by John O'Brien
Breaking off the orbit from the main town, I fly us the few miles north to the first refinery. Dark plumes of smoke rise from several of the buildings, placidly rising skyward before they are whipped away. I take note of the wind, as it indicates there may be a hidden wind shear. The columns of smoke show that Harold might have been correct in another matter: It looks like the survivors below may have part or all of a refinery operational. Now, with all of my refinery experience, which amounts to a number less than zero, it’s hard to tell from the spirals of smoke alone, but it certainly appears that way.
Setting up a wide orbit around the large complex, I see that there are actually several complexes spaced widely apart. Some of the facilities house tank farms on their premises with one very large tank farm to the south, a promising sight. Surrounding the entire complex and between the facilities are large sandy tracts around muddied lakes. Some of the sandy areas and parts of the lakes are an oily, dark color.
“Well, what do you think?” I ask Greg.
“I think there are people down there,” he answers.
“No shit,” I respond.
“I’m just fucking with ya. Well, for one, it looks like they have part of that refinery going, whether or not they’re actually able to use it. From the lack of dirt covering the roads, I would say they have a fair amount of traffic over them, suggesting there are a lot of people down there. There is fencing around the housing areas where the smoke is coming from, but it wouldn’t stop a determined pack of night runners. I also don’t see where they’ve fortified much of anything. If I was to hazard a guess, and that is all it is, I would say they don’t have to deal with any night runner problems,” Greg comments.
“Do you think they’re friendly?” I ask.
“They haven’t shot at us yet…well, not that we know of, anyway,” Greg replies.
“That’s way reassuring.”
“I do my best.”
I send Greg and Montore into the back to brief the teams and soldiers of our arrival. I want the Stryker offloaded quickly, and then, with Red Team aboard, we’ll head cautiously toward town. The armored vehicle would take both Red and Echo Teams, but it would be cramped and I want Greg to remain with the aircraft in case the placid scene below isn’t what it seems. For that reason, Robert and Bri will remain with the 130 as well.
Banking the aircraft toward the runway, which lies about three miles to the east of the town, I turn to Robert.
“See those smoke plumes and the way they are behaving?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“So, what does that tell you?”
“That we have strong winds blowing east,” Robert answers.
“Look at the way they rise straight up and then are quickly blown to the side,” I say, pointing.
He pauses momentarily before responding. “The wind strength is changing.”
“Yes, and drastically. That’s a sign that we’re going to come down through a wind shear. Those can be one of the worst conditions to fly through. We’ll be low and slow with little room to recover if we aren’t prepared for it.”
“So, what do we do, then? If it’s that dangerous, are we heading back?” Robert asks.
“No. We know it’s there and will be able to fly through this one. It’s the ones we don’t know about, or that shift drastically in either speed or direction that are the killers. If we set up final with a head wind, and that suddenly becomes a tail wind, we could immediately stall out and drop straight down,” I state.
“I can see that. We’d lose our lift. It’s lucky, then, that we had the smoke columns to show us.”
“That sure makes it a whole lot easier. There’s a reason we check the windsocks prior to landing at airfields where there is no one to give us the winds. It’s not just to let us know which runway to land on, it’s so we can compare what we see on the ground with what we’re experiencing aloft. Noting the drift we have while flying and comparing it to the windsock will give you a big clue. Of course, there could be a layer between the two as well. That’s why we’re always ready with the throttles and keep the airspeed indicator constantly in our scan. Don’t get fixated on the runway so much that you forget to look inside,” I instruct.
“So which way do we land here? The winds on the ground look calm, or calm enough,” Robert says.
“We come in with the strong winds aloft on our tail. That way, when we hit the calmer air, it will be like coming into a headwind.”
“Okay, I can understand that,” Robert replies.
