The Price of Freedom
By R.A. Jetter
“If I could get that money in this cockpit where I could keep an eye on it, I’d have a better day!” Grizzley answered.
“In that case, please do not open the bay doors en route,” Thomas quipped, a crooked grin on his face. “Have a nice flight, Colonel.”
Grizzley stepped onto the seat and squeezed down into it. He adjusted the safety belts, slipped on his helmet and clicked the electrical together. He flipped two ‘Engine Start” switches and adjusted his feet on the rudders in the narrow confines of the foot well. The twin engines whined to life, building to a deafening roar. Grizzley tapped the stick and slid his foot off the left rudder/brake. The aircraft slowly moved, the front wheel angled peculiarly in its’ tight turn. He straightened the front wheel and pushed hard on both brakes again. The green tinted canopy lowered into place and locked, solid metal pins slid through the hardened titanium tub surrounding the cockpit. He closed the bay doors and pushed the throttles forward, the dual General Electric turbofan engines roared. The aircraft strained against the brakes as the engines produced an ear-splitting scream. Grizzley throttled on more power, looked out the left and right sides of the canopy, out of habit, and then lifted his feet. The A-10 rolled, picked up speed as it thundered down the metal track, tires thumped on the seams. Closing fast on the end of the rusty strip, Grizzley pulled back on the stick and felt the aircraft smooth, the wheels were clear. He tapped the handle, the gear pulled up into its streamlined housings and he rolled the aircraft east and climbed into cloudless Cyan sky.
The red warning light wasn’t apparent until seven minutes into the flight. Grizzley had been lost in thought as the plane climbed. When he did notice it, he cursed his haste and lack of procedure. He knew better. God Dammit, why didn’t he take 30 seconds more to walk the aircraft? Koboda had rattled him! Chills raced up his spine, a cold realization that Koboda could have somehow sabotaged his flight back to Petersen pervaded his consciousness.
Underneath the plane, a corner of the satchel was jammed between the bay doors. The 340-knot wind buffeted the exposed portion. As it rattled, the doors flexed. Grizzley had no way of knowing why the doors didn’t latch, only that the panel warning light was telling him they hadn’t.
He glanced at the altimeter: through 16,000 feet, high enough to get over Red Mountain Pass, yet sixteen minutes to Petersen. There was no excess drag or vibration in the plane when it rotated. Koboda had no reason to want him dead.
The monotone ‘beep, beep, beep’ was audible a scant four minutes later, even through the Colonel’s helmet. A second red light flashed incessantly. “Sonuvabitch,” he yelled, “damn doors are open.” The wind howled up through the plane’s innards.
Grizzley could just barely hear a faint thudding noise coming from below as the dull roar of wind rushed over the canopy. “Awwww, holy shit!” he shouted, slamming his gloved fist against his knee, “that Goddamn satchel is the problem! One end of it must’ve dropped when I started the engines. Koboda said the handles were twisted around a hardpoint, now it’s banging around.” He flipped the ‘Bay Doors’ switch several times without a response. Must have shorted the electrical. If those doors don’t close, the wind is going to rip that satchel apart. My money is going to shower the Rocky Mountains. I’m going to lose all my cash!
Grizzley’s mind raced, how am I going to get out of this? Can’t return to Koboda’s strip, only enough fuel to make Petersen; coming up on the halfway point at fourteen minutes out. Can’t land with the bay doors open. Damn! I was in too big a hurry. He cursed at himself repeatedly. My half a million is causing all kinds of havoc!