by Mark Tufo
Lynn had, or has I guess, a brother who was a pilot flying out of Ohio. “Four Juliet Golf, your sister wouldn’t happen to be named Lynn would she?” I ask.
“Um, Otter Three Niner, that’s affirmative.”
“You wouldn’t by chance happen to be Craig would you?” I ask, completely amazed and a little befuddled by this seeming happenstance.
“Okay, this is weird and perhaps a rather strange coincidence. I’m going to hazard a guess that you are Jack.”
“Yeah, Craig, I am. This is an amazing coincidence and I’m glad we met up. I’ll tell Lynn when I see her,” I say.
“Have you heard from her lately?”
“Not in the past couple of days. How about you?”
“About the same,” he replies.
“You mentioned we. Who else do you have on board?” I ask, leaving open the hope that she is still okay.
“Mom and two feline friends. Do you know how hard it is to buckle two cats up?” Craig answers.
“About as hard as trying to herd them I guess,” I say with a chuckle. “You’re welcome to follow us into Brunswick Naval Air Station. I can give you the coordinates if you like. I’ll leave the lights on for ya.”
“I’d love to, Jack, but I have to check on my other sis and dad. What’s your plan after?” Craig asks. I tell him about our plan to return to McChord in a few days and we continue to talk for a bit back and forth.
At one point Lynn’s mom gets on the radio. “You find my girl and bring her back, Jack.”
“Will do, ma’am,” I reply.
We didn’t want to get off the radio after having made contact, however, each of our duties call, and we agree to meet back at McChord in five days.
“Good luck to you, Craig. I wish you and Mom the best,” I say.
“To you as well, Jack. Tell my sis hi,” Craig replies.
“Roger that. See you in five.” And as quick as he arrived, he was gone.
It is quite the miracle we came together like that. Like the bubbling realm of possibilities in my mind and the quantum world came together to form a piece of reality. The realm of possibilities are endless and don’t surface into to the realm of reality until observed in some fashion, whether through direct observation or through a conscious or sub-conscious factor.
Was meeting Craig like that, and the fact that he happened to be Lynn’s brother, a direct manifestation of my mind and sub-conscious want?
I drift into thoughts of the quantum world and energy until my brain bleeds. I shake my head bringing myself out of my reverie and into the current reality.
Beginning our descent, I switch our primary route to Robert’s NAV instrument and the approach I designed to mine after accomplishing our checks. The moon looms large in the sky above casting a ghostly, silvery-blue light on the landscape below. Nowhere does the light of humankind show, and only the drone and vibrations of the engines keep us company.
Having descended a little out over the Atlantic, I turn back to the west centering the localizer needle and fly toward the naval air station. Three miles from the final approach fix, where we will start down toward the runway, and with our flaps at fifty percent, I call for the gear. The deep rumble vibrates the aircraft and then comes to a stop as three green lights illuminate by the gear handle. The horizontal needle on the instrument starts its downward trek toward the middle. I pull the throttles back and turn on the landing lights as the needle centers with the vertical needle already centered. It looks much like a crosshair and that’s the way I want it.
The moon disappears behind the clouds from the far away storm as they trek slowly eastward and the moon continues on its westward journey leaving the land and sky only very dimly lit by the stars above. It’s too dark to see any buildings or runway. I can only hope we are on the right path, that I have set up the right coordinates and that the GPS is still accurate.
Continuing down the glide path, Robert calls out the airspeed and altitude on the radar altimeter for practice should we need to use the night vision equipment. My eyes alternate between the NAV readings, the airspeed, altimeter, and outside hoping to pick up the runway soon.
“Five hundred feet,” he calls out in the intercom.
I can feel the tension from the girls. Well, I can feel it from me as well. I have been a long time out of the aircraft, and here I am flying a night, GPS-only approach into to a foreign airfield that has no lights. What could be more relaxing?
“Three hundred feet,” Robert says.
