He’s alone. No one can see him. He turns, looks out the open visor. This is his chance. Five steps and he’s out of the aircraft, another forty and he’s in the hangar. He can then pass through the building, make it to the road beyond and steal a car.
Except he doesn’t know the way through the building, or if there’s a road beyond, or how to steal a car. He’ll be dead before he reaches the hanger. A bullet in the back from Henri or Cobbin or Dirk is not how he wants his life to end. He puts the plan out of his mind and ties off the strap.
He finishes and looks up. There’s still no one around. He glances out the open visor again. The hangar is just there. So close. Even though the plan is half-arsed he’s going for it! Tingling with excitement he takes three steps —
Henri steps from behind the pallet and blocks his path. Kelvin tries not to appear surprised. He fails.
‘Return to the flight deck and report to Claude.’
‘Will do.’ Kelvin turns to the crew access ladder. He can feel Henri’s eyes drill into his back. The only consolation is that it’s better than a bullet. He scales the ladder to the flight deck, settles into the pilot’s seat beside Claude and turns to him with a forced smile. ‘So, where to?’
Owen’s feet slip on the polished floor as he sprints past the check-in area. He overbalances, throws out an arm, stays upright, powers on.
He has no misgivings about his course of action. Terrorists could be on that plane, actual terrorists. At his airport. If he can single-handedly pull off something heroic today, like taking them into custody, or thwarting whatever they’re doing at the hangar on the far side of the runway, then that will make his selection to the detective training program a formality. A formality!
He aims at the far side of the building and lifts his pace.
The Galaxy’s turbofans run up as it swings around. Its right wing narrowly clears the front of the hangar, then it rolls towards the runway, its jet wash whipping up a blizzard of dust.
From the shadows beside the building, Henri, Dirk, Nico and Cobbin watch it go. Henri had entrusted Claude to deliver the Tigers and he’d succeeded admirably. It again vindicated his belief that he should never micromanage his crew. All he needed was to pick them well, train them correctly, give them a clear goal and set them on their way. ‘Okay, let’s get ready.’
From a canvas bag Cobbin draws out an RPG-7 grenade launcher and passes it Dirk. He does the same for Nico, then takes a third for himself. They raise the weapons to their shoulders. Dirk points his to the left, towards a security gate 500 metres way. Nico points his to the right, at the corner of the main terminal building, another gate concealed behind it. Cobbin’s is ready to be aimed wherever it is needed.
Henri pushes a pair of small Nikon binoculars to his eyes and focuses on the Galaxy as it trundles towards the runway.
Owen sprints. His lungs burn and he feels like he’s about to be sick. He hasn’t run this far in the decade since he left school. He’s suckin’ in the big ones as he leaps down a flight of stairs and lands at the bottom of a stairwell. He drags a keycard through the reader, punches a four-digit code into its keypad and pushes the door open.
The howl of the Galaxy’s turbofans echoes across the airport. Owen looks through the chain-link security gate to his left and sees the jet is on the move. It rolls towards the end of the runway, lights blinking in the dark, illuminating its hulking outline.
He has to stop it from taking off. He guesses pumping a few bullets into an engine or two will bring proceedings to a screeching halt. He’s never fired his weapon on duty but this seems like the perfect time to start. Of course, before he can fire anything he must first pass through the security gate. He races towards it.
‘Movement. Left gate.’
Henri sees a uniformed guard run towards the security gate. Dirk, Nico and Cobbin swing their grenade launchers towards him, take aim.
Henri flicks the binoculars right, to the Galaxy as it rumbles towards the runway’s threshold, then pulls them back to the uniformed guard.
‘If the gate opens, firing order is Dirk, Nico, Cobbin.’
They each squeeze the RPG-7s’ triggers.
‘On my mark.’
Owen swipes his keycard through the security gate’s reader and punches the four-digit code into its keypad. The gate has a triple-lock security system. Swipe the keycard. Enter the code. Insert the key and turn. He reaches for his keys…
‘Oh fuck!’
He lost them earlier. He grasps the chain-link in frustration, watches the Galaxy leisurely roll away.
A moment later the whine of its turbofans twists into a high-pitched roar. Through the locked gate Owen watches the jet sweep past then lift into the black sky.
He’s in no rush to get on with the rest of the day. He knows that a member of the public, some anal plane-spotter, will call one of the local radio or television stations and report seeing the stolen Galaxy arrive or depart the airport this morning. It might take until mid-afternoon but his superiors will eventually realise that he somehow let the jet land then take off without, at the very least, alerting anyone. He’ll be unceremoniously fired. It’s not the point of difference he was looking for, but it’ll make damn certain his application to the detective training program is dead on arrival.
All this will happen because he lost his keys. It will never occur to him that those lost keys are the only reason he’s still alive.
Henri watches the Galaxy disappear into the night. ‘Let’s go.’ The four men move quickly. They wipe down the RPG-7s, deposit them in a dumpster beside the hangar, navigate the airport building using the keycard and numeric codes in the envelope supplied by Claude, then make their way to the white Citroen C4 parked on the street outside.
Dirk drives as Henri leans back in the passenger seat and gazes out the window at the streetlights that whip past overhead. It’s hypnotic. The Tigers are safely ensconced in the Galaxy’s hold, on their way to their destination, just as planned. Tonight has gone well but it will only become more difficult from here. He must stay the course. He must not falter. He owes his wife that much —
‘Commander?’ Dirk’s voice wrenches Henri back into the present. ‘Is everything in order?’ The German gestures to the glove box. Henri opens it and finds it stacked with documents. He picks them out and flips through them, nods to Dirk. Claude has provided everything they need for their next journey.
The Citroen takes a right turn into Brisbane International Airport’s long-term parking station. It certainly will be long. They’ll never return for this vehicle.
Three hours and forty minutes later Henri, Dirk, Nico and Cobbin have checked in, passed through immigration and now relax in the Qantas Club. From the leather sofas they watch the distant Pacificspatiale hangar on the far side of the airport. Only now, long after the fact, does there seem to be any activity around the hangar.
Aboard the 747 ten minutes later, Henri pulls down the window shade beside his business-class seat, sets the GMT-Master his wife gave him to the time of his destination, slips on an eye mask and settles in. He has many hours to sleep, and dream of her.
5
Someone has to cook the meals and clean the house and wash the clothes and pay the bills and feed the cats. Rhonda can’t do it, she’s too busy preparing to command Atlantis, and there’s no spare cash to hire someone. Astronauts don’t get paid that much. So the job falls to Judd as he doesn’t, currently, have a mission to train for. Sure, he works in the Astronaut Office part-time and has a role in the White Room during launches, but that still leaves him with a relaxed schedule.