A New World 10 - Storm (22 page)

“So, we bring an aircraft loaded with supplies, and you’ll see to the beginning of the fuel supply?”

“That’s essentially it. There’s a lot more to it than that, but we may be able to get a load down before winter sets in,” Vince says.

“That’s great news. Our priorities would be diesel and jet fuel. We have some vehicles running on bio-fuels, but we haven’t changed any generators over as yet.”

“We’ll have to see about that jet fuel once we get to the Scotsford refinery, but diesel shouldn’t be a problem. Like I said, it will be getting the train on the right track, so to speak.”

“We’ll contact you when we can fly up with the supplies, then. It’s been a pleasure, Vince.”

The radio equipment is set up and tested. Vince arranges for the others at the aircraft to be transported in. Montore briefs the soldiers, telling them that they will fall under Vince’s command and that they’ll be notified if we find out anything regarding their families. With the sun setting early, we join some of the others in town for a meal, and after hours of hearty conversation, we retire into hotel rooms.

I don’t sleep well. With darkness fully upon the land, I feel anxious about sleeping in a hotel room with no barricades or fortifications. I jump at every noise, thinking night runners are out hunting. It’s disconcerting and I remember Greg telling of his experience with the people at Lamar, how he felt sleeping in similar circumstances, but how relaxed and at ease the townspeople were. I heard him, but didn’t fully understand what he meant until this moment. I could get used to this, although it would take some time for the nervousness to disappear. If only Harold can figure out how to get the satellite operational. The bunker enters my mind and how it might provide for a feeling of peace. Perhaps it is time for us to move.

In the morning, we leave the soldiers behind with a supply of weapons and ammo. The trip has been a good one, and resulted in a lot more than I expected. If it all works out, we may have a fuel source that will extend our ability to freely move about. We may even be able establish a form of manufacturing in the long term. That is, if we are able to survive that long. This could be a giant step forward. Of course, that very thing worries me. So far, with each advance that we’ve made, something comes along to set us back. That seems to be the nature of things these days.

With Montore and Red and Echo Teams in the back, we get ready for takeoff. I notice Robert glancing periodically between the windsock blowing in a stiff wind and the city lying in the distance.

“So, how can you tell about wind shear without any other clues? I can’t see the smoke from here,” Robert states.

My story and the turbulence coming down final yesterday must have had a telling effect on him. While it’s something to keep in mind, it’s not something that should be an overriding factor and I can only hope that I didn’t scare him too much. Hopefully it’s just something that he’s adding to his bag of tricks. The only real thing anyone can do if it’s encountered is to ride it out and hope there is enough altitude to recover. In the past, I had weather reports that showed the winds aloft and the facilities had warning indicators to show dramatic changes in wind direction or speed. Now, although we have great navigation instruments and computers, we’re mostly down to crossing our fingers.

“It’s rare for bad wind shears to occur. They’re mostly prevalent when thunderstorms are in the area, although they do happen at other times. If the aircraft starts sinking from a loss of lift like that, the instinct is to pull back. But you have to treat it like a stall, which it essentially is; you have to push forward to get air flowing back across the wings,” I answer.

Airborne, we make a pass over the city and rock our wings, saying goodbye to Vince and those with him. Turning south, I watch as the city slides past our wings and disappears behind.

I radio Cabela’s to let them know of the town’s decision. Bannerman will send out crews to the southern distribution center to begin gathering supplies and storing them for when we’ll be able to return. As we’ll just be delivering a load of supplies, we won’t need much in terms of a break in the weather. Given the flight time, we could be in and out in a day, even though the hours of daylight up north are short…and getting even more so.

The flight down to Colorado Springs is a much longer one and will take us almost four and a half hours. Given our early morning departure, we may be able to scout the area and get to the caves without having to stay the night. According to Greg’s story, unlike both Lamar and Fort McMurray, there are numerous night runners hunting the streets during the night. It’s definitely a place to be behind fortified walls during the hours of darkness.

Once we level off, I hand the controls over to Robert and head into the back to go over a plan of action with Greg. He’s been there, observed everything first hand, and managed to sneak into the cave system. We gather on the crew chief’s bunk and spread out a map.

“So, what do you think?” I ask.

“That depends. Are you thinking about just observing the facility, taking the Stryker up and knocking on the front door, or are we going inside?” Greg responds.

“Well, I’m guessing some will be out and about during the day. If we had the Spooky, we could track them as they leave and take them out that way. But we don’t, so that leaves that option a no-go,” I say. “And we wouldn’t know if we got them all. If we approached with the Stryker, they’d just go underground.”

“Jack, that kind of only leaves the option of going inside, unless you plan to observe from a distance,” Greg says. “Now, if I were a betting man, I’d give the odds that you’re only planning to scout at near zero.”

“You would have done well in Vegas,” I reply.

“What about Lynn? You told her that you were only going to take a look,” Greg comments.

