The Pilot
A/N: Not a continuation of the pre-MI3 series (that might come later). Even more awkward tense changes than the last chapter, but this one is supposed to be a drunk guy's ramblings, so I'm not going to apologize this time, lol. It's not a bug; it's a feature!
Sometimes we pilots get called on the weirdest missions, you know?
I mean, listen. I probably shouldn't tell you this—classified, whatever, someone'd have my hide—but you won't tell anyone, will you? You probably won't even remember this in the morning. I might not remember this in the morning. But, dude. This was really weird.
So I'm on the carrier, right? And orders come through for transport—all normal, it seems. They tell me there's a passenger needs pick-up from—well, I won't say where. Not that drunk, yet. But this passenger needs to be hauled out of there. Okay, I think, no problem, just tell me who and where. But that's when it gets weird, man, weird. No one seems to know who this guy is, why he's—well, there—or even where I'll be taking him next. And, get this—it's not some airbase I'm picking him up at, not even some civvy airstrip. It's a lonely bit of highway in the middle of nowhere! Dude's apparently gonna radio me when it's all clear, and I'm just gonna…land. It's, like, totally off-books, off-everything. I woulda thought they were pulling my leg but…well, you know what Johnson is like. I don't think he'd know a joke if it bit him…
Anyway, so I take the Greyhound out to this random set of coordinates. I couldn't even tell you what they were if I wanted to. I get in radio contact with the dude—still with no idea who this guy is—and land on this random road. I'm way too curious at this point, so I pull rank—I know, I know—and make Jim man the cockpit while I hop out to make contact with the guy.
First thing I notice—there's a busted-up car, and maybe a motorbike, too, crashed into the trees at the side of the road. It's smoking ominously, and, well, it distracted me a bit, so I didn't notice all the bodies as soon as I should have. Yeah, bodies, I'm telling you—at least, oh, four dudes—they were in the car, maybe? All dragged into a pile on the side of the road. Dude must've done it—bloodstains showed they had been in the road, but I guess he was clearing it for me to land the plane.
Anyway, you know, noticing all this takes, like, three seconds. The more important thing was the dude, and—well, I dunno. Probably shouldn't tell you too much, man…
Oh, all right. You won't tell anyone. And I need to tell someone, 'cause I've never seen anyone so…so…
I dunno. He was wearing, well…I guess it doesn't matter, does it? But it was a tux. Like, full white tie and tails. It was weird, man. I hop out of the plane, skirt the bodies and smoking car, and see this guy in white tie with a Beretta in one and his radio in the other. It was like…James Bond, or something. He drops the radio and—get this—smashes it as I walk over toward him. He narrows his eyes at me—like Johnson on a bad day, but worse, way worse. There's dirt and blood all over his face, and…
I've seen things, man, but this guy's eyes…
I wouldn't want to get on his bad side, let's just leave it at that.
So I'm not sure what to do, right? They never told me who this guy is. Do I salute? Shake his hand? I could—the Beretta was in his left, though no less competently held, let me tell you. Eventually, I just sort of say, "Sir!" and stand there waiting for orders. I didn't know anything else about him, but this guy was obviously used to giving orders.
He was giving me this sort of assessing look, when suddenly he raised the Beretta and fired three shots into the woods by the smoking car without even looking that direction. I think I almost jumped out of my skin, because who expects that? But there was a howl of pain and the sound of someone falling, so one of the car guys must have survived, or something. He was dead now, though. But, get this—Dude didn't even go check. He never even glanced that direction. Just gave me this intense glare—I stiffened and saluted. It was instinctual, even though I'm pretty sure this guy's not, well, in the normal chain of command, if you know what I mean. But all he said was "let's go" and I was totally on board with that. He followed me into the plane, stuck the Beretta in his waistband, and said, "Airborne, please, now." Jim gave me this totally bewildered look, but I just got us off the ground as soon as possible. I wasn't gonna argue.
I take off, with the guy hovering over my shoulder. He may have holstered the Beretta, but believe me, I wasn't gonna be the one to tell this guy to strap in, and Jim didn't seem too keen on it, either. We get airborne, and I ask him where we're going—'cause, you know, no one told me. He says—well, I won't tell you where, again, but at least it's a real airstrip this time. Jim sorts out our course and gives him an ETA, and the guy just sort of nods, and wanders back into the passenger seating.
We don't hear any more from him for a bit, and—well, I got curious. Sue me. I made Jim take over and went back to see how the guy's doing. And, well, you're not going to believe this. He'd taken off his jacket and shirt, and he was sewing up this gash on his belly, like, giving himself stitches. I totally hadn't seen the blood before—must have been covered by his cummerbund, as stupid as that sounds—but there was actually a lot of it, and more on the floor, because he'd dug into our water bottle stash to clean up the wound. It was pretty gruesome, really. I don't even wanna know where he got the sutures.
What'd I do? What do you think I did? Dude, it was so dumb—I asked if he was okay. Really! There's this guy, sewing himself together in the back of my plane, barely even wincing, and I say, "Are you okay?" like, I dunno, Winston—you remember Winston?—had tripped over his locker again back at North Island. And he looks up, smiles this smile at me that belongs on like, some magazine cover, and says, "Fine, thanks"! Perfectly calmly, like he doesn't have a needle in his hand, dripping blood all over my plane! It was surreal, man.
Anyway, I totally just stand there watching him finish stitching himself up. I make some off-hand comment like, I hope he's going to a hospital as soon as we land? And he just hums, and tells me not to worry about it? Once he's finished, I ask him if he's hungry, and he says, no, mostly tired, so I say, get some sleep, I'll wake you when we get there. And he says, thanks? And smiles at me again, then seems to just, like, pass out in one of the seats? I go back to the cockpit, 'cause what else can I do? He wants to sleep? Let him sleep!
So eventually we get where we're going, and he wakes up on his own as we start descent, before I can send Jim back to do it. By the time I land, the guy has put his tux back together, all the bloody stains on his shirt hidden again. He shakes Jim's and my hands, gets off the plane like he doesn't have a sewn-up gash on his belly, and is picked up by some black Jeep with tinted windows. Then, well, Jim and I fly back to the carrier, because what else were we supposed to do? But—and, I tell you, this was the icing on this whole cake—no one debriefed us! It was, like, the entire carrier and been told to forget the whole thing! We landed the Greyhound, and that was the end of it. Never learned anything more; never told anyone, not Johnson, nobody—except you, now—what even happened. If Jim hadn't been there, I swear I would think I dreamed the whole thing.
But…listen, man. You're not gonna tell anyone, right? I dunno who that guy was. But I've never been so glad in my life to be working with someone, not against him. Whoever he was…well, I guess it doesn't matter. But I'm sure glad he's on our side.