Reckoning

Bird of Prey

Having met with Leonard and relaying what we have found out, I feel better and am glad for the arrangement of working together should there be the need. He still has his search to do, and it may be a while before we see each other again. Although we came to an understanding, I don’t get the feeling that he will be joining our compound soon. After all, he has a fuel supply that will last him for years and, provided he doesn’t experience any severe mechanical breakdowns, he’ll be able to travel anywhere with a degree of safety. All in all, he may be better off than we are up north.

However relieved I feel about our working together, there is still a tremendous amount of anxiety. One, Greg is out there and we need to locate him. There is also this other group and the issue of how we are going to deal with them. Then, there are the night runners that are moving out of Seattle and appear to be approaching our sanctuary.

It’s almost too much, I think, as the gear settles into the wheel well with a clunk.

Gaining altitude, we turn east, heading to locate and pick up Greg. Our first stop will be Cannon AFB to pick up another Spooky given that the other one might be damaged. Other than our own minds and teamwork, the aircraft remains our greatest asset as we try to survive. We’ll need to be a lot farther along than we are now if we’re to make it once the Spooky is grounded. We may be able to keep the other vehicles running if Bannerman has some success with the bio-fuels, but as far as flying goes, that will come to an end.

As we climb, the dirty brown line we saw before hangs on the horizon to the south. My first thought is that it’s an inversion but, reaching an altitude level with the top, I don’t see the linear line of separation that is usually prevalent with that kind of weather system. The color is reminiscent of smog, the look and kind that used to be a constant fixture over Los Angeles. That, however, has since cleared out without any further poisons being introduced into the atmosphere. It’s entirely possible that the smog has merely shifted and some atmospheric phenomenon is holding it. It could also be from fires, either from a city or from brush fires burning out of control. Whatever its source, it stretches for some distance to the east. We don’t have time to investigate, for whatever good that might do, since I want to hurry to Cannon AFB. I want to have both aircraft prepped and refueled for an early morning flight. Getting Greg back into the fold is the highest priority.

The line of smog packs against the mountains to the east, but the top drifts over the peaks. As we fly almost due east, the smog thins and finally ends near the California border at Yuma. Transiting a line between Flagstaff and Phoenix, I begin making calls hoping to reach Greg. If we can locate him on our flight to Cannon AFB, we’ll arrange for a pickup and continue on with getting another Spooky and conducting our flyover of the opposing bunker complex.

By the time we descend and line up for runway at Cannon AFB, I haven’t heard a word from Greg responding to our calls. That adds to my already extensive list of worries. We have transited a major portion of the route that Greg was to follow. He should have heard us.

After circling to be relatively sure that no one has settled into the area since our last visit, we touch down on the grit-covered main runway. A thin line of dust billows toward the front when we bring the engines into reverse thrust and we use the throttles to stay in front of it. Exiting the runway, we pull onto the ramp and park in the same location that we did before. We remain in place with the engines turning, waiting to see if someone we missed on our overflight shows up. Seeing no one arrive, we shut down.

Reasonably assured that no one else is around, I assign some of Red Team to start the tedious task of refueling. Taking the others, we look over one of the Spookys sitting on the ramp nearby. Opening the crew door, stale air pours out. A check of the maintenance records and cursory pre-flight check shows the aircraft to be airworthy. It’s been sitting on the ramp for a while so we’ll run the engines to check for any fuel contamination. A run-up shows that the decontamination filters in place are still functioning. The others systems check out and we shut it down.

With the late afternoon sun drifting toward the horizon and both aircraft refueled, Red Team locates a transportation vehicle near the ramp. Gathering several batteries from other vehicles and hooking them up in a relay, it takes a few attempts to get it started. When it is successfully running, the team heads over to the bunker complex and begins emptying it of ammo for the Spooky. We fill the ammunition storage on board and crate what we can, filling the remaining space around the Stryker in the 130.

The task is finished by the time twilight settles in. I’m worried that we weren’t able to contact Greg on the flight over. That weighs on me as all of us, Red Team, Lynn, and the ammunition handlers have a bite to eat on the ramp near the back of the 130. We sit on the hard surface, watching the last of the day’s light fade toward nighttime. A chilly breeze picks up, swirling sand across the wide path we cleared as we taxied across the tarmac. Without a word spoken, we finish our MREs and gather inside, closing the ramp and crew doors, sealing them against the night. We’ll stay the night in the 130.

With the blackout panels placed on the windows, I turn on the red interior light. The others gather around as I unfold several maps showing Greg’s proposed route.

“What’s the plan?” Lynn asks, looking over my shoulder.

“Greg should have been somewhere near Luke AFB according the plan we came up with,” I say, pointing to the location on one of the maps. “He should have been able to hear our radio calls and that has me worried.”

“I agree that’s a cause for concern, but that didn’t really answer shit,” Lynn states.

“Well, we all know how plans go, so I figure we’ll head north to Albuquerque and backtrack to Petersen AFB, making calls along the way. If we don’t find him along that route, we’ll head east toward McConnell AFB,” I reply, tracing the routes with my finger.

