Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

The fuselage was literally freezing; the US Army obviously hadn’t considered the health and wellbeing of stowaways when they designed the in-flight heating system for the C-17 Globemaster III cargo plane. I clambered down on to the metal floor. The only light came from the small round window in the door to my left. I walked across to it and peered out, careful not to trip on the numerous metal tracks that ran the length of the fuselage. We were above the clouds, and the full moon cast a brilliant, cold light. Our vehicle was at the very back of the plane, its rear hanging just above the ramp, which would be lowered to allow it to drive out when we landed in England. Other vehicles and pallets of supplies and ordnance were queued up behind it in the dark and cold.

I walked up the body of the plane a little bit and unzipped my fly, letting rip against the side of a pallet full of bags of flour. Little bit of flavour for your bread, you bastards. I sighed in relief and smiled as I did the zip back up again. Better.

I turned to walk back to the others and then something hit me in the face and I was flat on my back, seeing stars. Before I could get my bearings I felt someone sit on me, straddling my chest, wrapping their hands around my throat and holding my head against the metal. I looked up to see who had attacked me. All I could see were the whites of his eyes. Dressed entirely in black, and with shoe polish on his face, this guy was practically invisible.

“Is this the way to Business Class?” I asked.

He hit me again and my head made a clanging noise against the floor.

“You’re that Limey kid,” said the man.

“Limey?” I said, playing for time. “Do people really say Limey? Isn’t that a bit out of date now?”

“Where are the others?”

“Others?” Suddenly there was a knife at my throat.

“We were given orders not to kill you,” said the man in black. “The general wants that pleasure himself. But hey, he’s not here so if I drop you out the back no-one will ever know.”

In the confusion of embarkation there was every chance that he wouldn’t have heard about any skirmishes that took place, so I said: “No others. Just me. They didn’t make it.”

“Right,” he replied mockingly. “Hey Joe, check around. He must’ve come out of one of the vehicles.”

I couldn’t see who he was talking to. It was impossible to know how many of them there were. I wondered what they could have been doing lounging around the unheated fuselage of a cargo plane full of vehicles and supplies, then I registered that his black clothing was a jump suit.

“So you’re, like, American parachute ninjas or something?” I asked.

“Or something.”

There was a loud thud and a groan from the end of the plane then a floodlight came on, momentarily blinding me. The man atop me rolled sideways and ducked behind a pallet, seamless and silent.

I blinked at the light and realised it was the spot on the top of the Stryker.

“Come on, Lee,” shouted my dad. I pulled myself upright and ran for the vehicle, past the stunned body of another man in black. I vaulted up on to the Stryker, where Dad was standing behind the spotlight and mounted gun emplacement, his eye pressed up against the huge sighting lens. “Get inside.”

I slid down into the belly of the vehicle, where Tariq was waiting, gun at the ready.

“You couldn’t fucking hold it?” he said, witheringly.

“The sights on this thing are great,” said Dad loudly. “I mean, I can only see your right foot, but if I…” There was a loud report as he squeezed the trigger, then he ducked back down to join us. “They’ll be considering their next move for a minute or two. Lee, how many are there?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I only saw two. I think they’re parachutists, and they’re blacked up, so I reckon they’re dropping from this plane before we land. Advance guard, maybe.”

“And we thought it was only kit in here. Bloody hell,” said Tariq.

“We don’t want to get into a firefight,” said Dad. “Pressurised cabin, all sorts of bad things happen.”

“But you just shot at him!” I said.

“Calculated risk. Just to make a point. Let’s hope he doesn’t call my bluff, or things will go wrong very quickly.”

A voice echoed down the plane, barely audible above the roar of the engines.

“Hey, Limeys!”

Dad popped his head back up and shouted: “Yeah?”

“Hold on!”

There was a clunk and a whirr of machinery.

“Oh shit,” shouted Dad and he ducked back inside the vehicle, pulling the hatch closed behind him. He looked white as a sheet.

“What?” asked Tariq and I, in unison.

But Dad wasn’t listening, instead he scrambled past us and into the driver’s seat, where he started pressing buttons frantically. Tariq and I followed, taking up positions either side of him, looking down at the various touchscreens which were illuminating one by one as the vehicle powered up.

“What are you doing?” I asked again.

“Got to initialise the CBRN, it’s our only chance,” he muttered. Tariq and I looked at each other and shrugged. Suddenly the plane lurched to one side and began to descend. The noise from outside the vehicle began to get a lot louder.

“Oh fuck me, no,” I whispered as I realised what was happening. The look on Tariq’s face told me that he’d worked it out too.

“Got it!” yelled Dad. There was a hiss of compressed air and the sound of bolts locking. “I’ve turned on the CBRN system. We’re airtight and pressurised.” He pulled the seatbelt across, strapping himself in.

“Lee, strap yourself into the other seat,” he ordered. I sat down and did as I was told. “Tariq, you’re going to have to find something to brace yourself against back there. I think I saw some straps you could use. Just lie flat on one of the couches and try not to let go. This is going to be rough.”

Tariq nodded wordlessly, and disappeared into the back.

“CBRN?” I asked, trying not to think about what was about to happen.

“Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear warfare system,” he replied.

“Cool.”

The vehicle shook.

“Tariq, you strapped in?” Dad shouted.

“Yeah,” came the tremulous reply from the back.

“They must have decided we were too much trouble to flush out,” said Dad.

“They’re right,” I replied.

“Remember that time at Rhyll,” said Dad, “when I took you on the rollercoaster?”

“Jesus, do I ever.”

“Fifteen people with your sick in their hair. I thought they were going to lynch us. This is going to be much worse.”

“Oh, thanks for the…”

The vehicle flew backwards at enormous speed, flinging Dad and I forward against our straps and squeezing the air out of us. Time elongated, and the g-force was overwhelming. I tried to breathe but couldn’t force my lungs to inflate. My eyes watered, my ears roared and popped, I would have screamed if I could. Then my stomach flipped and we were falling, weightless. The seat fell away from my arse and the straps dug deep into my shoulders as I was dragged down by the dead weight of the plummeting metal cage that surrounded us. It went on forever until there was an almighty snap as the cords on the ’chutes went taut and our descent slowed. Now the pressure went the opposite way, as the deceleration forced me down into my seat, crunching my spine and pressing my chin down in to my chest as I suddenly felt twenty stone heavier. Eventually we hit our descent speed and returned to normal. I gasped like a fish on dry land, hyperventilating.

I looked across at Dad. He was stunned, but okay.

I craned over to see if Tariq was okay. He was lying on the couch, tied by thick straps designed for holding equipment steady on rough terrain, grinning fit to burst.