sense.”
“It does if you’re an Arab. He’s establishing his authority. He figures that the engine is the most valuable thing that was offloaded.”
“Crap! So I’ve just got to stand here and let him take it?”
“Maybe not,” Libby said. “Let me talk to him. While I distract him, tell the C-17 to start engines and be ready to taxi when I give the high sign. Tell the aircraft commander to kick up dust and hose the place down with his jet wash.”
Allston didn’t hesitate. “Do it.” Lane spoke into his communicator to make it happen. “Major Waleed,” Allston called. “May we speak for a moment? May I introduce my protocol officer, Captain Libby?”
Libby made a big show of saluting Waleed and broke into a torrent of Arabic as the C-17 started engines. The surprised Waleed could only stare at Libby as he gushed on, an unbroken torrent of words as he waved his hands. Both Allston and Lane caught the ‘chocks out’ signal and Lane spoke into his communicator. Immediately, the huge cargo plane started to move as its big turbofan engines spun up. The aircraft commander rode the brakes as he taxied out and swerved back and forth, blasting the ramp and kicking up a huge cloud of fine dust. The C-17 turned onto the runway and stopped. The engines ran up and the big plane surged forward, taking off.
One of Waleed’s soldiers ran up, still coughing from the dust, and spoke rapidly. Libby translated for Allston and Lane. “He says the aircraft was empty.”
Waleed wiped his face with a grimy handkerchief. “My sergeant says that the only unauthorized item was an engine that was brought in.” Libby immediately protested in Arabic but Waleed only smiled. “It is not for me to determine what is contraband. I am only following orders.” Libby gave up and pointed to a dolly with the engine. Waleed spoke to his men and they quickly hitched it to the lead truck. Waleed barked a command and climbed on board. The two trucks sped away, towing the bouncing engine.
Malaby drove up in her pickup and got out. “What did they want with the old engine?” she asked.
Allston and Lane turned to Libby who only shrugged with a sheepish look on his face. “We distracted ‘em while Sergeant Williams did the old switcheroo.” They all stared at the strange looking captain. “Hey, if you’re not cheating, you’re not doing your job,” Libby said in his own defense.
Allston knew when he was in the presence of a warrior, no matter how he looked. “Welcome to Bumfuck South, G.G. You wouldn’t happen to be drop qualified, would you?”
“Done a few,” Libby replied, “and won a few bucks.” He had been on countless airdrop missions delivering everything from paratroopers to bulldozers. In his small world, he was the king of drop-qualified navigators and had won so many bets about whose load landed the closest to the mark that only the unknowing bet against him. He thought for a moment. “You want the old engine back?”
“You can do that?” Malaby asked.
“I think Sergeant Williams and I might be able to arrange something.”
“Don’t get your ass in a crack,” Allston replied.
Allston and his small staff walked into the big hangar just after midnight. The four-man maintenance crew that had flown in on the C-17 had been working since they had arrived and were exhausted. They had erected a high framework on wheels that arched over the wing. A large black box was on the topside of the framework and mounted on a track that moved fore and aft as the framework traversed the length of the wing. The sergeant in charge explained that it was the very latest in X-ray technology combined with sonic scanning, and that when fully assembled and calibrated, they could scan the wing spars for cracks and traces of metal fatigue. “Normally it doesn’t take too long to do the actual scan, but since the hangar here is not air conditioned, heat buildup is going to be a problem. Keeping the equipment in calibration is
“It does if you’re an Arab. He’s establishing his authority. He figures that the engine is the most valuable thing that was offloaded.”
“Crap! So I’ve just got to stand here and let him take it?”
“Maybe not,” Libby said. “Let me talk to him. While I distract him, tell the C-17 to start engines and be ready to taxi when I give the high sign. Tell the aircraft commander to kick up dust and hose the place down with his jet wash.”
Allston didn’t hesitate. “Do it.” Lane spoke into his communicator to make it happen. “Major Waleed,” Allston called. “May we speak for a moment? May I introduce my protocol officer, Captain Libby?”
Libby made a big show of saluting Waleed and broke into a torrent of Arabic as the C-17 started engines. The surprised Waleed could only stare at Libby as he gushed on, an unbroken torrent of words as he waved his hands. Both Allston and Lane caught the ‘chocks out’ signal and Lane spoke into his communicator. Immediately, the huge cargo plane started to move as its big turbofan engines spun up. The aircraft commander rode the brakes as he taxied out and swerved back and forth, blasting the ramp and kicking up a huge cloud of fine dust. The C-17 turned onto the runway and stopped. The engines ran up and the big plane surged forward, taking off.
One of Waleed’s soldiers ran up, still coughing from the dust, and spoke rapidly. Libby translated for Allston and Lane. “He says the aircraft was empty.”
Waleed wiped his face with a grimy handkerchief. “My sergeant says that the only unauthorized item was an engine that was brought in.” Libby immediately protested in Arabic but Waleed only smiled. “It is not for me to determine what is contraband. I am only following orders.” Libby gave up and pointed to a dolly with the engine. Waleed spoke to his men and they quickly hitched it to the lead truck. Waleed barked a command and climbed on board. The two trucks sped away, towing the bouncing engine.
Malaby drove up in her pickup and got out. “What did they want with the old engine?” she asked.
Allston and Lane turned to Libby who only shrugged with a sheepish look on his face. “We distracted ‘em while Sergeant Williams did the old switcheroo.” They all stared at the strange looking captain. “Hey, if you’re not cheating, you’re not doing your job,” Libby said in his own defense.
Allston knew when he was in the presence of a warrior, no matter how he looked. “Welcome to Bumfuck South, G.G. You wouldn’t happen to be drop qualified, would you?”
“Done a few,” Libby replied, “and won a few bucks.” He had been on countless airdrop missions delivering everything from paratroopers to bulldozers. In his small world, he was the king of drop-qualified navigators and had won so many bets about whose load landed the closest to the mark that only the unknowing bet against him. He thought for a moment. “You want the old engine back?”
“You can do that?” Malaby asked.
“I think Sergeant Williams and I might be able to arrange something.”
“Don’t get your ass in a crack,” Allston replied.
Allston and his small staff walked into the big hangar just after midnight. The four-man maintenance crew that had flown in on the C-17 had been working since they had arrived and were exhausted. They had erected a high framework on wheels that arched over the wing. A large black box was on the topside of the framework and mounted on a track that moved fore and aft as the framework traversed the length of the wing. The sergeant in charge explained that it was the very latest in X-ray technology combined with sonic scanning, and that when fully assembled and calibrated, they could scan the wing spars for cracks and traces of metal fatigue. “Normally it doesn’t take too long to do the actual scan, but since the hangar here is not air conditioned, heat buildup is going to be a problem. Keeping the equipment in calibration is
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