by John O'Brien
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Watkins says, salutes and then exits the room, closing the door behind him.
“At ease, Captain,” he says once the door clicks shut.
“I have kids too and would’ve done the same in your circumstance. How is it at McChord? We haven’t had any contact with anyone for the past two days,” he asks as I come to parade rest, folding my arms behind me.
“Not good, sir. I’m not sure there will be anyone left there soon. The quarantine broke there and these things were running everywhere at night. I’m not sure what the plans were but was only given these orders.”
“Sir, if I may speak?”
He merely nods and I ask, “How are things here?”
He laces his fingers behind his head, leaning back further. “We’re holding our own for the moment. But we’ll have to make a decision soon as we aren’t getting supplies anymore.”
“Sir, do you have any information on what these things are about? Anything?”
“No, son, I don’t. We don’t have anything at all nor have we heard anything.”
“How are you keeping them subdued or under control if I may ask? How are you keeping your containment and quarantine when no one else seems to be able to?”
Colonel Wilson merely stares at me.
“Oh, I see,” I say after a moment, understanding what the silence and stare alludes to.
That is why he doesn’t have any information on the things. There aren’t any of them here; well, not any anymore; alive that is. The silence and stare alludes to the fact that they are shooting those with any of the flu symptoms. Maybe that’s the right way to go, I think knowing that I’m quite certain I don’t want to meet the general who issued those orders or this little joyride of ours across the world will come to a quick and decisive end.
“Do you have any information on the rest of the states?” He asks.
“Sir, we didn’t see anything on our transit. I did pick up a garbled radio transmission as we came east of the Rockies up by the Canadian border and one civilian aircraft heading into the Columbus, Ohio area but that’s it. I imagine there have to be others though,” I say leaving out the contact with Andrew. Too many questions could arise about that one.
“Well, if things get bad here, we’re going to take one of the KC-10 birds out of here to the states. The problem is, we don’t have a pilot certified in one,” he says sighing. “I was thinking about using yours, or your crew, but you have a mission to fulfill.”
“Sir, we could arrange for a pickup after I return the troops back. At the very least, I could bring some supplies. I plan on stopping here on my return leg.”
“That might work, Captain,” Colonel Wilson says leaning back up in his chair.
“Captain Walker, I can authorize your fuel but you’ll have to depart immediately after. I cannot overrule General Billings’ order, but General Collins might and he’ll be arriving in a couple of hours. Maybe earlier if he heard your aircraft arrive. You might want to be gone then. That will be all, Captain.”
“Yes, sir. And thank you, sir,” I say coming to attention and salute.
“Sergeant Watkins,” Wilson hollers in the direction of the door and returns my salute.
“Sir!” Watkins responds, opens the door and salutes.
“Sergeant Watkins, escort Captain Walker to his aircraft and see it’s refueled. He’ll be departing within the hour,” Colonel Wilson orders Watkins.
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Watkins says. “Shall I notify the general, sir?”
“That won’t be necessary, Sergeant,” Wilson responds.
“Yes, sir,” Watkins says after a pause, accentuating the underlying subtleties involved with the decision and order.
Sergeant Watkins and I start out of the door to Colonel Wilson’s office when Wilson calls to us, “Captain Walker.”
I half turn back towards him, “Yes, sir.”
“Godspeed and good luck, son.”
“Thank you, sir. And to you as well.” The image of him sitting behind his desk in the rays of the morning sun is forever imprinted on my mind
Calloway and the other airman are waiting outside the door as the Sergeant and I exit. They take up their previous stations behind me. “Calloway, Foster, at ease. The Captain has been cleared,” Watkins says. I hear the distinct click of fire select levers being flipped to what I hope is to ‘safe’ as we head down the stairs and out to the vehicle.
During the drive back to the flightline, I think about my conversation with Colonel Wilson. He seems a strict yet fair man and it certainly does seem he has stuck his neck out for us. I imagine General Collins is not going to be pleased in the least when he finds out that Wilson let us go. Colonel Wilson could have kept us here to take care of his own personnel but let us go on with our ‘mission’ to save others. I believe in his mind, he could have saved his own at the expense of others, but did what he felt was the right thing to do in spite of the potential consequences with Collins. A good man, I think feeling guilty about continuing on as I don’t even know if Lynn is alive or not and here are living beings. But that guilt is minimal compared to my need to keep my commitment to Lynn. I will be returning here in a couple of days and do what I can to help them.
“Colonel Wilson is a good man, sir,” Sergeant Watkins says as if reading my mind.
“He is at that, Sergeant,” I say responding from the front passenger seat this time.
We return to the flightline and I see our aircraft sitting in its original position as the morning rays of the sun strike it. Several security vehicles still surround the front in a semi-circle yet I also see a fuel truck heading along the taxiway towards it. Behind me, I hear Sergeant Watkins speaking into his mic, “Alpha, you are cleared off. Bravo, remain in place and bring the weapons to my vehicle when we arrive. And clear room for the fuel truck to get through.”
“Alpha copy. Bravo copy,” I hear the responses come through his radio.
