by Mark Tufo
Damn, does everyone surviving have blond hair and blue eyes? I think as my thoughts drift to Lynn.
“Yes, my dad had, or has, guns in his closet,” Michelle answers.
“Do you think we could get them?” I ask, feeling a little embarrassed about asking.
“I can run in and get them,” she replies.
“Is there anyone or anything in the house that was with you?”
“Not that I saw or heard, and I’ve been in there since yesterday morning,” she answers, starting toward the front door.
“Robert, go with her,” I say.
Better to put Robert into a controlled scenario knowing that, at some point, he is going to need confidence and experience in various situations, and I am going to have to get past the protective mode. Michelle has been here for some time and is unharmed, so it seems like an ideal situation to start. He has been with me for many years so he knows some things, but well, I don’t know what I would do if I lost him, especially if it was through something I caused or allowed. Same for Nic and Bri. And I hope Lynn is truly okay.
Michelle stops her door-bound trek on the green grass of her lawn waiting for Robert. He trots around to the passenger side to pick up the shotgun and then heads toward Michelle.
“Robert,” I call over to him. An almost disgusted sigh escapes him before he turns and approaches.
“There’s probably nothing in there, but it’s going to be fairly dark, so make sure you know where Michelle is at all times, especially if you see movement and are thinking about firing. Your best bet, if you do see or sense anything, is for the two of you to back out of there. Stay with her, but cover your six and any doors you come across. There’s no need to open any doors that are already shut and check the rooms. The doors opening will be your early warning system. No risks. In and out. You got it!?” I tell him in a low voice so Michelle can’t hear.
I know he wants to look good in front of her, I mean, he’s seventeen, but wanting to look good or act the hero can make one take foolish risks or make mistakes. Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do, but this is different.
“Okay,” he says.
This could possibly turn into one of the longest minutes of my life and it’s eating me up. I watch them enter the house leaving the front door open only to immediately see movement in the front window near the now open front door. The drapes are moving. This brings back memories of this morning.
Oh, fuck! I should have gone in! I’ve made a huge mistake! I think as I rush toward the front door. I step onto the lawn and, before I realize I am moving, my 9mm materializes in my hand.
The drapes pull to the side. I skid to a stop as I realize I am now looking at Robert standing in the window pulling the curtains to the side. He looks over at me and smiles knowing full well what I was just doing. I hang my head, shaking it slowly, turn, and walk back to the Jeep holstering my gun. Any more adrenaline pumped into my system today and I will either launch free of earth’s gravitational pull or just fall down face first. Back at the Jeep, I turn back to the house in time to see Robert finishing with the other side of the curtains.
I need to perhaps give him a little more credit, a quiet voice in my head tells me, as I continue to alternate my attention between the neighborhood houses and Michelle’s.
I start to think they are perhaps building a gun from raw materials when Michelle appears in the doorway carrying several objects. She has two handguns, one a revolver, the other a semi-automatic, and several boxes of ammunition. Robert follows behind her with more.
“This is all I could find,” she says, handing the pistols to me.
Both handguns are holstered and have trigger locks on them. I must have frowned looking at them because she sets the boxes of ammo on the front seat and reaches into her front pocket, pulling out keys on circular, wire key ring.
“Looking for these,” she says with a smile. “My dad keeps them in his sock drawer.”
She has a sense of humor and an apparent good head on her shoulders. My ‘favorable impression’ meter climbs substantially. I remove the handguns from their holsters and set them on the seat with the boxes of ammo. Robert sets two additional boxes on the seat. I pick up the semi-automatic and fit the first key to the lock. Of course, it isn’t the one I need. The second key fits, and a twist later, I remove the trigger guard. It is a nice Colt Commander .45. I remove the magazine and glance at the side to find it’s filled to its capacity. I set the magazine on the seat in front of me. Shadows fill the seat as Michelle and Robert each observe over my shoulders.