“And if we don’t find him there?”

“Then we’ll make for Luke and search outward. Unless something drastic has happened, he’ll be somewhere along that route. Even if he had to take a different course, our radios will reach a far distance from the air. We should be able to get into communication, determine his location, rendezvous, and pick him up.”

“Are we taking both aircraft?” Robert asks.

“I’m undecided on that. I was thinking we could. Craig can fly this one. Seeing Gonzalez has handled the flight engineer position before, she could go with him. I’ll fly the Spooky with everyone else aboard,” I answer.

I would send Bri with Craig seeing how she has more experience in the flight engineer seat. Craig has a few hours in the aircraft, and even more in total. However, he doesn’t have that many in the 130, and Bri’s experience would offset his inexperience to a degree. But that would be placing her, my daughter, in an undermanned aircraft with someone with only a few hours of 130 flight time. That may not be fair, but there it is. I could also send Robert to fly the other one with Craig as a co-pilot and Bri as the engineer. I’d be more comfortable with that arrangement, but I want Robert in command of the control center in the back of the Spooky. Not only do we need good footage of the bunker surroundings as we fly over, but the lack of communication with Greg has brought my anxiety meter up a notch. There’s an off chance we’ll need the firepower that the Spooky affords us.

“What about just taking the Spooky and leaving this one here? We have plenty of Strykers and we can pick up another 130 from the Portland guard base,” Robert says.

“I’ve thought about that. We still have the fake mission to accomplish afterward and will need the Stryker for that. It may be moot as I’m sure they’ll figure out we overflew them on purpose, but there’s the off chance they won’t,” I reply.

“It’ll be daylight, so we won’t need all of the stations monitored. Gonzalez can run things in my place and I can fly this one with Craig and Bri,” Robert says.

“If we do that, I’ll need her to be the flight engineer on the Spooky,” I state.

“Then I guess she’ll have to multitask,” Robert says.

Lynn, still standing over my shoulder, chuckles in my ear. Patting me on the shoulder, she says, “How does that feel, Jack? Being put in your place, I mean.”

“Okay fine, we’ll do it that way. Have I told you lately just how much of a pain in my ass you all are?”

“You love it, Jack. You know you do,” Lynn says.

“Pain…in…my…ass,” I say, glaring at each of those in the formed circle.

Muted shrieks penetrate the fuselage, causing every head to turn in the direction of the sound. The screams indicate that we may be in for another of those nights, the all-night shrieks and slamming against the fuselage. We each have ear plugs, but they do little to shut out a night runner assault; and the slams are felt in addition to being heard.

With a plan formed, we settle into positions as comfortable as can be had. Some crawl into the Stryker to take advantage of the padded bench seats within. Once everyone has settled, I climb into the cockpit and turn off the power. The interior is at once plunged into darkness. Hooding a flashlight, I settle in on the lower bunk next to Lynn. In the chilled, darkened cockpit, as I finally manage to settle into my sleeping bag, the first thud is felt as a night runner slams into the side of the aircraft. In times past, I would have gone to the window to watch them, perhaps experimenting with the abilities I gained after being bitten. Tonight, I’m tired and other worries occupy my mind.

The increasing brightness within the cockpit brings me out of a restless sleep. The night runners kept at us for some of the night, the sounds of their screams and attempts to gain entry fading after a few hours. Peeling back the top of my sleeping bag, cold air immediately replaces the warmth I had accumulated. Fighting the urge to throw the top back over me, I crawl out and sit on the edge of the bunk, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and kneading my forehead in an attempt to fully waken.

Cold rises through my socks from the metal floor. Lynn stirs next to me as I pull on my boots and rise. Standing, I hit my head on the upper bunk railing.

“Dammit! I do that every fucking time.”

Lynn rolls over and sleepily asks me if I’m alright. I mutter some vague response and, rubbing the top of my head, go down the stairs to locate some water in the cargo compartment.

With the sun just peaking above the horizon, the ramp door is opened, exposing everyone to the even colder air outside. Any prevailing tiredness is quickly vanquished as we step out of the aircraft. It will warm up as the sun works its way across the clear sky, but the night has brought the temperature down to nearly zero. That’s the desert environment, freezing at night and a furnace during the day. Winter will see one cold weather system after another as Arctic winds sweep across the central plains, unimpeded by any mountains.

Robert and I accomplish our walk-arounds for the aircraft. It’s a clear day so we shouldn’t have problems keeping each other in sight. We cover routes, emergencies, frequencies, and a hundred other things that he is patient enough to let me go through. I’ll be leading with him following. Making sure he has the route and plan down, I give him and Bri hugs before we head to our respective aircraft.

