by Dirk Patton
“What about something else? I see some planes over there,” Katie gestured at the far side of the tarmac where a scattering of single engine planes were tied down.
“We can’t all fit in one of those, for one thing. And even if we could, the plane would attract attention that we can’t afford. We’d most likely get shot down.” Irina spoke up before the Colonel could answer.
Katie stared at the pretty Russian woman, turning to look at Rachel who was standing next to her with Dog. The taller woman shook her head in sympathy.
“We just have to hope,” she said, looking into Katie’s eyes. “We’ll get there as fast as we can. I’m just not so sure…”
“What?” Katie asked when it became apparent Rachel wasn’t going to continue her thought.
“You know John better than me,” she said. “But, can you picture him going all docile and letting the Russians just take him wherever they want?”
“He’ll be well guarded,” Irina interjected. “He won’t be given a chance to create a problem for them.”
Crawford took the opportunity to move away from the women. Martinez and Igor had the hand pump connected and Igor had already begun turning the large crank. Scott stood just outside the hangar doors, rifle in hand, head swiveling constantly as he scanned the area for threats.
28
Their next stop was in Kennewick, Washington at a small municipal airport to refuel. The speed at which Martinez was pushing the big machine would have used a lot of fuel by itself, but flying low to evade airborne radar had magnified the Hind’s consumption.
So while she stayed focused on her flying, Irina, occupying the co-pilot’s seat, thumbed through the FAA book and found the airport. When they landed, only the auxiliary tank had any fuel remaining and an alarm on the control panel had been flashing that it was low for the past ten minutes.
“If there’s not fuel here, we’re walking,” Martinez shouted to the group as they were piling out the side door. “Don’t think we’ve even got enough to get back in the air.”
“You’re always such a pessimist,” Scott grinned and disappeared through the door before she could say anything.
There were infected in the area and they had zeroed in on the sound of the big helo touching down. Shutting the side door to make sure Johnnie Ray couldn’t make a run for it while they were distracted, everyone other than Martinez spread out in a perimeter to protect the Hind.
Martinez grabbed a hose, connected the fueling point pump to the Hind’s tanks and stretched out the power cables. As soon as they were connected the pump began whining, loud at first until it primed, then settling down as fuel was sucked from under the tarmac and sent into the helicopter.
“We have fuel, Captain?” Crawford shouted in between shots to knock down approaching females.
“It’s pumping, sir. Now we have to hope there’s enough in the tank to top us off.”
Everyone went quiet after that, only the sound of suppressed rifles firing and the screams of approaching females. They burned through a lot of ammo, but held the infected back for the twenty minutes it took to fill the Hind. Shutting down the pump, Martinez stowed the hose and climbed back into the cockpit to start the engines.
“Mount up,” she shouted out her open door when she was satisfied the helo was ready to fly.
The group compressed on itself as one by one they climbed aboard. Crawford was the last one in, shouting to Martinez who lifted off before he could slam the side door closed.
“I needed to piss,” Johnnie Ray whined. Katie glared at him, jaw set and he looked away. “That’s OK. I can hold it.”
Martinez had them back on course and up to speed quickly, racing less than a hundred feet over the rolling terrain of eastern Washington State. Crawford slipped on a set of headphones so he could talk to her on the intercom.
“Ever been to McChord or Lewis?” He asked Martinez.
“No, sir. But we’re going to Boeing Field which is about 40 miles north of there, right next to Seattle.”
“You’re sure that what’s you heard on the radio? Boeing Field? The Russians have occupied McChord Air Force Base. Why would they take the Major to a different field?” He asked.
“Irina listened in on some pilots talking to the AWACS operator and that’s what they said. Her guess is there’s some VIP in Seattle that wants to get a look at him before they ship him off to Moscow.”
“OK, then. Boeing Field it is. By the way, you know we’ve got a big mountain range between here and there, right?” Crawford asked.
“Yes, sir. It’s the Cascades. There are warnings about them in the FAA book. Don’t worry, I’ve never flown into the side of a mountain before.”
“As long as you don’t start now, we’re in good shape.” Crawford chuckled and settled back for the rest of the flight.
It wasn’t long before they began having to gain altitude as the eastern slopes of the Cascades approached. Trees began to change from smaller elms, maples and oaks to hemlocks and cedars that reached more than a hundred feet into the air. Martinez kept a close eye on the altimeter, relying on standard instruments and her experience. The Hind didn’t have any of the imaging equipment that would be found in an American helicopter which allowed the pilot to see like an owl in the dark.
They crested the mountain range between two craggy peaks, Martinez nosing the Hind over to follow the terrain as they dropped down towards Seattle. She was shocked to see large pockets of light in the far distance. Someone had definitely set up shop.
“Lots of lights ahead, Colonel,” she said over the intercom.
“The last time I spoke with Pearl Harbor they told me it looked like the Russians were sending in a lot of people to occupy some of the west coast cities. Much of the power here is generated at hydroelectric plants, which must still be operating. They probably only needed to do some work on the distribution system to get the lights back on.”
“Makes sense, and I won’t ask how you know all that,” Martinez said. “We’re fifteen minutes to Boeing Field.”
