American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 143 Evacuation from the Sky

Beta tapped his fingers on the list.

Operations on highways require special arrangements. A fully loaded semi-trailer is essential, serving as both a roadblock and a ramming weapon; in addition, a heavy truck serves as a backup ramming unit.

But when he saw the "evacuation plan," he paused for a moment.

“A helicopter?” Beta looked up at Sterling. “Are you sure?”

He looked around: "Who here knows how to operate that thing?"

"Me!" Fulton jumped up from his seat, knocking the chair over with a loud thud.

He gave an exaggerated military salute, his dirty vest stained with breakfast sauce: "Former Canadian Air Force helicopter pilot, Fulton Phillips, reporting for duty!"

Sterling adjusted his glasses: "I did serve in the Canadian Air Force from 1989 to 1993. Although the reason for my discharge was, uh, a failed mental health assessment."

Fulton immediately began imitating the sound of a helicopter rotor, running in circles around the conference room, swinging his arms up and down: "Whoosh—rumble—"

Beta glanced at Fulton, whose face was flushed, and then at the record on Sterling's screen that he had been grounded for attempting to perform aerobatic maneuvers with a transport helicopter. Suddenly, he felt that he was completely out of place with this group of people.

“Okay.” Beta took a deep breath and looked at Fulton: “Given the closed nature of the highway, it is indeed easy for the police to surround us after the operation. Ground evacuation is a dead end.”

“But helicopters?” Beta’s voice carried a hint of absurdity. “Those things aren’t like the hydrogen balloons sold in supermarkets.”

His gaze swept over Sterling: "Where to get it? How to transport it? Where to park it?"

Sterling casually pushed up his glasses: "Las Heima Aviation Leasing Company."

He pulled out a color-printed brochure from the folder: "We offer short-term helicopter sightseeing rental services."

The promotional material shows an Airbus H130 parked on the tarmac.

Beta took the brochure featuring a helicopter: "So, how do we convince that unfortunate pilot to land the helicopter on a highway amidst gunfire?"

Sterling said, "Why should we persuade them?"

His finger lightly tapped the brochure: "Have Fulton rent it under the guise of 'sightseeing.' Wait for the rental company to fill up the tank and complete the routine checks."

"Bang!" Fulton executed an over-the-shoulder throw: "Throw that kid out of the cabin!"

He danced with excitement, spreading his arms as if to fly: "And then—whoosh! Captain Fulton at your service!"

Foldi clutched his forehead in anguish: "My God, we're going to be riddled with bullets."

McCree silently took out his cigarette case, found it was empty, and sighed.

The mute man stroked his chin thoughtfully: "Remember to check the fuel gauge, don't do what happened last time when they stole the yacht..."

Beta rubbed his forehead, staring at the brochure. From a safety standpoint, a helicopter was the best evacuation option.

Highways are relatively closed environments, and Beta was targeting a police convoy. After the shootout with the convoy, the police would rush to provide support along the highway as quickly as possible.

At that point, it will be almost impossible to escape by driving off the roadside, because highway entrances and exits are fixed.

There are no side roads, no shortcuts; every entrance and exit will be blocked by police roadblocks. At that point, even if they were in a rocket, they would be trapped inside.

Beta put the brochure back on the desktop: "Then it's settled."

The room suddenly came alive. Foldy grabbed his car keys and whistled, "I'll take care of that semi-trailer; Old John's repair shop owes me a favor."

McCree stood up and threw the empty cigarette pack into the trash can: "I'm going to get a heavy truck."

Only Fulton was still immersed in his role as a pilot, using Sterling's folder as a joystick and making "buzzing" engine noises.

Beta's gaze swept across the noisy room and landed on the mute man in the corner.

“What a fucking madman.” Beta’s voice was soft; this was his assessment of the entire plan.

"See you tomorrow, you lunatics." Beta turned and walked toward the door.
-
The London night was glistening from the rain, and a black Land Rover Discovery was parked under a streetlamp.

The engine's deep hum was particularly clear on the quiet street, and the white mist spewing from the exhaust was quickly swallowed up by the humid air.

The supervisor lowered the car window a third of the way, and the distinctive salty and pungent smell of the Thames immediately rushed in, mingling with the aroma of leather and tobacco inside the car.

"See you tomorrow," he said. "Be at headquarters before seven. I'll take you to Heathrow; the person you chose will be waiting for you in the VIP area."

Medvedeva tightened the collar of her trench coat, raindrops forming tiny beads on the ends of her brown-gold hair. She nodded: "Okay, be careful on your way back."

The manager smiled, a few fine lines appearing at the corners of his eyes: "In London, I'm safer than the Queen."

Medvedeva chuckled softly, her high heels clicking on the wet cobblestones. Her shadow, stretched long by the streetlights, was cast obliquely against the Victorian brick wall.

"See you tomorrow." Her voice drifted away in the rain-laden night breeze.

"See you tomorrow." The supervisor pressed a button, and the bulletproof glass rose up, completely isolating the outside world.

Medvedeva's fingertips touched the brass handle of the apartment door, and her skin felt the coolness of the metal.

The moment she pushed open the door, her muscle memory acted faster than her brain; her right hand reached into her handbag and gripped the handle of the Glock 17. The instant the lights came on, the muzzle was already steadily pointing towards the sofa.

"Fuck! Jackal?" Her voice held a hint of surprise.

Alexander Dugan, the "jackal" in the files of intelligence agencies around the world, is currently slumped in her sofa.

He crossed his legs, the creases of his custom-made trousers perfectly folded. Hearing the noise, he merely raised his head slightly, his grey-blue eyes taking on an almost transparent quality under the light, calmly fixed on the muzzle of the gun.

“I prefer you call me Alexander. In return, I’ll call you Medva. After all, we’re colleagues now,” the jackal said softly.

Medvedeva's index finger was still on the trigger guard: "How did you get in?"

The jackal picked up a bone china coffee cup from the coffee table, the bottom of the cup making a crisp clinking sound on the glass surface: "It's very simple."

He took a sip: "Walking in."

Medvedeva's gaze quickly swept across every corner of the living room, and only after confirming that there were no other intruders did she put the Glock back into her handbag: "What are you doing here?"

"The higher-ups think we need to improve our understanding." Jackal put down his cup, the remaining coffee at the bottom leaving a dark brown trail on the cup's surface. "Details about the mission for this trip to America."

Medvedeva unbuttoned her trench coat, water droplets falling from the hem onto the teak floor: "You use this method?"

The jackal smiled and said, "I've been very gentlemanly."

He stood up, his height creating a sense of oppression throughout the space: "At least they came in by unlocking the door, not by breaking in through a window."

(End of this chapter)