We check in over the radio. A short time later, down the ramp, I see the propeller on Robert’s number three engine begin rotating. I’m behind on the checklist with my having to do the co-pilot’s actions as well, but it’s not too long before I press the start button. At that point though, he is already starting the last engine, number one. I manage to catch up and we taxi out. I roll down the runway, which is still mostly swept clean from our landing the day prior. Cleaning up the aircraft, I hear Robert call “rolling” on the radio and bank the Spooky to the west-northwest toward Albuquerque.

As we climb, I have Gonzalez head into the back to make sure the equipment is readied there, leaving me alone in the cockpit. We should arrive over Albuquerque soon, as the flight is only about two hundred miles. Gonzalez reports that they are ready in the back. I have her remain as there really isn’t that much to do in flight except monitor the gauges and periodically switch the fuel tanks.

About ten minutes later, I level off at fifteen thousand feet. This will give us a medium altitude to visually surveil the ground and provide good distance for the radio. Keeping my airspeed down, I check in with Robert to find that he’s closed to a seven o’clock position about two thousand feet behind.

With everything seemingly in order, I begin making radio calls, alternating between the guard frequency and the one we had arranged. There isn’t a response to any of my queries by the time we draw near to Albuquerque.

As the southeastern outskirts of the city fades out of view, I notify Robert and bank the aircraft to the northeast, making for the southern end of a large range of peaks as they spill out onto the upper plateau we’ve been flying across. Once we round the vast ridgeline, we’ll turn north toward Colorado Springs. Albuquerque slides under, then past the wing. The worry I had from not reaching Greg the previous day multiplies. We should have been able to reach him even if he was hundreds of miles away.

Sunlight partially fills a large valley that heads north between two monstrous ridgelines. Ahead and to the side, I make out the city of Santa Fe, which brings Leonard to mind. I hope he is able to find family members well and whole in their home port.

“Sir?” I hear Gonzalez call.

“Go ahead,” I reply.

“I’m not sure what I’m seeing, but I’m picking up a heat signature on thermal,” she states.

“Which direction and how far?” I ask.

There is a moment of silence. “It’s off our left wing and looks to be about fifteen miles away, sir.”

I glance out of the window to our nine o’clock position. I don’t see anything, but the mileage she indicated would put whatever she is seeing near an interstate leading from Albuquerque to Santa Fe. The road itself isn’t very distinguishable from the surrounding terrain, but the shadows from the raised surface make it easy to locate.

“Zoom in,” I say, turning my monitor to what she is seeing.

Glancing at the monitor, I see the warm spot Gonzalez indicated sitting just off what I think is the interstate.

“Robert, set up a holding pattern here and maintain fifteen thousand feet. We’re picking something up on thermal to the north and I’m heading down for a closer look,” I radio.

“Copy that. We’ll be here at fifteen thousand,” he replies.

I notify Gonzalez that we’re descending and going to take a closer look. Pulling the throttles back, I lower the nose and turn toward the sighting.

As we draw closer, both in distance and altitude, I note a single, thin line of smoke wafting in the air. It soon becomes apparent that the plume is emanating from a Stryker sitting on the plain.

Thinking the worst, I call on the radio for Greg once again. No reply. A fear surfaces, thinking that we’ve found Greg and have arrived too late. I feel a lump in my throat. I sent him without adequate support and I dread that I may be staring at the result of that mistake. A measure of guilt fills me knowing that it was done because I was distraught over my son.

“Gonzalez, zoom in on the Stryker. Tell me what you see,” I call.

There’s a pause as we continue to close the distance. “I can’t tell much, sir. It appears to have some battle damage and I see a body lying beside it.”

“Look outward and see if you can spot what caused this,” I say, looking in the sky around for any indication of aircraft in the area.

If that is Greg’s Stryker below, I can only assume, yes, that word, that the other group who targeted us is responsible. Although we found details of the facility and their capabilities, those are only words in a database and may or may not reflect reality. I am marginally set at ease thinking that, if they had aircraft capable of this, they wouldn’t have sent a team halfway across the country to take us out.

“There are a few more bodies west of the vehicle, but I don’t see anything else in the vicinity,” Gonzalez reports.

Closing the distance, I see the situation in greater detail. Black streaks appear along the side of the Stryker where it has been hit hard. I circle, looking for any signs of life or movement but I don’t see anything except the slowly rising column of thin smoke. The fact that the vehicle is still smoking indicates that it may have happened recently. Looking farther outward for any tell-tales signs of whoever did this, I don’t see anything other than the brown dirt terrain with rising peaks to the northeast and northwest.

Gav watches the large screen with interest. The live feed shows one group of her armored vehicles as they speed down a valley, chasing a lone Stryker a few miles ahead of it. A short while ago, waking early, she gathered the video feeds from the night prior and watched the pursuit. She observed the squad she had sent her company against narrowly escape a trap in a remote mountain town; watched as the chase continued to the south. All the while, a second group raced to get ahead and trap the squad in the valley.

Now, with the trap set, she observes the formed blockade and the single Stryker being herded toward it. The video blurs momentarily as the camera on the satellite, orbiting two hundred miles above, adjusts the zoom level. The feed catches the one armored vehicle as it turns off the raised embankment of the freeway and speeds across the flatland.

