by Steven Bird
We couldn’t tell what the man had said to Bud, but he was clearly pleased to see his dear friend. As he approached Bud with open arms, Bud waved the man off and took a few steps back. The man’s happiness quickly turned to sorrow and the look of defeat. As Bud continued talking, the man looked out toward us with contempt.
“I’m not sure this is going so well,” I whispered.
“He’s basically finding out that we just killed his friend. Bud wasn’t a carrier before we came along, and obviously, neither is this man; otherwise, Bud wouldn’t have made him stop short.
Nodding, the man turned around and went inside the hangar as Bud turned and waved us forward.
Once we reached Bud, he explained, “That gentleman is Mark Butler. He’s a pilot, and he’s got a plane that can get you to Missouri. He’s one of us, so you don’t have to worry.”
“He’s clearly not a carrier,” I noted. “I’m not sure we want to keep infecting everyone from your unit that we meet. It’s just not right.”
“Don’t worry, Mark is going to take all the necessary precautions,” he explained.
“Why didn’t you?” I asked. “Why didn’t you take all the necessary precautions, that is?”
“I didn’t have time,” he explained. “It was an ‘act now or lose you to them’ type of situation. Many a soldier has thrown himself on a grenade to save his friends. I did nothing so heroic. So, please, put those things aside and let us help you help us.”
Nodding in agreement, we saw Mark exit the hangar wearing a full-body biohazard suit, complete with a fully enclosed hood and filter system.
Once he reached us, Mark barked at us, saying, “Look, I’ll do this because it’s my duty, but I’m in charge. This is my plane. You’ll do exactly what I say when I say it. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Good,” he grumbled. “Now, which one of you is going?”
Looking over to Bud and Tamara, and then back, I muttered, “Um, both of us.”
“No. I only have room for one. Who’s going? Make up your mind.”
“Sir, I implore you…”
Looking to Bud, Mark growled, “This is not going to work.”
Exhaling, Bud calmly said, “Mark, please, for me. Can’t you try to fit them both? I can’t ask that of them.”
“They sure didn’t have a problem asking you to give up everything,” Mark snarled.
“They did no such thing, Mark,” Bud replied. “Please, Mark. Can you try and fit them both?”
Mark looked both Tamara and me up and down, and said, “Maybe. Without the rifle, though. Is that the cargo?” he said, pointing to the Symbex pack.
“Yes,” Bud replied.
Thinking it over, Mark said, “Okay, we’ll try. I’m not making any promises, but we’ll try.”
“Thanks, Mark,” Bud said with a smile.
Bud followed Mark into his hangar while Tamara and I stood outside. Not only did we realize they probably needed some time to discuss things between themselves, but we also understood the fact that our presence wasn’t wanted, especially since we were carriers. There was no need for us to contaminate his space any more than required.
A few minutes later, Bud returned, and said, “The good news is he’s still on board with taking you. The bad news is he doesn’t want to leave until morning. He said it’s too late in the day. You’d barely get there before dark, and if there were to be an emergency requiring an off-field landing, without runway lights at alternate airports, or even streetlights to light up the streets, it would be a death sentence. That, and he can’t land in this field in the dark and doesn’t want to spend the night at Whiteman.”
“It’s his ship,” I replied. “We’ll follow his orders and report to him when he’s ready.”
Bud then rubbed his jaw and reluctantly said, “There’s just one more thing. He says you have to sleep outside tonight. He doesn’t even want you in his tool shed. He says you’ll infect the tools.”
“Doesn’t he look at you the same way, since you’ve been exposed and all?” I asked.
“He should, if you ask me,” Bud agreed. “But I guess he’s not worried if it’s not showing signs. If I’ve not come down with it yet, the virus probably isn’t shedding. You two, on the other hand, have been infected for so long, well, I guess he sees that differently. He’s not a doctor, but hell, even if there were a doctor here to explain things, he still probably wouldn’t take their advice. He’s a bit stubborn, you could say.”
