Chapter 40 The Mile High Club

Lost in the thick fabric of black Artic Parker's, Grey and Robinson huddled on a metal bench outside Nuuk International Airport.

The wind whipped, seeking any exposed skin. Their scarves, pulled high, did little to shield their faces from the biting cold.

Robinson, brought a steaming cup of coffee to his chapped lips, blowing on the surface to dissipate the heat.

"Which terminal again?" Robinson muttered.

"Can't we wait inside like people with sense?"

"North gate, 10:30 sharp," Grey replied calmly.

"What else did he say, exactly?"

Grey exhaled, a puff of white vapor watching it vanish into the air.

"Gulag is coming, apparently."

Robinson pulled his hat lower, shifting around nervously, hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

"What if he sees us?" Robinson tensed.

"Trust me, he doesn't forget faces."

"Asp knows the risks. He'll contact us when it's safe," Grey assured him.

"We have to trust his expertise."

"Safe?" Robinson scoffed.

"Have you lost it? Asp and Gulag wouldn't know 'safe'! if it came up and bit em' in the arse!”

"Just stay calm," Grey said, "and keep your wits about you."

Robinson raised his polystyrene cup, momentarily seeking out any sort of solace in the hot liquid. The coffee did little to warm his mood though.

As if summoned, Grey's phone buzzed with a message - "Get ready. We are en route with Gulag!"

He nodded at Robinson."It's Asp," he said, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

"He says, 'Get ready!'"

"Get ready for what exactly?" Robinson's concern mounted.

"First class? Drinks with Gulag? Our execution?"

"I don't know about the executive part, but yeah.

Things are about to get intense, alright!" Grey said.

"How reassuring!" Robinson moaned, tossing the empty cup onto the frozen ground with a frustrated grunt.

A bus pulled up to the curb; its doors opening, revealing a group of travelers dressed just like themselves in thick coats.

“Here's our chance,” Grey said, grabbing his pack.

“Let’s move.”

They hurried from the bench, weaving with the flow of travelers streaming toward the terminal entrance.

The Northgate departure terminal was unlike the bustling airports they were accustomed to.

A solitary runway stretched out before them, visible through the expansive windows of the observation gallery.

Due to Nuuk's remote location, limited air traffic jetted through, apart from a few smaller charter flights. A couple of shops and a lone kiosk stood forlornly, emphasizing the isolation of the far-flung outpost.

"It's not exactly the most stealthiest of places to avoid Gulag without being detected. Is it?" Robinson pointed out.

Their only saving grace was the group of protesters who had already surged inside, their faces flushed with anger, decrying Gulag's regime in a public protest.

Grey looked around, taking in the chaos and uncertainty surrounding them.

Cameras snapped with the hurried scribbling of reporters.

Chants of "Gulag out! Gulag is a donkey!" resonated through the small terminal.

On one of the slogan boards, a crudely drawn picture of Gulag depicted him with a donkey's face, his eyes crossed, and his tongue lolling out.

"What now?" Robinson asked.

"We wait. And hope for the best!"

A moment later, a muffled announcement over the antanoy called for boarding. Dozens of passengers from the bus began to circumnavigate, jostling away from the throng of protesters.

"Robinson, blend in with me," Grey called out.

"We haven't got any passports!"

"Who said anything about flying? Just do it anyway!"

They tagged along with the travelers, going with the flow. Grey looked at the placards going by, understanding Gulag's real identity for the first time.

He had only seen the disguised footage from the race day tragedy up until now.

"He's not the most savory of looking characters, is he?" Grey stated to Robinson.

"You should try spending some time with him; he grows on you like a fungal infection that you just can't shake off."

**********

A motorcade of black SUVs slammed to a halt outside the North Terminal. Uncle, Petrov, Gulag, and their entourage emerged, surrounded instantly by clamoring protesters and flashing cameras.

"Murderer! Tyrant!" they chanted, brandishing graphic signs depicting Gulag's atrocities.

A line of Wang's and Pushkin's foot soldiers formed a barrier between the group and the mob.

Gulag haughtily surveyed the unrest with cautious eyes, rage simmered beneath the surface like a volcano poised to erupt.

Vander the attaché blurted into Gulag's ear.

"Now would be a good time to start repairing relations with your people, sir?"

"These insects are below me," Gulag replied dismissively.

"Just a soundbite, sir, remember the lines we rehearsed." Vander insisted.

