The Article turns onto Kennedy’s main runway. The tower grants clearance and Thompkins takes a shallow breath. He’s flown this beast a total of 532 hours, but the thrill of it never gets old, the thrill of acceleration, instant, pure, unapologetic. ‘Ready back there?’
‘Punch it.’
Thompkins throttles the Pratt
&c
Whitneys. It feels like he’s been kicked in the back - by God.
The Article rips down the runway then slices into the azure sky.
**
31
Kelvin now knows why the runway’s so long, the same runway he landed the Galaxy on when he first arrived in this desert four days ago. He also knows why he’s helping bolt metalwork to the top of the Galaxy. He knows, but still can’t quite believe it. So, as much for confirmation as anything else, he turns from his position atop the Galaxy’s fuselage and takes in the distinctive shape of the space shuttle, lit by the muted glow of moon and runway light.
They actually
stole
a shuttle, and by ‘they’ he means ‘he’, because ‘he’ is a member of ‘they’ - a junior member, sure, but part of the Frenchman’s crew nonetheless.
An oversized mobile crane is parked beside the spacecraft. It was here when he landed, as was the large tent where the Tigers were assembled, and where the Frenchman’s crew slept and ate. The whole mission had been meticulously planned and generously funded. Henri must have been planning it for years.
The crane’s boom towers high above the shuttle. From it hang two pairs of fat chains that reach halfway to the ground, then attach to two large loops that almost touch the desert. The loops are 15 metres long and a metre wide, constructed from a flat, flexible material. Kelvin quickly realises they’re slings.
Two men grab each sling. One pair guide their sling under the nose of the shuttle, pull it up to the landing gear. The other pair slot their sling under the rear of the spacecraft and drag it to the trailing edge of the wing.
‘How much longer?’
Kelvin turns to Nico. ‘It’s done.’
With a torch, the Italian examines the bolts and welds that secure the metal structure to the top of the Galaxy’s fuselage. They will allow the shuttle to be attached to the jet, piggyback-style.
It had been a relatively straightforward job. Kelvin had performed the work with three members of Henri’s crew, who were later joined by a man and a woman from the Kinabara Dish. They both looked like they’d been in a nasty fight. Kelvin wondered if it had been with each other.
So what did old Kelvy boy do now? There had been no opportunity to escape since he arrived. He’d been busy helping build an auxiliary fuel tank in the Galaxy’s hold, then securing this metalwork. And if he had escaped, well, what would he have done? He was in the middle of an unforgiving desert, hundreds of kilometres from civilisation. Henri’s men would’ve hunted him down within the hour.
Now he wonders if he could, somehow, throw a spanner into the Frenchman’s plans. He could be the guy who saw the error of his ways and heroically thwarted the hijackers. The notion holds genuine appeal to Kelvin. He likes the idea of being a hero. It was a lot better than his memory being villainised through a fleeting association with the Frenchman, even if he was paid a million.
Nico finishes his inspection. ‘Okay. I need the jet there.’ He points at the port side of the shuttle. ‘The nose in that direction. Get it parallel, close as you can. We’re going to load it now.’
Kelvin nods, moves to the ladder that leans against the side of the aircraft, climbs to the desert below, his mind racing.
**
32
It floats above him, sharp grey angles stark against deep blue. Thompkins studies the three-engined KC-10 aerial refueler. The arse end of a tanker was a sight you quickly became familiar with when you flew the Article. It may have been the fastest aircraft ever built, but its appetite for avgas meant in-flight refuelling was an integral part of its driver’s skill set. If Thompkins could fly it directly to Central Australia he would be there in just on two hours. Unfortunately that’s not possible. Central Australia is over 17000 kilometres from Cape Canaveral but the range of the Article is 5300 kilometres.