Suddenly, the lights pick up the end of a runway with the white threshold markings. More of the runway and its surroundings illuminate as we draw closer.
“I have a visual,” I call out, transitioning to a total visual approach. “We’re going to do a low fly-by to check out the runway.”
For all I know, there are wrecked aircraft all over it or deer deciding the runway is a good place to gather, and I have already had enough surprises for one day.
About a hundred feet off the ground, I push the power up leaving the gear down so we can have the lights. We lumber down the runway for the length of it. I try to get a visual on the windsock but it is lost in the darkness when I realize I forgot to have Robert check the NAV system for wind direction and speed. Well, it’s not like I have a choice on which runway to land on. I can’t exactly circle around to an unlit runway. I mean, I could, but it is just like any other dark patch of land below us and winding up on an exact final would be a matter of luck.
We climb away after seeing the runway clear and clean up the aircraft, turning once more toward the markers I set in the NAV and align with the runway again, this time with the intention of landing. I pick up the runway at about the same point with our gear down and call for full flaps. Robert checks on the wind and it shows that we have a slight tailwind, nothing to worry about. This time, rather than powering up, I pull the throttle and control wheel slowly back flaring over the threshold. I wouldn’t so much call what we did scant seconds later a landing but more of an arrival.
Thump! Welcome to Brunswick!
Night landings can do that, but at least the wheels stay on the ground and the wings are still attached. Lowering the nose, I pull the throttles over the detent and apply reverse thrust. Our forward momentum slows rapidly, causing us to lean forward, and our airspeed diminishes.
“Holy shit!” Robert and I say at the same time as there is suddenly someone standing in the glare of the lights.
I mean just standing right on the runway and just to the left of our path.
Idiot, I think, pushing on the brakes.
We still have a bit of momentum, and they can overheat in a hurry causing the tires and gear to disintegrate. There’s no way I’m going to stop in time and, as quick as they appeared, they are lost below the windows and down the left side. The aircraft lurches slightly to the left and, very quickly, so quick as to almost be non-existent, a vibration and buzz-saw noise comes through the cockpit. I correct the direction and take the throttles out of reverse, applying brakes to bring us to a taxi speed.
“Was that what I think it was?” Michelle asks from her seat.
“Yeah, I think so,” Robert responds.
“Should we go see if they are alright?” Nicole asks.
“I’m not sure that’s going do any good, Nicole,” Robert says incredulously.
“Besides, we’re not going out at night. I’m pretty sure that was one of those things, because no sane person would be standing in the middle of a runway with a plane landing,” I add.
Exiting off at the end of the runway, I turn the aircraft around so we are facing the runway. I would just park on the runway, ready to take off again, but there is the off chance that someone could come in and try to land. The runway wouldn’t be the best place to be if that were to happen, as they won’t see us until it’s too late. Shutting down, but shunting the electrical power to battery and setting the parking brake, we head to the cargo area. Drawing curtains across the cockpit, I also put covers over t
he cargo compartment windows. The covers are for blackout operations and allow lighting within the cargo area without emitting any outside. With the cargo compartment lights on, I check the doors and have everyone else get the sleeping bags ready and some food out. There are three cots available within.
“Bri, Nicole, you have the two middle cots between the tanks,” I say pointing. “Michelle, you have the one over the window.”
They take out their bags, unfurling them on the cots with Robert unrolling his under Michelle’s location. Smiling inside, I unroll mine in the aisle by the front door. We find some small pillows in the storage compartments, heat up some canned food after arranging our beds, and hunker down for some dinner. We are all exhausted so we eat mostly in silence with little small talk.
“We’ll get some rest and head out of here in the morning,” I say as we finish dinner. “Keep your flashlights by your bed in case you need to get up in the night. I’ll take the first watch.”
With everyone in their bags, I head up to the cockpit and flip the electrical system off plunging the aircraft into darkness. With my path illuminated by flashlight, I head over to my bag, climb inside laying the M-4 and pistol by my side, and switch off the light. We all say our goodnights in the darkness.