“We are scouting, I was merely thinking that we’d do that from inside,” I respond.

“You walk a very fine line.”

“I know. It’s not easy being me,” I say, smiling.

“Not easy being you? I would more say it’s not easy being with you. I feel sorry for Lynn and wonder why she hasn’t long ago run screaming into the woods. I don’t understand why she’s still with your sorry ass.”

“I don’t either, my friend.”

“Okay, well, given that we’re going inside, and believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more than to take those sick fuckers out, I say we do it the same way I did before. We park behind the opposing ridge, traversing the same route,” Greg says, pointing out the side roads. “If we are landing at Petersen AFB, we’ll have to swing south in order to pick up the back roads and trails. It will take some time to get there in order not to raise a dust cloud. Once parked, we scramble down into the ravine separating the ridge lines, work along its path, and then climb up to the caves. I’m sure they haven’t figured out how we entered, so the way should still be doable.”

“Do you think we’ll have enough time?” I query.

“With the mountains to the west, it gets dark early. It depends on what we encounter; and by that, I mean how long we stay inside. If things go well, we should be able to make it into the caves and back to the Stryker with the amount of daylight available,” Greg answers.

“We’ll have to set a bingo time, then. No matter what we find, we’ll have to begin our exit when that arrives. You’ll have to be our guide once we’re underway. Do you think we should take both teams?”

“I think that would be overkill within the cave system. Most of the routes are narrow and too many people would just make more noise. I think we’d be as effective inside with one team as we would with two,” Greg says.

“Okay. We’ll take Echo Team, as they’re up to strength. Robert and Bri aren’t going in, as they’ll be needed to fly you out if something were to happen to me. The question remains though, do we keep Red Team with the aircraft or with the Stryker?”

“That’s your call.”

“Well, although the odds are against it, but it would really suck if we came back and the Stryker was gone. That would leave us outside with night runners coming for a snack. If those people are still leaving care packages, all of the night runners in the area will be converging. I believe Petersen AFB has a few 130s, although I don’t know if they’re flyable. We’ll take everyone but leave Montore and Red Team with the Stryker,” I say. “How about the distance? It looks far enough away that we should be able to get in without being noticed, but you’ve been there.”

“I think it’s far enough away that we shouldn’t be heard. But, if someone were in the right spot on the ridge, we could be seen. And, if they’re out scavenging closer to the base, then it would be a definite thing,” he answers.

I nod, and folding the map, head back into the cockpit. Bri looks bored as she stares out of the windows. Robert has the 130 on autopilot and is gazing outside as well. We’re basically following the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains. Most of the landscape we’ve flown over is wilderness, devoid of any populated centers. As we traverse south, the forests turn into high plateau grasslands. Crossing the Canadian border, the only green to be seen is on the mountain slopes and along streams. Montana is a patchwork of brown agricultural fields that turn into the barren hills that make up a lot of Wyoming.

The city of Cheyenne appears off our nose and we begin our descent into Petersen AFB without having heard from anyone during our periodic radio calls. As we fly over the city, it’s difficult to distinguish between the metropolis and the surrounding terrain. Wind has blown a significant amount of dirt from the outlying fields into the town, piling huge drifts against the buildings and covering most of the streets. In some areas, there are humps on the sides of the roads that I can only assume are buried vehicles.

I’m in a bit of a quandary about our approach. The base sits astride the southeastern edge of the city and I would like to circle the airfield and surrounding areas. However, that will give the people inhabiting the caves more of a chance to see or hear us. If I just come in and land, we won’t know what lies around us. I make a quick call to Harold to see if he has any recent images, but he informs me that the satellites are tasked elsewhere. I’ll either have to go in blind or risk the chance of announcing our arrival.

With the large city of Denver passing to the right, I make a turn to the southeast and drop lower. Brown rectangles of farmland pass quickly beneath as I bring the 130 down to two hundred feet, relying on the radar altimeter to keep our height. It’s easy to become comfortable at low level, to the point that it seems like the aircraft is higher, which can result in an altitude just a few feet above ground level.

Directly east of the airfield, I bank and turn west. The small fenced-in area of Schriever AFB passes to the right. Directly ahead is a tall embankment of ravines that carry rainwater from the higher plateau. I pull up on the controls, climbing with the rising terrain; quickly pushing over once we clear the ridge and level off one hundred feet above the ground. Glancing to the side, I notice both Robert and Bri lifting their feet slightly, as if they’re afraid of scraping their soles.

The plateau we’ve climbed up and are flying over is fairly flat with a couple of runoff areas having carved gullies into the surface. The only problem with flying this low is that we can’t see very far. I have the airfield coordinates plugged into the nav computer and am relying on the instruments to guide us to the runways.

