American Blackout (Book 2): Slaves Beneath The Stars

by Tribuzzo, Fred

  “About ten seconds from target, I want you to dive from altitude with the power off, close to four hundred miles per hour. Tear ’em up and then hit the power and stay over the trees.”

  “There’s a tower about two miles directly east.”

  “Right. Just don’t hit it. We got to make it home. The girls said you were making dinner tonight.”

  The children had been up early with Sister Marie, feeding the horses, collecting eggs, and making a big breakfast for the entire crew. Cricket had promised deer steaks for supper.

  At two thousand feet the Ohio and West Virginia sides spread out peacefully toward the horizon. The two-way radio seemed like it had been quiet for a century, even though only a few minutes had passed since Fritz had last talked with the major.

  “Cricket, there’s something else I want you to do.”

  They were making standard-rate turns—about twenty degrees of bank—circling over a nest of homes that had the look of a new development, but now appeared frozen in time due to the EMP attack. A suburban dream of big homes, wide backyards, and lots of kids for your kids to play with. Cricket’s brief moment of nostalgia ended abruptly.

  “Cricket, do you see the knob on the bottom-left side of the panel with safety wire?”

  “You told me, but I forgot. Bomb release? We don’t have any bombs.”

  “Smoke for an airshow. After your strafing run. We’ll get over to the Ohio side and hit the smoke.”

  In their initial checkout, Fritz had pointed out the smoke function used at airshows to dramatize flyovers and aerobatic work. The mechanical push-pull lever released a small amount of oil into the exhaust stacks. It didn’t take much to make the engine look like it was on fire.

  “That’s the easiest part of my day so far.”

  “Not done. Look upriver at a stretch of road paralleling the water.”

  She maneuvered back over the Ohio and saw the road, a section nearly a mile long and straight.

  “That’s your emergency landing field if we do have a problem. And we’re going to have a problem. Land abeam the cemetery.”

  “We’re going to land a perfectly good airplane? Crazy. Sitting ducks.”

  “There’s a dozen men down there positioning themselves to defend us.”

  Fritz left the intercom and again was conversing with the major.

  “He said to spray the middle of the woods, east side. His men have taken a dozen casualties, and their firepower is really stretched. They’re counting on us.”

  South of the river, pointed east, she increased power and descended to a thousand feet, and waited for Fritz to call out the last descent.

  Cricket found herself overcontrolling and correcting.

  “You’re lined up. Use just rudder for small heading changes. Be gentle and quick.”

  Cricket noticed more light in the cockpit. Her hands tingled, and she calmed herself thinking of the kids back at the farm. They had been robbed of so much innocence, and she wasn’t about to let these savages enslave them.

  “Dive to five hundred feet, power back—less than ten seconds, you’ll see the opening. Then dive again and fire.”

  She moved confidently, sweat covering her face. She saw the field, thought she was too high, and shoved the nose down further. She had just seconds to aim and fire; she did and the woods broke apart near the trees’ bases. Bullets struck the canopy, and she feared the engine was eating the rest. She used her feet on the rudder pedals to increase the guns’ breadth of firepower. A moment later Fritz was calling for full power and level over the trees. A pause was followed by Fritz warning of the tower, and for a moment it loomed in her windscreen and she raised the nose and banked left, to the north.

  “Stop the climb at two thousand.” Fritz made no comment on her shooting, and she wondered if she had made a difference in the number of savages occupying planet Earth. But there was to time for an assessment. Fritz was on the radio and the next moment calling out to Cricket.

  “As soon as you’re over the river, get the smoke on. Keep it on until we land. Follow my instructions. No discussion.”

  She wanted to complain but instead scanned the engine instruments. Readings were normal.

  She kept looking west at the target she had just bloodied, and pulled the control knob and started the smoke.

  “Make a left downwind for the road. We’re landing to the east and I want you to roll out abeam the cemetery as planned.”

  “Got it, Captain,” she said.

  “You fly, I’ll call out altitudes, airspeed, anything you need. Face south, across the river, and keep the engine running after you’ve stopped.”

