Page 101 of Exit Strategy
This felt normal, in a startling fashion – riding shotgun in a high-speed vehicle, an automatic rifle in my arms. Kyle was stone silent as he drove, weaving through traffic like it was non-existent. Even more impressive, instead of getting bogged down in the main traffic arteries, he knew all of the ground streets. We exited the main road and tore through subdivisions, housing projects, and through avenues of strip malls and low-end businesses.
More than once I thought we had lost the Rover, but a moment later, it would appear hopping a curb or crossing a grassy median to rejoin us. We were faster but had lower ground clearance. The Rover was no slouch but by no means nearly as fast, but it had ground clearance, and it seemed like the captain was attacking parking lots and greenspace like it was his own personal path.
The dash touchscreen lit up, and Kyle tapped a button on his steering wheel. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve tapped into BWI ground control, and it let me listen in on their ground chatter. The Y-20 got the notification to go wheels up in fifteen minutes. We won’t have any time on the ground, but we might get there before they’re in the air.”
“Copy that. Still holding firm that those former Talibani Stinger missiles were a bad investment?” Kyle asked.
“They were throwing money away. There was no way the fuel cells were still good after this long. That’s buying our gear, not ex-Soviet stuff.”
“You guys buy a lot of Sov gear?” I asked.
“We do. There are tons of it, and it’s surprisingly durable. Not the point though.”
“So, what’s the plan now?”
“We figure that out in the next fifteen minutes. We need to find a way to keep that fat bastard on the ground,” the captain said.
Kyle waited until the captain ended the call before he spoke. “There is a way to do this, but it’s going to be doubly dangerous.”
“I’ll do anything to get Callie back.”
“I figured, but getting on the plane is going to be Hollywood dangerous, and then there is a good chance you’ll be on your own after your in.”
“Alright, tell me how,” I said.
* * *
“The Y-20 is startingits taxi to the runway. We’ve got minutes,” the captain said, his voice sounding strained through the Lambo’s audio system. “We’re out of time.”
“We’ve got a plan,” Kyle said. He pushed the exotic car through the access road, cutting through a parking area, and into the cargo terminal. We passed several blocked entrances before he found one that was open. Security here was nowhere near as tight as at the main terminal but getting on a cargo or military aircraft meant much better checks at the plane itself. Plus, as Kyle mentioned, crashing a cargo plane was not an effective terrorist technique.
The Y-20 was next in line. I could feel my heart racing, and the weight of the insanity I was carrying in the ultralight bag in my lap. Kyle gunned the motor and the car accelerated like a missile. The cargo jet, with its New Eden logo gleaming bright green and blue on the tail, started rolling too.
“Remember, once you’re in, you won’t have long before it gets up to altitude and it will be lethal cold and super low O2, you don’t have long to do this.”
“I got this,” I said. “For Calanthe…”
“You pull this off, mate, I’ll give you and her a weekend in Monaco, my treat.”
“We’ll enjoy that.”
The next three minutes were the most terrifying seconds of my life. He accelerated until he matched speeds with the jet. It was ponderous and slow, but by the time we caught up with it, it was already clocking a solid hundred miles an hour. The good news was that the Lambo could probably reach near 200, but the Y-20 only had to get to 175, maybe 150, and it would lift.
Seconds.
With the bag secured, I crawled out the window into a wall of roaring air. Everything seemed to vanish in the roar of the engines and the scream of the car. He held it steady and moved closer. I slipped my leg free and braced against the slick carbon-fiber shell, and I could see what I wanted, the thick landing strut. If I could get to it, I would have more than I needed to hold on to. It was right next to a freight-truck worth of howling rubber, the jet’s wheels.
Look before you leap, leap before you stare.
The shadow changed, the engine pitch changed, and I saw the front of the wheel assembly start coming off the ground.
I leaped.
Something hit me like a truck, but my hands caught the strut. There was some vibration, and I felt it run through me. The ground rapidly fell away, and Kyle’s Lamborghini executed a perfect handbrake turn and shot away, making for a hot exit from the terminal. I could see emergency vehicles attempting to chase, but that was just a gesture.
There was a grinding noise, and I felt the strut start to move. They were pulling in the landing gear. I looked around. I had to make sure I was in the open space, not where I was going to be caught between the scorching hot wheels and the inside of the compartment. Everything held the stink of hot rubber. After a few seconds, the landing gear locked into place, and with a loud whine, the doors closed, pitching me into complete darkness.
