by John O'Brien
After a few hours of drilling holes in the sky, we manage to cover the Tacoma area. Looking at the white figures on the monitor, I think of Drescoll being out there somewhere. I hope that wherever he has decided to go, that there aren’t night runners in these numbers near him. Or any for that matter. That would be a horrible way to go.
I bank the aircraft in the night sky, keeping below the overcast, wanting to take a look at the corridor between Seattle and Tacoma before we settle down to the business of delivering steel to flesh and bone.
The farther north we go, the more we encounter packs on the prowl. The number directly corresponds to the level of urban buildup. It seems Frank is right and the night runners are pushing out of the Seattle area. I’m sure, like he said, that the food supply is drying out up there and they are pushing in all directions. The thought arises that if we take out any night runners in an area without depleting their food source, the vacuum created will eventually fill up again until the food is gone. That is provided that there are night runners that can transition to the area. That doesn’t bode well for us as the western corridor, from Olympia to north of Seattle, was heavily populated with only narrow breaks between the developed areas.
There is no way we can take out all of the night runners. We may be able to destroy their food source. That may keep their numbers down; but how do you demolish miles and miles of urban development? The only way to keep night runners out of an area is to develop a scorched earth policy…burn everything to the ground. That’s not as easy as it sounds, but it may be our only recourse. Nature adapts though, and it may be that we drive the night runners to another course which will make them even more dangerous. I shake off this train of thought and decide that I will take it up with Frank and the others at a later point. Right now, there are targets below that are itching to be taken out.
“Okay, we’ve seen enough. Get ready to start delivering your magic,” I announce.
“We’re past ready,” he replies.
“We’re going to concentrate with the ones around base. Make sure to stay away from the aircraft parked on the ramp. We need to also avoid getting close to the armories, the maintenance sheds, the helicopters, the hospital, and I’d like to avoid the housing if possible. You never know if we may use those down the road.”
“You’ve pretty much just eliminated any place that we can hit,” he responds.
I hear Bri chuckle on the intercom.
Fuck, he’s right, I think, looking down into the blackness below where unseen night runners run through streets separating abandoned buildings. My enhanced vision doesn’t allow me to see that far into the night.
“Okay, we’ll concentrate on a built up area outside of the burnt out sections. Give me a heading to the most significant sightings,” I say.
“Stand by one,” he replies. “Okay, head toward downtown. A heading of three-one-zero degrees ought to do it.”
The hotels and office buildings of downtown Tacoma slide into view on the monitor and we set up our usual orbit pattern. We’ll hit the outskirts of the downtown proper as the taller buildings will restrict our view and, subsequently, our shots. Thermal imaging picks up the white figures of several packs as they move through the streets. The night runners pause to look up as we pass.
Robert’s voice comes through the intercom as he marks targets and runs through last minute safety checks to bring the guns to a final readiness.
“You are weapons free,” I call once I hear him complete his checks.
“Copy that. Opening fire.”
“Make sure you are recording,” I state.
“We are.”
I look down to the monitor and see that he has targeted one of the medium-sized packs loping down a wide avenue. Flashes appear outside as the 40mm cannon opens up, spewing rounds out into the dark, lighting the outboard engine nacelles and propellers for split seconds at a time. Looking down to the monitor, I see the first shell hit at the edge of the group. The figures are lost momentarily as the screen flashes with the heat of the impact. A figure of white is launched to the side and crashes forcefully into a parked vehicle. Just as the screen begins to clear, another flash of light signifies another 40mm shell exploding as it hits in the midst of the group.
The screen clears and I count seven white figures scattered in various positions on the roadway below. None are moving. Robert calls out the next target and engages. I notice that these don’t immediately vanish into the buildings as did the others that we encountered closer to our compound.
After hitting several groups in the area, the figures in white below finally do disappear into buildings. We mark these before moving on to other groups in the open. In another area, the night runners vanish almost immediately after we hit a single group. I’ve come to realize that I’ll never get a grip on night runner thinking. They behave differently wherever we go, whether in the air or on the ground. Again, we mark the buildings and start engaging those with the 105mm howitzer.
Looking down into the dark landscape below, large orange mixed with yellow flashes flare briefly, like matches being struck at a distance in an unlit room. The explosion, from the 105mm as it impacts one of the buildings that a group of night runners ran into, bursts skyward and then vanishes. There’s not a night runner to be seen on thermals, but Robert has marked a few of the buildings and we hit a few of these before moving to another area. We are beginning to run low on 40 and 105mm ammo as we hunt the night runners through the blackened neighborhoods.
It’s a good feeling to be exacting some measure against the night runners. It’s doesn’t take away from our recent tragedies, but it still feels good to be doing something other than sitting by the side waiting to be hit.
In another orbit, Robert tracks a large pack in an industrial area. The pack is the largest we’ve seen tonight. At best count, there appears to be over a hundred moving behind a single figure in front. I hear Robert target the pack and set up the 105mm for an initial attack. He will follow up with the 40mm and Gatling gun for any that remain.