  Cricket added flaps and reduced her airspeed. On final approach, Fritz called for full flaps and the Mustang came down steeply but at the same airspeed—the beauty of the big Fowler flaps. At five hundred feet above the ground, she slowed too much and the controls became mushy. She quickly added more power.

  “Rock your wings and start banking left and right—twenty-degree bank left followed by a forty-degree bank right, and then get jerky with the plane. But don’t get slow!”

  Right, like a drunk flying. Her dad’s friend at an airshow liked to perform the old aviation standard of a drunk stealing her dad’s J-3 Cub, making a terrible takeoff and soon flying beautifully. One summer, a little fat kid had gotten it in his head that a real drunk was stealing the Cub, so he ran up and kicked the pilot in the balls.

  Cricket flew the plane as if it had been wounded, and prayed no one “kicked” her with a .50-caliber slug or worse. The road had a few cars in the southbound lane, and she flew over those and saw a good deal of debris all over the place stretched out for about a thousand feet. She flared over the cars and touched down just beyond a woodstove on its side.

  She glanced across the river expecting to see militant Islamists with shoulder-style missiles, or a pirate ship fitted with a cannon. But it was quiet, and she rolled out before a group of men who had come out of hiding and were giving them parking instructions. Once the nose pointed across the river at the West Virginia side, Fritz unlocked the canopy and told her to stay in her seat, engine running.

  He leaned close so she could hear him. “Stay on the brakes. I’ll chock the tires.”

  He jumped down the wing and she saw soldiers move about the plane, giving her the thumbs-up—a quick postflight.

  Fritz scrambled up the wing and started talking: “You’ve got almost a thousand rounds left, a half dozen three-second bursts. Several of us are going to pick up the tail, and we’ll call out to fire. Shoot several seconds and then wait for the order again. All you have to do is squeeze the trigger. We’ll aim the Mustang.”

  The tail came up and she saw perfectly over the nose, save for the wind shift and the smoke, which lowered visibility. The attackers saw a damaged plane, lots of smoke, and flames from two fifty-five-gallon drums placed several feet beyond the ends of each wing. The guys swung the plane left and right, and slightly raised the nose up and down. She was trying to look for Fritz when someone yelled, “Fire away,” and she did. The guns pumped away in unison, well above the sound of the idling engine. After several seconds she stopped, and the plane swung to the right. The command came again, and she blasted the opposite shore, aiming into a thicket below the railroad tracks per Fritz’s earlier instructions.

  She saw some movement above the riverbank and wanted to fire, but no instructions came. Then bullets ricocheted off the forward windscreen, and Cricket wanted to duck but she couldn’t lower her seat.

  “Fire.” It was Fritz who called out the command. As soon as she stopped, she heard the command once again and finished the rounds.

  “Get out of the plane!” Her husband helped her off the wing, and they took refuge behind a shot-up pickup truck.

  31

  Before They Kill You

  For the next hour, they took cover and the radioman kept them informed of the battle’s progress. The fighting on the West Virginia side was mostly cleanup. The jihadi
sts fought to the last man.

  Fritz flew the short trip back to the farm, and Cricket kept her word and made deer steaks that night for eleven hungry adults and kids. She didn’t really have time for any questions until after dinner. The boys especially loved the stories of combat, and the girls were amazed at Cricket’s plane being used “like a big gun”—Lee Ann’s description of the event. After placing large cement blocks behind the tires, four men had lifted the tail and Fritz directed them to shift the Mustang to nail the attackers across the river. The plane appeared to be on fire when Cricket depressed the trigger of the Browning .50-caliber machine guns.

  Everyone was in chairs on the patio, wearing sweatshirts and light jackets, watching the sun disappear behind the trees and fire the sky pink. Caleb leaned against his mom, who wrapped her arms around her youngest son. Ethan sat between Fritz and Cricket and kept firing questions.

  “Did you see them die?” Ethan asked.

