by James Hunt
“Mom?” John asked.
Brooke uncurled her fingers. She let her body relax and did her best to regain her composure.
“Are you okay?” John asked.
“I’m fine, honey,” Brooke answered.
Brooke could see Emily peeking over the back seat. Only her daughter's eyes and the top of her head were visible. Brooke had to keep it together. Now wasn’t the time to unravel.
“Let’s figure out where we are,” Brooke said.
John spread the map out on the cruiser's dash. Emily leaned forward between the two front seats. Brooke ran her fingers along the outskirts of the Mojave.
“We would’ve been around here when the sandstorm hit. Then, based off our speed, we should be”—Brooke ran her index finger south on the map until it landed on the outskirts of Phoenix— “here.”
Brooke cranked the engine to life then checked the fuel gauge. It hovered just above empty. Her race with the red truck had cost her a lot of fuel.
She got out, grabbed one of the spare gas cans, and dumped the fuel into the tank. Then she threw the empty can into the trunk space, where it rattled when she slammed the cargo door shut.
When Brooke turned the engine back on, the fuel gauge hovered at a quarter of a tank. She wasn’t sure if it was going to be enough to get her to a gas station somewhere outside of Phoenix, but she turned the wheel until the compass on the dash pointed east.
Chapter 6
Eric pounded on the front door to the Fontanne home. Sand drifted from the door to the porch, adding to the growing pile already there. His motorcycle sat parked in the front yard of gravel, dirt, and sand. He pressed his own sand-covered face against one of the front windows. He couldn't tell if anyone was home.
“Brooke?” Eric asked.
He banged on the window. The glass shook and rattled. There wasn’t a car in the driveway, so Eric went around back, looking for any sign that they were still there.
After circling the house twice and checking the back door, Eric determined they weren’t home. Maybe they got out? Maybe Brooke got my message despite the bad cell connection? If they weren’t here, then there wasn’t anything else Eric could do. He put his helmet back on and headed back to base. As he made his way through the streets of San Diego, his stomach turned.
Everything was trashed. What little semblance of civility had remained in the city was now completely gone. He kept his pistol on him, just in case anyone was foolish enough to try and mug him, but most of the people he passed were on foot. He only ran into one other individual driving around. Eric figured everyone else was out of fuel.
The weekly ration shipments had no doubt ceased since the president’s announcement, so anybody that was still here was either hoarding, was trying to eke out what little life they had left, or had completely given up.
Most of the people probably tried to get out despite the president’s warning that they would be deported back to their regions. Eric just hoped there were enough people left to fight.
The base security was pretty slack when he made it back. It wasn’t due to lack of effort, just lack of personnel. He parked his motorcycle in one of the hangars and walked over to the administration building, where he’d check in before heading to Phoenix for his assignment.
Eric was surprised and delighted to see more men turn up. They were a mix of veterans, retirees, and new recruits that hadn’t even gone through basic yet.
“Nothing like some on-the-job training,” Eric muttered to himself.
There was only one clerk handling the paperwork, so it took a while for Eric to finally make it to the front. The boy was attempting to do four things at once but wasn’t very successful.
“Skeleton crew today, huh?” Eric asked.
The boy cracked a smile, then found Eric’s paperwork and checked him off.
“Here you are, Lieutenant,” he said. “You’re all set.”
“Thanks, kid.”
Eric put his aviators on when he walked back outside. On his way to the aircraft carrier, Eric couldn't stop thinking about Brooke's phone call. Even though he was sure she had made it out, he still felt guilty.
Brooke’s husband, Jason, had saved his life in Iraq. He never got a chance to return the favor, even though he knew Jason never expected it. Since he couldn't find Brooke, the next best thing was to help protect the country she was living in. And the best way for him to do that was to make sure the Mexican military didn’t penetrate their defenses.
When the carrier moved from port and gained the speed necessary for the pilots to take off, Eric zipped up his CWU 27/P flight suit, stuffed the flight plan into his top pocket, and headed out toward his aircraft. There was never a time when he walked out onto that flight deck and didn’t get a shot of adrenaline when he saw his bird.
The F/18 Hornet was originally deployed in the late seventies, and it had been ruling the skies since. The aircraft was equipped with two 17,700-pound-thrust F404-GE-402 turbofan engines with speeds of up to 1,190 miles per hour and a flight ceiling of 50,000 feet. It was armed with a M61A1/A2 Vulcan 20mm cannon, AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles, and AIM-120 advanced medium-range air-to-air missiles. The hornett was an every-type-of-climate fighter, with advanced, integrated avionics that projected onto the windscreen, giving Eric the advantage of not having to look down at his instruments. He wasn’t just a pilot behind the stick of that jet—he was a weapon.
Eric was walking through preflight with his crew chief when Captain Howard walked over.