Her face remains blank, but inwardly, she is pleased as she watches the successive blows against the Stryker, bringing it to a halt. The high-resolution camera catches the emergence of survivors and their race toward the edge of a deep ravine.

The camera pulls back quickly, giving the ones watching a slight feeling of vertigo. As it settles to present a wider area, Gav watches her two armored groups close in on the gathered squad.

Tracers race out from the southernmost column, reaching toward the fleeing survivors. Dirt flies up and, upon clearing, shows bodies lying in ruin on the ground. The fire shifts toward two who were behind the larger group and are now fleeing back toward the disabled vehicle. Heavy fire erupts around the two, impacting the ground and the metallic sides of the Stryker. Although the view is obscured to some degree by the amount of fire pouring in, Gav watches one of the running figures fall to the ground. The other dives in the open hatch. A column of smoke blossoms against the lone Stryker as it absorbs another 105mm shell.

“Nahmer, we have two aircraft lifting off from Cannon AFB. A C-130 and an AC-130. Both aircraft have turned to the northwest and are heading toward the conflict,” reports a shift supervisor standing beside her.

“Was there any communication?” Gav asks.

“Not that we can determine,” the supervisor replies.

The large screen dominating the room flickers and, as it settles on a new image, Gav sees two 130s flying in formation.

“How long until they are on station?” Gav asks.

“At their current heading and speed, and assuming they are heading for the area where our units are, they’ll arrive in approximately forty minutes.”

“Recall the company. Have them exfil northward,” Gav orders.

She turns and leaves the control room feeling a measure of satisfaction.

Captain Trey Galvers sees the quarry approach on the road ahead. He had driven through the night, pressing his company hard in order to arrive in a position ahead of the Stryker and the small squad he has been ordered to take out. Splitting his forces, he has kept in communication with the platoon-plus-sized force he sent after the lone vehicle, led by one of his commanders. It was a classic hammer and anvil operation; chase the enemy into a prepared position and hit them from two sides. He watched on the live satellite feed as the Stryker barreled down the interstate directly toward his blocking force.

Their target veers off the main road, making a high speed run across the plain. Ordering the others in his group to open fire, volley after volley is sent outward. Seeing the hits and the Stryker slew to a halt, with faint tendrils of smoke rising, he orders the vehicles from both groups to close in. His orders are to eradicate the opposing squad with extreme prejudice but, if they can capture some of them, they are to take the opportunity. However, his orders state, and he agrees with them wholeheartedly, he isn’t to risk any of his company.

Watching as those escaping from the disabled vehicle run across the plateau toward an escarpment, and not knowing what their capabilities still might be, he orders his unit to open fire. A minute later, they are all down.

The order comes telling them to vacate the area, informing them of a possible inbound gunship. Quickly gathering his unit, he streaks north to put as many miles between him and the possible inbound. Thirty minutes later, with the two aircraft still ten minutes from the site of the fight, and with him almost thirty miles north, Trey slows his unit so that they don’t give themselves away by kicking up a dust cloud.

I fly low over the plain, hoping to see something, or someone. Seeing the bodies Gonzalez indicated lying strewn on the ground west of the smoldering Stryker, I know we need to set down and investigate. I need to know. With a feeling of dread, I notify Robert that we are on our way to join him, briefing him on what we observed. Looking at the scene below as we climb, I feel in my gut that this has something to do with the group who sent the sniper against us.

Leveling off at thirteen thousand feet, two thousand feet below Robert’s altitude, it isn’t long before I see a dark speck drifting against a background of blue sky.

“Robert, I’m at your seven o’clock low and have you in sight. Slow to 180 and maintain a thirty degree bank to the left,” I call.

“Roger that. I have you in sight,” he responds.

Seeing the other 130 bank, I turn to place myself inside of their track. Maintaining a higher airspeed, I climb and, using my shorter turn radius, close the distance. Robert’s 130 slowly increases in size until I park myself in his eight o’clock position a couple of hundred feet away.

“Okay, level off and drift back into a chase position. I’m going to land and check things. I want you to circle and keep an eye out,” I state.

“Copy that,” he replies as his 130 slowly slides to the rear.

“Okay, I have the lead. Follow me in,” I say. Two clicks on the radio affirms his acknowledgment.

Pulling the throttles back, I begin a descent and turn back toward the lone, smoldering Stryker. Approaching the plains, I separate Robert off to circle the area without getting in the way of our low approach and subsequent landing. Lining up with a straight section of the highway near the wreckage, I do a low approach checking for obstructions. Coming back around, I set the aircraft down. Billows of dust stream forward as I apply the reverse thrust. Bringing the engines back to normal idle, we taxi clear of the dust cloud and come to a stop, the stricken vehicle only a short distance across the flats. I leave the engines in idle, playing with the reverse thrust to avoid creating a wind storm to the rear of the aircraft, and notify Lynn that we are good. With Robert providing a top lookout, Lynn will lead Gonzalez, Henderson, and Denton to check out the Stryker and bodies.

