Solar Storm (Survival EMP Book 1)

by Rob Lopez

  Scott crawled up alongside him. “Holy crap,” he said. “Is this what we were sleeping next to?”

  “Yeah, it’s a good job it wasn’t a working base.”

  The gunmen broke the lock and slid back the doors. Inside, the nose and propeller of a light aircraft protruded from the gloom. As the gunmen entered, Rick noticed the cans of gas some of them had brought.

  “They’re going to try to get it flying,” he said.

  “Smart move,” said Scott, observing through his own binoculars. “With everything else grounded, they’ll have instant air superiority and no worries about ground to air missiles. Do you think we can hijack it?”

  “With all those guys there? What do you think?”

  “It’s a shitty idea.”

  “Exactly.”

  The gunmen wheeled the aircraft out and started topping up its wing tanks with fuel.

  “It’s not as shitty an idea as walking, though,” said Scott.

  Rick worked through scenarios in his mind for taking the aircraft, each more unlikely than the next.

  “It is,” he concluded.

  Scott disagreed. “Mount a distraction and we could draw some of them away.”

  A militant entered the cockpit, waving the others away from the prop. After a few moments, he stuck his head back out, gesturing. A gunman stepped up and took hold of the prop, pulling it round. After several attempts at trying to get it to start, another man joined him. Together they yanked the prop over and over, but nothing happened. After five minutes the militant in the cockpit called a halt and climbed out. The engine cowl was lifted up and curious faces peered inside, poking occasionally. A brief argument broke out, the engine cover was dropped back down, and a few more minutes spent trying to prop-start the aircraft. After sweating and arguing a little more, the gunmen gave up.

  Disappointed, Rick lowered his binoculars. “You know, for a second there, I was warming to your distraction idea.”

  Scott sighed. “It just ain’t fair, tempting us like that. There’s got to be something here that works.”

  “They’re not doing it right,” said Kowalski dryly.

  Rick and Scott both looked at him. He’d snuck up on them uninvited.

  “Say again?”

  “They’re not doing it right. You can’t just turn the ignition on and roll the engine to start. It’s a Cessna 172, not a Pontiac.”

  “You know that plane?” said Rick.

  “Yeah. Most common plane in the world. My cousin’s got one. Taught me to fly in it.”

  “So what are they doing wrong?”

  “They’re not priming it right.”

  “Think you can do it better?”

  Kowalski thought for a while. “I could try, but I can’t guarantee nothing.”

  Scott rolled his eyes. “Way to go, Mr Confident. We’re better off walking.”

  Rick turned on Kowalski. “We need to get out of here pretty damn quick. Can you fly that plane or not?”

  26

  Kowalski stared back for a moment. “All I can do is try.”

  Scott face-palmed. “All the pilots in his squadron, and we had to get the one with no balls.”

  “That’s nothing to do with it,” replied Kowalski testily. “Your ego might make you feel tough, but in the air force we learned that engines don’t run on testosterone. Different approach, soldier boy.”

  “Okay, cut it out,” said Rick, checking the plane out with the binoculars again. Part of the group had broken off and were walking up the runway, heading towards what appeared to be a town on the other side of the airfield. A few others drifted away to enjoy a cigarette away from the gas cans. “We’ll stick it out until these others leave, then make our move.”

  “What makes you think they’ll leave?” said Kowalski.

  Rick nodded towards the mosque tower in the town. “Morning prayer.”

  Scott leaned in front on Kowalski and tapped his own skull. “See? Clever.”

  Rick crawled over to Walt. The wounded soldier looked at his lowest ebb, but surprisingly he still held his rifle and was trying to keep watch over the fields that stretched out behind them.

  “Hang in there,” said Rick. “We’re planning on flying you out of here.”

  Walt turned his head slowly to face him, his eyes barely open. “Yeah?” he croaked. “They’re sending a bird out to us?”

  Rick realized he’d forgotten about the solar storm, and so delirious he was maybe thinking that a helicopter was being sent out to evacuate him.

  “Something like that,” said Rick quietly.

  “Cool,” breathed Walt.