“That’s no problem at all,” I replied. “Sleeping outside has become quite a regular event these days. To be honest, I feel strange sleeping confined by walls. I wake up feeling trapped.”
Looking to Tamara, Bud asked, “Is that okay with you, ma’am?”
“I guess it has to be, doesn’t it?” she replied with a smile.
~~~~
Early the next morning, with the wisps of fog still lifting off the ground, I awoke to see several fawns bouncing through the woods as if Tamara and I weren’t even there. I guess they were too young to realize humans were exceedingly dangerous to them now. Even more so than before, considering the fact that hunting was no longer a sport, but a way of survival, making rules and regulations null and void.
As I stood and stretched, Tamara folded up the thermal barrier we had regularly used for a blanket as Bud approached with breakfast in hand.
“Good morning,” he said. “And here I thought yesterday’s breakfast would be the last warm meal I got to cook for you,” handing us each a bowl full of scrambled eggs. “Mark has chickens. You sure can’t beat those things these days. You don’t have to slaughter them, and they still provide you with protein.”
We ate as we walked toward the half-underground hangar. Reaching the main sliding doors, Mark appeared through an opening in the middle of the doors, dressed once again in his full-body biohazard suit.
“I’ll fire up the tractor and get her pulled out,” he said, disappearing inside once again.
“Should we follow?” I asked.
“No,” Bud replied, “just wait here with me.
We watched as the hangar doors opened, and once I caught a glimpse inside, to my amazement, I saw a pristine P-51D Mustang named Rebel Yell. Appropriate, I thought.
Using an old sixties-era Ford tractor as a tug, Mark pulled the Mustang out of the hangar while Tamara and I stood there in awe.
“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” Bud noted with a smile.
“Gorgeous,” I replied. Again, the history buff in me was going wild with excitement. “I guess I see now why space is limited.”
“Yeah, as with most airshow P-51s, there has been a jump seat added behind the pilot seat. Perhaps if Tamara could sit in your lap, it might work.”
“Is he going to fly in that suit?” I asked, referring to the biohazard suit he was wearing.
“I guess he’ll have to. That’s an awfully confined space to be sharing unfiltered air with carriers,” Bud replied. “Mark flew U2s in the Air Force, so he’s used to flying in restrictive suits.
“After he retired, he flew the airshow circuit in a little Pitts biplane until he landed a gig flying this thing in airshows around the country. He doesn’t technically own it, but the gentlemen who owned it and sponsored the shows passed away soon after the outbreak began, and his family asked Mark to take care of it until everything settled down. It’s not like anyone in the family could have flown it, anyway.”
“No, I suppose not,” I mumbled, nearly drooling on myself at the sight of the pristine old warhorse.
Once the tug tractor had been put back in the hangar, Bud walked up to Mark and said, “Thank you, Mark. I know she means a lot to you, but what these two may be able to do for us will do a lot for all of us.”
“I know, Bud,” he said, nodding inside the Tyvek hood. Turning to Tamara and myself, with a little less rasp in his voice than before, Mark muttered, “Joe, you climb in the back seat first. See if you can put the pack on the floor under
your legs. Like I said, there’s no room for the rifle. Leave it. If we make it to Whiteman, you won’t be needing it anymore anyway.”
Turning to Tamara, he said, “Once he’s inside, climb on in and sit in his lap. It’ll be cramped, and your head may even touch the canopy, but that’s just how it’s gonna have to be if you wanna go along.”
Doing as Mark requested, I climbed aboard and got myself situated with the pack beneath and between my legs. I could tell by the look on Tamara’s face when she looked inside that she didn’t look forward to the ride, at least not in these too-close-for-comfort conditions, anyway.
Once she had climbed in, we adjusted our legs as best we could with hers on top of mine, while Mark strapped himself into the pilot’s seat up front.
Talking loudly through the hood of the suit, he said, “I know you’re uncomfortable, but just be glad you don’t have to wear one of these damned things.