"You wanted to clean up your image. Now is the perfect opportunity!"

"Mindfulness, compassion, blah! bla! bla!"

"Think how far you have come with your therapy sessions, sir!"

"Very well, then," Gulag grumbled.

Gulag straightened his coat and stepped forward to address the crowd. With an encouraging thumbs up from Vander.

"My fellow citizens, since arriving in your beautiful country."

Gulag beat his hand into his chest triumphantly.

"My heart has grown Greenlandic just like yours! Together we beat as one."

Boos and screams drowned out his platitudes.

"You killed my family!" a woman cried, clenching against the soldiers' grasp. Her voice trembled with grief.

Gulag's breath hitched in his throat as a man burst through the security perimeter, brandishing a firearm with a wild look in his eyes.

"You butchered my children," he bellowed, his voice echoing with raw pain and fury.

Without missing a beat, Asp retaliated, his weapon discharging with a deafening crack.

The bullet found its mark, silencing the assailant mid-scream with a swift and lethal shot to the chest

The man flopped to the ground, his lifeless body swiftly dragged behind the membrane of Gulag's security detail.

With a smirk, Gulag watched the feeble assassination attempt conclude.

"Dante, locate any surviving relatives among the protesters," Gulag instructed.

"The local inhabitants have really taken to Gulag's charms," Petrov laughed.

"Wouldn't you say, Uncle?"

"Wang has had discussions about repurposing Gulag into a less public role," Uncle replied.

A reporter broke through, thrusting out her mic, Gulag noticed fine tremors in her grip, revealing cracks in her bravado.

"Mr. President, how do you respond to allegations of human rights abuses?"

Gulag's eyes flashed dangerously, but he kept his composure.

"These allegations against me are a false narrative spun by the media."

"Do you have a message for the people, Mr. President?"

"Yes, I have a message for the people."

Gulag faced the camera with the stature of a statesman head-on.

"I tell them. I understand your concerns. Our world is in a phase of transition, serving the new world order, but I only seek to protect Greenlandic interests.

Follow me, and together, we will forge a brighter future!"

"Mr. President…"

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an important summit to attend regarding our nation's security.”

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He shoved past the press and entered the terminal, escorts herding the protesters back.

"How was that for a soundbite Vander?"

"Very good, sir"

"Vander?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Have these meddlesome fools rounded up to my laboratory for testing purposes."

"Very good, sir. I will make the arrangements immediately," Vander said.

"Do you want them kept alive for your return from California?"

"Human rights abuses!" Uttered Gulag under his breath, still miffed.

In the entourage's wake, the press lady's face turned a whiter shade of pale. Her cameramen were escorted away, their cameras confiscated, their footage erased.

Then she was tossed in the back of a white van to be driven to Gulag's headquarters with the crew.

Inside, more crowds swarmed, brandishing banners depicting Gulag with a donkey's face.

"Asp, get me through this line of bullshit," Gulag ordered.

"It would be my pleasure, Gulag," Asp replied.

Grey and Robinson watched from the sidelines, their hats pulled low, just covering their sunglasses. Uncle and Petrov drifted off; they knew what was coming.

Asp nodded covertly at Dante. "You fancy a punch-up."

Dante cracked his knuckles. "Oh, baby, do I ever."

In a shot, Asp and Dante sauntered into the mix, shoving roughly past protesters.

Fists began to fly as the Bloodies waded in, augmenting the chaos.

Wang's and Pushkin's soldiers got stuck in as well, struggling to comprehend the Danish insults flying back at them, but they were a tenacious bunch. Pushing and shoving escalated into an all-out brawl.

Asp clattered with a stonking left hook. "Have some of this!" said Asp.

Dante was bobbing and weaving with a wicked smile, taunting his opponents.

"Sir! I urge you to get out of here immediately." Vander said.

"The situation is getting out of control."

"Don't worry Vander, the Bloodies need a good runout," Gulag replied, watching the placards fall to the ground.

Asp and Dante met in the middle of the fray and began sparring with each other just for kicks while firing off loose haymakers at any Greenlandic bystanders who dared to come too close.

"Now we can truly see who's the better fighter," Asp declared confidently.

Dante eyed Grey and Robinson, skirting out by a metal pylon next to the executive lounge.

"Should we not be focusing our efforts on getting Grey and Robinson on the plane?

