attempt to avoid being shot.
Mal didn’t know what to do. Why was Zuz here…of all places? Was it his imagination?
“Withdrawal advised. Hostiles closing in on foot,” chimed in the computerized voice of the hitchhiker in Mal’s head, snapping him back to reality.
Mal made up his mind as he looked around to see some of the soldiers getting back to their feet and going for their weapons. Arms still cuffed with heavy metal manacles behind his back, Mal dove through the open passenger’s side door even as the ungainly vehicle started to pull away, barely making it into the backseat.
From his stomach-down position on vinyl seats covered in discarded soda cans and fast food wrappers, Mal braced himself as best he could as the driver leaned into the wheel, sending the vehicle into a hairpin turn, nearly slamming the opened door onto the hog-tied man’s flailing feet.
Zuzelo looked back with a wide, half-insane smile splitting his face and belched out, “Keep your head down…I’ll have us out of here in no time flat!”
A long, weary sigh escaped through Mal’s half-clenched teeth as he allowed his face to sink down onto the fuzzy, dark-gray seats of the Nissan Cube, eyes already closing as the unwanted passenger in his head stated without passion, “Commencing self-repair. All system shutting down.”
The last thing Mal heard before the comforting oblivion of exhaustion took him was his old friend belting out ‘Firework’ by Katy Perry at the top of his lungs. Mal thought the sound of distant sirens provided a rather fitting melody as he passed out.
CHAPTER 5
The sounds of screeching tires and an automobile engine being pushed to the max, somehow transformed into the high-pitched whine of a UH-60 Black Hawk in hard flight. Malcolm Weir recognized the sound instantly. It had been an almost everyday part of his life for the better part of a decade. There were times he swore he’d spent more time in the belly of a chopper than most pilots clocked behind the flight stick.
The familiar bumps and jostling of his bolted-down seat in the main cabin, something that had made him violently ill during training, were a soothing massage to his strapped-in body.
Mal allowed his head to lie back so he could feel the cloth covering on his ACH butt up against the hard metal frame of the helicopter. The ranger had to suppress a chuckle as he felt the sock he kept taped to the inside of his helmet out of nostalgia for basic training tickle the back of his neck.
This is how things are supposed to be, he thought to himself as he finally let the other voices in the cabin break through his bubble of government-issued comfort.
“I cannot believe yuh finally doin’ it, El-Tee,” boomed a deep bass voice in the worst attempt at a whisper Mal had ever heard. Corporal John Narcomy was a big man from Houston, Texas, and clocked in at somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred and fifty pounds of solid, good-hearted muscle. “It ain’t right!”
Staring at the dark-skinned man barely contained on the flight bench by straps pushed well beyond their limits, Mal was convinced the Black Hawk was buckled to Narcomy for safety and not the other way around. The ACH cinched onto his head seemed too small to contain it.
“Got my acceptance yesterday. After we get back from this jaunt, I’m going back to school and then to JAG,” responded a smooth voice seated directly across from Narcomy and to Mal’s immediate left. Tilting his head allowed the young, brown haired Lieutenant Chris Donlin to come into view out of the corner of Mal’s eye. “But don’t worry, old son, I won’t forget the “little” people after I’m gone.”
A general round of laughter erupted from the six men seat belted into the chairs of the chopper: the men of Mal’s special response unit.
Technician Third Grade James “Jimmy” Jay, the round-faced ex-baseball player from San Diego sitting on Narcomy’s left, chipped in, “I was going to
Mal didn’t know what to do. Why was Zuz here…of all places? Was it his imagination?
“Withdrawal advised. Hostiles closing in on foot,” chimed in the computerized voice of the hitchhiker in Mal’s head, snapping him back to reality.
Mal made up his mind as he looked around to see some of the soldiers getting back to their feet and going for their weapons. Arms still cuffed with heavy metal manacles behind his back, Mal dove through the open passenger’s side door even as the ungainly vehicle started to pull away, barely making it into the backseat.
From his stomach-down position on vinyl seats covered in discarded soda cans and fast food wrappers, Mal braced himself as best he could as the driver leaned into the wheel, sending the vehicle into a hairpin turn, nearly slamming the opened door onto the hog-tied man’s flailing feet.
Zuzelo looked back with a wide, half-insane smile splitting his face and belched out, “Keep your head down…I’ll have us out of here in no time flat!”
A long, weary sigh escaped through Mal’s half-clenched teeth as he allowed his face to sink down onto the fuzzy, dark-gray seats of the Nissan Cube, eyes already closing as the unwanted passenger in his head stated without passion, “Commencing self-repair. All system shutting down.”
The last thing Mal heard before the comforting oblivion of exhaustion took him was his old friend belting out ‘Firework’ by Katy Perry at the top of his lungs. Mal thought the sound of distant sirens provided a rather fitting melody as he passed out.
CHAPTER 5
The sounds of screeching tires and an automobile engine being pushed to the max, somehow transformed into the high-pitched whine of a UH-60 Black Hawk in hard flight. Malcolm Weir recognized the sound instantly. It had been an almost everyday part of his life for the better part of a decade. There were times he swore he’d spent more time in the belly of a chopper than most pilots clocked behind the flight stick.
The familiar bumps and jostling of his bolted-down seat in the main cabin, something that had made him violently ill during training, were a soothing massage to his strapped-in body.
Mal allowed his head to lie back so he could feel the cloth covering on his ACH butt up against the hard metal frame of the helicopter. The ranger had to suppress a chuckle as he felt the sock he kept taped to the inside of his helmet out of nostalgia for basic training tickle the back of his neck.
This is how things are supposed to be, he thought to himself as he finally let the other voices in the cabin break through his bubble of government-issued comfort.
“I cannot believe yuh finally doin’ it, El-Tee,” boomed a deep bass voice in the worst attempt at a whisper Mal had ever heard. Corporal John Narcomy was a big man from Houston, Texas, and clocked in at somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred and fifty pounds of solid, good-hearted muscle. “It ain’t right!”
Staring at the dark-skinned man barely contained on the flight bench by straps pushed well beyond their limits, Mal was convinced the Black Hawk was buckled to Narcomy for safety and not the other way around. The ACH cinched onto his head seemed too small to contain it.
“Got my acceptance yesterday. After we get back from this jaunt, I’m going back to school and then to JAG,” responded a smooth voice seated directly across from Narcomy and to Mal’s immediate left. Tilting his head allowed the young, brown haired Lieutenant Chris Donlin to come into view out of the corner of Mal’s eye. “But don’t worry, old son, I won’t forget the “little” people after I’m gone.”
A general round of laughter erupted from the six men seat belted into the chairs of the chopper: the men of Mal’s special response unit.
Technician Third Grade James “Jimmy” Jay, the round-faced ex-baseball player from San Diego sitting on Narcomy’s left, chipped in, “I was going to
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