by John O'Brien
“It may be too cold for them up there, and during the summer, the nighttime hours in which they could operate were extremely short. There is the chance that they could have starved because they couldn’t get out and hunt for extended periods of time,” Frank responds. “The speculation of why may or may not be important. The important element is that they don’t appear to be around and there is the potential of an operating refinery…or several of them.”
“If those refineries are operating, my opinion is that it’s necessary to get up there while we still can,” I say. “I should add that Harold has been unable to get any kind of radio contact with anyone up there.”
“You mean now, don’t you, Jack?” Lynn states with a sharp look.
“That’s kind of what I was alluding to. The weather is going to be closing in soon. If it does, we may not have the chance to get up there at all. There’s the possibility that our fuel supply will go bad before the weather breaks enough to get that far north. I had Harold send a current weather picture with a forecast. We have a window of opportunity ahead of us. If we don’t leave soon, and I mean within a number of days, we could miss that. We’re running out of time, and it will only get more difficult to get up there from this moment on,” I reply.
“If those refineries are operating, I personally feel that it’s necessary to get up there and make contact while we still can. We need to verify what we are only guessing at from the images. While I feel that we need to focus on what we’re doing here, I also feel that we need to pursue this,” Frank comments. “From what I’ve seen, and keep in mind that’s only from one night of observation, the night runners haven’t changed their habits very much. It’s possible that we could sneak a quick trip in. We also have the satellite and that frees up the Spooky and Jack’s time.
“In my opinion, if they are refining fuel, I think it’s damn near imperative we get up there and contact the people running the facilities. If the weather sets in like Jack says, we may not have another chance until close to summer. At that point, we’d have to drive up, if that was still even a possibility. It may be, like has already been mentioned, that we will lose our only chance to make any contact.”
“Well, Jack, you’ve obviously thought about this. How long will you be gone?” Lynn asks with a hint of resignation.
“I’m guessing it will take three or four days at the most. It will take part of a day to fly up, at least a day there, and a day to return,” I answer.
“And who will be going? Keep in mind that we have a lot going on here. I realize we have more people on hand, but if you take our experienced teams, that will leave us short,” Lynn states.
“I would like to take the Spooky but feel it’s necessary to have our own ground transportation. So, with that in mind, I’d like to take Red Team and fifty of Montore’s soldiers. We can leave those with the group up there, providing we meet them on good terms. They will also provide a sufficient armed force if we encounter opposition,” I reply.
“Jack, let’s not forget about those in the caves near the bunker. What are we going to do about them? I don’t think Harold and the teams are in any danger, but the fact that a group like that is close to the bunker, and with its significance, well, that makes me nervous,” Lynn says.
“Weather permitting, we can take a look at them on the way back,” I respond.
“That won’t work if you leave the fifty soldiers up there, Jack. That will leave you with just Red Team,” Lynn says. “And wouldn’t you want Greg with you when you go there? He’s the one who knows the caves and surrounding area.”
“Wow, that’s a duh moment, eh? I hadn’t thought about that one yet, to be honest.”
“I’d definitely like to go along if we’re heading back there,” Greg states.
“So, if you’re planning to go there on your way back, you should take Greg and Echo Team along,” Lynn says.
The team that accompanied Greg on his trek was a mix of soldiers from other teams that were conducting a search for their families. Echo Team still exists, and upon his return to health, they welcomed their team leader back.
“Will that leave you too short?”
“We’ll manage,” Lynn responds.
“Okay. Greg, are you good with that?” I ask, to which he nods.
“When is the weather clearing…or good enough to go?” Frank asks.
“According to the radar picture Harold sent, the system should clear out of here and push east sometime late tomorrow afternoon. That will leave a clear route to the northeast that will last several days. We can’t afford to linger up there for more than a couple of days before returning. I’ll get updates from Harold and see if we have time to hit the caves,” I reply. “Frank, would you mind trying to contact the northern group on the ham radio? I know Harold has tried numerous times, but perhaps sending from a different location will help. With them being that far north, I have a hard time believing they don’t have a ham radio or two in operation.”
“Sure thing. We’ll schedule attempts throughout the day and night,” Frank answers.
“One other thing before we break for the evening,” Greg says. “We haven’t talked about relocating and I don’t think we can put that off for long if we’re going to. Like Bannerman said, there’s a lot of planning involved. It’s not like we can just load our stuff into a U-Haul and truck over to the bunker.”
“I know, and I hate putting that off, but we’ll have to for now. How about we put that on the front burner when we return,” I say.
The others nod, although some reluctantly.
“Until then, keep thinking along the lines that we’ll be moving. That way, if we decide that we’re going, we’ll be ready.”
The steady downpour precludes us from going aloft, so after the meeting, I stare at the night runners north of us through the satellite feed. The clouds don’t affect our ability to see to ground level, and from what I observe, the weather doesn’t appear to be affecting their hunt. Night runners flow out of the buildings as night sets in and race through the darkened streets. If anything, I imagine the moisture makes it easier for them to seek out prey, as the water vapor will trap the scent molecules.
