Chaos anw-1

by John O'Brien

  With the addition of more drinks, the whisper-screams became less of a whisper and more of a scream and the scrambles into the trees would get a little further from the road. Oh, did I mention there was a large, steep hill. Well, it was inevitable. Like an apple hanging from a tree, it was only a matter of time before the apple let go and fell to the ground. Then, the apple let go. One of the many ‘a car’ notifications and subsequent ninja moves was followed by a screech which was itself followed milliseconds later by a second one. I turned to look as both of their flawless ninja impressions transitioned into that of an avalanche; both literally going head over heels and tumbling down the hill. That was when I learned that laughing heartily, until tears streamed down my face, at two women who had just scraped a hillside free of shrubbery with multiple parts of their bodies was not conducive to one’s health; note taken.

  I turn left in front of the school and see a blond girl sitting by the curb about a block and a half away. I have never met Michelle but have seen her a couple of times when dropping Robert off. She is sitting on a military-style duffle bag with a suitcase sitting beside her. We pull up next to the curb. She brushes off her jeans and picks up her duffle. Robert jumps out as soon as we stop and walks to her as I scan the neighborhood.

  Just your normal middle-class neighborhood; houses built close together, small front yards, concrete driveways leading up to double car garages. Not that there is absolutely anything wrong with that, just that the contractors building these neighborhoods only build three or four different varieties and use paint colors to provide the variety. The road we are on ends a half block up in a “T” intersection; houses at the end and across the intersection continue to the right and left in the same styles. All of the windows stare back emptily. Some of them have the drapes pulled across the windows and others have curtains drawn back revealing only darkness behind.

  I continue to watch the neighborhood looking for any movement as Robert gives Michelle a quick hug, grabs her suitcase, and both of them head to the back throwing her gear into the rear seat. My thoughts once again turn to how much room we are going to have versus how much we are going to need. The truck, or any truck, is sounding like a better idea for packing our gear and driving up to McChord tomorrow. The thought that crosses my mind for seemingly the hundredth time is that I would love to find and raid an armory at either McChord or at FortLewis. I feel though that time is of the essence and there won’t be time to play hide and seek with an armory.

  I step out as they finish with the gear and walk back to them. “Hi Michelle, I’m Jack,” I say and she sticks out her hand. I shake it and continue, “Sorry to meet you for the first time under these circumstances and doubly sorry to ask you this, but do you know if your parents have any weapons?”

  She looks up at me with blue eyes; a shade darker than either Robert’s or Bri’s. Damn, does everyone surviving have blond hair and blue eyes? I think as my thoughts drift to Lynn.

  “Yes, my dad had, or has guns in his closet.”

  “Do you think we could get them?” I ask bringing myself back to focus on the now and feeling a little embarrassed about asking.

  “I can run in and get them,” she says.

  “Is there anyone or anything in the house that was with you?”

  “Not that I saw or heard and I’ve been in there since yesterday morning,” she answers starting toward the front door.

  “Robert, go with her.”

  Better to put Robert into a controlled scenario knowing that, at some point, he is going to need confidence and experience in various situations and I am going to have to get past the protective mode. Michelle has been here for some time and is unharmed so it seems like an ideal situation to start. He has been with me for many years so he knows some things, but well, I don’t know what I would do if I lost him, especially if it was through something I caused or allowed. Same for Nic and Bri. And hoping Lynn was truly okay.

  Michelle stops her door-bound trek on the green grass of her lawn waiting for Robert. He trots around to the passenger side to pick up the shotgun and then heads toward Michelle.

  “Robert,” I call over to him. An almost disguised sigh escapes him before he turns and comes over.

  “There’s probably nothing in there but it’s going to be fairly dark so make sure you know where Michelle is at all times, especially if you see movement and are thinking about firing. Your best bet if you do see or sense anything is for the two of you to back out of there. Stay with her but cover your six and any doors you come across. There’s no need to open any doors that are already shut and check the rooms. The doors opening will be your early warning system. No risks. In and out. You got it!?” I tell him is a low voice so Michelle can’t hear.

