Station Breaker

by Andrew Mayne

  "It's okay. I know your secret."

  I do everything I can to keep moving and not stop cold in the dance floor, attracting everyone's attention.

  I get ready to make for the bathroom then exit.

  Do I threaten her first? Lord, no. I can't do that.

  "You've been watching Shawn since we first saw you at the hotel."

  It takes me a moment to process what she just said.

  She thinks I'm gay!

  Hallelujah!

  I had been watching him since he stepped into the hotel. And to a careful observer it might look like I was interested in him. Hell, I was. I knew he was the key to the whole thing.

  "Was I that obvious?" I reply.

  She sighs. "Why are the interesting ones always gay?"

  "Listen doll face, I'd go straight for you in a heart beat."

  She playfully slaps me on the shoulder. Relieved that my secret is safe for another minute at least, I put a little more pep into my step.

  My smile fades as I see two men in dark suits walk into the bar and go over to Whitcomb to speak with him.

  31

  JUMP SEAT

  I TURN Serena so my back is towards the men who just joined Whitcomb. "I think I need to use the restroom," I say, all smiles.

  If I just flat out run for the door I'm guilty. If I casually go to the restroom and take a while to return, then I'm not as suspicious. That will give me a little bit of a head start if these people are looking for me.

  I let her go and she gives me a playful pat on the ass. "Don't talk to strangers."

  I force a big smile on my face and wink at her over my shoulder then head for the other side of the bar to pretend to look for the bathroom as I make my exit.

  I move through a crowd and end up having to weave around a section of tables because I'm not paying attention.

  "George!" I look over as Connie is grabbing me by the arm. "You have a second?"

  "I was going to use the bathroom," I say feebly.

  "It's the other way. But first, there are some people we want you to meet."

  My stomach does a backflip. One of the men in suits is standing in the passage I just left.

  He's not wearing his jacket and there doesn't appear to be a gun on him. He doesn't look Russian or Brazilian.

  "Uh..."

  "It'll only take a second." She pulls me over to the stranger.

  Late thirties, clean cut, he could be FBI or some kind of government agent. "Are you the stranded pilot?" he asks.

  At first I think he says astronaut and I feel my mouth go numb. "Maybe?" It's the dumbest possible reply.

  He holds out his hand. "I'm Jeff Sigler. Gary over there and I are flying a charter to Los Angeles tonight. We're on standby, waiting for some Brazilian soccer player to get packed. Your friends said you needed a jump seat back to the States."

  "Uh...that would be great."

  "There's a catch. Our third man caught the flu. You'd be filling in for him."

  If he asks to see my pilot certification I'm screwed. I already have to figure out how to make it through passport control – but that's doable if we go through an executive airport.

  "What kind of gear?" I ask.

  "G6. But don't worry. We just need you to be the inflight attendant. Our client's wife won't let him have any female crew."

  I make a sound that resembles laughter but is actually my soul slipping back into my body.

  "That would be great!"

  "Cool. We're going to grab something to eat then go check the plane. Do you need to get your luggage from the hotel?"

  Um, that. It does look rather suspicious that I don't have a suitcase or anything else besides the clothes I'm wearing.

  "I can have it sent over." Whatever that means. "Thank you, you're a real life saver."

  "No problem."

  He and Connie go back to the tables and I find the bathroom so I can lock myself inside a stall and let all the nervous energy leave me.

  I pull out my phone and load up Twitter. I have no new followers. @CapricornZero has not deigned to follow me back or send me any helpful tweets.

  Should I send him a public @reply? What if he's been compromised? The Workmen and the Russians knew where to find me at the stadium...was there some kind of leak?

  A public response would be stupid. Somebody could trace my tweet and figure out where I am. Sure, the account is anonymous, but I'm sure there's all kinds of device data and location information that can pinpoint me – especially if I'm dealing with government intelligence agencies.

  It's enough that I followed him and he has a way to reach me. Something must have happened.

  Was Capricorn really my contact at the stadium? Did he get killed in the shooting?

  Hell, what if Capricorn was one of the Workmen or a Russian kill team member?

  Did I just mess up their attempt to assassinate me and take the black square? Whoops.

  I take the McGuffin out of my pocket and inspect it for the first time. I've been running so much I haven't even stopped to figure out what it is.

  Two inches on each side and the thickness of several credit cards, I can spot a row of metallic contact points along one edge. It sort of looks like a large SD card.

  I take some water from the sink and wash away the blood. There are some faint letters and numbers in the corner. The letters are Cyrillic. Which would make sense, because it was stolen off a Russian space station.

  But what is it? It could be some kind of proprietary memory module, although I'm not sure why they wouldn't just use something standard. Is it shielded to protect it from high-altitude cosmic rays? Or is it thick because it does something else?

  A quick Google search isn't much help, so I decide this is a mystery I'll have to resolve somewhere else beside the bathroom in a Rio bar.

  When I head back out to the table, Jeff and Gary are devouring their food while the rest of the group is discussing where to go for their dinner.

