by John O'Brien
“Anyone monitoring this frequency, we are calling from Oklahoma City and need assistance,” the radio crackles to life.
“Calling on UHF emergency, this is Captain Walker. State your needs,” I reply after a moment of hesitation.
The airwaves certainly seem to be busier lately. I would have expected them to be busy when this first went down but it seems to be the opposite. Maybe it’s people finding this resource or they are coming out of their shock — who knows.
“We are in need of evacuation…if possible,” the voice states.
“Are you able to move to a different location for pickup?” I ask.
“We may be able to.”
“Okay. Standby, caller,” I reply.
“My name is Jax,” the caller states.
“Okay, Jax, standby for a few.”
Fuck, I think, turning the aircraft to the south.
“Are we going to pick them up?” Bri asks.
“No, we’re going home. I’m turning to see if we can contact Greg,” I answer.
I fly a few miles to the south and attempt to raise Greg on the radio. My first attempts are met with silence, but eventually, we make contact.
“What’s up, Jack?” Greg answers.
I tell him about the caller and their desire to be picked up.
“Do you want us to continue south then?”
“I’d rather keep to our timetable and have them come to meet you. They are on freq, but I doubt they can hear you,” I answer.
“Either way. It would be easier if we didn’t have to detour though.”
“Okay, I’ll radio them to meet you if they can.”
“Copy that.”
“Jax, this is Captain Walker. If possible, you can rendezvous with our other unit at Petersen AFB,” I call. “If you decide to, radio a few miles out to coordinate the link up.”
“Will do…and thanks.”
Having dealt with that, we turn back on course. I’m aware this could be a trap, but I know I don’t have to tell Greg to be cautious. He’s seen enough to be careful. The engines drone continuously — the most favorable of conditions — as we make our way ever so slowly to the northwest. We have to gradually decrease our altitude due to a lowering cloud layer and the land starts rising upward to eventually become the Continental Divide — not favorable conditions.
As we near the mountains east of Denver, we have descended to level that we have to cut through the passes — flying down valleys with timbered slopes to either side. The tops of the taller peaks are lost in the clouds as we pass them. It’s not that we have to cut down valleys and risk the possibility of being penned in them by the weather. We have plenty of room to turn if we need to and good visibility. I won’t put myself in that kind of position again without the aid of accurate GPS equipment and terrain following radar. That was the first big lesson learned early on in my flying career.
Flying is a matter of putting tricks in your bag — usually done by making poor decisions and living through them. As the saying goes, there are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots. I think I had a total of a hundred hours under my belt and felt pretty good about my skills. I had flown over to visit my grandparents for the weekend and we were fishing on a lake. I had to get back for work that evening, but that didn’t stop us from getting in a day on the lake before I had to fly back.
* * *
It was a hot, summer day. We were on a lake with tall, steep rising cliffs on all sides. The sky overhead was the light, clear blue that is found on most summer days in Eastern Oregon. I looked to the west to see the very tops of clouds building over the Cascade Mountains. The fact that I could see their tops from my vantage point meant they were already billowing high into the sky.
My grandmother, seeing me constantly peek at the growing cloud masses, asked me if I had to go. I think my look of worry said it all. We packed up and I watched the thunderstorms build in a line down the length of the range as we speedily drove back to the airport. By the time I had the aircraft ready, the dark cumulus clouds, with their anvils stretching to the east, covered the path home.
Asking if it was a good idea for me to fly through those, I answered that I’ll go up and take a look to see if I can find a way through. If the path was blocked, I’d turn around. Of course, I also knew myself and that, once I started, I’d do about anything to get through. Plus, I had to be at work and calling in because I had been trapped by weather just showed I hadn’t been paying attention. I worked at an airport and my boss wasn’t exactly very understanding.
With trepidation, I took off. With a map on my knees, I stared at the mass of storms growing bigger in my windscreen. Sweat began to gather under my arms. I flew down the length of the mountains looking for an opening under the storms. The single-engine Cessna wasn’t going over so under was the only way I was getting through. I found a small opening under the towering, boiling masses.
Following the valley with my finger on the map, I saw that I could possibly use it to skirt under the storms and make my way toward the Willamette Valley. To get there, I would have to cross over to other valleys at points. I had to make doubly sure that I kept a close watch on where I was at all times in order not to miss any of them. With that stupid thought in mind, I turned and descended.
I entered the valley with the dark gray clouds just above my wings. As I proceeded farther into the mountains, the clouds lowered. Abrupt, forested hills rose steeply beside me and vanished into the clouds. There wasn’t much room to turn in the narrow valleys if I found my way blocked. Lower and lower I descended as I pushed through. The river flowing below me was my only option if something happened. I was constantly looking for a place to put down in an emergency. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling too comfortable with my decision-making skills at this point. And, the worst thing — I couldn’t turn back at this point.
I remembered someone mentioning the dangers of being a one hundred hour pilot just before that flight. I do believe my response involved some eye-rolling. Well, there I was. I seriously thought this could be my last flight as I transitioned from valley to valley. I was worried I would head up the wrong valley, all of which wound their way higher into the mountains and just ended. The rain poured against the windscreen and my little shell of aluminum was bouncing all over the place. I was afraid I was going to get bounced up into the clouds, at which point I would have no option but to climb upwards. Descending blindly back down in the hopes I would manage to get back into the valley was out of the question.
