A New World: Storm

by John O'Brien

  The aircraft is rearmed and refueled for a night run. It seems pointless to do so at this stage, as we haven’t had many targets and the trucks will begin arriving to load up for the last time tomorrow afternoon. However, forgoing the night flight seems like a complacent thing to do. We appear to have the night runners cowering in their buildings and this isn’t the time to let up.

  After a rest and something to eat, we wearily trudge into the aircraft. Sitting in the seat and strapping in, my rear reminds me of the days we spent transiting the country and the Atlantic to get Lynn. Bri brings the electrical systems online. Over the intercom, I hear Robert preparing the control center for our night flight.

  It will probably just be a repeat of last night, I think, hitting the start switch.

  My eyes feel gritty from lack of sleep. The Spooky slowly comes to life as we start the remaining engines, the fuselage vibrating. The drone of the engines increase as I push the throttles forward and taxi us to the end of our dirt strip, the mantra running through my head. One more day…one more day…one more day.

  The aircraft builds up speed as we launch down the airstrip, the last glow of the sun peeking above the mountains. Raising the nose, we lift off and pass over the southernmost concrete wall. Banking north, the green roof of Cabela’s catches the last light of the day, the surrounding grounds covered in shadow. We head toward Tacoma, hoping to catch a few night runners as they emerge from buildings. Leveling off, the odor of smoke is prevalent. Below, orange glows show through the layer of smoke and mark smoldering neighborhoods.

  Almost with a whisper, the last light vanishes, and, except for a few fires, the land is cast into darkness. I settle in to a wide orbit in the hopes that we can quickly bring fire down onto the fleeting figures of night runners.

  “Holy shit!” Robert exclaims.

  Looking down at the monitor, I immediately see that this isn’t going to be a repeat of the previous evenings. The screen has gone from the occasional smoldering fires to being completely filled by the glow of thousands of night runners. They are densely grouped as they pour out of buildings on the east side, to the point that it’s almost impossible to identify individual figures. Pack after pack emerges in a seemingly endless horde.

  I stare at the monitor in shock. This is nothing like anything we’ve ever encountered, even when all of the packs were out hunting. They were spread over a wider area and individual packs were easy to spot. These are so close together that they look like one large pack comprising hundreds of thousands. Worse, they are streaming south, aimed like an arrow toward the river and the compound beyond.

  Shaking my head, I bring the Spooky into a position where we can hit the front of the tidal wave of night runners racing south.

  “Robert, hit the leading edges,” I shout.

  The mass of night runners has to be over a mile wide. It seems as if all of the packs have gathered and are streaking for the compound.

  I should have fucking known. How did I not see this coming? Their disappearance should have led to this obvious conclusion.

  I don’t even bother with an orbit, but sideslip the aircraft so that Robert can bring the weapons to bear. We fly in a line along their front, red tracers streaming downward and slamming into the masses. Where the rounds hit, the horde pauses as night runners are cut down. I don’t see individual bodies fall, as those behind push past the dead or dying before they hit the ground. The swarm continues as if we hadn’t fired a single shot.

  Finishing our first run, I call Frank. “Are you seeing this?”

  “Yes, Jack. Do you think you’ll be able to hold them off?” Frank asks.

  We don’t even bother talking about the obvious, that the night runners are racing for the compound.

  “I don’t know. We have the river between, so that will slow them up some, if not outright stop them. However, I’m not sure we have enough ammo to take them all out. We’ll have to hold them until dawn,” I answer.

  “That’s hours and hours away,” Frank comments. “And the river isn’t deep in some places. If they find a ford to cross…”

  “I know, I know. Get everyone together and be ready to leave. If I give the word, get out and get out quickly. Pull in the guards from the towers,” I say, lining the Spooky up for another run.

  “Won’t we need them if they cross?”

  “Frank, you have a live feed; you’re seeing the same thing. Nothing that we put in the towers can stop this.”

  We start our next run. Robert, seeing the futility of using the Gatling gun, switches to the 40mm. The rapid “chunk, chunk” of the cannon fires into the mass closing rapidly on the river. Small explosions appear along the leading edge of the horde, creating pockets of dead which are quickly filled by those behind. The loaders in back have their hands full keeping the cannon firing at a maximum rate of fire. Banking around after our second pass, although I know that hundreds of night runners have to be lying dead on the ground, it doesn’t look like we’ve made a dent in their numbers. Starting another run, I attempt to raise Leonard on the satellite.

  It takes a few tries, but I manage to get into contact as we sweep across their lines once again, sending more cannon fire into their midst.

  “What’s your position?” I ask.

  “We are parked off the entrance to the Strait of Juan de Fuca,” he answers. “We’ll be entering at first light.”

  I quickly brief him on our situation and ask him if there’s any help they can offer.

  “Stand by.” A few minutes pass. We manage one more run against the horde that is quickly closing on the river near the demolished interstate bridges. “Jack, I can give you ten submunition missiles from the Santa Fe and ten from the Jefferson City. Relay the coordinates.”

