A New World: Chaos

by John O'Brien

  “How many are we going to take? I thought only one was broken,” Robert asks seeing me reach in again.

  “We’re going to take them all, just in case.”

  The last one is finally removed and loaded onto the truck. “Meet us over at the aircraft,” I say to Robert, putting the hatches back on and we all start our journey back across the ramp. The sun has now climbed almost directly overhead.

  “You guys go get something to eat,” I say once we are all back at the 130. “I’m going to start working on the bad one.”

  “You aren’t hungry?” Bri asks.

  “No, babe.”

  “I suppose that means you aren’t fixing anything,” Robert says with an exaggerated sigh.

  “You are perfectly able to fix your own food.”

  “I know, I’m just kidding,” he says back.

  “Oh, and the pantry won’t be available so you’ll have to use the packaged food.”

  The day presses on. They eat and we get the new battery in place and hooked up. We should’ve been a few hours in the air already, I think reattaching the panel. I head up to the cockpit and check the battery reading. The indicator jumps up to normal. Thank god.

  “Okay, let’s get it fueled up,” I say as we stow the tools and ladder away. I look at my watch, “It’s almost 1500. Let’s try to be off the ground within the hour. Looks like we’ll have another night approach and landing.”

  I am a little more worried about this one as our airfield is in the middle of the Atlantic with very few options available should something go wrong or we end up not being able to find it. We do have enough fuel to make the coast of Portugal or Spain so that might be a second option. However, if we lose the GPS or it is a little off, we could end up searching endlessly and only find water. The only thing I truly don’t like is not being able to see the weather visually from a distance as you can during the day. I don’t want to have another evening like last night.

  Fueled up and with the cart and extra batteries stowed away, we take off with the afternoon sun wending its way over the blue sky behind us. Climbing out on an easterly heading, the coast of Maine fades away beneath us, eventually becoming a dark smear on the horizon. The sparkling blue of the Atlantic spreads out around us in all directions. The skies above us are clear with only a few scattered clouds high above as we level off at flight level 250. Far to the south, only the very tips of cumulus clouds appear, covering much of the southern skies, obviously part of a very large storm system. Ahead of us though, the skies remain clear. The only interruption of our flight is our intermittent calls on guard frequencies and the switching of fuel tanks. I keep an eye on the electrical system but everything seems to be operating smoothly.

  I let everyone take turns on the controls from the right seat, only getting out of mine to stretch and get the blood flow back into my legs. I venture to the cargo compartment once to change flight suits as my current one is starting to offend not only me, but I am sure those around. The others eventually venture to do the same. We drone ever eastward with nothing but the blue of the ocean below and the skies above to keep us company. The blue skies above change to a deeper blue as the sun sinks to the horizon behind, transitioning in the east to a dark blue, merging with the ocean below.

  We continue on into the dark, dialing up the interior lights to watch our instruments by and have dinner in the cockpit, the food having been heated in the pantry with Michelle graciously doing the honors. We replace water bottle after water bottle at our sides as the dry altitude air sucks moisture from our bodies. Outside, we are flying in a dark void with only the stars shining brightly above us; the only indication of our movement is the mileage on our nav instruments slowly counting downward as we drone ever closer to our destination.

  About 250 miles out from Lajes Field, I pull the throttles back and start a gradual descent. “Okay guys, if there is anyone left there, it’s the same as we talked about before. As far as you know, I’m on a mission to pick up some soldiers in Kuwait. I picked you up and we headed out. Don’t lie about anything other than the mission you believe I’m on. And let me do the talking.” I’m really going to have to come up with a good reason why I have brought kids along on a military mission. I mean, you can’t just plop your family on a military aircraft and head off any time you want. That would be very much frowned upon. I rack my brains trying to come up with something but nothing plausible emerges. I guess I’ll just wing it if I have to.

  “Okay, Dad. Do you think there will be anyone there?” Bri asks with a twinge of both excitement and worry in her voice.

  “I’m not sure, hon.”

  “What about me?” Michelle chimes in. “Am I supposed to be yours as well?”

  “Hmmm, haven’t thought about that one. I think we’ll need to keep it as real as possible so our stories match up and are believable so you’re Robert’s friend that we picked up on the way.”

  Descending through 10,000 feet, I set up the instrument approach on my nav while maintaining the enroute plot on Robert’s. The stars still glitter above us and the weather looks clear. The nav system shows the wind out of the south at about twenty knots so I set up the approach I designed for runway 15.

  A little over 15 minutes out, I switch over to the UHF guard. “Lajes approach, this is Otter 39 on UHF guard.”

  To my absolute astonishment, I get the following reply back, “Otter 39, Lajes approach on guard. Contact Lajes approach on xxx.xx,” Uh oh, I think. Someone’s home and there’s going to have to be some quick explaining. Can I hide the kids? No, that might even be worse if they were found. Surely they know the situation and will understand. I’m going to go with that for now.

  “Otter 39 roger. Lajes approach on xxx.xx.”

  I switch the radio. “There’s someone there?” Bri asks.

  “Apparently so,” I answer and key the mic.

