A New World: Reckoning (6 page)

“Driver, off the road, now! Head northwest,” Greg shouts.

Slowing only a touch, the Stryker turns. Pulled from their focus on the boy, all heads turn toward Greg. Concentrating on the situation, Greg ignores the looks of anxiety, telling them that an armored column is on the road ahead.

Their only escape is to make for the hills. If they can gain the terrain which lies to the northwest, land which will invalidate the use of armor, they may stand a minimal chance on foot. He’ll worry about where they’ll go afterward, but right now, they have to extricate themselves from the killing ground they’ve stumbled into. Greg should have guessed the other force would come against them like this. In the back of his mind, he thought this might be a possibility once he determined the others had the use of airborne surveillance. He just hoped he could outrun it.

The Stryker jostles as it races across undulations in the land. On this section of the plateau, there isn’t a single bush to hide behind. Their only chance is to keep their speed up and, with the angle of their flight, hope that will throw the gunner’s aim off. A thunderous roar lifts the Stryker, canting it sideways and throwing everyone inside against each other. It settles back with a hard bounce. The wheels grip the soft soil and the armored vehicle surges forward once again.

“Fuck!” Greg hears through the ringing in his ears.

He wants to see what the shout was about, but the dire situation they are in commands his full attention. Greg looks for a gully or some large crease in the terrain which will give them a measure of cover. There’s nothing he can see in the immediate area. Their only hope is what appears to be a drop off in the distance.

Another near miss rocks the Stryker. This is followed immediately by a loud clang which throws the heavy vehicle to the side. Violently tossed against the interior wall, Greg feels like his ears are bleeding from the concussive blast. Stunned, he retains enough consciousness to know the vehicle is still mobile.

Another blast crashes into the side, slewing the Stryker. As the vehicle slams back down, Greg feels it settle lower than normal.

“That does it for us, sir,” the driver calls. “The Stryker is done for.”

“Everyone out!” Greg orders. “There’s a drop off to our front. Make for it.”

Greg clambers across a tilted deck strewn with equipment. One of the soldiers is standing next to the wounded boy. With the others clear, Greg can now see the extent of his injury. He is slumped over the bench seat, his face pale and clammy. Bloodied bandages litter the seat and floor. The boy’s arm lies on the seat next to his hip.

Knowing the answer already by the lack of blood flowing from the wound, Greg asks anyway, “How is he?”

“He died a few minutes ago, sir.”

“Leave him,” Greg states, knowing that it’s only a matter of seconds before another shell slams into the Stryker to finish them off.

They hustle out, setting foot on the dusty plain. Turning toward the drop off, the others are running across the flats, the soldiers in the back with the rest ahead. Greg and the soldier run after them, looking to get as much distance from the disabled vehicle as possible. The chatter of heavy machine gun fire erupts in the distance.

Turning toward the sound, Greg sees tracers reach out across barren land. The red streaks converge around the others racing ahead. Heavy slugs rip into the ground sending showers of dirt into the air, obliterating any view of the rest of his team and those they rescued. The dust slowly settles to the ground, allowing Greg the ability to see through the maelstrom. Of the nine who were running for the drop off, there’s not a single one standing. Greg skids to a stop as the tracers halt momentarily and then, start firing in his direction.

“Back to the Stryker!” Greg yells, fear sending a jolt of electricity through his body. The armor of the vehicle will give them more cover from the heavy slugs ripping through the air.

Greg can feel the large caliber rounds slam into the soil as he runs through the soft dirt. The air is filled with dust thrown up by the impacts, obscuring his vision. As he and his teammate race down the side of the Stryker, sparks flash off the sides accompanied by heavy, metallic thuds. In the noise, confusion, and fear, Greg’s thoughts have been reduced down to a single one, get into the cover afforded by the Stryker.

He feels several tugs against his pant legs and vest as some of the rounds narrowly miss. A burning sensation across his back makes its way to his consciousness. As he nears the rear of the vehicle, surrounding by swirling dust and the close impact of rounds, Greg observes, with a form of disassociation, as if he is a mere spectator, a splash of blood wash across the side of the Stryker. He knows, with the same disassociation, that his teammate has been hit. Rounding the corner of the vehicle, he throws himself into the opening.