I am just about to lay my head down and keep watch from inside my bag when a loud thump reverberates through the aircraft. Nicole gives a small yelp.
“What was that?” Robert asks, sitting up in the darkness. A shriek sounds outside.
“I guess that answers your question,” I say, climbing out of my bag and grabbing my weapons.
Another thump as something slams into the side from outside, this one close behind me by the front crew door. It is followed by another close to the rear of the aircraft on the other side. Several shrieks sound out in the night and I hear growling outside, muted by the metallic skin of the fuselage. The thumps against the side increase with the shrieks and growling growing in intensity and numbers. Apparently, more are arriving outside the aircraft.
“Don’t worry, guys, and be absolutely quiet,” I whisper loud enough for everyone to hear just as two simultaneous thumps echo inside from opposite sides of the 130. “This thing took the beating the thunderstorms gave it, so we are quite safe here. And, unless they know how to manipulate the doors, they can’t get inside.”
The slams and shrieks become a constant with muted growls filling any void in-between. Exhaustion fills us, but we are unable to sleep with the noise, coupled with the tension, that so many things prowling outside brings.
“Okay! Enough of this crap!” I say after three solid hours of this constant barrage on our senses. “This has got to stop!”
“What are you going to do?” Robert asks as I turn on my flashlight and start toward the curtains at the bottom of the cockpit stairs.
“End this shit,” I say, drawing the curtains back far enough to slip inside and up the stairs.
I sit, buckle in, and put my helmet on. Robert slides into his seat and buckles in. “Are we taking off?” he says after plugging into the intercom.
“No,” I reply, switching on the battery and ensuring the fuel control panel is set correctly.
With the helmet on, the thumps and shrieks are muted even further; the thumps become more felt than heard, and the constant growling is muted altogether. If the helmets muted everything altogether, perhaps we could just put them on and enjoy some quiet, but well, that’s just not the case. I don’t know how many are gathered outside trying to bash their way in, but from the sound of it, there are quite a few.
“Are we going to move then? Won’t they just follow us?” Robert asks as I attach the NVGs to my helmet and rotate them over my eyes.
“We’re going to move alright, and I hope they do follow us,” I answer.
I glance out my side window. The runway and surrounding area is bathed in a greenish glow. Depth perception is a little off, but the details are not. I see at least fifty gathered on my side and in front. Some are just milling about, but others are running at the aircraft only to disappear below my line of sight. The only indication that their run continues is a solid thump against the aircraft. My line of sight cannot see much past our inboard engine toward the fuselage but I imagine it is the same all around us.
“There are about fifty over here. How’s your side?” I ask, looking over at Robert to see he has his NVGs on.
“About the same I think,” he answers as the girls step into the cockpit and buckle into their seats.
“Are we leaving?” Bri asks once she attaches her comm cord.
“Nope,” I reply.
“What are we going to do then?” she asks, only to be interrupted by Robert.
“How are we going to start the engines with those things around them?” he asks.
“We just are,” I answer back as four sets of eyes turn toward me and I raise my NVGs.
“I’m not even going to ask if it’s clear right.” I move the throttle lever to run and reach up to the number three engine start button.
Robert looks back in but keeps sneaking quick glances outside, both curious and appalled at the potential of what will happen when the engines start. I push the button, hear the turbine start spinning up, and see the gauges on number three rise.
“Oh sick!” Robert says, but he continues glancing outside.
I feel a couple of thumps as the props spin up to speed and the engine stabilizes smoothly at idle. I run up the engine a little and begin the start on number four. I feel thumps along my side of the aircraft and some on Robert’s, but they are distinctly lacking on the right rear. The hurricane force winds generated by the engines and giant props prevent anything from being able to exist behind.
“They’ve moved away from the engines but are bunched up below me,” Robert says.
