by T I WADE
“Who was that face in the car?” he shouted to Manuela.
“A little girl,” Manuela replied, “with her little dog and her teddy bear. Your eyes are good Carlos. Her name is Beth. She’s five and very scared and cold and tired. I think her mother was lying by the car and there was a dead man inside. She was nearly passed out with cold and she’s hungry.”
“Dani, get the food I got out of my refrigerator,” suggested Buck, climbing back into the right front seat. “Not the bag I put Smokey in—Smokey is in blue Nike bag. The black one has clothing and the smaller brown one has the food and drink I grabbed out of the fridge. Give her and the puppy something to eat. Smokey is my cat, Carlos, and I don’t think a puppy lover at the moment. Dani, open the bag a little and let the poor cat breathe.”
There was silence as the little girl and her puppy ate whatever was given to them—the little girl had some cheese and an apple, and the puppy gulped down the rest of the brick of cheese.
As they climbed, they stayed in the sunlight with the ground below just visible with the setting sun and they knew they had about 20 minutes of daylight left. Going south would give them extra speed with an expected tailwind.
The weather cleared as they left New York behind them, and the rain clouds moved out to sea. It looked like a clear flight into Andrews Air Force base, two hours away. An hour later, the only light around them was the instrument panels in front and the switches above the pilot’s heads. They were very faint, turned down by Buck so he could see outside. They could still tell the difference between the water and land, 12,000 feet below them, as a big full moon was raising its head over the horizon. They were doing well, and both tanks were still slightly over a quarter full.
“What reserve fuel does she have? How much extra fuel do we have, Buck?” Carlos asked. Buck was reading the old flight manual.
“The General was spot on. We are cruising at 115 MPH. Fuel range with full tanks is 325 miles at optimum altitude, 12,000 feet. We have been flying very light, so we must have saved at least a gallon or ten. Total fuel is 200 gallons plus 30 minutes reserve, which should mean another 40 gallons. Our flight in was 223 miles, estimated. Our flight back at least ten minutes shorter. That’s 446 miles round trip. Buck was on his calculator.”
“Buck, it’s simpler than that,” stated Carlos. “The tanks were a slither above half when I took off from your house. Half fuel plus a slither, plus 30 minutes reserve, range is 325, half of that is 160 plus the slither, I’d say an extra 25 miles plus reserve—half of 115 miles an hour hoping we have no headwind. Boy!” exclaimed Carlos.
“Either Pete knew what he was talking about, or we won’t be handing him his radio. It’s going to be damn close.”
“Ok, 185 plus 60 is 245 miles and our distance needed is 223, say 225. Now those tanks were filled to the brim, so I reckon we will have around 20 miles of reserve fuel by the time we get to Andrews,” added Buck, smiling at Carlos.
Forty minutes later, and as Buck changed the fuel controls onto their reserve marks, the radio squawked and made everybody jump with fright. It was certainly not something they were expecting. The radio had been silent ever since they had left Andrews.
“Pete to Buck, do you hear me, over?”
“Read you loud and clear, Pete. We weren’t expecting that,” replied Buck in the right seat. “Carlos is in the left seat and I’m taking a rest—we have just switched to reserves.”
“Roger. We have a large mountain of old wooden pallets collected on the apron in front of hangar holding the boss’s old ride, the 747, and we will pour gasoline onto the pile. You should be able to see it. I assume most of the country is dark beneath you, over?”
“Roger, Pete we have seen a couple of very faint lights up here, but you’re right it’s black down there,” stated Buck. “I’d say you should hear us in about ten minutes. We will reduce altitude to 8,000 feet and you should hear us pretty soon. You might as well light the fire, its cold as hell up here and we should look for it in case we’re off course, over?”
“Roger that,” replied the General from the flight deck of the C-130’s radio he was using on the apron, and he shouted over to the men for the gas to be poured and the fire lit. It went up with an almighty whoosh, as everyone ran for cover.
