Standing Before Hell's Gate

by William Alan Webb

  Standing atop a cantilevered ladder, Joe Randall ran the tip of his index finger along the platter-sized connector on the XF-77’s upper fuselage, feeling the smooth metal for imperfections and finding none. Shaped like an upturned funnel, it differed little from refueling connectors on other aircraft.

  Although neither man considered himself an airplane pilot, both he and Carlos had experience flying fixed wings and both had been instantly fascinated by the XF-77. The enormous size of the experimental orbital fighter, in particular, made it seem more like a new bomber than a fighter. Since it hadn’t flown in over four decades, Major Cole allowed them to examine it all they wanted. Randall suspected that his magnanimity had more to do with keeping them from bitching about leaving than learning more about the plane, but Randall didn’t care why he allowed it as long as he did.

  Carlos had removed an access panel midway up on the nose, where two molded gun ports on each side confused him. Obviously they were there for cannon, but what the hell did a modern fighter need with guns? The framework for the mounting of a gun made even less sense, since the area would only have allowed a moderate ammunition supply.

  “I wonder who decided to put cannons on this thing,” he called up to Randall. “I mean, a gun in space?”

  Leaning over the ladder’s rail, he called the answer down. “You heard the man. Homing rounds. Like the Exacto rounds we’ve been using since wake-up.”

  “Sure, that makes sense. You don’t need to chew ’em up. One or two hits might compromise the enemy’s heat shielding. I just wonder which came first, the idea for the cannon or the homing rounds. Either way, whoever designed this wasn’t a dumbass.”

  “An aircraft designer with a brain? Who knew?” Climbing down the ladder, Randall once again walked under the plane’s belly, which was far enough off the ground that he could walk upright. Once again he ran his hand along the composite surface, as if the tactile sensation could provide understanding. “How was this thing supposed to achieve orbit? From what I remember, achievement of a stable orbit using single-stage engines wasn’t even close to being a real thing.”

  “The fuel problem, right?” Carlos called, still inspecting the interior structure of the gun mount.

  “More or less. I’m no expert, but I understand the basics. Single-stage to orbital flight is damned near impossible, because the delta-v gives it full-weight-vehicle to empty-weight-mass ratios that are beyond current science’s ability to overcome. Current meaning pre-Collapse.”

  “Maybe they solved it right before everything went to shit?”

  “Maybe...”

  “A lot can happen in ten years.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Randall? Carlos?” The voice of Major Cole echoed in the huge hangar.

  “Back here,” Randall yelled. “At the XF-77.”

  “I don’t know why you’re being nice to that guy,” Carlos said before Cole got within hearing range.

  “If I’ve missed a viable option, please tell me.”

  “Taking him hostage?”

  “If I thought it’d work, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” He nodded with his chin to indicate Cole was getting close. They both shut up.

  Cole noticed. “You must’ve been talking about me,” the major said when he stood before them.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Carlos said.

  Cole ignored him and looked up at the belly of the orbital fighter. “I wish I could have seen it fly.”

  Randall folded his arms, not letting himself be distracted from what he really wanted to know. “Did you send it?”

  “I said I would, and we did. Ten times over a three-hour period.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. Whoever Judge Gomorrah is, he didn’t answer.”

  “We want out of here, Major.”

  “I’m not stopping you.”

  “But you’re not helping us, either.”

  “You two want to leave, go ahead. I’ll even give you all the water you can carry.”

  “But you won’t help.”

  “No, I won’t. I don’t want you to leave. Anybody else, and I’d order them shot to keep them here. I’m only makin’ an exception because you flew that C-5 in here. But I was ordered to lock this place down right before you two showed up out of nowhere, so what I ought to do is lock you two up until I know what’s what. However, if you want to face that desert on foot, be my guest. If we ever find your bodies, I promise to give you a proper burial.”

  “You’ve got two operational F-22 Raptors, Major,” Carlos said. “Do a recon, see if we’re not telling the truth.”

  “You want me to use my only serviceable aircraft to do what? Overfly Creech? I already know Kando and his people live there, they’ve tried to join forces with us before, but I can’t do that since they aren’t authorized.”

  Randall could see Cole was getting angry again and nodded, as if he understood. “All right, I get it, Major. Sir.”

  Cole wasn’t done, though. “There’s something fundamental you two are missing here. For close to fifty years, the only purpose most of us have had is keeping this place safe for the U.S. government. That may sound stupid to you… hell, it sounds stupid to me when I say it out loud, but what you don’t understand is that it’s all we’ve got. It’s our sole purpose in life. Most of us were raised here, on this base, and we don’t have skills to go survive in the desert beyond. But men can’t just exist; we need a purpose, a reason to keep going. Discipline is critical, because it would be all too easy to just sit around and do nothing. Maintaining the security of this base gives our lives meaning.”

  Cole quieted and waited for a response. Randall said nothing. The dark redness of the major’s face warned against it and even Carlos kept silent.

  After a moment Cole turned to leave. “Dinner is on soon, and then I’m posting the duty schedule.”

  “Hey, Major,” Randall called.

  “What?”

  “Not about us, about the XF-77.”