  He checked with his dad only after the comment. Lawrence, sitting across from him, looked to his wife and shook his head before replying.

  “This isn’t a game, Son.”

  Cricket thought Lawrence looked exhausted, having to engage in this conversation after witnessing so much cruelty and death in the last few months. He didn’t share any excitement with his son over the bad guys’ defeat.

  “Sorry, Dad, I just wanted to know how it’s done.”

  “You kill them before they kill you,” Hank offered, and Ann Davies’ face darkened with the sun’s retreat.

  “There’s a way to approach the terrible tragedy of war by going to Saint Thomas Aquinas,” Sister Marie said, brushing Lee Ann’s hair.

  “Honey, aren’t you cold on the patio?” Ann asked, stalling the discussion, maybe even ending it.

  “Nope, I’m just fine,” Lee Ann said, sitting cross-legged in front of Sister Marie.

  Cricket knew Lee Ann was absorbing everything said, while her sister, Lily, kept glancing at Ethan with other things on her mind besides the topic of war.

  “What would a saint know about war?” Caleb asked, and his mother sighed.

  “Caleb, that’s a very good question.” Sister Marie had Lee Ann stand so she could comb through the ends of the girl’s shoulder-length hair. “Actually this matter was first taken up by Saint Augustine.”

  “Another saint?” Caleb expressed, both astounded and aggrieved by the news.

  “Yes.” Sister smiled. “One of the greatest, and what we call an Early Church Father. He thought that certain evils could be eliminated only by going after them in war. Saint Aquinas elaborated on Augustine’s stance, getting his wisdom from centuries of thought, including the ancient pagans, like Aristotle, and gave us the conditions necessary for a just war.”

  Caleb was still uncertain, and his mom smoothed his hair back, hoping to calm her child’s anxiety.

  “But if he didn’t fight, how would he know what’s right and wrong?”

  “By observing and praying for guidance.”

  “God would talk to him about war?”

  “About war and everything under the sun.”

  “There are levels of understanding,” Hank interjected. Sister smiled at Hank for taking the baton. “But, Cal, it takes time and dedication and a good heart to observe people, study history, its battles, the hopes and dreams of men and women. Their desire to live in peace, but not the peace of slavery.”

  “I thought any kind of peace would be a good thing.” Caleb crossed his skinny arms like he had outsmarted them.

  His brother echoed Grandpa Holaday. “Not if you’re a slave.”

  “I’ll never be a slave,” Lily voiced, stealing glances at Ethan.

  “I’d fight to be free,” Lee Ann said, “like Cricket fights with the Mustang.”

  “Not everyone gets to fly a P-51 Mustang,” Caleb insisted, and Fritz laughed at this.

  “Especially as well as Cricket.” Fritz took his wife’s hand.

  Caleb stared. “Better than you…?”

  Fritz sighed. “Yeah, a lot better. But she let me fly it home today.”

  “After the battle?”

  “Yep. It was a short, pretty flight, and like we say in aviation—it was uneventful.”

  “I get all the events,” Cricket said dryly, before releasing a sexy laugh.

  This line of talk made Caleb’s mom smile, the stress momentarily fleeing her face. Maybe for the first time Cricket saw her beauty. The angles from chin to cheekbone, and all the tightness around her mouth, softened. She and her sons had been held captive for nearly three months, and though none of them showed any outward signs of abuse, Cricket knew the Brazilian had had her ways to torment both followers and enemies.

  “Cricket, would you teach me to fly?” Ethan asked, and all the children except Caleb made the same request.

  Cricket looked to Fritz. “I never even thought—”

  “Ethan, war isn’t a game and neither is flying,” Ann Davies warned.

  “These are serious times,” his father added.

  “Well, we can start with classes on flying.” Cricket looked at the other children. “Only Ethan’s feet will reach the rudder pedals. Lily’s next, if you’re interested.” She zeroed in on the young lady, and Lily nodded her head in the affirmative: Of course she was interested!

  “I think I’d rather design aircraft than fly them,” Caleb said with confidence, as if he had been contemplating this opportunity for a long time.