“No flowers? Captain, I’m disappointed,” Eric said.
“Lieutenant, there’s no way of knowing what you’re walking into when you get to Phoenix. I have a few men there waiting for you, but what’s happening inside the city could be a problem. It’s unfortunate, but you need to be prepared to fight the battle on two fronts.”
“I know, sir.”
Captain Howard saluted, and Eric returned it in kind. The hatch of the jet lowered, and Eric pulled his mask on. He waited for the towers’ clearance, and when the jet’s engines accelerated, he could feel the crushing pressure of g-forces thrusting him back into his seat.
Eric climbed to his cruising altitude and took one last look at the USS Ronald Reagan below.
Never in his life had he wanted to see that ship again so badly.
***
Eric touched down at Luke Air Force Base, and the rest of the pilots that had flown with him began to make their own landings. When he climbed out of the cockpit, Eric was greeted on the runway by a dirty-faced colonel.
“Lieutenant Stephenson,” Colonel Brack said. “It’s great to have you here.”
“Do we know how close they are?” Eric asked.
“The last satellite images we received had Gallo setting up a forward operating base in the border town of Nogales just south of Arizona. We sent a scout team in last night to survey the area. We should receive a report by this afternoon.”
“What's our personnel situation?”
“Could be better. We have five hundred boots on the ground, and with the addition of your airmen, we have forty planes.”
“Everybody loves a good David-versus-Goliath story. Where are we at with the city?”
“Phoenix?”
“Yeah.”
“It's a shit show.”
“We need to send a unit into the city to help stabilize it.”
Eric pulled the glass door to the main office building open and stepped inside. What was normally a bustling area with uniformed men and women going about their daily tasks was now a ghost town. Five hundred airmen sounded like a lot, but spreading that over a base that was meant to hold five thousand made it look practically empty.
“It's not much, but we're trying to make it work,” Brack said.
“Where's your communication post? I need to make a call,” Eric said.
***
Eric paced back and forth on the floor. He was alone in the room, as requested. He held the radio firmly to his ear. He wanted to make sure
he could hear everything for this conversation.
“I understand that, Captain, but we barely have enough men to keep this base running. We can't risk sending more men into Phoenix to stabilize the city,” Eric said.
“Lieutenant, it's not your call. I understand you’re spread thin, but so is everyone. Now's not the time for excuses. We just need to buckle down and get it done. I don't care how you do it.”
“Sir, if Gallo's men attack when we're in the city, we'll have our defenses divided. Timing is everything right now.”
“I agree, Lieutenant. That's why you're going to ensure the people left in Phoenix have something to hold onto. They're in the same boat we are.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eric set the satellite phone on the desk. The rumbling engine of a truck rolled past the window outside, and Eric fell backward into a chair. He buried his face in his palms and tried to rub the impossible task given to him from his mind.
He wanted to help the people in Phoenix as much as the captain did, but they didn't have the time right now to scramble a scout party to head into the city. Gallo could attack at any minute. Right now, he was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
If Phoenix was anything like what he had seen in San Diego, then it was going to be bad. Phoenix had already been dying before the president's orders, and now that they were cut off from the rest of the country, with no resource shipments coming in, the likelihood he would be able to get everyone to stand together and sing Kumbaya would err on the side of difficult.
The roar of the base sirens snapped Eric out of his stupor, and he burst out of the office. He sprinted across the tarmac to his jet. His dog tags flung out behind his neck, holding on for the ride. He didn't need to ask what the alarm was for. Gallo's men were heading their way.
The honed efficiency of the dozens of scramble drills that each pilot had endured was on full display as everyone rushed to get the fighters into the air as fast as possible. The crew chief was running around finishing his prep on fuel, hydraulic fluid, and liquid oxygen. Normally each jet had its own crew, but right now there was only a handful of crews for forty planes.
Eric climbed inside the cockpit, and the crew chief climbed the ladder after him.
“Your fuel tanks aren't completely refilled yet, Lieutenant,” the crew chief said.
“Looks like I'll have to kick their asses fast,” Eric said, strapping on his helmet. “And besides, the Navy loves it when I save them gas money.”
The crew chief climbed down as the cockpit hatch closed. Eric pulled on his flight mask. His hydraulics and oxygen were good. The crew chief had done his work fast. Eric flipped on the control panels, checked his instruments, and radioed the tower.
Eric's hands found the stick. As the jet slowly rolled forward, he watched the signals of the ground control. Eric could see the other jets behind him, lining up in preparation for their takeoff.
The roar of Eric's jet boomed as he ascended from the runway. The acceleration to six hundred miles per hour happened in the blink of an eye. He climbed to thirty thousand feet and checked his radar, searching the airspace for enemy aircraft.
“This is Hawk Seven keying in,” Eric said.
“Adonis keying in.”
“Blue Eagle keying in.”
