by Mark Tufo
I let everyone take turns on the controls from the right seat. I only get out of mine to stretch and get the blood flowing back into my legs. I venture to the cargo compartment once to change flight suits since my current one is starting to offend not only me, but I am sure those around. The others eventually do the same. We drone ever eastward with nothing but the blue of the ocean below and the skies above to keep us company. The blue skies change to a deeper blue as the sun sinks to the horizon behind, transitioning in the east to a dark blue, merging with the ocean below.
We continue on into the dark, dialing up the interior lights to watch our instruments by and have dinner in the cockpit, the food having been heated in the pantry with Michelle graciously doing the honors. We replace water bottle after water bottle as the dry high-altitude air sucks moisture from our bodies. Outside, we are flying in a dark void with only the stars shining brightly above us; the only indication of our movement is the mileage on our NAV instruments slowly counting downward as we drone ever closer to our destination. About two hundred fifty miles out from Lajes Field, I pull the throttles back and start a gradual descent.
“Okay, guys, if there is anyone left there, it’s the same as we talked about before. As far as you know, I’m on a mission to pick up some soldiers in Kuwait. I picked you up and we headed out. Don’t lie about anything other than the mission you believe I’m on. And let me do the talking.”
I’m really going to have to come up with a good reason why I have brought kids along on a military mission. I mean, you can’t just plop your family on a military aircraft and head off any time you want. That is very much frowned upon. I wrack my brains trying to come up with something but nothing plausible emerges. I guess I’ll just wing it if I have to.
“Okay, Dad. Do you think there will be anyone there?” Bri asks with a twinge of both excitement and worry in her voice.
“I’m not sure,” I answer.
“What about me?” Michelle chimes in. “Am I supposed to be yours as well?”
“Hmmm, I haven’t thought about that one. I think we’ll need to keep it as real as possible so our stories match up and are believable, so you’re Robert’s friend that we picked up on the way,” I reply.
Descending through ten thousand feet, I set up the instrument approach on my NAV while maintaining the en-route plot on Robert’s. The stars still glitter above and the weather looks clear. The nav system shows the wind out of the south at about twenty knots so I set up the approach I designed for Runway 15.
A little over fifteen minutes out, I switch over to the UHF guard. “Lajes approach, this is Otter 39 on UHF guard.”
To my absolute astonishment, I get the following reply back, “Otter 39, Lajes approach on guard. Contact Lajes approach.”
Uh oh, I think. Someone’s home and there’s going to have to be some quick explaining. Can I hide the kids? No, that might even be worse if they were found. Surely, they know the situation and will understand. I’m going to go with that for now.
“Otter 39, roger. Lajes contact approach,” I reply on the radio and switch over.
“There’s someone there?” Bri asks.
“Apparently so,” I answer and key the mic. “Lajes approach, Otter 39, an HC-130 100 miles west descending through one zero thousand. Request vectors for the straight-in for the ILS runway one five.”
“Otter 39, Lajes approach, copy. Squawk 0271 and ident. Altimeter three zero one four, landing runway one five,” I hear the controller say.
I set up the code in the IFF and flick the ident button. This will create a momentary larger blip on their radar screen allowing for a positive identification.
“Otter 39, Lajes approach, radar contact. Turn left heading 070 degrees, descend and maintain seven thousand. This will be vectors for the straight in ILS one five. State departure point and destination,” control says.
“Lajes, copy that. Otter 39 passing through niner thousand for seven. Left to 070. Departed Lewis McChord. Destination classified,” I respond.
I am still astonished, and my mind is working overtime thinking about what kind of reception we are going to get and setting up for the approach. Although civilian aircraft do refuel here, I am in a military aircraft landing at a military field. And, oh yeah, I kinda borrowed this aircraft. My worry meter is climbing steadily.
Approach control gives us vectors to the instrument approach and we set up for landing. Passing the final approach fix, configured for landing, with the runway lights ahead of us and the lights from the base to the side, we are told to contact the tower.
“Lajes tower, Otter 39 on final for runway one five with the gear,” I say after switching to the tower frequency.
“Otter 39, Lajes tower, cleared to land runway one five.”
We touch down, reverse thrust, and slow to taxi speed. “Otter 39, Lajes tower. Taxi to the end of the runway onto the taxiway and shut down. Contact ground leaving the runway for further instructions.”
“Otter 39 copies,” I reply.
