Sanctuary (30 page)

Instantly I could tell this wouldn’t work. Despite our best efforts, there were just too many variables that could and did go wrong. I was too far away and I would shoot under the plane’s flight path before it passed by.

“Status report,” Puck wheezed. He might have been holding his breath the whole time.

“Shut up! I’m thinking!” I was a rocket, and I didn’t have time to talk.

I was definitely too far away and too low. I needed to slow down. I unfettered the wings and launched the parachute. The jarring change in speed nearly pulled my arms out of socket. I swung wildly below the chute, like one of those toy army guys whose parachute never worked exactly right. I hauled on the ropes, trying to correct the ferocious undulations.

The roar of the wind tunnel died. I could have been floating in outer space. The world was wintery and silent and lonely. I hung from blackness in the middle of nothing, slowly drifting into a void. Just me and, to the north, the white moon.

“This is kind of creepy,” I panted. The air was thin.

“What?”

“Nothing. Shut up again. I’m trying to think.”

By pure chance, I was floating in my target’s path. The Greyhound was plunging, shedding altitude quickly, and would dive directly below me in just a few seconds. It was closing the distance in a mad rush!

This wasn’t going to work either! I had lost all forward momentum, now only moving downward, and the plane was traveling at 150mph! It would be like getting hit by a truck speeding on a Nascar track. I needed velocity.

I eyeballed the flashing lights barreling in my direction, judging the distance. The plane was enormous, with gargantuan blades slicing the air on either wing. I took a deep breath, heaved the parachute back into it’s backpack, began free-fall, and snapped the wings open again. Instantly I started picking up speed, both forwards and downwards. Faster. Faster.

I was being overtaken as we raced in close proximity. Craning my neck downwards, I could see the lighted cockpit and movement inside.

The Greyhound’s raucous engines decreased an octave and the plane visually slowed, casting off speed and altitude. I inched nearer, joining the cacophony.

I was in position and as close as I dared. Even from this distance, parallel ten meters above the fuselage, the wind was acting wonky.

“Here we go,” I whispered.

“What??”

Zip! My wings retracted and I fell like a stone.

I was too far forward. I had planned on skipping along the plane’s surface and using one of the many protrusions as a hand-hold. No such luck. I flew straight at the cockpit windshield.

Painfully I smacked like a bug onto the nose of the Grumman Greyhound. The wind forcibly compressed me into the metal sheeting, and prevented me from slipping off.

It worked! I was on the aircraft!

The cockpit had four separate windshield panes, giving the pilot a wide field of vision. Through the two foremost windows, I peered into the brilliantly lit cockpit and witnessed the pilot pass out. The man was probably already stressed, tired, maybe high, and the sight of me falling from the heavens, landing on his nose and staring back at him was simply too much. His eyes rolled up and he slumped forward, head temporarily resting on the control yoke.

Well. That works.

Time to improvise. I pulled out the rod, the Stick of Treachery, and struck the closest pane with as much force as I could bring to bear. The heavy tip punched a hole through the multiple layers of glass. The change in cabin pressure blew the pieces straight out and up into the night. The airflow also caused the pilot to lean farther towards me, pressing the control yoke forward.

Uh oh.

The Grumman’s nose dipped as the plane changed pitch and began a more aggressive descent towards the earth.

That’s not good.

I smashed the glass again and again to create a sharp hole big enough for me to slither through. I grasped the metal windshield housing and hauled myself into the relative quiet and warmth of the cockpit. It was tiny and militant, not built for comfort, and I couldn’t even sit down.

“Believe it or not, Puck,” I grinned, “we did-”

The cockpit door opened and a gunman ducked in. He took one look at me, his eyes widened and he screamed, “Aiieeeee! El diablo!!”

I dove at him as best I could, awkwardly launching over the co-pilot seat. My foot brushed the unconscious pilot, and the plane shuddered. I landed on the surprised terrorist, and we both hit the ground. His head connected solidly with the deck and he moved no further.

The airplane began rolling to its left, westward. Freight in the cargo area shifted and strained against restraints. Two gun-wielding terrorists came staggering forward to investigate the disturbance. Both cried in alarm and fumbled with their weapons.

I flung the cockpit door closed, the heavy metal barrier blistering from bullet impacts.