I start the remaining engines and the drone drowns out all but the slams against the front. With everything stabilized, I flick on the landing and taxi lights flooding the area in front. The crowd around the aircraft comes into full view, their mottled skin showing up brightly. They are clothed in a variety of manners, some in flight suits, others in fatigues and other uniforms, and still others in civilian clothing; some shredded and some whole. The intensity of the lights causes them to appear as if in black and white with little color being reflected back to our eyes. They are milling about anxiously with only the occasional one slamming into the side, but all give the blur of the props room. In the lights, more are running toward our front and sides from around the wing edges.
I release the parking brake, move the throttles up, and the aircraft starts rolling forward. “Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?” Robert asks, staring at the immense crowd outside.
“Yup.” I push the throttles forward. The engines respond to my request, and the 130 picks up speed. The nose of the aircraft forces the creatures to part to one side or the other. “I wouldn’t look as it’s not going to be pretty.”
A change in the pitch and drone of the engines occurs as we head down the taxiway and onto the runway accompanied by a series of soft slaps against the sides of the fuselage behind us. The things outside closest to us try to back away from our advance but are slowed by those behind them. Some try to get away to the side only to be caught by the outboard engines. In the middle of the runway, I start turning the aircraft around. The light we cast turns with us and illuminates the outside by degrees, picking up the things outside coming back at us; first in singles as we turn, and then in groups as we complete our 180-degree turn. The lights clearly show our previous path. Small and large clumps of shredded clothing and bloodied body parts are strewn on the taxiway with a clearly defined path down the middle.
Some are now coming toward us from the front, with more from the sides, as we start down the taxiway to where we were parked just moments ago. Those in front scatter to the sides and away from our approach, but a few keep coming blinded by the intensity of our lights. There are a couple additional buzz saw-like sou
nds and meaty slaps against the sides as we turn left and proceed down the main taxiway, paralleling the runway. The main ramp area opens to our right, and I swing out onto it doing yet another 180-degree turn at midfield. I bring the throttles back and step on the brakes bringing us to a stop. The lights pick out an immense horde of things running after us down the taxiway and in the grass between the taxiway and runway.
“They’re persistent. I’ll give ‘em that,” I say, closely watching them.
I push the throttles up but hold the brakes. The nose bows downward compressing the nose gear strut, waiting to be released.
“Won’t this damage the props?” Robert asks as we all look at the well-lit group hurtling toward us.
“We should be okay. Those are thirteen-foot props turning at over one thousand RPM. Rocks and such will put nicks in them, but I doubt they’ll even notice flesh and bones,” I answer.
“Dad, do we have to do this?” Bri asks.
“Bri, we don’t have the fuel to fly our next leg, nor do we have enough to just fly around all night. Plus, they’re really pissing me off. Sorry, sweetheart.”
Here we sit, stopped on the taxiway, the deep, steady, strong drone of the engines, the propellers turning at high speed, lights blazing out into the darkness, and the approaching horde steadily closing the distance, drawn by whatever it is in their heads that leads them to this chase.
When the mass is about seventy-five yards ahead, I release the brakes. The nose launches upward as the aircraft is finally released from its blocks. We start down the taxiway picking up speed as we near the horde, our closure rate increasing as we add our speed to it. We close to within a few yards and the ones in front of us start separating from our path to the sides. Then, just like that, they sweep behind us, the outboard engines catching a couple of them as we pass them by. I taxi to the end of the ramp and taxiway turning around once again.
“Okay, let’s try that a little differently,” I say, bringing us to a stop.
Once again, the horde has turned around and is pursuing us. This time, I wait until they are only fifty yards ahead before releasing the brakes. We surge ahead and draw closer to them. They separate in the same manner and I turn to the right with them maneuvering to bring the nearest edge of them close down our right side. Our lights ahead show the ramp clear of obstacles other than the running horde. Our engines plow through them; raw, fleshy slaps against the fuselage are barely heard over the roar of the turning props. Slap…. Slap, slap…slap, slap, slap, slap…slap….slap…slap, slap.