“We have visual, Pete,” observed Buck, as Carlos brought the helicopter around several degrees. The fire was slightly to his right. They were about 30 miles out and the new faint spot of light could just be seen on the horizon. Carlos increased the forward speed to the maximum, 135 miles an hour, and aimed the Huey at the new light on the horizon. They decreased altitude quickly and came over the large fire at 600 feet, about 15 minutes later.
“Wind 10 miles an hour from the north, no gusts,” Carlos heard Jennifer tell him on the radio, and he whipped Baby Huey around in a tight, angled turn and came in steeply from the south—about 100 yards from the fire. All the buildings could be seen in the light of the flames, as well as the C-130 a hundred yards or so to the north and the white fuel truck next to it.
“Jennifer, get us some rations. We are hungry. We are fuelling up and heading south ASAP,” explained Carlos as he touched the helicopter down.
“Roger,” she replied.
They handed the radio equipment to several engineers who were standing by. Buck told them what to do and how to get it up and running. He explained that there should be one of Preston’s transmitting towers pretty close by for them to pick up on, and he explained the radio’s current frequency settings and told them to call the Huey when they had it up and running which shouldn’t be more than 20 minutes. They could then test it while they were flying between Andrews and North Carolina.
The Huey was still quiet in the back, and he let everybody stay aboard—fuelling regulations were out the window for now.
An hour later, and half way to Preston’s farm, Pete came on the air. The radio was working. Preston was listening in and heard Pete as well, and for the second time today there was a new long distance communication link in the United States of America. Preston asked them how they were doing. Buck, who was flying again, shared that they were an hour out and tired. Preston reminded Buck to click twice on the radio intercom and he would turn the runway lights on. It had been a long day for Baby Huey.
* * *
It was only ten minutes after Buck and Carlos, when Preston heard Pete’s voice at the same time Will Smart came on line from the California radio. He also sounded tired when he spoke, but now he was being heard on multiple sets.
“Preston, Preston, Will Smart here. Do you copy?” Will’s voice woke a sleepy Carlos and Buck up from their sleepy auto-pilot flying. Radio life was getting back to normal, thank God, and the channel was getting busy.
“Preston here, read you clear, Will. Maggie sends her love and the kids as well. Joe gave them a new engine to work on—an old lawn mower engine—and they are all in the hangar with Maggie pulling it to pieces.”
“Preston, I need to speak to that Pete guy. I am at the new location with Mike and family. We moved the radio over earlier and a couple of the guys have set it up and its now working. You are hearing me, aren’t you Preston?”
“So is the Pete guy, young man,” the General piped in from Andrews. “Thank you, Will, and your partner Mike for your help. I will call your new call sign ‘Al’ from now on, so we know who is calling who. Al, are you there? And on this baby, we go by first names in case we are being monitored.”
“Hi Pete, this is Al. it’s good to talk to you again. Where are you?”
“I’m where the boss keeps the big baby, Alpha Foxtrot One. Al, I just want to see who is with us on this call. Preston, I know you are there. Buck, Carlos, are you guys listening in? Jennifer, are you in range?”
“We’re both listening, Pete, and about 50 minutes from Preston,” Buck answered. A very scratchy Jennifer came on the radio, much fainter than the others and said she could just barely hear through the static.
“Carlos, Jennifer is
going to your old hunting grounds, where I want you to fly your fixed wing in tomorrow. Understand and confirm please, Carlos,”
“You want me to fly in to where I flew out of last week in my faster ride than our current baby, correct?” Carlos asked for confirmation.