We were diving towards the Pacific Ocean at an alarming rate now. I hauled the pilot’s limp body off the stick, but I had no idea how to fly a plane!

“Puck, take over! We got a problem! Get this thing’s autopilot working!”

“I’m trying! It’s unresponsive!”

“Do it anyway!”

I waited until the gunfire stopped, then kicked open the door and threw my heavy metal bat at the nearest assailant, shoving it like a chest pass in the close confines. He caught it full in his stomach and fell.

With a thunderous SNAP, the restraints broke and tons of freight collapsed sideways, swallowing and crushing both men.

That works too.

The Grumman’s forward pitch was so steep I fell backwards into the cockpit. The cargo jumble began inching closer, threatening to fall down the sloping deck and plow through the cockpit bulkhead, killing us all.

“Puck, fix this thing!”

“I can’t! Outlaw, you’re below three thousand feet! Pull up!”

“How?!”

Isaac’s voice blurted into my ear piece, “The control you need sticks straight up between the pilot’s knees. Usually has two handholds, like prongs. Pull back on it, towards your body.”

Nothing was visible through the windshield except rippling moon reflections. We were diving straight towards the water, pitched so far forward I couldn’t sit down. As best I could, I stood in the co-pilot seat and hauled backwards on the yoke. The mechanism actively fought me. One of the terrorists crashed into our seats, still unconscious.

“I’m pulling! Now what?!”

“Two thousand feet!”

Isaac said calmly, “Keep pulling. That’s the only thing you can do.”

I pulled until the metal began to bend. Sweat leaked from my red bandana in rivers, soaking into the black mask.

I could jump out. My body wouldn’t survive a plane crash, but could withstand the water impact if I abandoned ship. Pull!! I couldn’t leave. Everyone aboard was dead if I did. C’mon you stupid old bucket, pull up!!

City lights reappeared from the top of the cockpit, indicating we were dragging out of the dive. At least I hoped so; I had no idea how to read airplane dials.

“How we doing, Puck??”

“Leveling out at four hundred feet. I can’t feel my fingertips.”

“Keep pulling, Outlaw. You’re too low. You need altitude, especially before you hit the coast.”

“Hah! Never in doubt!” I laughed in delirium. I wanted to wipe the sweat out of my eyes but I didn’t dare release the controls. “I’m flying a plane! Woohoooooo!”

Puck never got the autopilot to engage remotely, but he taught me how to activate it within the cockpit. The engines surged and the controls commenced independent operation and I was finally able to take a deep breath. The FAA was howling about airspace, squawking through the pilot’s headphones. I let Isaac Anderson handle all communication as we cruised over the incandescent city, level with familiar skyscrapers

The plane even landed on autopilot, as if by magic, at Bob Hope Airport, a small airstrip in Northern Los Angeles. Word of the airplane mid-air hijacking had reached the media, and news vans ringed the airstrip, pressed to the security fence.

As soon as the Greyhound braked to a full stop, Anderson’s FBI helicopter landed alongside. Emergency vehicles came screaming in, shading the night red, blue, and loud. Airport personnel poured from hiding spots, cheering with raised hands, racing to the Grumman.

I waved to them from the nose of the cargo plane, squinting against blinding lights. They whooped even louder. I jumped down. Anderson waved me into the rear passenger bay of the FBI A-Star, and we took off as police cars, ambulances, SWAT vehicles, and firetrucks made a solid ring around the Greyhound.

The helicopter dipped forward and we left the madness in our wake. Anderson and I shook hands and congratulated each other on being lionhearted morons. The pilot yelled, “I’m being ordered to take both of you back to base!”

“Negative!” Anderson laughed. “Tell them I’ve got a gun to your head!”

“No need, sir! I’m with you. You and the Outlaw! We can all burn together! What’s our heading?”

“Second star to the right!”

“What??”

“Just get us out of here!”

The Grumman Greyhound had been hauling several tons of illegal weapons, ammunition, and narcotics. The three terrorists were all on South American Most Wanted lists, but the pilot was just a local flyboy living near an airport in Panama, unlucky enough to get kidnapped and forced to fly the plane north.