  I know he wants to look good in front of her, I mean, he’s seventeen, but wanting to look good or act the hero can make one take foolish risks or make mistakes. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do but this is different.

  “Okay,” he says.

  This could possibly turn into one of the longest minutes of my life and it’s eating me up. I watch them enter the house leaving the front door open only to immediately see movement in the front window to the right of the now open front door. The drapes are moving in the window. This brings back memories of this morning inside their own house. Oh fuck! I should have gone in! I’ve made a huge mistake! I think as I rush toward the front door. I step onto the lawn and, before I realize I am moving, my 9 mil materializes in my hand.

  The drapes pull to the side. I skid to a stop as I realize I am now looking at Robert standing in the window pulling the curtains to the side. He looks over at me and smiles knowing full well what I was just doing. I shake my now hung head slowly, turn, and walk back to the Jeep, holstering my gun once again. Any more adrenaline pumped into my system today and I will either launch free of earth’s gravitational pull or just fall down face forward. Back at the Jeep, I turn back to the house in time to see Robert finishing with the other side of the curtains. I need to perhaps give him a little more credit, a little voice in my head tells me as I continue to alternate my attention between the neighborhood houses and Michelle’s.

  I start to think they are perhaps building a gun from raw materials when Michelle appears in the doorway carrying several objects in her hands followed by Robert carrying several more. She has what appear to be two handguns, one a revolver, the other a semi-automatic, and several boxes of ammunition.

  “This is all I could find,” she says handing the pistols to me.

  Both handguns are holstered and have trigger locks on them. I must have frowned somewhat looking at them because she sets the boxes of ammo on the front seat and reaches into her front pocket, pulling out a couple of keys on circular, wire key ring.

  “Looking for these,” she says smiling at me. “My dad keeps them in his sock drawer.”

  A sense of humor and an apparent good head on her shoulders. My favorable impression meters climbs substantially. I remove the handguns from their holsters and set them on the seat with the boxes of ammo. A shadow appears across the seat and an arm appears in my vision as Robert sets two more boxes on the seat. I pick up the semi-automatic and fit the first key to the lock. Of course, it isn’t the one I need. The second key fits in and a slight twist later, I remove the trigger guard. It is a nice Colt Commander .45. I remove the magazine and glance on the side to find it’s filled to its capacity. I set the magazine on the seat in front of me. Shadows fill the seat as Michelle and Robert each observe over my shoulders.

  I crack the chamber of the .45 to find it empty and work the slide several times. Smooth action. It seems to be very well taken care of. Inserting the mag back in, I chamber a round and flick on the safety. I pop the mag back out and press down on the rounds still remaining. The spring still seems in good shape. Inserting the mag, I release the safety and ease the hammer down into its second safety position. I set the gun back on the seat pick up the other handgun. It is a very nice Smith & Wesson six
shot .38 revolver. I see from the butt end that it is loaded. I take a key to remove the trigger guard.

  “Damn,” I mutter going 0 for 2 on the keys.

  Removing the trigger guard on the second try yet again, I flip the cylinder to the side, and dump the ammo in my hand. All rounds look in decent shape. I flick the cylinder back into place and dry fire a couple of times. Yes, I know, you shouldn’t dry fire. Nice, it is double action and is smooth. Replacing the rounds, I set it in the seat.

  There are 4 boxes of ammunition on the seat and I open each one. One contains full 50 round box of .45 ACP 230 grain ammo and another has eight rounds missing. Okay, I think to myself, not bad. I would have preferred 200 grain but for close quarters 230 grain is nice to have. Especially if you need to go through walls. Besides, I am quite sure there is plenty of 200 grain lying about for the picking. The same is true for the .38 ammunition boxes with the exception that the used box only has six rounds missing. The .38 ammo boxes are also fifty round boxes and 125 grain. I notice the .38 loads are standard loads so the kick should be substantially less. Our firepower has basically doubled.

