by John O'Brien
“I really don’t have an answer to that, Jack. I’m also of two minds about this. If someone is truly there, why aren’t they broadcasting for help?”
“Hell. I don’t know. Maybe they like music,” I reply.
“Could be I guess,” Greg says, shrugging. “It could just be a station that’s on auto and is still powered somehow.”
“I suppose… but I’m hard-pressed to think how. I think someone is there keeping the power on for some reason. Maybe they broadcast in voice at intervals. For now, we’ll keep the radio on and have whoever is on watch keep an ear on it.”
“Sounds good. What about tomorrow?”
“Let’s run it by the teams and see what they have to say,” I say.
Greg and I walk to the back. The teams are silently stowing their gear with the last glows of the day bathing the tarmac. We have just enough time to drive the Stryker in and latch it down before the sun sets. I think about leaving it out and talking with the teams right now but, with darkness about to fall, I want the Stryker loaded in case we have to leave in a hurry. It would be a shame to leave without it. That would pretty much put an end to our mission and dictate that we return home.
The base is completely quiet with the exception of the occasional metallic ringing of someone walking on the 130 ramp. Although it’s the right time of the evening for flocks of birds to be gathering their last meal and returning to their nests, there isn’t one in sight. Not a breath of air stirs across the sand-covered ramp. The wide swath our engines created on the taxiway with our arrival is still visible.
With my M-4 hanging at my side, I fold my arms and look around. The stillness is complete and the scene really brings to light what has happened to the world. Civilization as we knew it ended. Contrails that continuously filled the skies disappeared within a matter of days. Roads that filled with commuters hurrying home to watch their favorite TV shows emptied. Uncompleted projects were left on desks and computers, never to be seen or cared about again. The whole world as we knew it just stopped like it hit a brick wall.
Breaking the stillness, the sound of the diesel motor firing up echoes across the ramp, bouncing off the metal sides of hangars and abandoned buildings. The Stryker edges up the ramp, disappearing slowly into the back of the 130. It’s soon stored and latched down. Orange flares across the tarmac, the last of the sun’s rays flash as if defiantly giving up the day. Our time outside has come to an end. Walking back in, I hear the radio playing faintly in the cockpit. The doors are latched and several of the soldiers glance toward the cockpit as they begin finding places for the night. I gather everyone after the aircraft is completely secure, turning off all of the electronics but leaving the radio on.
“What you hear in the cockpit is a radio station broadcasting in the area. That means there is the possibility of survivors. That doesn’t mean there has to be someone operating the station nor does it guarantee that they’re friendly. We have the capability to find the station or at least get close. If we do go look, there’s a chance we’ll run into hostiles plus we’ll lose a day in our search for families. Having said that, we are ahead of our planned schedule. Knowing there’s a risk associated with investigating, I want to know what you think about taking a look,” I say.
The soldiers and those we gathered look among themselves, none of them wanting to speak up. Some look surprised that I’d even ask. I can see Carl and the others in his small group look at each other. Judging by their expression, I’m guessing they are wondering if we had this conversation prior to picking them up.
“Sir, I think we should at least go see. If we’re not out here to help others who might need it, then what are we doing?” Gonzalez breaks the silence.
“I agree, sir. If we find them and they want to come with us, well, in my opinion, the more we have with us back home, the better off we’ll be,” McCafferty chimes in.
Denton, in a rare vocal exhibition, says, “I happen to agree, sir. We have to stand for something. If we just fold in on ourselves, we are missing the greater part of what we’re here for.” All soldiers turn to look at him, amazed for one, that he spoke, and two, for so long.
“Damn, Denton. Do you need a drink after that dissertation?” Henderson asks.
The compartment fills with quiet chuckles. After all, the sun has set and the last thing we need is the fuselage reverberating from laughter. I have to admit that it’s good to hear them laughing after the day we’ve had. Even the soldier who just found out his family is gone cracks a smile. Of course, Denton turns beet red and lowers his head, but not before I see the semblance of a smile there as well.
Night goes on and for once, we are blessed with a quiet evening. We don’t hear any shrieking night runners which is almost as unsettling as having them around. The only thing pounding against the fuselage are gusts of wind that pick up shortly after sunset and settle down by early morning. That must be the front coming through, I think, settling into my sleeping bag. The soft snores of those sleeping mix with the soft tunes of the radio still playing in the cockpit. I soon manage to drift off.
Waking, I look at my watch and see that morning has arrived. The radio is still playing softly in the background. It’s so strange to wake to music. Of course, when I did have an alarm, it was a little more than music playing. It had to be the most obnoxious sound ever heard. Okay, I take that back…second most annoying. The most annoying ever heard is my singing. At last count, I believe it was banned in forty-two countries and I’ve been approached by no fewer than four governments asking if I’d be willing to use it as a weapon.
Lying in my bag, I don’t really want to rise. I feel the chill air against my cheeks and the bag is nice and toasty. Memories surface of rising in remote places in times past. It was always the chill that I hated the most. Well, mostly anyway — those first few moments trying to warm up and trying to get the fingers to work. One memory floats to the surface, rising above the others.
