Reed stopped in his tracks, pausing to look first towards Knight before turning towards Quinn.
Quinn shrugged. “Best we can do, Sir. With Major Richards...not available, I’m moving up to Mission Commander. I need a co-pilot, and Lieutenant Knight is our best option.”
“Best option?”
“He’s trained on prop aircraft. The C-130, to be exact.”
Reed nodded. “Okay, that should work. I’m assuming he’s flown missions in the C-130, then.”
The young man looked towards the table, then back at Reed. “Um, just training missions, Captain,” Knight replied. “I finished my training a month ago.”
Reed paused before responding, making use of his best poker face. Though his first impulse was to ask if the man was kidding, he knew that as the Senior Officer, it was his job to provide leadership. An overabundance of concern on his part wouldn’t be helpful, and if there was someone else available with more experience, that person would be there.
‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ Reed thought, nodding again. He looked at Captain Quinn. “You’ve got experience with the aircraft, though, correct, Captain?”
Quinn nodded. “Yes, Sir. Nearly five hundred hours. I was due to become a Mission Commander in the next month or so prior to the virus outbreak.”
Feeling much better about the situation, Reed smiled reassuringly as he clapped the Captain on the shoulder. “Alright, well, you’re Mission Commander now, right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good, so, over to you, then for the briefing.”
“Thanks, Captain.” Pointing at the map that had been hung on the wall, he indicated a spot in Oklahoma. The first leg of our mission is going to take us here: Tinker Air Force Base. Based on a departure of twenty-two hundred hours Eastern Daylight Time, we’ll be landing just after zero one hundred hours Central Daylight Time.”
Staff Sergeant McGhee interjected. “I heard we’re fueling this thing ourselves when we get to our stop.”
“You heard right,” Mason replied, nodding. “I spent three hours learning how to connect the hoses and start the pumps on the fuel trucks. When we get there, I’ll need a hand getting things in position, but I know how to do it now.”
“No inflight refueling available?” Sergeant First Class Jacobs asked.
“Nope,” Reed answered, shaking his head. “McConnell Air Force Base went off comms two days ago.”
“Shit,” McGhee said, looking down at his boots.
They all understood the implications of the base going offline.
Jacobs looked at the map for a moment, then asked, “So….why Tinker?”
“They went offline a week ago,” Captain Quinn responded, looking at Reed. “Captain, it was the day after we refueled during our return flight from L.A.”
Jacobs hesitated, cocking his head slightly. “I’m sorry, so is that good?”
Quinn took a deep breath and grimaced.
“We’re hoping the infected have moved on.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Vietnam, 1971
An impact in his ribs.
Something pulling his clothes.
Bright light.
Far away voices.
Being lifted out of the water.
Nothing.
Stifling heat greeted him when he finally came around. He was thirsty. More thirsty than he’d ever been. Struggling, he managed to open his eyes.
The thatched roof of a hut was above him. Turning his head, his eyes registered a small room, with thin cloth hanging from lines above him, offering some element of privacy for those within.
“You have to leave,” a voice said.
Looking towards the sound of the voice, his eyes settled on a young Vietnamese woman. Her face was emotionless as she stared at him.
“Water…” he pleaded.
WIthout saying anything, she rose to her feet and walked across the wooden floor of the room. Her sandals slapped against the surface as her short legs moved her to a small table near him, where she grabbed a jug of water. She poured some in a cup, then walked to his side. Grabbing a small straw made of bamboo, she mechanically stuck it in the cup and held it to his lips.
Sucking on the straw, he almost cried in relief when the water flooded his mouth. He gulped, then sucked some more.
The woman pulled the cup away and set it on the table as she spoke. “You have to go. You stay here, Viet Cong kill us.”
The shooter nodded weakly. “I understand.” Turning his head, he looked up at the sur[risingly large ceiling of the hut, noting how the roof was made of multiple layers of palm tree fronds. As he laid there, his memory began to replay what had happened before he lost consciousness.
The bullets flying past them as they ran.
One hitting him in his side.
The explosion.
Chuck being there one second, gone the next.
The searing pain in his back as the pieces of shrapnel tore his flesh and dug into his body.
Losing feeling in his legs…
Looking downward, he tried to move his feet, quietly praying to Christ and God as he did.
His feet moved.
Encouraged, he tried to wiggle his toes. They moved, albeit slowly and stiffly.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he silently thanked God for the miracle. Relieved at still having control of his legs, he allowed his mind to absorb the sensations that came from other parts of his body. His right side still burned, but felt like the wound had dried and was beginning to scab. His back was a mess of dull aching points, some that burned deep, some that were simply shallow sores.
Turning his head towards the small woman again, he asked, “How did I get here?”
“You float in river. My father see you, pull you out. Bring you here, my mother help you.” Though the woman’s words were ones that spoke of her parents’ compassion, her eyes and face remained hard and unyielding.
“Thank you,” he replied before asking, “How long ago was that?”
The woman held up two fingers. “Two day. Everyday I think Vee Cee come here, kill us because we help you. Every day I scared.”
