by John O'Brien
“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.
“Sir?” I hear Gonzalez call.
“Go ahead,” I reply.
“I’m not sure what I’m seeing, but I’m picking up a heat signature on thermal,” she states.
“Which direction and how far?” I ask.
There is a moment of silence. “It’s off our left wing and looks to be about fifteen miles away, sir.”
I glance out of the window to our nine o’clock position. I don’t see anything, but the mileage she indicated would put whatever she is seeing near an interstate leading from Albuquerque to Santa Fe. The road itself isn’t very distinguishable from the surrounding terrain, but the shadows from the raised surface make it easy to locate.
“Zoom in,” I say, turning my monitor to what she is seeing.
Glancing at the monitor, I see the warm spot Gonzalez indicated sitting just off what I think is the interstate.
“Robert, set up a hol
ding pattern here and maintain fifteen thousand feet. We’re picking something up on thermal to the north and I’m heading down for a closer look,” I radio.
“Copy that. We’ll be here at fifteen thousand,” he replies.
I notify Gonzalez that we’re descending and going to take a closer look. Pulling the throttles back, I lower the nose and turn toward the sighting.
As we draw closer, both in distance and altitude, I note a single, thin line of smoke wafting in the air. It soon becomes apparent that the plume is emanating from a Stryker sitting on the plain.
Thinking the worst, I call on the radio for Greg once again. No reply. A fear surfaces, thinking that we’ve found Greg and have arrived too late. I feel a lump in my throat. I sent him without adequate support and I dread that I may be staring at the result of that mistake. A measure of guilt fills me knowing that it was done because I was distraught over my son.
“Gonzalez, zoom in on the Stryker. Tell me what you see,” I call.
There’s a pause as we continue to close the distance. “I can’t tell much, sir. It appears to have some battle damage and I see a body lying beside it.”
“Look outward and see if you can spot what caused this,” I say, looking in the sky around for any indication of aircraft in the area.
If that is Greg’s Stryker below, I can only assume, yes, that word, that the other group who targeted us is responsible. Although we found details of the facility and their capabilities, those are only words in a database and may or may not reflect reality. I am marginally set at ease thinking that, if they had aircraft capable of this, they wouldn’t have sent a team halfway across the country to take us out.
“There are a few more bodies west of the vehicle, but I don’t see anything else in the vicinity,” Gonzalez reports.
Closing the distance, I see the situation in greater detail. Black streaks appear along the side of the Stryker where it has been hit hard. I circle, looking for any signs of life or movement but I don’t see anything except the slowly rising column of thin smoke. The fact that the vehicle is still smoking indicates that it may have happened recently. Looking farther outward for any tell-tales signs of whoever did this, I don’t see anything other than the brown dirt terrain with rising peaks to the northeast and northwest.
* * * * * *
Gav watches the large screen with interest. The live feed shows one group of her armored vehicles as they speed down a valley, chasing a lone Stryker a few miles ahead of it. A short while ago, waking early, she gathered the video feeds from the night prior and watched the pursuit. She observed the squad she had sent her company against narrowly escape a trap in a remote mountain town; watched as the chase continued to the south. All the while, a second group raced to get ahead and trap the squad in the valley.
Now, with the trap set, she observes the formed blockade and the single Stryker being herded toward it. The video blurs momentarily as the camera on the satellite, orbiting two hundred miles above, adjusts the zoom level. The feed catches the one armored vehicle as it turns off the raised embankment of the freeway and speeds across the flatland.
Her face remains blank, but inwardly, she is pleased as she watches the successive blows against the Stryker, bringing it to a halt. The high-resolution camera catches the emergence of survivors and their race toward the edge of a deep ravine.
The camera pulls back quickly, giving the ones watching a slight feeling of vertigo. As it settles to present a wider area, Gav watches her two armored groups close in on the gathered squad.
Tracers race out from the southernmost column, reaching toward the fleeing survivors. Dirt flies up and, upon clearing, shows bodies lying in ruin on the ground. The fire shifts toward two who were behind the larger group and are now fleeing back toward the disabled vehicle. Heavy fire erupts around the two, impacting the ground and the metallic sides of the Stryker. Although the view is obscured to some degree by the amount of fire pouring in, Gav watches one of the running figures fall to the ground. The other dives in the open hatch. A column of smoke blossoms against the lone Stryker as it absorbs another 105mm shell.
“Nahmer, we have two aircraft lifting off from Cannon AFB. A C-130 and an AC-130. Both aircraft have turned to the northwest and are heading toward the conflict,” reports a shift supervisor standing beside her.
“Was there any communication?” Gav asks.
“Not that we can determine,” the supervisor replies.
