by John O'Brien
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
“That depends. Are you thinking about just observing the facility, taking the Stryker up and knocking on the front door, or are we going inside?” Greg responds.
“Well, I’m guessing some will be out and about during the day. If we had the Spooky, we could track them as they leave and take them out that way. But we don’t, so that leaves that option a no-go,” I say. “And we wouldn’t know if we got them all. If we approached with the Stryker, they’d just go underground.”
“Jack, that kind of only leaves the option of going inside, unless you plan to observe from a distance,” Greg says. “Now, if I were a betting man, I’d give the odds that you’re only planning to scout at near zero.”
“You would have done well in Vegas,” I reply.
“What about Lynn? You told her that you were only going to take a look,” Greg comments.
“We are scouting, I was merely thinking that we’d do that from inside,” I respond.
“You walk a very fine line.”
“I know. It’s not easy being me,” I say, smiling.
“Not easy being you? I would more say it’s not easy being with you. I feel sorry for Lynn and wonder why she hasn’t long ago run screaming into the woods. I don’t understand why she’s still with your sorry ass.”
“I don’t either, my friend.”
“Okay, well, given that we’re going inside, and believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more than to take those sick fuckers out, I say we do it the same way I did before. We park behind the opposing ridge, traversing the same route,” Greg says, pointing out the side roads. “If we are landing at Petersen AFB, we’ll have to swing south in order to pick up the back roads and trails. It will take some time to get there in order not to raise a dust cloud. Once parked, we scramble down into the ravine separating the ridge lines, work along its path, and then climb up to the caves. I’m sure they haven’t figured out how we entered, so the way should still be doable.”
“Do you think we’ll have enough time?” I query.
“With the mountains to the west, it gets dark early. It depends on what we encounter; and by that, I mean how long we stay inside. If things go well, we should be able to make it into the caves and back to the Stryker with the amount of daylight available,” Greg answers.
“We’ll have to set a bingo time, then. No matter what we find, we’ll have to begin our exit when that arrives. You’ll have to be our guide once we’re underway. Do you think we should take both teams?”
“I think that would be overkill within the cave system. Most of the routes are narrow and too many people would just make more noise. I think we’d be as effective inside with one team as we would with two,” Greg says.
“Okay. We’ll take Echo Team, as they’re up to strength. Robert and Bri aren’t going in, as they’ll be needed to fly you out if something were to happen to me. The question remains though, do we keep Red Team with the aircraft or with the Stryker?”
“That’s your call.”
“Well, although the odds are against it, but it would really suck if we came back and the Stryker was gone. That would leave us outside with night runners coming for a snack. If those people are still leaving care packages, all of the night runners in the area will be converging. I believe Petersen AFB has a few 130s, although I don’t know if they’re flyable. We’ll take everyone but leave Montore and Red Team with the Stryker,” I say. “How about the distance? It looks far enough away that we should be able to get in without being noticed, but you’ve been there.”
“I think it’s far enough away that we shouldn’t be heard. But, if someone were in the right spot on the ridge, we could be seen. And, if they’re out scavenging closer to the base, then it would be a definite thing,” he answers.
I nod, and folding the map, head back into the cockpit. Bri looks bored as she stares out of the windows. Robert has the 130 on autopilot and is gazing outside as well. We’re basically following the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains. Most of the landscape we’ve flown over is wilderness, devoid of any populated centers. As we traverse south, the forests turn into high plateau grasslands. Crossing the Canadian border, the only green to be seen is on the mountain slopes and along streams. Montana is a patchwork of brown agricultural fields that turn into the barren hills that make up a lot of Wyoming.
The city of Cheyenne appears off our nose and we begin our descent into Petersen AFB without having heard from anyone during our periodic radio calls. As we fly over the city, it’s difficult to distinguish between the metropolis and the surrounding terrain. Wind has blown a significant amount of dirt from the outlying fields into the town, piling huge drifts against the buildings and covering most of the streets. In some areas, there are humps on the sides of the roads that I can only assume are buried vehicles.
I’m in a bit of a quandary about our approach. The base sits astride the southeastern edge of the city and I would like to circle the airfield and surrounding areas. However, that will give the people inhabiting the caves more of a chance to see or hear us. If I just come in and land, we won’t know what lies around us. I make a quick call to Harold to see if he has any recent images, but he informs me that the satellites are tasked elsewhere. I’ll either have to go in blind or risk the chance of announcing our arrival.
With the large city of Denver passing to the right, I make a turn to the southeast and drop lower. Brown rectangles of farmland pass quickly beneath as I bring the 130 down to two hundred feet, relying on the radar altimeter to keep our height. It’s easy to become comfortable at low level, to the point that it seems like the aircraft is higher, which can result in an altitude just a few feet above ground level.
Directly east of the airfield, I bank and turn west. The small fenced-in area of Schriever AFB passes to the right. Directly ahead is a tall embankment of ravines that carry rainwater from the higher plateau. I pull up on the controls, climbing with the rising terrain; quickly pushing over once we clear the ridge and level off one hundred feet above the ground. Glancing to the side, I notice both Robert and Bri lifting their feet slightly, as if they’re afraid of scraping their soles.
