by John O'Brien
“This is Otter 39 on guard. Anyone copy?” I call over the radio periodically as we drone ever westward. No response. Our progress is marked only by the increasing volume and intensity of the emergency signal.
The visibility increases as the moon reaches its zenith on its own trek across the sky; its brilliance turning the night almost into day. Everything is bathed in a silver glow. I can sense tedium within the small group as we continue on our flight path but with a certain underlying tension due to the signal. That tension increases the louder the signal becomes and therefore the closer we get. I cross check with the navigation equipment still set to our original flight plan programmed into the nav computer to ensure we don’t stray too far off of our intended path. Whatever is emitting the signal seems to be along our original course. We can’t be too far from it but the signal can carry farther over the ocean because there is a direct, and thus farther, line of sight; meaning there is nothing out here over the ocean to interfere with the signal.
Time passes. The waves below us have calmed and there is no longer the white-lined veins streaking along the ocean surface. Ahead, I see a different kind of sheen on the surface spreading out in all directions over a large area. It shines back to us in rainbow-like colors. Reaching over, I pull the throttles back and begin a shallow descent. The change in the pitch and droning of the engines brings everyone out of whatever reverie they were in.
“What are we doing?” Robert asks and I sense Lynn behind my right shoulder. I merely point to the sheen on the water ahead.
“What is that?” Both Lynn and Robert ask at the same time. Lynn shouting and Robert through the intercom.
“My initial guess is fuel on the surface,” I answer through the intercom first and then shout to Lynn covering the mic. I wouldn’t want to blast Robert and the rest who are on the intercom out of their seats by my yelling.
I turn and get Frank’s attention, motioning him up and pointing ahead. We continue our descent down to 10,000 feet. I want to make a pass over the area at altitude to get an idea of what it may be and the extent of it. I have an idea of what it could be but don’t want to say anything until I’m sure.
“Do you think that’s them?” Frank asks leaning over and yelling by the side of my helmet. Well, there goes not saying anything, I think.
“Don’t know,” I answer, shrugging my shoulders. “Could be I guess.”
“Would you post people at the windows in back?” I yell to Lynn. “Be on the lookout for life rafts or debris.” She disappears from my side to pass the word.
The edge of the slick begins to pass under the nose but I cannot see anything within it. I continue radio calls but am only met by silence on the other end. The sheen from the slick stretches for several miles in all directions but does not appear to be a solid mass indicating it may have happened a little while ago. As in the last few days. Close to the middle, the navigation needle on the NDB sways from side to side and then slides around to the other side of the dial; pointing behind us. We have just passed over the source of the signal.
I make a note of the GPS coordinates, once again thankful the satellites are still functioning. Passing the opposite end of the slick, I uncouple the autopilot and bring us around for another pass, this time descending to 1,500 feet. I’ll program a search pattern in the nav computer and we will conduct an ever-widening search if we don’t find anything on this pass. We have enough fuel on board to spend two hours here with plenty remaining in case we run into weather or have to divert. Passing over at this lower altitude, some debris can be seen scattered throughout the area. The moon is allowing for great visibility, though, of course, not as good as it would be during the day. Some can only be identified as something floating in the water and unidentifiable but others can be readily seen. They are definitely fuselage parts. I descend over some of the unidentifiable ones until we begin to pick up empty life jackets and other miscellaneous items.
A search of the entire area yields nothing living that we can see but the debris and slick definitely points to an aircraft meeting the ocean. I am not a specialist in determining causes but that really does not matter in this case. If anyone was alive and had access to survival gear, we would have seen a flare or some other indication. The silent ocean and wreckage below is all we see and it looks like it will keep the secret of what happened here for all of eternity.
After getting Lynn’s attention from the side window, I tell her, “There should be some parachute flares in the back. Tie them to the rescue kits it you will.”
I climb the aircraft back up to 5,000 feet. I want to give anyone we may have missed the best shot at seeing the packages drift downward. It is all I can think to do. I look to see Frank mesmerized by the scenes floating below.
“It may not be them,” I say to him.
“True, but you and I know it most likely is,” he responds. I nod agreeing with him.
I set the autopilot once again and head into the back where I find Drescoll tying off the last of the flares. The bags themselves have parachutes so I make sure the flares aren’t too high up. Not that it will harm anything but it will definitely limit the bags’ time in the air if the parachute catches on fire. Although, it will attract more attention to anyone seeing it. I show him how to use the vest that crew chiefs used for drops with the back ramp open in flight. This allows one to be tied off and prevents them falling out and coming to an unfortunate impact with the ground. Or ocean in this case. Apparently, being smacked repeatedly into the aircraft is a better option. Okay, kidding, the line should not be long enough for anyone to actually fall outside. With that done, showing him the ramp operation and to watch for the green light, I walk back up into the cockpit and strap in.
