by E. R. Torre
As the words left his mouth, a loud buzz filled the pilots’ headphones. The helicopter’s computer monitors streamed lines of flashing data. One monitor displayed a blood red warning.
“They’re locking missiles on us,” Samantha yelled. “What the hell—?”
“Attention, MT-1034,” Delphi said. “This facility is under red alert. Our anti-aircraft mechanisms are armed and have targeted your craft.”
“No kidding,” Samantha said.
“We will not fire unless you deviate from your route. Please proceed exactly as directed. I repeat, do not deviate from your route. Proceed to Helo Pad 3. Over.”
“Son of a bitch,” Samantha spat. She instinctively reached to her left, to the controls of the anti-missile equipment. It was impossible for the Little Charlie to survive the base’s barrage of missiles, but she felt naked without some kind of protection.
Before she reached the controls, Frank grabbed her hand.
“Don’t,” he said.
Frank held Samantha’s hand so tight she winced in pain. Her lips quivered and a chill rolled along her spine.
“Let go of me.”
Frank drew a breath and released his co-pilot’s hand. There were red marks left from his grip.
“Sorry,” he said.
“What aren’t you telling me, Frank?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “We were called to pick someone up. Other than that, I don’t know what’s going on.”
“The hell you don’t.”
“Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you,” Frank said. “Look, we’re a small transport helicopter up against the full defensive might of one of our most sophisticated military bases. Turn on any of our anti-missile packages and they might interpret our actions as hostile.”
Samantha rubbed her hand. The pain lingered.
“You’ve got some grip,” she said. “If we get out of this alive, I should take up skiing.”
Frank didn’t answer. Samantha sighed.
“What the hell harm could we do to one of our ‘most sophisticated military bases’?”
“None,” Frank acknowledged. “But we follow orders and we don’t do anything provocative.”
As if to prove the point, Captain Frank Masters made sure the Seahawk’s approach to Helo Pad 3 was as routine as humanly possible.
The Seahawk landed in the dead center of Tortuga’s number 3 landing pad. From the cockpit it was impossible to make out what lay beyond the bright lights illuminating the landing site. On the edges of those lights, however, and just outside the spreading darkness, Samantha thought she spotted a ring of vehicles and soldiers. If that was the case, their helicopter was surrounded.
Samantha clicked on the intercom switch.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot,” she said. “For the time being, I ask you to please remain in your seats.”
She turned the intercom off and leaned in close to Frank.
“They think we’re in Alexandria,” she whispered. “We need to tell them something.”
Frank nodded. Samantha turned the intercom switch back on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for the extended radio silence on my part. Although we were scheduled to fly into Alexandria, at the very last minute we were diverted and ordered to land in Tortuga. As soon as we get clearance, we will resume our flight to Alexandria so please sit back and relax. We will remain on board the helicopter until we’re cleared to leave. In the meantime, I’m shutting the engines down and, in a few moments, you’ll be able to remove your headsets. This delay should be temporary.”
So she hoped.
The crew and passengers of the Little Charlie sat in their places. No one from the Military Base stepped up to the helicopter and none of the passengers or crew left their seats. As they waited, whispers from the passenger compartment floated into the cockpit. Samantha’s passengers wondered with differing degrees of irritation why they were being held in place. Their irritation was tempered somewhat by their conditioning. They were soldiers. They were trained to follow orders.
But after more than an hour of waiting, the occupants’ patience was tested. Though none of them rose from their seats or voiced a desire to exit the craft, it was only a matter of time.
“How much longer are we supposed to wait?” Jennie Light said. Her icy blue eyes were on fire.
“As soon as we know, soldier, we’ll tell you,” Frank said.
Jennie Light folded her hands across her chest and shook her head. Next to and across from her, Howard Bartlett and Dan Thompson’s faces remained sour. Alicia Cunningham, the newbie, could barely contain a look of growing panic. It was obvious she also suffered from claustrophobia.
“Easy,” Becky Waters told her. Of the passengers, she was the least troubled with their interrupted flight. “We’re on the ground. No chance of getting airsick.”
Alicia smiled and nodded.
“There’s that,” she admitted.
After a few more minutes, the occupants of the Seahawk heard the low drone of another helicopter approaching from the north. In seconds, it roared over them. The craft’s lights were off, its body invisible in the night sky. From the sound of its engines, Samantha recognized the craft as an AH-64 Apache. Fully loaded, it was one of the most fearsome attack helicopters in the world.
After passing over them, the noise from her engines receded. The Apache drifted to the east. Another landing pad a half-mile away in that direction lit up. Samantha heard a series of urgent whispers from the crew compartment in reaction to the lights.
For the second landing pad’s lights illuminated the extent of personnel and vehicles surrounding their chopper. A trio of IAV Strykers, eight wheeled armored combat vehicles, were parked end to end, their weaponry pointed directly at the Seahawk. Crouched before them were at least fifty soldiers carrying an assortment of weapons, from assault rifles to automatics to, incredibly, shoulder fired RPGs. Those too were aimed at the Little Charlie.