The plateau we’ve climbed up and are flying over is fairly flat with a couple of runoff areas having carved gullies into the surface. The only problem with flying this low is that we can’t see very far. I have the airfield coordinates plugged into the nav computer and am relying on the instruments to guide us to the runways.
Two miles out, I retard the throttles and let the aircraft slow, trimming as the airspeed diminishes. A mile out, Robert lowers the flaps and drops the gear, setting us up in a landing configuration. I see the runway and line us up, descending on a final approach as we get closer. Like most of the other runways we’ve landed on, dirt covers much of the paved surface. I drop us in with little panache and coast down the runway, not wanting to use our reverse thrust in order to keep the noise down. At the end, I turn off and taxi in, parking next to several other 130s sitting silently on the ramp.
As we shut down, I think back to the last time we were here, rescuing Sergeant Mullins and his group of soldiers. That was an evening I’d rather not repeat…like, ever! I remember racing through the base with night runners on my heels, attempting to draw them off so Lynn and the others could get back to the aircraft. The memory surfaces of rounding a hangar only to find the 130 surrounded by the hunters, drawing them off and racing across the ramp. Then, of all things, Lynn’s message that they couldn’t get the door open. I thought I was done for that night.
Staring across the dirt-covered ramp, as the propellers wind down to a stop, it certainly looks a lot different in the day. Nothing seems familiar.
We stay in the aircraft for several minutes, waiting for someone to show, for vehicles to appear or a rising dust trail in the distance. There is nothing but our propellers turning slowly in the wind. The sky is clear, with the front that was over the northwest having pushed farther east. I’ll get an up
date from Harold before we depart, but we don’t really have the time to fuck around now. Although the sun hasn’t yet reached its zenith, we still have a lot of slow traveling to accomplish, and the mountains looming to the west will bring an early darkness.
Offloading the Stryker, we button up the aircraft and head south out of the airfield. With Greg’s guidance, we cross a river and make our way across the dusty, dry ranges on the southern edges of Fort Carson. As advertised, we proceed slowly; but the rains that must have passed through allow us to travel quicker than Greg had the last time he was here.
As we travel right up against the bottom of the steeply rising ridgelines, I notice that Greg has a faraway stare.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. I was thinking about those people we rescued…and then didn’t. That soldier had just found his sister, who we pulled off one of the crosses just in time, only to meet their deaths a couple of days later. It really doesn’t seem fair, that’s all,” Greg responds.
“No, it’s not, Greg. Nothing about any of this has been fair. But, look at it a little differently. You saved those people from a horrible death, and that death was an assured thing. You gave them freedom, even if it was only for a short period of time. If it was my time to go, I would want it being free, not torn apart by night runners while tied to a cross in the middle of the night. The terror alone, hearing them approaching, would have to be the worst way to go. And I’m sorry about my earlier crass comment about them being care packages. That wasn’t cool. Sometimes, I talk without thinking,” I reply, patting his shoulder.
“I guess so, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I can’t stop thinking of how they must have felt. Their relief at being freed, only to be thrown into something equally as dangerous just hours later. Somehow, that makes it worse. They trusted me.”
“Responsibility sucks. But you already know that. Seriously, even though being chased must have been scary, you saved them from something much worse and I’m sure they felt nothing but gratitude. Even though the end was the same, you spared them unimaginable terror and pain. I mean, put yourself in their place. How would you feel?” I ask.
“I suppose it would be the better of two evils, and deep down, I’m sure I would feel a measure of thanks. Still, knowing that doesn’t ease the helplessness I felt, or the sorrow I still feel,” Greg says.
“I’d be worried if you didn’t, my friend. It never gets any easier.”
An hour later, we are driving along a trail that’s barely wide enough for the armored vehicle. We’re traveling in a ravine of sorts with a high ridgeline rising on the right, a steep embankment on the other side, with scrub brushes and stunted trees lining the dirt path. Nearing the end of the ridge, Greg brings the Stryker to a halt.
“Just past those trees,” Greg says, pointing, “is the large expressway where we found the crosses. The route we’ll have to take crosses the highway and the visibility opens up substantially. I suggest we check it out on foot and wave the Stryker across if it’s clear.”
“Can we be seen from the caves?” I ask.
“No. There’s a ridgeline that blocks any sight of this location from there. But, if anyone is traveling along the road, we won’t be hard to miss,” he replies.
“All right. You stay here. I’ll take Red Team and scout it out,” I say.
“I’d like to go with you,” Greg comments.
“No, you are the only one who knows the area and the caves.”
“Jack, if we’re seen, no one is getting into the caves anyway,” Greg says.
“Okay, good point. You, Red Team, and I will go. Montore is in charge,” I state.
“All of Red Team?” Bri asks.
“No, you and Robert will remain with the vehicle,” I answer.
Her expression shows her disappointment for a moment before she nods.