Taxiing to the end of the runway, I pull off onto the taxiway and stop the aircraft contacting ground on the assigned frequency. “Ground, Otter 39 clear of the active.”
“Otter 39, ground, roger. Shut down there. Security will meet you. Remain on this frequency. State souls on board,” ground controls says.
“Ground, Otter 39 copy. Five souls on board. Shutting down and remaining on freq,” I state.
Going through the shutdown procedure, I pull the prop levers back and the props begin their long, winding journey down. To our right, through the windscreen, multiple vehicles are approaching on the taxiway with blue lights flashing.
“Otter 39, ground. Open your crew door and ramp,” ground control says on the radio.
“Ground, Otter 39, roger,” I say and direct Robert into the back to open the door and ramp.
The security vehicles pull up, stopping a short distance away in a semi-circle around the nose of the aircraft. With the sky lighting in the east signaling the coming dawn, security personnel scramble out of their vehicles, several taking positions behind the hoods and three stepping up by the crew door.
“Otter 39, exit out of the crew door one at a time keeping your hands in sight and unarmed,” ground control says.
“Otter 39, roger,” I reply.
We leave our weapons on the seats with our helmets and head to the now open crew door. Spotlights illuminate the entirety of the aircraft, blinding me as I walk down the door stairs and set my flight cap on my head. I barely make out three security personnel standing off to one side silhouetted by the blinding lights. The kids follow me out and down, exiting one at a time. I stop at the bottom and an Air Force Tech Sergeant meets me.
“This is your crew, sir?” he asks incredulously as he stops in front of me and salutes.
“It is, sergeant,” I say, returning the salute.
“Anyone else on board, sir?” he asks.
“No, Sergeant Watkins,” I reply, noticing his nametag. “This is it.”
He turns and grabs the mic at his right shoulder, “Cressman, take Bravo and secure the aircraft.”
Sergeant Watkins then turns back to me. “Sir, I was instructed to bring you to Colonel Wilson. Actually, I was instructed to bring the entire crew, but given the circumstances here, I will escort you and allow, um, them, to remain here.”
“Very well, sergeant, lead the way.”
Sergeant Watkins turns to a senior airmen standing to his right and behind. “Calloway, notify the tower, base ops, and the colonel’s office of our situation. Tell the colonel’s office we are bringing a Captain Walker to him, and then meet me back here.”
“Yes, sergeant,” Airman Calloway says and trots over to one of the vehicles.
“Sir, I heard you came out of McChord,” Watkins says as we await Calloway’s return.
“That’s right, two days ago,” I reply.
“How is it back there, sir?”
“Not good,” I answer and he just shakes hi
s head. “How is it here?”
“I am not sure I’m at liberty to say, sir,” he answers as a security member pokes his head out of the door above us.
“Sergeant Watkins,” the young airman calls out. “The aircraft is clear. There were some weapons in the cockpit and cargo bay which we secured.”
“Okay, Jones,” Watkins replies. “Bring the rest of Bravo out and sit with these kids.”
“Yes, sergeant,” Jones says, and disappears back into the cargo bay.
“Yours, sir?” Watkins asks, nodding toward the kids standing at the bottom of the ramp with their heads turned toward us.
“Most of ‘em,” I reply and he merely nods. Calloway returns a short time later.
“Sergeant, I’ll be expecting our weapons back once we return,” I say as Calloway comes to stand beside us.
“Yes, sir. This way if you please, sir,” Watkins says, extending his arm in a sweeping motion, inviting me toward the nearest vehicle.
I climb into the back of the vehicle as Calloway climbs into the driver’s seat with Watkins hopping into the passenger seat. The other airman climbs in the back seat with me and we head down the ramp with the morning sun just poking above the horizon. In silence, we drive across the ramp and onto the base roads. Calloway repeatedly looks back at me through the rearview and the airman beside me gives me sidelong glances. Sergeant Watkins is focused straight ahead through the windshield. We arrive at a building a few minutes later, pulling directly up to the sidewalk leading to the front doors, bypassing the surrounding parking lot.
“Sir?” Sergeant Watkins says, looking back over his shoulder at me.
I step out of the vehicle and walk around in front of it to the sidewalk. Watkins walks ahead of me to the front door, with Calloway and the other airman behind me at each shoulder. I remove my cap, sliding it in my right calf pocket. We head inside and up a flight of stairs a short distance down the entrance hall.
“It’s so strange to be in a building with the lights on,” I say as we reach a landing.