  “Lajes approach, Otter 39, an HC-130 100 miles west descending through one zero thousand. Request vectors for the straight in for the ILS runway one five.”

  “Otter 39, Lajes approach copy. Squawk 0271 and ident. Altimeter three zero one four, landing runway one five.”

  I set up the code in the IFF and flick the ident button. This will create a momentary larger blip on their radar screen allowing for a positive identification.

  “Otter 39, Lajes approach, radar contact. Turn left heading 070 degrees, descend and maintain seven thousand. This will be vectors for the straight in ILS one five. State departure point and destination.”

  “Lajes, copy that. Otter 39 passing through niner thousand for seven. Left to 070. Departed Lewis McChord. Destination classified.”

  I am still astonished and my mind is working overtime thinking about what kind of reception we are going to get and setting up for the approach. Although civilian aircraft do refuel here, I am in a military aircraft landing at a military field. And, oh yeah, I kinda borrowed this aircraft. My worry meter is climbing steadily.

  Approach control gives us vectors to the instrument approach and we set up for landing. Passing the final approach fix, configured for landing, with the runway lights ahead of us and the lights from the base to the side, we are told to contact the tower.

  “Lajes tower, Otter 39 on final for runway one five with the gear,” I say after switching to the tower frequency.

  “Otter 39, Lajes tower, cleared to land runway one five.”

  We touch down, reverse thrust, and slow to taxi speed. “Otter 39, Lajes tower. Taxi to the end of the runway onto the taxiway and shut down. Contact ground on xxx.xx leaving the runway for further instructions.”

  “Otter 39 copies.”

  Taxiing to the end of the runway, I pull off onto the taxiway and stop the aircraft contacting ground on the assigned frequency. “Ground, Otter 39 clear of the active.”

  “Otter 39, ground, roger. Shut down there. Security will meet you. Remain on this frequency. State souls on board.”

  “Ground, Otter 39 copy. Five souls on board. Shutting d
own and remaining on freq.”

  Going through the shutdown procedure, I pull the prop levers back and the props begin their long, winding journey down. To our right, through the windscreen, multiple vehicles are approaching on the taxiway with blue lights flashing. “Otter 39, ground. Open your crew door and ramp.”

  “Ground, Otter 39 roger,” I say and direct Robert into the back to open the door and ramp.

  The security vehicles pull up, stopping a short distance away in a semi-circle around the nose of the aircraft. With the sky lighting in the east, signaling the coming dawn, security personnel scramble out of their vehicles; several taking positions behind the hoods and three stepping up by the crew door.

  “Otter 39, exit out of the crew door one at a time keeping your hands in sight and unarmed.”

  “Otter 39 roger.”

  We leave our weapons on the seats with our helmets and head to the now open crew door. Spotlights illuminate the entirety of the aircraft, blinding me as I walk down the door stairs, setting my flight cap on my head. I barely make out three security personnel standing off to one side, silhouetted by the blinding lights. The kids follow me out and down, exiting one at a time. I stop at the bottom and am met by an Air Force Tech Sergeant. “This is your crew, sir!?” He asks in an incredulous manner, stopping in front of me and saluting.

  “It is, Sergeant,” I say returning the salute.

  “Anyone else on board, sir?” He asks.

  “No, Sergeant Watkins,” I reply back noticing his name tag. “This is it.”

  He turns and grabs the mic at his right shoulder, “Cressman, take bravo and secure the aircraft.”

  Sergeant Watkins then turns back to me. “Sir, I was instructed to bring you to Colonel Wilson. Actually, I was instructed to bring the entire crew, but given the circumstances here, I will escort you and allow, um, them, to remain here.”

  “Very well, Sergeant, lead the way.”

  Sergeant Watkins turns to a senior airmen standing to the right and behind. “Calloway, notify the tower, base ops, and the Colonel’s office of our situation. Tell the Colonel’s office we are bringing a Captain Walker to him and then meet me back here.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Airman Calloway says and trots over to one of the vehicles.

  “Sir, I heard you came out of McChord,” Watkins says as we await Calloway’s return.

  “Yeah, two days ago,” I reply.

  “How is it back there, sir?”

  “Not good,” I answer and he just shakes his head.

  “How is it here?” I ask

  “I am not sure I’m at liberty to say, sir,” he answers as a security member pokes his head out of the door above us.

  “Sergeant Watkins,” the young airman calls out. Watkins turns toward the airman and the airman continues, “The aircraft is all clear. Some weapons in the cockpit and cargo bay which we secured.”

  “Okay Jones,” Watkins replies back. “Bring the rest of bravo out and sit with these kids here.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Jones says and disappears back into the cargo bay.

  “Yours, sir?” Watkins asks nodding toward the kids standing at the bottom of the ramp, their heads all turned towards us.

  “Most of ‘em,” I reply and he merely nods.

  Calloway returns a short time later. “Sergeant, I’ll be expecting our weapons back once we return,” I say as Calloway draws up.

  “Yes, sir. This way if you please, sir,” Watkins says extending his arm in a sweeping motion, inviting me towards the nearest vehicle.

