Page 102 of Exit Strategy
I wasn’t dead, but the jump hadn’t been free. Before I could assess how badly I had hurt myself with that stunt, I had to get out of the wheel well. Kyle had mentioned that at altitude, I would be experiencing subzero temperatures, and if I didn’t get into the plane quickly, they’d find me frozen, if I didn’t fall out the moment that they dropped the landing gear on approach.
I had a one in four chance of surviving that ordeal.
I fumbled with the zipper of the ultralight bag, careful to not drop anything. If that happened, whatever was dropped would be pretty much gone forever. I found the first tool, a torch. I flicked it on and panned around my sub-economy seating area. I had barely enough room to do what I had to, and it only took a minute or so to work my way around to a tiny square in the wheel well. It was a viewing port. The crew could open it and look into the well to see if the gear was actually up or down, if there was a problem in the cockpit. The metal would be the thinnest there. That was important, because the toy in the bag only had a limited power supply, and if it ran out before I was through, well, then I was well and completely fucked.
The cutter felt like a large flashlight, but much heavier. The instructions were simple, and according to the brief guidelines, it had more than enough power to cut a person free from a damaged vehicle, or in extreme circumstances disable a door, or, if switched into the secondary power output position, weld such a door shut.
Where did they find shite like this?
I placed the tip of the device near the side of the access panel and pressed the button. There was no sound at first, but there was a wash of heat, and thankfully not that much light. The laser made quick work of the aluminum well housing. The metal turned to a quicksilver consistency and flowed away from the laser. I moved the beam as quickly as I could. I couldn’t run out of power and be trapped in the wheel well. That would be some Poe-esque tragedy on par with theCask of Amontillado.
The cutter managed to cut almost the entire span before the beam faded to a pencil light and then went out. I dropped the spent device and pushed against the section I had been working on. The metal didn’t move, and I felt a surge of panic. If I died in the wheel well, whatever, I didn’t matter. If I died, no one would be able to save Callie.
She would be alone in their power.
I pushed again, not feeling the rough edge or the heat still in the metal. There was a shudder, and the last few inches of aluminum gave, like a hinge. I pulled myself through the hole, and out. I could smell gasoline fumes, and the curious gray line and chlorine smell I associated with caravans and campers. I was in the crawl space under the loading deck of the jet. There wasn’t enough room to stand, but if I bumped along far enough, I would find the access door where the ground crews inspected the insides of the jet.
Fuck, this place was cramped.
It did bring Kyle’s point that the FN FAL would be the wrong tool for the job, and the Beretta 93Rs he loaned me were a much better choice.
I felt like an absolute madman, cutting my way into a jet, after jumping on the wheels, with just a couple of pistols. What sort of action movie hero did I have the bollocks to think I was? Even Arik Rex didn’t do stuff this batty in his flicks.
Finding the access door took longer than I expected. It didn’t help that I was starting to feel the bruises and burns I had gained jumping onto the landing gear. One of my pants’ legs was torn away, a boot was gone, and my foot was several shades of purple. It bore my weight, so it didn’t feel like anything was broken, but I wasn’t going to be winning any footraces anytime soon.
The hatch lifted easily, and I looked into the cargo hold. I was looking into the wheel well of a large deluxe RV caravan. As I looked around, it was more of the same. The light was dim, and several of the vehicles – there might have been eight – had lights on. Considering the size and cost of these vehicles, they were probably scales more luxurious inside, compared to anything that a Chinese-built cargo jet could offer.
The amount of money inside the jet, and the jet itself, was offensive. These guys were supposed to be green, eco-friendly, all that. Green communists, or some shite like that.
“I can believe they called Code for this,” I heard a man say. There was the familiar flick and scritch of a lighter.
“You’re not supposed to smoke in here, Cam,” a woman scolded. “But if you are, give me one too.”
“This is stupid. The merch wasn’t ready to be moved. They were still in basic.”
“I agree, half of them still cry constantly. They aren’t ready. We should have sent them to a different facility, or on a goddamn boat.”
“Yeah. Can I ask you a personal question?” he asked.
“No, I won’t go out with you. I’m in a long-term relationship with several vibrators and a Hitachi,” the woman said.
“No, nothing like that.”
“Shoot,” she said, and I could hear her take a long drag on the cig before puffing it out.
“How do you compartmentalize it?”
“What?”
“How do you rationalize what we’re doing to those kids?”
“They aren’t kids, Cam,” she said. “And you’re still hanging on to that progressive petroleum mindset. Everything we’ve been taught since we were kids is a social construct created by the industrial sector to be productive laborers scalded into powerlessness and weakness.”
“I took the same accelerated classes you did,” he said.
“They aren’t children, they’ve physically matured. What’s that expression, if there is grass on the field, play ball?”
“That’s the expression, yeah.”