Adjusting the aircraft pressurization down to our present altitude and setting up for a run, I call back for Drescoll to open the ramp door. The aircraft shakes and generally lets us know up front it is not happy. The night sky opens up behind us. The night outside is brighter than the inside with the moon lighting the night time air. Drescoll is partially silhouetted by the open ramp. When the needle once again flips to the rear, I have Robert throw the switch for the green jump light to come on.
“All bags are out,” Drescoll calls over the intercom after a moment.
“Brace yourself for a left hand turn,” I say back.
The aircraft banks into a gentle, shallow turn to the left as I move the control wheel. Slowly, a long line of gently descending flares enters into my line of sight out of the side window, drifting along our previous flight path, my hope going along with them that, if there are survivors, then they can find these and that it helps. Really not giving anyone out there a chance of living much longer given how far we are out at sea and with no rescue boats or helicopters available. If anyone is still out there, we may only have prolonged the inevitable.
“Close the ramp,” I say as we continue our wide circle around the red flares. “If anyone would like to say a silent prayer in whatever fashion is fitting for you, now would be the time.”
The ramp door light extinguishes and I move the throttles up to begin our climb back into the night. This little moment of our trek back home over. There’s really not much to say and the aircraft remains silent. Minds trying to wrap around all that has come about and does not ever seem to cease. There will be other tragedies like this one. Our job is to make sure we are not written into that same book. Survive. That is and should be our single focus.
The mental aspect of survival and comprehension will be our greatest difficulty. The ability to last in any survival situation depends primarily on the will to survive. Knowledge is important but the mental remains the single greatest contributing factor to surviving or not. A lot of people end up dying when faced with a survival situation because they simply give up. They reach the end of what they can mentally handle. We have to stick together and watch each other. Console at the right times and be harsh in others. It is just knowing which the more effective method is given the mindset o
f another.
A Potty Break
The remaining flight over the pond is conducted mostly in silence. Time is spent with more in-depth aircraft systems knowledge for anyone wanting to listen to me and letting folks try their hand at flying. The flying time is primarily spent with Robert until he feels comfortable maneuvering to an extent. We also go through various emergencies but with our limited time, I keep those to the most important ones. I would like to take the time to do some takeoffs and landings when we get to Brunswick to round off his flying skills and then we will have someone else on board who can get everyone home in the event of my untimely demise, but we just will not have the time. We need to get down to Atlanta with a lot of daylight left. We also take turns resting so we can feel somewhat refreshed with the long day ahead of us.
Nothing spectacular on the rest of the ride over; the weather behaves and gives us a clear flight; the aircraft also behaves itself and performs beautifully. The sky behind us begins to lighten with the approach of a new day. A dark line appears on the horizon, land ho! We have journeyed back to what used to be the United States. It seems so long ago since we watched those shores disappear behind us but the sun has only risen and set a couple of times since. We begin the arrival checklists and I let Lynn know to get everyone belted in as the dark smudge ahead begins to take on a more defined shape and details begin to emerge.
I start our descent into the airfield, eventually turning onto final with the gray runway stretching out ahead of us, doing a low flyby to check the runway for condition and obstructions. My goal is to not get stuck somewhere, especially if it can be prevented. The wind sock, hanging limply on the pole, passes by the left window, its long shadow stretching to the west. The runway looks clear as I bring the aircraft up and around for a landing. The landing is another marvel of perfection. Okay, not so much. I rather thump it in. I turn the intercom to the overhead speakers as we slow down on the runway.
“Please remain seated as our pilot taxis what’s left of our aircraft to the ramp. Then feel free to make your way through the wreckage and onto the tarmac,” I say. They are oldies but goodies.
As I taxi by midfield making my way to the end of the runway, I can still see some evidence of our previous visit. There are some articles and pieces of clothing spread on the ramp where wind has not carried them away. Some are strewn in the grass field to our right, caught by the blades of grass. Others yet seem to be attached to what is left of the bodies, the bones visible where birds and other wildlife feasted. I still wonder if this affects any other creatures; whether they can become infected by the blood or secretions of the night runners. I also notice paper and other material scattered across the ramp, some being picked up and blown slightly along in the light morning breeze. Evidence of mankind’s demise and the earth perhaps cleansing itself. Seeing this, I still feel like I am caught up in a dream. The sudden change in the world around us; our mind filtering the surreal aspect.
I taxi onto the ramp and park out from the buildings, letting the engines idle, pausing for a few minutes. Waiting for any indication of life or what to expect when we exit. I leave the engines running in case of trouble. We would at least have some head start on getting away. The buildings and area around remain still. The dream continues on.
Shutting the engines down and opening the ramp, we all exit and stretch our legs. Lynn and I stand together looking out over to the building ahead, the climbing sun warm on our shoulders, our fingers finding each other and clasping. She turns her head around toward the partial corpses lying on the ramp.
