Claude grins. Henri’s content, so that justifies the twelve months he spent employed at Pacificspatiale as a member of the flight test team, and the two security guards he’d terminated earlier this evening to gain access to the Tigers.
Henri nods at the Volvo tractor parked by the far wall. ‘Okay, let’s get them into the Galaxy.’
**
Owen sprints across the wide, unlit passenger terminal and pulls up at the main window. He scans the runway with his mini Nikon binoculars and searches for the aircraft that just landed. It doesn’t take long to find. It’s a C-5 Galaxy, one of the largest jets to ever fly, parked near a hangar at the far end of the airfield.
‘Christ.’ He knows immediately that it’s the one stolen from that air-force base in America a few days ago. He’d seen the FAA bulletin alerting airports worldwide to the big jet the Yanks had misplaced and would kindly like returned. The tail number matches the one quoted in the email.
Owen’s chest tightens, not because he’s scared but because he’s excited. He realises that if he plays it right this can be the point of difference that sets him apart from all the other applicants to the detective training program.
His right hand moves to the holstered Glock pistol on his hip. He touches its handle, mustering the courage to do what he must do next. He turns and runs.
**
Cobbin stands under the Galaxy’s tail and surveys the airport, an RPG-7 in the open canvas bag at his feet. The thirty-year-old Brit is itching to use the grenade launcher. There’s just one problem. There’s nothing to fire it at, no sign of anyone, anywhere. He was expecting a security force of some type, but no. He waits with interest to see if any turns up.
**
It’s quick and painless. They’re a tight fit but within five minutes all three pallets, two containing the choppers and one their armaments, are secured within the Galaxy’s hold.
Kelvin works on the pallet closest to the open nose of the Galaxy. He throws a strap over the chopper’s tail section then shifts position to tie it down on the opposite side. He squeezes between the fuselage and the pallet, grabs the strap to thread it through the ring in the floor and stops.
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 supplie
d 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.
Judd opens the lid to the washing machine and dumps in today’s load of dirty clothes.
Clink, clank, clunk. Something clatters into the machine’s stainless-steel drum. He reaches in, snags it. It’s loose change. Six coins. All quarters. They fell out of Rhonda’s jeans.
He continues to load the washing machine and doesn’t think about the coins for another seven minutes.
Judd cuts his thumb as he chops up chicken for tonight’s dinner. At the sink he runs cold water over the gash and stares out at the small back garden. The Ghost and The Darkness wrestle on the grass, roll into the overgrown hedge, disappear from view.
Rhonda never wears jeans. Rarely, anyway. She doesn’t think them appropriate for the office. They accentuate her hips too much. She only wears them when she’s going out. When she wants to look good.
She wore them the day before yesterday. Saturday. She’d gone to JSC for another meeting on the external tank’s foam-shedding saga, the longest-running soap opera currently playing on the NASA channel. The shuttle will be decommissioned and that problem will not have been solved.
So she wore them on Saturday. Jeans were fine on a Saturday.
He continues to run his thumb under the cold water and doesn’t think about the coins for another five minutes.
Judd has almost completed pruning the overgrown hedge in the back garden. The Ghost and The Darkness rumble at his feet.
Why did she need six quarters? In all the years he’s known her he’s never once seen her buy a chocolate bar or a bag of corn chips or anything from a vending machine. She never eats junk food and always carries her own water.
Why would she need six quarters?
He continues pruning and doesn’t think about the coins for another three minutes.
Judd triggers the spray gun and waters the flowers. It rained earlier but the flowers look like they could do with a little more hydration.
Rhonda never carries change in her pockets. It annoys her, coins jamming into her thighs every time she sits down. And it’s not like she doesn’t have a purse. She doesn’t need quarters for tollways and she doesn’t need them for parking meters because everywhere she parks is free, either at home or at JSC.
He can’t stop thinking about the damn quarters. What’s that saying about idle minds? He can’t remember exactly but it has something to do with overthinking everything if you’re bored, and maybe there’s something about the devil in there too.
