Читать книгу Book II: The Revelations (The Fallen Race Trilogy) - Colin Patrick Garvey - Страница 9
FIVE
ОглавлениеLieutenant Julianna Dawson can no longer take it. She is hot, cramped, and she feels like she is running out of air, although she is nearly certain that she has tricked her brain into believing there is a limited air supply in her tiny hideaway.
The plane ride has seemed like an utter eternity, and she has begun to wonder if they are attempting to fly around the world. The plane started traveling what seemed like north, perhaps even northeast, but after less than an hour, the plane landed. When they resumed their flight, the plane appeared to be heading due west or possibly northwest, and she figures that the real estate below might soon become scarce.
During their descent and subsequent approach prior to landing, Dawson was absolutely terrified as the wind whipped violently around her and she felt herself being tugged out into the night sky, a metal beam above her providing the only thing to cling to. Coupled with this terror, however, was also a strange exhilaration as they made their approach, basking in the adventure of the experience and knowing that she was starting to shatter her inherent fear of flying. The landing was actually smooth and, besides the rather discomfiting smell of burnt rubber and a momentary puff of smoke when they touched down, uneventful.
As soon as the plane landed, she desperately wanted to take a look around in order to determine where they were, but she feared being spotted and decided to remain in her cubbyhole. She had to make do with listening rather than observing.
Dawson knew the airport was not heavily trafficked because she did not hear the sound of another plane departing or arriving the entire time they were on the ground. There also seemed to be a surprising lack of illumination around the airfield, with only a few floodlights at intervals along the runway. She had not noticed any lights in the distance on their approach either, which also seemed strange. Similar to the airfield they initially departed from, it was like the runway was located in the middle of nowhere.
After they taxied to a stop, as the engines gradually whined down, she thought she heard Colonel Fizer’s voice, but her eardrums had yet to “pop” from the air pressure and everything she heard had a kind of hollow, muffled quality to it. She also heard another voice: a terse, gruff voice similar to Fizer’s, but it sounded much angrier, more on edge.
Moments later, she heard a fuel hose connected to the tank of the Cessna, and she tensed as she saw a shadow pass below her compartment. Then a booted foot kicked the tire below her, apparently checking the pressure, and her breath caught in her throat. She instinctively moved as far back into the compartment as she could, balling her frame up until she was barely larger than a classroom globe. The shadow moved on and she resumed her breathing and her heart continued its steady pounding.
It was then that she noticed on the opposite side of the wheel well a dull, silver latch. She had not noticed it before because it is directly above where the wheels sit upon being retracted into the plane. She immediately recognized the logic in having a removable panel above the plane’s wheels in case the pilot has a mechanical malfunction with the landing gear and needs to examine it mid-flight. She scolded herself for not using any common sense.
As soon as she began wondering if she could reach the latch once the wheels were retracted, she heard what sounded like something being loaded onto the plane, followed by several heavy footfalls above her in the cabin. No more than five minutes later, the fuel hose was disconnected from the Cessna’s tank, the cabin door was shut, and they started taxiing down the runway. After about a minute or two, the Cessna turned completely around, rapidly accelerated down the runway, and lifted into the air. Once again, she was facing her fear of flying head on, both literally and figuratively, as the tiny plane left the comfort of solid ground for the skies above.
After the pilot retracts the landing gear, she finds herself back at square one, confined again in her tiny compartment and immersed in total darkness. She deliberates whether she can contort her body over the wheels to access the latch and sneak a peek into the cabin above her. She has used her penlight sparingly, fully aware of its limited battery life and hoping to conserve a little juice in case she needs it down the road. There is approximately two or three feet between the retracted wheels and the latch, and since the compartment is not large enough for her to stand up in, she considers the angles she has to negotiate and how best to maneuver her body in the limited space in order for her to reach the latch.
Dawson turns on the penlight, places it in her mouth, and eases herself into the narrow space between the wheels and the top of the compartment. She moves slowly, not wanting to become permanently lodged in the tight quarters because of sudden movements. Several times she stops and listens intently, trying to discern any sounds above that would indicate the location of the first class passengers. All she hears, however, is the steady drone of the engines and her own labored breathing. Sweat is pouring in rivulets down her face and her back is drenched in both perspiration and grease, with her previously white tank top now the color of charcoal. Her uniform pants feel like they have been stitched into her legs and her feet are submerged in a sweaty broth of her own making.
At last, she arrives within arm’s reach of the latch and grabs a hold of it. Disregarding her previously cautious nature, she attempts to pull herself the rest of the way using the latch as leverage, quickly paying for her hurried movement. The back of her tank top snags on something and she hears a tearing sound, followed by a shooting pain in the middle of her back.
