Paul Kingsley briefed the gathered aviators on the mission before them. Because Gerald and Edgar Parker were bush pilots, most of the searchers were civilian aviators drawn from the ranks of the bush pilots. Paul knew they would conduct a very thorough search because they considered Gerald and Edgar as two of their own.
“For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Parkers’ airplane, it is a Douglas DC-4, four-engine airplane, light blue in color, with red cowls, red on the wingtips, and a blue star on the vertical stabilizer.”
“Do we know their route?” one of the aviators asked. “I mean, were they going direct to Edson, or was there a planned stop?”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t know the answer to that question,” he said. “I’m sure they filed a flight plan, but as some of you know, our computer crashed and we have no record.”
“In my day, when all flight plans were filed by paper, we never had this problem,” one of the older aviators said.
“Yeah, John, but in your day airplanes had a range of, what . . . how far was it again that the Wright Brothers flew?”
The others laughed.
“We will begin with the assumption that they were flying direct to Edson,” Paul said. “So we have worked out a search grid along that route. Before you take off, see Merrill for your grid assignment.”
“Can we get outside the grid if we see something?”
“Of course. But I ask each of you to please be thorough within your grid. We don’t want to miss something because a grid was left uncovered.”
Each pilot had an observer and with the briefing concluded, the pilots and observers left the flight operations building and hurried across the flight line to their airplanes. The search fleet was composed of a myriad of aircraft, from business jets all the way down to Piper Super Cubs.
Merrill had volunteered to go along as an observer with Dale Prescott. Prescott wasn’t a bush pilot; he was a local doctor who owned his own plane, a Cessna 172. The preflight taken care of, Merrill climbed into the right seat as Prescott went through the prestart procedure. With the engine primed and magneto switch on, Prescott shouted through the open window.
“Clear!”
He hit the starter and the engine caught right away. The propeller quickly spun into a blur; then Prescott taxied out to the end of the runway, where they joined the long queue awaiting their turn to take off.
Now the memories were coming with increasing regularity, whether awake or dreaming. They were unbidden memories, images and words rushing through his brain. As before, he made no effort to suppress or enhance them. He was a passive participant in the memories, almost as if he were watching a drama unfold on a television or movie screen.
Ben did think it was significant, though, that this memory, unlike the one he had just experienced, had nothing to do with the dream.
Was it real?
Yes, it had to be real. It was too vivid for it not to be real.
Those around him looked like something out of a space movie as they gathered near the door of the C-130 transport plane. They were dressed all in black, with faces enclosed in Plexiglas helmets to give them oxygen until they fell far enough to breathe on their own. They were told they would be at terminal velocity, 120 miles per hour, for some time prior to their chutes opening.
“It’s almost impossible to breathe at that speed, so leave your helmets hooked up until your chute opens. After that, if the shock of the sudden deceleration doesn’t knock you out, you can jettison your helmets and get your weapons ready to fire. We don’t know what we’re gonna find when we land.”
“What if we get hung up in the jungle canopy, too far to drop from our chutes?”
“That’s what the nylon cord on the front of your HALO suit is for. Just attach it to your harness, hit the release button, and climb down the rope to the ground.”
“And if the rope doesn’t reach the ground?”
“Then you’re SOL.”
“SOL?”
“Shit out of luck,” the jump master replied, turning to watch the lights at the front of the transport, waiting for the jump light to turn from red to green. *
*Tyranny in the Ashes
The sound of an aircraft engine brought Ben out of his reverie, and he looked up to see an airplane flying over. The Cessna was flying much too low to be on a regular commute, so he realized it must be in a search mode. They were obviously looking for him, but the question still remained: Were they would-be rescuers, or was the airplane just the air arm of those people who seemed bent upon killing him?
For a moment, Ben considered stepping out into the clearing and trying in some way to attract the attention of the airplane overhead, but he decided at the last minute not to.
If the pilots of his plane were still alive, he would have taken the chance in order to get them rescued. But they were dead and there was nothing anyone could do for them; thus, he didn’t feel it prudent to take any unnecessary risks. He stayed well out of sight as the airplane passed overhead, the sound of its engine receding in the distance.
Merrill sat in the right seat of the Cessna that Ben had just seen. Using binoculars, he was scouring the wooded and mountainous terrain below.
He took the glasses down and rubbed his eyes.
“Getting eyestrain?” Dr. Prescott asked.
“Yeah, a little.”
“This kind of intense searching can get to you.”
“The thing is, even if they were down there, we probably wouldn’t see them. What can you see under all those trees?”
“We just have to hope that they found an open place to set it down,” Prescott said.
“Yeah. Though from the looks of things down there, I sure don’t know where that would be,” Merrill replied, the tone of voice indicating that he was beginning to have little hope for a successful outcome of their endeavors. He raised the binoculars to his eyes and resumed the search.