  "You ready?" asks Jeff. "We just got the word our passenger is heading to the airport soon."

  I say goodbye to my new friends and take down their Facebook info, promising to add them once I have WiFi.

  I'm a little nervous as I get into a taxi with these new people, suspicious that it's some clever plot to separate me from everyone else.

  If it is, then I give up. There's no way I can keep up with minds that devious or resourceful.

  We arrive at the executive section of the airport where they park all the private jets. The guard at the gate takes a look at Jeff's passport and pilot's license through the window and waves us on through.

  We exit the taxi, make it to the private terminal and get waved through yet another door by a military police officer.

  While the word is out about the American astronaut on the run, I'm clearly just a pilot hanging out with two other pilots.

  I feel a wave of relief as I step out of the building and onto the tarmac.

  The scent of jet fuel smells like freedom.

  Two seconds later I get cold feet when I see a third cop standing by a motorcycle, directly between us and the plane.

  This third layer of security is unusual. He's actually checking people before they get on the plane.

  As Jeff and Gary walk right up to him, I hover behind.

  The cop looks at something on his phone – probably my photo – then miraculously waves us on.

  It seems the head shave and fake tan were the smartest things I've ever done.

  Jeff and Gary start to do an inspection. I stay on the opposite side of the nose, too afraid to go inside the plane and get trapped if something happens.

  I make mindless banter with them as they go about their business.

  I'm a little distracted and don't notice the black SUV pulling across the asphalt until it's just a few hundred feet away.

  32

  AIR SHOW

  THE SUV IS CRUISING by very slowly. The windows are dark, but I can see the silhouette of two men in the fro
nt seat and two in the back as it passes in front of a light.

  I move behind the fuselage of the plane and pretend to inspect the airspeed sensor on the nose. While I can't see the SUV from here, I can see its shadow on the tarmac.

  And it just came to a stop...

  Keep calm, David. They could just be passengers. Hell, it could be our Brazilian soccer player.

  Sure, maybe they're federal police of some kind. But they're probably everywhere. Just be another pilot inspecting a plane.

  Don't be a panicked guy about to go on the run at the drop of a hat. How many times was I going to do that tonight?

  If I'd ran off in the hotel bar I would never be this close to getting a ride back to the United States.

  This close...

  The doors to the SUV open.

  Beat.

  Beat.

  Beat.

  And they don't close.

  I hear footsteps from several men walking across the pavement.

  I casually drift to my right so I'm blocked by the landing gear and lean down to have a look.

  It's the Russians from the stadium.

  Fuck my life.

  They're speaking to the policeman.

  One of the them spots me and knocks the policeman out of his way and starts firing.

  BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!! Bullets ricochet off the landing gear.

  "GET DOWN!!!" I scream to Steve and Gary.

  They don't need my advice to drop flat. The men hit the deck as the Russians run towards me.

  I've got a thousand feet of empty runway ahead of me. They'll have no trouble gunning me down out in the open.

  BANG!!! BANG!!!

  The closest Russian falls flat on his face and skids – blood smears the tarmac out of a head wound.

  I'm confused until I see the grounded policeman aim his pistol at the other Russians and they run to the other side of the SUV.

  BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!! They fire back as he races to rear of their car.

  The hatch to the jet is right in their kill zone. I'll never make it.

  But the policeman's motorcycle is only a few yards away. I can even see the key in the ignition...

  I run to the bike in a hunched position.

  BANG!!! BANG!!! The Russians and the policeman exchange fire through the windows.

  I hop on the bike and start the engine. A bullet strikes the pavement ahead of me as somebody realizes I'm about to get the hell out of Dodge.

  I gun the accelerator and peel out, flying away from them at full speed and twist around the jet, putting it between us.

  Red and blue police lights flash somewhere behind me. I just keep going and take the bike across the tarmac.

  Full throttle, I race down the taxi-way. Straight ahead there's a landing light of a jet as it rolls towards me.

  I take the bike onto the grass island and blow past the wing tip. Stealing a glance behind me, there's three or four police cars with their lights on.

  I don't know if they're after me or responding to the shooting, it really doesn't matter because there's also a pair of headlights belonging to the SUV, charging towards me.

  Think, David.

  You're trapped in an airport with fences all the way around. There's no way I'm going to pull a Steve McQueen and jump my way out. And there's no way this bike is going to knock down the fence.

  While you might be able to evade the Russians by whizzing around in circles, the Brazilian police are going to catch you sooner than later if you can't get out.

  BANG! Someone tries to shoot at me from all the way back there.

  I glance behind me; all the way back there is a lot closer... That SUV is tearing it up. So are the police cars in hot pursuit.

  This is going to be a god damn blood bath.

  The Russians already had a gun battle with one cop.

  BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP

  Automatic gun fire! Shit! They're shooting machine guns now!

  Two police cars appear out of nowhere in front of me and blow past, heading to intercept the SUV.

  BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP

  There's a crash behind me as a police cruiser smashes into the front landing gear of a plane when it gets hit by automatic gunfire.

  The SUV swerves as the other police car plays chicken.

  BANG!!! BANG!!! BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP Christ, there's a full on gun battle behind me.

  It slows the Russians down and helps me a little.

  Maybe there is a way out of here...

  And there it is...

  I think I found a way over the fence after all.

  It weighs 80,000 pounds and already has a staircase waiting for me.

  33

  PILOT

  IN 1976 A UNIVERSITY of Illinois graduate named Bruce Artwick started publishing articles on using computers for the novel application of 3D graphics. The editor of one of the magazines that published his work advised Artwick to take his ideas one step further. So he quit his job working for Hughes Aircraft and created a company called SubLOGIC.

  SubLOGIC created a number of different software titles, but the one near and dear to my heart is what he sold to Microsoft in 1982 when Bill Gates came calling: Flight Simulator.

  More than a game, Flight Simulator was based on actual instrumentation and flight physics. Artwick and the other programmers were pilots who endeavored to create a degree of realism unheard of in simulations until this point.

  Because of Flight Simulator, I learned to fly a Boeing 777 when I was ten years old.

  I'd take my plane out of LAX, land at JFK, refuel as I got another bowl of Cap'n Crunch then head on over to England and land at Heathrow – the world's busiest airport. After I ate a hotdog and microwave French fries – my approximation to bangers and mash – I'd fly to Istanbul, Tokyo and then back to LAX, having circumnavigated the world, taking off and landing at all the major airports.

  I'd try landing with engine fires, no landing gear, bad rudders. I even managed to flip the plane in a barrel roll others told me was impossible.

  I logged more hours flying passenger jets than I did in any class in school. Granted, it was another decade before I got to fly a real one – and even then under the watchful eye of an instructor, but all the gauges and controls were where they were supposed to be. It was like coming home.

  With flashing red lights behind me and the sound of BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP gunfire echoing off the walls of the terminal and hangars, nothing sounds more soothing than the calming cockpit of a jet-airliner.

  I ditch the bike, run up the stairs and race inside. Thankfully, the passenger seats are empty. Immediately to my left I spot the open cockpit door and two pilots anxiously talking to air traffic control as they try to figure out what the hell is going on.

  The co-pilot spins around and sees me standing in the doorway. "Who the hell are you?" he demands with a French accent.

  "Get out!" I hesitate to think of what to say next. "They are coming for this plane!"

  "We'll shut the door," says the pilot.

  "They're going to try to blow it up!"

  "What?"

  The men are clearly confused. As am I. All I can do is just keep escalating the threat until they get up and leave.

  "YOU HAVE TO GO NOW!" I scream.

  BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP

  The distant spray of machine gun fire reinforces the urgency of the situation.

  The co-pilot looks to the captain, who nods to him. They both get up and I back out of the way.

  I follow them outside and go halfway down the steps. At the bottom, the two men make a run for the terminal.

  When the captain stops to look back, I'm already shutting the door.

  I race back to the cockpit and do a quick check of everything. It appears that they were in the process of taxiing the plane from a hangar. The fuel gauges indicate full tanks – which is what I'll need to get this bird out of South America.

  Since there's no ground crew to pull
the stairs out of the way, I use the plane's reverse thrust to back away.

  While I can't actually see the steps, the jet is far enough away from everything else that I can do a wide spin that brings me clear.

  The gun shots are a faint popping sound from the inside of the cockpit. Which I guess is good, but I have no idea if anybody is shooting at me.

  Right now the pilot is probably screaming at air traffic control – having realized what just happened.

  And what did just happen?

  Ninety seconds ago I was waiting for a free ride back to the United States. Now I'm stealing a $400 million-dollar passenger jet.

  What the hell am I doing?

  BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!! Another police car blows by me, oblivious to the fact that I'm about to steal something kind of valuable.

  From the sound of things, the Russians are more than able to hold their own.

  I crane my head and spot the latest police car charging right towards another marked cruiser. At first I think it's to provide back up, then I see someone open fire on the other car.

  Jesus. The Russians have got the police shooting at each other.

  Let's not stick around to see who's the winner.

  I push the throttle forward and take the jet across the tarmac.

  There are other planes on the taxi-way, but they're not moving. Air traffic control has probably ordered everyone to stay put – and hopefully having the passengers stay clear of the windows in case of stray gunfire.

  The upside is that I'm pretty sure I have the runway all to myself.

  Are you going to do this, David?

  Seriously?

  Are you going to steal a god damn passenger jet?

  I check my flaps and my gauges, making sure everything is doing what it's supposed to be doing, then nudge the throttle.

  The plane taxis to the end of the runway and I turn around, lining the nose up with the stripes.

  This thing in my pocket better be damn worth it. I'm about to add a 777 to the list of things I've stolen in the last twelve hours, including a spaceship.

  This has got to be some kind of record.

  I do a last minute check. Flashing blue and red lights are starting to race down the taxiing lane.