Concentrating on the size of the pack and its leader, I don’t focus much on the area they are running through. I’m guessing Robert didn’t either. Suddenly, that lack of vigilance jumps into my vision like turning the page of a pop-up book. I hear the order to fire before I can utter a word.
The screen goes completely white. I look outside to see a white-hot explosion rocketing upward and out, lighting the terrain for miles around. Secondary explosions rock the ground below and combine with the initial blast. White and blue flame shoots outward, obliterating everything in its path. White hot fire and flame boil upward with immense speed, hurtling skyward. The mushroom cloud, filling now with yellows and oranges, reaches our altitude and soars past. I grip the wheel in anticipation and instinctually start turning the aircraft away from the fireball. I know what’s coming next.
“Hang on!” I shout into the intercom.
It’s all I can get out before the aircraft is hit by the initial concussion of the tremendous explosion. It feels like we’ve been swatted by a gigantic hand and flung to the side. The Spooky is lifted and thrown, the nose turning at least thirty degrees to the side. The left wing rises, threatening to roll us, and the nose points skyward. It’s all I can do to hang on to the wheel as it tries to force its way from my grip.
Unsecured objects crash to the floor in the cockpit and cargo compartment. I am thrown to the side and only held in my seat by the harness. Almost subconsciously, I hear strangled screams and shouts through the intercom. I push the controls forward and to the left, mashing the left rudder down, but the actions have little effect with the pressures being exerted on the aircraft. The Spooky now has the flight characteristics of a thrown brick.
“Pull number one to idle and push four to mil,” I shout to Craig, trying to right the aircraft.
I would position the throttles, but it’s all I can do to keep control of the wheel. The control surfaces are exerting pressure in the exact opposite direction
that I’m trying the hold them. Craig positions the throttles and I feel a decrease of the pressure being exerted against the control wheel as we continue to be buffeted by the force of the explosion.
And then, just as suddenly as it hit, the buffeting ceases. The nose and wings begin to respond to my control inputs, and we achieve level flight six thousand feet above where we started and on top of a layer of clouds. Moonlight shines brightly, casting its silvery glow upon the undercast. A blanket of whites and grays float gently below us, the calmness they portray is in direct contrast to what we just went through. The top of Mount Rainier pierces the clouds, the moonlight reflecting brightly off the snowfields.
To the side, the fireball still rises, but has slowed significantly. The heat from it has vaporized the clouds, creating a hole of clear air around it. The fact that we are still flying is a testament to the strength of the 130. We’ll definitely have to have it checked over by the mechanic we picked up before taking it out again. If we’ve sustained any structural damage, we may have to fly down and pick up another one. At the very least, it will delay our flight by a day in order to get it looked over. It’s not that we are going to fly it south with us, but I’ll need to know whether we need to pick up another one. I do a quick scan of the instruments to verify that we are indeed flying and the engines are still operating.
“Is everyone okay?” I ask, looking to Bri and moving the throttles back to their original settings.
Her helmet is oversized and has been shoved down over her eyes. She reaches up to push it back and looks up at her instruments. I’m impressed that she has the wherewithal to check the panels after having gone through what we did.
“Yeah…yeah, I think so,” Robert calls after a moment. His voice is shaky, otherwise he sounds fine.
The rest respond in a similar fashion; Bri merely nods and Craig gives a thumbs-up.
“Are we okay?” Robert asks, his voice still shaky but quickly recovering.
“Yeah, we appear to be, but I think it’s time that we call it a night. We need to get this aircraft on the ground,” I answer.
“What in the hell was that?” Robert asks.
“We hit a propane storage facility,” I answer.
“Fuck me…I need to look closer,” I hear him mutter.
The mushroom cloud off to the side has expended its energy and is breaking up, the smoke drifting slowly northward. I turn the aircraft toward the hole in the clouds and slowly descend until we are once again below the overcast. The area below us is devastated for a half mile around where the facility was. Everything there has been vaporized. I radio base to let them know that we are on the way back. I hold off telling them what happened. It’s not like they can meet us with emergency equipment.
On the return flight, I look for damage on the wings and have others look along the fuselage. We run through the structural damage procedures, but it looks like we escaped without harm. We’ll still conduct our approach as if there is.
The strip carved out of the field looks small in the glow of the night vision goggles. It’s a long strip, but not overly wide. The runway wants to keep sliding to the side. I’m still a little shaky from what happened and my post-adrenaline rush isn’t helping much. I keep bringing the nose into alignment as we descend ever closer. It’s hard to judge the glide path at night without nav instrumentation or glide slope lighting, especially seeing as how the NVGs aren’t that great with presenting a three dimensional picture. Craig calls out the airspeed and altitude as I adjust the throttles in accordance.
I finally reach a point where I think I can see the runway without the aid of the NVGs and peek out. Sure enough, the picture resolves itself into a better dimensional representation.
“Okay, I have a visual,” I tell Craig.
The aircraft thumps down on the dirt landing surface and we slow, turning onto the ramp Bannerman had carved out.
