Originally posted March 1, 2011
((In some ways, this is a story I've been meaning to write since I was 15. Back then, I heard about Somali warlords interfering with UN shipments of grain to their own starving people. I kept thinking that, if I was a hero, that's one of the ways I would want to to help; make sure those shipments got to the right people. Recent events brought this idea back to the forefront of my mind.
Big thanks to Jess from the BSP for helping me understand the layout and capacity of the C-130. They are his babies, and I understand he takes good care of them.))
Airlift
"The weather is getting worse, sir." The uniformed officer handed over the latest meteorological report.
"Unsafe for operations?" his superior asked, eyebrow raised.
"In my opinion," the younger man swallowed, "yes, sir. For at least another four hours, sir."
The gray haired man rubbed his forehead before turning to another aide. "How many employees are still stranded?"
"At least 500," reported the young, auburn haired woman. The older man sighed. It was no use to ask either of them for confirmation. The two knew their trade. They would not be here otherwise. He looked at them both. "Stay here."
Standing in a pair of comfortable jeans and a thick, knit sweater, the middle aged, blond man seemed out of place in the uniformed throng. He listened to the gray hair commander, nodding in confirmation, then saying a few words. The gray haired man hesitated for a moment. His mouth opened and shut twice as if trying to find something to say. The man in jeans looked at the man once more, his look not stern so much as certain. The older man retreated slightly, bowed, then trotted back to his aides.
"Flight operations will continue. Ready the wing." The weatherman blinked before stammering, "But, sir."
The commander turned to another aide. "Tell the command aircraft to prepare for a passenger. They will be taking one more on the sortie."
"But sir!" the weather man entreated.
"Yes. What is it?"
"It is unsafe for operations, sir. A sortie means suicide for the crews of those planes. I would estimate a casualty rate of 50%, sir."
The older man stepped forward, nodding once in the direction of the man in denim. "Do you know who that is, son?" The weatherman paled as he shook his head. "Learn who that is," the gray haired said quietly as he stepped forward. "Then trust in the faith of your employers."
--
The turboprops of the six plane wing of C-130J Super Hercules beat the air in a rhythmic drone. Inside the command aircraft, the loadmaster threw one more look back at his unassuming passenger. The man sat, zazen, on the floor of the cargo deck, surrounded by empty seats. Arai Saburo had seen many strange things in his 30 some years with the Arasaka Corporation. He never felt so thankful for this, a calm flight in a raging storm. It defined unworldly.
"How is our passenger, Arai-kun?" called out the pilot over the loadmaster's headphones. "Peaceful, Negishi-san," The loadmaster answered. "About as peaceful as this flight."
"Thank the heavens for small favors. Is he really…?"
"Yes," Saburo replied. He had attended the grand reception at Arasaka Castle. He had seen both the bride and groom, all those years ago. The loadmaster remembered looking at that young man then, feeling hope, cheering for the young lovers. A small cog in the large machine of Arasaka Corp, Arai Saburo never expected to see Chance Thomas, again. He expected it even less after,… after…. It was best he put "the after" out of his mind.
Chance felt the stirring inside him, oblivious to his immediate surroundings. His soul touched the raging storm around the flight, kept it at bay. The artificial canyons of Gotham didn't really offer the opportunity to feel the weather around him. His senses extended a kilometer in any direction. It felt good to stretch.
--
Saburo loaded the personnel onto the deck, showing them where and how to sit. This wasn't a commercial flight. The people onboard would need to forgo some comforts. The loadmaster walked down the aisle, checking straps, noticing the relieved smiles. Five year ago, this place seemed a land of opportunity. Now, it was just another African country on the verge of civil war.
Chance Thomas stood on the tarmac, unfazed by the stinging rain of the raging torrent. Saburo pulled up his hood and went to talk to the man. "All employees have boarded, Tomasu-san," he yelled above the wind. "We are ready to depart."
Chance's eyes fell on the airport fence, the mass of people gathered and clinging to the chain link, the desperation plain on their faces. "What is our remaining capacity, Arai-San?" The loadmaster looked at his hand computer, reading the reports from the other planes, then rattled off a number. "Is it possible to remove the stanchions placed in the deck?" Mr. Arai nodded.
