Keying the mic again, he continued the communications routine. “San Francisco Control, this is Eagle One Three Five on fly heading two eight four magnetic, two nine eight true, over.”
The response was near immediate: “Eagle One Three Five, hold you on two eight four magnetic, two nine eight true. You are clear - ”
The remainder of the response was overpowered by a high pitched sound in the cockpit.
In the seat next to him, Captain Quinn shouted, “Missile inbound!!”
Quinn yanked the controls to the right, banking the aircraft as hard as the airframe could handle as Knight froze in his seat.
‘Missile? What?’ his mind asked, racing. ‘That’s….impossible.’
McGhee had just finished reattaching the clamp that secured Steight’s carrier to the deck of the aircraft, and was looking back to give Reed a thumbs up, when the warning alarm sounded throughout the aircraft.
“What the - ”
The aircraft banked hard, placing strain on every strap and harness that held objects, people, and, in this case, a dog, in place.
McGhee had nothing.
Before he could finish his sentence, before he could even attempt to grab hold of something, his body was thrown upwards and away.
Reed and Mason watched as he flew across the open space of the cabin and crashed into the far wall, breaking his neck. Dying on impact, his dead body remained against the opposite wall, suspended by the G-forces created by the aircraft’s radical maneuver.
Reed’s eyes met the lifeless ones of the man who had not only trained him, but had become his friend.
‘Not again,’ he thought, as his arms grasped the straps of his harness.
“Hold on!!”
Broken from his momentary paralysis, Knight grabbed hold of the armrests on his seat as Quinn banked hard and reduced airspeed.
Popping sounds came from either side of the aircraft as each bank of sixteen launchers shot out pyrophoric flares in intervals: four shots on each side, then a pause, then four more shots on each side, until all thirty-two flares had been deployed. The flares, composed of iron platelets coated with ultrafine aluminum, ignited instantly upon contact with the air, burning at thousands of degrees as they fell away from the aircraft, leaving smoke trails behind them. By turning away and reducing speed, the hope was that the inbound missile would lock onto the hotter heat signature.
The system, combined with the perfectly executed maneuver, worked perfectly, drawing the missile in. Even so, when the missile’s warhead detonated, the annular-blast fragmentation pattern sent shrapnel flying outward in a circular pattern.
Knowing this would be the case, Quinn banked hard back to the left and increased speed, attempting to put more space between the big aircraft and the blast.
Moving into the path of the second missile.
Quinn saw it at the last possible second and acted reflexively, turning back away from it just before impact.
Though the maneuver lessened the damage, it wasn’t enough.
The missile impacted just forward of the aircraft’s port side engines, its fragmentation warhead ripping a gaping hole in the plane’s left side. Tech Sergeant Andrews, seated just aft of the pilots, was killed instantly as one of the steel rods that shot outward from the warhead tore through his ribcage and lodged in his heart.
Other rods from the warhead tore apart the aircraft’s port engines as they were ingested into the huge turbofans, shredding them. The inner engine sputtered and cut out, sending a thick black cloud of smoke from its exhaust as it choked. The outer engine exploded, tearing itself and the rest of the wing away from the aircraft.
With all things considered, Captain Quinn’s efforts lessened the damage the aircraft would take and likely saved the lives of Reed and Mason.
In the cockpit, First Lieutenant Knight struggled to help as Quinn barked out orders. With minimal familiarity with the aircraft, he found it difficult to find the controls the Major called out. Taking advantage of what he did know, he quickly pressed the button to lower the flaps on the wings. Within seconds, the panel showed that the flaps on the starboard wing lowered and locked into position. The light for the port wing flickered, indicating a short in what remained of the port wing.
“What else?” he asked.
“Hold on!” Quinn called out as he focused on trying to maintain control of the aircraft. There was no doubt that they were going down, but how that unfolded would be up to him. If he could slow their airspeed while managing to minimize their angle of impact, they had a chance at surviving.
With everything outboard of the dead engine on the left side of the aircraft gone, Quinn was unable to keep the aircraft from pulling hard to the left, taking them west, away from the bay.
Looking in that direction, he saw a chance at survival.
If they could stay airborne long enough.
Back in the cargo area, Reed and Mason could do little more than hold on with everything they had as the aircraft banked hard twice before being rocked by the explosion.
Tearing his eyes away from Sergeant McGhee’s, Reed focused on where Steight was inside her carrier. The dog was crouched low, her nails locked against the bottom of the metal box as she tried to maintain her position.
He heard Mason’s voice through the speaker as he shouted above the roar of the outside air flowing through the aircraft.
“Keep holding on, Doc! We’re going down!”
Reed tried to comprehend the man’s words as he struggled to deal with the reality of the aircraft being struck by a missile over an American city.
How could this happen?
Who would want to do such a thing?
And why?
