled, decelerating with each passing second as he fell earthward like a stone. It was 50 degrees Celsius below freezing at this altitude, so he was in no hurry to stay. He counted, backing up his automation, and finally, after 150 seconds of free fall, 14,000 feet above the South China Sea, a drogue chute sprang from the pack on his b
ack, stabilizing his tumbling body into a smooth trajectory. He could feel the air warm and thicken around him and he spread his limbs into the classic skydiver’s pose, decelerating even further. With his right arm he released the main chute. It billowed for a moment then caught, filling with humid night air before yanking his body like a marionette.
Referencing his wrist instrument, he noted with satisfaction that he was precisely on time and at the proper location. The next step had been explicitly commanded by General Yongsheng, who’d made him rehearse the precise verbiage over and over. He removed a low-power radio from his harness and spoke his line. “I am unable to make the primary pick up. Injured. West ten kilometers.”
Just below, on the bridge of a Chinese trawler, the captain answered with his own choreographed response. “Understood. On our way.”
Chapter 11
16 January
Virginia Beach, Virginia
The Officer’s Club at the Master Jet Base NAS Oceana was going off, bursting with loud music, laughter, and bodies. Silvers, sitting at a table just off the bar with Pig, Moto, Dingle, and Busta McNutt, listened, there but not there, as her classmates rehashed the highlights and comedic low points from El Centro with a growing collection of empties populating the center of their table. She had given her constant anxiety the night off for no other reason than she was tired of it; it sapped her energy and confidence like a tapeworm. So why not try a little attitude adjustment, she asked herself, a little “carefree and happy,” since it was a glorious Friday afternoon in Virginia Beach and here she was hanging with her friends? She breathed deeply, picking at the label on her bottle and nodding her head to the music.
The Club was more lively than usual because three squadrons had recently returned from deployment. Half their Ready Rooms immediately disappeared on leave while the rest were here, drinking in the atmosphere and celebrating life back at Home Base. She and the rest of the Gladiator detachment had returned from El Centro just two days earlier, adding more fuel to the mix.
She studied the two hundred or so thirsty and frisky aviators. Everyone looked so happy—happy to be home, happy to be catching up with friends, happy to be swaying to the driving music, and happy to be eyeing the parade of pretty girls in their party dresses. She couldn’t imagine being dressed like that cruising around this place. She fiddled with the zipper on her flight suit leg pocket. Obviously, she didn’t fit naturally into this part of the puzzle. There were aspects of herself she would not reveal around her boys.
She spotted Rogers and a new female friend slowly licking salt from each other’s necks before tossing back a shot of tequila. She tipped her beer at him as he came up for air. He smiled his goofy smile and she felt a pang of envy at his seemingly untroubled existence.
Searching for something less personal to absorb her attention, she did an inventory of the paraphernalia that made up the Club’s decor. Giant pilot and WSO wings carved from stately brown mahogany hung in the lobby surrounded by paintings and photos of fighter planes in action. Enormous six-foot models of Rhinos were poised on pedestals in the corners. Salvaged tailhooks and stick grips hung in various locations. Patches and plaques celebrating more than fifty years of squadrons and deployments covered nearly every inch of wall and tabletop. It was not subtle or charming, but she loved it and had since the first time she’d stepped inside. It felt like home.
Her gaze shifted left and she saw Slammer entering with JT in tow. He took his place in line at the bar and pointed JT over to the table where Truck, Chewie, and a few other instructors were congregating. She was idly wondering what it would feel like to plant her boot in his balls when his eyes locked on hers. She was busted, beer bottle frozen halfway to her lips. Damned if she was going to break lock before he did. She slowly lowered her bottle, arching her brows slightly, acknowledging their stare down. It couldn’t have lasted more than three or four seconds. Finally he pinched the corners of his eyes, gave her a perfunctory nod, then pretended, she was sure, to check his phone for a text.
The battle won, she resumed her scan of the bar, soaking in the raucous scene. Behind the tinted windows the massive back deck was as packed as the bar itself. The band was set up in a far corner under the large wooden gazebo and aviators and guests were enjoying the last of the afternoon sun, swaying, but definitely not dancing, to the music. It was a target rich environment for the fellas and she smiled to herself as she watched random aviators working on groups of girls huddled together for safety. The boys, she had to say, looked pretty good. Ray-Bans and big, toothy smiles. Fit and confident, happy to be alive today and not thinking much past that. She looked at the group at her own table and imagined, just for a second, something more serious. Some sort of romantic entanglement with one of these knuckleheads. She shuddered and took a quick, purging swig, resisting the urge to gargle with the beer.