The large screen dominating the room flickers and, as it settles on a new image, Gav sees two 130s flying in formation.
“How long until they are on station?” Gav asks.
“At their current heading and speed, and assuming they are heading for the area where our units are, they’ll arrive in approximately forty minutes.”
“Recall the company. Have them exfil northward,” Gav orders.
She turns and leaves the control room feeling a measure of satisfaction.
* * * * * *
Captain Trey Galvers sees the quarry approach on the road ahead. He had driven through the night, pressing his company hard in order to arrive in a position ahead of the Stryker and the small squad he has been ordered to take out. Splitting his forces, he has kept in communication with the platoon-plus-sized force he sent after the lone vehicle, led by one of his commanders. It was a classic hammer and anvil operation; chase the enemy into a prepared position and hit them from two sides. He watched on the live satellite feed as the Stryker barreled down the interstate directly toward his blocking force.
Their target veers off the main road, making a high speed run across the plain. Ordering the others in his group to open fire, volley after volley is sent outward. Seeing the hits and the Stryker slew to a halt, with faint tendrils of smoke rising, he orders the vehicles from both groups to close in. His orders are to eradicate the opposing squad with extreme prejudice but, if they can capture some of them, they are to take the opportunity. However, his orders state, and he agrees with them wholeheartedly, he isn’t to risk any of his company.
Watching as those escaping from the disabled vehicle run across the plateau toward an escarpment, and not knowing what their capabilities still might be, he orders his unit to open fire. A minute later, they are all down.
The order comes telling them to vacate the area, informing them of a possible inbound gunship. Quickly gathering his unit, he streaks north to put as many miles between him and the possible inbound. Thirty minutes later, with the two aircraft still ten minutes from the site of the fight, and with him almost thirty miles north, Trey slows his unit so that they don’t give themselves away by kicking up a dust cloud.
* * * * * *
I fly low over the plain, hoping to see something, or someone. Seeing the bodies Gonzalez indicated lying strewn on the ground west of the smoldering Stryker, I know we need to set down and investigate. I need to know. With a feeling of dread, I notify Robert that we are on our way to join him, briefing him on what we observed. Looking at the scene below as we climb, I feel in my gut that this has something to do with the group who sent the sniper against us.
Leveling off at thirteen thousand feet, two thousand feet below Robert’s altitude, it isn’t long before I see a dark speck drifting against a background of blue sky.
“Robert, I’m at your seven o’clock low and have you in sight. Slow to 180 and maintain a thirty degree bank to the left,” I call.
“Roger that. I have you in sight,” he responds.
Seeing the other 130 bank, I turn to place myself inside of their track. Maintaining a higher airspeed, I climb and, using my shorter turn radius, close the distance. Robert’s 130 slowly increases in size until I park myself in his eight o’clock position a couple of hundred feet away.
“Okay, level off and drift back into a chase position. I’m going to land and check things. I want you to circle and keep an eye out,” I state.
“Copy that,” he replies as his 130 slowly slides to the rear.
“Okay, I have th
e lead. Follow me in,” I say. Two clicks on the radio affirms his acknowledgment.
Pulling the throttles back, I begin a descent and turn back toward the lone, smoldering Stryker. Approaching the plains, I separate Robert off to circle the area without getting in the way of our low approach and subsequent landing. Lining up with a straight section of the highway near the wreckage, I do a low approach checking for obstructions. Coming back around, I set the aircraft down. Billows of dust stream forward as I apply the reverse thrust. Bringing the engines back to normal idle, we taxi clear of the dust cloud and come to a stop, the stricken vehicle only a short distance across the flats. I leave the engines in idle, playing with the reverse thrust to avoid creating a wind storm to the rear of the aircraft, and notify Lynn that we are good. With Robert providing a top lookout, Lynn will lead Gonzalez, Henderson, and Denton to check out the Stryker and bodies.
* * * * * *
Gathering weapons and ammo, Lynn steps down the ramp with the three others of Red Team. Amid the roar of the four idling engines, she adjusts her M-4 and, with a nod to the others, walks across the highway and down the embankment toward the Stryker smoking in the near distance. With a heavy heart, thinking they are too late to save Greg and his team, she walks across the soft dirt of the high plain, dust puffing up with each step.
Tall mountains to the northeast and northwest look over the steppe, completely oblivious to what has transpired, and not caring one bit. It may be that they do care, but their time is measured so vastly differently and this is only a brief moment in their seemingly eternal lifespan.
With Gonzalez, Henderson, and Denton spread to the sides, Lynn, still feeling ill at what she may find, skirts around the vehicle as she cautiously makes her way toward the bodies. She’ll come back and check the Stryker once she has taken a look at the bodies and identified them.