“If everything goes as planned, you’ll only be back there a shade under two hours. We’ve got to stay down low to avoid radar the best we can, so it’ll take a little longer than usual down in the thicker air. We could go a lot faster up high, but that’s how we have to play the game these days.”
“Whatever it takes,” Tamara replied with a smile. “Thank you for this.”
And with a nod, Mark closed the canopy and brought the massive Packard-built V-1650 Merlin V-12 to life. I felt as if I was dreaming. As a history buff, especially a military history buff, the P-51 Mustang was the pinnacle of WWII-era aviation, and here I was, off to save the world, or at least try, in a P-51 that no doubt flew numerous risky missions during the war.
Looking to the side, my elation turned to sadness when I saw Bud waving goodbye. He knew he would never see us again, and he knew that without some sort of miracle, which likely could not happen soon enough, he would not be long for this world. He had nothing but suffering and anguish ahead of him. Mark’s bitterness toward us probably reflected his acknowledgment of that fact as well.
Taxiing out, Mark completed his preflight checks, and upon reaching the end of the neatly-cut field, he added power and began the takeoff roll with the tail quickly coming off the ground. Oddly, the field that had once seemed very large no longer seemed quite long enough. Even with ample power on tap, the fence line and trees at the far end of the field seemed to be rapidly approaching.
Just before reaching the fence, Mark pulled back on the stick, and the Mustang roared into the sky. Leveling off just after clearing the trees, Mark began a sweeping right turn back toward his hangar, and with a rock of his wings, gave Bud a fitting salute as we flew by, just before disappearing from his view.
As we flew, Mark explained how we would be skirting between Memphis and Nashville, and then avoiding Saint Louis to the south. He knew the OWA had a presence in nearly every major city but wasn’t sure of the extent of their air power at each location. In his opinion, it was best to simply treat every town with an OWA presence as a no-fly zone.
I had never flown that far, that low to the ground before. The view was amazing. I likened it in my mind to a very high-speed train ride. I attempted to glance over Mark’s shoulder to see the altimeter, but with the bulk of his Tyvek suit’s hood and with Tamara in my lap preventing me from moving around in the very cramped quarters of the rear jump seat, I simply couldn’t make it out.
If I had to guess, I would have assumed we averaged one thousand to two thousand feet, but again, that would be a complete guess.
Cutting between Memphis and Nashville, Mark flew low over the Tennessee River, often dipping below its banks and the surrounding terrain. At that altitude, we could see that nearly every town not under the OWA’s umbrella of protection was either burned, abandoned, or in ruins. Smaller roads had become overgrown and had abandoned cars strewn all about.
Near Camden, Tennessee, while still flying up the river, Mark had to climb to clear a railroad trestle. In the center of the trestle was a camper trailer, midway across the span of the river. It appeared that someone was homesteading on the railroad trestle high above the river below.
As we climbed to clear the trestle, we saw flashes of light from what appeared to be small arms fire. Apparently, someone was working pretty hard to avoid contact with the sick. I couldn’t help but think of the rude awakening they would receive if the OWA somehow put the old CSX train system back in use.
I chuckled at the thought of what the shooter must be thinking, seeing a P-51 Mustang climb over and coming within several hundred feet of his precariously perched home. That would indeed be a sight to behold.
As the Tennessee River eventually merged with Kentucky Lake, Mark turned slightly left, leaving the water behind, skirting just south of Paducah, Kentucky. This allowed us to now head straight for Whiteman AFB while avoiding Saint Louis to the south.
It was somewhere near Cape Gerardo that it happened. A surface-to-air missile streaked by, narrowly missing us. Mark immediately dove for the ground, getting to within what felt like one hundred or so feet, buzzing the treetops.
Yelling to the back, difficult to understand through the hood of the suit, Mark said, “That must have been shoulder fired! Otherwise, they wouldn’t have missed us! We may lose them if we stick close to the ground removing us from their view of the sky, but now we know they’re onto us! I think the joyride is over! It’s gonna be all business from here!”