The sensational story dominated the news, and the Outlawyers were stirred into such a frenzy that Natalie North temporarily moved into a hotel. The Outlaw worshippers set up camp surrounding her apartment building, which was senseless but the building had become a shrine, the only known frequented haunt of the Outlaw. Dozens of Outlawyers were being arrested daily for loitering and disturbing the peace. A new Outlaw Support Compound was established near Glenoaks Canyon, providing refuge for Outlaw pilgrims and even an Outlaw prayer chapel, all within an abandoned Boy Scout campground and shelter, bought by a wealthy patron calling himself The Priest.

I debated burning it down, to relieve the worshipers of their ridiculous religion. Soon I’d probably be forced to come clean with the media and discuss the illness, if only so people would stop leaping to absurd conclusions.

>> You need to do the interview with Time Magazine,
Natalie told me.

But I don’t waaaaaaaaant to.

>> I insist. Please?

Why not with Teresa Triplett? She’s always been very helpful.

>> Why not with Time? You’re being labeled the Person of the Year!!

Boooooooring. But I didn’t tell her that.

The Chemist wrote me a curt email. It said,

Bravo.

Now witness my retribution.

- Martin

His revenge was swift and terrible. Tuesday night at 11:30pm, Chemist forces swarmed over security fences at every major military base within two hundred miles. Armed with firearms and explosives and superhuman quickness, the attackers caught the bases completely off guard and ravaged the facilities.

Chain-reaction explosions at Los Angeles Air Force Base in El Segundo destroyed or damaged 100% of the attack aircraft, and their airstrips were spiked with bombs and rendered unusable. (To make matters worse, this was the primary airstrip used for military ingress. No reinforcements could arrive via this location until crucial repairs were completed.)

The detonation of munitions at the Naval Weapons Station on the coast was heard as far as thirty-five miles away. Vast warehouses and underground bunkers went up like volcanoes.

Los Alamitos, the joint forces facility, was left without a single helicopter or transport jeep.

The reports issuing from the bases were all the same: the enemies came to destroy, not to kill, and they were too fast to be shot. The United States suffered relatively few casualties compared to the billions lost in equipment. The attack was aimed at vehicles, not personnel, and the result was staggering: for the time being, much of the world’s most powerful military was immobile and stranded on the West Coast.

The attack was especially effective because a larger-than-usual military contingent had gathered around Los Angeles, prepping to invade the occupied territories. The Chemist hadn’t just destroyed vacant outposts; he’d gone after the biggest and most heavily-armed assemblage on American soil in decades.

The special forces at Los Alamitos had the most success in repelling invaders. That’s another way of saying, they managed to kill a few.

Wednesday morning, after the sun came up and the smoke cleared and the damages tallied, the awful truth was realized: the military was missing twelve fully-armed attack helicopters, four vertical take-off Harriers, and three cargo choppers. The Chemist had robbed the United States of America, stealing hundreds of millions worth of equipment, and he could open fire whenever he wanted. Strategists suggested the cargo helicopters were probably filled with weapons and ammunitions, maybe even fuel, for the vehicles.

It wouldn’t be difficult for recon satellites and drones to locate the stolen vehicles, once the armed forces regrouped. But chances were the Chemist would have his new toys well protected with civilians, preventing recapture or destruction. However, it would be days or weeks before such an operation was even possible due to the sudden lack of mobility.

The in-fighting among the military branches revved up, humiliation rife over the catastrophe. It was a global embarrassment. The media screamed for answers, and politicians screamed for heads to roll. The Pentagon and Joint Chiefs of Staff and Generals and the Admirals all deflected responsibility. So who was to blame?

“I’ll tell ya who’s to blame,” Carter said, chewing on an unlit cigarette. He dropped a fresh set of large photographs onto his truck’s hood. “She is.”

Croc, Samantha and I were meeting with Carter and Russia that night in our usual spot, the lonely, gravel parking lot behind a construction depot.

After my meeting with Carla, we had immediately reported the disastrous news to Carter, that the Chemist could Infect adults with a high rate of success and his army was already hundreds strong. Much to our surprise, Carter hadn’t been angry with us. He praised our bold counter-insurgence strategy and called the intel ‘priceless.’ As much as I hated to admit it, being praised by Carter felt awesome, like pleasing an angry father.