Jon Merz - Raider X

Hewitt shrugged. “You don’t really have one. We’ll give you your official papers back, but that’s it. You were hoping to travel to Portugal and later Spain to do business. You’re in real estate.”

“Nothing else? What if they do a background check on me?”

Hewitt grinned. “You’ll be at sea and there’d be no way to confirm or deny anything at that point. And as you’ll find, Thatcher, sometimes, the simpler the lie, the easier it is to pull off. Most times, in fact.” Hewitt checked his watch. “And that is about all I have to say to you.”

Hewitt actually shook Thatcher’s hand as they parted. “I’d wish you luck, but you’re going to need a whole lot more than that on this mission, Thatcher. The fact is, this might be our last time together.”

“You always send your operatives off with such a lofty pep talk?”

Hewitt grinned. “No, usually I think they have a shot at returning. You? I’m not so sure. This thing has suicide mission written all over it. There are too many variables, but we have to try. The Prime Minister wants Raider X destroyed without us having to launch an entire fleet to have to hunt it down. So it’s down to you to get it done.”

“And what happens if I manage to do so?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I just asked: what happens next? I make my way to some neutral country and go to the embassy? You send a boat to pick me up? What?”

Hewitt eyed him. “You come back here. Any way you can manage to do so. You’re a resourceful lad. I don’t much care of you swim home and up the Thames. Get back here as soon as you can. And don’t let me find out that you took off or else.”

Thatcher sighed. “I know, I know.”

“Good,” said Hewitt. He nodded behind Thatcher. “Now Jeremy here will see you off to your flight.”

Thatcher turned with a start. Hewitt’s bodyguard had materialized out of nowhere and his presence was rather off-putting. Thatcher tried to smile but Jeremy just looked at him with the sort of eyes that reminded Thatcher of a dead fish. It was not a comforting sight.

Hewitt cleared his throat. “Off you go then.”

Jeremy turned and Thatcher followed him toward the front of the building, pausing only to remove his pass and give it back to the nice old lady with the machine gun under her desk. Outside, Jeremy stepped into the driver’s seat without even looking at Thatcher. Thatcher took a glimpse at the crowded street and wondered how far he could sprint before the tongueless bodyguard caught up with him and beat him senseless.

With a sigh, he climbed into the back of the car and Jeremy instantly rolled away from the curb. Thatcher got the distinct impression the bodyguard had wanted him to try something funny. He was glad he hadn’t done so.

They rolled through the London traffic while Thatcher took everything in. The streets were crowded with all manner of people while trucks belched exhaust. Horns sounded as people made their way throughout whatever lives they had here. Thatcher absorbed it all wondering if he’d even ever see it again. As much as he hated the bustle sometimes, he had to admit that even in wartime, London had a certain charm that he would no doubt miss while away.

His mind went to the specifics of the operation and then he realized he didn’t really have any. Hewitt had given him no timetable of how this was going to happen. He had no clue where the ship he was traveling on was even heading although he concluded it must have been toward Portugal since that was where Hewitt had told him he was going. But even still, the vagaries of the assignment gnawed at him. It was as if Hewitt hadn’t even invested much into making sure the mission was a success. He had simply found some loser with nothing else to live for and handed it off to him.

Thatcher, he thought, you have once again shown yourself remarkably adept at attracting the worst circumstances to your life.

Jeremy drove them outside of London to a small airstrip based on a converted mansion’s grounds. The planes were lined up on the manicured lawns and as they drove in, he could see a few of the pilots mooching around drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. Jeremy drove up to a single plane and Thatcher got a look at it for the first time.

What was it Hewitt had called it? A Defiant? Whatever it was called, it didn’t look like it had been made to transport someone. Jeremy slowed the car to a stop and they both got out. Jeremy handed the pilot who was sitting nearby a sheet of paper. Then he simply turned, glared at Thatcher, got back into the car, and drove away, leaving Thatcher alone with the pilot who was still reading. After a moment, he looked up and nodded at him.

“You Thatcher?”

“Yes.” Thatcher stepped forward to shake the pilot’s hand. But he didn’t offer.

Instead he looked over his shoulder and whistled. “Oy, Steaks, got us a mission.”

A grossly overweight mechanic stepped out of the small shed nearby. He stood perhaps five feet tall and almost as much wide and was chomping on something that Thatcher assumed was food.

“Who’s this then?”

The pilot eased off of his seat and rubbed his ass. “Special guest of His Majesty. Just got paperwork says I need to fly him down to Poole. Best get him outfitted with the necessary kit. It’s urgent.”

The Pilot walked off to start pre-flight checks of his plane while the beefy mechanic motioned for Thatcher to follow him. “This way.”

Thatcher followed him to the shed and the mechanic turned and eyed Thatcher up and down. “Yeah, mate, that outfit’s not really going to work here. You see that turret in the back of the plane?”

Thatcher looked at the plane for the first time and noticed that there was a section behind the pilot with a gun turret. From this sprouted a series of four barrels of machine guns. Thatcher could see no other armaments on the plane. “I’m sitting in the back then.”

Steaks nodded. “Exactly and they didn’t quite make it roomy, so I need you to get into this here kit.” He held up a strange-looking suit that reminded Thatcher of someone going diving under the sea. And then the mechanic also showed him a sort of pouchy garment that apparently fit over the form-fitting suit. “This here’s your rhino suit.”

“Rhino suit?”

Steak grunted. “Got your chute in it case you run into trouble. ‘Course with you just heading down to Poole, it shouldn’t be an issue. Now come on, strip off them old clothes and let’s get you kitted up.”

Fifteen minutes later, after much pulling and prodding, Thatcher waddled out of the shed and toward the Daffy, as the plane was apparently nicknamed. He’d given up wondering why they called it that. All he knew is he felt absolutely ridiculous waddling about like penguin in his kit. Steaks had given him a bag for his civilian clothes and then thrust it back into Thatcher’s hands.

“Hang on to that. You can get changed down at Poole and make sure you give Leftenant Simpson the rhino suit back.”

“Thanks.”

As he struggled to walk normally up to the aircraft, the pilot Simpson turned back and regarded him. “All set are you? Let’s go. Schedule to keep and all.” He pointed out how Thatcher could climb up on the wing to gain entry to the rear turret.

Thatcher did so but couldn’t figure out how to get in. Then Steaks reappeared and showed him how to move it to the side to grant entry. “If you need to get out, that’s how you do it in reverse, so don’t forget. Got it?”

Thatcher nodded. “Thanks.”

“Oh, and if you do have to ditch over the water for some reason, get out of the chute as soon as you hit the drink.”

“Why?”