She grimaces and grits her teeth, ignoring the pain. She can feel the blood starting to ooze from the cut, and she would reach for the area to assess the damage if she could maneuver her arms behind her, but this is a physical impossibility. She moves slowly a few more inches and her perspiration mixes with the grease, seeping into the wound and causing a burning sensation she does not care to think about at the present time.
Now comes the moment of truth. If the latch does not turn, she might be on the verge of busting through the compartment door and demanding that the pilot land the plane at the nearest airfield, simply to avoid a possible duel with her sanity in the confined space she occupies. Of course, her only weapon is a rather ordinary-looking pocketknife, so her persuasive powers are severely limited. If the latch does turn, well . . .
I’ll just have to improvise, she thinks.
First things first as she takes a large breath and exhales. She turns the latch without resistance and eases the panel outward, slowly, while simultaneously sliding out from her hiding spot. Something sharp digs into her back, into the cut, and more pain ensues. Once again, she grits her teeth and bears it. She finally pulls her body clear out of the compartment below.
Dawson looks around her, only to discover she has moved from one confined space to another, albeit slightly larger than the previous one. She then realizes she is still several feet below the main cabin and a sinking feeling starts to envelop her, a fear she may be stuck here forever. She sweeps the penlight around the area and her feeling of despair quickly disappears when she sees another latch a few feet away, connected to a panel that appears to be directly under the cabin. She replaces the panel door on the compartment she has just exited and crawls toward the second latch, the ceiling above her no more than three feet high.
She arrives at the second latch and notices there is a small step directly below it. She places her knees on the step while the rest of her body is hunched below the panel, and she grasps the latch. Once again, she takes a deep breath, trying to slow her heavy breathing and get her heart rate under control. She is a pool of sweat, blood, and grease, and she fleetingly wonders if this could be construed as “combat” experience. Dawson will be sure to pose this question to her superiors if she comes out of this alive.
She turns the latch easily and she hears a slight click. Unlike the other panel, she slowly slides this one horizontally on a track, the panel no more than two and a half feet wide and about three feet long. She cautiously peers above it and sees a very narrow aisle, with several rows of leather seats on either side. The main cabin is dimly lit, the only illumination coming from several miniature bulbs that line the aisle at three-foot intervals, resembling the aisle lights in a movie theatre.
Her gaze continues down the aisle as it leads to the cockpit, which appears to be occupied by two people. One of them is Colonel Fizer, seated in the co-pilot’s seat, a headset wrapped around his head. The other man, the pilot, is wearing a mesh baseball cap and a similar headset. Neither of the men speak as they both stare into the blackness of the night sky. There is another person in the first row of seats on the left side behind the pilot, the person’s legs outstretched into the aisle. Dawson cannot see who the figure is or what he or she might be doing, but she notices the person has camouflage pants on.
Someone else from the military? she thinks. Is he or she armed?
Dawson takes out her pocketknife, which still reeks of gasoline from puncturing the tank on her jeep, and she starts to hoist herself out of the compartment when she does a double take to her left. She pauses, her arms straddling the panel opening, and she immediately lowers herself back into the compartment, with only her head protruding above the opening.
In the last row of seats, only a few yards from her position, she spies a pair of feet.
Dawson debates what she should do, with her first inclination to crawl back into the recesses of the plane to her original hideaway. But then she thinks about the hell of being stuck below and her curious nature gets the better of her. She looks toward the cockpit and sees Fizer and the pilot still wordlessly staring ahead, and the person in the first row of seats remains motionless.
Dawson leans out of the panel opening, steals one more glance towards the front of the plane, and then slowly moves her head around the back of the seat.
She gasps.
A man sits in the seat slumped over, apparently unconscious, his hands cuffed in front of him. He wears a sand-colored shirt that appears to be a size too small and camouflage pants, like the person sitting in the first row of seats. The man’s head occasionally lolls erratically from side to side, as if he is having a seizure. Dawson notices a large bruise on the side of his neck that seems to run underneath his shirt. The bruise is a nasty shade of crimson and purple and looks to have occurred recently. She also notices what appears to be an extremely dirty bandage wrapped around his hand.
Despite the fact the man must be dangerous on account of the handcuffs, she feels an immediate sympathy towards him. Besides, the man cannot be all that bad if he is at odds with Colonel Fizer.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Dawson recalls the old saying.