  Cole’s body visibly relaxed when he realized it wasn’t further confrontation. “What about it?”

  “Do you know how they planned to get this thing to orbit? Did they discover some new power plant or fuel that allowed for single-stage operations?”

  “Not that I know of. It was simpler than that. The aircraft takes off as usual, climbs to a high altitude, and then refuels for the boost into orbit. My father could have explained it better. I never learned all that higher math.”

  Randall wondered why he hadn’t thought of that.

  #

  1657 hours

  Hawthorne Army Depot, Nevada

  Nick Angriff sat on the cot, elbows on knees, wondering what the hell to do. In the back of his mind he knew there was only one thing he could do… nothing. If Colonel Young wasn’t going to obey his orders, and he didn’t have his Eagles, then there wasn’t a whole lot that he could do. Even if he got away from his immediate captors, there was nowhere to go. He couldn’t risk going back to Creech and there was nowhere else within hundreds of miles.

  How had Steeple gotten free? More to the point, how had he taken command of Overtime? Angriff knew how pointless wondering about that was at the moment, but when a man of action couldn’t take any action, there wasn’t much more to do except think.

  The tent flap opened and Young’s executive officer, Major Strootman, stepped into the darkness inside. “Good morning, General. I hope you slept well.”

  “Wolves don’t do well in captivity, Major, and neither do I.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry about all this, General.”

  “Colonel Young is making a serious mistake. You know that, right?”

  “Sir, Colonel Young thought you might need to use the latrine. He asked me to escort you.”

  Angriff tilted his head. “I have a latrine out back.” He pointed to the closed flap opposite the main entrance.

  “That one’s not available, sir.”

  “No?” Squinting in suspicion, he realized the
major was implying something unspoken. Hesitating only a second, he got up from the cot. When Angriff rose, his knees popped and he felt the familiar stiffness in his back. “How thoughtful of the colonel.”

  “If you’ll follow me, sir.”

  Angriff shielded his eyes from the morning sunshine. The guard at the tent started to follow, but Strootman stopped him. “That won’t be necessary, Private. The general is to be accorded all courtesy due his rank.” Pointing, Strootman let Angriff get in front.

  “Not bringing a guard, Major? Aren’t you afraid I’ll overpower you and escape?” Angriff looked back when he said it.

  Strootman ignored the remark and pointed. “It’s straight ahead, sir, out there by that Humvee.”

  “That’s a helluva long way for a latrine. I can barely see it.”

  Once out of earshot of the camp, Strootman spoke in a low voice, as if still afraid that someone might hear. “Your pistols are on the passenger’s seat, General. There’s a pack with food and water, a blanket, and a few other essentials. There are eight containers of gas in the back seats.”

  The left corner of Angriff’s mouth turned up in a half-smile. “I’ll be damned. Tell Colonel Young I said thanks… but what about you? General Steeple will undoubtedly consider this a court-martial offense.”

  “General Steeple said to treat you with all respect due to your rank. The colonel interpreted that to mean he shouldn’t send an armed guard every time you need to use the latrine, so he sent his executive officer as an escort, an executive officer who happens to be fifty pounds lighter than you and was overwhelmed when you took my gun, which you dropped once you had gotten away.”

  “So I’m going to assault a fellow officer?”

  “No offense, sir, but would you rather be a prisoner?”

  Angriff had to laugh at that. “I guess not.”

  “Once we’re a mile out, you can drop me off to walk back. That should buy you at least an hour.”

  “Do you smoke, Major?”

  “Not really, sir… maybe an occasional cigar.”

  “I’m going to get Overtime back, Strootman, and when I do, you and me are gonna smoke a fine cigar together. That’s going to be an order.”

  “I look forward to it. I’d go east if I were you, General. There’s nothing out there except desert, but if you go far enough you might find Crystal Springs.”

  “What’s there?”

  Strootman shrugged. “No idea, but the maps show some old towns out that way. I’m really not familiar with the Nevada desert. I’m from Philadelphia.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I think Area 51’s out there somewhere.”

  “Yeah,” Angriff said, his eyes shifting back and forth as he thought about it. “Area 51… I think you’re right.”

  #

  Dust swirled away in a light breeze as Angriff stopped the Humvee.

  “End of the line, Major.”

  Strootman opened the passenger door but paused before climbing out. “I’m really sorry this happened, General, and I know Colonel Young is, too. I want you to know that he considered telling General Steeple to shove it up his ass and putting the regiment at your disposal…”

  Angriff handed him back the Beretta M9 pistol. “But he couldn’t do that because all of his logistic support is back at Prime.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s about the size of it.”

  “Tell the colonel that the time’s going to come when I overturn all of General Steeple’s orders, and all I ask is that he follow mine. If he does that, we won’t have a problem.”

  “Sir? One final question?”

  “Sure.”

  “How did all this happen?”

  Instead of a quick answer, Angriff looked into the distance and thought about it. “The collapse of any civilization brings forth scavengers looking to feast on the corpses. My mistake was thinking you can reason with a buzzard. Take care of Kona for me.”

  #

  Chapter 49

  I’d fight the devil to save your soul.

