“Looks to be a single-engine,” Ted said, then turned to the others in the rear. “Elliot, you got those binoculars handy?”
Some items were kept inside the compartment in back rather than the outside storage—a few weapons, ammunition, some water and survival bars, and…the binoculars.
Ted looked through the 10x50s toward the runway.
“It’s a sixteen,” Ted confirmed. Richard and Tristan would know he meant an F-16, but he wasn’t going to elaborate unless asked. They would have about a minute at best before the jet was on top of them.
Richard eased back a touch but kept the chopper rock-steady. You didn’t want to make any sudden moves while a jet interceptor made its way toward you.
Mountain View 1
The F-16 roared past on the left of the chopper. All previous markings on the body were gone, replaced by gray blotches that didn’t quite match the original color scheme. No more reference to the United States of America or the Air Force unit from which this plane was once a part of—those too had been covered. Perhaps the memories of what it signified and the close relationship with the instigators of the known world demise—could be the reason. Or perhaps it could be as simple as the USA and its military no longer existing—and that made sense too.
The jet banked, made a sharp turn, and pulled up on the right of the Bell 206L-4 helicopter. The fighter jockey matched the speed of the chopper and flipped his left wing—up—to reveal the undercarriage. Several air-to-air missiles were on show. A friendly reminder.
“What did he do that for?” Tom displayed his lack of military knowledge.
Elliot beat the two chopper pilots to the answer. “He just let us know he has missiles onboard and is prepared to use them if necessary.”
“Hey look, look. He’s signaling.” Ted noticed.
“About what?” Tristan asked.
“He’s pointing to his helmet—no, no—to his ears, Damn. I think he wants us to turn on the radio!”
“Radio? We don’t have—”
Elliot cut Tristan off. “Try it, Ted, try it.”
He leaned forward and activated the controls for the radio then flicked another switch for the internal speakers. A fuzzy sound followed by an electronic squeal, painful to the ears, came through the speakers. The closed-in cabin of the Bell kept most of the noise of the engine and the rotors out. Everyone would be able to hear what was said.
“—helicopter crew, helicopter crew. Do you read, over?”
Inside the chopper shocked looks were exchanged. The sound of a human voice was heard once again over a radio. Communications and a jet fighter. The airbase below indeed functioned. Did this also mean the final chapter of humanity was yet to be written?
“Well, are one of you going to answer?” Tom called from the back seat, irritated with the lack of response.
“Err, yeah, yeah, sure.” Ted snatched at the microphone on his headset and placed it in nearer his mouth. “This is helicopter pilot Ed Blain. How may we assist you, over?”
Elliot and Tom looked at one another and nodded. Ted may have seemed anxious but when he answered it was short, agreeable, and, most of all, polite. They hoped that would win them some brownie points.
“You may assist by landing your helicopter on the apron in front of the top hangar. You’ll see the reception which awaits you.
From the frying pan and into the fire.
Sandspit 19
All the men at Allan’s funeral had to deal with pelting hail as they rushed to rescue Chess. Those with hoods on their jackets pulled them up for protection—while those without, suffered in silence. Riley and Bob led the others in a rush.
“Get back inside, Chuck. We can handle this,” Riley yelled.
“He’s right, we don’t need you to get sick,” Bob pointed back to the market.
Several grabbed hold the tree trunk at the foot of the grave while others grabbed it at the head.
“ONE, TWO, THREEE…”
They hefted the tree to the side, then turned to the open grave expecting the worst.
“What took you so long?” Chess yelled from inside the hole where he squatted. “I thought you were gonna leave me here!”
“All right, smartass, let’s get you out!” Riley extended a wet, gloved hand.
“Thanks, Riley, thanks.”
“Sure, you’re okay No broken bones or anything?”
“No, I’m okay, I saw the tree coming and jumped into the hole just as it hit,” Chess considered the open grave, “I got Allan in too!”
