John looked at it, a bit shaken. A couple of inches farther down and his friend would be dead, and he realized that for the bullet to have entered thus, it must have snapped past him by a margin of only a few inches as well.
“We okay?” John shouted again, Danny looking back at him.
They were past the perimeter of the airport, heading east. Danny returned his attention forward and was obviously saying something to Maury, pointing toward the instrument panel. John unclipped the safety harness and crawled up between the two.
“Problems?”
“Yeah!” Maury shouted. “I think we’ve been hit. And look off to your right. An Apache that was up in the air is peeling off toward us.”
He looked to where Maury was pointing and caught the flash of rotors. The narrow profile of the Apache was hard to see, but he could discern it was headed their way.
“They’re ordering us to come back, land, or we’ll be shot down.”
“Can they?”
Maury was silent for a moment, attention focused to where Danny was pointing at one of the gauges.
“One of the turbines might have taken a hit; it’s heating up a bit, RPM dropping. They’re designed to take punishment; let’s just hope it holds together. Supposedly, you can fly this thing on one engine, but I wouldn’t want to try it right now.”
Maury banked again to port, taking them on a direct easterly heading, away from the Apache.
“Can he catch up to us?” John asked.
“Don’t know!” Maury shouted. “I remember the Black Hawk is a bit faster than the Apache—at least it was when I was flying these things. Wait a second.”
Maury pulled his headphone down over his left ear, listened intently, spoke, and then pushed it back up so he could talk to John.
“Told them we want to come back but call off that Apache first. Telling them that might buy us some time.”
John looked to the glint of rotors from the Apache; it was still on course toward them. It was hard to judge distance, but he appeared to be at least several miles off.
“If he’s got an air-to-air, we’re screwed!” Danny shouted.
Maury looked back at John, raising a quizzical eyebrow, passing the decision on to him.
Air-to-air? He mulled that over for a few seconds. The Apache was doing ground support. Besides, air-to-air was not usual armament for a helicopter unless one was expecting to tangle with enemy air assets. Fredericks didn’t have anything like that; otherwise, the L-3 would have been toast.
“Just keep going straight east for now,” John replied.
“And pray both engines keep turning,” Danny added.
“Can we outrun him?” John asked.
“So far so good,” was all Danny said before focusing back on scanning the instrument panel.
John fell silent, letting them do their job, looking back over his shoulder to see that Forrest had his helmet off, had passed it over to Kevin to examine, the two of them talking away as if this were just another typical day.
“We got any kind of warning if something is coming up our tail?” John shouted.
Danny pointed at the blank computer screen. “It’s all in there,” he replied, “but I’ll be damned if I know how to run it. Besides, what the hell can we do if they have an air-to-air? We’re toast.”
“Thanks for the reassurance,” John replied, and he backward crawled to his seat, trying to avoid the mess that Lee Robinson had splashed onto the floor and to which he had added in the last few minutes.
John strapped himself back in and settled down, trying to block out the smell. He knew there was an old saying with pilots that no matter how good an engine you have, when flying at night or over water with no place for an emergency landing your engine always starts to sound rough. It had been years since he’d last been up in a helicopter, and he tried to compare what he was hearing now versus back then. Something did sound “rough.” And looking forward, he could see that Danny was focused on the instrument panel and saying something to Maury, who just kept nodding in reply.
Maury was all but flying nap of the earth, at least as far as his skills allowed. John figured they were at least ten, maybe fifteen miles out from Roanoke, and if anything was going to come up their tail, they would be scattered wreckage by now. He was about to say something when Maury banked sharply, turning southwest, Danny craning to look back over his shoulder and shouting that if the Apache was still following he could no longer see him.
Maury began to gently nose up, trading off a bit of speed for some altitude. They had gone over the flight plan before taking off, figuring from the weather pattern that higher up the prevailing winds would be west to northwest. Gone were the days of clicking on a computer for flight service info, at least for the one helicopter of the State of Carolina. So it had been decided that for the return flight they would stay at a thousand feet or lower to avoid a strong headwind. When in a small plane, John always felt safer the higher up they climbed. If the engine quit, the plane just turned into a glider, and the higher up one was, the farther they could glide to an open field or nearby airport for a safe landing.
In a helicopter, he always felt the exact opposite, having witnessed during a training maneuver in Germany a helicopter having a full engine failure while more than half a mile up. According to the book, the chopper should have easily autorotated down to a landing one could at least crawl away from. Halfway down, the rotor seized up completely, and it dropped like a rock, killing the crew and the six troopers on board.
“Know where we are?” Lee said, looking over at John.
“Heading home.”
“Thank God,” Lee gasped. At least this time he managed to use a baggie and seal it up. Groaning, he just leaned over while Forrest and Kevin looked at him with at least some pity, even as they traded a joking comment.
John settled in, suddenly realizing that his left hand was absolutely numb from the cold. He unzipped his jacket and slid it in under his armpit and closed his eyes, trying not to listen too closely to the engine, for there was something definitely wrong. Maury shouted he was throttling back to put less strain on it, dropping their airspeed down to a hundred miles an hour. John mentally clicked off the miles; with each passing minute in the air they were subtracting an hour of laboriously walking through the winter snow to get home.