“I’m sorry. Just let me rest a bit longer and I’ll leave as soon as I can.” His mind reeled at the thought of being missing for two days. His platoon most likely thought he was dead or captured, and probably assumed the same about Chuck.
No one knew his friend was dead, blown apart by a landmine.
He had to get back.
“Where are we, exactly?”
“We near Xã Đông,” the woman replied, her face still stern.
“Shit.” Realizing his language might be considered offensive to the young woman, he quickly added, “Sorry.”
He was easily six to seven miles from De Dang, where he’d been sent to take out the Viet Cong officer. Any friendly forces would be looking for him miles from where he was. It would be a marathon hike, more than 20 miles, to Đồng Vắt, where the Army platoon he’d been assigned to support had set up camp after being sent forward from Qui Nhơn. He’d have to avoid the trails and roads that would make the hike easier and take the more challenging route through the jungle, where he could rely on the foliage and shadows to hide him from enemy forces. Without a doubt it would be a tough journey, climbing over, under, and through the bushes as he worked his way back to camp.
To top it all off, his entire body hurt.
Even so, what choice did he have other than to try?
He was a Marine, and a Marine never quit.
Struggling, he managed to sit up slowly, grunting and wincing as he moved.
The small woman rushed over to his side, the stern mask on her face disappearing, swiftly replaced one of concern and compassion.
“Easy. You mess up your bandages. Make you bleed again.”
Glancing down towards his side, he saw long strips of white cloth wrapped around his midsection. Part of it was stained with dried blood, but the majority of it was clean. The mat below him, though
, was deeply stained with the dark crimson color of dried blood.
He looked from the stain to the small woman. “Sorry,” he offered.
“Okay,” she replied, nodding.
Realizing he was shirtless, it suddenly occurred to him that his lower body was uncovered underneath the thin sheet that was draped over him.
“Uhhh...my pants?” he asked.
The woman nodded again. “Okay, you wait.” She turned and walked out of the room through the opening at the back of the room that led outside. The sound of her feet descending a series of steps told him what he’d already suspected: the house was on stilts, which meant these were rice farmers. Monsoonal rains brought flooding, so the only way to ensure your things stayed (mostly) dry was to put distance between the floor of your home and the ground.
The woman came back into the room, her short legs moving quickly as she crossed the space between them in minimal time, his wrinkled uniform in her arms. When she passed it to him, he realized it’d been washed and hung out to dry.
“We hang in roof,” the woman said, easing his fears that his uniform would have acted like an American flag outside their home.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling. Holding his uniform in his lap, he looked at the woman expectantly.
Smirking, the woman said, “I see already,” before reaching up to grab the piece of fabric that hung from one of the ropes that crossed the room. She pulled across its length, separating the two of them before adding, “I get you food.” He heard her footsteps across the wooden floor of the space again before they faded away as she left the room.
Moving slowly and carefully so as not to reopen the wound on his side, he got dressed, becoming more and more aware of all the places on his body that were still healing from the gunshot, the mine explosion and resultant shrapnel, and his uncontrolled tumble down the hill.
He was in the middle of slowly lacing up his boots when he heard the woman return. An incredible aroma filled the room, making his stomach growl and mouth water. Standing up more quickly than he’d intended, he ignored the pain in his back and side as he pulled back the makeshift curtain.
Across the room, the woman had set a steaming bowl of soup on a small table and placed a pair of chopsticks and a spoon next to it. She was in the process of dragging a small chair over to the table.
Walking over quickly on stiff legs, he gently grabbed the chair from her. “Thank you,” he said, smiling at her in appreciation.
The woman smiled slightly in return, then pointed towards the table. “You eat.”
Not needing further encouragement, he set the chair at the table and quickly sat down. Leaning forward, he breathed in deeply, allowing the food’s fragrant aroma to flow into his nose.
“This smells...amazing,” he said, looking at the young woman incredulously.
“It Pho,” she replied, smiling more widely this time.
Unable to focus on anything other than getting some of the delicious-smelling food into his stomach, the man grabbed the chopsticks and spoon and dug in, first grabbing some of the noodles, beef, and bean sprouts and setting them on the broth-filled spoon before bringing the spoon to his mouth.
In less than a minute, five mouthfuls of the delicious soup had been consumed. Looking up at her in amazement, he said, “This is...incredible.”
The young woman cocked her head in confusion. “What?”
“Um, really, really good.”
She smiled again, her eyes taking on a brighter, more accepting appearance. “My Mother make it. She know you would be hungry.”
Pausing, he said, “Please tell her I said, ‘thank you,’” before digging in again. Within minutes, he was lifting the bowl to his mouth, draining what remained of the delicious broth.
Sated and somewhat breathless from the nonstop effort he’d put into eating, he set the bowl back down and leaned back in his chair to catch his breath. After a second, he nodded his head, then looked at the woman, smiling again as he did. “Thank you so much.”
“It okay,” the woman replied, watching him. She bounced her knee nervously as she sat there, her eyes occasionally darting towards the front of the home.
She was worried.