I crack the chamber of the .45 to find it empty and work the slide several times. Smooth action. It seems to be well taken care of. Inserting the mag back in, I chamber a round and flick on the safety. I pop the mag back out and press down on the remaining rounds. The spring seems to be in good shape. Inserting the mag, I release the safety and ease the hammer down into its second safety position. I set the gun back on the seat and pick up the other handgun. It is a nice Smith & Wesson six shot .38 revolver. I see from the butt end that it is loaded. I take a key to remove the trigger guard.
“Damn,” I mutter, going zero for two on the keys.
Removing the trigger guard on the second try yet again, I flip the cylinder to the side, and dump the ammo in my hand. All rounds look in decent shape. I flick the cylinder back into place and dry fire a couple of times. Yes, I know, you shouldn’t dry fire. Nice, it is double action and is smooth. Replacing the rounds, I set it on the seat.
There are four boxes of ammunition on the seat. One is a full fifty round box of .45 ACP 230 grain ammo and another has eight rounds missing.
Okay, I think, not bad.
I would have preferred 200 grain, but for close quarters, 230 grain is nice to have, especially if you need to go through walls. Besides, I am quite sure there is plenty of 200 grain lying about for the picking. The same is true for the .38 ammunition boxes with the exception that the used box only has six rounds missing. The .38 ammo is 125 grain and are standard loads so the kick should be substantially less. Our firepower has basically doubled.
“Do you know how to use these or shoot, Michelle?” I ask, setting the last box back on the seat and turning around.
“My dad took me to the range a few times, but I’ve only fired the .38,” she answers.
“Okay, this is yours for now, I guess,” I say, handing the .38 to her.
She takes it, looks down to her right and then her left, apparently searching for some place to put it. She shrugs, lifts the back of her red t-shirt, and slides the holster into her waistband. I hand the .45 to Robert. He unfastens his belt, looking a little sheepish, and fastens the gun to it.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say. Robert starts around the Jeep and Michelle stands uncertain.
“The other side is easier,” I add, anticipating that she isn’t sure which side to get in on.
Robert puts the shotgun in the back, walks to the passenger side, reaches inside and lifts the seat forward. I am curious as to what he will do next. Without hesitation, he climbs into the back pulling the seat back once he is there.
Good, I raised him right. Michelle then climbs in, closes the door, and buckles herself in.
With all of us buckled in and Michelle’s bags situated to make room for Robert, we leave. When we arrived, I contemplated leaving the Jeep running to enable a quick exit but wanted to be able to hear any noises. Nothing except the occasional sound of a bird greeted us during our entire stay.
“Time check,” I say, looking in the rear view at Robert.
“Ten to two,” he responds.
I don’t wear a watch except when I am running, so I am forever asking Robert. I usually use my phone for the time but am going to have to rectify that soon. There is this one watch I have wanted for quite a while but didn’t want to spend the money. Plus, it has a flight calculator on it. I wore a similar one many years ago in the Air Force and found it to be a great tool. It even helped save my bacon once. And I ha
d a lot of bacon to save back then.
I was an instructor pilot and we were flying to Colorado Springs. Just a bunch of other instructors who were in my class and we were doing this as kind of a reunion flight. The plan was to fly there, get skis and passes from MWR, cars from the motor pool, and go skiing up at Breckenridge. Our current wing DO (Director of Operations) was in my class and, therefore, along with us. It was actually his idea, so we had no trouble getting the aircraft and didn’t foresee any problems with the motor pool upon arrival. It was nice having a full-bird colonel along. There were ten aircraft, so we divided into two four-ship formations and one two-ship. I was only one of two Americans; the rest were German pilots. I was the lowest ranking as well.
So, off we went, stopping at Amarillo, Texas for gas before heading on. I was the lead for our four-ship at that point. It was a gorgeous day, and we landed at Colorado Springs without incident. The skiing was great except for the time I found myself on a double black diamond slope. Yeah, that was the last time I let the Germans ‘guide’ me up a lift. They just powered down the slope with the term ‘slope’ being relative. I am pretty sure skiing is most effective if there is some sort of slope involved. This ‘slope’ looked like it actually angled back in toward the mountain in places and the moguls looked like Volkswagens were parked under the snow and glued to the side of the mountain.