“What is this?” came a voice from the rear compartment. It was Thompson. “Did we do something wrong?”
Samantha looked into the passenger compartment.
“We were told we’d be picking up a passenger,” she said. “Other than that, I don’t know any more than you do.”
“Sit back and relax,” Frank said. “If they wanted to shoot us, they’d have done so already.”
“How encouraging,” Bartlett said. “If this piloting gig doesn’t work, you should give inspirational speech a try.”
The grumbling from the passenger cabin decreased to sparse muttering. Everyone’s attention was on the other illuminated landing pad. Presently, the Apache helicopter appeared. She hovered for a few seconds over the center of the distant landing pad, a metal Valkyrie itching for a fight. Then, she reluctantly descended, as if a mighty beast forced back into her cage. Her wheels touched down and the mighty rotors slowed. As soon as they stopped, the landing pad’s lights shut off. Everything around the Seahawk returned to the way it was. Nothing outside of their landing pad was visible.
“This is Delphi,” came a voice over the headphones. “We request Captain Frank Masters respond.”
“This is Frank Masters.”
“Please exit your craft but remain within a ten foot radius of her side doors. Be advised, should you deviate…”
“Understood,” Frank said. He removed his seat belt and stood up. “Your boys know I’m coming out, don’t they? I wouldn’t want anyone to get overly excited when I do.”
There was no immediate response. A bead of sweat rolled down Samantha’s forehead.
“Proceed slowly, Officer Masters,” Delphi replied.
“Yes sir.”
Frank placed the headset on his chair. He rubbed his hands against his pants and stretched.
“Better do exactly what they say,” Samantha whispered.
“It would be suicide to do otherwise.”
Frank stepped past the cockpit partition and into the passenger compartment. The passenge
rs watched as he opened the sliding door leading out of the helicopter.
“They want me outside,” he told them. “Only me. Please stay where you are.”
Samantha followed behind Frank. She released the step ladder and allowed Frank space to climb out of the craft. As soon as his feet hit the tarmac, he heard the sound of a car’s engine. A fueling truck emerged from the darkness and parked twenty yards away from him.
“Remain where you are,” came a voice over a loudspeaker.
The truck’s driver exited the vehicle. He left the door open and disappeared back into the darkness.
“Please refuel your craft,” the voice over the loudspeaker said.
Frank slowly walked to the fueling truck and removed a thick hose. There was no one inside the truck and no one around it at all. Alone, he dragged the hose to the Seahawk and removed its fueling cap. He then clamped the hose into the Seahawk and stepped back.
Inside the Little Charlie, Frank’s actions were scrutinized.
“What the hell is going on?” Thompson asked no one in particular.
“Maybe it’s an infection,” Bartlett said. “Maybe we’ve been quarantined. What did they tell you?”
“Nothing,” Samantha said.
“Bullshit.”
“Believe what you want, private,” Samantha said. “Your guess is about as worthless as mine.”
“Anyone else have any ideas?” Thompson said.
For a while, the passengers said nothing. Alicia was the first to break the silence.
“Whatever it is, it’s serious,” Alicia said.
“Well that explains everything,” Jennie Light spat back.
“Take it easy,” Thompson said. “We’re all a bit frazzled. I’m sure this’ll be over soon.”
“I may not be a seasoned veteran, but I’ll tell you what,” Bartlett said. “This could be a simple misunderstanding or we could be in some serious shit. But whatever’s happening, you can bet it won’t be resolved quickly.”
With that, the passengers grew silent while staring out their windows. Some muttered among themselves. Samantha noted the only person who had not joined in any conversation so far was Becky Waters. She held a book on her lap but her eyes were locked on the window before her.
Samantha felt a rush of suspicion. Could Becky Waters know something everyone else didn’t?
“What do you have to say, Private Waters?” she asked.
The other passengers’ conversations died out and all eyes were on Becky. If she noticed the stares, she ignored them. After a few tense seconds passed, she said:
“Someone’s coming.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
He stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the number 3 landing pad.
For a moment, he stood alone.
The lights were at his back and his features were hidden behind thick shadows. Despite this, the passengers of the Seahawk saw enough of the man to know he was in his mid-forties. He was lean and athletically built. He wore a simple black suit that lacked any sort of military insignia, yet he exuded authority. He wore sunglasses in spite of the darkness and his right hand rested close to his belt. A large knife sheath was clipped to his side. Otherwise, the man appeared unarmed.
He looked the area over, noting Frank Masters and the refueling truck. After a few seconds he turned to the darkness behind him and waved.
From this darkness emerged another figure. In contrast to his partner, the man was short and squat. He had a protruding stomach and thinning gray hair. His glasses were thick and built for functionality and not vanity. In his right hand was a thin black suitcase. Immediately behind him was another man. He was considerably younger, in his early to mid-thirties, and walked with the precision of a military lifer. His suit was freshly pressed, his crew cut as crisp as his walk.
“Welcome to the party, Captain America,” Bartlett muttered after seeing this third man.
The passengers stared at the three individuals and assumed they were the reason for their flight’s diversion. Only Becky noted what appeared to be identical knife sheaths attached to each of their belts.