“I’m not sure which hurt the aircraft more…the explosion or that landing,” Craig says.
I hear more than one chuckle on the intercom.
“Thanks for volunteering to help out the mechanic tomorrow,” I reply.
Frank meets us with several Humvees in tow as we shut down. I brief him on what happened as we make our way back to Cabela’s and hand him the tape of our sortie.
“Show the entire camp the combat footage. I’m thinking they need an uplift after this week and need to know that we are doing something positive. Oh, and you can leave out that little episode where we are tossed around the sky.”
“Will do, Jack,” Frank replies.
The debrief with the crew is quick. The part with the propane storage is covered by only mentioning that we need to take a closer look at our surroundings before delivering explosives. There’s no need to harp on this as the lesson was learned by everyone seconds after the facility was hit. I do, however, record the devastating effects in the back of mind. It’s not like we can drop fuel-air bombs, but it bears thinking about.
* * * * * *
Gonzalez leaves the debrief and makes her way to her cubicle. Plopping down on her bunk, she leans, resting her elbows on her legs. She’s exhausted to the point where untying her boots seems like a chore beyond her power to complete. She stares at them, willing them to undo themselves, but they remain glued to her feet. With a heavy sigh, she reaches down and unlaces one boot, pulling it off with effort and dropping it to the floor. She then stares at her other boot as tired thoughts drift through her mind.
The flight tonight only emphasized a point she has known throughout her career – that anything can happen at any time. Jack and Craig downplayed it during the debrief, but she knows they were moments away from plummeting. She thinks on how small, seemingly insignificant things can make such a difference. If they were a hundred yards closer to the explosion, it might have been enough to toss them out of the sky. There was one time that she moved away from a position only to have it shelled seconds later. She didn’t have any feeling of foreboding or that she should move, it just happened. Or Jack bending over when he did. He would have been hit and Allie would be sitting here sharing a joke or story with her. It’s not that it is good or bad, it just is.
The thought of McCafferty causes her to sigh heavily through pursed lips. Gonzalez’ shoulders sag farther as she continues to lean on her legs, staring at her one boot, not truly seeing it anymore. Allie’s death has really shaken her. She’s lost friends before, and yes, they shook her then, just not to the extent Allie’s has. Perhaps it’s the times they live in now, or that Allie was really her last friend. Before, she had other friends, and they would console each other – help each other through the hard times. She doesn’t have that now. There are the others in Red Team, but it’s not the same. She doesn’t feel as if she can share like she and Allie could…or her other friends.
A tired tear runs slowly down her cheek. It’s soon joined by others to create a stream. Her vision blurs; she wipes one hand across her eyes to no avail, the tears keep coming. Her shoulders shake with the first sob. Emotions pour out of her as grief takes hold.
No matter what happened the previous day, she would always wake ready to take the world by the horns and give it a ride – she would experience it fully. Sometimes exhaustion would make that a short ride, but she would meet the day with what she had. She is finding that hard to do now. With the daily stress and constant threat to their survival, it seems like they are hanging by a thread. And Drescoll leaving. He just gave up. She can see the ‘why’, but to leave like that. There are people that depended on him…cared about him. Not in the way Allie did, but cared nonetheless. She wishes he could have seen that and used it for strength.
Her thoughts wind back to Allie. Gonzalez sees her face with that silly grin she always wore when the team was joking around. Her small stature and features made her seem like the eternal high school princess. The look of determination she exhibited when fighting loomed near – completely fearless. Something you wouldn’t expect from just looking at her.
Gonzalez remembers the mischievous grin Allie had when they discovered the Twinkies and her pure joy when she brought them out to share with the others in that strange town. Her spirit lifted the team up when times were hard. Allie was her friend and she misses her.
With her elbows on her knees, Gonzalez wraps her hands at the back of her head and grips her hair. Sobs wrack her body as she remembers her friend and the times they had together, even if just for a short time.
Other thoughts come in a jumble – the night runners coming down from the north, the group apparently targeting them, the larger group of night runners somewhere in the vicinity. When will we get a break?
She cries herself out and places her arms back on her legs with a big sigh.
Quit whining like a little girl, she tells herself. We have a secure location with good people. And we have the ability to strike back and strike back hard. We’re alive right now, and that’s all that matters.
Gonzalez reaches down to undo the laces to her other boot, removes it, and drops it next to her other one. She’ll fight, as she and the others have always done – for the soldier next to her and for those they protect.
Wiping the last vestiges of tears away, she settles back on her cot. Tomorrow is another day and she’ll face it as she has all of her other ones. She’ll experience it.
Tempered steel…her last thought as she slips into an exhausted sleep.
* * * * * *
Robert climbs the stairs slowly, watching Gonzalez scale the steps ahead of him. He’d like to catch up to her and talk about this evening, but he also doesn’t want to talk with anyone right now. It’s a contradiction within him – the need to talk with someone, yet not wanting to hear the recrimination he feels he deserves. With his hand on the railing, guiding him up another step, he shakes his head. He feels bad about what happened.