A New World: Storm

by John O'Brien

  The large lake created by a small dam lies directly west of a series of ridgelines that rise from the valley floor. It runs north-south, following the contour of the hills. There aren’t any towns in the area, and only a few houses. Flying at a medium altitude over the northern shore, I get ready to switch the nav computer to the programmed search pattern.

  “Dad, I’m getting a heat signature from the western side of the lake, just south of the big island,” Robert reports. “It’s not much, but it’s the only thing showing up.”

  “Guide us in,” I reply, buckling back in.

  A few islands are located near the water’s edge, almost at the mid-point between the northern and southern ends. The largest of them stretches near to the middle of the lake. I descend farther to better get a visual on what Robert is picking up. Passing low over the flat expanse of the biggest island, there are a series of parking lots, small cabins, and several boat launches that are strung along the shoreline for several miles. I’m guessing it must be a state park, or something similar.

  “Okay, what am I looking for? And where exactly?” I radio Robert.

  “The last parking lot before the peninsula; near the cabins,” he responds.

  At low-level, we flash down the shoreline. I divide my attention between looking out the window and watching for obstructions along our flight path. Sometimes, high voltage wires cross over expanses like the lake. The only indications of their presence are orange balls strung along their length. Hitting those would cut our trip rather short.

  As we roar past where Robert indicated, I see a person standing near one of a series of cabins. I can’t tell if it’s a male or female, but they follow us with shaded eyes. The one thing I do know, whoever it is isn’t a night runner, so that’s at least a positive note.

  I pull up into a climbing turn, descending again as we reverse direction. This time, as I pass over, I see two more people have joined the first. In the lot a short distance away, there are three pickup trucks parked. I rock my wings coming in and see them wave in return. That in itself doesn’t mean they’re friendly, but it’s a damn sight better than them shooting at us. I make one more pass, this time seeing five people gathered outside the small structure, all waving.

  “Okay, it’s decision time,” I say, explaining what I’m seeing. “Land and risk it, or fly away?”

  “Land,” Lynn says.

  “Land.”

  “Land.”

  The votes from the choir come in; we’re landing. I slow and do a low approach over the wide field. It’s not long, but it’s long enough. There aren’t any rocks sticking up from the grassy surface, nor do I see any deep undulations. The soil appears to be hard-packed dirt, so it should hold our weight well enough. Luckily, there aren’t the usual picnic tables which would make a landing interesting.

  “Are you sure we can do this?” Bri asks.

  “I’ve landed in worse,” I reply.

  The field extends into the water a little ways, with small coves of water on the landside, giving it an almost perfect rectangular shape. Small ripples in the lake indicate the wind direction. I ask Robert to come up and help with the gear and flaps. He checks on the nav computer and verifies the wind direction and speed. With the gear and flaps lowered, I line us up on a short final, picking an aim point prior to the beginning of the land so that our flare will carry us to our landing zone.

  A thin strip of sand between the water and field looms large as we near. Over the water, I pull the power back and ease the nose up. With short field landings, we usually just plop it down, the touchdown point being the most important aspect. On soft field landings, the key is to hold it off and touch down as lightly as possible. Here, I need both. I start our flare while still over the water, sensing Bri and Robert raise their feet. To their credit, they don’t say a thing. The edge of the land flows under the nose, followed very shortly thereafter by the main wheels touching the ground. Easing the nose down, I immediately pull the reversers. We bounce across the slightly uneven surface, slowing rapidly. Applying the brakes, we stop well short of the far end.

  “Stay here and lower the ramp. Leave the engines running,” I tell Robert. “Lynn, take Red and Black Teams out.”

  Stepping outside, the teams deploy in a semi-circle around the back of the aircraft, all oriented on the five people still standing near the front door of the cabin. I leave the engines running for a few reasons, the central one being that it will throw off any bullet trajectory by a large margin. Try shooting at a target on a range with a hundred mile per hour crosswind.

  Even from a distance, I can see that the five people are deciding whether to approach or make a run for it. Their indecision causes neither to happen, and they remain standing like deer caught in the headlights. I notice that one of the men is huge, linebacker huge.

  The throaty roar of the engines idling makes any other sound impossible. Besides having to overcome the noise, the winds would carry away any shout I attempt to make. Walking to where Lynn is kneeling, I place a hand on her shoulder and lean over.

  “Care to join me?” I ask.

  She nods, and rises. Leaving Gonzalez in charge, I give the people a wave and we walk toward them. The hurricane force wind whips at our clothing and hair, throwing fine grit on us as we make our way past the engines. Approaching the people, I try to give every assurance that we don’t mean to harm them, yet keep my M-4 at my side, ready to use it at the first sign of trouble.

  As we draw near, I can clearly make out three men and two women, all dressed in stained, but not tattered, clothing. They appear reasonably clean and well fed, although they seem a little thinner in the face than I imagine they would normally look. All of them still appear ready to run at the slightest provocation.

  The larger of the men steps away from the group, absentmindedly pushing one of the women behind him with his arm.

  “Who might you be?” he growls.

  “I’m Jack, and this is Lynn,” I answer, looking up.

  “Are you with the Army? Are things finally under control?”