* * *
We had been flown into a remote wasteland. It seemed like the world was either covered in jungle or sand — at least in the places we were sent. This was one of the latter. Our team was sent to monitor traffic along a remote road that ran through the barren desert. This branch off one of the few main roads connected with a known training camp — not the good kind. While our main mission was to monitor the traffic in and out, we were also tasked with taking out a courier that was known to take that route. While we weren’t briefed on the overall goal of taking him out, rumor was that a certain agency wanted to track cell phone traffic generated by his demise.
We flew through the night, hugging the ground over the darkened landscape. We stuck to the ridgelines and mesas that cropped up as much as possible until we set down a few kilometers from our observation point. Unloading, the Blackhawks then took off into the night to park and await our call for pickup. If you’ve ever been in the middle of desert at night, you can appreciate its total silence and darkness. The moon wasn’t up so the landscape was pitch black except when viewed through our NVGs.
We set our intervals and hiked into the night, taking significantly longer to reach our point as we paused to listen frequently. A faint outline of light was visible in the far distance denoting the camp’s location. Not much could be heard except the faint crunch of sand under our boots and the occasional scuffle of a rock. We moved silently under the bright stars strewn across the inky blackness.
Our goal was a single mesa rising above the flat plains. It was set back a little distance from the road which we were to observe and chosen because it was a good observation point, close but not too close. We needed to be within range if the courier showed up but it was also an obvious vantage point which meant the possibility of patrols. That really couldn’t be helped though as it was the only place that met our criteria.
We crept to the mesa and began a slow, arduous climb upward. We had previously identified a few routes from satellite photos so we didn’t have to explore in the dark to find a route but it w
as precipitous. Going quietly up a steep, sand covered slope is not easy but we managed to make the top before sunup with our tail man covering our tracks. We placed trip flares and claymores to cover our six before settling into observation places in crevices among the rocks. Taking turns in teams of two, we monitored the road as the sky to the east lightened and our task began in earnest.
The sun peaked above the horizon and cast its rays across the bleak terrain. Shadows from the few features cast long across the sandy soil. The road, more of a raised embankment with a line of gray running through the middle, lay in the distance to the south. With the rays came the warmth. If you don’t know, the desert heats up quickly and we were nestled down in the rocks covering ourselves with shemaghs to provide a measure of shade against the rising heat. As the day moved on, we became rather warm but didn’t dare move for fear of being spotted. The camp and the road were in close proximity.
A few medium-sized pickups passed our position coming from the camp during the day and, as evening began to descend, we noted their return. Night fell. I was roused later for my watch and remember the cold that I instantly felt on my cheeks. I recall distinctly disliking my current time and place in the world as that required me to move from the warmth I was enjoying. With a sigh, I rose quietly and felt the cold immediately envelop my entire body. I believe my exact thought was, Fuck I hate this. Moving into position, I was shaking so hard that it threatened to shake my teeth loose however much I tried to ignore the chill.
A short time later, through the night vision binoculars, I picked up a motorcycle moving along the road toward camp. It bounced and slid through the sand covering the road looking like a drunk returning home after a “few” beers with his buds.
“I have a vehicle on the road coming this way. Go wake the others,” I whispered to my teammate.
I heard him shuffle backward along the gritty rock and soon there was the quiet sound of the team settling into positions. Two were covering the trails to our backside. Our shooter took a position next to me in a position that gave him the best vantage point and field of fire.
“Can you tell if it’s him?” he whispered.
“No. The only thing I can tell is he can’t ride a bike,” I whispered back. “I’m calling our ride to tell them to warm up and standby.”
We continued to track the single motorcycle as it drew closer. The details slowly became sharper as he continued to bounce along the track through the sandy wilderness. There were times that I wasn’t sure that he was entirely in control of his ride but onward he came.
“It looks like he has a satchel strapped to him, but I can’t get a clear look at his features,” I stated quietly.
“I can. It’s him. Permission to fire,” he asked without taking his eye from the scope.
It was quite a distance but chances were that we weren’t going to get another shot at this. Our priority was the target and we were to take him out if given the opportunity.
“Take it,” I said, calling our ride and telling them to get airborne. Regardless if we hit or missed, we were about to be done there.
I peeked through the binoculars as the crack of the shot echoed across the landscape. I had a hard time hearing out of my ear as it was but the sound of the round being discharged right next to me made it worse. I watched as the rider was flung off the motorcycle — it’s not like he was ever really on it anyway. The bike flipped to the side and skidded along the ground with a few sparks showering the dark road. I continued to watch as the others pulled in our claymores and trip wires. The figure didn’t move. That was the single greatest shot I had ever seen or witnessed since.
“Okay. We’re out of here,” I said when everyone was ready.
We tracked to our pickup location and were soon heading back to civilization. I never did find out if they managed to track the cell phones.