  I climb into the back of the vehicle as Calloway climbs into the driver’s seat with Watkins hopping into the passenger seat. The other airman climbs in the back seat as well and we head down the ramp with the morning sun just poking above the horizon. We drive in silence across the ramp and onto the base roads. Calloway repeatedly looks back at me through the rearview and the airman beside me gives me side-long glances. Sergeant Watkins is focused straight ahead through the windshield.

  We arrive at a building a few minutes later, pulling directly up to the sidewalk leading to the front doors, bypassing the surrounding parking lot. “Sir?” Sergeant Watkins says looking back over his shoulder at me.

  I step out of the vehicle and walk around in front of it to the sidewalk. Watkins walks ahead of me to the front door with Calloway and the other airman behind me at each shoulder. I remove my cap, sliding it in my right calf pocket. We head inside and up a flight of stairs a short distance down the entrance hall.

  “It’s so strange to be in a building with the lights on,” I say as we reach a landing.

  “What’s that, sir?” Watkins asks half turning his head around.

  “Just that every other building we’ve been in lately has been completely dark. No power or lights. It’s just nice to be in a building that’s lit.”

  “There’s no power back in the states?” Calloway asks just behind and to the left of me.

  “Calloway, that will be enough!” Watkins states tersely.

  “Not that I could see,” I say answering Calloway’s question.

  We proceed into a hallway on the second floor and arrive at a wooden door with a translucent glass panel set into the upper half. Entering within, the room opens into a reception area covered with light gray carpeting and wood paneling. A large dark, wooden desk sits in the middle of the room with chairs against the wall to our left fronted by a coffee table. The walls have prints of the base and aircraft on them with the usual chain of command photos on one wall. Two wooden doors with the same translucent glass panes set into their upper halves open off the room and we head over to the one on the left. Written on the glass panel in black lettering is ‘Colonel Frank Wilson’ with ‘Vice Commander’ in print below it.

  Sergeant Watkins raps once on the glass panel and we hear “Enter,” from within.

  Watkins swings the door open and I walk in with him close on my heels. He stops, steps against the wall inside the door, and comes to attention. The room has the same carpeting and paneled walls as the waiting room. Aircraft pictures line the walls with bookcases below them. Another desk, similar to the one outside, is by a large window to the right facing us.

  Colonel Wilson, I am assuming, is the man sitting behind his desk. He is dressed in a light blue, short sleeve Air Force uniform, his close cropped graying hair is illuminated by the morning sunlight streaming through the window. Rows of decorations line the left chest of his uniform shirt but I notice the lack of wings above them. I approach to within three feet of the desk and come to attention.

  “Captain Walker reporting, sir,” I say saluting, focusing my eyes about a foot over his head.

  “Captain Walker. Am I to gather that you departed from Lewis-McChord?” He asks returning the salute.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your mission?”

  “I am under orders to pick up some Army personnel in Kuwait and return them to Joint Base Lewis-McChord, sir.”

  “I see. And under whose orders are those?” Colonel Wilson asks, his eyes drilling into mine as I continue to stand at attention.

  “General Billings, sir,” I reply.

  Wilson then opens a booklet on his desk and flips through it, his finger tracing down one of the pages.

  “Very well, Captain,” he says after his finger stops its tracing, apparently finding what he is looking for.

  See, thankfully, I noticed the pictures on the wall at McChord. All military building have pictures of the Chain of Command from the President on down including the joint base commander.

  He opens another booklet and starts flipping through. Stopping on one particular page, he looks up. “Captain, how do you explain how you were selected for this mission? The 17th is not based at Lewis-McChord.”

  “Sir, my crew and I were on a refueling stop, heading back to base when all of this went down. I was one of the only pilots, well, still available,” I respond.

  “And your crew, Captain?”

  “Gone,
sir.”

  “And General Billings sent you on this mission himself!?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Security reports blood along the side of your aircraft. Care to comment on that, Captain!”

  “It was a rather interesting time getting here, sir,” I respond.

  “Then I am to assume that the blood is from the infected ones?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Son, what about your rather strange new crew members?”

  My eyes drop momentarily, meeting his, before snapping back up to the imaginary point over his head. “Those are my kids, sir.”

  “Am I to understand this correctly, Captain!? That you smuggled your kids onboard a military aircraft on a military mission!” He asks leaning toward me, his left hand grasping the edge of his desk in front of him, jutting his chin forward, as he slams his right hand down on the desk top.

  “Yes, sir.”

  It is one of those moments when time seems to completely come to a halt and the abyss opens up before you, seeming to lasting forever. Colonel Wilson then sighs heavily and leans into his chair.

  “Sergeant Watkins, that will be all. Please wait outside,” Wilson says looking over at the Sergeant.

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Watkins says, salutes and then exits the room, closing the door behind him.

  “At ease, Captain,” he says once the door clicks shut.

  “I have kids too and would’ve done the same in your circumstance. How is it at McChord? We haven’t had any contact with anyone for the past two days,” he asks as I come to parade rest, folding my arms behind me.

  “Not good, sir. I’m not sure there will be anyone left there soon. The quarantine broke there and these things were running everywhere at night. I’m not sure what the plans were but was only given these orders.”

  “Sir, if I may speak?”

  He merely nods and I ask, “How are things here?”