  “Just one last effort, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Rick sat with Walt for a while until Scott hissed for him to come over.

  “They’re moving,” said Scott as Rick reached the berm. The gunmen had pushed the aircraft back inside the hanger and were closing the sliding doors. Standing around, they talked for a while, then made their leisurely way down the runway, laughing at some joke. Rick watched impatiently until they climbed over the berm at the other end and crossed some waste ground into the town.

  “Let’s go.”

  Carrying Walt between them, Rick and Scott crossed the runway at a jog. The lock on the doors was broken, and Rick forced them slowly open until there was just enough room to squeeze in. The light of the rising sun revealed a rusted and aged aircraft.

  “Jesus, that’s a pile of shit,” said Scott.

  “Yeah, but it’s better than a mound,” said Rick. “Your words, not mine.”

  Kowalski inspected the craft, tugging at the ailerons and flipping the rudder back and forth. Rick looked inside the cockpit. The 70’s style seats were ripped and the blocky flight controls chipped and scratched. The radios were missing, the wires hanging out, but it appeared to have a full panel of analogue instruments, though Rick had no idea what any of them were for.

  “I think she’ll fly,” said Kowalski.

  “Are you kidding me?” said Scott. “Thing’s probably been sitting here for years. No wonder they couldn’t start it.”

  “Not so,” said Kowalski, lifting the engine covers. “There’s not much dust on it.” He checked the oil. “This has been topped up recently. This thing’s been flying during the civil war.”

  “How come it hasn’t been shot down?” asked Rick.

  “It’s small. Low radar profile. And we had orders not to shoot at them, as they were classed as civilian aircraft. Militias used them to ferry supplies sometimes, and sometimes militia leaders going to meetings. If we didn’t have intelligence of who was inside, we didn’t touch them. Some of these guys were on our side.”

  “Supposedly,” said Scott.

  “Yeah, well. This was probably captured when ISIS were pushed out of the area.”

  Some of the gas cans still had fuel inside, and there were coils of tubing nearby.

  “Have they been siphoning the fuel from somewhere?” asked Rick.

  “Yeah. This model runs on auto gas. There’s plenty sitting round in tanks now.”

  “What’s the range?”

  “Fully topped up? About eight hundred miles. It’ll get us to Incirlik easily.”

  Incirlik was an airbase in Turkey being used by the US air force to fly missions against ISIS. Paradoxically, it was also being used by the Turkish air force to bomb the Kurds, whom the US supported. After the recent coup attempt in Turkey, it had become something of a diplomatic headache, with US movements restricted after being held under suspicion and the base maintained under tight Turkish control.

  “Forget that,” said Rick, finding some flight charts in the pocket of a door. He opened them out. “The Russian base at Latakia is closer. Do your thing and see if you can get us airborne.”

  Walt was eased into one of the rear cockpit seats, Rick and Scott pushed the hanger doors open and the plane was rolled out. Rick loaded the full gas cans inside. Kowalski leaned into the cockpit and said, “Master switch is off. Turn the
prop slowly three times.”

  Rick took hold of the two bladed propeller and began to turn it. “You sure this thing’s not going to start with me holding the prop?” he asked.

  “No, it’s safe. Just turn it real slow.”

  A dog wandered across the runway. A mangy mongrel, it looked suspiciously at the humans.

  “I’ve done it,” called Rick. “What now?”

  “Hold on,” said Kowalski, rooting around in the hanger. “I’m looking for some chocks.”

  The dog began to bark.

  “Rick,” called Scott.

  Rick turned and saw a boy standing on the berm. “Kowalski, you’d better hurry up.”

  The boy ran off towards the town. The dog continued to bark, keeping its distance, and Scott took up position by a dilapidated wooden hut. Rick ran to join him.

  “What have we got?” he said.

  “Nothing yet,” said Scott, aiming his rifle. “Wait...”

  Movement appeared by the buildings on the edge of town that soon translated into bobbing heads.

  “Kowalski! We’ve got company!”

