Brad was pouring with sweat as he swung the plane wildly from side to side, trying desperately to avoid the gunfire of his pursuer. This was one heavy trip. Thirty thousand feet beneath Brad and the russian ace, the man they called Sky Creamer was starting his engines.


“Just hold on”, the voice on Brad’s intercom kept repeating.


“This is what happens when you Bogart a joint”, he thought, remembering how this had all begun..




“Oh Brad, you’re such a spunk!”, he heard Miriam call up at him as he scaled the fence. At the top he swung his legs over and jumped down onto the concrete. The guards on duty at the base paid his group little mind anymore; they’d been camped out here protesting for nearly a fortnight. Even so, Brad had sent Chuck round to distract the guards, saying he was having second thoughts about being a Flower Child and considering a career in the military.   


The idea had come to Brad about two minutes previously, deep within the lethargic soup of a J-buzz. It was the last of his stash, so he’d smoked the whole number to himself and gotten ripped-city. 

“We need to take the fight to them!” He’d shouted, springing to his feet, pointing wildly at the control tower. “We need to infiltrate!” 


Though now he had, he was unsure how to proceed. 


He glanced around, still stoned to the bone. The big radars were spinning, a jeep rolled across the runway, a platoon of troops were training at the far end of the base; it was pretty quiet. He saw a row of parked jets; the cockpits were open and ladders were propped up against them. Seeing his pulpit, he crouched low and made a dash for them. 


Brad raced up a ladder, climbed into a cockpit and stood on the pilot’s seat. He waved at his cheering friends on the other side of the fence. Feeling as righteous as he ever had, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted at the troops, “Brothers! Throw down your arms, the enemy of love is hatred!” 

Everyone turned sharply to look at him. A sudden nausea gripped him, as the troops immediately arranged themselves into an attack formation and pointed their guns at his chest. 


“H-Hey man, mellow!” he called, holding his hands above his head, his buzz rapidly turning into a full blown freakout. “Mellow!” 


He was beginning to see what an error it had been to break into a high security military base and get into a plane’s cockpit, when a shot rang out. Brad heard the faint hiss of a bullet cutting through the nearby air and hit the deck, slamming his knees into his chest. As he landed in the foetal position the heel of his boot smashed into the controls on the dashboard. The plane shuddered beneath him, lights blinking, engines powering on, first at a gentle rumble, then a roar. He looked up, wide-eyed, and saw the cockpit hatch lower. As the plane lunged forwards he was thrown against the back of the chair. The troops opened fire; he heard the clang of the bullets hitting the metal fuselage outside, but it soon died down. He lifted his head to glance back out of the cockpit and saw the troops were already in the distance, sprinting and fanning out in his direction. He sat up in time to see the fuel tanks looming in front of the speeding plane, and instinctively grabbed the control stick, pulling it hard backwards. The plane shot up into the air.


“Oh shit!” he shouted as the ground plummeted below him. 


To be continued. TK