Foreign Nationals of Unusual Importance

by Dave Bryant

Transit

A haze-gray four-engine behemoth crouched before me on the windswept apron’s heavy-duty concrete. The racket surrounding it—and me—was appalling, the mingled odors hardly less so. Turbines shrieked and blew clouds of JP-8 smoke. Diesels rumbled and belched fumes. Caterpillar tracks squealed and friction-heated landing gear smelled of rubber and oil. People shouted and sweated.

Men and women in baggy BDUs labored busily around and inside the gigantic airplane, appearing and disappearing as they exited or entered on the cargo ramps under the tip-up nose and high-rise T-tail. Another line of people stretched from me to a side hatch, most but not all of them in green as well. One fatigues-clad individual strolled back along the queue in which I stood, consulting a clipboard and occasionally stopping to exchange a few high-decibel words with one or another line-stander. Finally he reached me. “Mister Cookie Pusher?” he confirmed loudly.

I nodded and held up the plastic pass-card bearing my name and photo. Like everyone else I’d kept it in my pocket rather than around my neck on its lanyard; the gusts from nature and turbofans made it annoying if not dangerous to do otherwise. The fellow nodded back and checked off my name on his list. “Okay, they’ve loaded your ULD already, so you’re all set there. Enjoy the flight.” Then he moved on.

With a wry grin I shook my head. It wasn’t exactly white-glove treatment, but then the military tends to be aggressively utilitarian except when performing ceremonial theater. I couldn’t begrudge them that important element of corporate identity; being able to hitch a ride for free was well worth the eccentricity.

Few people realize that space on Air Force transport flights is available to government employees on a standby basis. Most of it is gobbled up by military personnel and their dependents, but civilian professionals—especially commissioned officers like me—can wangle seats if their timing is right. Mine was.

My possessions were another matter. Knowing I might have to pack up and move halfway around the world if and when I received an assignment offer, I’d lived a minimalist lifestyle. Even so, and even after returning rented furniture, hastily disposing of excess belongings, and suchlike, what remained was enough to fill a unit load device, a standardized container for air transport. One of the unexpected fringe benefits of the assignment I actually got was permission to send the ULD through the same standby program, a much less common perq. O frabjous day, it even found a spot on the same flight I was taking. I couldn’t help wondering if a certain permanent undersecretary’s hand was behind the fortuitous coincidence.

When I finally reached it, the passenger compartment proved unique, positioned as it was above the cargo deck between the wing box and the tail—and facing backward, something civilian operators refuse to do despite the (minor, granted) improvement in safety. A ladderway from below was the only routine access, and windows were sparse, which along with a ceiling arched slightly fore and aft, as well as greatly side to side, gave the space a cavelike ambience. Fixtures were functional but bare-bones and not exactly squeaky-clean, like a budget bush airline on the edge of bankruptcy. Ah well.

I found my assigned seat and squeezed into it past a burly sergeant and a woman I presumed to be his wife. A nod and perfunctory smile were all the social pleasantries needed or apparently desired. I sat, stuffed the messenger bag serving me as carry-on luggage under my seat, leaned back, and closed my eyes. It would be a long flight.

Once the marathon session in Secure Docs provided the background I needed, Pin Stripes herself had given me the details on my mission the assignment offer couldn’t divulge. As I’d surmised, I was to establish and maintain long-term contact with Sunset Shimmer and the circle of friends in whose care she’d been left by a mysterious pursuer from the other side of the portal. I didn’t have to breathe down their necks, unless the situation turned out to be very different than current information indicated, but I did have to keep tabs on them.

I’d known better than to ask any of the hundred and one questions that leaped to mind during the surprisingly brief . . . brief Pin Stripes gave me. After all, part of my job would be to answer them, both for myself and for the powers that be. I’d contented myself with a mental note to write out a list on my secured notebook computer when I had the chance. My frantic preparations to relocate hadn’t left much time for it, and for obvious reasons I couldn’t work on classified material during the flight. I was too keyed up to try reading or playing games, and more queries multiplied like yeast in my distracted mind. My sigh was lost under the howl of engines spooling up.

Just as I finally managed to drift into an uneasy doze at thirty thousand feet, I recalled the undersecretary’s final words before sending me on my way. “One last thing, Cook. Usual warnings about clientitis go double—or triple—for something like this. Don’t forget that.”

“Yes ma’am.” It was difficult enough under normal circumstances to avoid the tendency as time passed to start over-identifying with a host country, bending over backward to defend its actions or give it the benefit of the doubt. Dealing with a gaggle of lively teenage girls, most of them fellow citizens, would make resisting a drift toward clientitis all the harder.