We arrive, stopping by the open aircraft crew door, just on the heels of the fuel truck as it pulls alongside our 130 and begins to attach the fuel line. The kids are seated at the foot of the door with two security guards standing nearby facing them while several other security personnel head into several of the vehicles parked around the aircraft. Two security personnel stand at the rear of the aircraft by the open ramp. Two soldiers walk up to Sergeant Watkins as I exit out.
“Bravo, stand down and head to your vehicles,” Watkins says over his radio as we head over to where Robert, Michelle, Nic, and Bri are sitting.
“Bravo copies.”
“You two, stay with me,” I hear him say behind me.
By the time we reach the door, the security surrounding the kids have turned and left to their vehicles, along with the two from the rear of the aircraft. The kids stand as the guards leave.
“Sir, I believe these are yours,” Watkins says handing us our weapons with the sound of vehicles starting up and leaving in the background.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” I say taking them from the two MP’s at his side. I hand the .45 back to Robert and the .38 to Michelle, taking the two Berettas and the M-4. “I wish you the best of luck.”
“And to you, sir,” he says saluting.
I return his salute and the three of them turn back toward their vehicles and head down the taxiway in Alpha’s wake. The sound of the fuel truck drowns out any other noise from the flightline and base.
“I take it from the fact that the truck is giving us gas and they gave us our weapons back that everything went well,” Robert says as we head up the stairs.
“Yeah, it went fine. I’ll fill you in on the details later. Right now, we have to head out after we are refueled,” I say as we head down the aisle to the rear of the cargo compartment and close the ramp.
“By heading out, you mean we are flying out now?” Robert has to shout above the noise of the closing ramp and fuel truck just outside.
“Yes, now go get strapped in and ready to leave,” I shout back.<
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The ramp closes, shutting out a majority of the noise outside, and I walk up the aisle a little behind everyone else. They head up the cockpit stairs and I head outside into the early morning sun to do a walk around. A strong northerly breeze has sprung up bringing a chill to the day. With the wind whipping against my flight suit, I walk around the aircraft checking for any damage or anything out of the ordinary and continue past the fuel truck just as they are finishing and reeling their hose in. I make sure the fuel hatch is latched and secured as the truck drives away leaving just the sound of the wind in my ears and flapping against my clothes. With a final glance at the base and surrounding area, I close the crew door, head back to the cockpit.
Turning the power on, I check the batteries assuring they are still fine, and turn on the radios once the checks are complete.
“Lajes ground, Otter 39 starting engines.”
“Otter 39, ground, roger.”
We start up the engines and get ready to taxi. “Lajes ground, Otter 39 taxi.”
“Otter 39, ground, taxi to runway 15, altimeter three zero one four.”
“Otter 39, three zero one four.”
We taxi along parallel to the runway and, once we arrive at the runway, contact the tower for takeoff.
“Otter 39, Lajes tower, you are cleared for takeoff. Maintain runway heading and contact departure on xxx.xx passing three thousand.”
Pushing the throttles up, the engines respond with their deep, throaty roar and we accelerate down the runway lifting off into a blue sky dotted here and there with high, white clouds. Cleaning up the aircraft and passing through three thousand feet, we contact departure and are cleared to flight level 250 and direct. “See you on our return, Lajes,” I say in reply.
“Good luck to you, Otter 39.”
We are about 150 miles out when the radio comes alive again. “Otter 39, Lajes departure, over.”
I look at the radio suspiciously wondering whether to answer. I look over at Robert and he is looking at me out from under his helmet. He merely shrugs. I press the talk button, “Lajes departure, Otter 39, over.”
“Otter 39, you are instructed to return to Lajes.” I knew I shouldn’t have answered.
“Lajes, you are coming in broken and garbled, over,” I say responding to their ‘request.’
A pause ensues.
“Captain Walker, this is General Collins and I am ordering you to return to Lajes.”
“General, I apologize but I am unable to comply as I have standing orders to complete my mission.”
“Captain! Dammit, I am countermanding those orders and you will turn that god-damned airplane around!” Note to self, do NOT answer the radio once we are away from any air field that is still under control. I am already calculating a different route home.
I look around the cockpit; four sets of eyes are alternating between the radio and me. “General, sir, I have a direct order from General Billings and your orders are contrary to the completion of my mission.” I am thinking it is fortunate there are not any pilots remaining there or we would soon have the pleasant company of a flight of F-15’s or F-18’s parked alongside of us.
There is another pause. “Captain Walker. I am then ordering you to return here for refueling once your pickup is complete.”
“Yes, sir. I anticipate a return in approximately 48 hours. And general, sir, good luck to you.”
A much longer pause. “Good luck to you as well, Captain. I hope you get those soldiers out. Lajes out!”
A dark line appears off the nose on the horizon where the blue sky meets the blue of the Atlantic; the coast of Portugal. Our route will take us over central Spain and out over the Mediterranean Sea, skirting the toe of Italy. I would rather have just flown up the central Med and avoid country overflights but our distance and range dictate as direct a route as possible. I expect to be intercepted if there is any military capable of flight left on this side of the ocean. I continue making calls on guard but hear nothing but the continued silence as we make our way through the daylight and into night as the sun sets behind us in a fiery display.