“You got it, brother. Try and find a ride to your old place of work, take some electrical power with you, and search for our call sign ‘P’ for Pa-Pa—the object in the sky we discussed earlier. I will be there later tomorrow. Preston, tell Sally I want her up here bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow by 0800. Buck, I want you to check out that powerful mama we talked about and fill Preston in when you get there. Preston, you need Joe and David to get you more fuel from the airport ASAP. Sally is going to run you dry tomorrow and I’m working on something you might like. Sorry Al that this all sounds like gibbery-gook, but it’s the only way for now. Preston and others, Al and I are leaving you for an hour, we are going on another frequency in case we are being monitored and I will fill you guys in when I see you tomorrow. Good hunting. Al, go to the third emergency frequency on your list for radio procedures on today’s date. Goodnight everybody, and thank you.”
“What was that last part all about?” asked Martie, sitting next to Preston with a glass of wine. Barbara was also there sitting on the couch with Sally, Michael, and Grand Pa-Pa. Joe and David had left an hour earlier tired and were going to bed. They already had two of the airport’s jet-fuel tankers by the side of the farm’s fuel depot. Preston had worked on the electrical connections and managed to hotwire the systems and the tankers. The one still behind Joe’s old rig was empty since Sally already had full tanks of gas. The guards were outside or bunking in the hangar, and doing what they were supposed to do.
“I’m sure Buck will let us know when he arrives,” Preston replied. “I didn’t understand what he was talking about either, but it looks like we have a full day’s work tomorrow and it seems that Buck must have gone up to New York to pick up his radio and then returned to Andrews. Baby Huey must have been breathing fumes—that trip was totally out of her range, but it looks like they must have gotten some gas up there.”
* * *
The earlier ride into town had certainly been interesting. On David’s first trip, he had returned with a dozen old backpacks with Israeli army radios. Preston and his team of engineers—Maggie, Ben and Oprah—had powered up the batteries, and now the guards outside each had a radio with one next to Preston’s ham radio. It was connected to the electrical system and would be on 24/7.
It took another hour, but Preston, Joe, and David, with the help of Joe’s five sons and the two experienced tech sergeants from Seymour Johnson fitted the four machine guns Preston had given Joe to his jeeps. Now he had two machine guns per jeep with belted ammunition feeding into the guns. They were ready to fire, the front gun pointing forward and the rear gun on a steel pole three-feet high that could swivel 360 degrees.
The boys had drawn straws to see who would “man” the rear guns. The two armored ferrets had also been loaded with boxes of ammo and their machine guns ready to fire. The Saracen was not ready, but would be by the time they got back.
The Air Force guards and the convoy would be in constant radio communication, and the maximum range of the old radios was around 50 miles. Before the convoy left for RDU, everybody was tuned to the same frequency, and they agreed on a second back-up frequency in the event that the first one was compromised.
They left the Saracen and the armored cars parked in a neat row, their forward and fully armed guns pointing down the driveway, and everybody piled into the two jeeps. Each “rat-patrol” jeep, now named “Rat One” and “Rat Two” for radio purposes, needed a crew of three. There would be a driver, with one gunner on the forward machine gun and the third crewmember manning the rear gun. Martie wanted to go along and was given the driver position in the rear jeep. Their places set, Joe and Preston drove the two tractor trailers out of what now looked like a military compound, with Joe’s eldest boy driving the first jeep with Martie bringing up the rear.
It took them a while to get to the main intersection along the US64 dual-lane road since Joe used his truck here and there to move cars and other vehicles out of the way and permanently clear the road so that the convoys would have a clear path on their next trip. They went down 64 without seeing anyone, turned left onto the 540 belt-line. Preston had noticed from the air that the highway looked less polluted with dead vehicles.
They were halfway down 540 and about to cross I-40 when they saw movement up ahead. Two small trucks—an old green Dodge and a small Ford—had several armed men around them and it looked like they were checking inside the cars. They were pulling bodies out of them and searching them for whatever they could find.
The looters saw the convoy approaching, still half a mile away and fired several shots in the convoy’s direction. Several of the blasts sounded like shotguns, and Joe’s eldest son, Jack and David behind the front gun laughed aloud because they knew that a shotgun was totally useless at this range. David cocked the machine gun, ready for use, and Joe’s son did the same with the rear gun, swinging it around to point forward.