“Smart move and you did a good job, but we gotta fill this grave before the water does, or Allan will—” Riley paused for a breath, “—his body will float away.”
By rotating the men with the shovels, they filled the grave in less than twenty minutes.
“It’s about time we had something go our way!” Bob spoke of their good fortune with Chess. He yelled above the rain, which teemed down. The hail had ceased, but the howling winds persisted.
“Yeah, I started to think there was a curse on this island—or us.”
No one attempted to refute Riley’s remark—it almost appeared that a response would court more disaster.
“Let's get back inside and see if there’s enough dry clothes left for us.”
In the emergency effort to rescue Chess, everyone who took part had been soaked through to the skin. Now—except for a few boots, socks, and underwear—there wasn’t a dry garment left. With the cold weather and no heat of any sort, hypothermia became the next danger to threaten their existence.
Maybe Riley was right—the island was cursed.
Mountain View 2
While the two Marine pilots and Tristan involved themselves in an animated discussion on Mountain Home Air Force Base and how it appeared to be operational—at least to the extent it could still send up a plane and had active communications—Tom and Elliot displayed caution.
Tom disliked the military with a passion. This opinion was formed on the basis that he believed a country’s problems could largely be eradicated if there wasn’t so much money spent on so-called defense. The real benefits to the country were to be found in health care, education, employment, housing, and guaranteed Social Security. The continued spending on the military and intelligence community only worked to further devalue these essential services. He would have found an ally in Elliot if the two had the time to discuss politics, but like everything else now, that had also been discarded to the pages of history. While the United States was far from the only country guilty in this manner, the comparison was like a serial killer to a shoplifter in regard to other nations.
The F-16 went into a wide circle around the airbase as the chopper neared the runway. Ahead on the apron, at the last of a line of hangars, a covered truck, three Air Force Humvees, and a squad of armed men in blue berets waited. The reception committee.
Tom swallowed hard and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“It’s okay, Tom,” Elliot said, though there was little conviction in his voice.
“Yeah, it's just SOPs, Tom, nothing to worry about,” Tristan volunteered.
“SOPs?”
“Standard operational procedures,” Tristan clarified.
“Let's hope so, but to make sure to leave all side-arms in the chopper, okay?”
Elliot waited for confirmation from the others, then released the buckle of his holster and laid it next to his feet. He took the Dan Wesson .357, swung the cylinder out, and emptied the rounds. Then he placed the long-barreled revolver on top of the holster with the “wheel” out of the frame. In such a position, its unloaded status would be obvious.
“Make sure the Redhawk's unloaded,” he told the two men up front. “We don’t want any misunderstandings.”
The chopper began its descent as the Air Force base security shielded their eyes from the down-wash of the rotors.
“Don’t say a word about Sandspit. Everything up to then is fine, but not a word about Sandspit, okay?” Elliot couldn’t s
ay why he told the others this, even if asked. He just felt it best not to tell—not for the time being anyway.
The whine of the helicopter’s Rolls Royce 250 engine faded and as the rotors eased, the blue beret security squad formed up on either side of the chopper. The ache in the pit of Elliot’s stomach grew.
“I think we should remain here until asked to come out?” Ted said.
“Agree,” Tom seconded.
The door to one of the Humvees opened and a slender-built man in a green flight suit who was just shy of six feet stepped out. His flight suit bore no unit emblems at all—not even the United States flag—but the darker areas on the sleeves suggested where they once had been. The only military insignia left on the uniform was the silver eagles on each epaulet.
A full-bird colonel.
The colonel’s long, thin face matched his physique. His eyes were covered with dark green, aviator-style sunglasses that looked too wide for his face. On his head sat an Airmen Battle Uniform peaked cap with no insignia at all. Tufts of dark hair, with touches of gray, were visible above his ears, and a five o’clock shadow on his face. Compared to these people, Elliot thought, he and the chopper crew resembled savage brutes with their beards and mismatched uniforms.