He needs quick refuels today, and the previous three have been just that, the aeronautical equivalent of wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Unfortunately fourth time was not the charm. After descending from 80000 to 30000 feet he’d wasted five minutes tooling around the Pacific looking for this damn refueler because it hadn’t been where it was supposed to be. Mahoney finally found it on his scope with three minutes of gas in the tank. Due to a snafu at Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii, the KC-10 had been set on a track 30 kilometres east of where Thompkins had instructed it to be.
Thompkins waits as the KC-10 disgorges fuel into the Article’s tanks, which take up most of the aircraft’s fuselage. Not only does avgas power the engines, but it also acts as their coolant, a unique design feature only Kelly Johnson could have devised.
Thompkins’ eyes lock on the fuel gauge. Ninety-six per cent and rising quickly. Hawaii is the last pitstop before the blast across the Pacific to Central Australia so he needs the tanks full to the brim. The fuel gauge touches 100 per cent.
‘Okay, we’re done.’ Thompkins disconnects the Article from the boom, drops below the tanker and scans the gauges again, just to be sure everything looks cool. It does. The single most important factor when flying the Article is to make sure the engines don’t run hot. If they did, a turbine blade could melt and that’d end the trip real quick. Thompkins eases the throttle levers forward. The jet leaves the KC-10 behind like a bad memory.
Mach 1. Thompkins’ gloved finger moves to the small wheel on the instrument panel that adjusts the aircraft’s pitch. He rotates the wheel 3 millimetres. Not much, but it will yield a 500-foot-per-minute climb until the Article reaches a ceiling of 80000 feet. He can feel the aircraft’s nose rise slightly, just one-sixth of a degree in real terms, but enough for the job.
Mach 2. He presses the throttle levers forward again. The acceleration comes not as a jolt but a surge, harnessing the energy of fifty locomotives, a power that builds and builds and keeps building as the engines drink 100000 square feet of air per second.
Mach 3. He’s going to push this thing harder than it’s ever been pushed before. Mach 6.5 is his destination today, just on 8000 kilometres an hour. Faster than anyone has ever travelled in an aircraft. He presses the throttle levers forward again. The surge continues.
Mach 4. It is relentless, the ultimate rush. Nothing compares to it. Unlike an astronaut who is strapped to a rocket with limited control, Thompkins is in complete control of this machine. He realises, not for the first time, that flying this plane is the only thing that’s ever made him happy.
**
33
Pistol in hand, Judd wipes sweat from his face and sprints towards
Atlantis,
which now piggybacks the Galaxy.
A man runs at him, gun raised. Judd turns, fires, hits him in the chest. To the left another man raises a rifle. Judd pivots, fires, drops him to the desert.
Judd wipes sweat from his face. A Hummer is parked beneath one of the Galaxy’s engines. He sprints to it, leaps onto its hood, then its roof, jumps, grabs hold of the engine cowling and swings himself into the turbine’s gaping maw. He scales the cowling then drags himself onto the wing.
Atlantis
is right in front of him. He wipes sweat from his forehead and sprints along the Galaxy’s wing towards it.
Bright flashes light up the night. A man fires at him from the ground. Judd swivels, fires, hits him in the gut, then runs on, leaps, grabs the trailing edge of the shuttle’s wing, heaves himself onto it. He finds his feet, sprints towards the hatch.
It’s open. Judd reaches the front of the wing, leaps, grabs the edge of the hatch, scrambles inside.
Tango in Berlin towers over him, aims his pistol. Judd’s too fast. He fires and the bullet slams into the German’s forehead. Judd wipes sweat from his face, scales the ladder to the flight deck.
Rhonda.
She’s strapped to her chair. She sees him, elated. ‘I knew you’d come for me.’
He rips her free but there’s still sweat on his face. He wipes at it. Then again. And again ...
Judd wakes with a start, pulls his face from the sand. Ants. Big ones. On his face. In his mouth. They bite! Sting! He claws them from his skin, spits them out, shakes his head to remove the little bastards.