Landing amongst a clutter of objects lying on the floor, he hears heavy impacts slamming into the sides. Breathing hard, his heart thudding, he looks up. The boy they rescued stares blankly only inches away from Greg. He’s been in a lot of tricky situations, but he has no idea how he’ll extricate himself from this one. The ones firing seem intent on eliminating every last one of them.

A crashing explosion rocks the Stryker. Greg is lifted and thrown against the far wall. He only registers the hard impact before darkness descends.

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Having met with Leonard and relaying what we have found out, I feel better and am glad for the arrangement of working together should there be the need. He still has his search to do, and it may be a while before we see each other again. Although we came to an understanding, I don’t get the feeling that he will be joining our compound soon. After all, he has a fuel supply that will last him for years and, provided he doesn’t experience any severe mechanical breakdowns, he’ll be able to travel anywhere with a degree of safety. All in all, he may be better off than we are up north.

However relieved I feel about our working together, there is still a tremendous amount of anxiety. One, Greg is out there and we need to locate him. There is also this other group and the issue of how we are going to deal with them. Then, there are the night runners that are moving out of Seattle and appear to be approaching our sanctuary.

It’s almost too much
, I think, as the gear settles into the wheel well with a clunk.

Gaining altitude, we turn east, heading to locate and pick up Greg. Our first stop will be Cannon AFB to pick up another Spooky given that the other one might be damaged. Other than our own minds and teamwork, the aircraft remains our greatest asset as we try to survive. We’ll need to be a lot farther along than we are now if we’re to make it once the Spooky is grounded. We may be able to keep the other vehicles running if Bannerman has some success with the bio-fuels, but as far as flying goes, that will come to an end.

As we climb, the dirty brown line we saw before hangs on the horizon to the south. My first thought is that it’s an inversion but, reaching an altitude level with the top, I don’t see the linear line of separation that is usually prevalent with that kind of weather system. The color is reminiscent of smog, the look and kind that used to be a constant fixture over Los Angeles.
That, however, has since cleared out without any further poisons being introduced into the atmosphere. It’s entirely possible that the smog has merely shifted and some atmospheric phenomenon is holding it
.
It could also be from fires, either from a city or from brush fires burning out of control. Whatever its source, it stretches for some distance to the east. We don’t have time to investigate, for whatever good that might do, since I want to hurry to Cannon AFB. I want to have both aircraft prepped and refueled for an early morning flight. Getting Greg back into the fold is the highest priority.

The line of smog packs against the mountains to the east, but the top drifts over the peaks. As we fly almost due east, the smog thins and finally ends near the California border at Yuma. Transiting a line between Flagstaff and Phoenix, I begin making calls hoping to reach Greg. If we can locate him on our flight to Cannon AFB, we’ll arrange for a pickup and continue on with getting another Spooky and conducting our flyover of the opposing bunker complex.

By the time we descend and line up for runway at Cannon AFB, I haven’t heard a word from Greg responding to our calls. That adds to my already extensive list of worries. We have transited a major portion of the route that Greg was to follow. He should have heard us.

After circling to be relatively sure that no one has settled into the area since our last visit, we touch down on the grit-covered main runway. A thin line of dust billows toward the front when we bring the engines into reverse thrust and we use the throttles to stay in front of it. Exiting the runway, we pull onto the ramp and park in the same location that we did before. We remain in place with the engines turning, waiting to see if someone we missed on our overflight shows up. Seeing no one arrive, we shut down.

Reasonably assured that no one else is around, I assign some of Red Team to start the tedious task of refueling. Taking the others, we look over one of the Spookys sitting on the ramp nearby. Opening the crew door, stale air pours out. A check of the maintenance records and cursory pre-flight check shows the aircraft to be airworthy. It’s been sitting on the ramp for a while so we’ll run the engines to check for any fuel contamination. A run-up shows that the decontamination filters in place are still functioning. The others systems check out and we shut it down.