“Coms are good,” Eric said. “We are danger close.”
The mix of F/18C Hornets, F/22 Raptors, and F/A-18 E/F Super Hornets pierced the Arizona sky. It was a sight Eric hadn’t seen since his tour in Iraq.
“All right, boys, who's buying the first round of Coronas?” Eric asked.
“I'll get the chips and salsa,” Blue Eagle answered.
“Keep your eyes peeled, Hawk Seven,” Adonis said.
“C'mon, Adonis. It's almost lunchtime. We're just trying to think ahead,” Eric replied through his radio.
“Well, get ready to work up an appetite. Migs incoming.”
Eric's radar flooded with dots from enemy aircraft. He banked left, hoping to come up around them. The first bogy he came into contact with barrel rolled out of his vision.
“Damn, these boys are fast,” Eric said.
Twenty-millimeter cannon fire exploded through the air. They were outnumbered two to one. If Mexican fighters made it past their air defenses, then they'd have a clear path to Luke Air Force Base, and once they wiped that off, there wouldn't be anyone left to stop them. Tower radioed their intelligence.
“We have confirmation of enemy bombers. They are priority. Don't let them break into Phoenix airspace.”
“Copy that,” Eric said.
Eric's jet cut through the sky like a hot knife through butter. The airspace was crowded, with both sides scrambling to prevent each other’s mission. Eric spotted a cluster of enemy migs surrounding a bomber then accelerated to engage. Two broke off from the pack and tried to circle him, but Eric barrel rolled right, splitting the pair in two.
“Adonis, one of the bombers just entered Arizona airspace. I've engaged two of the fighters. It only has one escort left. Take him out,” Eric radioed.
“Roger that, Hawk Seven. I have pure lead.”
Machine gun fire narrowly missed Eric's jet as he tried to simultaneously lock in the enemy bogy in front of him and out-maneuver the jet trying to take him down.
The enemy fighter finally made a mistake, thinking he could bank left. Eric felt the move coming and gambled, maneuvering his own jet in the same direction. The missile system locked on, and Eric fired. The jet exploded in a massive fireball against the blue sky.
“Good effect,” Eric said.
Then Eric's alert systems signaled he'd been targeted. His instruments flashed. He banked right hard, using the F/18’s superior corner speed to outrun his pursuer. The pressure from the g-forces pounding against Eric's body felt as if it would crush him. The weight sitting on his chest was unbearable. He felt lightheaded. He was having trouble breathing.
The missile launched from the Mexican fighter. It cut through the sky, sailing just below Eric's left wing. After the miss, he banked right hard, getting out of his climb and circling around to the aircraft that had fired on him. The turn was sharp, and he narrowly missed colliding with another jet.
“It's getting busy up here, fellas. Watch yourselves,” Eric said.
“This is worse than chow time on the boat,” Adonis said.
“I knew you were getting hungry for lunch,” Eric said.
Explosions rocked the sky. Eric and the other pilots might have been outnumbered, but they were better trained. One by one, they picked off the Mexican fighters, exposing their bombers like sitting ducks.
After forty minutes in the air and the loss of more than thirty of their aircraft, the Mexican fighters finally hightailed it out of the airspace. Shouts and cheers filled the radio waves all the way from the cockpits to the tower.
“WOOOO!”
“We had some tigers up here today, boys.”
“Just in time for lunch.”
Eric looked down at his fuel gauge. He was low. He wasn't sure if it was enough to get him all the way back to base.
“Hey, Adonis, I'm running low on fuel here,” Eric said.
“Head on back, Hawk Seven. We'll keep an eye on things,” Adonis said.
“Roger that. Hawk Seven retuning to base.”
Eric cruised at twenty-nine thousand feet, attempting to make it to the base as quickly as possible.
“Hawk Seven, we have you on radar. You are clear for landing,” Tower said.
“Tower, I'm coming in on fumes, so you might want to have the SIB forms ready,” Eric said.
“I don't think the safety board will be investigating you anytime soon, Lieutenant.”
Eric started his approach. The runway was half a mile in the distance. The altimeter's level decreased. He had just engaged the landing gear when his left engine cut out.
“Tower, I've lost engine two,” Eric said.
Engine one shut off immediately after his transmission with five hundred feet left
to descend. The controls shut down. Eric did his best to glide the aircraft the rest of the way, but it was like trying to land a brick at two hundred miles per hour.
The nose of the F-18 dipped. The lines of the runway came into view. Eric braced himself for impact. The front wheel of the jet hit the runway first then snapped in half from the pressure, causing the front of the plane to smash against the concrete. The cockpit crumpled from the pressure like tinfoil. The rear landing gear broke from the angle of the front of the jet and crashed into the runway. The jet skidded a few hundred feet, sending sparks flying behind it, until it finally came to a stop.