  “No on both accounts. Although, technically, I guess Lynn and the others with us are,” I reply.

  “I’m Mark,” he says, sticking out his hand. “And this is my sister, Meg, and Sam. The other two are Carla and Evan. What are you doing here? And, I guess, how?”

  Other than a hunting rifle leaning near the front door of the cabin, I don’t see any other weapons. They’re wearing jackets so they may have handguns hidden. However, they don’t seem like bad people.

  “We picked you up on satellite and are in the process of rounding up survivors. We have a place north of here, in Washington. You’re welcome to come with us if you want, purely on a voluntary basis,” I say, describing our situation.

  “I don’t know. We’re not doing too badly here, but not great either,” Mark replies.

  “Dad?” Robert mentally sends. “Open up. I can, I don’t know how to say it, sense one of them.”

  I do as Robert suggests and the large man in front of me, Mark, stands out like a beacon. I can sense his uneasiness and read his thoughts as they cycle rapidly through his mind. He’s not sure if he trusts us, thinking it too good to be true. He would like to come with us, but is protective of his sister, and the others, to a lesser degree.

  “You were bitten, weren’t you?” I ask.

  He stares, incredulous, then his eyes narrow in suspicion.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ll explain later,” I say, this time mentally.

  “How…how the fuck did you do that?” he asks out loud.

  Lynn even looks at me with a sidelong glance.

  “Like I said, I’d be happy to explain that part later. And you don’t have to worry about your sister, she’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “Shit. I thought all of those voices and images was me going insane. That’s one reason we moved this far out. It’s, well, quieter.”

  “You’re not going crazy. And I can teach you
how to control that,” I reply.

  “Well guys, what do you say? Stay here or go with them?” Mark asks the small group. In the end, they agree to come with us.

  “What about my truck?” Mark asks.

  “It will have to stay here,” I answer.

  “That’s too bad. I’m rather fond of that pickup.”

  They gather their meager belongings and pile into the Spooky with the teams. There’s not a lot of room to turn around, so I use the reversers to slowly back us up. Lynn stands on the back of the ramp and guides us near the water’s edge. We’ll need all of the real estate we can get to take off.

  Holding the brakes, I push the throttles up. The nose digs in and the aircraft vibrates under full power, eager to be let loose. Releasing the brakes, the nose launches up and forward. We build up speed, bouncing across the surface, the water of the lake rushing by just under the right wingtip. Nearing the far end, with the shoreline quickly approaching, I pull back on the control wheel. The nose lifts with some hesitation. Just before we become a large kayak, the mains lift off and we’re airborne.

  I radio ahead with our arrival time, and we return in the early afternoon. Craig reported that they had delivered the supplies and were en route. Upon landing, Bannerman helps our new guests get settled. With Robert attending, I spend a little time with Mark, teaching him how to shut out the voices and images, along with how to use them. I instruct him on the importance of keeping silent at night or when around night runners. He soaks it up; I’m sure he’s just happy to learn that he isn’t going insane.

  When morning comes, the first convoy departs our compound for the bunker. We take off shortly thereafter to begin our campaign against the night runners.

  No One Home

  Leonard stands on the conning tower, a brisk wind ruffling the sleeves of his jacket. The Santa Fe rocks under his feet, moving on the swells that roll through Mamala Bay. Through powerful binoculars, he scans the channel and the narrow entrance to Pearl Harbor in the distance. The sun, just rising above the horizon, illuminates the beachfront housing that occupies the shoreline east of the entrance. There’s no one to be seen around the homes or strip of sand fronting them. Across the waterway, the runways of Honolulu International Airport and Hickam field stand empty of traffic.

  To the east and slightly astern, the Maine coasts through the waves. A mile behind, the other two lay submerged, guarding their approach. Krandle stands next to him, looking over the area with his own set of binoculars.

  “Well, chief, what do you think?” Leonard asks.

  The signal had continued unabated, sending its message recalling the fleet to Pearl. With the images sent by Captain Walker’s guy, Leonard recognized the building from which the messages were originating as the Nimitz-MacArthur Pacific Command Center, located at Camp Smith. The Santa Fe sent return messages but had yet to receive any reply.

  “I’m still not sure about this. There were a lot of people here. That means a lot of night runners,” Krandle responds. “I’m just not sure we’ll be able to get into any of the buildings.”

  “I’m not asking you to go into any if you’re not comfortable doing so; just to take a look. But that’s your choice, chief.”

  “I’d like to take another look at the images while we head in, if that’s fine with you, sir,” Krandle says.

  “XO, signal the others that we’re proceeding, and take us in,” Leonard orders.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  As the Santa Fe gets underway, the Maine slowly slides beneath the waves. In the control room, Leonard and Krandle spread images and a map across the nav table.

  “I still don’t get how the message is being transmitted. Surely any generator would have run out of fuel by now,” Krandle says.

  “The building could be receiving power from solar arrays at Pearl, or someone could be refilling the fuel. The honest answer is, I don’t know,” Leonard states.

  “I guess the bottom line is that they are somehow. Okay, sir, where are we being dropped off?”

