Mountain Home tells pretty much the same story. A few spirals of smoke from still-smoldering fires drift lazily above the base located there. There is more rubble in a parking lot where it looks like the BX or some other larger building is. Military aircraft of all types sit on the silent ramps. Each town we fly over gives off a feeling of loneliness but perhaps that is ourselves missing the world we once knew. Not much is said as we pass over the brown plains of Idaho.
I notice a movement from McCafferty next to me as she reaches up to switch tanks. My heart almost stops in my chest as I realize what she is doing and, in the moments as my hand races towards hers, I’m hoping I will be in time. Both of her hands are reaching for the fuel switch panel, one on each side. She is attempting to switch the tanks on both sides at once. That’s not the issue though. She is about to do it in the wrong sequence. I’m not sure why I looked but I’m grateful I did. I manage to grab her hand before she turns the switch closest to me and hope it will stop her from switching the other. As my hand grabs hers, she stops all movement. Or perhaps it was me yelling “No” in the intercom. All eyes turn quickly to me startled as if expecting the plane to come apart at any moment.
“You have to switch the pumps on, open the valves on the tank you’re switching to first, and then close the valve to the tank you’re feeding from,” I say after my heart starts beating again with a mighty pound in my chest. “If you do it the other way, there will be no fuel flowing to the engines and that’s a less than optimal situation. Plus, do one side at a time.”
“Okay, sir. Sorry,” McCafferty says and proceeds to do it in the correct sequence.
Bri looks from me, to the panel, and back with a look of chagrin on her face. “I’m sorry, Dad. I should have been watching,” Bri says.
“No worries. No harm, no foul,” I respond. “But keep a watch next time. I’m not all that interested in exploring the glide characteristics of this beast.”
“I will, Dad,” Bri says. I nod, both as acknowledgement and assurance that all is good.
We weren’t far from getting a closer look at the streets of Twin Falls. We would have been able to restart the engines without too much difficulty but having all of your engines quit has to rank up there with having your head sewn to a carpet. It’s just the idea of flying along without the propellers turning for that length of time that raises the pucker factor by a degree or two. However, we didn’t so it’s easily forgotten. Well, maybe not as I know that my eyes will now track to the panel each time we switch tanks.
I cover various emergencies with Robert and Craig. The mountains of the Continental Divide enter our field of view along with Salt Lake City a short time later. Small plumes of smoke are still rising from the city but they are brownish in nature indicting yet more smoldering fires. There aren’t many and they aren’t large. We pass the large city and enter the tan of the desert proper after crossing over a small range of mountains. We are over half way through the flight and I begin to see the tops of building cumulus clouds to the southeast directly in our line of flight. That doesn’t bode well, I think wrapping up another emergency procedure. McCafferty makes way for Gonzalez at the flight engineer station.
I point out the rising clouds in the distance; their tops and sides reflecting white from the sun. Lower down, they turn into an ugly boiling mess of dark blue-gray and black as more of the line of building thunderstorms becomes visible. Although I can’t see his knuckles, I do notice Robert’s grip on the steering column grow tighter.
“Are we going through those?” He asks. “Or around?”
“I’d rather not and I don’t think we’ll be able to go around,” I answer watching the squall line build quickly to the northeast directly across our flight path. “They look like they are sitting right over Clovis.”
“What should we do then?” He asks.
“I don’t know. You’re the pilot in command. You tell me,” I answer.
“We should divert then,” he says. It comes out as both a statement and a question.
“Whatever you say,” I reply.
“That would be my choice,” Craig chimes in. I can tell he is holding off saying anything letting Robert arrive at his own conclusion and recognizes my wanting Robert to learn to take command.
Robert holds up the map he has sitting on the console. He looks up and compares the map with what he sees outside. After a moment he says, “It looks like Kirtland AFB is still in the clear. We’ll land there.” There was no question with that statement.
I hold back a nod or statement of correctness. I want him to analyze and choose an action without having my acknowledgement – own the decision and proceed with it - so that he can get used to making decisions and acting on them. He has gained a tremendous amount of confidence, as has Bri, and they will gain more.
The turbulence begins to increase as we draw closer to the towering line of clouds. They are still in the distance but their height is more than impressive. The thunderstorms in this area can reach 70,000 feet and beyond. If you haven’t seen these kinds of storms, you should add that to your bucket list. The power inherent within the boiling mass of clouds is impressive. The air and land below is cloaked in dark shadows with a light show streaking from the clouds to the ground.
Craig gathers the maps and approach charts to Kirtland AFB as the all arms and elbows show that a divert causes begins. Robert sets up and begins a descent to the city of Albuquerque. There is a continuing flurry of activity within the cockpit along with an increase in the bouncing of the aircraft. Robert looks at the map between checks to find the airport. I hold onto the back of his seat as the aircraft attempts to knock me off my feet at times. I can tell he is trying to locate the field with the way he is holding the map up in front of his face and looking outside.
“Ah, there it is,” I hear him say over the intercom. With that, he sets the map down.
