by Mark Tufo
They whisper a few times, pointing to various sheets. They talk so low that I can’t make out much of what they say, but my enhanced hearing picks up “number checks out” and “it has to be him, look at the photo.” One of my concerns centers around Otter’s leg injury. Should they conduct an extensive exam, it will be obvious that I’m not him. I would start limping, but that might draw their attention to the injury. This is a critical time where my whole story could turn to grains of sand slipping between my fingers.
The major rises to talk quietly with the senior officer standing by the door, returning a short time later.
“Kapitan Walker, you stand accused of desertion. While your file confirms you are who you say you are, it also states that you left your post seven months ago without leave. So, your concocted story of being on leave doesn’t hold water,” the major says.
“What?! That’s impossible! I didn’t leave my post, I was given leave and went to see my family in Valhalla,” I agitatedly respond. “Go ask Kapitan Gorgaine, he’ll tell you.”
“Kapitan Gorgaine was killed in combat when the camp he was stationed at was overrun,” the major states. “That happened about the same time you deserted.”
“I’m sorry to hear that…he was a good man and leader,” I reply, hanging my head for a moment. “But that changes nothing. And I didn’t desert, sir. There has to be something somewhere that proves I was given leave.”
“There’s nothing of that sort in your file, Kapitan. The timing of your desertion and the camp being overrun brings certain things into question,” the major says, glaring at me.
“Major,” the man by the door says quietly, “that will be enough. You and the kapitan leave us for now.”
The junior office begins piling the documents back into folder when the senior officer says, “Kapitan, leave the folder please.”
The two men walk out, the man taking one of the chairs. I can’t for the life of me remember all of the insignia, so I’m not exactly certain of his rank. “Sir” will have to do for now.
“Kapitan Walker, if what you say is true, then why didn’t you return upon completion of your leave?”
“Sir, as I mentioned, I was taken prisoner not far from base. That precluded my returning.”
“At a roadblock, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Our own soldiers were stationed there, or so I thought. I’m now guessing they were part of the force which overran the camp.”
The officer sighs. “It’s not the first time we’ve come across that sort of ruse. The Black Watch teams have been known to do this in the past.”
The officer stares at me for several long seconds, his gaze penetrating. He then nods. “Okay, Kapitan, here’s where we stand. There isn’t anyone left who can validate your story, so I have a choice. I can go with what’s in your file and bring you up on desertion charges, or I can choose to believe your story and proceed from there. The fact that you walked in wearing a Black Watch uniform lends credence, although how you came by that is anyone’s guess. Although your file says you had special forces training prior to becoming a helicopter pilot, I have a difficult time believing you took down one of their members.”
“He wasn’t expecting me, sir. It wasn’t really much of a fight,” I respond.
“This is where we’re going from here. You will be checked out medically. That will include a DNA match. If you end up being who you say you are, your file will be amended. You’ll then undergo a debriefing on your internment and subsequent escape. Once that has been completed—and if you pass your physical—you’ll be reinstated. The 44th has been reconstituted and is currently based at Camp Asabron. You’ll be returned to them. Do you have any problems with this, Kapitan?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well. You’ll be issued new clothing, but will remain here pending the outcome of your DNA test. We’ll go from there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Back in my cell, I’m brought a new uniform and am visited shortly thereafter by medical personnel. They take a spot of blood and vanish. I begin to look for ways to escape as there’s no way I’ll pass a DNA test. I’m not Otter, so my ruse will be quickly known. Then, I’ll be taken as a spy, questioned and tortured, and then placed before a firing squad. My continued future looks pretty bleak.
The high, narrow window of my cell is too small to squeeze through, and any conversation attempts with the guards who come and go are for naught. I have no choice but to wait and be alert for any chance.
Two days pass before a guard opens my door, not asking that I turn and be cuffed.
“This way, sir,” the guard says. “The commandant wants to see you.”
Well, how about that? So, Otter and I aren’t just doppelgängers, we’re actually the same person. Or, at least we share the same DNA, which essentially makes us the same, with only our personal experiences being the difference. That’s good to know. I stuff that knowledge into my bag of tricks. Who knows when it might come in handy?
I come to attention in front of the commandant’s desk, the same man I spoke with in the interrogation room. I log the insignia with the rank. There’s so much more I’ll have to pick up quickly along the way.
“Kapitan, your debriefing will begin once you leave this office and then you’ll be subjected to a complete flight physical. How would you rate your flying skills, seeing as you’ve been out of action for seven months?”
“I’m probably a little rusty, sir. A refresher course couldn’t hurt,” I reply.
“Very well, we’ll arrange that before placing you back with your unit. Any questions?”
“Yes, sir. I wonder if it might be possible to retain the uniform I came in with as a souvenir.”
The commandant pauses for a moment before answering. “As long as it’s still around, I don’t see a problem with that. Check in with the jail and tell them I said it’s okay.”
Sitting in a briefing room, I’ve passed the first hurdles with surprising ease. The “refresher” course will be interesting, to say the least. I’ve flown some, having educated myself back in my world and here, but flying in combat operations is a completely different animal than hurtling erratically through the air.
