well, it ain't made the cover of popular mechanics.
what about travis, the others?
we're fucked, that's what. cahill suddenly panics.
rat. forward baggage compartment. got something.
almost missed it. reading was less than one part in two million.
let's do it. using a hand-powered drill, rat carefully drills a tiny hole into the case. he attaches a fiber-optic probe, peering through the eyepiece. he looks up.
way out of my league. rat studies the interior again, thinks a moment and then keys his mike.
who gets to fuck with the mousetrap? they're stumped on this one. grant speaks up.
i'm in position, mid-cabin. they're all over the place. i can take two, maybe three. i'm good, but i ain't that good. we need another gun.
charlie. ready to blow the ceiling.
then i say we go out slingin' some lead. get some fuckin' payback.
shit, man, they're gonna blow us out of the sky. at least we can have the pleasure of doin' these bastards before we all buy it. hell, we might even get lucky. rat looks at the men, confused as to what the next plan of attack should be, realizing he has nothing left to offer. he's out of ideas, sinking into the utter hope- lessness of their situation. he looks at grant, who stares at the floor, deep in thought.
and how do we find this sleeper?
can you get a hit on him?
no chance. blocked by the seats, passengers all around him.
here's how it goes: soon as you hit the sleeper, it's lights out and we go. we're on infra-red. the plane's system will kick the lights back on in six seconds, that's all the surprise we've got. make it count.