“Craig, what runways are there?” Robert asks.
“We have 08/26, 17/35, 03/21, and 12/30,” Craig answers looking at the field diagram in the approach charts. I’m interested in finding out which one he chooses.
The long line of storms lies a few miles away. I’m surprised to see them so big this early on in the day but it does happen. Usually, squall lines like the one in front of us forms in the afternoons and evenings as the air from the heated ground rises and cools. The turbulence we are experiencing so far out shows an unstable air mass so that must have contributed to the early rising storms. I’m hoping we’ll be able to get down to Canon AFB in the morning. I glance over and notice tension around Gonzalez’ eyes. I’m not sure if it’s the flying, being nervous operating the panel, or if it’s because we are close to her home and family.
Robert hesitates a moment deciding which runway to use. We continue our descent. “Which one is that longest one?” He asks pointing outside.
“The longest one is 08/26,” Craig answers.
“Okay, we’ll use that one. We’ll use runway 08 as it is closer. I would use whichever one the wind dictates but we don’t have that information,” Robert says turning the aircraft to get into alignment with the runway.
“That’s a good choice,” I say deciding to interject my thoughts. “One, it is the longest and the ground level around here is over 5,000 feet high. You know what that means, right?”
“Longer ground roll and takeoff distances,” he answers.
“Yep, exactly. Plus, with the storms nearby, there is the chance one of those storms can have a downburst. That means strong winds can head this way in a hurry from them. I’d rather be heading into something like that rather than away when landing,” I add. I see the wheels turn quickly in his mind as he absorbs this information.
“Makes sense. We could stall out if it came behind us,” he says after a moment of contemplation.
I’m glad to see him able to work through these thoughts while setting up for a landing as well. It gives me more confidence about our return flight. I give him a pat on the shoulder. “You’ve got
this handled,” I say glancing at the overhead panel to make sure Gonzalez, under Bri’s supervision, has them set up correctly. I still remember our near glider experience.
The gusty winds and turbulence make the final approach a tricky one with the threshold of the runway bouncing around in front of the nose, like a drunk trying to fit a key in the lock, but Robert manages to get us down. The turbulence continues into the flare, we rise and then set down a little abruptly but we are able walk away from it so it’s a good landing. We taxi in to where a couple of HC-130’s are parked and shut down. The wind continues to buffet the aircraft as strong gusts blow through the area. I’m not sure if the storms will venture this way during the day or evening but their presence is certainly felt.
We unbuckle and head into the back. There is the unmistakable odor of someone that didn’t enjoy the turbulence much. The 130 is notorious for shaking so I’m not surprised. I open the ramp and, after setting a schedule for the teams to guard the area, tell everyone they are free to loiter outside as long as they don’t venture far or alone. We find a shop vac in one of the open hangars and clean up the mess inside. We even find some of the aromatic “kitty litter” used for such messes. I’m not sure which is worse though, the original smell or the “aromatic” nature of the kitty litter.
The gusts continue to sweep through the area but other than the occasional deep rumble of the storms in the distance, no other sound is heard. Surely there must be other survivors, I think surveying the ramp. After all, we’ve found others in our area. Perhaps they’ll respond to the sound of our arrival.
Although it was relatively short flight, we are all thankful to be outside regardless of the blustery conditions. It’s warm and humid but it’s nice to be out of the aircraft. If the storms alter their direction and decide to pay us a visit, we’ll be confined back in the 130 and all of its “comforts.” Read facetious. MRE’s are opened and we take as much protection from the gusts as the leeward side of the aircraft will allow. The thin air of the high desert is keenly felt. After being at sea level for so long, I feel like I can’t catch my breath. The team on guard splits into teams of two and stations themselves, with binoculars, around the ramp. They should be able to give us some warning of anything untoward.
Sitting on the ramp, I notice just how gritty and covered with sand it is. The desert is slowly beginning to take back what was once its domain. I look across the ramp and notice a wide trail cut through the grit where we taxied in. It’s not something that will affect us greatly at this point but definitely something to keep in mind. We’ll have to conduct low passes at each field to verify its condition. I should have thought about that here but my attention was focused on both Robert and the near thunderstorms. Even sheltered against the wind, the gusts continue to blow bringing more sand with it. I even feel the grit of it in my mouth as I chew.
“Are we going to fuel up here?” Robert asks finishing his meal.
“I think we should be okay. The storms look like they may be building in this direction and I don’t want to be in the midst of fueling if they do. They can move rather quickly when they want,” I answer.
“Makes sense,” he says.
“Sir, we have company,” I hear Horace say over the radio. Blue Team is currently on guard. The call gets everyone’s attention and we stand quickly with weapons in hand; lunches half eaten fall to the ground.
“What do you have Horace?” I ask looking around the area.
“Three people near the end of the runway to the west. Two men and a woman. Armed but not bringing them to bear in any overt fashion. They are just standing and looking our way,” she reports.
I look in the direction reported and contemplate getting the Humvees out for additional fire support and mobility. There are only three reported but there could be others around. I don’t see anything but it is some distance away. I head into the aircraft to grab a pair of binoculars.