Was this trip really necessary, he wondered, or just a folly on his part? He had harbored a fantasy that perhaps, just perhaps, he would hear Bob Scales’s familiar voice on the radio, inviting him to come in, land, and talk things over. Tucked into his vest pocket, he had even brought along a photograph taken of Jennifer and Elizabeth the year before the Day.
What did happen over these last few minutes, he was prepared for as well, confident of the decision not to land but still disconcerted that they had been fired upon.
He closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline rush over with, now just trying to look calm as they clicked off the passing minutes for what should, he hoped, be the hour-and-a-half flight back home.
At least the message pod had been dropped, and he saw someone running over to pick it up. He had thought it out carefully the night before, writing the message on his old Underwood typewriter:
TO: General Robert E. Scales
FROM: Colonel John Hastings Matherson
RE: Contact
Several days ago, a man claiming to have served with you, initials Q. R., arrived in the outskirts of my community. He had been badly beaten by marauders on his journey and died from the results of injury and exposure before I could personally speak to him. His message, whatever it was, never reached me. I do not have, as well, any means of verification to his claim of having served or to be currently serving with you. My flight to Roanoke is an attempt to establish contact with you. If you are reading this message rather than speaking to me personally, the reasons for my decision not to land should be apparent to you. Sir, I pray that you are indeed still alive and contact between us can be established. I wil
l maintain round-the-clock monitoring of aviation frequency 122.9 for the next seven days, fifteen minutes after the top of any hour, day or night, if you should wish to speak with me. Please attempt to reach me first by radio rather than flying to my location. You are most likely aware of the confrontation that happened in Asheville this spring, and I regret to say any air intrusion without prior notification will be considered to be hostile and reacted to accordingly. I regret such a response, but prudence after the aggression endured by my community is necessary.
As verification of who I am, you will recognize the two photographs enclosed. Also, sir, I regret to inform you that our beloved J. died shortly after the start of the war.
Respectfully,
Colonel John Matherson
State of Carolina
He had written it out half a dozen times. If Bob was not alive, he had not given away any crucial details. He had also implied that his community now possessed air-defense capability if the message should fall into hostile hands. For that matter, he was not even sure now if Bob was indeed still a comrade on the same side or if that the tragic events of the last few years now placed them potentially on opposing sides. He had made no mention of Quentin’s ramblings about an EMP, whatever that might now mean. The proof of who he was Bob would know. One photo was from a visit Bob and his wife had made to Black Mountain, a poignant trip after he passed the word that Mary was in her final weeks. It was a photograph of all of them together, Mary, still clinging to life and smiling for the photo, six-year-old Jennifer and ten-year-old Elizabeth to either side of her, John and Bob standing behind them, trying to smile as well. The second was a photo of just the two of them in the field during Desert Storm, leaning against a Humvee, begrimed, grinning, for the cease-fire—at least for the next few years—had just been announced, their brief taste of America’s first open war in the Middle East at an end.
Thinking about it now caused a rush of memories. Were they still friends, or were they now enemies? Bob had been his mentor, taking a liking to John, who, fresh out of ROTC, had been assigned to Bob’s staff. As Bob went from colonel to general, John had followed the more intellectual route of a military career, going on to graduate work in military history, their paths crossing again at Carlisle, where John had the pleasure of teaching for a year after Desert Storm.
If enemies, it made him think of the life of Robert E. Lee, who was somewhat of a namesake for his friend. Lee had served as superintendent at West Point in the early 1850s. Ten years later, more than one of his young cadets from West Point faced him across the other side in the fields of Antietam and Gettysburg, the burning woods of the Wilderness, and the nightmare slaughter in front of Cold Harbor. After such blood-drenched fights, Lee would read in captured newspapers accounts of yet another of those young cadets’ deaths and knew deep within that the cause he fought for with such tenacity had resulted in those deaths.
Is Bob my enemy or my friend? John now wondered. If my enemy, would he kill me, or at least try to warn me at first, and was that the reason Quentin had been sent? Or, for that matter, is this all some sort of cruel existentialist joke?
A vibration running through the chopper snapped him out of his musing.
“What was that?”
He could see a look of concern now in Forrest’s eyes and those of Malady as well.
“Might be one of the turbines is starting to break up,” Forrest said calmly.
“I think I dozed off. Where are we?”
“We passed Statesville on our left about five minutes ago,” Forrest said. “My God, it’s all gone, John. Burned out, looted, looks like a wasteland. Those rumors that the Posse and other gangs like it just tore it apart are true. Sick bastards.”
Another vibration, this one more pronounced.
“We’re shutting one engine down!” Danny shouted, looking back at John.
“We gonna crash?” Lee asked.
“It can fly on one,” Forrest replied. “Not fast, but at least keep us going.”
John wondered if Maury even knew the proper procedure for shutdown while in flight or whether this was a learn-on-the-job situation. For that matter, how would the helicopter’s flight characteristics change, and could Maury handle it?