  Damn, he’s saving the majority in case we get overrun and he has to carve a place out for himself.

  I can’t say that I blame him, though. “We’ll take what you can give.”

  It’s a dog and pony show up front as Craig and I unfold maps and jot down the numbers. I would use the flight computer, but that would mean having to momentarily abandon our runs in order to fly to locations and mark the coordinates. We just can’t afford to do that. With the night runners close to the sunken bridges, I radio Leonard a series of coordinates while Robert continues pounding 40mm fire into the midst of night runners.

  “Give us five minutes to bring the systems online and input the data. Flight time will be fifteen minutes. We’ll notify you of the first launch,” Leonard radios.

  “Thank you.”

  The front line of night runners reaches the edge of the water. They pause and then peel away, others filling the gap before they, too, run off the side.

  “What are they doing?” Frank radios. “Are the ones in front giving up and trying to find another way across?”

  “Stand by,” I say, also relaying the conversation with Leonard.

  I bring the aircraft lower, asking Robert to focus on the water’s edge. Handing the aircraft to Craig, I look closely at the monitor. It’s hard to tell, but it appears that the night runners are racing to the edge, motioning, and then streaking off to the side. Their heads turn upward as we pass overhead. We flash by in an instant, and climb.

  “Fuck, they’re attempting to build a bridge across,” I radio Frank.

  I push the ramifications of such intelligence to the background. It’s no use deliberating how; they’re doing it. The time for analyzing that will come later.

  Well, it’s a choke point. We’ll use that, I think, taking control of the aircraft again.

  “First missile away. ETA, fifteen minutes,” Leonard calls.

  “Thank you.”

  “Godspeed, Captain.”

  I reach up and hack the clock, starting the timer.

  “Robert, start putting 105s into the river near the northern edge. We can’t let them across,” I state. “We have to hold them here. Frank, is everyone ready for evacuation?”

  “There are vehicles running at the en
trance with everyone gathered and ready to go,” Frank replies.

  A geyser of water erupts on the northern shore, momentarily covering the whitish figures of the night runners near the edge. Using the multiple targeting systems, Robert also directs 40mm fire into those gathered. Setting up an orbit, we continue to fire.

  “Last missile away.”

  I look at the clock. Damn if time isn’t crawling in the cockpit. Meanwhile, it seems like it’s speeding by outside. The problem is, there is no way we can sustain this kind of fire until dawn. We’ll run out of ammo long before then.

  “Robert, start directing the 105 fire into those gathering at the shoreline. Keep a barrier between the horde and the water.”

  We must have killed thousands, yet their numbers don’t appear to have diminished. I’m hoping the missiles launched by Leonard strike true and reduce the numbers to something more manageable – as if even halving their numbers could be remotely construed as anything close to manageable.

  The timer on the clock passes the thirteen-minute mark. It’s time for us to clear out. Bringing the aircraft around and heading south, I park us in an orbit. We’re far enough away to avoid any collateral damage, and are out of the flight path of the incoming missiles.

  In the distance, a string of flashes erupt on the ground. The first missile has dropped its munitions on the northern fringe of the massed night runners. Thirty seconds later, there is another string of strobe-like flashes that light up. For the next ten minutes, we witness the bomblets exploding across a wide area.

  Even though I counted the missiles, I wait for a couple of minutes to pass without further explosions. Returning, the night runner numbers have dwindled; not substantially, but diminished nonetheless.

  “Okay, Robert. We need to conserve our ammo, but keep them away from the edge of the water. I know that sounds like a contradiction, but do your best. We have to survive until dawn.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Robert responds, tension apparent in his voice.

  I resume our orbit around the wrecked bridges. Watching the first impact, I can’t imagine what it must be like down there. There must be mangled bodies everywhere, blood and body parts mixing with torn soil. Yet, they still continue to press forward. I stare out of the window, watching the flashes of light from the blasts tearing into the leading edge of the night runners.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “You aren’t going to like this, but I’m picking up a secondary group,” Robert says.

  “Where?”

  “To the southeast.”

  The southeast? That doesn’t make any sense. That would put them on our side of the river…

  “How many?” I quickly ask.

  “Look at your monitor.”

  I glance down. He’s brought the video out to cover a larger area. On the screen, tens of thousands of night runners are closing in on the compound from the direction indicated. We’ve just discovered those we could never find.

  “How’s our ammo?”

  “We’re running low on 105. We have some 40mm, and still have almost all of the 25mm rounds,” Robert answers.

  Fuck!

  We can’t fight both groups. Even if we could, we don’t have enough ammo to last until dawn. Hell, night just barely started. If we head over to the new group, this one will cross the river. Once they do so, they will cover the three miles to the compound in no time flat. However, the new group is only a few miles away and will get there within minutes if we don’t slow them down. We’re done for. This fight is over.

  I turn toward the new group, instructing Robert to slow them down in any way possible.