  Rick moved to the other side of the wooden hut and sighted his M4. A man appeared at the berm. As soon as Rick saw he was armed, he squeezed off a shot. At long range, his bullet kicked up some dust on the berm, causing the man to flinch. More gunmen appeared, running on the other side of the berm, down the length of the runway. Scott fired some shots and the men disappeared as they crouched down.

  Kowalski, meanwhile, was chocking the wheels of the Cessna. Grabbing the prop, he yanked it down, stepping back as he did so. Nothing happened. Stepping forward, he repeated the maneuver. The Cessna didn’t start.

  Tactically, Rick was in a bad position. The wooden hut was too flimsy to use as cover, and if the gunmen kept using the berm for cover, they would pop up on the opposite side of the runway and turn the hut, and the plane, into a colander. Taking a chance, he dashed across the runway and threw himself against the berm. Leaning over, he saw the gunmen running towards him, bent double and hugging the berm. He took aim at the lead one and squeezed the trigger twice for a double tap. The lead gunman stumbled and slipped. Laying flat on the ground he lifted his AK and returned fire. The other gunmen, unperturbed, scattered. Some threw themselves down to lay down fire, others dashed over the berm and onto the runway. These gunmen, Rick noted, were professional, spreading out and aiming carefully with single shots as they advanced in relays. A couple of pale faces in the group indicated they were Al Qaeda mercenaries. Scott pinned a couple down on the runway, but the rest seemed determined not to lose their plane. It was likely they were also quickly aware that they faced only two shooters. Rick was forced to hug the dirt as he faced incoming fire from both sides of the berm. His initial tactical advantage had been turned against him and he had no cover now.

  Kowalski yanked at the prop again and the engine chuffed once, then twice, before falling silent. As the fire turned to the plane, he ran to the side and leaned into the cockpit. Rick thought he was taking cover, but the plane was just flimsy metal. He thought of the cans he’d just thrown into the back – not to mention the wing tanks full of fuel. The gunmen thought that maybe turning the plane into a fireball was better than losing it to the infidels and concentrated their fire on the target.

  Rick couldn’t see how they could miss. And Walt was in the plane.

  Rick ran forward, firing on the run, trying to close the range and get the gunmen’s attention. It didn’t take long. Throwing himself down onto the concrete and scuffing his elbows, he endured withering return fire that zipped past his ears. From the other side of the runway, Scott mimicked him, taking the fight to the militants until he too was forced down. A crazy mid range gunfight ensued, and during that time the Cessna’s engine chuffed again, caught and then roared as the engine started.

  Rick chanced a glance and saw Kowalski dragging the chocks away and leaping into the cockpit, altering the engine note to a steady rumble. That should have been the signal to pull back, but Rick couldn’t move. In spite of firing repeated short bursts at different targets, he couldn’t suppress them and prevent them from firing back. Through the heat haze and the weeds rising off the concrete, he caught the muzzle flashes as they kept him pinned down, and occasionally one gunman would get up and run a couple of yards before throwing themselves down again. By such methods, they got closer and closer.

  The Cessna engine roared again, and the plane waggled its wings as it moved forward onto the runway, then the engine pitch rose as the plane turned its tail to the gunfight and began taxiing to the far end of the runway. Rick couldn’t work out what Kowalski was doing. He was tempted to get up and run after the plane, but he knew he’d be cut down in seconds.

  Kowalski spun the plane round at the end of the runway, then opened up the throttle. The aged plane suddenly looked the picture of grace as it accelerated towards everyone. Before it even got close, the wheels lifted off the ground and Kowalski lifted the nose and banked the wings, veering off over the hangers and away.

  Rick was stupefied. He looked across at Scott, who appeared just as surprised as him. Even the militants ceased fire for a moment. The plane climbed up into the sky with an ebbing drone.

  Rick knew he was screwed. Taking one look at the militants, he leaped up and ran away, weaving to present a hard target, but a burst of gunfire clipped his calf and brought him down again, sprawling in the dust. Rolling over into a shallow drainage ditch at the edge of the concrete, he brought his rifle up. He was still in shock that Kowalski had left them.