Still, she debates what to do next. She glances towards the cockpit once again, but sees no movement. Dawson looks back at the unconscious man, whose head once again jerks awkwardly to the side. In spite of her reservations, she feels she at least owes it to the man to determine if he is stable and breathing normally. She does possess basic medical training, and she cannot in good conscience scramble back to her lair without checking on him first.
Dawson slowly rises out of the compartment, all the while staring towards the front of the plane, keeping an eye out for any movement that would indicate she has been spotted. She grips her pocketknife tightly, thinking that the gasoline-soaked blade is enough to defend herself in case they try to capture her. Deep down, she is not quite sure she believes that.
Her legs clear the compartment, and she crawls the few remaining feet into the row with the unconscious man. She slowly glances out from behind the row of seats in front of her and sees that Fizer and the pilot remain undisturbed, while the person in the first row still has not moved. Dawson reaches into the aisle and gently slides the panel door back into place.
She turns around to face the man and moves closer to him, not entirely certain what she can do for him. She first checks the pulse on his wrist and while not entirely strong, it is constant. His breathing is fairly ragged, but it too possesses a rhythmic quality, indicating that he is not struggling to pull oxygen into his lungs. She notes that his wrist is icy, and she puts her hand to his forehead and on his cheek to find his face cold and clammy. She sees goose bumps on his arms and suddenly realizes why his head appears so spasmodic: he is shivering because he is freezing, causing his whole body to quake involuntarily.
Not knowing what else to do, Dawson rubs her hands up and down his arms, attempting to generate some heat and force his circulatory system to pump the blood around his body. The man’s face possesses an unhealthy pallor except for the large bruise on the side of his neck. Dawson stops and takes a closer look at the bruise, gingerly lifting his shirt, trying to be as gentle as possible.
Suddenly, the man shifts slightly in his seat and he emits a guttural groan, followed by a hoarse whisper, “Mike . . .”
Dawson is so startled that she nearly falls backwards into the aisle. She regains her balance and places her index finger over her mouth, indicating for him to be quiet even though his eyes remain closed.
The man groans again, and this time it lasts for several seconds. Dawson is certain that it is loud enough to be heard by Fizer and company, and she immediately ducks down in the row of seats, desperately looking around for somewhere to hide.
“What the hell was that?” someone asks.
“Sounds like our prisoner is starting to stir,” Fizer responds. “Go check on him, Sergeant Major,” he orders.
“Yes, sir,” another person replies.
The sound of approaching footsteps can be heard and moments later, Dawson is staring at a pair of black, shiny boots a few inches from her face. She has managed to cram herself underneath the prisoner’s seat, her feet pressed up against a wall that abuts the last row of seats on either side. She holds her breath for fear the slightest noise will give her away. She feels a sharp pain in her ribs, which have taken exception to being jostled into such a tight and awkward angle underneath the seat. Sweat covers her face and she notices blood on her hand-
Her heart flutters as she realizes she is not cut on her hand. Dawson did not notice any blood on the unconscious man, so it has to be from the cut on her back. While moving around, blood from the wound must have dripped somewhere and then she unwittingly placed her hand in it.
Shit, did I leave a trail of it from the compartment door?
Then, without having time to worry about the possible repercussions, an overhead light is switched on in the row.
“Are we awake yet, Sergeant Kaley?” the man asks eagerly.
The prisoner, Kaley, mutters something indiscernible.
The man looming over Kaley leans down and places his hands on his knees. “I’m having trouble understanding you, Sergeant, what did you say?” he asks, clearly enjoying the unfavorable position Sergeant Kaley finds himself in.
There is a pause that seems to last forever as Dawson continues to hold her breath. Suddenly, she hears a dull thud, and the man hovering over Kaley is rocked backward into the row of seats in front of them, the man’s feet nearly coming out from under him.
Dawson sees several drops of blood fall to the ground and she briefly thinks how perfectly serendipitous this is for her situation. If she has to guess, she thinks the man’s face met Sergeant Kaley’s head fairly flush.
“I said ‘I’m awake,’ Ruethorn,” Kaley grumbles.
With a roar, Ruethorn launches himself at Kaley. An instant later, Dawson hears what appears to be the sound of Kaley on the receiving end of several sharp blows, one roundhouse after another, as the seat above her wobbles back and forth like a heavy bag. She grimaces as she hears the helpless grunting of Kaley after each punch.
How brave this Ruethorn must be to conduct target practice on a man who cannot fight back, she sarcastically thinks. Well, at least not with his arms.
Dawson’s first instinct is to help the defenseless Kaley and before her mind can rationalize the dire consequences for both of them if she is captured too, she reaches out with her knife towards Ruethorn. Ironically, it is Colonel Fizer who stops her from committing a grave mistake.
