Jack thought for a moment. “It’s barely a thirty-mile flight. Assuming we can find a place to put down, you could be there inside of an hour.”
Jessie inched closer. “Mason, are you sure about this?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not.”
“But you’re going anyway.”
“Betsi’s a friend, and in case you hadn’t noticed, I have a hard time saying no to friends in trouble.”
She reached out and took his hand in hers.
“Which is one reason I let you into my heart.” Jessie looked to her father to see his reaction. Other than a slight raise of an eyebrow, he remained stoic. She turned back to Mason. “I don’t want to hide this. Not from anyone.”
“All right.” He turned to Jack. “Your daughter and I, we…” He hunted for words that would make him sound like anything other than an old horndog chasing a younger woman.
Jack reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m old, not stupid.”
“Right.”
“Okay then,” said Jack. “I’ll go out and ready the plane. That should give you enough time to get your gear together.” He glanced down at Mason’s bare feet. “Shoes might be in order, too.”
As everyone filed into the kitchen, they saw Bowie staring in through the screen door. His moist black nose flared as he inhaled the lingering scents of breakfast.
“What do you plan to do with old Slobberjaw?” asked Jack.
It was a good question. Despite being comfortable with Jessie, Bowie would never forgive him for going off on an adventure alone.
“Can he fit?”
Jack let out a little chuckle. “That’s up to you, Marshal. You’ll be the one riding with him on your lap.”
The Air Tractor AT-501 was a two-seat crop duster painted a dingy yellow that reminded Mason of a Checker taxi cab. The wingspan measured fifty feet from tip to tip, with the tail-to-rotor spanning another thirty. The old bird had flown for more than three decades, and its bald tires, scratched windshield, and rusty exterior told of its colorful history.
Jack sat in the cockpit with the side windows folded out to allow entry. As he performed his preflight run-up, the huge three-bladed propeller slapped the air with the buzz of a hundred thousand bumblebees. Thanks to the wagon-wheel effect, the motion of the blades aliased to make it look as if they were barely rotating at all.
With his pack slung across one shoulder and his rifle over the other, Mason hurried out into the field beside their home. Jessie held tightly to his hand, determined to eke out every last bit of physical contact. Bowie, oblivious to what was about to happen, skipped along beside them, woofing playfully.
When Mason was about twenty feet from the plane, he stopped and turned to Jessie. He leaned in close to be heard over the engine.
“I shouldn’t be long.”
She nodded. “I’ll be here.”
He moved to give her a quick peck goodbye, but as he did, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard. The feeling of her mouth pressing against his caused him to rethink the entire mission. What in the world was he doing leaving such a beautiful woman? He didn’t have a good answer. Sure, people were in trouble. But people were always in trouble.
His subconscious whispered, Are you sure you want to do this? Remember what happened the last time you left a woman.
The image of Ava sitting in the hospital chair with the garrote snugged tightly around her neck pushed its way forward. Instead of trying to escape the dark scene, Mason remained in the memory, noting every detail; the anguished look on Ava’s face, the smell of her blood, even the sounds of Bowie’s toenails clicking on the tile floor. It was perhaps the lowest moment in his life, and while Mason had not brought the danger to her, he had not been there to protect her either. As such, he accepted that it was a sin requiring lifelong penance.
Mason pulled away from Jessie’s kiss, his face inches from hers. There was something he wanted to say but wasn’t sure whether this was the right moment.
She smiled. “It’s okay. Tell me when you come back. But do me a favor, will you?”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t forget your way home.”
He kissed her again. “Not a chance.”
Mason turned and hustled the last few feet up to the Air Tractor with Bowie at his side.
The wolfhound looked up at him expectantly.
Mason hoisted him onto the wing and then held him there for a moment while Bowie got his footing on a strip of sand-textured “wing walk” compound.
“This is going to be a first,” Jack said, scooting his seat forward as far as possible and leaning toward the gauge panel.
Mason pulled himself up after Bowie, stepping first onto a small climbing step and then out onto the wing. He guided the wolfhound into the plane, motioning for him to settle onto the floorboard once reserved for the rear stick. Before Bowie could usurp the entire space, Mason squeezed through the narrow opening and scrunched his way down into the rear seat.
As Mason pulled the safety harness around his shoulders, Bowie glanced back, as if wondering where his might be.
“As long as we don’t do aerial maneuvers, I think you’ll be fine.”
Mason turned and found a pair of faded green David Clark headsets hanging to his left, their wires cracked from years of flying through chemical fog. He plugged them into the home-brewed intercom system, and static immediately drowned out all but the motor.
He adjusted the small microphone to sit in front of his mouth and pushed the talk switch.
“Comm check, over.”
“Loud and clear,” Jack said, raising a hand from the front seat.
After idling a moment longer, Jack folded up the window and taxied the plane onto a small dirt runway at the edge of the farm. As he did, Mason turned and took one last look at Jessie. The classic cowboy stare was a bit cliché perhaps, but anyone who had ever left behind someone they loved understood its importance. Seeing him, Jessie used one hand to blow a kiss and the other to hold down her dress against the wind beating from the propeller.