"How many more could we carry?" Chance asked. Saburo offered a number then cautioned, "It would not be a comfortable flight, Tomasu-san. Takeoff and landing may cause injuries."
"Worse you think," Chance turned to face the loadmaster, "than staying here?" Saburo looked to the crowd at the fence. "I do not believe so, Tomasu-san."
Chance nodded. "Make the arrangements, Arai-san. Please check your passenger manifest. If there any members of Arasaka Security on board, see if you can find them any weather gear and have them report to me." Saburo bowed before running off to issue orders, suddenly reminded why he started working for the Arasaka Corporation in the first place.
-
"Well done, Takahashi-san." Chance grinned as he bowed. The three of them stood in the partial shelter allowed by the open aircraft loading bay. The impromptu rescue mission had retrieved seven families from the airport fence. Not Arasaka employees, but Chance didn't think anyone would hold that against him.
"A riot nearly broke out, Tomasu-san," the young man from Arasaka Security said. "People are frantic and anxious to leave. I would not recommend staying too long."
"So noted. Arai-san, How long before we can depart?"
The loadmaster looked at his hand computer before responding. "Five minutes, Tomasu-san." He looked up at the sound of arriving jeeps. "If we receive permission from the local authorities."
Chance turned to follow Saburo's stare. Takahashi's team must have done something right to rouse the local security force and get them out to the tarmac in this rain. His head turned back to the other two men. "Finish loading operations, Arai-san. Tell the pilots to begin preflight. I will talk to the gendarmes."
"May I help you, Tomasu-san?" asked Takahashi.
"Return to your family, Takahashi-san. Thank you for your offer." Chance smiled to them both, gave a shallow bow, and then walked off to confront the arriving soldiers.
-
The man had to shout above the wind. The rain had stopped for the moment, providing Chance the opportunity to look over the patrol. Twelve men, armed with the ubiquitous AK-47. They wore ill-fitting uniforms. Some had covered themselves with black garbage bags to protect against the storm. Others shivered, soaked to the bone. One of them spoke English well enough to state their demands.
"We do not have a record of you paying the embarkation tax, Mr. Thomas. I'm afraid we cannot let you leave without it."
"Of course, I understand," Chance responded. "How much do we owe you?"
The soldier looked back at his cronies, grinning. "Six million. US dollars."
Chance patted his jeans, grinning. "I don't think I have that much on me." He fished a bill out of his pocket. "Will you take a twenty?"
"We will have to hold your people and planes until the tax can be paid, Mr. Thomas," the soldier said, his smile fading.
Chance went through the witty responses in is mind. If he were younger, he would offer a quip; some sarcastic comment meant to hide his own insecurity. Now he just answered, "No."
The air chilled as the soldier leveled his weapon at the foreigner. The rest of the team followed suit. Chance let his eyes hover over each one, knowing the forces that bring a man to this point; paid thugs for a warlord with delusions of grandeur. The Harrier King did not gesture. He didn't move at all. Suddenly, the soldiers found their feet frozen in ice. Their hands stuck fast to their weapons, unable to pull triggers.
Panic spread across their faces as Chance turned to walk away. "We will call in jets!" called their spokesman. "We'll shoot you down."
Chance turned around once as he continued walking. "Not in this weather, you won't," he chuckled as the rain began to fall again.
"You'll crash!"
The Harrier King turned back towards the waiting Hercules. "Maybe, someday," he muttered to himself, "but not today."
--
Chance felt the stirring inside him, not so oblivious to his immediate surroundings. He heard the conversations of respite; of hope. He heard his named mentioned. He smiled as he loosened his soul to touch the raging storm around the six planes on their way back to Malta. 600 people. The flight carried 600 people out of war and suffering. The artificial canyons of Gotham didn't really offer him the opportunity to feel how far his reach extended. He listened to the chatter of a hundred thankful people on the plane with him. It felt good to stretch.
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