The airfield is comprised of a single long runway with a paved surface. Most of the runway markings can be seen through a few layers of dirt. To the side, a single taxiway spans the length of the runway and opens into several large hangars. In front of one grouping of hangars, several business aircraft, a mix of jets and propeller-driven, are parked almost haphazardly. Situated off the middle of the taxiway is a larger, concrete ramp serving a small terminal with a single Jetway extending out from it.
Circling the airfield, there isn’t any of the activity we witnessed in town. Most of the roads are covered with dirt without any tracks leading through them. The airfield appears completely abandoned. Near the runway, a windsock hangs limply on its pole.
Setting the aircraft up for a landing to the east, we drift down final. I watch the end of the runway and busily cross-check the instruments. Knowing we’re going to come through a wind shear, my heart is pounding and my palms sweating under my gloves. Worse than knowing, though, is coming through one unaware. I’ve only encountered a couple of bad ones. I remember one where, on final, the aircraft felt like it had lost its wings and started settling straight down. The floor just dropped out from under me. Luckily, I had two incredibly quick and responsive engines at my beck and call. Throwing the engines in afterburner, the aircraft behaved as if I had asked it for a coffee, meaning it did nothing related to flying. The steel supports and cross member of the approach lighting system continued to get larger in my screen. Suddenly, as if the aircraft finally understood what I was asking of it, it rocketed forward. When I shutdown and departed the cockpit, I left behind a small white ring on the seat.
A sudden bout of turbulence engulfs the 130 and it slews a little to one side. Stepping on the rudder to realign the nose with the runway, I ready the throttles to advance for a go-around. The aircraft bounces hard, settling and then rising. I keep my eyes glued to the runway and airspeed indicator. Reluctant to retard the throttles, I allow the aircraft a higher than normal approach speed. The indicator wavers a few knots and then, abruptly, the aircraft lifts and the turbulence ceases. I push forward with the control column and point the nose at the end of the runway again. Waiting a few seconds to assure myself that we are below the wind shear, I retard the throttle and we slow to our normal approach speed.
It’s with considerable relief that I feel our mains contact the runway. We roll out over the uneven surface with small mounds of dirt piling up in places. I feel the shoulder harness tug as I put us in reverse thrust and slow down.
“Well, that was interesting,” Robert states as we taxi off the runway.
“That it was. If we had to take off in conditions like this, we’d take off to the west,” I comment.
“Because we’d hit wind shear with it on our nose, right?” Robert queries.
“Exactly,” I reply, stopping the aircraft on the taxiway just off the runway.
“Why are we stopping here? Aren’t we going to taxi in to the main ramp?” Bri asks.
“No. I think we’ll offload the Stryker here and proceed. I don’t know what we’ll run into, and if the files were correct, there are close to seven hundred people here. After we offload, I want you to start the aircraft and sit on the runway with two engines idling. We’ll stay in radio contact. If we run into trouble and can’t make it back for some reason, I want you to get airborne and contact Frank and Lynn,” I brief.
I see the worried expression each of them has. “Don’t worry, we’ll be in a Stryker.
Well, for the most part.”
We shut down. Giving each of them hugs, I head into the back and wait for the Stryker to be offloaded. Telling Greg the same thing I told Robert and Bri, I gather what’s left of Red Team, deciding to take Montore and a couple of his soldiers with us. The seven of us load into the armored vehicle and depart.
I was correct; we landed in colder weather. The heater in the Stryker barely helps against the chill and I find myself pulling my jacket tighter. My flight gloves usually work wonders, but they do little to keep out the cold. Of course, standing in one of the hatches isn’t helping things much. Turning around as we drive down the remainder of the taxiway, I see the number three propeller of the 130 begin to turn. Facing back to the front, a control tower serving the small terminal rises above everything else on the western edge of the ramp. Seeing all of the people active in the town a scant three miles away, I half expect to see a green or red light shine from the darkly tinted windows. However, nothing shows in the still, cold air.