Seconds later, he began to find out when it felt like, the chopper falling out beneath them and Maury then pitching the nose forward. At least he had a thousand feet of altitude to figure it out, but at their speed, that meant a matter of seconds. He could hear the difference in engine and rotor pitch and then the additional strain on the one remaining engine as Maury pushed it to the max, finally leveling out just a few hundred feet above Interstate 40.
Going against safety procedures, John unclipped from his harness and crawled forward. He didn’t say a word to Maury, who was completely focused on keeping them aloft, Danny talking to him on the intercom, offering either some advice or just encouragement.
John could see the airspeed indicator. They were down to seventy—he was not sure if it was miles per hour or knots.
“I think I smell something burning!” Forrest shouted, and John picked up the scent as well. What the hell was it?
“That’s Hickory up ahead!” Danny shouted. “Still Indian country in places. We’re trying for the Morganton airport, which is ten miles farther on.”
“If it holds together,” Forrest replied.
“The airport in Morganton is ours. Can we make it?”
“My thoughts!” Danny shouted. “Hangar’s still intact. Old Bob Gillespie still lives there, used to work on choppers.”
Passing the outskirts of Hickory, flying low, they passed within easy landing distance of that far larger airport, but it was still an area not really secured. And as if in answer, there was a sharp rattling beneath them.
“Some bastard down there just hit us!” Forrest announced. “Thank God this isn’t a Huey with no armor; I might have caught one in the ass!”
John crawled back to his seat and strapped back in, Danny shouting they were just minutes out if things held together.
Crossing over narrow Lake Rhodhiss, John could clearly see the Morganton airport straight ahead—one long runway up on a slight bluff. Maury aimed straight for the middle of it, approaching the runway at a right angle, not bothering to swing out the few extra miles for a standard runway approach.
He began to ease off the throttle, pulling in the collective, the nose flaring up, view forward changing to nothing but sky for John.
He looked over at Lee, trying to offer a reassuring smile. His old friend and neighbor, a man with six generations of family history in their valley, a man he would want more than anyone else by his side in a fight, was definitely having a hard time with his first flight. In spite of the cold, sweat was beading down his face and his eyes were closed, his lips moving in silent prayer.
“Almost there!” John shouted, putting a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. Lee simply nodded and then leaned forward to retch again.
“Brace yourselves!” Danny shouted.
Forrest leaned over to unlatch the side door and slide it open. The cold blast of air swirling in a refreshing shock washed out the stench of vomit and whatever it was that was burning.
The landscape outside was tilted at a crazy angle. With a lurch, the helicopter banked sharply to port, and John was now looking nearly straight down at a runway fifty feet below. Maury straightened the wounded bird out, throttled back more, the ground coming up fast. There was a final blast from the rotor, slowing their rate of descent, and with nose high, he slammed down hard on the runway while still going forward. They bounced and came down again for another bounce, and then he cut power back so that with the third bounce the wheels stayed on the ground. They were still rolling forward at a fair clip, Maury or Danny working the brakes, and they finally rolled to a stop.
“Out! Everyone out!” Maury shouted.
John was definitely not going to hesitate with that order. He reached over to help Lee, who was fumbling with his safety h
arness, the buckles slick with frozen vomit, so that John could not help but gag as he helped his friend to his feet and pushed him out the door. Command instinct told John that he should be the last one out. Forrest and Kevin, still acting if the day were routine, were already unbuckled and out the door, while up forward, Maury and Danny fumbled at switches to shut the Black Hawk down.
Maury looked back at John and motioned for him to get out. John needed no further urging, reaching over to pat Maury on the shoulder before exiting. Overhead, the rotor was still slowly spinning but winding down.
As he stepped out, he was greeted by the smell of burned metal. Old training reminded him not to breathe deeply. Burning aluminum and titanium were toxic.
“Son of a bitch!” Forrest cried, pointing at the portside turbine mounting. “Either damn lucky bastards or damn good shots.”
The housing was scored with half a dozen deep dents standing out clearly, the paint having been blown off. Black smoke was trailing out from the exhaust pipe, the northwesterly breeze whipping it around them.
John covered his mouth to go up and look closer with Forrest by his side.
“None of the rounds penetrated?” he asked. “So what happened?”
“Supposed to be proof even against 20mm rounds as long as they’re not armor piercing, but still, it dings the metal and bends it in; sometimes fragments of bent metal pop off inside the engine housing and get whipped into the turbine. We most likely cracked a turbine blade. If we had shut down immediately, it wouldn’t have been so bad. Now I’m not sure how much damage it did.”
The rotor came to a stop, Danny exiting the aircraft, coming aft to join them, fire extinguisher in hand, reaching up high to hose down the intake and then exhaust ports.
John stepped away from the Black Hawk, knees feeling rubbery. Lee was just lying in the snow, breathing deeply, looking up at the sky. John went up to his side and knelt down.
“John, we’ve been friends for Lord knows how many years,” Lee gasped, “but I’ll be damned if I ever go flying with you again. For that matter, I’ll be damned if I ever go flying again, period.”
The Final Day Page 10