With the aircraft gone, Ben’s memories returned. He didn’t try to fight the memory, he didn’t try to dig his identity from the memories, or specific information, or even understanding. In fact, if the memories were valid, he wasn’t all that sure he wanted to know everything. He knew, though, that he couldn’t put them aside. If the memories were real, if the world was in such turmoil and chaos, he needed to know about it. To be knowledgeable was to be armed, and one must be armed if one planned to survive this world or any other.
They were called the Night People, so called because they hid by day, and emerged by night.
Ben didn’t know why this rather disjointed memory of the Night People suddenly popped into his head, nor even how it got there, since he had no coherent memory of anything prior to awakening in the crashed airplane. But like the dream in which he found himself wandering through a town of death and destruction, this memory was vivid and real.
He could visualize them very clearly, the hideously misshapen mutated creatures who, though they had human antecedents, were considerably less than human themselves.
They were cannibals, who took innocent prisoners and warehoused them for food, and Ben knew that at some time in the past he had fought them.
He still had no idea of who he was, or what circumstances had led up to his battle with them. He knew that he hadn’t fought them alone. There were others fighting by his side, people that he knew he trusted, depended upon, even loved. And yet, as important as he knew those people were to him, his fuzzy memory still could not put features to them, or recall their names.
But the Night People, he could remember. In fact, the recall was so strong that it was almost as if he was reliving the moment in his memory. He wondered how the images for this could be so strong when he was totally unable to recall anything else. Then he realized that it must be because there was nothing else to compete with this memory. It was as if his mind had been washed clean. Thus, any memory would be uncontested and all the sharper as a result.
Almost as if it was happening right now, he could see the monsters pouring o
ut of subway tubes, tunnels, and coming out of alleys and basements. They were coming in hordes, like rats, grotesque creatures who were armed and savage. The sheer weight of their numbers made them a dangerous adversary, for they outnumbered Ben and his fellow warriors by a large margin. But they lacked the discipline and the intelligence to conduct coordinated attacks and, as a result, Ben and those with him were able to cut them down by the hundreds, thousands, killing them until they littered the streets with their hideous, putrefying bodies. *
*Valor in the Ashes
Port Hardy
“Andy, hand me that chart, would you?” Paul Kingsley asked. “I want to mark off the grids that have been cleared.”
“Here you go,” Andy said, passing the chart over. Andy was from the Civil Air Bureau, and had come to Port Hardy to help monitor the Search and Rescue operation. “How many have we cleared?” he asked.
“Looks like we have about one-third of them searched and cleared,” Kingsley replied.
“At this rate it’s going to take us at least three days.”
“It might,” Kingsley agreed.
“By the way, have you heard any rumors about who their passenger was?” Andy asked.
“Rumors?”
“Yeah.”
Kingsley shook his head. “No, not that I know of. I don’t even know his name.”
“I’m not sure either, but I’ve heard it’s some high-ranking muckety-muck from the SUSA.”
“What’s he doing up here?”
“He’s after Die Kontrollgruppe.”
“Trying to find information on them, you mean?”
“No, trying to wipe them out.”
Kingsley laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“We’re talking about one man, right?”
“Yes.”
“One man trying to wipe out Die Kontrollgruppe?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“That’s the dumbest damn thing I’ve ever heard of. How could one man wipe out Die Kontrollgruppe?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that is the rumor I’m hearing,” Andy said.
“Hmm,” Kingsley growled.
“Well, there must be something to it,” Andy insisted.
“What makes you think so?”
“The rumor is that Die Kontrollgruppe took it seriously enough that they shot down the plane.”
Kingsley laughed. “Where would we be without conspiracies and theories of conspiracies?” he asked. “I tell you, without them, the world would be a boring place.”
They heard a vehicle stop out front of the operations building, and Andy looked up. “Someone’s here,” he said, though his declaration wasn’t necessary because Paul too had heard the vehicle arrive.
Looking through the window, Paul saw the Jeep, and groaned.
“What is it?” Andy asked.
“It’s Carrie,” Paul said. He pointed toward the Jeep. “Carrie Parker. She’s the pilots’ sister.”
Paul continued to look through the window as a long-limbed, lean young woman climbed out of the Jeep. Carrie brushed a fall of blond hair away from her face as she came up the walk toward the operations building. She had high cheekbones and full lips, and Paul and Andy could see the beauty of the woman, though it couldn’t be fully realized since Carrie was wearing dark glasses to hide her eyes.
“Hello, Carrie,” Paul said as Carrie stepped inside.
“Hello, Paul.” Carrie looked at the man with Paul.
“This is Andy Alford,” Paul said. “He’s from the Civil Air Bureau, here to monitor the search for your brothers.”
“Have you heard anything yet?” Carrie asked.
Paul shook his head. “No. I wish I had something to report, but so far nothing has turned up. We do have a maximum effort on, though.”
“How many planes do we have out looking for them?” Carrie asked.
“We have as many as we were able to get together,” Paul replied.
“That’s not a very specific answer.”
“I know,” Paul said without elaboration.
“How many?”