With the late afternoon sun drifting toward the horizon and both aircraft refueled, Red Team locates a transportation vehicle near the ramp. Gathering several batteries from other vehicles and hooking them up in a relay, it takes a few attempts to get it started. When it is successfully running, the team heads over to the bunker complex and begins emptying it of ammo for the Spooky. We fill the ammunition storage on board and crate what we can, filling the remaining space around the Stryker in the 130.

The task is finished by the time twilight settles in. I’m worried that we weren’t able to contact Greg on the flight over. That weighs on me as all of us, Red Team, Lynn, and the ammunition handlers have a bite to eat on the ramp near the back of the 130. We sit on the hard surface, watching the last of the day’s light fade toward nighttime. A chilly breeze picks up, swirling sand across the wide path we cleared as we taxied across the tarmac. Without a word spoken, we finish our MREs and gather inside, closing the ramp and crew doors, sealing them against the night. We’ll stay the night in the 130.

With the blackout panels placed on the windows, I turn on the red interior light. The others gather around as I unfold several maps showing Greg’s proposed route.

“What’s the plan?” Lynn asks, looking over my shoulder.

“Greg should have been somewhere near Luke AFB according the plan we came up with,” I say, pointing to the location on one of the maps. “He should have been able to hear our radio calls and that has me worried.”

“I agree that’s a cause for concern, but that didn’t really answer shit,” Lynn states.

“Well, we all know how plans go, so I figure we’ll head north to Albuquerque and backtrack to Petersen AFB, making calls along the way. If we don’t find him along that route, we’ll head east toward McConnell AFB,” I reply, tracing the routes with my finger.

“And if we don’t find him there?”

“Then we’ll make for Luke and search outward. Unless something drastic has happened, he’ll be somewhere along that route. Even if he had to take a different course, our radios will reach a far distance from the air. We should be able to get into communication, determine his location, rendezvous, and pick him up.”

“Are we taking both aircraft?” Robert asks.

“I’m undecided on that. I was thinking we could. Craig can fly this one. Seeing Gonzalez has handled the flight engineer position before, she could go with him. I’ll fly the Spooky with everyone else aboard,” I answer.

I would send Bri with Craig seeing how she has more experience in the flight engineer seat. Craig has a few hours in the aircraft, and even more in total. However, he doesn’t have that many in the 130, and Bri’s experience would offset his inexperience to a degree. But that would be placing her, my daughter, in an undermanned aircraft with someone with only a few hours of 130 flight time. That may not be fair, but there it is. I could also send Robert to fly the other one with Craig as a co-pilot and Bri as the engineer. I’d be more comfortable with that arrangement, but I want Robert in command of the control center in the back of the Spooky. Not only do we need good footage of the bunker surroundings as we fly over, but the lack of communication with Greg has brought my anxiety meter up a notch. There’s an off chance we’ll need the firepower that the Spooky affords us.

“What about just taking the Spooky and leaving this one here? We have plenty of Strykers and we can pick up another 130 from the Portland guard base,” Robert says.

“I’ve thought about that. We still have the fake mission to accomplish afterward and will need the Stryker for that. It may be moot as I’m sure they’ll figure out we overflew them on purpose, but there’s the off chance they won’t,” I reply.

“It’ll be daylight, so we won’t need all of the stations monitored. Gonzalez can run things in my place and I can fly this one with Craig and Bri,” Robert says.

“If we do that, I’ll need her to be the flight engineer on the Spooky,” I state.

“Then I guess she’ll have to multitask,” Robert says.

Lynn, still standing over my shoulder, chuckles in my ear. Patting me on the shoulder, she says, “How does that feel, Jack? Being put in your place, I mean.”

“Okay fine, we’ll do it that way. Have I told you lately just how much of a pain in my ass you all are?”

“You love it, Jack. You know you do,” Lynn says.

“Pain…in…my…ass,” I say, glaring at each of those in the formed circle.

Muted shrieks penetrate the fuselage, causing every head to turn in the direction of the sound. The screams indicate that we may be in for another of those nights, the all-night shrieks and slamming against the fuselage. We each have ear plugs, but they do little to shut out a night runner assault; and the slams are felt in addition to being heard.