The first man, the one who most exuded authority, broke off from the group and approached Frank Masters. He raised his hand and saluted the pilot.
“How are you doing, soldier?” the man said.
“Could be better,” Frank replied. If he was surprised to see the man, he didn’t show it.
“You’ll get back to your vacation soon enough,” the man said.
“I’ve heard that before.”
The man smiled.
“It’s been a long time, Frank.”
The passengers watched as Frank and the man with the sunglasses talked. Presently, they were joined by his two partners, and their conversation continued. At times it seemed cordial. At times their expressions hinted at bitterness and tension. Becky Waters, in particular, focused hard on their unheard conversation.
After a few moments, the man with the sunglasses realized their group was being watched by the Little Charlie’s passengers. He pointed to the rear of the craft and the four moved out of sight. They remained hidden for several long minutes before emerging. Their conversation now over, Frank escorted the trio to the helicopter’s entrance and climbed aboard.
“Ten-shun!” Frank said.
The passengers within the helicopter rose to their feet as the trio of strangers entered the craft.
“At ease,” said the man with the sunglasses. He stood by the door and let his partners walk past him and deeper into the craft. “My name is Paul Spradlin. General Paul Spradlin. I apologize for this delay. We'll be in the air as soon as your pilot fills this craft’s tanks.” Spradlin addressed Frank. “Why don’t you finish that up?”
Frank nodded and exited the craft.
“So the good news is we’ll be leaving very soon,” the man continued. “The bad news is that we're returning to Bad Penny.”
Although no one within the helicopter said anything, their anger and frustration spiked.
Spradlin removed a paper from his pocket and looked over its contents.
“Before we go, we need to see who’s here. Becky Waters?”
“Present.”
Spradlin pointed to the man sitting beside her.
“You’re Howard Bartlett.”
“Yes sir.”
“Alicia Cunningham?”
“Present,” said the newbie.
The General faced the helicopter’s opposite aisle.
“And you’re Dan Thompson,” Spradlin continued. He pointed to the soldier sitting next to him. “Jennie Light?”
The blonde nodded but said nothing. Spradlin turned to the woman standing next to the door.
“And, finally, Captain Samantha Aron, our co-pilot.”
Samantha waved.
Spradlin folded the paper and put it away. He pointed to the short balding man who arrived with him.
“This is Doctor Evans,” he said and then pointed to the younger man standing next to him. “And this is Lieutenant Alan Robinson. They’re joining us on the journey back. Any questions?”
Howard Bartlett raised his hand, almost smacking Alicia Cunningham in the process.
“Permission to speak, sir,” he said.
“Go ahead, son.”
“Yes sir,” Bartlett began. “Begging your pardon, sir, but my wife is about to give birth and I've been looking forward to this leave for over two months. If you need to get back to Bad Penny, wouldn’t it be easier to leave us here so we can find our own way home?”
Spradlin shook his head.
“I’m sure every one of you had something better planned for just about right now,” he said. “I sympathize. Unfortunately, leaving you in Tortuga is impossible. Our actions are dictated by circumstance and our current circumstance is this: We need to return all personnel to Bad Penny.”
“Pardon me sir, but why?”
“It has to be,” General Spradlin said. “Look, if everything works out, you’ll be on t
he first flight out of there in the morning. By no later than noon tomorrow you should all be at Alexandria.”
The passengers mulled this new information. Alicia Cunningham was the first to speak.
“That isn’t too bad.”
The sour mood lightened, if only a little. One day’s delay, inconvenient as it was, was manageable. Samantha Aron, however, remained skeptical. She gazed at her three new passengers and was about to return to the cockpit when her eyes locked on Becky Waters. From the look of seriousness in the soldier’s face, it was clear that she, too, felt the same sense of unease.
So much time and effort was expended to get this helicopter and its seven occupants back to Bad Penny. Returning the next day seemed overly optimistic.
At least in that, Samantha thought, we think alike.
Becky looked away from Samantha and out her window. Frank Masters was in the process of removing the fueling line from the helicopter. Once done, he climbed back inside.
“Finished?” Spradlin asked.
Frank nodded. He stepped past the General and into the cockpit, followed by Samantha. Spradlin wore a crooked smile and said:
“No use prolonging the agony. How about we get this bird off the ground?”
The Little Charlie lifted off just as the first drops of rain from the approaching front hit the tarmac. She lifted almost perfectly vertical, rising over seventy five feet before initiating a slow counterclockwise turn.
Three minutes later she passed the outer perimeter of the Tortuga base. By then the rain from the cold front was falling in sheets.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Samantha Aron said over the intercom. “This soup is just beginning. Unfortunately, it’ll follow us all the way back to Bad Penny. Make sure your seatbelts are strapped in tight.”
Samantha turned off the intercom. Five minutes after exiting the outer perimeter of the Tortuga base, the missile lock warnings went silent. Samantha looked out her side window and back at the base. She expected to find the many buildings illuminated and its airfield easy to spot. She expected the base to come to life.
Instead, all she found was darkness.