It’s been about a week since I left the Taj Mahal-looking building, only fifty-one to go. I have established that the days here are nearly the same as twenty-four hours back in my world, so I don’t have to worry whether a year corresponded to one world’s time or another. I now have access to a calendar. There’s no need to mentally keep track, but I will, because who knows what may lie around the next corner, especially given what’s transpired so far.
The debrief takes a couple of days. I make up a story, keeping to being taken at a blockade. Presenting a measure of shame, I tell them that I eventually broke and gave the captors my occupation and unit, along with two or three operations I was on, remembering some of Otter’s stories. They nod, taking notes, telling me that it is okay and that everyone eventually talks under the intense duress and the use of drugs. I make up tales of being subjected to endless questioning, the days and nights of being kept awake, hours upon hours of being confined in a cramped box.
“Oh, that’s a new one,” one of the debriefers states, taking copious notes.
Finally, that’s over and I manage to pass the physical. I’m truly surprised by the lack of mention regarding the leg injury, but I’m certainly not going to bring it up if they don’t. I sit in the room I was assigned, studying the attack helicopter manual for hours on end. I’ve always been pretty good with manuals, and the information comes easily. Having a background of understanding fuel, electrical, and other systems gives me a leg up with this particular one.
The day finally arrives for the start of my refresher training. I’m introduced to another pilot for a local unit and we strap in. We cover a bit of the systems before our first flight, the holes in knowledge I push off due to a head injury. Finally strapping in, we go through the startup checks.
To say the lift-off and hover was sha
ky is being kind. I’ve flown helicopters, the term “flown” being a relative term, but this one is quite a bit more squirrelly.
“I thought you just needed a refresher course. You’re flying this thing like you have toes for fingers,” the pilot comments, his hands drifting very close to the controls.
“Yep, I’m a bit more rusty than I thought I would be,” I reply.
Eventually the helicopter settles down under my not too gentle ministrations. I finally manage to keep it aloft without sending ground crews diving for cover. Over the next month, I go through the paces, flying the basics before advancing to more complex maneuvers. Over time, I become more comfortable with the machine. We fire a variety of weapons at targets on the firing ranges, practice nap of the earth flying. Seeing I wasn’t as advanced as the instructor had at first thought, we cover target identification and various procedures, to include communications and tactics. Finally, the instructor signs off on my combat ready status, looking at me and shaking his head while putting pen to paper.
I report to my unit located at Camp Asabron. The base is situated and named for the district. I remember the sign Mike and I passed when we drove away from the base where we fought the night runners. It had said: “Welcome to Asabron.” We had continued in an easterly direction, so I have a reference point and direction to proceed, once the year timeline approaches.
I’m given a check out flight and almost immediately thrown into the fray. I learn that the war has been going on for years, no one remembering for sure where or when it started, or even why, really. The stories vary depending on who is talking. I scour every map I can get my hands on, surveying them in depth in the hopes of finding the mountain pass where I fought the whistlers. During the debrief, I learned that I was found walking in the eastern lands by a scouting patrol. I have no recollection of doing anything of the sort; my last memory is succumbing to the whistler toxin and passing out in the truck. But, I do know that was to the east as well, so even though I’m unable to pinpoint the pass, all signs are pointing eastward.
The main problem now will be getting fuel to reach my destination. I’ll have to fly through the weather extremes, the cold being the worst. I hope the anti-icing equipment will be able to keep up with the freezing weather, along with the fluids. With the engine running, that should be enough to keep them warm, and I’ll have to cycle the hydraulics as much as I can. If I configure the chopper with external fuel tanks, find a resupply along at the eastern fringes, I should be able to make it to the structure. The additional fuel will mean fewer armaments, but I won’t be completely unarmed.
My main concerns on arriving there will be the demon and the two flying beasts. It had taken three missiles fired by the ground soldiers to take out one of the giant insects, so I’ll need to take as much as the helicopter can carry. If the demon is there, well, I’ll not likely make it through, as it absorbed everything I threw at it the last time. Well, that is except for the helicopter. That seemed to do the trick. But I’m not really wanting to crash yet a third chopper as I doubt my pot of luck has that much remaining in it. But, that’s for a later time.
A red light blinks on the panel and a corresponding chirp sounds though the helmet mounted speakers. On the ground, a flash signifies yet another missile launch, a trail of white smoke racing into the sky at us. The co-pilot reaches over and silences the alarm.
“Flares,” I call out over the intercom. “Mark and target that mobile launcher.”
I watch the streak of white as it rapidly closes the distance. Flares stream out to the sides of the chopper as I bank away and reduce the throttle to minimize our heat signature. The missile momentarily dips its nose and alters it trajectory in response to our counter-measure. It then corrects itself and resumes its track toward us.
I wait for a split second, the missile closing. I then press on the rudder, rotating ninety degrees and pushing down on the stick while going to full throttle. The missile attempts to correct, but the angle is too much as it passes just over the top of us, the trail of white smoke too close for comfort. The helicopter is jolted by the explosion to our rear, the proximity fuse going off too late.