“What’s that, sir?” Watkins asks, half turning his head around.
“Just that every other building we’ve been in lately has been completely dark. No power or lights. It’s just nice to be in a building that’s lit.”
“There’s no power back in the States?” Calloway asks.
“Calloway, that will be enough!” Watkins snaps tersely.
“Not that I could see,” I answer Calloway’s question.
We proceed into a hallway on the second floor and arrive at a wooden door with a translucent glass panel set into the upper half. Entering within, the room opens into a reception area covered with light gray carpeting and wood paneling. A large, dark, wooden desk sits in the middle of the room with chairs against the wall to our left fronted by a coffee table. The walls have prints of the base and aircraft on them with the usual chain of command photos on one wall. Two wooden doors with the same translucent glass panes set into their upper halves open off the room and we head to the one on the left. Written on the glass panel in black lettering is ‘Colonel Frank Wilson’ with ‘Vice Commander’ in print below it.
Sergeant Watkins raps once on the glass panel and we hear from within.
“Enter.”
Watkins swings the door open, and I walk in with him close on my heels. He stops, steps against the wall inside the door, and comes to attention. The room has the same carpeting and paneled walls as the waiting room. Aircraft pictures line the walls with bookcases below them. Another desk, similar to the one outside, sits in front of a large window to the right facing us.
Colonel Wilson, I am assuming, is the man sitting behind his desk. He is dressed in a light blue, short sleeve Air Force uniform. His close-cropped, graying hair is illuminated by the morning sunlight streaming in through the window. Rows of decorations line the left chest of his uniform shirt and I notice the lack of wings above them. I approach to within three feet of the desk and come to attention.
“Captain Walker reporting, sir,” I say while saluting, focusing my eyes a foot over his head.
“Captain Walker. Am I to gather that you departed from Lewis-McChord?” he asks, returning the salute.
“Yes, sir.”
“And your mission?”
“I am under orders to pick up some Army personnel in Kuwait and return them to Joint Base Lewis-McChord, sir,” I reply.
“I see. And under whose orders are those?” he asks. His eyes drill into mine as I continue to stand at attention.
“General Billings, sir,” I say.
Wilson then opens a booklet on his desk and flips through it. He stops with his finger tracing down one of the pages.
“Very well, captain,” he says after apparently finding what he is looking for.
See, thankfully, I noticed the pictures on the wall at McChord. All military buildings have pictures of the Chain of Command from the president on down including the joint base commander. He opens another booklet and starts flipping through. Stopping on one particular page, he looks up.
“Captain, how do you explain how you were selected for this mission? The 17th is not based at Lewis-McChord,” he asks.
“Sir, my crew and I were on a refueling stop and heading back to base when all of this went down. I was one of the only pilots, well, still available,” I respond.
“And your crew, captain?”
“Gone, sir,” I state.
“And General Billings sent you on this mission himself!?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Security reports blood along the side of your aircraft. Care to comment on that, captain!”
“It was a rather interesting time getting here, sir,” I respond.
“Then I am to assume that the blood is from the infected ones?” Wilson asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Son, what about your rather strange new crew members?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. My eyes drop momentarily to meet his before snapping back up to the imaginary point over his head.
“Those are my kids, sir.”
“Am I to understand this correctly, captain! That you smuggled your kids onboard a military aircraft on a military mission?” he asks, leaning toward me, his left hand grasping the edge of his desk in front of him, jutting his chin forward as he slams his right hand down on the desktop.
“Yes, sir.”
It is one of those moments when time seems to completely come to a halt and the abyss opens up before you, seeming to last forever. Colonel Wilson then sighs heavily and leans into his chair.
“Sergeant Watkins, that will be all. Please wait outside,” Wilson says, looking over at the sergeant.
“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Watkins salutes and then exits the room, closing the door behind him.
“At ease, captain,” Wilson 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 soon. The quarantine broke and these things were running everywhere at night. I’m not sure what the plans were. I was only given these orders,” I answer. “Sir, if I may speak?” I add. He merely nods and I ask, “How are things here?”
He laces his fingers behind his head, leaning back farther. “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?” I ask.
“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 to what the silence an
d stare alludes.
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 suggests 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 with a sigh. “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,” I suggest.
“That might work, captain,” Colonel Wilson says, leaning back in his chair.
“Captain Walker, I can authorize your fuel, but you’ll have to depart immediately afterwards. 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 by 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.