  On the other side of the runway, Scott attempted to shuffle back towards the hut, but a renewed concentration of fire chipped up the concrete around him. Rick adjusted his sights, targeted a militant head, and pounded rounds in his direction until he went down. Rick couldn’t tell if he was hit or just ducking, and at that moment didn’t care. His only chance was to suppress a couple more and take a chance on running again. As he swapped in a new mag he knew that if he didn’t, he was finished. Dreaming up every single insult he could think of for the air force, he switched to another target.

  The militants inched forward, first one man, then another. Another popped up behind the berm, trying to see where Rick was, and Rick twisted and stitched up his face with close range rounds that threw him backwards. In the distance the Cessna wheeled gracefully in the sky, then arced down towards the ground until Rick couldn’t see it anymore. He didn’t see an impact, but it looked like the plane had crashed.

  Maybe the engine had cut out.

  Rick didn’t dwell on the karma. With his eye glued to his sights, he sought out targets, the recoil hammering the butt into his shoulder as he burnt through his ammo. He didn’t notice at first the bird-like silhouette that floated over the town.

  It was the Cessna and it appeared to be gliding down for a landing, as Rick couldn’t hear the engine. The plane hovered through the heat haze, getting closer, the engine roared suddenly and the militants turned, alerted to its presence.

  The plane came in low, but it was accelerating, not slowing down, and the wheels were almost touching the deck. It didn’t even look like it was flying anymore, but it came on faster and faster, heading directly for the militants. The gunmen lay poised, thinking the plane would fly low over them, but as it skimmed the concrete, they realized even lying down wasn’t enough. Panic stricken, they leaped up and ran out of the way. The plane roared by like it was on rails, then soared back up into the sky. Rick didn’t wait to work out what was going on. As soon as the gunmen had ceased firing, he sprinted away, ignoring his burning calf. Parallel to him on the other side of the runway, Scott ran too.

  The plane climbed until it was hanging from its prop, did a hammerhead stall, and fell back down, twisting round until it was pointed to the earth. Flaps down and flaring, it touched delicately down on the runway, rolling towards them. Rick pounded his feet on the concrete, running faster than he’d ever run in his life. Bullets began zipping by, but he ignored them,
his eyes fixed on the approaching plane.

  Kowalski didn’t slow down. Rick, sprinting hard, grabbed the strut under the wing and swung himself in to grab at the door handle. As soon as he got it open, he pitched himself in, his boots dragging along the runway. In the back seat, Walt was barely conscious, and Kowalski stuck to his controls, so Rick had to drag himself in. When he saw Kowalski steer towards Scott, Rick opened the door on the other side of the cockpit and leaned out, arm outstretched. Scott, his face flush with the exertion, grabbed his hand and got dragged along as the plane picked up speed again. With his legs hooked around a seat base, Rick grabbed the front of Scott’s body armor with his other hand and heaved him in.

  In the confines of the cockpit, the engine screamed as Kowalski mercilessly opened the throttle. The wheels hopped up off the runway and Kowalski kicked the rudder pedal to send the plane in a fast drift over the ground, heading for the militants again. The gunmen fired a few more shots, then ran for the berm, throwing themselves over as the plane roared over, inches above their heads. Shuffling the plane’s tail left and right to present a harder target, Kowalski climbed until he was over the town and away.

  “You goddamn asshole!” shouted Rick above the cabin noise as he strapped himself into the front passenger seat. “What the hell were you doing?”

  “Keeping the plane safe,” shouted back Kowalski, not taking his eyes off the sky ahead. “It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  Rick leaned down to pull up his pants leg, checking his wound. The bullet had bored its way through the edge of his calf and out again, leaving a neat trough. There was little blood as the hot round had cauterized the wound, but Rick’s hands were shaking. Leaning back in the seat, he took deep breaths, his heart beating fast from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The thrumming of the engine echoed in his ears, and he had to make an effort to stop the bile rising from his stomach. Clutching his water tube, he sucked on it greedily to remove the acid taste from his mouth. A chill ran through him at how close he had come to not making it, and he trembled, his muscles spasming. Laying his palms on his thighs, he continued his breathing exercises until his heart slowed down and a wave of exhaustion dulled his senses. Lulled by the vibrations he sank into a fitful sleep.