The Germans just tipped their skis over and performed some sort of ballet through the moguls and down the slope. I couldn’t very well cry ‘mommy’ and slide down on my ass, so I tipped my skis as well. That was a freaking nightmare. I arrived at the bottom, checking myself over because I was pretty sure I had lost an arm, a leg, both kidneys, and expected my intestines to be trailing behind me along with most of my gear.
Our DO pulled up next to me. “You ski pretty well for an American,” he said, and off he went.
Quizzically, I looked after him. I didn’t know if he was joking or what, because I must have looked like a one-legged goat doing an interpretive dance while falling down a cliff. I remember only touching the snow like three times as I ricocheted my way down. I looked up at the slope expecting to see a yellow trail marking my route down.
“That’ll never happen again,” I remember telling myself as I pushed off to catch up.
Well, that was Saturday and we met at base ops Sunday morning for the trip home. It was overcast with clouds around the mid-altitudes.
So, a little weather on the way home, no big deal.
I received the weather brief for my flight. Another pilot was the designated lead for this leg back to Amarillo. The weather wasn’t great with moderate to severe icing conditions en-route. We were flying trainers at the time, so we didn’t have any de-icing or anti-ice capabilities. Oh, and, in case you didn’t know, icing sucks if you can’t get rid of it. I thought about cancelling the flight, but the weather reports for the next couple of days were even worse and the DO wanted to get home. I, at least, talked him into breaking the flights into two-ship formations. That provides a little more flexibility.
I was with the original flight lead, and the other two formed their own flight. I was not all that fond of our lead and remember him telling me in the crew bus, “Now, I’ll show you the way to truly lead a flight,” which made me even fonder of him.
Well, off we went. We were the third two-ship off the ground and were separated by fifteen-minute departure times. He asked for clearance and leveled us off at eleven thousand feet, which was below the cloud deck. Okay, that made good sense, but we burned fuel at a higher rate down that low. Plus, after leveling off, he kept the throttles up. I was snugged up into fingertip but glanced at my RPM to find we were still around ninety-five percent; burning fuel like crazy for no reason that I could fathom.
The clouds and icing forced us to ask for and receive clearance down to nine thousand feet a short time later. I had Amarillo approach dialed in on a secondary radio. The weather was not forecast to be the greatest there either. Normally, we would have fuel to the destination, to an alternate, and forty-five minutes extra in reserve. We had this on leaving, but our current fuel burn and altitude took that reserve down considerably. I switched between our en-route center freq and the approach freq to determine what was going on there. We still had enough fuel to get to our destination, but it was even odds getting anywhere else. I heard a buddy in another flight flying into Amarillo notify approach that he was initial approach fix inbound. A short time later, he called final approach fix. Approach came on asking him if he saw the airfield. Apparently, the ceiling was pretty low there. The final approach fix is close to the missed approach point, the last point at which you either see the airfield and land or put the throttles up and go around for another try or head somewhere else.
“Negative,” he replied back to them.
Oh, this sucks, I thought. I then heard him say, “Missed approach.”
Approach came back asking him if he would like another approach. “Negative, approach, Cider 34 is diverting.”
I missed his clearance switching back to our freq but knew where he was heading. Then that wonderful radio call, “Amarillo approach on guard, Amarillo is now closed.”
Yay for us, I thought. And here Mr. “I’ll show you how to lead a flight” has brought us way low on fuel. I saw scrambling in the aircraft next to me. After a moment of this, he looked over and gave me the hand signal to take the lead.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” I said into my mask without transmitting. Not only had he gotten us into a mess but was expecting me to get us out of it. My disgust meter pegged against the upper stop into the red zone.
