“You and Matt are glossing over a major problem,” Brutran says as she preps her daughter, who looks excited at the prospect of jumping out of the plane. “You’re assuming the jets will line up behind us, in classic attack mode. Remember, these guys have been briefed. They’ll know you and Matt are to be treated with extreme care. They might fire on us as soon as they come into range, which could be any second. Their missiles can hit us from thirty miles out.”
“Matt feels they’ll want to eyeball us before firing,” I say. “Also, if they fire too early, our radar will alert us, which will give us a good chance of bailing out. Matt doesn’t think they’ll risk that. That’s why he’s pretty sure they’ll come in close and go for a kill shot.”
“Why don’t we wait and see if they’ll let us surrender?” Seymour asks. “If they do, then you and Matt can overpower them.”
“That ain’t going to happen,” I say.
Seymour looks miserable. He glances out the cabin’s windows. “I hate heights,” he mutters.
Matt and I have guessed right. Minutes later the twin jets come into view, but they make no effort to contact us by radio, nor do they fly up beside our cockpit and wave us down. Instead, they take up a position behind us, two hundred meters away. I have my parachute on but am still doing a last-minute check on Seymour’s equipment. I worry he hasn’t fastened all the necessary buckles. He can’t stop trembling.
“I wish you were coming with us,” he says.
“I’ll see you on the ground, don’t worry,” I say as I finish checking his chute. I stride toward the side door, which is located near the front of the main cabin. The door has a locking mechanism that prevents it from opening in midair, and I have to call out to Matt to override it. Just before I yank it open, I give the others final instructions.
“We’ve dropped to eight thousand feet, so oxygen isn’t going to be a problem. But we’re cruising at two hundred miles an hour. The instant I open this door, it’s going to feel like a hurricane in here. Grab on to something solid and hold on tight. After I jump, wait half a minute, then follow me out the door. I want to give them time to react to the fact that I’m hanging on to one of their wings. But don’t wait any longer than that. They can shoot us down at any moment. Understood?”
“How do we find you once we’re down?” Brutran asks.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find you,” I say as I grab the door handle. “Is everyone ready?”
They nod and I rifle open the door, using my strength to jam it so it won’t close. The roar from the wind is deafening. Jolie cringes and buries her face in her mother’s chest. Brutran looks determined but Seymour is pale as a ghost. Still, I’m confident they’ll be able to weather the storm. Leaning over, holding on to the edge of the door, I peek outside.
We’re inside the cloud bank. Giant cumulus clouds surrounding us on all sides. Nevertheless, the jets—two F-16s—are clearly visible behind us, their tail engines glowing a fiery red.
I know the planes. The F-16s are equipped with four Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles each. The Sidewinder dates back to the 1950s, but is so reliable it’s been repeatedly upgraded instead of replaced. I can’t tell by looking at the weapons if they’ve been armed. However, the missiles are still firmly locked in place, which reassures me that we have time.
The jet on my right—as I face toward the rear of our Gulfstream—already looks like my best bet. It’s separated from its companion by only thirty yards, and it’s directly behind us. Unfortunately, it keeps bobbing up and down. One moment it’s a few feet above us, the next below. I assume the pilot is fighting the turbulence created by our own engines. Whatever, it makes the timing of my leap more difficult. I only have one chance, and if I miss the jet wing, Matt will die.
The F-16 suddenly stabilizes at our height.
Spreading my arms wide, I jump out of the plane.
The fighter jet rushes toward me at insane speed. Even my well-tempered vampiric senses and muscles have to strain to compensate. It’s only in the last instant that I’m able to pivot in midair and place my feet behind me, toward the jet. A millisecond later I feel the tips of my toes inside my shoes scrape along the top of the jet wing. Immediately I thrust my arms down and grab. I don’t care what I grab, just as long as I make contact and don’t let go.
Luck favors me. I catch the front of the jet’s wing.
And hang on. God, the wind is a monster. I feel like Dorothy riding a tornado into the sky. Only I know there’s no enchanted land waiting for me at the end of this day. I’ll be fortunate to disable the F-16 and escape in one piece.
The pressure on my fingers is immense. I feel as if my grip is actually tearing into the metal. My eyes sting from the impact of ice crystals inside the clouds. It might be summer at sea level but it’s cold at this altitude.
I’m above the wing, the missiles are below, the cockpit is to my right and forward. I felt the plane swerve when I grabbed hold of it but the pilot has compensated for the drag of my weight and the impact my dangling body is having on the aerodynamic flow of air around the jet. The guy is good but I can see him glancing anxiously in my direction while talking excitedly into his mask.
I’m every pilot’s nightmare—the mythical gremlin who suddenly appears on their wing in the middle of a lightning storm. Yet, except for a few clouds, it is midday over a peaceful green landscape, and I have long blond hair instead of horns.
However, I’m much more dangerous than a gremlin.
The pilot knows that. He’s been warned.
He suddenly yanks his jet through a 360-degree spin, almost catching me off guard. I tighten my grip so hard I hear the metal screech. My chest and hips briefly fly off the wing just before they smack back down like an angry fist. He tips the nose up, slams it down, and again my entire body strikes the wing. I’m amazed I’m able to hold on.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Seymour, Brutran, and Jolie leap from the Gulfstream. Both pilots in both jets are so preoccupied with me I doubt they notice them escaping. My friends quickly vanish into the clouds, their rip cords untouched.
Time, that’s my problem right now. I’ve created a distraction for the others, but both pilots can still fire their missiles any second, and when they do, the Gulfstream will be incinerated. I know what Matt told me, to rip off the cockpit canopy and force the pilot to eject, and let him worry about the other plane. But the more I think about his plan, the less I like it. If I attack my pilot, his partner’s going to get pissed and retaliate, and Matt’s not going to get a chance to show off his fancy ramming skills. A Sidewinder will strike his right wing and that will be it—game over, his plane will explode.