Now comes the moment of truth. If the latch does not turn, she might be on the verge of busting through the compartment door and demanding that the pilot land the plane at the nearest airfield, simply to avoid a possible duel with her sanity in the confined space she occupies. Of course, her only weapon is a rather ordinary-looking pocketknife, so her persuasive powers are severely limited. If the latch does turn, well . . .
I’ll just have to improvise, she thinks.
First things first as she takes a large breath and exhales. She turns the latch without resistance and eases the panel outward, slowly, while simultaneously sliding out from her hiding spot. Something sharp digs into her back, into the cut, and more pain ensues. Once again, she grits her teeth and bears it. She finally pulls her body clear out of the compartment below.
Dawson looks around her, only to discover she has moved from one confined space to another, albeit slightly larger than the previous one. She then realizes she is still several feet below the main cabin and a sinking feeling starts to envelop her, a fear she may be stuck here forever. She sweeps the penlight around the area and her feeling of despair quickly disappears when she sees another latch a few feet away, connected to a panel that appears to be directly under the cabin. She replaces the panel door on the compartment she has just exited and crawls toward the second latch, the ceiling above her no more than three feet high.
She arrives at the second latch and notices there is a small step directly below it. She places her knees on the step while the rest of her body is hunched below the panel, and she grasps the latch. Once again, she takes a deep breath, trying to slow her heavy breathing and get her heart rate under control. She is a pool of sweat, blood, and grease, and she fleetingly wonders if this could be construed as “combat” experience. Dawson will be sure to pose this question to her superiors if she comes out of this alive.
She turns the latch easily and she hears a slight click. Unlike the other panel, she slowly slides this one horizontally on a track, the panel no more than two and a half feet wide and about three feet long. She cautiously peers above it and sees a very narrow aisle, with several rows of leather seats on either side. The main cabin is dimly lit, the only illumination coming from several miniature bulbs that line the aisle at three-foot intervals, resembling the aisle lights in a movie theatre.
Her gaze continues down the aisle as it leads to the cockpit, which appears to be occupied by two people. One of them is Colonel Fizer, seated in the co-pilot’s seat, a headset wrapped around his head. The other man, the pilot, is wearing a mesh baseball cap and a similar headset. Neither of the men speak as they both stare into the blackness of the night sky. There is another person in the first row of seats on the left side behind the pilot, the person’s legs outstretched into the aisle. Dawson cannot see who the figure is or what he or she might be doing, but she notices the person has camouflage pants on.
Someone else from the military? she thinks. Is he or she armed?
Dawson takes out her pocketknife, which still reeks of gasoline from puncturing the tank on her jeep, and she starts to hoist herself out of the compartment when she does a double take to her left. She pauses, her arms straddling the panel opening, and she immediately lowers herself back into the compartment, with only her head protruding above the opening.
In the last row of seats, only a few yards from her position, she spies a pair of feet.
Dawson debates what she should do, with her first inclination to crawl back into the recesses of the plane to her original hideaway. But then she thinks about the hell of being stuck below and her curious nature gets the better of her. She looks toward the cockpit and sees Fizer and the pilot still wordlessly staring ahead, and the person in the first row of seats remains motionless.
Dawson leans out of the panel opening, steals one more glance towards the front of the plane, and then slowly moves her head around the back of the seat.
She gasps.
A man sits in the seat slumped over, apparently unconscious, his hands cuffed in front of him. He wears a sand-colored shirt that appears to be a size too small and camouflage pants, like the person sitting in the first row of seats. The man’s head occasionally lolls erratically from side to side, as if he is having a seizure. Dawson notices a large bruise on the side of his neck that seems to run underneath his shirt. The bruise is a nasty shade of crimson and purple and looks to have occurred recently. She also notices what appears to be an extremely dirty bandage wrapped around his hand.
Despite the fact the man must be dangerous on account of the handcuffs, she feels an immediate sympathy towards him. Besides, the man cannot be all that bad if he is at odds with Colonel Fizer.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Dawson recalls the old saying.
Still, she debates what to do next. She glances towards the cockpit once again, but sees no movement. Dawson looks back at the unconscious man, whose head once again jerks awkwardly to the side. In spite of her reservations, she feels she at least owes it to the man to determine if he is stable and breathing normally. She does possess basic medical training, and she cannot in good conscience scramble back to her lair without checking on him first.
Dawson slowly rises out of the compartment, all the while staring towards the front of the plane, keeping an eye out for any movement that would indicate she has been spotted. She grips her pocketknife tightly, thinking that the gasoline-soaked blade is enough to defend herself in case they try to capture her. Deep down, she is not quite sure she believes that.
Her legs clear the compartment, and she crawls the few remaining feet into the row with the unconscious man. She slowly glances out from behind the row of seats in front of her and sees that Fizer and the pilot remain undisturbed, while the person in the first row still has not moved. Dawson reaches into the aisle and gently slides the panel door back into place.
She turns around to face the man and moves closer to him, not entirely certain what she can do for him. She first checks the pulse on his wrist and while not entirely strong, it is constant. His breathing is fairly ragged, but it too possesses a rhythmic quality, indicating that he is not struggling to pull oxygen into his lungs. She notes that his wrist is icy, and she puts her hand to his forehead and on his cheek to find his face cold and clammy. She sees goose bumps on his arms and suddenly realizes why his head appears so spasmodic: he is shivering because he is freezing, causing his whole body to quake involuntarily.
Not knowing what else to do, Dawson rubs her hands up and down his arms, attempting to generate some heat and force his circulatory system to pump the blood around his body. The man’s face possesses an unhealthy pallor except for the large bruise on the side of his neck. Dawson stops and takes a closer look at the bruise, gingerly lifting his shirt, trying to be as gentle as possible.
Suddenly, the man shifts slightly in his seat and he emits a guttural groan, followed by a hoarse whisper, “Mike . . .”
Dawson is so startled that she nearly falls backwards into the aisle. She regains her balance and places her index finger over her mouth, indicating for him to be quiet even though his eyes remain closed.
The man groans again, and this time it lasts for several seconds. Dawson is certain that it is loud enough to be heard by Fizer and company, and she immediately ducks down in the row of seats, desperately looking around for somewhere to hide.
“What the hell was that?” someone asks.
“Sounds like our prisoner is starting to stir,” Fizer responds. “Go check on him, Sergeant Major,” he orders.
“Yes, sir,” another person replies.
The sound of approaching footsteps can be heard and moments later, Dawson is staring at a pair of black, shiny boots a few inches from her face. She has managed to cram herself underneath the prisoner’s seat, her feet pressed up against a wall that abuts the last row of