  Anonymous woman on daytime TV, circa 2019

  Operation Comeback

  1724 hours, April 28

  At the direct request of Glide, instead of using the small office formerly occupied by Colonel Mwangi right outside the C.O.’s, Astrid Naidoo used a table to set up a workstation in General Schiller’s oversized office. This allowed the two Zombies to sleep in that room, close to Schiller. For his part, outwardly the commanding general declared the alleged threat to his personal safety to be overblown. Inwardly, however, it shook him to his core. Operation Overtime had already suffered multiple mutinies and now it appeared Operation Comeback might suffer the same fate.

  “General?” Naidoo said. “Is something wrong?”

  “Mmm… I’m sorry, Colonel, please continue.”

  “As I said, sir, progress on the A-10s has been slowed by multiple causes. Probably the most significant factor is the confusion that followed General Steeple’s arrest and Colonel Mwangi’s disappearance. There was no officer to drive the project forward, and no prioritization until just a few days ago. Most of the technical personnel needed to assemble them were still in Long Sleep until yesterday, so it’s going to take a little while until they are acclimated and ready to work.”

  “I know the disorientation associated with waking up, but we need to push those people on an accelerated schedule.”

  “A further hamper is the number of technicians available. There’s less than two dozen people qualified to do the work, and that’s not even an ideal number to assemble one aircraft at a time, much less ten. You would think that someone as meticulous as General Steeple would have seen the necessity for having more technicians.”

  “I feel certain he did see the need, but private companies snatched up Air Force trained aviation technicians and paid them very well. Turning their back on such a good life and going into Long Sleep for some unknown and ill-defined future, centered primarily on appeals to patriotism, was likely very difficult to sell. So in answer to our lack of technicians, put out a notice for volunteers to assist with the less-technical work involved, and for anyone who might be interested in training to become such a technician in the future.”

  She typed a note into the tablet on her makeshift desk. “Would it be acceptable to allow the senior master sergeant to oversee the recruitment process?”

  “I would rather have an officer in charge.”

  “There are no Air Force officers among the technicians, sir.”

  “What about the pilots?”

  “Some, but we’ve left them in Long Sleep until needed.”

  Schiller nodded while thinking. “Promote the senior master sergeant to first lieutenant and let him run it, but with regular reports to you.”

  “It’s a female, sir, Shannon Ortberg.”

  Schiller’s first instinct was to ask whether she was up to it, but he refrained. His time in the Army dated from an era when women in the service were unusual and they rarely had much command responsibility. Over the years, he’d seen first-hand evidence of how antiquated that notion had become. “Good. Keep me apprised of progress on those aircraft. General Angriff made it clear that getting them operational is the number one priority for this command. What about runways?”

  “Have you not seen the underground aircraft complex, General?”

  “I only arrived here a few days before you, Colonel. So no, I have not toured the entire facility.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it, sir—”

  Schiller interrupted and blurted out something he’d thought but never intended to say. “When we are alone, please call me Bill.”

  “Yes, sir… I mean, all right, Bill. Please call me Astrid. The… ummm… oh, yes, the facility is amazing. There’s a complete five-thousand-foot long underground runway, with separate revetments for the maintenance of more than one hundred aircraft. By this I assume the air component was intended to be much larger. Blast doors at either end open in an upward curve so
launches be made directly from underground.”

  “Much like some aircraft carriers.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes, the Russians and the British had some like that. Please go on.”

  “Well, apparently that is a risky way to take off, so there are also two elevators to take planes up to ground level. Maybe the most ingenious part is a steel-reinforced concrete runway aboveground that was designed to allow the desert to reclaim it until it’s needed. To make it operational will require a week or so of bulldozing, and we have the machines available for that, and manpower.”

  “That is truly incredible.”

  “What’s remarkable is that the entire aircraft complex is only accessible by one tunnel that connects it to Comeback. It’s a very wide tunnel, but still there’s just the one. And at the end are blast doors resistant to anything up to a direct hit from a nuclear weapon.”

  “That truly sounds fascinating Astrid. I believe you are correct, I will make seeing the airfield complex a priority.”

  #

  Somewhere in the Great Basin Desert, Nevada

  2008 hours, April 28

  Full darkness had yet to fall, but Nick Angriff couldn’t wait any longer. The day’s heat radiated upward from the desert floor even as the ambient temperatures began their nightly plummet. He’d spent the day hunkered down in a ruined building made of concrete blocks and wood. A sun-faded sign read Coyote Hole. He guessed it had once been a mining camp. On the other side of that mountain was a valley with what appeared to be the abandoned town of Dyer, just inside Nevada along the old border with California, southeast of where he’d started near Hawthorne.

  He intended to turn due east now, to circumvent the area once known as Area 51 to the north. General Kando had mentioned that facility still had a garrison and there was no way of predicting their reactions if he showed up there. Besides, he’d calculated his fuel and water supply and figured there was enough to get him somewhere near the Colorado River. How he’d cross that obstacle was something he’d worry about when the time came. All he knew for certain was his destination — Overtime Prime. What happened once he got there depended on how fast he could strangle Tom Steeple.