We have been given some capabilities on our end and I watch as Frank tags a couple of the packs to observe their progress throughout the evening. He informs me that he’ll check the tapes in the morning and try to identify their range of activity, comparing it with others that he marks, and to see if they return to the same lair.
The sheer number of packs racing through the rain-drenched streets is unnerving, especially when I think that they are just a few miles to the north. If those hundreds of thousands move south, and are somehow able to cross the river, our very survival could be in question. I can imagine the night runners stacking bodies against the wall and the ones behind scaling over the top. They’d still have to get through the heavy doors, but it’s not a comforting thought.
Leaving Frank to stare at the monitor, I locate Sergeant Montore and tell him of our plan to journey up to northern Canada to contact a group of survivors. He hasn’t been a part of our meetings but I think it may be time to change that. It’s only been a few days since he’s been with us at the compound, but he and the soldiers haven’t given anything other than their full support. The experience with the soldiers at Mountain Home substantially increased my trust in them. I’ll talk it over with the others and extend the offer if they are agreeable.
“I’d like for you to select another fifty soldiers to accompany me on the flight, with the possibility of leaving them with the survivors should they be accepted,” I tell Montore.
“Okay. I assume that they’ll be kept in the loop about anything we find out regarding families,” Montore responds.
“Absolutely.”
“If it’s possible, I’d like to go with them,” Montore inquires.
“What? You mean you want to stay there with them?” I ask.
“No, nothing like that. I’d just like to go along. I feel responsible f
or them and think that my presence might make the transition easier. They have already left the life they knew, been carted to a new place, and now, a few days later, will travel to yet another unknown. I don’t know, sir, but I just feel that I should go along with them,” Montore says.
“All right. That makes sense to me. I’ll ask Lynn, and if she agrees, I have no problem with that.”
Unable to take the Spooky up, I retire earlier than usual. Lying in our small cubicle, I tell Lynn about my conversation with Montore and his desire to accompany us.
“Jack, the soldiers are used to being moved around and assigned different locations. You know that. However, there was always a home to return to, which presented a background form of stability. They don’t have that anymore. At least we have Cabela’s here that affords us that, even with the dangers that surround us. They’ve had that taken away from them. So, in short, I agree with his rationale,” she states.
Eh!
In the morning, the steady rain continues, a portent of season ahead. After rising and avoiding the teams headed out into the downpour for training, I contact Harold for an update on the weather. The radar picture still shows the rain tapering off in the afternoon and pushing eastward, giving us a few days of clear weather ahead.
Gathering Robert and Bri, we begin to plan the flight. Fort McMurray lies about eight hundred and fifty miles to the northeast, just under three hours of flight time. The course will take us over sparsely populated – well, where isn’t the population sparse these days – and mostly rugged terrain. I make a note to take along a fair amount of food, water, and survival gear in the event that we have to land prematurely, which is another way of nicely saying “crash.” Of course, it doesn’t necessarily mean that. If we have a malfunction that doesn’t turn us into a flying brick, we’ll be able to set it down. The rugged terrain we’ll find on the first half of the trip will make that enterprise a little sporty.
Looking over the maps, comparing them with the pictures, we locate two airports in the vicinity of Fort McMurray. One is a strip serving the town to the east and the other is near one of the refineries to the north. Both look to be paved but we opt for the one to the east, as it appears a little more usable according to the satellite images.
The airstrip isn’t military so I’m sure we won’t find the fuel we need, but the distance is such that we won’t have to worry about refueling. If we do need to refuel for some reason, there is an air base about one hundred and sixty miles to the south. There’s also a Canadian Forces heliport just off our route at Edmonton should we need. The markings there show that the runways are closed, but should be usable in the event of an emergency. Although our course crosses a lot of empty terrain, there are airfields where we can land if we need to divert.
With the flight planning complete, Robert and I drive to the 130 to input the coordinates into the nav computer. Raindrops pound against the metal roof and splash on the windshield. If it wasn’t for what I recently saw on the weather radar, I would be thinking we couldn’t leave for at least a couple of days. I will update the weather with Harold in the morning before we take off. So we can leave as soon as possible, a Stryker will be loaded up when the rain, hopefully, turns to showers in the afternoon. This may be our only chance for who knows how long. The weather we’re experiencing is the first sign that our Indian summer is drawing rapidly to a close.
As promised, the rainfall tapers off in the afternoon, allowing us to load the Stryker without soaking ourselves. After preloading the gear for the teams and fifty soldiers that will be accompanying us, we’re ready for an early morning departure.
Rising with the sun, I make my way outside into the chilly morning. A steady wind whipping through the compound makes it seem even colder. Wrapping a jacket around me for warmth, I gaze into a clear sky. With a satisfied nod, I head to the control room and contact Harold, who sends the latest weather radar images. The front that sat over us for the past few days has indeed pushed eastward and the skies are clear all the way to our destination. There aren’t any new fronts close by, although a new system appears to be building in the Pacific that looks like it will hit the northwest in a few days. This will give us our short window of opportunity.