Crawford acknowledged the time remaining and moved around the cramped space to make sure everyone was awake and ready. Only Igor was asleep, coming alert as soon as the Colonel touched his shoulder.
“Fifteen minutes,” Crawford said to him in Russian.
“Fifteen minute,” Igor responded in English.
“Minutes. Don’t forget it’s plural. More than one.” Crawford corrected him in Russian.
Igor nodded and smiled, repeating it and getting it correct. The Colonel slapped him on the shoulder and smiled, then moved to take a seat next to Katie. She was hunched on the floor, Dog stretched out between her and Rachel. Dog, who was healing and moving better, stood up and shook when Crawford’s big boot disturbed his sleep.
“We’re almost there,” he said to Katie who just nodded.
“I’m thinking it might be a good idea for you to wait in the helo. Keep watch on our friend over there.” Crawford hooked a thumb in Johnnie Ray’s direction.
“Not a fucking chance, Colonel.” Katie met his eyes with a hard stare.
“You’re wound a little tight, and there may be some parts of this that require some subtlety. You going to be able to handle that?” He met her stare with an equally hard one of his own.
After a long few moments Katie lowered her eyes and nodded her head.
“I get the message,” she said. “Yes, I’ll be OK. I just want him back.”
“We all do,” Crawford said gently. “But we can’t let our emotions drive our actions or we could wind up getting him killed as well as all of us.”
Katie took a deep breath and nodded, trying to hold back tears that threatened to start trickling down her face.
“When we get on the ground I want you to hold back with Captain Martinez. Take your cues from her. I’ll be in front with Irina and Igor. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Katie said, getting her emotions under control and giving Crawford a weak smile.
“Ten
minutes,” Martinez called over the intercom and the Colonel repeated it loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Can you stay and keep watch on him?” The Colonel asked Rachel.
It was obvious she didn’t want to be left behind, but Dog didn’t need to be tagging along either, so she agreed. Dog, a prisoner and a stripper. What a combination, she thought and tried not to giggle.
“Sir, something’s going on,” Martinez said a few minutes later.
“Explain,” he said immediately.
“As soon as we crested the mountains I started picking up the Russian’s radio chatter. Mostly routine stuff dealing with the CAP and local air patrols and a few big cargo planes on approach to McChord.
“Then Irina hears what is apparently a long range transport jet sitting on the tarmac at Boeing Field. He’s talking to the controller, wanting to know when the passenger for his flight to Kubinka will arrive. Kubinka is an air base on the outskirts of Moscow.
“Anyways, the answer is that the flight from Idaho was scrubbed because they’ve had an issue. They talked for a few more minutes, and that’s as much as they said about it, but the transport is taxiing for takeoff to return to McChord. They’re not going to Russia.”
“Problem with the aircraft in Idaho? Is that the issue?” Crawford sat up straight, everyone else in the compartment leaning in when they heard his question.
“Unclear, sir. I’m quoting Irina’s translation when I say the flight was scrubbed because they had an issue. It could be the plane, or it could be the Major giving them problems they didn’t expect.
“What do you want me to do, sir? Doesn’t seem to be the best course of action to continue on into Boeing Field. There’s a small airport back up in the mountains a few minutes behind us where we can sit down until we know more.”
“Do it,” the Colonel said.
He felt the helicopter begin to turn as he took off his headset to update the group.
29
The thrum of an approaching rotor made the decision for me. Dashing across the parking lot I slipped through the door and past the man into the darkened store. He pulled the door shut, the lock making a satisfyingly solid thunking sound when it closed. Immediately a brilliant light was shone in my eyes and I heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked.
“I’m pretty sure you’re an American, but now that I see you up close that uniform looks brand new. You’d better start convincing me, son, before my old hand starts shaking and pulls this trigger.”
The voice was old west, through and through. And it was as hard as nails. I didn’t think his hand would be shaking unless he wanted it to.
“Major John Chase. US Army, sir.” Hey, a little courtesy doesn’t hurt, especially when a 12 gauge is pointed at your head. “The uniform is new. Killed a few Russians at the air base and got covered in blood. I just got it from the BX, stole a Hummer and got the hell out of there.”
“Didn’t see no Humvee,” he said.
“Hit a goddamn cow on the road into town. Totaled it. Had to hoof it a couple of miles to a farmhouse where I found a truck. Drove that on in to town.” I said, spreading my hands and trying a grin.
“Well, you sure ain’t no goddamn commie,” he said.
A moment later the light went out and I was just as blind in the dark. I stood there blinking for a moment, careful not to move as I wasn’t sure if the shotgun was still pointed at me or not.
“Thanks for letting me in,” I said.
“Why’s them bastards want you so bad? There’s a whole fleet of choppers out there looking for you. How many’d you kill?”
“At least eight, maybe more. Left one with his head split open and I’m not sure if he’s alive or not, but I’m betting he survived and is really pissed off right about now.”
“Hmmm. OK, sounds like you got a story to tell. Let’s get under cover first.”