We enter a concrete ramp devoid of any commercial aircraft and drive through a closed gate. I suppose I could have exited to see if it could have been opened properly, but, well, I didn’t. Turning onto a road that ends at the terminal building, we strike west with the fence and hangars to one side, evergreen trees on the other. The road is fairly straight, giving us a good line of sight; but expecting a reception committee from the town, I keep our speed down. They have to know that we landed at the airfield, and the sight of an armored vehicle rolling toward their settlement may not send the right message. I would like to keep any anxiety to a minimum. After all, we’re here to make friends, not alienate anyone. Sounds like a book I read once. I don’t really think I took its message to heart.
We leave the airfield behind, where the 130 sits at the end of the runway with two engines idling. As we drive, I pan the trees along the road with our thermal imaging, but see nothing. A mile and a half later, we arrive at an intersection where the airport road meets with a two-lane highway.
Turning toward the city, it’s not long before I spot three trucks parked across the paved road. I have the driver halt and zoom in on the vehicles. They are all raised 4WD pickups with beefy tires. A couple of them have roll bars with an assortment of mounted lights. Silhouettes of a few people show over the tops of the roofs. The doors on all of the vehicles are open, with more individuals standing behind them.
The sun is low in the sky to the west-southwest. This far north, and approaching the winter months, the days are shorter than I’m used to. I’ve already seen that happening in the northwest, but it’s even more pronounced here. No one moves from behind the vehicles and I imagine we are being observed by a multitude of hunting rifles with high-powered scopes.
“Driver, move ahead slowly,” I order.
I turn the mounted .50 cal to the side to show we aren’t hostile. I supposed I could hang my underwear on one of the antennas, but there’s no way I’m stripping down in this cold. Besides, after coming through the wind shear, I’m not sure they’re white anymore. That’s aside from the fact that I never wear white anyway. See, instead of obeying my mother to wear clean undies in the event of an accident, I just started wearing colored ones. That way, I figured I had all of the bases covered.
We advance to a distance of about a quarter mile. I figure that’s close enough without causing them too much anxiety. If I was in their shoes, the sight of a 130 flying over, landing, and then encountering an armored vehicle coming toward the city, my anxiety meter would be in the red.
“I’m going outside. If they fire, shred them and we’ll make a run back to the 130,” I brief Montore. “Gonzalez, you’re with me.”
Lowering the ramp, Gonzalez and I step out into the frigid day. Rubbing my gloved hands together as I blow on them, we walk a little ways ahead of the Stryker and stand in the roadway, our breaths visible with each exhalation. We both have our M-4s, I’m not being completely stupid, but they are hanging at our sides from their lanyards. I’m not too comfortable standing in the open with what I assume are several rifles aimed at us. Our vests may stop one of their high-powered rounds at this distance, but it will hurt like a bitch.
“Some of them have climbed into one of the trucks and closed the doors. One pickup is moving forward and heading your way, sir,” I hear in my earpiece.
“Copy that. Hold your fire and keep the .50 cal aimed off center,” I say.
One of the pickups pulls out of the line and halves the distance between us before stopping. In the bed of the truck, the silhouettes of three heads peer over the rooftop, all leaning over rifles aimed our way. My comfort level is decreasing by the second. Besides the three in back, there is also someone sitting in the passenger seat along with the driver, who sticks his head out of the side window and yells something. Even with my hearing, I can’t make out any words.
I shrug and say to Gonzalez. “Well, shall we?”
“Why not,” she replies.
Gonzalez and I walk forward, moving to the side of the road to allow for a clear line of fire from the Stryker. Our boots crunch on the loose gravel that lines the side of the pavement. Ahead, the driver’s side door opens and a man steps out. He reaches in, slings a rifle over his shoulder, and stands next to the pickup. With Gonzalez at my side, I halt several yards away.
“Are you US or Canadian?” the man calls out. “Army I mean.”
“Technically, we’re not really associated with either. I’m not sure that there is anything remaining to bear that title,” I answer.