I’m not sure how fast we were going, but the trees were streaking beneath us, going by like a blur. Mark looked down to his radio, hoping to be able to reach Whiteman from this distance, but noticed the display was no longer illuminated.
“Damn it! They’ve zapped the radio!” he shouted, meaning that they had evidently deployed the use of their EMWS weapons systems against us, targeting the aircraft with a focused electromagnetic pulse. “Luckily, this baby is so old school, there’s nothing else to fry! Old iron has its benefits these days!”
Tamara immediately began pounding on the canopy and pointing. “Over there!”
Looking over his left shoulder, Mark yelled, “Damn it, an attack drone!”
Banking hard to the left and in the direction of the drone, he pushed the throttles all the way to the WEP (War Emergency Power) level and rapidly closed in on the drone.
Seeing flashes of light from the drone’s onboard cannons, Mark banked hard right, then pulled hard, climbing nearly vertical as we streaked by the drone.
“We don’t have any guns, so I’m trying to give the bastard at the remote station a run for his money, throwing at him what he doesn’t expect! Since we can’t shoot them, we’ve got to outrun them!”
Tamara’s weight was crushing down on me from the G-load. My stomach began doing flip-flops, and I feared losing the breakfast Bud had cooked for us. Rolling over, and pulling hard to a turn back to the northwest, Mark climbed slightly while accelerating the Mustang past 400 miles per hour.
“By the time that bastard gets turned around and lined up on us again, we’ll be pulling away! The most the drone can do is 300! I’m climbing for more speed! The higher we are, the faster we can go! Flying low only helps when you’re hiding!”
Leveling off at ten-thousand feet, Mark yelled, “We’re gonna just have to make a run for it! Whiteman isn’t that far away now!”
No sooner had those words left his lips did we get slammed in the right side by a volley of machine-gun fire from an unseen drone bearing down on us from the north.
Blood splattered on the canopy as Mark screamed out in pain. His right arm had been shattered by one of the rounds that tore through the aircraft.
“Are you okay?” I asked Tamara.
She nodded in reply, then I asked Mark, “How bad are you hit!?”
Releasing the controls with his left hand and holding his left leg against the stick, Mark reached up and unzipped his Tyvek suit’s hood, removing it from his head. He placed his hand back on the control, stopping the roll to the left that had been initiated by the aircraft’s out-of-trim condition when he h
ad momentarily released the controls.
“That bad,” he said, now being exposed to Tamara and me. “It’s not just my arm. I’m pretty sure my pelvis is shattered. One drove in pretty deep,” he snarled through gritted teeth.
“I’m gonna have to put her down. I’m not feeling so good. I’m not going to make it all the way to Whiteman. If I don’t, I’ll end up losing it, and we’ll all die. I have to…” his speech began to slur, and his breathing became labored. “I have to put her down… now.”
Pulling back on the power, Mark began a gentle descent toward a small town just up ahead. I wasn’t sure of our exact location, but I knew we were heading in the general direction of Whiteman, and we were at least beyond Cape Girardeau.
It appeared he was heading toward a road just up ahead. He now had the power pulled way back. We could feel the Mustang beginning to slow. Next, he lowered the landing gear, and then the flaps.
“When…” he struggled to speak. “When we stop. Get… get out… Go…”
“Okay,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”
Approaching the road below, Mark put his left leg up against the stick and released it with his hand, unlatching the canopy and sliding it back. I had expected the wind to be loud and turbulent, but the air glided past us so smoothly, and with the canopy no longer reverberating the sounds from the engine, it was almost quiet and peaceful.
With Mark’s coordination and attention slipping, he over-flared and ballooned, causing the Mustang to momentarily climb before running out of airspeed and stalling, dropping down onto the road, bouncing and swerving as the aircraft began to ground loop with the tail swinging all the way around.
Skidding off the road and into the grass, the aircraft’s tail struck a tree, nearly shearing it from the fuselage and bringing us to a violent stop.
Tamara began struggling to free herself from the tight confines of the cockpit, and I followed closely behind, tossing the pack down to her once she was on the ground.