Two miles out, I retard the throttles and let the aircraft slow, trimming as the airspeed diminishes. A mile out, Robert lowers the flaps and drops the gear, setting us up in a landing configuration. I see the runway and line us up, descending on a final approach as we get closer. Like most of the other runways we’ve landed on, dirt covers much of the paved surface. I drop us in with little panache and coast down the runway, not wanting to use our reverse thrust in order to keep the noise down. At the end, I turn off and taxi in, parking next to several other 130s sitting silently on the ramp.

As we shut down, I think back to the last time we were here, rescuing Sergeant Mullins and his group of soldiers. That was an evening I’d rather not repeat…like, ever! I remember racing through the base with night runners on my heels, attempting to draw them off so Lynn and the others could get back to the aircraft. The memory surfaces of rounding a hangar only to find the 130 surrounded by the hunters, drawing them off and racing across the ramp. Then, of all things, Lynn’s message that they couldn’t get the door open. I thought I was done for that night.

Staring across the dirt-covered ramp, as the propellers wind down to a stop, it certainly looks a lot different in the day. Nothing seems familiar.

We stay in the aircraft for several minutes, waiting for someone to show, for vehicles to appear or a rising dust trail in the distance. There is nothing but our propellers turning slowly in the wind. The sky is clear, with the front that was over the northwest having pushed farther east. I’ll get an update from Harold before we depart, but we don’t really have the time to fuck around now. Although the sun hasn’t yet reached its zenith, we still have a lot of slow traveling to accomplish, and the mountains looming to the west will bring an early darkness.

Offloading the Stryker, we button up the aircraft and head south out of the airfield. With Greg’s guidance, we cross a river and make our way across the dusty, dry ranges on the southern edges of Fort Carson. As advertised, we proceed slowly; but the rains that must have passed through allow us to travel quicker than Greg had the last time he was here.

As we travel right up against the bottom of the steeply rising ridgelines, I notice that Greg has a faraway stare.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. I was thinking about those people we rescued…and then didn’t. That soldier had just found his sister, who we pulled off one of the crosses just in time, only to meet their deaths a couple of days later. It really doesn’t seem fair, that’s all,” Greg responds.

“No, it’s not, Greg. Nothing about any of this has been fair. But, look at it a little differently. You saved those people from a horrible death, and that death was an assured thing. You gave them freedom, even if it was only for a short period of time. If it was my time to go, I would want it being free, not torn apart by night runners while tied to a cross in the middle of the night. The terror alone, hearing them approaching, would have to be the worst way to go. And I’m sorry about my earlier crass comment about them being care packages. That wasn’t cool. Sometimes, I talk without thinking,” I reply, patting his shoulder.

“I guess so, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I can’t stop thinking of how they must have felt. Their relief at being freed, only to be thrown into something equally as dangerous just hours later. Somehow, that makes it worse. They trusted me.”

“Responsibility sucks. But you already know that. Seriously, even though being chased must have been scary, you saved them from something much worse and I’m sure they felt nothing but gratitude. Even though the end was the same, you spared them unimaginable terror and pain. I mean, put yourself in their place. How would you feel?” I ask.

“I suppose it would be the better of two evils, and deep down, I’m sure I would feel a measure of thanks. Still, knowing that doesn’t ease the helplessness I felt, or the sorrow I still feel,” Greg says.

“I’d be worried if you didn’t, my friend. It never gets any easier.”

An hour later, we are driving along a trail that’s barely wide enough for the armored vehicle. We’re traveling in a ravine of sorts with a high ridgeline rising on the right, a steep embankment on the other side, with scrub brushes and stunted trees lining the dirt path. Nearing the end of the ridge, Greg brings the Stryker to a halt.

“Just past those trees,” Greg says, pointing, “is the large expressway where we found the crosses. The route we’ll have to take crosses the highway and the visibility opens up substantially. I suggest we check it out on foot and wave the Stryker across if it’s clear.”

“Can we be seen from the caves?” I ask.

“No. There’s a ridgeline that blocks any sight of this location from there. But, if anyone is traveling along the road, we won’t be hard to miss,” he replies.

“All right. You stay here. I’ll take Red Team and scout it out,” I say.

“I’d like to go with you,” Greg comments.

“No, you are the only one who knows the area and the caves.”

“Jack, if we’re seen, no one is getting into the caves anyway,” Greg says.

“Okay, good point. You, Red Team, and I will go. Montore is in charge,” I state.

“All of Red Team?” Bri asks.

“No, you and Robert will remain with the vehicle,” I answer.

Her expression shows her disappointment for a moment before she nods.

Gathering those going to check on the road, we drop the ramp and exit. At this altitude, the air is chilled. The sun, only a little past its highest point, is streaming its light almost straight down, casting only small shadows. Gravel and dirt crunch under our boots as we round the trees and catch a glimpse of the wide highway.

As with many other places, grit covers the surface of the road, piling higher in some places. There are striations through the dirt where rainwater coursed down the sloped highway. On the shoulder of the road, heavy timbers formed in the shape of crosses describe a semi-circle. Underneath, mounds of dirt have formed.