On into the night we fly, taking turns napping and monitoring the flight. Our external tanks long ago emptied, we are on our last few hours of flight with the fuel remaining onboard. About 200 miles out from Kuwait, I start a gradual descent with the bright stars and quarter moon lighting our way. The ground below us is dark with the exception of a few fires in the distance at various points, some just showing an orange glow as the smoke conceals the extent of the fire below. It has been this way since the sun descended, darkening the world above and below as it wends its way around to get ready for its rise and another day.
I feel wary about transiting through this area. I mean, after all, this is a war zone. If there are any fighters still around and capable, odds dictate this is the place they would most likely be. However, there is no reply to my calls on guard or lights suddenly showing up on our wingtips. Nor do we suddenly blow up. About fifty miles out, I see a very faint glow on the horizon ahead of us. I am unsure whether it is just a glow from another fire or actual lights. Continuing my descent, running through my checks, and setting up the nav, I make a call on guard, “This is Otter 39 on UHF guard. Anyone read?”
Playing in the Sandbox
Sergeant First Class Lynn Connell hangs up the phone attached to her computer ever so thankful to have it. That and the Internet service provided here in Kuwait allows her to maintain contact with her boyfriend back in the states; their twice daily calls and contact eases the deployment to a large degree. During the times the Internet was down, time seemed to drag on for an eternity when she was off work. It’s not like she could just waltz down for some beer and darts so it was reading and the Internet. God a beer would go down good, she thinks shutting off her laptop and getting ready for yet another day in the desert.
Today just has the feel of one of those days, well, every day here is one of those days but this one just feels different. Packing up, she opens the steel barracks door and steps out into the blazing morning sun, the temperature already beginning its climb to another scorching day. Sand! I hate sand! She thinks adjusting her polarized sunglasses, her digital camo uniform instantly warm from the sun. Not much longer to go.
Looking over the top of the barracks building as she starts walking over for breakfast, she sees an aircraft descending into the small field located on the camp, silhouetted against the light blue sky. As the aircraft descends below the tan building, she ponders her day. I have to get my shot today, she thinks to herself, the sand stirring up beneath her boots with each step. Perhaps after lunch or after work on my way to the gym. Most of the personnel in her office received them yesterday and, with military personnel having only 48 hours to get one, this is the last day to get it.
Arriving at the dining facility after walking down the sand-covered avenues between the various buildings; Sergeant Connell removes her cap and steps through the wooden door and into the cooler interior. The first thing she notices is the distinct emptiness. Groovy, she thinks heading to the chow line. No lines. It sure seems a lot bigger in here without the usual crowd. Not caring why it is mostly empty, she grabs her usual omelet and notices the usual cook who makes her big omelets is not here.
“Where’s Private Sampson?” She asks as an omelet is placed on her plate and tray.
“Sick call,” the soldier behind the counter and clear plastic separator answers.
Gathering her food, Lynn glances out over the expanse and selects one of the many empty tables after grabbing a paper to read. Hacking away at the omelet with her plastic Spork, she catches up on the headlines. The first few pages note the numerous sicknesses and escalating death rate from the Cape Town flu. Another article reminds military personnel to get their vaccination by the end of the deadline. There are articles detailing the enlisted, NCO, and officer of the month along with an inside view of the tactical operations center she is associated with. The Master Sergeant list is also published an
d her name is listed along with the other promotees.
“Not bad, two months in a row,” she says under her breath, remembering her picture in the paper last month as NCO of the month.
Finishing her meal, Lynn steps back out into the morning sun and sand and walks through the climbing heat to work. The only thing different about this day from the previous three hundred and some odd days is the amount of soldiers walking about, or lack thereof. While not a crowd, there are usually a fair number of soldiers about on various errands, but today, there are very few to be seen. Lynn sees a couple here and there hurrying about some business or another, well, hurrying being relevant as the intensity of the sun and heat prevents too much of that. Walking into her building, actually a large tent structure, she notices this absence of people trend continuing.
Many desks are situated in neat columns and rows in a large open space to one side of the building and she heads over to her desk. Many of the desks remain unoccupied. She settles in and fires up her computer starting her day. With the screen coming to life and logging in, Lynn opens up her email. Nothing much greets her except a brigade-wide reminder to get flu shots. A few others are reminders of meetings and odds and ends to take care. As she opens up her third email, her commander, Captain Braser, walks into the open area and heads immediately for Lynn’s desk. Lynn stands up at attention as Captain Braser approaches.
“Sergeant Connell, I’m going to need you to cover until 2100. There’ve been a number of sick calls this morning,” Braser says.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lynn replies and Captain Braser then turns and walk away.
There goes the gym, Lynn thinks sitting once again. I really hate this place. Well, maybe it will make the day go faster. I hope Jack is still up when I get back. She attempts to log onto her personal email account to send him an email telling him she’ll be working late but gets a notice stipulating that the site has been temporarily blocked and to contact her system administrator. She tries sending a message from her work email but it comes back as undeliverable. Great, she thinks and dives back into work, checking with those under her command to make sure that they will be getting or have received their flu shots along with a myriad of other tasks.