Gathering those going to check on the road, we drop the ramp and exit. At this altitude, the air is chilled. The sun, only a little past its highest point, is streaming its light almost straight down, casting only small shadows. Gravel and dirt crunch under our boots as we round the trees and catch a glimpse of the wide highway.
As with many other places, grit covers the surface of the road, piling higher in some places. There are striations through the dirt where rainwater coursed down the sloped highway. On the shoulder of the road, heavy timbers formed in the shape of crosses describe a semi-circle. Underneath, mounds of dirt have formed.
I hear Greg heave a sigh beside me. “They’re still there. I was hoping that someone had pulled them up and I’d never have to see them again. At least there’s no one hanging from them like last time.”
I really don’t have anything to say to that. Henderson and Denton spread out to the right, Gonzalez to the left. Greg and I walk up the center. Small black shapes stretch their wings above, riding the current and searching for something to eat. Except for the soft sound of wind blowing through a gap in the ridgelines, it’s all quiet. I’ve become used to the silence, but it still makes me nervous.
I guess it’s better than hearing something, I think, eying the opening terrain for any sign of someone lying in wait.
Stepping over a low barbed wire fence, we fully clear the trees and I feel my hair whipped by a sharp gust. Ahead, several large crows leap from the mounds and sail across the highway, taking station on limbs of trees that line the opposite side of the road. Even with the wind blowing, I hear a buzzing sound. A couple of steps later and I see thousands of flies hovering in dense clouds close to the mounds. The swarms move in rhythm with the gusts, always returning to their previous location when the wind dies down. At the same time, an overpowering stench assails my nostrils.
Through the cloud of flies, I note several darker scraps of clothing. One lifts during a heavier gust, momentarily flapping in the wind before dropping back down. As we draw closer, it becomes apparent that some of the clothing contains body parts. Bones lie scattered across a wide area. The drying remains of fresh blood cover one of the crosses, the soil below dark with stains.
Stepping through the tar-like sand stirs the flies even more. It’s like walking through water, the way they fill in behind us as we pass. Looking at the macabre scene, it becomes apparent that the group is both active and still obviously conducting their evil rituals.
“If we weren’t going inside before, we sure are now,” I say, barely able to keep my food down.
“This time, I’m putting an end to this,” Greg, comments, gagging.
Fresh tracks are in the sand covering the road. Searching for signs of anyone about, I see a couple of pickups in the lanes – or what used to be pickups. Dirt has piled up against the tires and the bodies are twisted hulks of burnt metal. All of the other vehicles we’ve come across have been in good condition, well, at least in sound condition, so it’s safe to assume these are some of the trucks that were hit by the company chasing after Greg.
“We should probably hurry. The last time I was here, there were vehicles using the road,” Greg whispers.
“Judging by the tracks, and well, this,” I say, sweeping my arm to encompass the grizzly scene, “I would say they still are.”
Taking another look around and not seeing anything that would indicate someone lying in wait, and hearing nothing approaching, I open up and contact Robert.
“Okay, have Montore bring the Stryker forward and cross the road. Hide and wait for us on the other side.”
The faint, heavy whine of the Stryker revving carries through the area. It soon appears from behind a screen of trees and slowly moves toward us, throwing a small cloud of dust behind. With the steady wind, the dust trail won’t linger. The vehicle circles around the crosses and proceeds over the highway, stopping and parking a little ways up a road branching off the main highway. Red Team races after them while Greg and I cover our tracks as best we can. I don’t like remaining in the open for as long as we are, but it’s important that we cover the signs of our passage.
Ba
cking up as we smooth over the sand covering the road’s surface, we recreate the other vehicle tracks. Every few paces, I find a small clump of congealed blood packed with sand that has fallen from the bottom of my boots. Finishing, we hurry to the Stryker and climb aboard. We are soon out the neighborhood areas and follow the same route Greg took previously, finding ourselves winding through back country hills. Much of the roads are paved beneath the thin layer of dirt covering them, so we’re able to make good time without kicking up too much of a dust cloud into the clear air.
Before long, we exit the paved surfaces and travel up the backside of a ridge adjacent to the one housing the cave system. A short time later, crawling up the narrow, dirt road, we pull into a large excavation that has removed a large part of the ridgeline. Steep, tiered walls to the west shield us from view, and Greg has us park in a small, shaded area adjacent the steepest section.
“Red Team will remain with the vehicle. Gonzalez, you’re in charge until we return. If we’re not back before dark, button up. We’ll find a place in the caves to hole up. If you don’t hear from us and we’re not back two hours after sunrise, head back to the aircraft and depart. You are not to come looking for us without others. Is that clear?” I brief.
“Yes, sir,” Gonzalez replies. “If you’re not back, we’re to come immediately to the rescue.”
“Very funny…and no, don’t even think about it.”
Greg leads the way with the rest of Echo Team following as we make our way across the sandy quarry floor. I bring up the rear so we don’t have the leadership taken out immediately should we bump into someone. Greg assured us that he covered his tracks on his way out and that there’s little chance the other group figured out how he gained entry. With the two bodies he left lying on the steps of the main entry, there’s a good chance they thought he entered from that direction. Still, we proceed cautiously.