Jack advanced the throttle on the big radial engine, and the plane shuddered. With the skill of a longtime fighter pilot, he gently pushed the stick forward, raising the tail off the ground as they started down the runway.
As the aged airframe began bouncing and careening its way down what was essentially nothing more than an oversized dirt trail, Bowie looked up at his master. There was a nervousness to his stare.
Mason stroked the big dog’s head.
“Some things we do because we must.”
At that exact moment, Jack pulled back on the stick to send them airborne. Unlike taking off in a jumbo jetliner, the Air Tractor took the sky with the agility of a merlin, immediately banking left to circle back over the farm.
Watching the world suddenly fall away, Bowie let out a loud, whining yawn. Mason wrapped his arms around the dog and felt Bowie calm and settle against him.
As they passed over the house, Mason caught one final glimpse of Jessie waving vigorously from the edge of their yard. He took a moment to reflect on her final words to him.
“Don’t forget your way home.”
There was more to her words than simply reminding him that he had a place to come home to. She knew full well that he might run into Brooke. She also knew that even though their relationship had ended about as poorly as any could, it was also a fresh wound, and fresh wounds were prone to bleed.
Brooke. Even her name caused Mason’s stomach to knot.
Why? She had proven herself to be the worst possible kind of betrayer. But… But what? But he loved her. Ouch. There it was, right out in the open.
Son-of-a-bitch.
Mason told himself that his feelings didn’t change anything. He loved Jessie too, even if he hadn’t quite said the words yet. She was as good a woman as any he would ever find. Young, yes, but pure of heart and full of life. He couldn’t ask for anything more.
So why the hell did Brooke still have so much control over him? Did even having such thoughts mean that he didn’t deserve Jessie?
He took a deep breath and let it out.
“Quit thinking so hard, would you?”
At the sound of Mason’s voice, Bowie turned and licked him across the mouth. While some might have been repulsed by a giant dog slathering their face, Mason only smiled. Bowie was family, and his unconditional love never required second-guessing.
“I know,” he said, stroking the dog’s head. “What will be, will be, and no amount of worry is going to change that.”
They settled against one another and watched out the window as Jack banked the Air Tractor back to the right, finally leveling off and heading southeast. As they buzzed over the thick canopy of trees, Mason couldn’t help but be reminded of his covert missions in Southeast Asia, missions that required getting in, either snatching or killing a target, and then getting back out as quickly as possible. Who would have guessed that so many years later he would be dancing to the same tune?
Jack’s voice sounded in his headset.
“Now that we’re up, this isn’t going to take long. Best if you keep your eyes out for a place to set down.”
“Roger that. When we get to Smithfield, do a quick flyover, so I can see what I’m walking into.”
“Okay, but we’ll have to do it at full throttle to avoid taking passing fire.”
Mason patted him on the shoulder to indicate that he understood.
They flew on, passing over the York River and Naval Weapons Station to sweep past the Newport News airport. When they came to the James River, Mason spotted the five-mile-long bridge out his left window. A barge had collided with the lift, forever entangling the two. He knew the vessel all too well, having fought for his life aboard it only a few days earlier.
It was also the last time he had seen Brooke.
Was she even still alive? For as long as they had been together, he thought that he should have had a gut feeling about it. Oddly, he didn’t.
Jack motioned out the front window. Smithfield lay dead ahead.
Once again, Mason patted his shoulder.
“Here we go!” Jack said, as he gunned the engine to full throttle and took them into a shallow dive.
By the time they passed over the small town, the plane was pushing two hundred miles an hour. Trees and cars whipped by like the lines on a highway, and Mason could see the large Smithfield Foods factory buildings ahead in the distance. He unconsciously rested a hand on his M4, knowing full well that there was no way to use it against a ground target at such speeds.
The main complex of Smithfield Foods was located at a fork in the Pagan River, a narrow waterway that wove its way into the much larger James River. Built in 1936, the establishment had become one of the largest pork processors in the world. What had once looked like any other meat-packing plant, however, now resembled a military compound. Razor wire surrounded it, heavy barricades blocked the roads, and armed guards patrolled the grounds.
Mason had only seen a small fraction of The Farm during his brief stay, but from the air he could now see that it consisted of half a dozen white sheet-metal buildings surrounding a huge production facility at the plant’s center. Animal corrals and loading docks abutted many of the structures.
Jack brought them in from the east, passing over a large parking lot. Gunfire flashed on the ground below as The Farm’s security forces fired on a group of men attempting to break through the gate along Highway 10. The skirmish looked to be under control, and there seemed little chance of the enemy breaching the perimeter. It wasn’t until Mason looked off to the north that he understood the seriousness of the situation.
A caravan stretched for more than a mile, consisting of trucks, cars, and tractor-trailers. They had stopped far enough away to remain undetected by those at The Farm. Using the highway as their staging area, two small units had been dispatched. The first was returning from the smoldering bridge crossing the Nansemond River to the south, while the second was probing The Farm’s defenses.
