Emmy Laybourne - Savage Drift

“Astrid gets one seat and one of you gets the other and the third has to sit on the floor,” McKinley called back.

“You take the seat,” Niko told me. “My legs are shorter anyway.”

“We can take turns if you like,” I said.

I buckled myself in.

Astrid put her legs to one side and I put mine to the other and Niko, somehow, found space for his butt between our feet. He sort of rested his head on my knees, as a joke.

“Comfy?” I asked him.

“More or less.”

Meanwhile, up in the cockpit, McKinley was radioing the tower.

“Delta-nine-bravo-seven, ready for takeoff…”

He paused, listening, tense.

Nothing.

“Repeat: delta-nine-bravo-seven ready for takeoff…”

Then a sound like a hand grabbing a microphone.

“What the hell is going on out there, McKinley? We have you DEPARTED at sixteen hundred hours!”

In the background was a voice, “Take it easy, Pete, I can explain.”

McKinley cursed out loud and hit the dashboard.

“Sorry, Pete,” McKinley said. “Got behind and Valdez was letting me slide.”

“What’s your cargo?”

McKinley shook his head, as if he was weighing options, none of which appealed.

“Should all be on the manifest, Pete.”

“What’s the mother-loving cargo, McKinley?”

McKinley sucked his teeth in frustration.

“Come see for yourself,” he said.

“Roger that, you scumbag,” this Pete said.

“Oh my God, what’s going to happen?” Astrid said.

“I don’t know,” McKinley snapped. “Some of the pilots have been smuggling black market stuff in.”

He tore off his headset and slid out the door.

Astrid held my hands.

“It’ll be okay,” I said. I hoped.

Moments later two figures approached the chopper. We could hear them arguing.

“I’m sick of you guys running scams left and right.”

“That’s not me, Pete. You know it’s not.”

“Yeah. This is different,” another voice said. “McKinley’s not into that crap.”

“What’s the cargo, McKinley?”

Suddenly the door swung open and there were three faces looking in at us.

It was easy to see which one was Pete. He was young, with a pronounced brow ridge and small eyes, set close together.

A fat, kindly-looking guy stood a ways back, hand on his hips.

“See that girl?” McKinley said. “She’s seventeen years old and six months pregnant and USAMRIID is going to take her for testing.”

“This is… this is big trouble, McKinley.” The guy was practically spitting, he was so shocked.

“It’s a two a.m. retrieval. I saw the order myself,” McKinley added. “They’re using a Blackhawk out of the Army side. They’re planning on taking this girl.”

“They have their reasons,” Pete sputtered. “This is court-martial, right here, is what this is!”

“You know what happened to McMahon and Tolliver,” the fat guy said. “Died in the line of fire? Two days after they took them to USAMRIID?”

He put his hand on Pete’s back.

“All we gotta do is nothin,’” he said. “McKinley left at four p.m., gilled up with cargo. No big deal.”

“Please,” Astrid said, her voice small and scared. “Captain McKinley is just helping us to get across the border.”

The guy looked at Astrid for a long, quiet beat.

He shut the door on us.

“I owe you, Pete,” McKinley said.

“Shut up. You’re not here,” came Pete’s voice, heading toward the tower.

The flight lasted three hours.

We couldn’t see out the window. It was cold, and a little hard to catch my breath.

But we crossed the border.

And all the while I couldn’t help wondering about what Captain McKinley had revealed. He had seen an order for Astrid’s removal?

Had they been coming for her?

Had we just gotten out in time?

In less than four hours we were landing at Lewis-McChord Air Force Base in Washington State.

“Are you going to be in trouble?” Astrid asked Captain McKinley as soon as he shut the motor. It had been impossibly loud—way too loud to talk.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Was that true? What you said about them having a plan to take Astrid away?” I asked.

“Guys, this is not the time for questions. Right now, I have to get you out of this cab. A buddy of mine named Roufa is going to come. At least, I hope he is.”

McKinley took out his wallet.

“Assuming he does, give him this for his crew.” He pulled out five or six twenty dollar bills.

“No,” Niko said. “We have our own money. We’ll give it to him.”

“Are you sure?” McKinley asked.

“Yeah,” the rest of us chorused in.

“You’ve done enough for us already,” I added.

“All right then—that’s good—just stay here and don’t move.”

He removed his headset and climbed out of the cabin.

“Sweet ride, huh?” Jake said, grinning back at us. “I can’t believe we did it! We’re out!”

“I think my booty is iced to the floor,” Niko said, groaning.

Something about it was funny—the way he said it, and suddenly I started chuckling.

I put my hand over my mouth.

“Dean!” Astrid shushed me.

I couldn’t help it.

“It’s just,” I gasped. “The way you said ‘booty’!”

Astrid giggled, Jake guffawed, and then the three of us were laughing.

“Shut up, you guys!” Niko hissed, but he was smiling, too.

Then the door flipped open.

A pilot stood there, in full uniform. Almost impossibly tall, with a crew cut that was straight and had a hard edge, like a broom.

“You the Monument four- teen agers?” he asked us in a thick accent—New Orleans, I thought.

We blinked at him, and finally I answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Put these on. But don’t bother with the headgear,” he ordered, and threw in a duffel bag, which Niko caught. “Knock when you’re decent.”

He shut the door, and God help me, I almost burst into laughter again.

“Get it together, Dean,” Niko said.

It took me a couple deep breaths, laced with last chuckles, to get myself together.

Niko opened the duffel. Inside were four shrink-wrapped packages.

We ripped into them and discovered they were some kind of ultralight hazmat suits. They had four parts—a jumpsuit, a face mask, gloves, and a belt that held round cartridges.

Niko took one of the cartridges out of his belt. “An air filter!” he exclaimed.

The material of the jumpsuit was in a dark-brown-and-gray-camouflage pattern and was incredibly light—almost like silk.

The headpiece was really weird. It sort of looked like beekeeper headgear—with a large, clear visor and the rest of the head covered by the light material. But attached to the faceplate, on the inside, was a mouthpiece that you obviously would put in your mouth. On the outside of this mouthpiece, on the outside of the mask, was a slot for the round air filter to fit into.

The headpiece curled into the shape of a tube and there was an elastic holster on the thigh of the suit to hold the tube.

A little piece of paper fluttered out of each suit.

It showed a drawing of a soldier putting on the suit and then putting his boots on over the foot part of the jumper. There was copious writing in Japanese, but in English there were just two words: boot over.

On the other side it showed a soldier inserting a new cartridge into the face mask.

I was thinking about Japanese design ingenuity when Astrid asked:

“Why did he give these to us? I mean, is it for drifts? Are there drifts out there?!”

“Maybe it’s a kind of disguise,” Jake hypothesized.