They are over there," Dante questioned, with a showcase of flurrying jabs.

Asp dove and ducked, duking out a few specialist moves of his own, acknowledging Grey's and Robinsion's poor disguises.

"We will call it a draw for now and settle this later," Asp said.

"Go through while I hold the fort."

"I will hold you to that!"

Dante Thai elbowed his way through, darting across the terminal, the riot raged in earnest, protesters and footsoldiers wrestling on the floor in a chaotic frenzy. Chairs and signs were thrown.

Asp broke out of the fracas, materializing beside Grey and Robinson.

"The lounge," Asp grunted, gesturing. "Hurry before it's locked down.”

"Where are we going to hide?" Robinson asked.

"Action now; talk later. Just do it," Asp replied, urging them to follow him without hesitation.

Asp led them, slipping inside the executive lounge, using his gun as an ID through passport control.

The bus travelers cowered within, seeing armed men just before boarding.

Dante was leaning against the wall casually, grinning savagely amid the pandemonium he'd ignited.

"Dante, get them on the plane now!"

"Plane, where are we going?" Grey asked curiously.

"California!?" said Dante.

"No time for chit-chat, ladies," Asp said impatiently.

"Time to board before Gulag gets the same idea!"

Dante ushered Grey and Robinson towards the boarding gate; promptly, they were out onto Nuuk's International Airport single runway under an Artic Sun.

A Gulfstream 500 was poised on the Apsalt while it was being refueled, its twin turbofan engines humming.

The jet had a new paint job with the new softer logo for 'The Gulag', a striking shade of blue reflecting the suggestions from Gulag's image consultants.

Dante intercepted one of the luggage handlers, a burly man with a perpetually harried expression.

The luggage handler removed his ear protectors.

"What do you want? We are behind schedule here," he said in a thick Danish accent.

"Grey, Robinson, come here!" Dante shouted

"These gentlemen are President Gulag's unofficial secret service escorts."

The handler's eyes widened slightly at the mention of Gulag's name. Officials, or unofficials, had never bothered to talk to the luggage handlers before.

"How can I help?"

"They will be traveling in the luggage hold, on this leg to California."

He nodded in understanding, gesturing toward a conveyor system leading into the cargo hold.

"Step onto the conveyor," he instructed.

Grey and Robinson gave one another a hesitant look. The conveyor system looked antiquated, its rusty frame and creaking gears hinting at a history of neglect.

"It's okay," Dante said. "Jump on then, before Gulag arrives."

With resignation, Grey and Robinson stepped on. The machine lurched to life, carrying them slowly upwards into the depths of the cargo hold like a couple of pieces of tuna at 'Yo Suchi'.

Robinson struggled to be heard over the roar of the twin turbofan engines.

"This is madness; they're going to dump us for the sharks!" Robinson exclaimed frantically.

Grey clutched a support rail trying to keep his balance on the diagonal conveyor.

"Try to stay calm. I'm sure Asp has a plan."

"A plan to kill us?" Robinson retorted, eyes wild with fear.

"You know as well as I do he doesn't give a shit what happens to us."

"I think they are planning to kill Gulag midflight," Grey shouted.

"No! You are going to kill Gulag midflight," Robinson shouted even louder.

"That is what you wasted all our royal loot on, remember!"

Grey was getting fed up with Robinson's constant complaints. He wished Turner was with him.

"You have done nothing but moan since we left London!"

"No wonder. You've paid for our death sentence."

Grey and Robinson shielded their faces from the gusts of hot air blasting down from above.

Once they were trapped inside the gaping belly of the plane, the pair were almost in complete darkness, save for the emergency strip lights.

Meshed Metal racks lined on one side, laden with luggage, equipment cases, and supply crates strapped down for takeoff.

Heavy fumes from motor oil and jet fuel clung to every surface, burning their senses.

They wedged themselves in. A pair of startled eyes stared back at them, meowing trapped inside a pet carrier: Gulag's Norwegian Forest cat.

"At least we were not the only ones stuck in here," Grey said.

By now, airport security had volleyed out tear gas and arrested the protesters inside the terminal, much to Gulag's delight.

Now the entourage could move unimpeded in the executive lounge.

Inside, inviting couches and polished surfaces gleamed under ambient lighting. Gold-trimmed drink cabinets lined the walls, stocked with elixirs.

"Oh, my goodness," raved Petrov.