“In the chopper, please step out and make your way to the colonel!” a man in enlisted uniform and a blue beret called.
“Easy does it,” Elliot said as they opened the doors.
None of the occupants had any firearms on them, and as the temperature wasn’t too cold, jackets weren’t worn, either—nothing to hide. Ted, Elliot, and Tristan got out on the side nearest the colonel, but waited until Richard and Tom joined before they walked the few yards to where the officer stood at ease.
Heavy boots sounded on the tarmac as the security detail shuffled in behind.
“Greetings, gentlemen, I’m Colonel Hakola. Formerly squadron, but now base, commander.” The reception was cordial, but Elliot noticed the colonel made no effort to come forward, nor shake hands.
Richard, who was closest and taller, introduced himself first, followed by Ted. Colonel Hakola praised them for their skill with the chopper before Elliot and Tristan introduced themselves and then…
“And I’m—”
“Tom Transky, Chief of Staff to the president of the United States of America,” Hakola completed.
This colonel was obviously aware of government personnel, had a base with access to communications, and at least one operational fighter—what else did he know? They were in a good position here—at least it seemed that way. The fires had come close—on both sides—but there was no damage to be seen. Still, the attitude of this officer raised doubts in Elliot’s mind. His earlier decision not to mention Sandspit would appear to be correct. Until they could determine this guy’s motives, it would be best to keep it all under the table.
“Yes, that's me. But how—how did you—”
“As a colonel, I spent a lot of time going back and forth to the Pentagon, Mr. Transky. I saw you on more than one occasion. And besides, I wouldn’t be much of an officer if I didn’t know who the movers and shakers were in Washington, would I?”
Tom half-smiled, but didn’t care for the rhetoric. “Call me Tom, please.”
“Tom it is,” Hakola agreed and signaled the driver of the covered truck.
As the engine started up, Hakola turned back. “I know you have a lot of questions, and I’ll be more than happy to get to them in time, but for now I’m sure you’re hungry, tired, and I know y’all are definitely in need of a shower and some clean clothes. This truck will take you. And don’t worry, all your belongings will remain in the chopper.”
Yep, cordial—too cordial.
“Southern,” Tom muttered once the tailgate of the covered M35 truck was closed.
“What was that, Tom?”
“Our colonel is from the south,”
Elliot looked over to the pilots, then to Tristan, each of whom shrugged.
“How do you know, I couldn’t—”
“The phrase ‘y’all’ gave it away. But you’re right, he didn’t have that much of a southern twang, only that phrase.”
“And that tells us what, Tom?” Richard asked.
“Not much, not much at all. Merely an observation of mine.”
“Well,” Tristan started, then instinctively looked to the front, as if checking no one else was in the truck. “I think the colonel and his men acted cautiously, but not at all suspiciously. What about you guys?” He glanced at each of the others.
Tom was first off to answer. “Sorry, I don’t think he was cautious enough, if you ask me. Look at the situation. If you—and we assume—your men, had been underground for several weeks because of the foamer outbreak, the fires and riots committed by a disaffected population, wouldn’t you ask more questions than, ‘I bet y’all are hungry…’ bullshit when an unknown helicopter flies in from nowhere?” Tom’s eyes were like spotlights in the dark confines of the truck. “I know I sure as hell would.”
Elliot watched Tristan’s reaction. It was a rebuke for sure, but the former Special Forces man seemed to take it on the chin. Tom was an expert in analysis, after all, and Elliot presumed it was all pretty much the same—data, policies, or people.
“Yeah, I thought there was an underlying coolness to our reception. Like Hakola said one thing while his mind thought another, if you know what I mean?”
“Exactly, Elliot, exactly,” Tom agreed. “Too damn cool.”
“It wasn’t what he said, but what wasn’t said,” Ted told the others.
“And the security detail wasn’t there for window dressing neither. Bet they’re all going through the chopper inch by inch right now,” Richard added.