  “Do you know how to use these or shoot, Michelle?” I ask setting the last box back on the seat and turn around.

  “My dad took me to the range a few times but I’ve only fired the .38.”

  I turn slightly reaching back to the seat, pluck up the .38 and slide it into the holster. “Okay, this is yours for now I guess,” handing it to her.

  She takes the gun, looks down to her right and then her left, apparently searching for some place to put it. She shrugs, lifts the back of the red t-shirt she is wearing, and slides the holster into her waistband. Looking over at Robert, I holster the .45 and hand it to him. He unfastens his belt and draws it through the loops looking a little sheepish. Picking up the gun, he fastens it to his belt and reverses the process.

  “Okay, let’s go,” I say. Robert starts around the Jeep and Michelle stands uncertain. “Other side is easier,” anticipating that she isn’t sure which side to get in on.

  I am putting the ammo boxes in the center console when I hear the rear gate door open. “What are you doing?” I ask looking over the seats to the rear.

  “Putting the shotgun in back,” he replies. Yep, definitely going to have to give him more credit, I think.

  Robert shuts the back and walks to the passenger side. He reaches inside and lifts the seat forward. I am curious as to what he will do next. Without hesitation, he climbs into the back pulling the seat back once he is there. Good, I raised him right. Michelle then climbs in, closes the door, and buckles herself in.

  With all of us buckled in and Michelle’s bags situated to make room for Robert, we leave. When we arrived, I contemplated leaving the Jeep running to enable a quick exit but wanted to be able to hear any noises. Nothing except the occasional sound of a bird greeted us during our entire stay.

  “Time check,” I say looking in the rear view at Robert.

  “Ten to two,” he responds.

  I don’t wear a watch except when I am running so I am forever asking Robert. I usually use my phone for the time but am going to have to rectify that very soon. As a matter of fact, I might as well do it now. There is this one watch I have wanted for quite a while but didn’t want to spend the money. Plus, it has a very useful aspect to it that comes to mind right now. It has a flight calculator on it. I wore a similar one many years ago in the Air Force and found it to be a great tool many times when flying. It even helped save my bacon once. And I had a lot of bacon to save back then.

  I was an instructor pilot and we were flying to Colorado Springs. Just a bunch of other instructors who were in my class and doing this as kind of a reunion flight and get together. The plan was to fly there, get skis and passes from MWR, cars from the motor pool, and go skiing up at Breckenridge. Our current wing DO (Director of Operations) was in my class and therefore along with us. It was actually his idea to do this so we had no trouble getting the aircraft and didn’t foresee any problems with the motor pool upon arrival. It was nice having a full bird colonel along with us. There were ten aircraft in total so we divided up into (2) four-ship formations and (1) two ship. I was only one of two Americans; the rest were German pilots. I think I was the lowest ranking as well.

  So, off we went, stopping at Amarillo, Texas for gas before heading on. I was the lead for our 4-ship at that point. It was a gorgeous day and we landed at Colorado Springs without incident. The skiing was great as well except for the time I found myself on a double black diamond slope. Yeah, that was the last time I let the Germans ‘guide’ me up a lift. They just powered down the slope: the term slope being a relative term. I am pretty sure skiing is most effective if there is some sort of slope involved. This ‘slope’ looked like it actually angled back in towards the mountain in places and the moguls looked like Volkswagens were parked under the snow and glued to the side of the mountain.

  The German’s just tipped their skis over and performed some sort of ballet through the moguls and down the slope. I couldn’t very well cry mommy and slide down on my ass so I tipped my skis down as well. That was a freaking nightmare. I arrived at the bottom checking myself over because I was pretty sure I had lost an arm, a leg, both kidneys, and expected my intestines to be trailing behind me along with most of my gear.