I took and verified the lead, focusing on where we were. This led to a scrambling on my part. Part of me wanted to separate him off to get his own clearance and fend for himself, but that was only a thought. Breaking him off would save fuel on both of our parts, but it was obvious his clue bag was empty. I looked at the fuel gauge and damn near had a heart attack.
Holy shit! We were damn low.
I pulled the throttles back to a more moderate cruise setting after signaling the upcoming change to him. I looked at the clouds brushing against the top of the canopy right over my head. We had flown through some clouds en-route and ice immediately started forming up on our wings. I notified center that we were diverting to Altus and requested a vector direct.
“Roger, Otter 39 flight, turn left heading 130.”
I keyed the mic button on the throttle and responded back, “Otter 39 flight, left 130.”
Looking to the cloud base I could reach out and touch, I knew we had no choice but to climb. We were flat going to run out of gas before reaching Altus if we didn’t. The higher altitude would give us a better fuel rate and increased performance, lengthening our range. But there was the icing to think about. Well, a certainty versus a possibility.
“Denver Center, Otter 39 flight, requesting flight level 250 (pronounced two-five-zero).”
“Otter 39 flight, standby, expect flight level 250 in ten minutes.”
Well, that isn’t going to work, I thought. “Denver Center, Otter 39 flight, declaring a fuel precautionary at this time and requesting flight level 250.”
The military is different from the civilian world in that we could declare a precautionary without having to go to a full-blown emergency. This notifies our control facilities that we were in a situation that wasn’t quite an emergency but could result in one.
“Otter 39 flight, Denver Center, copy precautionary. Climb and maintain flight level 250.”
That’s better. We were bumped up on the priority list.
I looked over at the aircraft tucked against my wing and gave the throttle up signal, getting a nod back. Moving the throttles up into mil power, I raised the nose. We went into IFR conditions meaning we had only the instruments to guide us as we lost visual reference. Ice immediately gathered on our wings. Not only does this decrease aircraft performance, but also interrupts the airflow. Enough disruption and the aircraft c
eases its ability to produce lift and turns from a high performance fun machine into a brick.
As we climbed higher, I kept expecting to break out on top. By flight level 180, I realized this may not happen and was questioning my decision. Ice coated the leading edge of our wings, but we were still flying. This, incidentally, was a good thing. At flight level 210, the clouds began to thin and I could see the sun shrouded in mist above. The icing stopped, and I fully expected to break out on top soon. But as we continued to climb, the sun only became a brighter disk in the sky, however, visibility increased. I leveled out at flight level 250, that is really twenty-five thousand feet, but we use flight level designations beginning at eighteen thousand feet.
The visibility wasn’t too bad so I sent my wingman to chase, a loose formation where the wingman flies a thousand feet behind and to the left or right. This lends to a flexible position where I could easily maneuver and the wingman wasn’t constantly adjusting the throttles, giving a better fuel consumption rate. I looked at the fuel gauge again.
Not good!
I dialed in the navigation aid at Altus (TACAN) and looked at the DME (Distance measuring equipment). This tells how far from the navaid you are. Once I locked on, I saw the DME, which will also give the ground speed. Looking at that and at my airspeed indicator, I realized we were also battling a forty knot headwind.
“Aw fuck, of course! Why not?” I said into my mask.
I was beginning to get a bit nervous and worried at this point. Peeling my glove back, I used the flight calculator on my watch, setting the ground speed on the distance. I then looked at the fuel flow rate, which gave me the fuel required. I compared that number with what I had on my gauge.
Uh oh. Those numbers were damn near the same. Totally, not good.
That was to just fly to the airfield and didn’t include the fuel required to fly an approach, which would most likely be required there. I had one ace up my sleeve and that what was called an en-route descent. That is a fuel saving measure where you start your descent into the airfield from a farther distance out. This allows a shallower descent path allowing gravity to work on your behalf, normally about a hundred miles out. Still, it did not save that much fuel.