“Keep an eye out for others,” I radio the team as I grab the binoculars and head back outside.
I direct the other team members to cover around the other HC-130’s parked on the ramp. This is the only C-130 I see and we’ll need it to carry our Humvees. The move to different cover is to keep any rounds away from our transport in case gunfire is exchanged.
“Any change?” I ask Horace as we settle into our new positions.
“No, sir. They are just standing there watching us through a set of binoculars as well,” she replies.
“They can see you then?”
“I’m pretty sure they can, sir. At least they appear to be looking directly at us.”
“Okay, wave them in. Everyone stay alert and keep an eye on the entire perimeter,” I say.
A moment passes and I glass the area indicated by Horace. Adjusting the focus, three people come into view. It appears one of the men and the woman have hunting rifles with the other man carrying a shotgun. All have a sidearm strapped to their side. I see them talk to one another and begin heading in our direction. They cautiously approach with their weapons ready but not threatening.
As they draw closer, I head over to Horace’s position. Reaching where she and Bartel are hunkered behind a concrete barrier along the edge of the ramp, I see the three have stopped about 100 yards away. I rise and begin walking toward them telling everyone else to stay in position. With my approach, they continue nearing once again until we are standing about twenty yards away from each other. The men appear to be in their late twenties and have the appearance, with their stance and short haircuts, of being either in the military when everything happened or at least have prior service. The woman appears to be middle-aged with dark, curly hair cut to her shoulders. They are all a little disheveled with streaks of dirt covering their faces and stains ground into their jeans and shirts.
“We mean no ill will and as long as you have the same intentions, you’re welcome to join us for lunch and conversation if you’d like,” I call out. They look to each other. One of the men shrugs and they all shoulder their rifles and close in. I shoulder mine as well and have the teams stay on the alert but stand down.
“I’m Jack,” I say reaching my hand out as we come together.
“Thomas,” one of the men says accepting my shake.
“Jeremy,” the other says.
“Laurel,” the woman says with a hint of a Texan accent.
We walk back to the group which has reconvened in our sheltered spot on the lee side of the C-130. Our three newcomers are handed MRE’s which they dig into. They share the story of their meeting during a day scrounging for food and water. Thomas, Jeremy, and Laurel have been holing up in one of the gyms of a high school nearby and ventured our way after hearing our aircraft arrive. They mention seeing a small number of others from time to time but haven’t made contact with them. They heard our 130 fly over and thought perhaps it was a remnant of a military group left over from the calamity. The supplies in the area were getting more difficult to gather with their small group and it was only a matter of time before their place was finally overrun. So far, they had kept the beasts at bay during the night but were worn out from having to do so.
“We’re based up in the Northwest. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like,” I mention. I give a synopsis of our story and a rundown on our situation.
They look at each other and all shrug as if saying ‘why not.’ “If you don’t mind, I think we’ll take you up on that,” Thomas says. We share our stories. Sure enough, both Thomas and Jeremy were prior Army while Laurel was prior Navy and was on her way to purchase a horse when everything went down.
The early afternoon passes with the storms staying a short distance away. Their bases have become darker if that were even possible; looking like bruises. The gusts of wind carry the distinct smell of ozone giving me the indication that they could drift our way. Echo Team replaces Blue Team on watch. Soon after, the radio crackles to life once again.
“Jack, Greg, we have additional company. They just emerged from behind a hang
ar over by the tower. I count fifteen but that could be one or two off. They spotted us at the same time and went to cover,” Greg reports. “They’re currently by the tower with what appears to be automatic weapons pointed in our direction.”
That again gets our attention and we fan out finding whatever cover we can find. I immediately glass the area by the control tower and see people with muzzles pointing in our direction. The ones I see are in uniforms and, judging from the barrels sticking out from their cover, they do appear to be armed as Greg reported. There is about two hundred yards separating us.
No one makes a move in either direction. I am still cautious of our marauder experiences. I’m not sure where their caution is coming from but I certainly can understand it. We have three teams here with eighteen soldiers and they have fifteen or so. Depending on various factors, it can come out either way if steel starts being exchanged. We are definitely more in the open but the parked 130’s provided ample coverage. We don’t have many flanking options as we have to traverse the open part of the ramp. We could if we laid down covering fire and gained the upper hand. However, we could easily find ourselves stuck here if their rounds found vital parts of the aircraft around us. At least stuck as far as flying options go.
The standoff continues. I try yelling to the other group but my voice is carried away with the wind. At least I assume so as I get no response back; either vocally or from any movement on their side. I decide that we are not going to get anything resolved in this manner.
“I’m going out,” I say over the radio. “If I go down, Red and Blue Team, lay down a base of cover fire. Greg, you’ll be in charge. I suggest you take Echo across the ramp under the cover fire and flank them from the hangars.”
“Are you sure that’s the best of ideas to go out there? We could just do as you suggest,” Greg replies back.
A New World: Awakening Page 6