Nodding to himself this time, he slowly stood up. “Okay, I’m gonna get going.” He looked around the room. Reaching up, he felt the left breast pocket of his uniform top. His second most important item, his compass, was there. Breathing a sigh or relief, he raised his eyebrows as he asked, hopefully, “Any chance my rifle was still with me when your father pulled me from the river?”
She shook her head. “No, but your knife there.” She pointed to a spot on the exposed frame of the wall. Walking to the wall, he grabbed it and gave it a cursory glance. It wouldn’t be much help, since he doubted he’d be able to move very well should he be in a position where he needed to defend himself with it, but it’d be better than nothing. Sliding it into his pocket, he looked around for his hat momentarily, then remembered the tumble he’d taken down the hill. There was no way it had remained with him throughout that fall.
So that was all he had left: his uniform and his knife.
Sighing, he was looking down at the blade when he heard the sound of shuffling feet. Lifting his head, his eyes registered three other people in the room: a short, thin, tanned middle-aged man, a thin woman of similar age, and a young boy that was maybe six years old. The man smiled and nodded, his eyes bright and intense. The woman, who the shooter assumed was the man’s wife and the mother of both the young woman and the boy, simply watched him with a concerned look on her face. The boy held onto his mother, using her body as a shield as he stole glances at the tall white man who’d been brought into their home.
“This my family,” the young woman said, gesturing towards the small group.
The shooter nodded at her before looking at her parents and brother. Walking over to where they stood, he looked at them in turn, then nodded slightly. “Cảm ơn.”
The man grinned widely, showing a mouthful of teeth. “Không có gì,” he replied, nodding, before he pointed at the shooter. “Tôi nghĩ rằng bạn đã chết.”
Unable to fully decipher what the man had said, the shooter looked at the young woman.
“He said he thought you were dead,” she explained.
“I probably should have been,” he offered.
The young woman translated his words to her parents, who both nodded.
The older woman looked at him and shook her head as she spoke. “Bạn đã rất đau.”
“You were very hurt,” her daughter explained.
“Yeah, I know,” he replied, nodding.
The man looked at him. “Bạn có chắc không? Bạn có thể ở lại lâu hơn.”
His daughter stared at him, eyes pleading. “Bố cần phải ra đi…”
The man stared back at her, raising his voice slightly as he spoke. “Hỏi anh ấy.”
Sighing loudly, the young woman looked back at the shooter. “My father wants to know if you’re okay. He says you can stay longer if you need to.” As she spoke, her eyes conveyed what her words didn’t: she wanted him to leave, not because she had anything against him, but because he was putting the family in danger.
Knowing this, he nodded. “Tôi không sao.” He pointed outside. “I need to get back to my unit.”
As the young woman translated, her eyes conveyed relief. When her parents weren’t looking, she mouthed ‘thank you.’
The shooter nodded, then took a deep breath for effect. “Okay, well, I’d better get going, he said. After the young woman translated, he smiled, looking at the family before adding, “Cảm ơn.”
“Không có gì,” the couple replied, smiling.
Turning to the young woman, he said, “Thank you again for the soup, and the water, and, well, everything.”
The woman smiled back at him, her eyes brightening. “You are welcome,” she replied. “Be careful,” she added, her face suddenly getting serious. “My mother sa
y your back may give you problem. She say you lucky not paralyze. She take out pieces on top, close to … skin, but cannot get pieces...inside.”
Considering her words, he nodded before looking down at his legs. “I do feel lucky,” he said, curling first his right, then his left leg at the knee as he pulled his foot backwards. “Especially because your family saved me,” he finished.
He began to turn away from the woman before he caught himself. Stopping, he looked back at her. “I’m sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”
The young woman smiled. “It’s Loan.”
Lowering his head, he said, “Thank you, Loan. I’ll never forget you or your family.”
With that, he turned on his heel and stepped towards the door.
The mother’s voice called out, “Chờ đợi.”
Wait.
Turning back towards the family, he saw the woman step forward, a small burlap bag in her hand.
“Món ăn,” she explained, as she passed the bag to him.
Food.
Accepting the bag with a smile, he thanked the woman yet again, then turned and walked out of the small home, descending a small ramp from the house down to the surrounding fields. Pulling his compass from his pocket, he glanced at it to gather his bearings, then began heading roughly southeast. He followed a raised bank alongside the rice paddies until he reached the edge of the jungle. There, he turned and glanced back at the raised home the family lived in and found the four of them watching him.
Raising a hand, he waved at them before stepping into the dense jungle.
Knowing he had a long trek ahead of him, he began by simply putting one foot in front of the other.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
San Jose, California
Standing underneath the overpass for Highway 101, Antonio Silva was irritated. The tall, heavily muscled man seethed under the surface, frustrated that he was yet again being forced into a supporting role, watching as poor decisions were made, never asked for his opinion, never asked to contribute when plans were being made.
At least when Leon was in charge, things made sense. Under his leadership Varrio Diablo had been in a near-constant state of growth, taking more and more of the city all the time, expanding their turf with ease as their numbers steadily increased.
Surviving Rage | Book 4 Page 6