A line of blond bombshell air hostesses in tight red uniforms greeted them with warm smiles and offers of champagne.

Petrov grinned lasciviously, edging toward one.

"Hello, darling, What is your name, my dear?"

"Ivy," she replied.

"Save it!" Uncle snapped. "We've got a flight to catch."

"Ivy, I need your assistance?"

"I am more than happy to assist you, sir."

Petrov's lecherous eyes followed the buxom contours of her tight uniform.

"I have never been a member of the Mile High Club before."

"Petrov! Please," said Gulag.

"As you may well know my hostesses are under my territory. You do not have the authority to seduce them without my say-so."

"What's the point of being in the position of power without picking up a groupie here or there?

In the Russian Federation, I am seen as something of a virile bear with young female cadets," Petrov boasted.

Uncle checked his gold watch, a gift from Wang, frowning at the time.

"That's enough fraternizing. We've a summit to reach. Wang awaits, and his patience grows thin!"

"A few minutes won't hurt," said Petrov, eyeing another flight attendant. bending over, blatantly admiring her form.

She straightened and flashed him an awkward smile.

Gulag poured himself a snifter of brandy.

"We all know how...insistent Wang can be about punctuality. But a few minutes rest wouldn't go amiss."

He took a slow sip, savoring the aroma.

Dante arrived, scoping out the executive lounge. His eyes hovered over Ivy briefly before checking in with Asp and the Bloodies.

"The jet's ready when you are."

Gulag finished off his drink, thumping the tumbler down on the coaster.

"Then let's be off. Vander, you will administrate my office for the next two weeks."

"Yes, sir, it will be in safe hands."

Right before they all departed, Petrov called over his shoulder to Ivy.

"Until next time, my tempting minx!"

With the entourage departed Ivy sighed in relief once they finally got on the plane. She Checked out Vander straightening his suit jacket.

"You're kinda cute. What's your name?" she asked with a smile.

"Vander. I am the acting president," he replied smoothly, returning her smile.

"My shift's over. Wanna show me around your office?" Her invitation was met with a charming nod.

"I think that can be arranged." Together, they left the airport behind.

**********

Grey clutched desperately at the metal racks in a dizzying world of disorientation, barely maintaining his grip as the plane accelerated down the runway.

Every bump and vibration from the uneven tarmac shook their bodies. Heavy g-forces pressed down on them, forcing the air from their lungs.

Gulag's cat tumbled away, hitting the wall with a loud thud.

The smell of jet fuel and burned rubber from the brakes and tires mingled with the faint odor of hydraulic fluid.

Electrical components rattled and sparked, and cold air blasted from the vents.

Just when Grey and Robinson couldn't withstand another moment of deafening turbulence, the aircraft's vibrations leveled slightly as the landing gear retracted.

They were battered, and airborne now, though Grey wasn't sure what secrets and dangers awaited them in sunny California.

Robinson wondered if this flight would end in his salvation or death beneath unfamiliar skies.

Within the Gulfstream's passenger cabin, the entourage's takeoff had been a more elegant affair so far.

Dark leather seats enveloped them in sensuous luxury. Ambient mood lighting bathed the white acoustic foam, providing a subtle warmth.

Gulag's, long fingers curled around a crystalline glass of champagne. Lost in thought, he no doubt schemed his next maneuvers with Wang and Pushkin.

Lounging opposite him, Petrov incessantly ogle-eyed the flight attendants.

"Can I get you a drink, sir?" one of the flight attendants asked.

"How about you come and sit on my knee and join me for a drink?" Petrov replied with a sleazy grin.

"I'm afraid I have duties to attend to for the flight," she said politely but firmly.

Petrov grabbed her arm.

"Don't be cold, darling. One drink, that's all I ask."

She pulled free. "I must decline. Now if you'll excuse me..."

She hurried away, her breath quickening at the dangerous look in his eyes.

"You'll come around," Petrov called with a leer.

Uncle stared out at the icy landscape streaming by in a gray blur below.

Beyond, the sun lit wispy clouds with a pale glow like cold fire at the world's edge.

Although Uncle was physically present, his mind was elsewhere, watching the assassins congregate with their guns at the back of the plane.

Roasted black coffee passed his lips, served by one of the pretty flight attendants.

A difficult conversation awaited - he must address Lo Chen's disappearance and rumors of Grey's death with Asp and the Bloodies.