This was a military operation, and Mason had no doubt that a full-scale invasion was inevitable. Even if The Farm could hold the front gate, which he strongly doubted, it wouldn’t matter. The plant was accessible along its entire western side, much of it shrouded in trees. The security fence surrounding the facility wouldn’t last long under the weight of a determined enemy.
Their pass over the plant didn’t last for more than a few seconds, and Jack immediately banked hard left. They passed through a cloud of thick black smoke, thanks to a handful of buildings set ablaze along Smithfield’s Main Street. Like fifth century Vandals marching on Rome, the infected were burning and plundering everything in their wake.
Jack turned the plane southeast, taking them over Smithfield’s main housing district. Thankfully, it hadn’t yet been touched. Mason doubted that its inhabitants were being spared out of mercy. The residential area was simply not in the direct path of attack.
He spotted a small caravan of cars racing south past Benn’s Church on their way to the Mills E. Goodwin Bridge. They appeared to be residents following the Golden Rule of surviving any disaster. Whenever possible, get out of the way. Little did they know that a ten-foot section of the bridge now lay at the bottom of the Nansemond River.
Once they discovered that their evacuation route had been cut, they would be forced to turn west through Hobson and Chuckatuck. From there, they would have a difficult choice to make. They could either continue west along small roadways as they made their way toward Windsor, or they could turn south and head into Suffolk. Those who knew better would choose to go west, as Suffolk and the surrounding area had become so overrun with criminals and gangs that it had become known as “The Badlands.” Even the New Colony’s forces didn’t dare pass through it without good reason.
Jack slowed and turned the plane back to the east as he looked for a place to land. Any long stretch of highway or open field would work fine, but only if it were flat and clear of obstructions. He circled briefly before spotting a small private airstrip butting up against the James River.
He pointed to the runway, and Mason leaned forward and gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up. While it would require a bit of a hike to get to The Farm, he couldn’t ask for much better.
Jack took the Air Tractor out over the river before turning around to approach from the northeast. The mile-long runway was devoid of any planes or vehicles, and its only structure was a private residence at the water’s edge. He brought the plane in slow and steady, and when it finally touched down, it did a slight hop before settling onto the asphalt. He taxied to a small turnaround at the far end of the airstrip and killed the engine.
“You’ll have to hoof it from here,” he said as he unlatched and folded down the windows, “but at least you won’t be coming in hot.”
“You did great, Jack,” Mason said, helping Bowie out onto the wing.
The dog balanced precariously for a moment before hopping down onto the tarmac. He stood for a moment, looking one way and then another, as he tried to make sense of his new surroundings. After a moment, he wandered over to the nearest tree and hiked his leg to mark the trail.
Mason smiled. Bowie would have fit right in with his Ranger battalion. When in doubt, pee on a tree.
Jack climbed from the cockpit and handed down Mason’s rifle and rucksack.
“I believe this is Aberdeen Field,” he said, climbing the rest of the way down. “And if I have my bearings right, The Farm should be that way.” He pointed west. “You’ll have to cross the river to get to it though.”
Mason nodded. “We’ll manage.”
Jack handed him a small amateur radio transceiver.
“Range on this thing is normally only a few miles, but if you can get to high ground, it might reach the house.”
Mason took the radio and shook Jack’s hand.
“In case there was ever any doubt, consider us square.”
As he
turned away, Jack touched his arm.
“Marshal, it takes a special kind of man to do what you’re doing here. Don’t think I don’t know that.” Mason started to say something, but Jack held up his hand. “Let me finish. Men of your caliber are hard to come by. Even so, I’ve been fortunate enough to call a few of them my friends over the years. Most are lying over in those damn rice fields. Those who did make it home had trouble settling in, having a family and kids, holding down a regular nine-to-five job. You understand what I’m saying?”
Mason met Jack’s eyes. “Spell it out for me.”
“What I’m saying is that before you come back to my home, think long and hard about what you want. If, after thinking on it, you decide that life with Jessie and me is right for you, we’ll welcome you with open arms. But if you’re not sure, kindly keep on moving. It’ll hurt her, but not as much as if you leave later. We clear?”
Mason nodded. “Perfectly.”
“One last thing, and this part I don’t think I need to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“For the next few hours, you need to put Jessie out of your mind. Focus on killin’ until all the killin’s done. There isn’t any other way to make it out of these kinds of things.”
Mason could see from Jack’s face that the words were heartfelt, an old soldier sharing what had kept him alive during the darkest of times.
“Thanks Jack.” He shook his hand one final time and said, “I’ll do my best to check in, but if you don’t hear from me, don’t assume the worst. One thing I inherited from my father is an ability to weather the worst kind of shitstorm and still come out the other side.”
Jack nodded. “I hope to see you when it’s done.”
With that, he turned and climbed back aboard the Air Tractor. Less than a minute later, the plane was traveling back down the runway.
As the plane lifted off, Bowie turned and looked up at Mason, as if seeking an explanation.
“He did his part. The rest is up to us.”
Chapter 6
“What is it?” Issa asked, hastening after Musketeer. “What’s happening?”
The Survivalist (National Treasure) Page 6