  “We’ll dock at the sub pens in the Quarry Lock, located here,” Leonard says, pointing. “From there, it looks to be about a three and a half mile walk to the command building.”

  Krandle studies the map and images. Their route will take them through a dock warehouse area. The captain of the Maine had briefed that they lost several crewmembers while attempting to gather supplies. Resupplying around here, due to the vast night runner population, is a no-go. They’ll have to pass the Aloha Stadium, cross two major freeways, and venture into a residential district before arriving at the command building. The facility is situated against steep ridgelines emanating from a central ridge that runs the eastern length of the island. Looking at the distance they’ll have to travel, and the cautious advance he plans, the trip there should take almost two hours. Calculating the return trip, he’ll have plenty of daylight to scout the facility. As to whether he’ll go in remains to be seen. That will be an on-location decision.

  Comparing the satellite data received with the map, he marks the structures that were indicated as definite night runner lairs. All signs indicate that the building emitting the signal is free of the night hunters.

  “Do we have any newer images or intel?” Krandle asks.

  “No, sorry. Harold, Captain Walker’s guy, said they haven’t done any further passes. So, this is the best that we have,” Leonard answers.

  “The night runner lairs might have moved since these were taken.”

  “I would almost count on it, chief.”

  “So, we’re basically going into this blind,” Krandle comments.

  “I’m afraid so. It’s still your choice: Whether to go inside and investigate, or whether to go ashore at all.”

  “I don’t like it, but we’ll go ashore. Although our last outing wasn’t all that entertaining, something like this requires investigating. We may need some of your magic again even though all signs indicate that there isn’t anyone around.”

  “We’ll have the systems online and waiting for your coordinates.”

  Krandle then briefs the others on their mission and route.

  “We’re just going to take a peek, right?” Speer asks.

  “We’ll make that decision when we arrive at the command center,” Krandle answers.

  “But, not into any buildings.”

  “Speer, am I mumbling? Or are you just plain deaf? I said we’ll decide when we get there. Now get your gear together. Don’t forget to bring NVGs,” Krandle says with a wink.

  “Fuck!” Speer exclaims, but rises with the rest of them to gather the equipment.

  The Santa Fe slips through the narrow channel. Nothing stirs on either side of the inlet as they pass park-like waterfronts. They turn around Hospital Point and sail along the shores of Ford Island. Ahead, the battleship Missouri is docked as a memorial. Krandle smiles at the through that the old warship has outlasted humanity, or most of it. On the land side, the docks of the naval fleet begin to show in earnest. Several frigates are docked against concrete berths extending into the bay, along with two others parked alongside landside piers. Ropes fore and aft hold the vessels secure, surrounded with buoyed netting.

  On the opposite side of the loch, remnants of the submarine fleet float against quays with tenders parked alongside. The quiet prevailing over such a large establishment is unnerving. There’s only the soft lap of waves against the hull as the sub slowly motors its way dockside. The boat is brought gently against one of the tenders that had been servicing another attack sub. Submerging slightly to allow several crew members to make the leap across, they then assist in the berthing alongside a long quay.

  With a gangplank lowered, Krandle and the rest of the SEAL team disembark. Walking down the long, concrete berthing area, they all glance at the docked submarines. Several of the hatches are still open and Krandle wonders, momentarily, if night runners might be using some of them as lairs. Except for the sound of a wind blowing, and the squawk of a few gulls hoveri
ng on the breeze, it’s eerily quiet.

  They continue in a staggered formation, keeping their intervals, tense and alert. Their previous excursions ashore haven’t been pleasant ones. However, after previously finding survivors, some in need of help, others antagonistic, the team remains on the lookout for others.

  The warehouse area gives way to a small fuel storage farm. On the other side, they encounter a large thoroughfare. Krandle doesn’t like the risk that the openness puts them in, but he’s even less fond of the enclosed areas that are their only other options.

  The mid-morning sun climbs higher, warming the air and causing them to perspire. The humidity doesn’t allow the moisture to evaporate, leaving their foreheads and bare arms in rolled up sleeves covered with a sheen of sweat. An hour later, having cautiously made their way down the street that parallels the bay, the team arrives at the circular lot surrounding Aloha Stadium. The trees, planted to follow the contours of the parking lot, sway as gusts of wind blow through.

  Near the far side, Krandle calls a halt. It’s here that they’ll have to cross the two major freeways. So far, they haven’t found signs of anyone in the area as they’ve walked along trackless roads that are covered with a fine layer of sand. Once they cross the first highway, they’ll enter into a residential district that will lead them to the command center. Unfolding the map, he calls Franklin over, leaving the rest to maintain a loose perimeter.

  “We’ll cross the freeways via the overpasses,” Krandle states, pointing to the map. “Quarters will be tighter as we proceed through residential streets. When we reach those, I want us spread to both sides, but keep within the streets themselves. Any trouble will more than likely come from the houses. If there are vehicles parked in the road, they will offer cover. If we receive gunfire, we’ll return fire and leapfrog out. I don’t want to get into a prolonged gunfight like we did in LA.”

  Franklin nods.

  “Okay, let’s take five and down some water. This is close to our halfway point and I don’t want to stop again until we arrive.”