The Frenchman checks his vintage Rolex GMT-Master, a fortieth birthday present from his wife, then turns to Cobbin and Gerhard. ‘Ten minutes.’
They nod, no need for words. They have painstakingly rehearsed exactly what will happen next. They each slip on their two-way radio headsets then climb out of the Mack.
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.
‘Now.’ The Frenchman’s firm command yanks Kelvin back to reality. He pushes the throttle levers forward. The four General Electric turbofans bite the air and jolt the Galaxy onto the runway.
Gerhard braces himself within the open hatch as Cobbin straps in to a nearby jump seat. ‘Make sure it’s in position. And easy with the throttle —’
‘I know what to do.’ Gerhard fails to disguise the anxiety in his voice as he pushes the throttle lever forward. The Mack gathers speed, rumbles towards the runway’s threshold - then lurches to a stop.
No! Too much throttle. Fear slices through the Austrian. His hand shakes as he stabs the red starter button and focuses on the truck’s exhaust stack, watches for the burst of smoke that will tell him the engine is running.
He sees no smoke. The truck’s out of position and its engine is dead. In fifteen seconds everyone on this plane will be too.
The Galaxy accelerates as 164000 pounds of thrust shove 350000 kilograms of aircraft down the runway.
‘What’s happening? Is it in position?’
No, it isn’t. It’s not even close. Gerhard ignores Cobbin and pushes the red button again, looks back at the Mack truck.
Diesel smoke blasts from its exhaust stack. The engine’s running. There’s no time to be relieved. He very gently presses the throttle lever forward. The Mack accelerates towards the runway.
The Galaxy’s nose tips up and Gerhard’s view of the truck is obstructed by the jet’s wing. He looks right.
The F-16s clear the line of parked C-130s. Side by side they pivot, bring their weapons to bear on the Galaxy as it rushes along the tarmac.
The fighter jets’ Gatling guns erupt. Blurs of white light streak across the airfield. Gerhard involuntarily flinches as the rounds thump into the Galaxy’s fuselage.
The big jet’s wheels leave the tarmac and it lumbers into a steep climb, engines whining in four-part harmony. Gerhard’s thumb touches the green button at the top of the remote. His eyes find the Mack as it races onto the runway. He can’t press the button until it’s in position, and it’s not there yet.
A flash from the wingtip of the closest F-16. A Sidewinder missile rockets towards the Galaxy. Gerhard sees it and knows he’s out of time. He closes his eyes and mashes the green button and prays it works.
The earth quakes and the first half-kilometre of runway disappears. In its place burns a crater the size of a football field. Chunks of dirt and bitumen rain down from the mushroom cloud that billows into the sky above.
The F-16s make it into the air, but not in the way they were designed. The explosion picks them up and flips them over like leaves in a summer breeze, scuttles them across the taxiway on their canopies, slams them into that line of parked C-130s.
Halfway to the Galaxy, the Sidewinder missile is enveloped by the explosion and vaporised.
The blast wave hits the Galaxy like a runaway locomotive, violently shoves up its tail. Its vast wings flex to the edge of their design parameters and the airframe groans like a prehistoric beast in its death throes.
‘That’s me!’ On the flight deck Kelvin seizes control of the aircraft. Jeez-us! The Galaxy’s nose points at the ground, the view beyond the windscreen showing nothing but suburbia, row after row of sleeping houses, not what you want to see when travelling at 320 kilometres an hour, barely 2000 feet off the ground.
He has ten seconds to get the jet level. Feet stroke the rudder pedals, right hand caresses the throttle levers, left hand plays the flight stick. He works the controls with finesse.
The Galaxy’s nose pulls up, but rises too far. In an instant it wipes off the plane’s speed. The air stalls under the wings and steals their lift. The engines scream but the aircraft isn’t moving forward. It hangs in the ink-black sky, nose pointed at the stars.
Tail first, the aircraft drops in a lazy arc towards the houses below. Kelvin goes in search of lift. Finesse abandoned, he fights the controls, tries to bring the nose down, get the jet horizontal and reset the wings’ angle of attack.
He kills the power. The plane falls. He works the stick. The nose tilts down, but slowly. It’s 700 feet off the ground. He plays the flaps. The nose drops again, the aircraft almost horizontal.
Close enough. Kelvin jams the throttle levers to full power. The engines run up, shove the aircraft forward. It gathers speed. The wings grab air, regain some lift. The Galaxy slips out of the stall, but it’s low. A hundred feet above the rooftops, if that. He’s about to drop this thing into some poor schmuck’s swimming pool.
The Galaxy skims the rooftops. Jet wash blows off tiles like they’re confetti. He’s certain he hears a dog bark. He eases back on the stick. Nothing. He does it again. ‘Come on!’
The heavy nose rises. Slowly, then faster. The Galaxy climbs.
‘Christ.’ He hasn’t taken a breath in what feels like a week. He exhales, his right hand gripping the control stick so tightly it’s numb. He releases it and looks at the Frenchman.
Henri’s unruffled, like the whole thing was no big deal. He turns to Kelvin with that strange half-smile and nods. Kelvin’s sure this is Henri’s version of high praise, but right at this moment he doesn’t care. He turns back to the controls and scans the instruments with a practised eye. ‘Doesn’t look like we picked up any serious damage. I’ll check once we’re on the ground.’
‘Good.’ Henri speaks into his headset’s microphone. ‘Cobbin, how’d it go down there?’ Kelvin can’t hear Cobbin’s reply but he can hear the Frenchman. ‘Okay, close the hatch.’