Just over four miles away from where the aircraft began its barely controlled descent towards the ground, Steve Sommer pulled the cigar from his pocket, looked at it, and smiled.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
San Francisco Bay, California
Seeing the water below them, Logan knew that they only had a few seconds before they’d hit the water. His extensive training had also taught him that proper form at the moment of impact would be the difference between a safe landing and serious injury. Pulling his knees upward he arched his back, bringing his body upright. Taking advantage of their momentary weightlessness, he slid Isabella’s body around so that it was vertical and in line with his own.
A split second later, his boots crashed through the surface of the water, sending a shockwave up his body. Though he’d managed to get into the proper position prior to impact, the added weight of Isabella magnified the force at which they struck. The effect was jarring, stunning him momentarily, but the coldness of the water alerted his senses, clearing his head instantly.
Suddenly focused, he realized that he and Isabella were rapidly descending into the depths of the Bay, leaving the surface and the life sustaining oxygen behind. Terrified, the girl was still clinging to him tightly, pressing her face into his chest as they sank.
Logan patted her on the back, trying to communicate that she needed to hold onto him. As he took his arms off of her, he wasn’t sure if she understood, or if she was holding on out of sheer terror. Either way, she wasn’t going anywhere he wasn’t. Kicking his legs in powerful thrusts, he began slowing their descent as he brought his arms out and began forcing them downward, creating upward thrust.
They were nearly twelve feet below the surface when they finally started making upward progress, and looking towards the surface, he was dismayed at how far away it appeared. The impact had forced most of the air from his lungs, and the pressure in his chest was already building.
He needed air.
Now.
Kicking his legs with all the strength he could muster, he continued to bring his arms above his head, then thrust them downward, swimming towards the surface. The pressure moved up from his chest, rising through his throat and towards his mouth, trying to force him to breathe in the water. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, sending every remaining bit of used
oxygen out of his body.
He pushed.
Swam.
Kicked.
And broke through the surface of the water, exploding upward as he pulled air into his lungs with massive gulps. His lungs ached at the stress they’d been forced to endure, and he tried his best to soothe them with more and more oxygen.
When Isabella’s arms slipped from his neck, he assumed she’d relaxed enough to begin swimming on her own.
When she began to slip beneath the lapping waves, he realized something was wrong. Reaching out quickly, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to him.
“Izzie!” He yelled, trying to wake her. Her head lolled loosely on her neck. She was unconscious, either because of the impact or because she’d been without oxygen too long.
While he’d been through extensive training with the military and had spent plenty of time freediving off the coast of Hawaii, the young girl likely had never been forced to withstand the pressure of such depth before, and almost certainly had never needed to hold her breath that long.
She needed CPR immediately, and the shore was at least a half mile away.
Pulling her to him, he did the only thing he could do: swim, as hard as he could, as fast as his muscles would take him.
Ignoring the pain in his left shoulder, he held her body tightly against his as he used his right arm to stroke, pushing water past.
Ignoring the pain that came from his right calf, he kicked, churning his legs through the seawater, driving them forward.
Ignoring the pain in his ribs, one of which was likely cracked, he pulled in what oxygen he could, fueling his muscles so they could do the work he needed them to.
At some point he heard an aircraft pass overhead, but he paid it no mind. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand. If he hesitated, if he paused, his body’s natural tendency to rest would take them both below the water’s surface. Once they were sinking, he doubted he’d be able to find the strength to fight back to the surface.
Somewhere nearby he heard two near-simultaneous whooshes, a series of pops, then a pair of explosions, one loud, the other even louder.
Off to his right, just north from where he swam, debris began to rain down, splashing into the water.
He shut all of it out. He couldn’t begin to let whatever was happening distract him from his efforts. With fatigue setting in rapidly, he began to slow in the water, his right arm coming down more slowly with each stroke. Straining, he kicked harder, ignoring the deep ache in his calf as he tried to make up for his rapidly weakening arm.
He pushed on, his movements robotic as he refused to quit. Occasionally he glanced at Isabella, but he saw no signs of movement. Distressed, he forced himself to give more, digging deep into his energy reserves. Finding something there, his arm came down harder, his legs kicked harder, and he surged ahead.
Looking up, he saw the shore was finally beginning to take shape: large rocks in front of a grey square concrete building. Encouraged, he pushed even harder.
Suddenly, his boot hit a rock.
Eyes widening, he pushed forward anyway, until both boots were hitting the ground beneath the water. Lunging forward, he rose from the bay, his soaked clothes spilling water all around him as he climbed up onto the rocks. His body screamed for him to stop and rest, but he knew there wasn’t time. Bringing his right arm up from underneath, he cradled Isabella in his arms once again as he climbed over the rocks, nearly slipping twice before reaching a gravelled area behind the natural rock barrier at the shore. Gently laying her down, he tried to wake her once again, then knelt down and listened for her breathing.
Nothing.
He immediately began CPR, ignoring the pain in his shoulder once more, shutting out the pain in his ribs as he bent over the girl’s body, pressing down on her chest repeatedly, then using his own breath to force air into her lungs as he pinched her nose. He repeated the process over and over, willing her to breathe, but she simply didn’t respond.