* * *
Shaking the memory from my mind, I climb out of my bag with the last traces of the memory fading rapidly. The others within stir and soon the rear ramp is lowered to allow the interior to air out. The wind has died down and high overcast clouds blanket the area. Looking across the tarmac while doing a walk around, I notice that our tracks from the day prior have been covered to a large extent. I still don’t spot a single bird flitting through the early morning light.
Leaving a large plume of dust behind to slowly settle back onto the runway, we take off to search for the source of the radio signal. We level off at a low altitude. The needle points to the northwest and our flight soon takes us over the Black Hills. The forested hills, with their deep valleys and ravines, pass under our wings. With Robert flying, keeping the needle and the aircraft pointing in the same direction, I keep track of our progress on a map partially unfolded on my lap.
There are a few small, winding roads and remote houses tucked in the folds of the hills. Passing a large, open mine which has been cut into several ridges leaving a brown scar in the midst of the green, a valley widens. A large reservoir ahead seems to aim directly at a small settlement farther to the northwest. The ADF needle points at the same town like an arrow. As we cross over the center of the city, the needle wavers and then slips to the side.
“Looks like the station is located in that town,” I tell Robert and Greg, who is poised over my shoulder looking out of the side window. Looking closer at the map, I add, “It’s named Lead. Robert, circle us around and let’s see what’s up.”
As Robert begins the turn, the radio signal ends. Just like that. One moment it’s playing music loud and clear and the next, the speakers are silent.
“Circle but keep on the borders of the town. There has to be someone down there,” I say.
“Okay, Dad,” Robert replies, maneuvering the 130 so that I can look down into the heart of the small township.
Another deep, open pit mine borders the town. Several white-roofed buildings and churches line the main road which skirts the northwestern edge of the city with the mine on the other side of the street. Green trees dot the area but the lawns and open areas are much like what we’ve seen lately — brown. Although it appears a little sand is on the roads, they look clearer than those around the base and Sturgis.
As we circle over the city, I don’t see anything moving. There is one building with a large antenna beside it but nothing around it indicates that someone is there. The fact that the signal stopped and hasn’t resumed since we passed over is a little ominous. If there were survivors, I think they’d come outside and try to get our attention. Of course, it could be that they are as wary of us as we are of them. Perhaps they’ve run into bandits and are just lying low. It’s really hard to tell in a world like the one we’re living in now.
“What do you think?” I ask Greg.
“I don’t know. It seems a little odd that the signal cut out right as we were passing over. It’s like they don’t want us to know they’re there. We haven’t been shot at so I guess that’s a good sign,” he answers.
“And you?” I ask Robert.
“Honestly. I think it’s a trap or bad news at the very least. I can’t think of a good reason someone would shut it off just as we arrive. And it didn’t turn itself off. There’s someone down there,” he replies.
I search for blockades or fortifications that would indicate someone wants to be left alone. We circle a few times but, for intents and purposes, it just looks like another abandoned town. I can’t push aside the facts though. There was a signal located in this town and it stopped when we passed over. Whoever is down there is hiding.
“Well, we’re not going to get any more answers turning circles in the sky. Let’s head back and talk about what we want to do,” I say.
I have Robert follow the main road out and down the interstate so we can observe the route we’ll have to travel. I want to get a good look at it in case we decide to come back in the Stryker and investigate further.
Our journey back to the airfield is uneventful. Like in the town, I specifically look for obstruction, road bloc
ks, and any fortifications that would indicate signs of trouble if we decide to investigate. I don’t have the greatest of feelings about this one but my experiences in the past few months have jaded my opinion. There’s nothing other than the signal going down at the very moment we flew over to indicate something is amiss. If there are any survivors in or around the town, we almost have an obligation as a member of surviving humanity to check it out. It seems there is a fine line between being open to incorporating remaining survivors and protecting those we already have. To be perfectly honest, I’m on the fence with this one as I can see both sides.
A breeze has picked up and, as we settle toward the runway, I see sand being driven across the runway in waves. Closer to the buildings, sand is blown from the tops of the larger drifts, much like surf being blown off the crests of waves in a strong wind. The landing is a bumpy one but we manage and taxi in. Shutting down, we gather outside with our pants flapping against our legs as each gust of wind blows through. I brief everyone on our observations gathered during our flyby.
“Alright, folks, here’s the deal. There really isn’t a doubt that someone is there. The way I see it, they are either scared of us or not wanting our company. The bottom line is that they don’t appear to be overly eager to be found. I didn’t see any fortifications that would indicate trouble, but the whole thing seems a little odd to me. If anyone has changed their mind about going in to take a look, I want to hear about it,” I state. The soldiers turn and look at one another but there isn’t an utterance from any of them. “Okay then, let’s unload and get ready.”
The teams rise and begin the tedious process of unloading the Stryker once again. I wish there were a quicker way of doing this — meaning searching for families — as I’m ready to be home. However, we have a few stops left before we can think about doing that. We’re already out and there isn’t much time left before we can’t make these trips anymore. I ask Carl if he and his group wouldn’t mind staying with the aircraft again, letting him know that we’ll be back before dark and leaving a radio with him.