Gathering weapons and ammo, Lynn steps down the ramp with the three others of Red Team. Amid the roar of the four idling engines, she adjusts her M-4 and, with a nod to the others, walks across the highway and down the embankment toward the Stryker smoking in the near distance. With a heavy heart, thinking they are too late to save Greg and his team, she walks across the soft dirt of the high plain, dust puffing up with each step.

Tall mountains to the northeast and northwest look over the steppe, completely oblivious to what has transpired, and not caring one bit. It may be that they do care, but their time is measured so vastly differently and this is only a brief moment in their seemingly eternal lifespan.

With Gonzalez, Henderson, and Denton spread to the sides, Lynn, still feeling ill at what she may find, skirts around the vehicle as she cautiously makes her way toward the bodies. She’ll come back and check the Stryker once she has taken a look at the bodies and identified them.

Approaching the scene, she comes across the first body. The ground has been chewed up and the figure mutilated by multiple bullet strikes. Lying inert with splotches of blood that has soaked into the ground, the body is missing part of its arm from the elbow down. Lynn can’t identify whether it’s part of Greg’s team as a round has taken off most of the face. With nausea rising in her throat, she kneels and reaches down to see if there is a dog tag present. Peeling back the collar, stiff with blood, she sees a chain around the neck. Pulling it clear, she wipes drying blood from the connected tag.

Walking to other mutilated bodies that have been torn apart by heavy caliber rounds, she pulls more dog tags from five others. Along with the soldiers, there are also four civilians among the dead.

With a sick feeling, she rises and keys her mic, “Jack, this is part of the team that went with Greg.”

“Are you sure? Never mind, of course you are,” Jack responds. “Have you found any alive?”

“Negative. I’m pulling dog tags now. I can only account for five of them at the moment and there were four others with them. I’m working toward the Stryker now.”

“Copy that.”

Lynn hears the dejected note in Jack’s voice. Backtracking to the armored vehicle, she gathers an additional dog tag from a body lying alongside it. An acrid odor surrounds the Stryker from a small stream of smoke escaping from it.

Rounding the corner of the vehicle, she looks inside. Equipment and gear is strewn about the interior. On one bench, a young boy lies staring blankly to the side, his face pale from blood loss. Discarded, bloodied bandages, wrappings, used IV bags, and other medical supplies are scattered throughout and, underneath all of the debris, pools of blood are drying on the floor. Looking to the other side, she gasps as she sees Greg’s body lying on the opposite bench, one arm and leg draping to the floor.

Tears well in her eyes, not only from seeing Greg like this, but from the loss of the others as well. They’ve arrived too late. Staring mutely at the carnage, her stomach threatens to upend itself. She can’t pull her eyes away nor make the radio call to Jack.

From all appearances, it looks like Greg was spared the mutilation of the others. They were so badly decimated that she didn’t need to check for pulses. She just pulled dog tags, stuck them in her pocket, and moved on.

Ducking her head, Lynn steps in, kicking some of the wreckage aside to make room for her footing. Bending over the still from of Greg, she places her fingers on his large wrist. She leans closer and tilts her head, as if that will allow her fingers to ‘hear’ better. A shot of adrenaline courses through her. Beneath her fingers beats a very faint, thready pulse.

“Get a poncho and see if you can find more IVs,” Lynn orders, turning to Gonzalez who is standing in the open hatch.

Gonzalez sifts through some of the gear lying on the floor and pulls out a poncho. Henderson crawls through the wreckage to crouch near Lynn. With Lynn and Henderson on one side, and Gonzalez and Denton on the other, they manage to roll Greg onto his back, taking care to keep his neck stabilized. Gonzalez finds a single IV bag and needle and succeeds in getting it inserted.

“Jack, we’ve found the remaining team. All of them are dead. We’ve located Greg in the Stryker. He’s unconscious and barely holding on, but we’ve managed to get an IV hooked up. We’re going to need some help moving him.”

“Okay, hold on. I’m sending the rest of the crew to you,” Jack replies.

I feel horrible about the loss of the team, which is only made marginally better by Lynn finding Greg still alive. From the urgency in her voice, I know he has a precarious hold on life. Moving him might upset that shaky hold, but we don’t really have much choice. He needs us to get him to a doctor, and the sooner we can make that happen, the better.

“Robert, do you see anything in the area?” I radio.

“Negative.”

“Do you feel comfortable flying back home without a flight engineer?” I ask.

“I think so.”

“Alright, I want you to set down behind me and send Bri over. We’re going to load Greg into your aircraft with a couple of handlers to keep him as stable as possible. Make a beeline for home and watch switching those fuel tanks. You’re going to have to monitor them yourself,” I state.

“Okay, Dad. We’re coming in now.”

Robert sets down on the road as Lynn and the others slowly carry Greg from the Stryker. They set him up in Robert’s 130, detailing a couple of our ammo handlers to remain with him along with extra IV bags and instructions on how to replace them. I turn as Bri settles into the seat behind me.