The looters must have only saw the two tractor trailers and not the jeeps because a couple of men jumped into the back of one of the trucks—the green Dodge—the wheels spun, and the little green truck came rushing towards them with several guns blazing wildly from above the cab.
A round came close, and Joe hooted from behind. The two machine guns began firing back, their much louder and more powerful noise shutting out any noise from the front, and the bullets began hitting the green Dodge, now only a couple of hundred yards away. The engine exploded, as did the cab window, and the truck skidded, bounced, and then rolled fast and furiously, spewing car parts and bodies everywhere. It hit the guard rail, flipped over, and disappeared from sight over an embankment. David immediately trained his hot, smoking gun on the second truck. It was already turning around and heading away, with several people shooting in their direction. Again rounds went straight into the rear of the Ford. It burst into flames on the bridge over I-40, also hit the guardrail hard and bounced over, disappearing with several still aboard.
Despite the three still bodies on the side of the road where the green Dodge had disappeared, and two more where the Ford had gone over, the convoy carried on as if nothing had happened.
“I hate looters,” David said to the two boys. “Anybody who loots except for food to live will steal from their grandmothers. I’ve seen it far too often in other parts of the world. The noise of our automatic weapons will tell others that they are not alone in their new concrete jungle.”
They turned off 540 and went south towards the airport. On the airport road, there were more and more cars, naturally helpless and in the way. Joe had told Preston that on their first trip, he and David had freaked out when they saw cars at dead traffic lights. Cars were stopped in lines just as anybody would on a red light, but the lights were dead, the cars were empty, and still sat in rows waiting for the ‘dead’ lights to turn back on.
Finally, they turned onto the airport feeder road and suddenly heard tires screeching as a car came out of the airport. An old, red mustang convertible with a couple of teenagers in it sped by on the other side of the island and out of the airport. No shots were fired and the car sped off.
As expected, the only large sliding gate into the terminal was locked with a massive padlock the size of David’s fist. He had brought a cutting torch with him in Joe’s tractor-trailer and he walked back to get it. The airport looked just like it had earlier that morning. Joe got out, helped David with the torch, and within minutes, the broken lock dropped onto the tarmac surface and David slid the gate open.
Preston pulled in behind Joe, David sat back in the jeep and allowed Martie to drive through, and then he turned it around and faced the jeep toward the exit and ready for action. Preston and Joe got out and Joe and his boys went to work.
The changing of the tra
ctors on the trailers full of fuel was the hard part. First, Joe and two of his sons raised the trailers off the dead tractors, moved the gear of the tractors into neutral, attached the steel chain they had brought with them, and pulled the tractors out of the way. Then they reversed the working tractor underneath the attachment, lowered the trailer, and connected them together. The hard work took ten minutes each.
Preston heard an aircraft engine start up. He looked over to see Martie waving at him from an old Cessna 210, untouched on the apron in front of the private terminal. He had seen it earlier. The 210 had a cargo door, not often seen on aircraft of its size, and he ran over to see what Martie was doing.
“Preston, this baby can get off roads and bicycle paths if necessary. She’s a turbo Centurion II turned into a little cargo aircraft with a cruise speed of 220 miles an hour. She can reach Washington in an hour, and somebody has modified her to carry freight. With the turbo and one pilot, I reckon she’ll easily get off the ground with 1,200 pounds of cargo. She could come in handy and give me and Maggie something to do. We could ferry in ammo from Seymour Johnson or something.”
“I agree,” replied Preston, and he ran back to Joe and the boys.
He told them to continue without him and Martie. The convoy left the airport and Preston latched the new padlock to the inside of the gate for the next visit, hopefully from the air. “Someone could fly in and open the gate. It would also be harder to pick the lock if the lock is on the inside,” he thought to himself.
