“Nothing suspicious about that,” Stringer adds.
“And no need to bring anything to read,” Bason cracks, “you’ll be dead by the time we throw you on board.”
“And the pilot?” Augie asks, not entirely interested in the answer, but the longer they stall, the greater the chance of something happening far more favorable than death.
“Yours has been replaced,” Stringer answers, “with one of ours. He is a skilled skydiver, so he’ll be bailing out after he transmits a distress signal.”
Parker has to admit that for disposing of a five-star general and his assistant, the plan has a rather simple elegance, an element he would appreciate more if he was not the intended recipient of said plan. Still, he has been in plenty of tight situations before, along with Augie, and they had managed to emerge from all of them intact, albeit with the occasional battle scar or two. He begins to weigh their options, which are severely limited.
Augie has his sidearm, Anderson is not packing, and Parker has the gun he was loaned on their trip to Eisley’s house tucked in his back waistband. There is nothing useful around the lab because it has been completely cleaned out. Nevertheless, Parker does not intend to go out without a fight, and he knows Augie will not take this lying down either, especially from a couple of fuckers like Bason and Stringer.
Back in the jungles of Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia, Augie and Parker often used the word danh tu, a Vietnamese word that essentially means “fight.” They both liked the sound of the word, and when either of them embarked on a mission without the other, their parting last word usually was an exclamatory danh tu. While totally unnecessary, for neither of them needed a motivational ploy to become energized for a mission, they had succeeded and returned back safely after each one, designating the word as a kind of “good luck” handle.
Parker is about to exclaim this very word as a signal for Augie to make a move, but before he can do so, two things happen nearly simultaneously that make it unnecessary.
First, Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries explodes on Augie’s cell phone, his personalized ringtone causing everyone in the room to jump. And second, the lights in the makeshift lab go out, pitching the room into total darkness with the exception of a small sliver of light sneaking in through the small, rectangular window in the lab door.
The next thing that can be heard in the lab is a screeching noise that sounds like a wild animal, and then a figure suddenly barrels out from the shadows, moving with astonishing speed towards Bason and Stringer. A moment later, high-pitched screams pierce the air, screams that have no business coming from the throat of a human being.
FIVE
Lieutenant Julianna Dawson can no longer take it. She is hot, cramped, and she feels like she is running out of air, although she is nearly certain that she has tricked her brain into believing there is a limited air supply in her tiny hideaway.
The plane ride has seemed like an utter eternity, and she has begun to wonder if they are attempting to fly around the world. The plane started traveling what seemed like north, perhaps even northeast, but after less than an hour, the plane landed. When they resumed their flight, the plane appeared to be heading due west or possibly northwest, and she figures that the real estate below might soon become scarce.
During their descent and subsequent approach prior to landing, Dawson was absolutely terrified as the wind whipped violently around her and she felt herself being tugged out into the night sky, a metal beam above her providing the only thing to cling to. Coupled with this terror, however, was also a strange exhilaration as they made their approach, basking in the adventure of the experience and knowing that she was starting to shatter her inherent fear of flying. The landing was actually smooth and, besides the rather discomfiting smell of burnt rubber and a momentary puff of smoke when they touched down, uneventful.
As soon as the plane landed, she desperately wanted to take a look around in order to determine where they were, but she feared being spotted and decided to remain in her cubbyhole. She had to make do with listening rather than observing.
Dawson knew the airport was not heavily trafficked because she did not hear the sound of another plane departing or arriving the entire time they were on the ground. There also seemed to be a surprising lack of illumination around the airfield, with only a few floodlights at intervals along the runway. She had not noticed any lights in the distance on their approach either, which also seemed strange. Similar to the airfield they initially departed from, it was like the runway was located in the middle of nowhere.
After they taxied to a stop, as the engines gradually whined down, she thought she heard Colonel Fizer’s voice, but her eardrums had yet to “pop” from the air pressure and everything she heard had a kind of hollow, muffled quality to it. She also heard another voice: a terse, gruff voice similar to Fizer’s, but it sounded much angrier, more on edge.
Moments later, she heard a fuel hose connected to the tank of the Cessna, and she tensed as she saw a shadow pass below her compartment. Then a booted foot kicked the tire below her, apparently checking the pressure, and her breath caught in her throat. She instinctively moved as far back into the compartment as she could, balling her frame up until she was barely larger than a classroom globe. The shadow moved on and she resumed her breathing and her heart continued its steady pounding.
It was then that she noticed on the opposite side of the wheel well a dull, silver latch. She had not noticed it before because it is directly above where the wheels sit upon being retracted into the plane. She immediately recognized the logic in having a removable panel above the plane’s wheels in case the pilot has a mechanical malfunction with the landing gear and needs to examine it mid-flight. She scolded herself for not using any common sense.
As soon as she began wondering if she could reach the latch once the wheels were retracted, she heard what sounded like something being loaded onto the plane, followed by several heavy footfalls above her in the cabin. No more than five minutes later, the fuel hose was disconnected from the Cessna’s tank, the cabin door was shut, and they started taxiing down the runway. After about a minute or two, the Cessna turned completely around, rapidly accelerated down the runway, and lifted into the air. Once again, she was facing her fear of flying head on, both literally and figuratively, as the tiny plane left the comfort of solid ground for the skies above.
After the pilot retracts the landing gear, she finds herself back at square one, confined again in her tiny compartment and immersed in total darkness. She deliberates whether she can contort her body over the wheels to access the latch and sneak a peek into the cabin above her. She has used her penlight sparingly, fully aware of its limited battery life and hoping to conserve a little juice in case she needs it down the road. There is approximately two or three feet between the retracted wheels and the latch, and since the compartment is not large enough for her to stand up in, she considers the angles she has to negotiate and how best to maneuver her body in the limited space in order for her to reach the latch.
Dawson turns on the penlight, places it in her mouth, and eases herself into the narrow space between the wheels and the top of the compartment. She moves slowly, not wanting to become permanently lodged in the tight quarters because of sudden movements. Several times she stops and listens intently, trying to discern any sounds above that would indicate the location of the first class passengers. All she hears, however, is the steady drone of the engines and her own labored breathing. Sweat is pouring in rivulets down her face and her back is drenched in both perspiration and grease, with her previously white tank top now the color of charcoal. Her uniform pants feel like they have been stitched into her legs and her feet are submerged in a sweaty broth of her own making.
At last, she arrives within arm’s reach of the latch and grabs a hold of it. Disregarding her previously cautious nature, she attempts to pull herself the rest of the way using the latch as leverage, quickly paying for her hurried movement. The back of her tank top snags on something and she hears a tearing sound, followed by a shooting pain in the middle of her back.
She grimaces and grits her teeth, ignoring the pain. She can feel the blood