“Hey, Dad,” she says, clicking into the intercom system.

“Hey there, Bri.”

With Lynn and the others having secured Greg aboard Robert’s aircraft, they set out across the plain to gather the bodies of our comrades. As they are going about their gruesome task, I raise the ramp and apply the throttles, soon lifting off the highway. I would have just raised the ramp to its level position and taxied forward to give Robert room to take off, but it’s not the safest thing being in front like that. If anything went wrong and he needed to abort, he’d plow right into the back end. That’s a bad thing. Something like that makes for a really bad day.

Circling around to land again, I see dust blowing from the rear of Robert’s aircraft as he powers up and the 130 begins rolling. A short distance later, he lifts off and banks to the northwest, clawing for altitude. I’m nervous about him flying alone like that, but the weather looked clear all of the way home and Greg needs immediate medical attention.

I would have called our mission short and flown back with him, but I know in my gut that this other group had something to do with this. It’s obvious they aren’t going to relent, although I’m still not sure why. If we put our mission off, that will only give them more time in which to come at us. We need information and we need a plan. The smoldering Stryker below and the shots fired have pretty much eliminated any chance of dialogue that we might have had. As I roll onto final, my grip on the control wheel tightens. The guilt and what they’ve done to us builds into a deep-set anger. I know part of that is me feeling responsible for sending Greg out like I did, but fuck it, I’m pissed.

We’ve lost a whole team, McCafferty, possibly Greg—and, indirectly, Drescoll—to these fucks. I want retribution. I want to walk into their place and just start shooting every last one of them in the face. Feeling the wheels contact the surface of the road, I take a deep breath. I know we need to do this right, and letting anger take control will only lead to doing something rash. While calming a little, I still feel a deep, red rage slowly simmering.

Knowing it’s going to take a while to recover the bodies, I shut down two of the engines to conserve fuel. The bodies are eventually recovered and placed in the back wrapped in ponchos. It took considerable time marching across the plain and carrying them back. The sun has passed its zenith and is heading into afternoon by the time we are ready to proceed. It’s a very melancholy group that settles back into their positions.

With our fallen comrades in the back, and those they had picked up somewhere along the way, the Spooky lifts off the highway. I turn toward the north northeast, eager to conduct our flyover before the day gets too far down the road. It will be nice to capture the video with shadows present so objects will show up clearer and we can discern their heights. With only a slight change in heading, our route will take us over the coordinates of the underground facility as we head toward the town of Greeley. It’s there that we’ll conduct our fake rescue operation.

Without the use of the Stryker, which is now on its way back to Cabela’s in the back of Robert’s aircraft, we’ll have to find another method of transportation. That shouldn’t be too much of a problem, but that’s something we’ll have to cover once we arrive at Greeley.

The long valley that spreads north from where we found Greg and the others give way to a range of mountains that extends past Denver. There are a few gaps in which roads pass through the rough terrain of the Rocky Mountains. Our route parallels this vast ridgeline to a degree, angling slightly toward the upper Colorado plains.

The mountains will eventually give way to the flat farmlands of the upper plateau, with the three hundred-plus mile flight to the facility taking us just under an hour. In the back, Gonzalez makes sure the recording equipment is ready. We’ll gather footage in every available spectrum that we can and analyze it later.

With the mountainous terrain drifting under our nose as we drone onward, Gonzalez calls, “Sir, I’m picking up a line of thermal images. They’re at…about our ten o’clock position and twenty miles.”

“Give me a heading,” I reply.

“Uh…turn left to, well, about 300 degrees, sir.”

I bank the aircraft, hoping that we’ve found some indication of those who attacked Greg and his team. They couldn’t have traveled very far as the Stryker had still been smoldering and the blood on the dog tags was still in the process of drying. I feel the simmering anger begin to stir.

A few minutes takes me closer, and I eventually make out a line of vehicles moving along a road leading through one of the mountain passes. Steep slopes on both sides of the highway rise almost from road’s edge. An initial glance shows a long column of Strykers and Humvees.

Turning parallel to the column, I radio, “Gonzalez, I want an accurate count and type of vehicles. We’re looking for anything that looks like it has anti-air capabilities.”

“Will do, sir.”

We fly north along the convoy at altitude to get a clear picture of what we are dealing with.

“Sir, I count twenty Humvees with eight Strykers. All of the Humvees have turret-mounted weapons and the Strykers with long guns. I don’t see anything that might have anti-air, but I can’t be positive about that,” Gonzalez calls as we pass the northern end of the formation.

“Copy. We’re going to maneuver east and descend coming at them from the north. We’re going to try and block them in that pass. Your first target will be the northernmost vehicle,” I state.

“We’ll be ready.”

Pulling the throttles back, I begin a turning descent over the ridgeline, planning it so we roll out over a valley to the north that the pass opens into. Leveling off at what I judge to be about four thousand above the ground, we turn toward the pass and the head of the column.

