The Price of Freedom
By R.A. Jetter
Higher on this plateau than I figured, noting the altimeter read just over eight thousand feet. He slid the throttles off again, his airspeed slowed. The single-seat A-10 slipped from the sky, closing fast on the archaic, rusting WW II-era corrugated-metal runway. Hope to hell that thing is bolted together properly. Wonder where they found that piece of ancient history? Who’d have enough pieces of that old metal crap lying around to make it long enough to land this bird? Wonder how many men and how many nights, it took to bolt together?
The aircraft floated lazily in its descent just above the obsolete runway. Grizzley pulled the nose up and the plane sank to the metal track, just past the forward edge. Tires squealed and skidded on the rusty surface, blue-white smoke and red ochre dust swirled out from under the wings. Grizzley released the chute and shoved the air brake up into the wind-stream, feet planted firmly on the plane’s hydraulic brakes. The end of the old track was coming toward him fast and he worried the big ship wouldn’t stop in time. If this baby doesn’t slow, I can surely kiss my ass goodbye right here! His fear subsided as the A-10 scrubbed off its speed and rolled to a stop just before the end of the pieced-together runway.
Grizzley opened the canopy, unhooked the electrical connections, took off his helmet and placed it on the head-up display. He flipped a switch marked ‘Bay Doors’ and shut down the engines. Unbuckling the harnesses, he stepped up on the seat and swung his leg out. Placing one foot onto the rungs of the self-contained ladder, he swung his body around and climbed down. He jumped the last three feet; the metal clunked from the sudden pressure of his weight.
A short stocky man approached, struggling with a large Air Force-issue satchel, apparent to Grizzley it was quite heavy. The handles of the satchel were so long it almost dragged on the ground. He stopped twenty feet from the plane, let it fall to the runway and waved at Grizzley.
“Good morning, Colonel Adams,” he said in perfect English. His Japanese features gave away his ancestry. He pulled a Colorado Rockies baseball cap off his balding head and swiped at the perspiration on his forehead. “I am Thomas Koboda. I trust you have what we want?”
“In the bay,” Grizzley motioned toward the opened doors. He peeled off his flight gloves and unwrapped a stick of gum, put it in his mouth and tossed the wrapper to the side of the metal strip. “You know how to handle them?”
“We do, thank you for your concern. We are prepared.” Thomas pointed at two men removing a 4-wheeled weapons transporter from the back of the modified motor home.
“You bring replacements?”
“Of course, Colonel. They are identical in every aspect to the devices we will remove, except, they carry no plutonium,” Thomas answered politely. “Not one of your tactical weapons handlers will know the difference.” He placed the ball cap back on his head, adjusted it and picked up the wrapper.
“Maybe…maybe not,” Grizzley answered, thinking he knew something more than Thomas did, “Guess we’ll find out when I get back to Petersen.”