My night vision was coming back and even though it was dark in the store I was able to make out shapes. I saw him turn and head across the room. Falling in behind him I tried to see what the place looked like, but it was too dark. It smelled of leather and gun oil, and the man’s body odor as well as stale tobacco smoke. The only thing missing was the sharp aroma of a good glass of whiskey and it would be just like my favorite bar back home.
We stopped in the back corner of the room and I could see the man bend down and grab something on the floor. When he straightened up a trap door came with him. Cool air flowed out of the opening and he stepped aside and waved me forward.
“Watch your step,” he said. “There’s a ladder on that side. Straight down ten steps.”
I almost hesitated, not sure about heading into a tunnel with this guy, but if he wanted to do me harm he could have left me outside. Or blown my head off after I came in. Figuring if I was in for a penny I was in for a pound, I moved to the opening in the floor. Kneeling, I stuck a leg into the hole where he’d indicated, my foot landing on the top rung of a wooden ladder.
Climbing down I was appreciative that he’d had the foresight to tell me how many steps before reaching the bottom. It was pitch black, but I was able to pause on the tenth rung and step onto a poured concrete floor without any problems. Arms out and feet shuffling so I didn’t step in a hole or off a ledge, I moved to the side to give him room to come down.
I heard his shoes scrape on the ladder and climb down a few steps, then he paused and the trap door groaned as he closed it. There was a loud click and a string of incandescent lights came to life. I blinked a few times, looking around at where I was.
The ladder came down into what looked like the end of a tunnel. It was about six feet wide and over ten feet high to the ceiling. The floor, walls and ceiling were smooth concrete. Fallout shelter sprang to mind.
The tunnel ran several yards away from the ladder, ending at a heavy vault door that looked like it belonged in a bank. By now the man was off the ladder and without saying a word strode to the door, dialed in a combination and spun the wheel to unlock. He tugged the door open and I was impressed to see it was four feet thick. I followed him through and he pulled it shut and spun a wheel on the inside to relock the massive portal.
The first room we entered was larger than I expected, at least twenty feet on each side. It was of the same construction as the tunnel, but rugs softened the floor and a sofa and two recliners were arranged so that each seat had a view of a large flat screen TV bolted to the concrete wall.
Looking around I saw three closed doors to my left and a modern kitchen and two more closed doors to my right. The whole place was surprisingly clean and dry and comfortable feeling. The man rested his shotgun against a side table that held a can of beer and an overflowing ashtray before flopping into a worn recliner.
“You’d better have a seat and tell me what the hell is going on,” he said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up.
“I’d be more talkative with a smoke,” I said.
“Keep ‘em,” he grunted, tossing me the pack and a lighter. “Got about ten years worth stashed away.”
I lit the cigarette and gratefully inhaled before sitting down in the other recliner. The side table was between us and I took a moment to look him over as I started speaking.
He was in his late 60s, or looked to be, and seemed to still be strong. His face was lined like someone who had worked outside his entire life. Long, grey hair framed a narrow face, which surprisingly was clean-shaven. For some reason I expected him to either have a beard or be in dire need of a shave.
It took some time, and another cigarette, for me to tell him my abbreviated and edited story. He didn’t need to know a lot of the details about everything I was dealing with. The important part, that the Russians wanted my ass, was what he really cared to know about anyway.
When I was done he stared at me for a few moments through a haze of blue smoke that was rising from the cigarette in his hand. Finally, he took a last drag and crushed it out in the ashtray. Draining his beer, he looked up and pointed a
t the kitchen.
“There’s more in the ice box if you want one. Get me one while you’re at it.” He just assumed I was going for a beer. And he was right.
Settled back in the recliner with a cold Bud in my hand I looked at him expectantly.
“How is it you’re still alive?” I asked.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, taking a long pull off his fresh beer.
“We have a vaccine,” I said.
“Fuckin’ figures,” he muttered and took another drink. “Too late as usual.”
“Excuse me?”
“I must be immune,” he finally said after a very long silence in which he stared at the can of beer in his hand. “Came down here a month ago with my wife, daughter and grandson. They all turned. One at a time.”
I didn’t know what to say. Sitting there I tried to imagine the horror of being locked in with your family when they started turning. What the hell did you do? You either killed them or let them kill you. I would give just about anything to not ever have to make that choice.
“Daughter went first,” he said, staring at the blank screen on the TV. “Woke up in the middle of the night hearing the most god-awful screams coming from her bedroom. I knew what it was and would never have opened that door, but my grandson was in there with her.”
He took another drink, emptying the beer and setting it down next to the ashtray.
“She charged as soon as I opened the door and damn near got me. It wasn’t her. Just this thing. Got her with the shottie before she could tear into me. She’d already killed my grandson. Started eating him! What the fuck? Eating her own goddamn child.”
He was quiet for a long time and I got up and collected the empty beer cans and ashtray. I left the cans on the counter, not seeing right off what he was doing with them. I dumped the ashtray in a normal waste can and realized for the first time that despite both of us sitting there smoking in a closed space, the air was clear. Must be a hell of a good atmospheric circulation and filtration system. Fresh beers and empty ashtray in hand I returned to the chair.