Setting up an orbit, I see an eruption of dirt next to the lead vehicle. A few seconds later, a cloud of smoke obscures the vehicle, one of the Strykers. Moments go by. Then the nose, followed by the rest of the armored vehicle, emerges from under the billowing cloud of dark smoke.

“Direct hit. Re-engaging,” Gonzalez calls.

Another explosion boils up from the target. This time the Stryker doesn’t emerge and, as the smoke clears, it becomes obvious that it’s disabled. Dark, oily smoke rises from the engine compartment, mixing with that already towering from the impact.

“Direct hit. Kill,” Gonzalez says, the satisfaction obvious in her voice.

With taking out the Stryker, the vehicles on the ground react. At first, the reaction is slow and only a few tracers begin arcing up in our direction. Then, others join in. Red tracers reach upward, seeming slow at first as if crawling inches at a time, then speeding up dramatically as they streak behind. It won’t be too long before they find the correct lead and those streaks of red begin getting closer. Seeing those red lines as they whiz by to the rear reminds me of another time…

The mission was to accompany a two-ship of helicopters into someone’s back yard. One helicopter carried a team that was to be dropped off to observe a crossroads during times when satellite coverage was unavailable. It was fairly common knowledge when surveillance satellites rose and set below the horizon. Movement was conducted during the blackout periods, so teams on the ground were necessary to gain insight into what was actually going on.

The second helicopter was there in case something went wrong and a pickup became necessary. We were there to refuel the helicopters as the insertion was deep within that back yard.

We planned our route based on known radar coverage, utilizing gaps and terrain to mask our flight. It was to be a night flight, avoiding roads and settlements, and using saddles between peaks to cross over ridgelines.

We crossed the border, flying low and using the ridges to mask us. FLIR (Forward-Looking Infrared Imaging) assisted with our low-level night flight. We flew along one side of a ridge and crossed over at a low point, shoving the nose down on the other side. Any valleys were crossed on the deck at right angles, away from intersections and any settlements.

The flight was going well; us flying with our flaps lowered to accommodate the slower speed of the helicopters. Crossing a saddle of a particular ridgeline, the aircraft became hung on an updraft coming from the other side. With the control wheel pushed over, we remained suspended, the altitude hanging. The threat systems illuminated as radars became aware of our presence.

Moments later, the sky lit up with tracers from mobile gun platforms situated in the hills, most angling in our direction but not directly at us as the radars hadn’t achieved a very good lock. However, the Fourth of July was occurring, and it was obvious that someone didn’t like us being there. Most of the tracers slid behind or to the side as we flew through the updraft and dove for the deck.

One tracer stayed in the same location in the windshield. It didn’t appear to have any movement, only grew larger by slow degrees. If something in your view is moving but doesn’t change in relation, if it remains in the same spot and is growing larger, you are on a collision course.

I became fascinated and locked onto the tracer. It was almost hypnotizing. Thoughts raced. Robert was still young, and the thought that I wouldn’t see him again ran through my mind. I was looking at my imminent demise approaching and I was going to witness it in slow motion. It was happening so fast that I couldn’t react, but so slow at the same time.

The tracer continued to grow, seeming to fill my entire consciousness. At the last moment, it picked up speed at a dizzying rate, flashing in front of the windscreen and rocketing overhead into the night sky.

“Holy shit,” I heard my co-pilot exclaim.

Real time then took hold of my senses. The mission was aborted, only to be flown without a problem two nights later. Yeah, I became a little wary of tracers following that experience.

I bank the aircraft away and begin a climb. We can only engage one vehicle at a time. It isn’t that Gonzalez is slow with the systems, it’s that we sent all but one of our ammo loaders with Robert to help with Greg. The remaining one will have his hands full as we work over the convoy below. There is no doubt in my mind that it’s these vehicles that killed our team, and I intend to make them pay.

“Gonzalez, I’m turning away. We’ll come at them from different altitudes and directions. I want you to mark the vehicles and we’ll hit and run. We have the northern end blocked but that won’t last long. Concentrate on the southern end on the next pass. Once we have them blocked on both sides, we’ll hit the ends at random,” I say, leveling off and maneuvering for a run.

I would like to say we dart in, hit them, and flash away. However, there is no ‘darting’ or ‘flashing away’ in a 130. As we begin each run, tracers rise from the multitude of vehicles, trying to intersect with our flight path. I adjust our altitude with each run based on where the tracers fell from the previous one. If the tracers fell behind, I climb to throw off any adjustments that the ones below make. By ascending, it will increase the distance and they’ll continue to fall behind. If they begin leading more, I descend so that the rounds will continue to pass in front. This game lasts for as long as we hit them.

Several vehicles throw smoke as they leave the road and try to work around the burning vehicles to their front and rear. Ignoring the sheer magnitude of the masses below, we pick our targets deliberately and engage, hitting them and turning to strike at more.

We continue hitting them, making multiple passes over the column. The pass becomes clogged with smoke from the devastation. Dark plumes rise from each vehicle until the road itself seems on fire. Tracers cease to rise as we fly over.