With a plan formed, we settle into positions as comfortable as can be had. Some crawl into the Stryker to take advantage of the padded bench seats within. Once everyone has settled, I climb into the cockpit and turn off the power. The interior is at once plunged into darkness. Hooding a flashlight, I settle in on the lower bunk next to Lynn. In the chilled, darkened cockpit, as I finally manage to settle into my sleeping bag, the first thud is felt as a night runner slams into the side of the aircraft. In times past, I would have gone to the window to watch them, perhaps experimenting with the abilities I gained after being bitten. Tonight, I’m tired and other worries occupy my mind.

The increasing brightness within the cockpit brings me out of a restless sleep. The night runners kept at us for some of the night, the sounds of their screams and attempts to gain entry fading after a few hours. Peeling back the top of my sleeping bag, cold air immediately replaces the warmth I had accumulated. Fighting the urge to throw the top back over me, I crawl out and sit on the edge of the bunk, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and kneading my forehead in an attempt to fully waken.

Cold rises through my socks from the metal floor. Lynn stirs next to me as I pull on my boots and rise. Standing, I hit my head on the upper bunk railing.

“Dammit! I do that every fucking time.”

Lynn rolls over and sleepily asks me if I’m alright. I mutter some vague response and, rubbing the top of my head, go down the stairs to locate some water in the cargo compartment.

With the sun just peaking above the horizon, the ramp door is opened, exposing everyone to the even colder air outside. Any prevailing tiredness is quickly vanquished as we step out of the aircraft. It will warm up as the sun works its way across the clear sky, but the night has brought the temperature down to nearly zero. That’s the desert environment, freezing at night and a furnace during the day. Winter will see one cold weather system after another as Arctic winds sweep across the central plains, unimpeded by any mountains.

Robert and I accomplish our walk-arounds for the aircraft. It’s a clear day so we shouldn’t have problems keeping each other in sight. We cover routes, emergencies, frequencies, and a hundred other things that he is patient enough to let me go through. I’ll be leading with him following. Making sure he has the route and plan down, I give him and
Bri
hugs before we head to our respective aircraft.

We check in over the radio. A short time later, down the ramp, I see the propeller on Robert’s number three engine begin rotating. I’m behind on the checklist with my having to do the co-pilot’s actions as well, but it’s not too long before I press the start button. At that point though, he is already starting the last engine, number one. I manage to catch up and we taxi out. I roll down the runway, which is still mostly swept clean from our landing the day prior. Cleaning up the aircraft, I hear Robert call “rolling” on the radio and bank the Spooky to the west-northwest toward Albuquerque.

As we climb, I have Gonzalez head into the back to make sure the equipment is readied there, leaving me alone in the cockpit. We should arrive over Albuquerque soon, as the flight is only about two hundred miles. Gonzalez reports that they are ready in the back. I have her remain as there really isn’t that much to do in flight except monitor the gauges and periodically switch the fuel tanks.

About ten minutes later, I level off at fifteen thousand feet. This will give us a medium altitude to visually surveil the ground and provide good distance for the radio. Keeping my airspeed down, I check in with Robert to find that he’s closed to a seven o’clock position about two thousand feet behind.

With everything seemingly in order, I begin making radio calls, alternating between the guard frequency and the one we had arranged. There isn’t a response to any of my queries by the time we draw near to Albuquerque.

As the southeastern outskirts of the city fades out of view, I notify Robert and bank the aircraft to the northeast, making for the southern end of a large range of peaks as they spill out onto the upper plateau we’ve been flying across. Once we round the vast ridgeline, we’ll turn north toward Colorado Springs. Albuquerque slides under, then past the wing. The worry I had from not reaching Greg the previous day multiplies. We should have been able to reach him even if he was hundreds of miles away.

Sunlight partially fills a large valley that heads north between two monstrous ridgelines. Ahead and to the side, I make out the city of Santa Fe, which brings Leonard to mind. I hope he is able to find family members well and whole in their home port.