  Sounding practical, Lee Ann said, “I don’t have to fly immediately. There’s so much to learn. So much dedication and patience required. But I am quite patient and a quick learner.”

  Lee Ann’s seriousness inspired a lighthearted moment. Cricket witnessed their burdens dissolve long enough to enjoy the evening with stories and discussions of “long ago” favorite movies and TV shows.

  Fritz began to slowly roll off Cricket, and she pulled him back, demanding that a last bit of energy be utilized for a long kiss. She was dreamy, happy, and the repetition of her name sounded comic at first, until she realized it was Lily who was pounding up the stairs screaming it.

  The young girl burst into the couple’s room.

  “Lee Ann’s gone—they took her!” The entire house was in an uproar, and Lily stopped shaking long enough to talk.

  “Lee Ann heard the horses making noise and said she had to check on them, that it was the right thing to do. I couldn’t find my coat and she was already out the door. I know I should’ve made her wait, but you know Lee Ann, she had to go right now.”

  Sister Marie walked in and put her arms around the girl and told her to slow down. Cricket wanted to know the direction. Dressing quickly, she was almost out the door.

  “Hold on, Cricket,” Hank said. “Let’s figure this out.”

  The adults gave Lily the floor.

  “I ran out the door and a man was pointing a gun at me. Lee Ann was over a big man’s shoulder in a blanket. She was squirming and yelling but real muffled; I thought she’d suffocate. Before he ran for the woods he said he’d shoot me! The man looked nervous, like he wanted me, too—he came at me and then stopped. He didn’t know what to do. Then his friend called and he ran.”

  “Show us what direction.” Cricket strapped on her Colt.

  32

  Kidnapped

  “I’m going, too,” Ann Davies said, and Lawrence looked stunned, nodding: “Me too.”

  “No,” Fritz said, “Cricket and I will go. We need every adult here for another attack.”

  “I’ll guard, too,” Ethan said, his voice rough from sleep. “I love Lee Ann.”

  Lily ran outside and pointed to the finger of woods near the bonfire pit.

  Cricket and Fritz broke into a full run, both armed. They aimed for an opening in the woods they often used to go hiking or jogging.

  They made a lot noise entering the dark woods, and they had no choice. Fritz made them stop every couple of minutes to listen. They heard rustling off to their right, and Fritz shine
d his flashlight and caught a glimpse of a lone figure limping through the forest, crouched low. The man dropped his gun and yelled, “I surrender,” but Fritz took off and body-slammed him anyway. The man went down screaming about his ankle.

  Cricket had the flashlight in the man’s face.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cricket stepped on his ankle, and the man screamed to the heavens.

  “He passes out and we learn nothing,” Fritz said. “Don’t go off the rails.” Fritz looked to the man. “Any other weapons?”

  “A knife—left boot.”

  Cricket grabbed it and held it under the man’s nose.

  “One more time I’ll ask—”

  “No—no I can’t—they’re the worst—”

  Cricket sliced the side of the man’s nose slowly, and he screamed and went for the knife.

  “I see you’re a slow learner,” Fritz said, belting the man in the mouth, drawing more blood.

  Bug-eyed, the man looked between the two. He was in his sixties, had all his teeth, was reasonably strong. Probably the gym a few days a week, not the prison yard, not a con, Cricket surmised.

  “Where did they take the girl?”

  Fritz gently pushed away Cricket’s knife hand. She obeyed until Fritz released the pressure from her wrist, and she stabbed the man’s hand, pinning it to the ground. A long howl filled the woods.

  Fritz waited, and Cricket, kneeling alongside the man, said, “When you’re done screaming, you’re gonna tell me everything.”

  The man did talk, between bouts of tears and curses—an island in the river, close to Marietta, a holding camp for kids being hunted on both sides of the Ohio. That night a boat from Pittsburgh was picking up the “catch,” first stop, and then heading eventually to New Orleans on a big sternwheeler out of St. Louis. He finished with a round of curses for his partner, who had left him stranded.