It was a beautiful city. The surrounding low rugged mountains were two-toned gemlike green with pine forest and meadows. The modest but ambitious downtown reached for the heavens near one edge of the valley; suburbs fanned out from it across the floor, with small farms and other open-space properties in a belt around three-quarters of the basin’s perimeter. Surprisingly for a city of its moderate size, no major freeways or airports served it directly, which was why I rode in a government-issue black SUV with a garrulous driver who eagerly extolled the virtues of the region and described points of interest as we passed. “Camp Everfree’s off that way. Nice place, but the rumor is the owners are having money trouble. Sure hope they manage to pull through.”

The occasional noncommittal noise of acknowledgement seemed sufficient to keep the fellow going, but I only half-listened; the rest of my attention was on the bundle of brochures, reports, and other documents pulled from the bulging manila envelope hurriedly thrust into my hands before this final leg. Some of it was tourist fodder, puffery but still important for giving a general impression. Other items were more substantial, including lists of neighborhoods and the businesses serving them. I was fortunate enough to have a small rental flat awaiting me in a downtown apartment building, not far from a government-leased office building, thanks to General Services. Still, finding my way around a new and strange town would take time and effort, and it didn’t seem too soon for a start on that task.

I looked up again as the highway started its final descent out of the pass and the hills fell away to reveal the expected, but still spectacular, panorama of the vale below. There certainly were worse places I could have been assigned.

“Here you go, sir, and welcome to our fair city!” The overly chipper business-suited assistant manager, with a bright smile pasted on her rose-tinted face, dangled a ring of keys from thumb and forefinger. “Can I help you with anything else?”

I gave her a tired smile, more so than I really felt—though that certainly was bad enough—and let her drop the jingling ring onto my cupped palm. “Thank you, no. Right now all I want to do is fall face-first into bed. It’s been a long trip, and jet lag is setting in.”

“Oh! Well, I understand. Remember you can always call the concierge if you need anything we can provide. Have a good day!”

I nodded, reciprocated her wish, and took my leave. The paperwork had been less onerous than I feared but more than I hoped, and while I really didn’t need to go so far as a nap, a nice sprawl on the couch would feel good.

The third-floor furnished studio was gratifyingly pleasant. From long habit I favored simple, open plans, part of my minimalist leanings; this one was well-designed and moderately large for its type, giving it a surprisingly expansive feel. The furnishings were basic and modernist, albeit sturdy and reasonably comfortable. If they looked a trifle worn, I could live with that. The place wasn’t cheap, but I drew a decent salary, and this would be less expensive than a larger dwelling while serving my needs adequately. Moreover, I was willing to trade off some of the savings for a smaller place to get added amenities like concierge services.

The ULD’s contents would be following on in the morning, so I had an afternoon and evening to myself. First on the agenda was that sprawl I was looking forward to, then maybe dinner at a nearby restaurant, since I had no groceries yet. The evening was soon enough to work on that list of questions I’d promised myself.

Author's Note:

I’m not sure if the space-available transport program works exactly the way I’ve outlined, but hey, it’s a fictional country, right? Also, few people seem to realize that “perq” is short for “perquisite”.
   The city description is based on the Web site created to go along with the summer 2017 Equestria Girls videos, both the trio of episode-length stories and their accompanying musical shorts. I suspect it’s modeled loosely on Vancouver, but moved some distance inland.
   Ten trivia points to anyone who can identify the aircraft!
   Chronological order: pre-contact 2 (overall 2)

Comments

[Rill]

C-5 Galaxy?

[Dave Bryant]

8204684
Correct!

[FanOfMostEverything]

Interesting achronic ordering. The story's sort of playing catchup with itself, but in a very enjoyable way. It also continues to prove educational in areas I'd barely even considered until now.

[Dave Bryant]

8206328
The disordered presentation initially was accidental; I debated whether to reorder the chapters chronologically, but after some thought, decided I like the effect. The story’s chronology may settle out as it progresses, but since I’m writing by the seat of the pants, anything’s possible. In any case, the next segment, at least, will return to Cook’s dealings with the girls.
A major theme in Cook’s storyline is how much bigger the world has to be than the tiny fragment of it we see in the franchise, and how the latter would have to fit into the former; Amphorae also touches on this motif, albeit to a lesser degree. One way to convey a sense of this vast, complex world beyond is to spotlight a variety of unusual details, the more far-flung and contrasting the better—such as using a fictionalized version of the US military’s standby ridesharing program rather than sending Cook on a boring, everyday commercial or charter flight.
If I bring new information and ideas to readers while I’m at it, I consider that a welcome and wonderful bonus!

[Condray]

If I hadn't seen it in another comment I'd have guessed a C-17 over a C-5...mostly since it wasn't broken!

[Dave Bryant]

9451072
The C-17 Globemaster III has no dedicated passenger section, as far as I can tell from cutaway drawings and interior photos. Also, judging from my own reading on both aircraft, each was troubled and required years to straighten out properly—which seems to be par for the course in any military development program—so in fairness I couldn’t characterize either as more broken than the other.