  “Frank, I know you can see the secondary group closing in. We’re finished here. Get everyone loaded up. Call to turn the convoy around and then abandon everything in place and just go. Hit the interstate, head south, and make for the bunker. Don’t stop for anything,” I radio.

  “What about you?” Frank asks.

  “We’re going to try and slow down the secondary group to give you some time. We’ll provide top cover for you as you exit. Now, quit worrying about us and get the fuck out of there.”

  I set up for a strafing pass. There’s not really a front edge to this pack. It’s more like several large groups in close proximity. Robert walks 25mm rounds through the horde. Night runners drop in a straight, wide line like a knife cutting through a steak. We turn for another run, all the while waiting for the call from Frank telling us that they’re underway.

  They need to hurry, I think, watching the group of night runners quickly closing in on the compound.

  Contacting Leonard, I update him on our situation, informing him that we’re abandoning our position due to the second group appearing. Frank finally signals that they’re loaded up and proceeding out of the gate.

  “We’ll provide cover for you,” I tell him again. The compound is only two miles away from the leading edges of the night runners, and they are closing quickly.

  All of our efforts have barely slowed them. We obliterate the front line but the ones behind push immediately past, gaining a lot of ground each time we have to set up for another pass. The line of vehicles hits the interstate at the same time that the night runners begin crossing.

  “Robert, keep the way clear for them. We can’t hold them back, so strafe alongside the vehicles until they get clear to the south,” I radio.

  I set up an orbit around the vehicles as they drive south. Surrounding them is a sea of night runners, pushing to close in. Tracer fire streaks into the night from the few Strykers that Frank included and Robert keeps a wall of 25mm fire around the mix of Humvees and Strykers fleeing south. At times, our red tracers seem to almost converge with the vehicles, raking the adjacent ditches and shoulders, as the night runners surge.

  “Jack…Jack!” The sound of Craig’s voice on the intercom interrupts my concentration. I realize that he’s been calling several times.

  “I’m a little busy right now. What is it?” I ask, looking out of the window to the scene below.

  “You’re going to want to take a look at this.”

  I look inside and see Craig tapping on the number one and two engine instruments. Most, but not all, of them are behaving erratically, swinging back and forth in wide arcs.

  Oh, fuck it all to hell! You have to be fucking kidding me?! Why now?

  I quickly look to the camera monitor to see the convoy break free and head south along the freeway, leaving the night runners behind. Several smaller packs continue the chase, but most pause, turn, and resume their race to the compound.

  Okay, they’re clear, I think, wiping beads of sweat from my forehead. Now to take care of this fuckaroo.

  I level out and begin a climb, putting as much altitude between us and the ground as I can. Another look at the instruments shows the same. There’s only one way all of the instruments on one side of the aircraft can be going crazy. We must have a leak in the ducting for the bleed air system. The ducts carry super-heated air from the engines to feed our anti-icing, air conditioning, and pressurization systems, and it’s hot enough to melt wiring bundles. From the look of things, we are experiencing an uncontrolled loss of bleed air. If it’s allowed to continue, there’s no telling what damage it could do. It could burn through other wiring, hydraulics, or fuel lines.

  I hand the aircraft off to Craig, telling him to keep it in a level climb. Unbuckling, I put the bleed air switches for the number one and two engines to the closed position. The affected engines should show an increase in torque if the valves close. Those needles, some of the few operating on that side, remain steady. I close the wing isolation switch. The instruments continue their crazy swings. Closing the bleed air from the two good engines, I take my seat again, frustrated. The wiring on the affected side must have already burned through, leaving the valves in the open position.

  “We’re going to have to shut down number one and two,” I say. “That’s the only way we’re going to get this u
nder control.”

  “Will we be able to maintain altitude on two engines?” Craig asks.

  “Probably not with our weight,” I respond. “But we don’t have a choice.”

  “What’s going on up there?” Robert asks.

  “We’re going to have to shut down number one and two engines.”

  “What does that mean, Jack?” Lynn queries.

  “That more than likely means we’re going to have to make an unscheduled stop,” I answer.

  “Oh. Where?”

  “Working on it. Now, please, we’re a little busy up here.”

  We quickly run through the engine shutdown checklist, shutting down the inboard engine followed by the outboard one. The aircraft slews to the side and I apply rudder and decrease the power on the other engines. I keep our climb going, trading altitude for airspeed. After hitting the best glide airspeed, I lower the nose to maintain it, beginning a descent.

  “Bri, use the left wing tanks to feed the two operational engines, but watch for a fuel imbalance. We can’t afford that right now,”

  Glancing at the engine instruments, the ones we shut down are reading zero. A quick glance outside shows that both propellers are feathered. That’s a good thing; otherwise we might not be able to maintain directional control. As it is, I have to use quite a bit of rudder and bank angle to keep us flying straight. We have things mostly under control up front. Now it’s time to find a place to land and lighten the load. Following our emergency actions, we find ourselves heading toward the compound.

  “What’s the plan? Are we heading back to the runway at Cabela’s?” Craig asks.