She frowned as she spotted Dusty working her way through the crush from the deck to the back bar. They had reached an uneasy, unspoken detente, staying out of each other’s orbits. She had to acknowledge, grudgingly, that Dusty was a hard worker. There was no one in the class who came close academically. She was unfailingly prepared for the pop-up questions in each brief, and she was hands-down the most diligent mission planner. She was always respectful of the instructors—just shy of obsequious, but never crossing that line. But when she smiled, it was an empty mask. In fact, everything she did, Silvers had decided, was calculated. She could practically see the gears turning when Dusty looked someone in the eye.
Across the room, Dusty cursed to herself as she bounced from one flight-suited back into another, holding her warm beer high so it wouldn’t spill as she maneuvered through the mass of bodies. She half regretted coming out; the Club wasn’t really her scene. But it was too pretty a day to sit at home with the books cracked open, waiting for JT to sneak over and impart his wisdom, so she was meeting her roommate, Mandy, for a quick drink and then they’d head somewhere with a lot less testosterone. Maybe meet a couple of regular guys for dinner. Mandy was a planner and Dusty was happy to let her steer in that arena. She’d just made it from the outside deck into the back bar when she ran smack into another woman, spilling some of the beer on her.
“Shit!” the woman said, swiping at the mess on her blouse. She glared at Dusty, but her anger morphed quickly to shock. “Lexi?”
It took Dusty a few moments to rectify the familiar face in this foreign setting. “Jenny? Jenny Franks?” she said incredulously.
Jenny was dressed relatively conservatively compared to the other women arcing around the club. Her skirt ended just a few inches above the knee and her top showed only a tasteful hint of décolletage. It was practically a nun’s habit. Dusty reached out and gave Jenny a hug, pulling her in like a life ring.
The two women separated and Jenny checked out Dusty, examining her flight suit. “Lexi, what are you doing here? In a flight suit! Are you…?”
Dusty smiled. “Yes, I am. Don’t tell anyone.” She looked at Jenny with an equally appraising eye. “What’s your excuse? I haven’t seen you since graduation.”
Jenny dropped her arms. “Almost three years now. Well, I did the unthinkable. At least in my parent’s eyes. I got engaged to a fly boy.” She nodded over to a group of Gladiator instructors knotted at the bar. “That big hairy one over there, Jeff. I guess they call him Eagle. Hey, he’s one of your instructors, isn’t he?”
Dusty laughed, feeling light. “Eagle, really? He is indeed. Congratulations! When’s the big day?”
“This summer. A July wedding, on the beach. Give me your address. You’ll have to come.”
“I’d love to,” Dusty said, grabbing a bar napkin to scrawl her number on. “Hey, do you remember Mandy Parker?”
“Mandy! Of course I do!”
Dusty handed Jenny the napkin. “She’s here, too. She’s the intelligence officer at the squadron. We’re roommates again, down at the beach.”
“I can’t believe it! We all have to get together and catc
h up. Listen, I have to go. I’m off to pick up my mom at the airport. Planning for the flowers this weekend,” she said with a posed Stepford smile and sarcastic shake of her head. “I’ll call you.”
The two hugged briefly and Dusty watched Jenny make her way out. Seeing Jenny reminded her of simpler, less complicated times. Not too long ago, she’d expected different things of the world. She felt a tide of sadness creeping up from her feet. But then someone bumped into her and she remembered where she was. She pressed her lips together tightly and pushed the softness back down.
Slammer and JT made their way onto the deck as the discordant din of crashing cymbals erupted. The instruments had been sitting idle while the band was on break, and now, from the shambles of the overturned drum set, the only thing visible was an arm in a green sleeve extending skyward grasping a mug of beer. As the body attached to the arm clambered to his feet, it managed to kick over the last standing cymbal with a final cacophonous crash.
Two hundred separate conversations paused as all heads turned to look at the red-faced student WSO. Rogers, of course. “She didn’t believe I could play the drums,” he said very faintly, pointing to his tequila partner, who was desperately trying to disappear. Rogers looked at his mug and his brows shot up in amazement.
Lions of the Sky Page 10