“Sergeant Ruethorn!” Fizer shouts, causing Dawson to suddenly jerk the knife back.
Fizer charges down the aisle towards them, but not before Ruethorn lands one more punch.
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” Fizer chides, although he sounds almost amused, like a parent gently disapproving of their child grabbing one last cookie from the jar.
Ruethorn straightens up and smoothes out his uniform, breathing heavily from his retaliatory outburst at the prisoner.
“Good to see you’re awake, Sergeant Kaley,” Fizer says somberly. “You could become a very valuable bargaining chip in case your professor friend tries to be a hero. Otherwise, I would have put a bullet in your head and you’d be getting packaged at the fertilizer factory. But for now, we’re going to at least need you to be . . . alive.”
Fizer and Ruethorn both smirk at the comment. “You obviously remember Sergeant Major Ruethorn,” Fizer adds.
There is silence, and then Dawson hears Kaley mumble, as if he has marbles in his mouth, “Not fondly.”
A moment later, Kaley spits a mouthful of blood at their feet.
“No, I wouldn’t expect so,” Fizer concurs.
“I’m really sorry about your uncle, Kaley,” Ruethorn says, dripping in fake sincerity, “but you have to admit, he did go out like a pussy.”
There are a few moments of silence before Kaley finally responds, “At least he sent your whole squad to hell, Sergeant, and . .”
Kaley chuckles “. . it looks like that is going to leave a nasty scar.”
Dawson cannot see what Kaley is referring to, but a moment later the seat jolts backward, causing her to nearly cry out. The seat rocks back and forth several times, with Kaley once again on the receiving end of another blow.
Dawson grits her teeth, this time not in pain but in anger, wanting to leap out and at least attempt to make it a fair fight. But whatever element of surprise she may have on her side, her position is precarious at best. With Fizer and Ruethorn owning the higher ground, the odds are firmly stacked against her. She does not like it, but she remains in place for the time being.
Fizer appears to lean down, similar to the dangerous position Ruethorn placed himself in moments earlier. She wonders if Kaley will have the same response.
“If you would have followed orders, Sergeant Kaley,” Fizer says coldly, “your uncle would still be alive, and you . .”
Fizer trails off, pauses, and then continues, his tone one of disappointment, “You’d be back at Evans rehabilitating your . . reputation, becoming a good soldier again.”
Fizer shakes his head in exasperation and orders Ruethorn, “Cuff him to the armrest, I don’t want him roaming around in flight.”
Ruethorn bends down and unlocks one of Kaley’s handcuffs and attaches it to the armrest. While doing this, he whispers matter-of-factly to Kaley, “I just want you to know it’s going to be me who does it. You might see it coming, you might not, but I’m punching your ticket, do you understand?”
Dawson does not hear Kaley respond. Ruethorn shuts off the overhead light while Fizer tosses a handkerchief to Kaley and tells him to clean up. Fizer and Ruethorn walk back towards the front of the plane. Ruethorn snidely remarks over his shoulder, “Stay sharp, Sergeant.”
Dawson hears a muffled conversation at the front of the plane, followed by several minutes of silence. After waiting a couple more minutes to pass, Dawson taps on one of Kaley’s feet, trying not to startle him. A moment later, Kaley leans down in his seat and looks upside down at her, his face a bloody mess from Ruethorn’s beating.
“I didn’t think I imagined you,” he whispers, a slight smile crossing his face. “When’s the drink cart coming around?”
Despite the situation, Dawson allows herself to return the smile, but only briefly. She pulls herself out from under the seat and leans in close to whisper.
“Are you okay?” she asks, concerned. “You look like . .”
“A pile of horseshit?” he offers.
“Not the exact words I’d use, but close,” she replies. “I’m Second Lieutenant Julianna Dawson,” she adds.
“Well, hello Second Lieutenant Julianna Dawson, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Sergeant-”
“Kaley,” she finishes. “Yeah, I know, I got that.”
“Good. Now you want to tell me why the hell you’re on this plane?” he asks, gently dabbing the handkerchief on his nose and mouth, which look like they have recently been placed in a meat grinder.
“It’s a long story,” she explains. “I was assigned by General Theodore Parker to be a liaison between him and Colonel Fizer at Evans. Well, Fizer decided to skip town and I caught the redeye with him,” she says, motioning around. “You?”
“It’s an even longer story,” Kaley responds, wincing at a particularly tender spot on his face. “I was on duty at Evans last night and-”