At the front of the tanker Cobbin unspools a long, thick hose that’s attached to a Masport pump. The nozzle at the other end is large and unwieldy, specifically machined for one job. Gerhard heaves the hose to his shoulder and lugs it towards an area low on the Galaxy’s fuselage above the landing gear. He tugs open the fuel cover, slides the nozzle on to the vent — and can’t get it on. Cobbin watches him struggle with it, then finally lock it down.
Cobbin flicks a switch and the pump whirrs to life. Type A aviation fuel sloshes up the pipe into the Galaxy’s tanks. The tanker holds 34000 litres of avgas and it will take no more than eight minutes to empty it into the Galaxy. It isn’t much compared to the 195000 litres the jet carries when fully fuelled, but it’ll be enough for tonight.
Henri scales a ladder to the Galaxy’s forward-entry hatch, swings the door open and extends the built-in ladder to the ground. It’s heavy but he has no trouble with the weight.
He draws a P7 Lenser torch from the pocket of his flight jacket, illuminates the empty 37-metre cargo bay, exactly 30 centimetres longer than the Wright brothers’ first flight at Kitty Hawk in 1903, then climbs the internal ladder to the flight deck and slides into the copilot’s seat. He takes in the aircraft’s controls: nothing digital here, just a sea of analogue switches, buttons and gauges. A nightmare of options if you didn’t know what you were doing. Henri knows, feels right at home, yet he has never sat in a Galaxy before. Bill Gates was rich beyond the dreams of avarice because his company had created, amongst other things, the Flight Simulator software that taught Henri how to fly this beast.
He flicks switches, turns dials, runs through a pre-flight checklist he knows by heart. The flight deck lights up, gauges spring to life, a muted glow from above illuminates his thinning pate. He glances at his GMT-Master then speaks into his headset’s microphone. ‘How long?’
Cobbin’s voice crackles in his ear. ‘Three minutes.’
Behind Henri, in the walkway that connects the flight deck to the troop bay, a figure appears, silhouetted against the darkness.
Henri swivels, a Glock pistol in hand, finger tense on the trigger — then lowers the weapon when he sees who it is. ‘You’re late.’
‘But I’m here.’ Kelvin Atwater slides into the pilot’s seat and they continue the pre-flight checklist in silence.
Though outwardly impassive, Kelvin is in fact a bundle of nerves and regret. This is not how he expected his life to pan out, but then who expected to be diagnosed with inoperable prostate cancer and told they had six months to live?
Kelvin loved being a member of the air force, loved flying this elephantine jet, but after the diagnosis he realised how little he had to show for his life of service. He’d flown for his country for over thirty years, had done everything asked of him, indirectly, by five presidents, and yet he had only $4163 to his name and a little house in Central Louisiana that, thanks to Katrina and then the GFC, was worth peanuts. So he had agreed to help the Frenchman and take the million dollars on offer — he wanted to retire in style, hopefully die somewhere in the Pacific. An island resort would be nice, a piña colada in one hand and a tanned native girl in the other, staring at a glistening ocean as the sun baked his life away.
‘We’re in.’ Cobbin’s voice buzzes in Henri’s ear. ‘Fuelling complete.’
‘Copy that.’ Henri turns to Kelvin. ‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’ Kelvin triggers a sequence of switches. Far behind him the turbofans churn to life as a light shudder vibrates the cabin. His left hand eases the throttle levers forward. The engine note builds and the jet rolls.
At the Galaxy’s open hatch Gerhard pulls a large black remote control from a backpack. He extends its aerial, flicks a switch and a green LED illuminates. He presses a red button and looks back at the Mack.
He can’t hear its starter motor over the Galaxy’s turbofans but he can see smoke blast from the exhaust stack as the diesel engine cranks to life.
‘Remember it’s sensitive. Don’t stall.’
Gerhard doesn’t need Cobbin to remind him that the remote is sensitive, he built the thing. He pushes the throttle lever forward. The Mack rolls — then lurches to a stop. ‘Shit!’ It stalled.
Cobbin throws Gerhard a dark look. The Austrian ignores it, wipes his forehead, presses the red button again. Black smoke bursts from the Mack’s exhaust stack. He eases the throttle lever forward again. The Mack rolls. Gerhard exhales, more relieved than happy. He delicately moves the remote’s control wheel and feeds in more throttle. The Mack speeds past the Galaxy.
The strange convoy turns south-west onto the taxiway and rolls on through the cool night.
Henri must lean forward to see the taxiway through the Galaxy’s windscreen. Directly in front of the Mack is the 70-metre-long, six-metre-high motorised gate that separates the Boneyard from Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. To the left of the gate is a small guardhouse. Inside a soldier shouts into a telephone.
Henri speaks into his headset. ‘Do it.’
The Mack accelerates hard, strikes the centre of the gate even harder. A section catapults right and spins into the night like a deranged frisbee. Another section catches hold of the Mack’s grill and jams there as the truck continues on its merry way. Yet another section flips left and slams into the roof of the guardhouse.
The giant aircraft rolls through the new gap in the fence, the stubby guardhouse passing under its left wing just as it was designed to. Then the jet wash from the turbofans hit. The guardhouse, made of little more than painted plyboard, glued and screwed together by the lowest bidder, loses its roof as the guard cowers inside, hands clamped over ears to protect his hearing from the shrieking engines.
Gerhard strains his neck to keep his eyes on the Mack as he works the remote. The truck leans into a wide turn and the slab of metal fence slides off its nose and clatters to the tarmac. Then the Mack slows and falls in behind the Galaxy. The pair trundle past the alert pads and head towards the runway.
Henri turns to the right and locks eyes on a pair of taxiing fighter jets on the far side of the airfield. They’re F-16 Fighting Falcons from the 120th FIG. Each week they rotate from their home in Great Falls, Montana, to Davis-Monthan. They can scramble from their hangar in under five minutes to identify, intercept, and, if necessary, destroy any airborne threat to the USA. As the Galaxy is a very large threat they will not let it take off.
They’re too far away to fire yet but Henri knows they’ll soon be in range. They’ll use the 20-millimetre Gatling guns first, hoping to stop the Galaxy before it leaves the ground. If that fails they’ll launch the wingtip-mounted AIM-9 Sidewinders and blow it out of the sky.
Gerhard plays the remote, eyes glued to the Mack truck. It’s 150 metres behind the Galaxy. He steers it to the left to avoid the turbofan’s jet wash as the jet rolls onto the runway’s threshold, its tarmac scarred black by decades of tyre rubber.
Henri’s eyes stay fixed on the taxiing F-16s. Bobbling over the uneven tarmac they pass behind a line of parked Hercules C-130s. In thirty seconds they’ll clear the aircraft and have an unimpeded shot at the Galaxy.
Henri speaks into his headset’s microphone. ‘Gerhard, are you in position?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Henri looks across at Kelvin. ‘Do it.’
Kelvin feels sick to his stomach. He knows those approaching F-16s mean to blow this jet out of the sky. Only now does he fully appreciate what he’s a part of.