“Well, when you look at that way, I guess he was a bit reserved,” Tristan backtracked and joined the chorus. No need to be a standalone.
“So the question is, how do we play this?” Elliot asked.
“For the moment, we just have no choice but to go along. Tell them what they want to know—leaving Sandspit out—and try to gain their trust. We’re not able to dictate any terms. But let’s all keep an eye out. Collect personnel numbers, weapons, and especially active aircraft.”
“Sounds right, Ted. This base,” Tom leaned forward on the hardwood bench seat, “was probably used for the fire-bombing campaign in this area.”
“Yeah, this place was as busy as Black Friday shopping when I was here last,” Tristan said. “A lot more planes and ground vehicles were here, too.”
“So, we can assume that it’s no longer at full-strength and that maybe our colonel isn’t a real colonel after all. Know what I mean?” Elliot kept his voice to a conspiratorial low level.
No one answered Elliot. His question was food for thought, however. Could it be that Colonel Hakola and his security squad were merely armed thugs that had taken advantage of an airbase already weakened by the virus and foamer outbreaks? That Hakola then dispatched the infirm and the foamers in return for the loyalty of the surviving personnel—which included a few pilots?
Should that be the case, Hakola would be much harder to reason with. And if he got even a sniff of the Sandspit refuge, he would make immediate plans for its capture. With air power at his disposal, Richard Holmes would be a school-yard bully in comparison.
By early afternoon, all five from the chopper had showered and changed into fresh, clean clothes—civilian clothes. Jeans, flannel shirts, hoodie jackets, and plain, off-brand sneakers. Most comforting of all was the change in underwear. In their haste to leave, no one had thought of packing extra, and their current garments made a foamer smell good. A scrape of the facial growth completed the makeover. Refreshed and invigorated, all had forgotten their apprehensions about the base and Hakola—for the moment. But he did know who Tom was and that suggested he told some truth—but just how much?
The truck ride had taken them a short way, behind the hangars to the entrance of an underground bunker. Down a long spiral, dull-gray metal s
taircase leading to a concrete passageway. Rooms all on one side, a bare wall on the other. At one end of the passage, two more blue beret security men waited, while further down, two accompanied them down the staircase. The first room contained the shower block. Towels were laid out on the bench seat between the metal lockers on each side of the wall in the change room. Just before the doorway into the shower itself were four basins in front of a large, wall-mounted mirror. Disposable razors and cans of shaving foam had also been placed there.
“Follow me, if you will, gentlemen,” a blue beret guard said after each finished his shave.
With towels draped around their midriff, they followed the guard down the corridor, past two of the doors, and into a third. A table and six chairs greeted them in an otherwise-bare room. Five stacks of clothes sat on the table, which held more interest than the lack of furniture. There were several sizes of each garment in each pile.
“Listen!” Tom called as they started to dress. When presented with quizzical looks, he continued. “Sounds like air blowing.”
“There.” Ted pointed to air ducts at the corners of one side of the room.
“That explains it, then.”
“Explains what, Richard?” Tom asked.
“Well, we are all standing here with just a towel draped around us, God knows how many feet below ground, and surrounded by concrete,” Richard gestured to the walls, “and not one of us has complained of being cold.” He then pointed to the air ducts.
“Ah, warm air.” Tom looked up at the wall, then winked at Richard. It made sense now.
“Well, they seem to have a lot of things working for them here. Maybe the rest of the country isn’t in as bad a shape as we first thought. Maybe—”
“Steady on, Elliot. I noticed a large set of solar panels on our way into land, and as for their communications abilities, there are several large satellite dishes on the base. I’d have to assume that some satellites are still operational. But…” Tom slipped a white T-shirt over his head, “there don’t seem to be all that many vehicles on the base, or planes, as Tristan indicated. So, there may not be as many as you think. I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough, though.”
Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Page 11