The last vehicle is hit. The scene below is one of complete destruction. Smoke rolls upward in the chill air with flames visible at times through the dark smoke. Each plume combines with the others until it becomes one continuous line. This pass will be closed for some time to come.

Picking up speed as they cross the flatland, Trey and his column enter one of the mountain passes that they chased their quarry through the night before. Knowing they are vulnerable in the pass, especially with a gunship to the rear, he notifies the vehicle commanders to maintain their spacing but keep their speed up. So far, according to the satellite footage, which has become spotty in the mountainous terrain, the gunship is still on the ground miles to the south. However, the sooner they can get through, the more relieved he’ll be.

With the end of the pass nearly in sight, he calls for the column to split with half taking another pass to the east, and the other half continuing north. This way, they’ll be harder to hit.

No sooner has he transmitted the words when a blast rocks his vehicle. It rolls to the side and then stabilizes. The next moment, it dives downward as if punched. A concussive explosion rolls through the interior. The instant compression of air within makes him feel like he’s been suddenly submersed in the deep end of a pool. The interior lights blink out momentarily, returning a second later. He knows instantly that he was mistaken about the gunship still being on the ground.

“Driver, floor it!” Trey yells.

He feels his armored vehicle stagger, its momentum stopping suddenly as it is driven heavily downward once again. He barely registers the change as everything goes dark.

We send several rounds of 40mm along the smoke. Finally, with our dead in the back and feeling a measure of satisfaction that we have exacted a measure of revenge, we bank away from the carnage, turning once again toward the facility coordinates.

Approximately twenty minutes later, the metropolis of Denver becomes visible ahead and to the side, its mass covering a large area. While the population of Denver was only a little over six-hundred thousand people, the outlying urban sprawl brought those numbers to over two and a half million. Those numbers, along with the percentages gleaned from the CDC reports, means that there must be close to a million night runners, at least initially.

Looking at the city as we fly approximately twenty miles away from the outer edges, it’s hard to fathom a million night runners pouring through the streets of the city at night. With those kinds of numbers, I wonder if some haven’t already pushed out of the city as Frank suggested they must do at some point. All of the major cities will have a substantial outflow of night runners as the food supplies within the towns shrink.

As the food supplies diminish, so will the night runner population, and if they push out from the cities, they’ll have to find lairs. That probably means that the smaller townships will see night runners swarm into them. The final population of night runners in any given area will depend upon the food sources. At some point, it will stabilize, with far fewer than there are now. However small that happens to get, it will still far outnumber any remnants of humankind.

The weather will also take its toll. Places like the one we are passing over will more than likely see a drastic reduction in their population as the cold claims lives. I imagine there will be turf wars or the inclusion of smaller packs into larger ones as nature attempts to stabilize itself. Regardless of what the future may be like for them, the important thing is whether we’ll be around long enough for it to matter.

So far, we’ve done okay. We’ve made a lot of mistakes, including the one of sending Greg off on his own, and we will make others, but we’ve made it this far. Tomorrow is another day, but we’re alive today. If only we, humankind, could actually band together against this greater nemesis. We seem to want to do away with ourselves. This fighting between groups doesn’t make sense. It is a form of suicide. There’s no reason why we should be flying over some other group’s base to gather information, with the possibility that we’ll take it out somehow. We should be working together to ensure our mutual survival instead of attacking each other. Yet, here we are, having to do something against our own kind for the sake of our own survival. I just don’t understand it.

The plains below look the same, mile after mile of farmland, the outlines of their rectangles still visible, yet our nav instruments indicate that we are approaching the boundaries of the facility.

“Start the cameras rolling,” I call to Gonzalez.

“Just started them, sir,” she replies.

I watch the landscape below, looking for tracers or tell-tale signs of a missile launch. I’m ready with the counter-measures should the threat receiver light up. So far, though, all indications are that we might as well be flying over Farmer Smith’s aging and rusting tractor.

It doesn’t take us long to pass over. Gonzalez leaves the cameras on for a few moments longer so that we’ll get a look at the surrounding terrain. However, it isn’t long before the third part of our mission has been accomplished. Now we need to land, carry out the subterfuge, and get home. I don’t want to linger in the area, being this close to the supposed facility. It would only take them a little over an hour to get to our location, so we’ll have to make it quick. I don’t expect any trouble seeing we have the Spooky, but they might try to come in fast while we’re on the ground. I would loiter over the area to keep watch, but we just don’t have the fuel for that and Greeley doesn’t carry the type we need. So, it’s fly in, unload, drive to a nearby location, make it look like we’re checking the place out, reload, and take off. Again, with the deep suspicion that the ones who hit Greg are somehow associated with the facility, they won’t be too happy that we made marshmallow cookers out of their armored columns. We can’t give them an open invitation to strike back. In and out.

Having finished with our overflight, and hoping we were able to gather some good information, I begin a descent. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary and hope the high-definition video will provide some information.