“Do you have it targeted?” I ask.
“Affirmative.”
“Take it out,” I command.
A missile of our own flies away, our own trail of smoke streaking downward. A cloud of dust accompanies the yellow flash of the impact, black smoke rising skyward.
“Target eliminated.”
There are other pillars of dark smoke rising in the late afternoon sky; a long line of them mark the supply columns’ progress and illustrate our attack. When the supply convoy was spotted, our flight of four set forth from Asabron to intercept and attack. Of those four choppers, two are now a part of the smoke columns, having been unlucky with the anti-air units accompanying the convoy.
My mouth is dry and salt rings mark my flight suit where the sweat has formed and dried. It’s been a long afternoon; I’ve already had to return once for fuel and to rearm.
“How many more?” I ask.
“I think that was the last of them,” the co-pilot answers.
Just then, another streak of white lifts off from the valley floor, racing toward the only other attack chopper left in our flight. Bright yellow balls of fire are expelled from the helicopter, streaming outward and down. The first missile is fooled by the countermeasure, exploding in the midst of the falling flares. However, the second one launched isn’t, and I watch as the other chopper maneuvers to avoid the incoming contrail of death. It’s to no avail. The missile intercepts and explodes. The chopper flies apart in the air, the tailboom separating to fall on its own. The body rotates violently under the main rotors, spiraling down. Half way to the ground, it explodes in a ball of fire and smoke.
“Targeted,” the co-pilot says, forestalling anything I have to say and anticipating my next question.
“Let ‘em have it.”
Again, a missile streaks out from one of the mounted pylons, intercepting the launcher and blasting it apart, the dark spiral of smoke added to the dozens of others.
“So, now? Any more?” I ask.
“This time I’m sure.”
“Keep a finger on the flares and stay alert. We’re going in for the kill,” I state.
I maneuver to the head of the massive supply column, coming at them head on. Tracers reach up toward us from the vehicles, arcing to pass either to the sides or flying over the rotors. I keep randomly maneuvering to throw off their aim. The pipper crosses over the lead vehicle and a series of rockets roar away from the chopper, streaking into the now frantically maneuvering targets. Sequential blasts follow in a line, pieces of torn metal thrown violently outward from exploding vehicles. The chopper rocks from the disturbed air as we fly over the wreckage, firing more rockets as I race down the column. We leave behind several more pillars of black smoke.
Out of rockets, we return for several strafing passes. I have ammo for two more runs when the co-pilot calls out that she has radar contacts inbound from the south.
“No friendly transponders,” she calls.
“Okay, I think we’ve over-extended our welcome. Let’s go home,” I say.
Columns of black smoke rise over the battlefield, the pyres marking the demise of friend and foe alike. Even though I’m not truly involved on a personal level with this war, I feel bad for the men and women we’re leaving behind on the battlefield. For a few months now, I’ve shared laughs and stories with them. They were good people who didn’t deserve an early death.
I’ve really tried not to get too friendly with anyone in the unit. For one, I know that I’m not from here, and I hope I'm not staying. For this reason, if nothing else, I have no personal stakes in this war. I also speculate that they may not even be real. Of course, it’s one thing to intend apathetic distance and another to be in combat with men and women. Attachments are formed; that can't be avoided unless you’re a sociopath.
With the continuous combat opera
tions, eleven months passed both slowly and yet in the blink of an eye. Couple that with the week I spent fleeing from the structure and my time in confinement, I’m coming up on the time when I need to get back to the beginning. I still don’t know for sure if the voice I heard meant “return in one year,”, but I’m going with what I feel is the correct thing to do. If not, well, then I suppose I’ll have to figure out something else.
I ask my flight commander for permission to visit a friend stationed in one of the eastern bases, as I have a week of leave coming up. She’s reluctant, but gives in when I mentioned that a mental reprieve will do me wonders with the upcoming surge of planned combat sorties. Rather than drive or catch a ride on a support chopper, I ask to fly. Initially she says no, as they need every available piece of hardware, but I convince her to let me have one, if I promise to be back in four days instead of a week.
I plan to leave with less than a week remaining in my mental schedule of a year. I can’t leave sooner, as I’ll be hunted down when I don’t return. That leaves me without the ability to hole up and wait anywhere and makes my schedule rather tight. I’ll have four free days without interference. I’m allowed to arm the chopper, with the war being so close. Before leaving, I check out a carbine from the armory and pack my old gear. With the prerequisite orders in hand, I fly off in the morning with just five days before my year is up. I still have a blank spot where I don’t know the exact number of days I was out from the whistler toxin, but I’m fairly close. Like horseshoes, I hope close will be good enough.
After three days, I leave the eastern camp with a full load of fuel, telling the people at camp operations that I’m returning to my unit. This will give me a few days’ head start. My unit won’t expect me, and I won’t be under the purview of the current one. I head off to the west, drop down to ground level several miles out then turn to the east, circling around the encampment. I fly nap of the earth in order to remain off the radar. After about a hundred miles, I see a line of mountains rise on the horizon.
