structure made of clay that served as the airport terminal. After months indoors, being out in the fresh air was bliss. There was no breeze, and the dry heat had sweat pricking under the scrubs. I reveled in it all. I was alive.
I heard the big C-17 Globemaster III before I saw the little dot in the sky approaching from the north. It was a big ship to come pick up little old me, as it was usually used to carry over 100 soldiers or up to 160,000 lbs. of cargo. I go about 260.
The pilot had a task ahead of him, landing that big bird on the tiny runway that was more accustomed to a Piper Cub than a military transport. They dipped their wings and soared in a wide circle, gauging if they could land at all. The pilot finally grew a pair and swung back, taking the big bird down on a hard touchdown just as close to the start of the runway as was safe. The engines whined painfully as the reverse thrusters struggled to peel speed, the brakes adding to the squeal as the tires left rubber in long black strips across the tarmac. The C-17 turned around and raced across the runway to the opposite end, rotating so it faced the wind for takeoff. We drove right up to the big bird as they turned her on the far end of the strip, intending to take off without staying longer than it took me to get on the plane.
Moe pulled up to the Globemaster’s ramp, swinging wide to avoid the jet wash and came to an abrupt stop, his face averted.
“At least say goodbye, you bastard,” I said.
He shook his head; a small, hitched sob was his only reply. I got out of the car and walked up to the welcome committee, which included a cadre of armored guards spilling from the ramp, along with two supers I instantly recognized. One was Warspite, a young newcomer, and favorite with the magazines for his fancy blue and yellow costume and handsome face. He wore goggles and his beach blonde hair danced with the heavy winds brought up by the engines. The other was Obliterate, a sword wielding dude with heavy medieval-styled armor and a whole undead warrior motif going. Two red pinpricks denoted his cold eyes on me from behind the view slit of the elaborate bucket helm, which was engraved with an ornate pattern of roses intertwined with vines.
Moe got out of the car, coming up behind me, wiping his face on his shirt.
“You Blackjack?” one of the guards said. He alone from the others wore no helmet to protect his baldhead. He had a hard face and cold, distant eyes.
I nodded.
“I’m Darren Hendley, Commander of ISDF, and I’ll be transporting you today,” he said, reaching for a pair of power suppressing manacles that hung at his belt. “You’re now officially under arrest under the Wattley and Meyer Acts. You have no Miranda rights, do you understand?”
I nodded.
“I’m authorized to take you to the Super Containment Unit at Florence ADMAX facility. You understand?”
I nodded.
“Let me see those arms then,” he said.
“Hang on one motherfucking second,” Moe said, interposing himself between the warden and me. His eyes were red and swollen from the tears, and coupled with his size, he looked terrifying. “No shackles, you hear me?”
Hendley took a step back to avoid Moe’s bulk, and while none of the soldiers raised their weapons, I saw that Obliterate was squared, little wisps of red fire burning through the slit visor. Warspite hovered an inch off the ground and his face was tight with concentration.
“I have my orders…” the commander paused.
“Name’s Moe,” Moe said, more upset than I’ve ever seen him in my life. “You can take my friend here, but you can shove those fucking shackles up your ass and if I see them again, ain’t none of these bitches gonna like the shit I come up with. You know what I’m saying?”
Hendley smiled and raised one shoulder in a weird shrug, “I understand, Mr.…Moe,” he said, clipping the manacles back to his belt. “As long as our friend here behaves we won’t need them.”
I
I heard the big C-17 Globemaster III before I saw the little dot in the sky approaching from the north. It was a big ship to come pick up little old me, as it was usually used to carry over 100 soldiers or up to 160,000 lbs. of cargo. I go about 260.
The pilot had a task ahead of him, landing that big bird on the tiny runway that was more accustomed to a Piper Cub than a military transport. They dipped their wings and soared in a wide circle, gauging if they could land at all. The pilot finally grew a pair and swung back, taking the big bird down on a hard touchdown just as close to the start of the runway as was safe. The engines whined painfully as the reverse thrusters struggled to peel speed, the brakes adding to the squeal as the tires left rubber in long black strips across the tarmac. The C-17 turned around and raced across the runway to the opposite end, rotating so it faced the wind for takeoff. We drove right up to the big bird as they turned her on the far end of the strip, intending to take off without staying longer than it took me to get on the plane.
Moe pulled up to the Globemaster’s ramp, swinging wide to avoid the jet wash and came to an abrupt stop, his face averted.
“At least say goodbye, you bastard,” I said.
He shook his head; a small, hitched sob was his only reply. I got out of the car and walked up to the welcome committee, which included a cadre of armored guards spilling from the ramp, along with two supers I instantly recognized. One was Warspite, a young newcomer, and favorite with the magazines for his fancy blue and yellow costume and handsome face. He wore goggles and his beach blonde hair danced with the heavy winds brought up by the engines. The other was Obliterate, a sword wielding dude with heavy medieval-styled armor and a whole undead warrior motif going. Two red pinpricks denoted his cold eyes on me from behind the view slit of the elaborate bucket helm, which was engraved with an ornate pattern of roses intertwined with vines.
Moe got out of the car, coming up behind me, wiping his face on his shirt.
“You Blackjack?” one of the guards said. He alone from the others wore no helmet to protect his baldhead. He had a hard face and cold, distant eyes.
I nodded.
“I’m Darren Hendley, Commander of ISDF, and I’ll be transporting you today,” he said, reaching for a pair of power suppressing manacles that hung at his belt. “You’re now officially under arrest under the Wattley and Meyer Acts. You have no Miranda rights, do you understand?”
I nodded.
“I’m authorized to take you to the Super Containment Unit at Florence ADMAX facility. You understand?”
I nodded.
“Let me see those arms then,” he said.
“Hang on one motherfucking second,” Moe said, interposing himself between the warden and me. His eyes were red and swollen from the tears, and coupled with his size, he looked terrifying. “No shackles, you hear me?”
Hendley took a step back to avoid Moe’s bulk, and while none of the soldiers raised their weapons, I saw that Obliterate was squared, little wisps of red fire burning through the slit visor. Warspite hovered an inch off the ground and his face was tight with concentration.
“I have my orders…” the commander paused.
“Name’s Moe,” Moe said, more upset than I’ve ever seen him in my life. “You can take my friend here, but you can shove those fucking shackles up your ass and if I see them again, ain’t none of these bitches gonna like the shit I come up with. You know what I’m saying?”
Hendley smiled and raised one shoulder in a weird shrug, “I understand, Mr.…Moe,” he said, clipping the manacles back to his belt. “As long as our friend here behaves we won’t need them.”
I
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