  Our DO pulled up next to me. “You ski pretty well for an American,” he said and off he went.

  I looked quizzically after him. I didn’t know if he was joking or what because I must have looked like a one-legged goat doing an interpretive dance while falling down a cliff. I remember only touching snow like three times as I ricocheted my way down and looked up at the slope expecting to see a yellow trail marking my route down. “That’ll never happen again,” I remember telling myself as I pushed off to catch up.

  Well, that was Saturday and we met at base ops Sunday morning for the trip home. It was overcast with clouds around the mid altitudes. So, a little weather on the way home, no big deal. I received the weather brief for my flight. Another pilot was the designated lead for this leg back to Amarillo. The weather wasn’t great with moderate to severe icing conditions enroute. We were flying trainers at the time so we didn’t have any de-icing or anti-ice capabilities. Oh, and icing sucks if you can’t get rid of it in some form or another. I thought about cancelling the flight but the weather reports for the next couple of days were even worse and the DO wanted to get home. I at least talked him into breaking the flights into 2-ship formations. That provides a little more flexibility.

  I was with the original flight lead and the other two formed their own flight. I was not all that fond of our lead and remember him telling me in the crew bus, “Now, I’ll show you the way to truly lead a flight,” making me even fonder of him.

  Well, off we went. We were the third 2-ship off the ground and were separated by 15 minute departure times. He asked for clearance and leveled us off at 11,000 feet which was below the cloud deck. Okay, that makes good sense but we burned fuel at a higher rate down that low. Plus, after leveling off, he kept the throttles up. I was snugged up into fingertip but glanced at my rpm to find we were still around 95%; burning fuel like crazy for no reason I could fathom.

  The clouds and icing forced us to ask for and receive clearance down to 9,000 feet a short time later. I had the approach charts for Amarillo out and dialed in a secondary frequency for Amarillo approach. The weather was not forecast to be the greatest there either. Normally, we would have fuel to destination, to an alternate, and 45 minutes after reaching the alternate. We had this on leaving but our current fuel burn and altitude took our reserve down considerably. I would switch between our enroute center freq and the approach freq to determine what was going on there. We still had enough fuel to get to our destination, but it was even odds getting anywhere else. I heard a buddy in another flight flying into Amarillo notify approach that he was initial approach fix inbound. A short time later he called final approach fix. Approach came on asking
him if he saw the airfield. Apparently the ceiling was pretty low there. The final approach fix is close to the missed approach point — the last point at which you either see the airfield and land or put the throttles up and go around for another try or head somewhere else. “Negative,” he replied back to them.

  Oh, this sucks, I thought. I then heard him say, “Missed approach.” Approach came back asking him if he would like another approach. “Negative approach, Cider 34 is diverting.”

  I missed his clearance switching back to our freq but knew where he was heading. Then that wonderful radio call, “Amarillo approach on guard, Amarillo is now closed.” Yay for us, I thought. And here Mr. “I’ll show you how to lead a flight” has brought us way low on fuel.

  I could see scrambling in the aircraft next to me. After a moment of this, he looked over at me and gave me the hand signal to take the lead. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!!!” I said into my mask without transmitting. Not only had he gotten us into a mess but now expected me to get us out of it. My disgust meter pegged against the upper stop into the red zone.

  I took and verified the lead, focusing on where we were. This led to a scrambling on my part. Part of me wanted to separate him off to get his own clearance and fend for himself but that was only a thought. Breaking him off would save fuel on both of our parts but it was obvious his clue bag was empty. I looked at the fuel gauge and damn near had a heart attack. Holy shit! We were damn low. I pulled the throttles back to a more moderate cruise setting after signaling the upcoming change to him. I looked at the clouds right over my head brushing against the top of the canopy. We had flown through some clouds enroute and ice immediately started forming up on our wings. I notified center that we were diverting to Altus and requested a vector direct. “Roger, Otter 39 flight, turn left heading 130.”