“I’d say we have at least six planes out, including those from Edson.”
“Six? That’s all we could get? We have six airplanes and you are calling that a maximum effort?”
“Come on, Carrie, you know things are different now. It’s not like it used to be when we could mobilize civil and military aircraft for Search and Rescue missions. Since the Great War, then all the civil wars we’ve experienced over the last few years, we have very little assets for a real SAR operation. We’re lucky we have six airplanes still flying.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Carrie said, holding up her hand in apology. “I’m just anxious, that’s all.”
“Of course you are, and you have every right to be,” Paul replied.
Carrie looked around the office. “Where is Greg Merrill? I thought sure he would be here.”
“He’s one of the searchers,” Paul said.
“How can that be? He’s not a licensed pilot, is he?”
“He volunteered to go as an observer. He’s with Dr. Prescott.”
“Dr. Prescott is out looking? As busy as he is? How wonderful,” Carrie said.
“How is Peggy holding out?”
“She is having a rough time.”
“Is there anything I can do for her?” Paul asked.
“The only thing anyone can do for her is find Gerald and Ed,” Carrie said. “And you are already doing as much as you can.”
“Carrie, you know that if we find them, there is a very good chance that they will be . . . uh . . . well, what I’m saying is, you and Peggy may not like what we find.”
“I know,” Carrie said. “But at this point, knowing anything, even the worst, is better than knowing nothing.”
“I suppose that’s true. But I do wish I could do more.”
Carrie sighed, then turned to leave. When she reached the door, she turned back toward Paul. “Paul, you will keep me posted on everything?”
“Yes, of course,” Paul said.
“If we get . . . uh, really bad news, it might be better if you told me before anyone told Peggy. That way I could break it to her.”
Thank you, Carrie,” Paul said. “I was hoping we could count on you for that.”
Carrie nodded, then left.
“That’s the pilots’ sister?” Andy asked. “She is one beautiful woman. Is she married?”
“No.”
That’s hard to believe. A good-looking woman like that.”
Paul chuckled. “It wouldn’t be hard to believe if you knew her.”
“Why, what’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing is wrong with her. That’s the problem. Men are intimidated by her.”
“Intimidated? Because she is so pretty? She is pretty, but I wouldn’t think men would be put off by that.”
“I’m not just talking about her looks. I’m talking about the whole package. She is a professor of physics at B.C. University, but she has taken a sabbatical to work on developing cold fusion. She’s had at least half a dozen of her papers published in scientific journals around the world.”
“Oh, I see. Pretty much of an egghead, huh?”
“Yes, but don’t let that fool you. Two years ago she won the gold medal for the women’s marathon at the New Olympics. I admit, the New Olympics haven’t quite caught on like the original Olympics, but her time was competitive with the best from the old games. She’s also a mountain climber and sky diver.”
“Damn! Does she cook?” Andy asked. “Maybe I’ll start sniffing around her.”
Paul laughed. “Not in your dreams, Andy. Not in your dreams.”
FIFTEEN
Richmond, the New Capital of the U.S.
MEASURE INTRODUCED TO
RENAME BASE CAMP ONE
New Name To Be Raines City
Area Around Raines City
To Be Called Capital District
“Raines City, C.D. What a load of horseshit!” the chief of the FPPS said. He threw the newspaper across the room, and it fluttered and flapped until it hit the wall and slid down to the floor.
The old FBI was gone, and the FPPS had taken its place. It was a fancy title that fooled no one. The FPPS was the nation’s secret police, and they were everywhere, bullyboys and thugs. Day-to-day activities of those living in the USA were highly restricted, and President for Life Claire Osterman maintained control over her people through organizations like the FPPS.
“What’s the matter, Derek? You don’t think the citizens of the SUSA should honor their brave leader?” Carl Roberts said, chuckling at Owen’s reaction. Roberts was Derek Owen’s second in command.
“I’d like to honor the son of a bitch,” Owen said. “I’d like to honor him by putting my boot up his ass.”
“Ha! You might be able to shoot him, if you were in ambush somewhere. But I don’t think you, my friend, or anyone else could put a boot up his ass. You’d have to get close to him for that.”
“Well, you know what they say, ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,’” Owen replied with a controlled smile.
“Trust me, Ben Raines isn’t someone you want to get too close to.”
“You know Ben Raines, do you?” Owen asked. “When did you two become such great friends?”
“I would hardly call us friends. The bastard killed my brother.”
“You aren’t the only one who has lost a brother to him. He’s killed a lot of brothers,” Owen said. “But the chances are very good that he won’t be killing anybody else’s brother.”
“What do you mean?” Roberts asked.
“Well, the SUSA has made no official announcement, but his airplane is missing,” Owen said.
“What? How do you know?”
“This is the FPPS, remember? We have our sources,” Owen said.
Roberts chuckled. “Are we talking about the same FPPS? I mean, I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else, but you and I both know that this is the biggest department of incompetents and malcontents in the whole government.”
Escape from the Ashes Page 10