The quarters were in her jeans. But she never wears jeans. Unless she wants to look good . ..
‘No.’ He releases the spray gun’s trigger and stares at the rhododendron in front of him, its petals bobbing under the weight of water.
Judd drops the spray gun and strides into the house. His heart thumps, his face suddenly flush and clammy. He finds his iPhone, dials Rhonda’s number. Voicemail answers. He doesn’t leave a message.
He grabs his wallet and keys, locks the front door behind him and moves to the ‘82 DeLorean parked in the driveway. It was fully restored and upgraded by DMC Houston two years ago, and is worth enduring every Doc Brown-Flux Capacitor-Marty McFly joke. He slides inside but doesn’t feel better, the way he usually does when he sits behind its wheel. Instead an icy sliver of dread turns in his chest.
‘It can’t be.’
He starts the DeLorean to find out if it can.
**
Dusk.
Judd parks the DeLorean beside the curb. To his right is a parking meter. It only takes quarters. This is the only street in Houston he knows of that has yet to be upgraded to include a credit-card payment system.
He still has Rhonda’s quarters in his pocket. They dig into his thigh. He turns, looks across the quiet street at a parked Toyota RAV4. Rhonda’s RAV4. There’s a parking ticket on its windscreen. Guess she didn’t have enough quarters for the meter because she left them in her jeans.
He’s not sure what to do next. He dials her number again, glances at the time on his iPhone’s screen. 6.02 p.m. She told him she’d be at JSC until seven. Yet there’s her RAV4 in the middle of a leafy Houston suburb, nowhere near JSC.
Her phone goes to voicemail. Judd hangs up, opens the DeLorean’s door and steps out. He takes four of Rhonda’s quarters and slips them into the parking meter. It gives him half an hour. He doesn’t think it’s going to take that long, whatever he’s about to do.
He walks towards the apartment block he’s been to just once before. It was eight months ago and he was attending a forty-sixth birthday party for Will Thompkins, short but good-looking in a midget-Hasselhoff kind of way. He’s also an introspection-free robo-exec with the easy charm and unblinking expedience perfectly suited to the upper reaches of NASA management. He had been a test pilot of some note and, oh yes, he’d piloted the shuttle. Twice. He’s a frontrunner to take over the Astronaut Office, where crew assignments are decided and careers are made and broken. His current duties include managing the external tank’s foam-shedding team. Rhonda’s been spending some time with him on that project.
Judd moves down a flight of wide steps to the apartment’s open entrance. He pauses. Does he really want to do this? He can leave now and go home. No one will be the wiser. Sure, Rhonda’s been more distant that usual but that’s because she’s been busier than usual. Or has she been more distant than usual because she’s been getting busy with Thompkins?
He steps into the open walkway. It’s gloomy, the opaque saucer-shaped lights overhead all but useless, the dark-grey astroturf still wet from this morning’s rain. His heart thumps in his chest as he devises a plan, tries to remember where he’s going.
He remembers. He moves down the walkway to the right, jumps the waist-high barrier and drops into the garden below. He wades through a row of big-leafed plants and reaches the corner of the building. It has three levels with three apartments on each. The rear balconies overlook a steep, grassy slope that drops away to a garden 30 metres below. An expansive view of downtown Houston is laid out in front of t
hem. Will Thompkins’ place is on the ground level, third balcony along.
He moves past the first balcony. His feet skid on the narrow strip of wet grass at the top of the slope. He grabs the balcony’s iron railing to stay balanced. One wrong step and he’ll slide straight down the hill.
He takes baby steps, looks into the first apartment. The sliding glass door is closed, the lights are off and nobody’s home. He edges onwards, navigates the gap between balconies, reaches the second apartment.
A tubby, middle-aged guy lies slumped on a sofa. He wears a T-shirt but is naked from the waist down. He holds a Corona bottle in one hand and a remote control in the other. The only light in the room comes from the flicker of the television he watches.
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