The Price of Freedom
By R.A. Jetter
“Colonel, you appear extremely nervous, are you alright?”
“Just tell your guys to hurry it up with those 500 pounders, I want to get out of here.”
“Relax, Colonel, there is no one for hundreds of miles,” Thomas swung his arm in an arc. “Your aircraft could rust long before anyone found it up here. No one ventures to the top of this plateau except a lone elk hunter.”
“Where’d you find all this surplus PCP…uhmmm, World War II runway?” Grizzley asked, fidgeting with the left breast pocket zipper on his flight suit, he didn’t think his nervousness was that apparent. “I haven’t seen any of that for years. I thought it had all been recycled. How’d you get it up here?”
“Colonel, you ask far too many questions,” Thomas said. “No matter. Government surplus is just that. In fact, your Desert Storm and Bosnia campaign equipment, and munitions, is readily accessible,” he shoved his hands in his pockets, turned and walked away.
Grizzley snorted his disbelief and followed Thomas back to the A-10. Two men in fatigues rolled the second weapon from under the plane, the third and final nuclear bomb remained. He turned to Thomas and motioned ‘hurry up’. Thomas yelled at the men in Japanese, they answered apologetically. Grizzley understood that without an interpreter.
“They are hurrying as fast as they dare,” Thomas said. “Would you like a cold drink while we wait, I have a cooler in the motor home.”
“No. Just get them moving, I can’t be missed.”
“You have plenty of time, my friend,” Thomas smiled. “There is no need for haste.”
“I am not your friend, Mr. Koboda, and I’ll be the judge of how much time I have.”
“As you wish, Colonel,” Thomas said over his shoulder, heading toward the motor home.
Grizzley knelt down on the red high-desert sand next to the strip. He was warm. What Thomas had just told him was sinking in. The Colorado sun was intense, even at 8,100 feet; the five layers of his flight suit were uncomfortable. He fanned his face with his hands. C’mon, hurry it up! Anger built as he went over the situation he was in. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, his body felt clammy. He got up and walked under the wing of the aircraft, into the shade and leaned against a tire. Two men rolled the weapons carrier past and nodded politely. ‘Bout damn time, you guys sure aren’t government-issue weapons handlers, no sense of urgency. His peripheral vision saw Thomas carrying the satchel.
The men finished attaching the last phony bomb to the mounting hardpoints. One man rolled the weapons transporter to the back of the ship and climbed up on it, tugged on the parachute lines, struggling to haul it back to the plane. He slowly repacked the nylon in the containment compartment. Thomas asked the tallest of the two men to put the satchel into the bay and looked at Grizzley. The Colonel grunted his approval and walked to the front of the plane.
“My Commander will be most pleased, Colonel. He thanks you for your help.”
“I’ll think of you, and your Commander when I’m lounging on the beach,” Grizzley remarked, “on my own personal island while my Cabana boy serves me an ice cold Mai Tai.”
“We should all be so fortunate, Colonel Adams,” Thomas said, watching him climb the ladder to the cockpit. “The handles of your satchel have been twisted around a hardpoint. Have a good day.”