It’s no use, Logan.
She’s gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Redwood City, California
Sweat poured off Serrano’s face as his feet pounded the pavement of Veteran’s Boulevard in perfectly timed repetitions. His rifle bounced lightly on his back, strapped down next to his backpack/hydration pack, which he took one mouthful of water from each time five minutes passed, as indicated by a buzzing sensation that emanated from the watch on his wrist.
He had a lot of distance to cover, and very little time to spare. There was no time for breaks, so he had to watch his pace, ensuring he covered the distance needed without overexerting himself.
Efficiency was everything.
A double buzz from his watch told him it was time for a bite of his protein bar, so he pulled it from his chest pocket, peeled back the wrapper, and took one. Continuing to run, he chewed it between breaths as he continued pushing himself forward, refusing to slow his pace.
Climbing a small rise, he found himself nearly level with the nearby Highway 101 off to his right. As he glanced in that direction, he could see the tops of the towers that supported the main cables on the San Mateo-Hayward Bridge.
Something appeared off, but he couldn’t see enough of the bridge to ascertain what it was. Unwilling to ignore the feeling in his gut, he turned right instead of left on Whipple Avenue, heading east, towards the bay.
He crossed under the highway, giving a wide berth to the abandoned cars underneath, then came out barely a block from the western edge of Inner Bair Island. Looking to the north, he realized the homes that composed a small waterfront community were in between him and the bridge, blocking his view. Cursing, he looked at his watch.
‘You’ve got one minute, Chili,’ he told himself, before turning and bounding up the onramp to the 101. When he reached the top, he stopped in awe of what he saw.
Three of the spans of the bridge were gone, leaving a massive opening where the bridge had once extended across the water of the bay.
‘Holy shit,’ he said, moving to the side of the road and resting his hand against the cement wall at its edge.
Now what do I do?
The low rumble of an approaching aircraft came from somewhere behind him. Before he’d even finished turning around, his experienced ears had already determined that it was a military plane.
Looking towards the horizon to the south, he saw a large grey shape heading in his direction. No longer needing to rush towards a bridge that was no longer passable, he decided to watch the aircraft’s approach.
To him, its presence was a good sign, an indication that reinforcements, provisions, or both were arriving.
‘Most likely food and medicine,’ he thought, reasoning that although there wasn’t a vaccine for the virus yet, the Protective Zone, filled with tens of thousands of people, would need continual replenishments of food and water, along with medicine and other medical supplies for any number of ailments.
The big grey aircraft took shape as it approached, revealing itself as a C-17 Globemaster, an aircraft Logan knew well, having been transported to various points around the globe by the massive, long-range planes. The Air Force maintained and operated the planes, and the presence of this one was a good sign. It told him that the military was still operational, still capable of dispatching supporting forces to places in need of assistance.
The plane was nearly abreast of his position when the first missile flew by his position, screaming as it raced towards the military aircraft, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. He watched in shock as the C-17 fired flares and maneuvered perfectly, avoiding the first missile before banking again to head north once more.
The second missile, which he’d been too distracted to notice, slammed into the aircraft, tearing a hole in its side and ripping one of the engines and a section of the port wing from its frame.
Within seconds, the aircraft was headed for the ground, angling away from the bay, heading northwest as smoke billowed from its frame. It dropped period
ically, travelling hundreds of feet downward vertically as it threatened to simply fall from the sky.
Though the aircraft was badly damaged and destined for a hard landing in its very near future, Serrano saw the nose of the aircraft continually attempt to rise as the pilot fought to maintain control.
Quickly checking his surroundings once more, Serrano crossed the highway, watching the aircraft as it made its barely controlled descent towards the earth. Feeling helpless, he shook his head slowly, watching and waiting for the plane to collide with the buildings it was rapidly descended towards.
The crash would be catastrophic, both to those in the aircraft and to anyone on the ground near the point of impact. The plane’s fuel tanks would likely be punctured in the crash, resulting in a massive fireball that would kill anyone in the immediate vicinity and send flames and smoke into the sky.
The aircraft disappeared from view, dropping below his line of sight as it descended on the other side of a small rise.
‘Any second now…’ he thought, waiting for the explosion.
As he waited, his eyes sought out the location the missiles had been fired from.
He couldn’t help the people in the aircraft, but he could get vengeance for them.
His eyes immediately settled on a tall, modern-looking building with a glass exterior that he figured was probably home to medical offices. With it’s height and unobstructed view of the flight path, it would offer the perfect vantage point for such an attack. He estimated it to be about close to three miles from his position, a distance he could cover in just over twenty minutes at full speed, which would be justified under these circumstances.
Tightening the straps on his pack a little more, he was about to start running towards the glass-covered building when he realized he hadn’t heard the massive explosion he’d anticipated.
Was it possible that the aircraft had managed to land in a way that gave the passengers a chance at survival?
Surviving Rage | Book 4 Page 24