“Your work?” She asks nodding toward them.
“Yeah, a moment of frustration you might say,” I answer. “Probably not the wisest move but what’s a person to do?”
“Hmmm, looks like you took care of the situation though.”
“Well, we had ‘em running but we could’ve also found ourselves stuck.”
The conversation dies away and I see Robert and Michelle standing a short distance away, standing in much the same manner as Lynn and I. Holding hands and staring off into the distance.
“Robert,” I call out. His answer is to turn toward me.
“Go get the fuel truck and start fueling up,” I say. “Take Red Team with you.”
“Okay,” he says, absently adjusting the M-4 slung over his shoulder.
We have taken to carrying our weapons on us at all times; becoming second nature. Michelle ventures off to the back of the aircraft only to emerge a minute later with Nic; both of them wheeling the start-up cart into position and hooking it up. The routine we are developing into is a comfort of sorts. But I also know that our routine will change shortly. I plan to be back at McChord by tomorrow. I would love to explore around, well, explore outside, but we just don’t have time. We need to be off as soon as we fuel up. Daylight is our friend.
“Let’s gather everyone around and talk about what we’re going to do when we get back,” I say to Lynn, breaking our morning reverie and bringing our thoughts back to the moment.
“Shouldn’t we talk about this amongst the team leaders first?” She asks.
“With some things, yes, but I think in this case we should talk about it with all of us together. We’re all in this together and I think everyone should have a say or hear it right off. I don’t want anyone to feel like they are just a cog. We need to all work as equals with regards to our overall survival,” I answer.
“Okay, you’re the boss,” she says turning to gather everyone. Yep, there is that ‘I don’t agree with you’ statement. My payments are adding up by the minute, although I cannot wait to be able to pay up.
“Everyone on me,” she yells out. A circle forms with the sound of weapons shifting and boots on the pavement interrupting the still air.
The sound of a truck starting in the distance and coming our way adds to the noise. Everyone stands, kneels, or sits in a semi-circle around Lynn and me as we wait for the fuel truck to approach and hook up. Red Team approaches from the distance and joins in.
“Someone grab the others,” I say nodding toward Robert, Michelle, and Nic. “I think Brianna is in the cockpit if you would be so kind as to get her as well.”
Two soldiers rise and head off bringing back the rest of our merry band. The sun climbs higher into the bright blue sky shining its warmth down on us. The morning breeze has settled down bringing even more stillness to an already still area. The only movement is that of the occasional bird swooping over the grass field across the runway from us. The flags hang limply from their poles on the buildings we can see, imitating the way I feel. The calm before the storm. As if what we are about to venture forth on this day is still far away but coming toward us at a tremendous pace.
“Let’s talk about what we need to do when we get back. We know we need to find and build a sanctuary. Some place where we can be safe and plan. Some place where we have the supplies and the environment we need to survive. I’m thinking close to McChord and Lewis. As a matter of fact, I have a place in mind. The Cabela store. It has what we need for survival, it’s close to supplies, it has very few entrances, and is large enough to house us. It’s also far enough away from the city that we shouldn’t be overwhelmed from the very start,” I say starting off the conversation and ticking the points off on my fingers.
“What about just staying at Lewis and finding a place there?” A voice asks from the group.
“Well, my thinking is that there’s no security around the perimeter. At least nothing that can keep the night runners away from where we’d be housed. We need a solid barrier. And there’s nothing as large there as what Cabela’s would offer. We have to think of room and accommodations for us. There are also a lot of night runners on the bases based on my last experience through there. Lastly, we need to think about disease control. There are a lot of bodies around, and I mean a lot! Disease in the form of Cholera and a host of others will be rampant shortly. This will have to be close to the top of our priority and thinking,” I answer.
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sp; “Won’t the place you’re talking about be just as open as any place on base?” Another voice asks.
“Initially, yes, but I’m thinking about building a concrete wall around the entire area with the materials they place alongside highways to keep noise and people out. I want to enclose a complete area, preferably with grassy fields, to be able to bring livestock and such in. Horses, cows, chickens, and anything else we can find alive. This will be our long-term solution. Plus, the concrete block building with only a couple of entrances will make it easier to secure,” I answer.
I see several heads nodding at this but others seem lost in their own thoughts. Not sure if they accept this reasoning or whether they are merely taking it in and formulating their own ideas about where we should go.
“Look, there are most likely hundreds of places we could go and build a safe place. I just know the area around there very well. I know where the cattle are, where horses can be found, where water and other supplies are, the good hunting, and my way around a hundred other things I can think of. Plus, I know it has large generator for our use, a kitchen, food storage, and bathrooms,” I say.
“Well, that does sound like a good place but what about the NORAD facility? They have all of that and more. It’s also away from civilization,” Frank asks.