He clears his eyes, looks at his PloProf, takes a moment to focus on the watch. Christ. He’s been out for over two hours. His head pounds with a dull ache. He ignores it, finds the telescope, puts it to his eye. The first sunlight peeks over the horizon and casts a golden hue across
Atlantis
and the Galaxy, makes the giant vehicles seem small and inconsequential against the expansive landscape.
The tents are down and a tanker truck is parked near the Galaxy’s undercarriage, filling it up. It’s about to leave.
Judd glances at his PloProf. Where are the marines? He thought they wouldn’t make it in time and it looks like he was right. He reaches for the sat phone. It’s half-buried in the sand nearby. He dusts it off, works the keypad. The screen illuminates. A blinking LOW BAT warning greets him. One quarter of a bar of power remains. He dials. Waits.
Thompkins’ voicemail asks him to kindly leave a message. Judd hangs up. Who else can he call? Who will know when the cavalry will arrive?
He dials.
**
A BlackBerry rattles on the small bedside table. A hand reaches through a tangle of sheets, taps the table in search of the smartphone, finds the source of annoyance. A thumb presses a button on the handset, pulls it towards the sheets. ‘Severson.’
‘It’s Judd. Do you know when they’ll be here?’
Severson sits up in the narrow bed, bleary-eyed. ‘When who’ll be where?’
‘The military or the marines or whoever they’re sending. Do you know, or can you find out when they’ll be here? ‘Cause they’re about to leave.’
Severson rubs at his eyes. ‘Get where? Who’s leaving? I don’t understand —’
‘Here. Where
Atlantis
is. In Central Australia.’
‘Central Australia? What? No.
Atlantis
is in North Africa.’
**
34
The Article rips across the dark-blue empyrean. Thompkins glances at the instrument panel, focuses on the mach meter. 6.5. A touch under 8000 kilometres an hour, or 7300 feet per second. They’re making good time, will be over Australia in minutes. All temperatures are nominal, fuel consumption is good - great, even. The Article flies smoother and more efficiently the faster it goes. Thompkins laments that the air force never unlocked the jet’s full potential while it was in service.
He’s procrastinating, knows he must get on and do what needs to be done. He takes a breath, leans forward, flicks a switch, taps a five-number sequence into a worn keypad, hits another switch and waits. It won’t take long.
Thompkins had dreaded this moment from the start. He’d tossed up whether to tell Mahoney his plans, bring him into the fold. He was so torn he even considered asking the Frenchman’s advice, then immediately rejected the idea. It would appear amateur and weak, and Thompkins didn’t believe Henri would appreciate either of those qualities in a business partner. So he said nothing to Mahoney. He just didn’t know which way his RSO would go because he’d neglected their friendship for so long.
Mahoney’s voice buzzes in Thompkins’ helmet, his breathing laboured: ‘Horshack, I’m - I seem - I’m having problems. My oxygen - isn’t - it’s not —’
Thompkins closes his eyes and doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look back into the separate, sealed compartment where the RSO sits, where he has just turned off the life-support system.
Mahoney gulps air, his breath short, his voice afraid: ‘ — I can’t - can you - help - me with - this - I —’
Thompkins does nothing, just squeezes his eyes shut, tries to block out the sound of his oldest friend’s voice: ‘ — I -
need - air
—’
Mahoney falls silent and it’s over, just like that. Instantly Thompkins knows the twenty million dollars he’s being paid will never make up for this moment.
He takes a deep breath, the irony of it not lost on him, and tells himself to focus on the job ahead. He still has work to do.
**
35
‘What?’ Judd yanks the satellite phone from his ear and stares at it for a moment, as if that will somehow help him comprehend what he just heard. ‘No. It’s in Central Australia. The Northern Territory. It’s sitting on the back of a Galaxy that’s being fueled as we speak.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m staring at it! Why would you think it’s in North Africa?’
‘That was the intel. Came in a couple of hours ago. It’s in Tunisia. Two marine units are on their way there.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I’m in the Pacific on the USS
George H. W. Bush
with another unit. Only reason we’re not going is Tunisia’s too far away.’