Gathering everyone together, we say our farewells and trudge down the muddy road to the 130. Many of the soldiers wrap their arms tightly around themselves in an attempt to fend off the chill and board the aircraft. Quarters are cramped with the Stryker on board, but everyone finds a seat and settles in. At least the flight will be a relatively short one. However chilly as it might be on our departure, I’m pretty sure we’ll be landing in a much colder environment. Starting the engines, we taxi out and begin our takeoff roll on the still-wet runway.
We’re heavy but manage to get airborne, and bank to the northeast, clawing for altitude in the cold air. With a 130, it’s always clawing for altitude. The passage of rain has cleared the air and Mount Rainier shows brilliantly as it passes off our right wing. Its western slopes are still shadowed from the early morning sun, leaving the glaciers colored an icy blue. On its eastern side, a new fall of snow sparkles in the sunlight. To the left lay the rain-swept streets of the built-up areas between Seattle and us. I stare at the multitude of buildings, knowing they house at least half a million night runners. As we climb, the sky ahead is clear with clouds far to the east from the front that passed through.
Leaving the western Washington corridor behind, we are soon over the Cascades. The tallest peaks all show evidence of freshly fallen snow. Turbulence bounces us as the stiff wind hits the lower slopes and is thrown upward. This decreases as we approach our cruising altitude of FL200 (20,000 feet), but there are still periodic bumps.
The eastern edge of the Cascades end at the point where the Rockies begin, forming a narrow valley at the Canadian border. As we cross this valley and head over the taller mountains of the Canadian Rockies, the turbulence increases. I don’t envy the soldiers in back as the 130 is jostled. While those of us up front only feel the hard bumps as we rise and fall, the soldiers in back not only feel those, but also a swaying motion that is inherent with Hercules. It almost takes the acquisition of sea legs to make one’s way around the cargo compartment when turbulence takes hold of the aircraft. I can only hope that we soon fly out of the bumpy air mass, and that there isn’t a mess to clean up when we land.
The peaks and ridgelines are covered in white, creating geometric patterns below. The stark whiteness fades to gray, and then abruptly to green as the snowline is reached. We drone over the vast wilderness, our propellers taking large bites out of the cold air.
During the flight, I keep attempting to raise any of the people living around Fort McMurray, and make broadcasts on the emergency frequencies hoping to find other survivors. Our attempts are met with silence. Our ground speed readouts show that we have a good tailwind and, therefore, we make excellent time. A little over an hour into our flight, we leave the last of the Rocky Mountains behind us and enter a flatter region with plentiful lakes of all sizes dotting a landscape of green forests and plains. Numerous waterways snake their way across the tundra, many starting from the mountains as smaller streams before ultimately joining the many lakes.
Edmonton, the only city of any size in the area, appears ahead and off to the right. The town sits at the northern end of a major highway that starts out of Calgary and terminates at the city. Looking over the vastness of the tundra that lies all around us, the city denotes the end of any once-populated areas. From this point onward, there are just small outposts, caribou, oil fields, and an increasing number of lakes until the Arctic is reached.
The turbulence clears as we leave the tall ridges and peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Just as Edmonton passes off our right wing, I radio Frank and let him know that we are approaching Fort McMurray, and I start a shallow descent. He informs us that neither he nor Harold have managed to raise anyone on the frequencies they’ve tried.
We pick up a large river, the Athabasca, which s
nakes it way to the north before it turns and angles to the east-northeast. At the city of Fort McMurray, it turns and resumes its northward journey. As we descend, I use it as a visual guide to back up our navigation system.
It’s not long before I see a cleared brown patch with another larger one to the north. This matches our navigation, so I’m guessing this is the first glimpse of our destination and one of the refineries nearby. As we draw closer, I call Greg and Montore up front, wanting them to get a first-hand look at what we’re dropping into. I swing the aircraft around to the south in order to set up a left-turning orbit around the town.
There are four distinct settlements that I can discern. The river we’ve been following cuts through the center as it makes its turn to the north. Two settlements lie on the western side and look like large housing developments. Another, on the eastern bank, looks like it contains a mix of shopping centers, businesses, and housing. The fourth lies almost due south of the main city and appears to be another residential area with a large industrial complex situated at the extreme southern end. A single divided highway passes through the city, heading south across the tundra and north to the oil fields and refineries.
Small plumes of smoke rise from many of the houses, primarily coming from the southernmost development. The wood smoke rises a short distance from each house before it’s swept away by a strong wind. To the north, larger, much darker columns rise from the refinery. As I orbit the city, I see several vehicles, mostly 4WD pickups, driving down the highway connecting the town with the refinery. Within the town, a couple of other cars make their way along the streets and a small gathering of people outside of one of the larger buildings stare up at us, shielding their eyes from the glare of the morning sun. It’s the first real sign of life from any of the cities we’ve flown over.
From the behavior of those below, walking in and out of buildings, unafraid, reaffirms a lack of night runners in the area.