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293 lines
6.6 KiB
Text
293 lines
6.6 KiB
Text
.LP
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.ce
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.ps 16
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.CW
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CRASH ORIGIN
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.R
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.ps 8
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.CW
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tags: 1987, piro, tab1, tab2
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.R
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.ps 10
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.br
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.ce
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.ps 10
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.B 1
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Le Bourget, Paris, 1987.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Mid\-morning. Overcast. Thomas and Piotr are threading through a
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crowd of spectators.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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"Sunscreen check," announces Piotr.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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"But the sun's not even out," complains Thomas.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Piotr shoots him a look. "Safety first. Next, comfort."
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Thomas produces a small tube of sunscreen from his pocket and
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proceeds to apply it evenly across his nose and cheeks.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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"Satisfied?" he asks.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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"Never," Piotr replies, "But I'm close to spectacular."
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Thomas observes the slight distance between them, then bumps
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shoulders with his twin brother.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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"Not in the field," Thomas says, his thoughts apparently moving
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towards evening.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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My son is never prepared for anything. This is intersubjectively
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testable. Try surprising him. You'll find him unprepared. Example: Send
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a number of military jets crashing into the ground. You'll find he can
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think of no response. Piotr is always pulling clean\-up duty.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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This has been the steady pattern, played out over two decades.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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The boy has now turned thirty. The peak of his operational powers.
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Still, he does nothing. Sits there and trades one\-liners with his
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partner. No return on investment. My reports frequently exaggerate his
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exploits.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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After all, this all comes out of my budget.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Sunlight cracks the clouds as the first plane careens into the
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pavement. I steer a brightly painted Mig\-29 into the crowd,
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accidentally clipping a building in the process. Debris pelts the
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bystanders below. Probably, eighty or ninety dead. Thomas and Piotr are
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a few hundred yards off, but they enjoy a clear line of sight to the
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carnage.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Thomas' response?
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Bewilderment, at first. My son stands transfixed. He fingers his
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visor, instinctively, but evinces no other reaction. Not even a change
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in his facial expression.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Piotr suffers no such paralysis. He shifts contexts with ease,
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drawing his side\-arm and sweeping the corridor overhead. When no new
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danger presents itself, he looks towards Tommy.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Priorities.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I bring in the next two planes simultaneously. A pair of old
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RF\-4Es. Piotr's side\-arm is quite naturally useless against the two
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masses traveling at such a velocity. For his part, Thomas remains
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riveted to his spot. Even if his visor is malfunctioning, there is
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still the sound, the smoke from multiple impacts that has surely
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reached his nostrils. Why doesn't he react?
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Piotr grasps him by the back of the shirt and hurls him behind a
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high wall as flames envelop the vacant space beside them.
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.ce
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.ps 10
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.B 2
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.PP
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.ps 10
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This is not how I expected it to happen.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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At the same time, it very much conforms to my vision of the
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destruction. Even if the alarm is ringing six years late.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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The planes are falling.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Piro is yanking on my shirt, we're diving behind a building. There
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are flames.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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That first plane was Soviet. Seems to be a multilateral engagement.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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The logical result of
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.I
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Glasnost?
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.R
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Of course, I'm not harmed. I'm invulnerable. Class 100 strength.
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Flight.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Piotr's photographic reflexes aren't much use against
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disintegrating architecture, but he has a knack for getting out of the
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way of large objects.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I punch my way through the wall and barrel face first through the
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smoke. Bodies are splayed everywhere. Horrific smells. Some dead
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children.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I lift some older citizens away from the fires, then report back to
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Piotr.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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"Something's not right about this, boss."
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Piotr's eyes are focused on some distant point. By the gentle arc
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of his stare I deduce he is tracking a moving object.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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"RIIIIIIIIIGHT FACE!" he cries. Instinctively, I spin ninety
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degrees to my right, just in time for Piotr to give me a hard shove.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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He's shot me in the back.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I go down.
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.ce
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.ps 10
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.B 3
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.PP
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.ps 10
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He's impossible.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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At least he's toppled over. That one almost got us.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I give him a hand and then dust off his back. I guess I've ruined
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his shirt.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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He seems to think it's funny, so we're good.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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A lot of activity in the sky, now. Some planes are starting to land
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instead of just crashing into the ground. Notably, a Blackbird and what
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appears to be an F\-117A. Strange that the latter should be out and
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about during the day. And at a foreign air show, no less. Officially,
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the plane doesn't even exist.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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A number of jeeps escort the two planes off the runway. A hangar is
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opened up and the parade disappears behind closed doors.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I motion to Thomas and he confirms.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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We need to investigate.
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.br
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.ce
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.ps 10
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.B 4
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.PP
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.ps 10
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What the hell are they doing?
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Thomas and Piotr are inside the hanger. I lost them for a moment
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but then I caught site of my son's ridiculous spiked hair.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I move a few sentries into an adjacent corridor.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Then the boys turn left.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Suddenly, I flash on an idea.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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The boys still haven't made their way out of the administrative
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offices. There is time to move the planes out the other side of the
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hangar. When they finally break through, the hangar will be empty. It's
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simple sleight of hand.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Obviously, nothing could ever be that easy.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Piotr picks up on the sounds of activity and they're faster
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breaching the main corridor than I had anticipated.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I make an executive decision to light up the whole building. The
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Air Force will have to take the loss. These men knew what they were
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signing up for.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I console myself that this will look great on television.
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Especially with the Soviet plane coming down first.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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All in all, not a total loss.
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.ce
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.ps 10
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.B 5
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.PP
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.ps 10
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When the explosions kick in I know for sure that my father is
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involved.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I hoist Piotr by his backpack and punch a hole through the roof.
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We're well above the fray by the time the building collapses. Piotr
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takes potshots at the scrambling jeeps.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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The sky seems alive with fighter jets, all converging on our
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position.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I fly faster.
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.ce
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.ps 10
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.B 6
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I'm shouting curses in Thomas' ear but at this speed he can't hear
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me. I know he can survive in a vacuum but I hope he remembers I've no
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protection against the cold. In the hopes of surviving our escape, I
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snatch the respirator from my backpack and stick it on my nose. The sky
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is growing dark.
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.ce
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.ps 10
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.B 7
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.PP
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.ps 10
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My son is an idiot.
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