“I see. Then who are you and what are you doing up this way?”
“I’m Jack Walker. This here is Corporal Gonzalez. And before you say anything, she was with the US Army, but that doesn’t really exist anymore. As for why we’re here, we flew up to hopefully talk with you and the others living here,” I answer.
The man nods but doesn’t say anything further.
“I’d certainly feel a lot better if the gentlemen behind you would point the business ends of those firearms elsewhere,” I state.
The man turns and tells the men to relax. With their weapons now stowed, Gonzalez and I approach.
“Vince,” the man says, extending his hand. “I figured with you flying over like that, and then seeing that behemoth, that you’d have to be associated with the military.”
“Some of those with us were in the military, but many others weren’t. As for the equipment, well, we’re borrowing them until the owners ask for them back,” I respond.
“I see. It would have been nice to have one of those to take to the prom,” Vince states, nodding toward the idling Stryker. “So, how is it that you even knew we were up here?”
“That is a long story, which I’ll happily tell if we could get out of the cold. Suffice it to say that we have access to several satellites and are trying to contact as many surviving groups as we can,” I reply.
“Cold? Why, this is a warm, summer day,” Vince states, chuckling. “I assume you have others with you in the vehicle. How many?” Vince asks.
I don’t really know how to answer that one. The man seems sincere and I don’t feel any bad vibes coming from him, but my untrusting nature seems to get the best of me every time. On the other hand, they didn’t shoot Gonzalez or me as we stood on the open road. So, that’s a bonus. Granted, we had a Stryker idling behind us, which would make anyone hesitate.
“We have seven with us here, along with another fifty plus back at the aircraft,” I answer.
“Well, we’d have to get one of the school buses if you want to bring them all. If not, you’re welcome to follow us and we’ll find someplace warmer to talk further,” Vince says.
“We’ll just follow you if that’s okay. We can’t stay too long as we only have a small window, weather-wise,” I comment.
Seeing a questioning look cross his features, I continue. “We have the capability to fly in bad weather, but I choose not to because all of the approach systems are down. That increases the risk facto
r.”
He nods and turns to climb into his truck. I radio Montore to bring the Stryker up and we board as well. As we proceed into town, I notify Robert of the situation.
“You can shut down the engines; or if you need to, leave one running for heat. Keep everyone close to the 130 just in case. Also, see if you can raise Frank and Lynn. Tell them that we’ve made contact, are heading into the town, and that everything is fine at this point,” I radio.
“Roger that. I’ll make the call. Do you know when you’ll be back?”
“I’m not sure, definitely before dark sets in, but we’ll keep a thirty minute radio schedule,” I say.
The trees along the road suddenly give way to open areas. On the right, large lots comprised of light brown sandy soil house industrial buildings. On the other side of the highway, the tops of residences peek above a solid wall that surrounds the entire development…or at least it appears that way. We turn onto a road that proceeds through an industrial complex filled with vehicles, semis, trailers, and an assortment of other equipment. We pass faded signs: Fountain Tire, Hertz Equipment Rental, Absa, Stahl Peterbilt, and a myriad of others.
From the front of several buildings, small groups of people turn to stare at our passage, their conversations forgotten for the moment. I imagine the sight of our armored vehicle passing through their midst will be the cause of many discussions. Surprisingly, none of their expressions are fearful, only curious. Exiting the complex, a residential development begins, but before we reach it, the pickups we’re following pull into a parking lot with a sign indicating we’re at the Sawridge Hotel.
The trucks pull up to the front entrance and we park a short distance away. Bringing Gonzalez with me, I leave Montore in charge and join the others. After a round of introductions, we head inside.
The interior is like any other hotel lobby, a long desk that was home to receptionists when there were guests to receive. Chairs and sofas occupy one section and it’s there that we take our seats, everyone setting their firearms next to them.
“So, you have satellite access, eh?” Vince states, settling into one of the overstuffed chairs.