Onward I flew, twenty pounds lighter at that point — all water loss and not all due to sweat. Three weeks later, or so it seemed, the valley I was in began to widen out and I found myself shooting out of the mountains and into the Willamette Valley. Every time since, when I found myself faced with similar situations, I brought this memory up. Yeah, I wasn’t about to do that again.
* * *
There are two real dangerous levels of being a pilot — those with one hundred hours and those with ten thousand. The hundred hour pilots — no offense to anyone — think they have a good handle on their skills as do the ten thousand hour pilots. Complacency has a tendency to settle in at both of those points. Those in between those two points have experienced situations and still remember the lessons learned.
Of course, that may not be entirely true, I think as we maneuver through the mountains, remembering more than one instance of flying around with my head on fire.
There were a few times when I looked at something and said, “Hmmm…”
Like the time I flew over Fort Walton Beach at about a hundred feet during Spring Break at about five hundred knots with both jet engines screaming. By the way, just so you know, that’s not a good idea. Apparently, base commanders enjoy hanging out there on nice days. Yeah, I left a good part of my ass on the floor with that “great” idea.
We skirt our way through the mountains. The clouds on the other side rise, and before long, begin to break up. We climb to a more reasonable a
ltitude. I look over at Robert from time to time during our flight, exhibiting a tremendous amount constraint in order not to ask how he is doing.
“I’m fine, Dad,” he says on perhaps my fortieth glance.
The rest of the flight is just the way I like my flights: boring.
Slip Sliding Away
The time runs endlessly on, some moments filled by panic and terror, other ones with strength and determination. Sensory deprivation does strange things to the mind. Lynn has tried concentrating on events, plans, and other memories to occupy her, but, here in the inky blackness of the room, her thoughts slip away and she comes back to her emotions, to fear.
The one thing that has kept her on the sane side is her unfailing belief that Jack or the teams will find her. She has been kept alive for a reason — what that reason might be is still beyond her. She has no idea why she is being held — or is still alive for that matter. The broadcasts she hears sporadically keep her spirits from sinking into some very dark depths.
The struggle isn’t so much against the night runners near the door, but against her own mind. Each low, menacing growl sends shivers through her body in waves of dread. It gets to the point that she wishes they would just attack and get it over with. She wishes for that at times so at least something would happen. In the darkest of moments, she wonders if she is being kept for food…that the night runners have advanced to the point where they are starting to collect people for food — farming them as it were.
Lynn forces her mind back from these depths and concentrates on logical reasoning. She hasn’t witnessed any time when night runners haven’t attacked and eaten the very moment they find someone. Now they seem to have the ability to restrain themselves and take hostages. They certainly couldn’t have made this leap overnight.
If she knows anything, it’s that Jack will turn the city inside out to find her. After all, she would do the same for him — or for anyone in the compound for that matter. And the fact that she hears the broadcasts from time to time lets her know that the others believe she is alive. How they will find her is another matter. She doesn’t delude herself into thinking that they will go into every single darkened building in search for her.
Well, she thinks, chuckling, Jack would.
She is torn over that thought. She knows what Jack will do — put any semblance of danger aside — and she doesn’t want him to do one of his…well, Jack things. On the other hand, she wants this, whatever this is, to be over one way or the other. There have been moments when she has thought about just rising and fighting. That is in her basic instinct when dealing with fear. Push the fear aside and charge forth — doing whatever is necessary. She has actually had to force herself to sit back down after rising to attack the night runners. The fear she has is increased by the fact that she was unaware that she had actually risen.
She searches her body for the hundredth time, hoping that she missed one of the knives she usually keeps close at hand. And, as with the other times, she finds that the night runners were too thorough in their search. She has nothing to help her in a fight with them, and without something to give her an edge, she knows she will be quickly overwhelmed. Sure, she may take down one or two by using surprise and ferocity, but not four or five. And certainly not an entire building.
She still has no idea where she is except somewhere in the city. The faint announcements have made that clear. Having heard their feet storming down what she assumes are hallways on the other side of the door, she knows that the building she is in houses a lot of night runners. The entire building reeks of them. Not knowing even where she is in the building makes the odds of making it out, even if she were to overpower the guards, close to impossible.
The constant panting, sniffing, and occasional growls keep her on edge. Even though she knows that the others won’t give up on her, she doesn’t know how much more of this she can take. If she had her vision, then it would be different — maybe. On the other hand, she’s not sure it would be better if she could actually see the night runners poised by the exit door. That may be too much. As it is, not being able to see them makes them the boogie man in the closet. Something she can either bring to life in her mind or shut out.
She wants to take action and she has to go against her very nature not to — she will wait. She doesn’t know how long she can hold out, but she will as long as possible. As much as she wants to control her own environment and make her own way out, she knows her best bet is to wait for help from the outside and keep up her strength. She’ll give it more time, but, if no help arrives soon, she knows it will be up to her to extricate herself. A firm determination settles within and she continues planning scenarios to escape.
* * *
She feels her pack returning from their nightly hunt. She went out during the night to join in the chase, but returned before the others that went farther afield. Her fear that her pack would run into Michael’s have come to naught. One worry she has is that they would rejoin his pack and she needs every one of them. She knows she stirred up the two-legged ones but, so far, they have remained within their compound during the night. She has heard their voices from the vehicles from time to time but they haven’t attacked.
Another worry she has of Michael attacking hasn’t materialized either. She has cast out periodically to see if she can figure out his intentions but has come up blank so far. Sandra thought he would attack her lair as soon as he found out what she did. After all, that’s what she would have done. To this point, though, her pack and lair have been left untouched. She doesn’t know whether to be thankful or more worried.
Most nights she has gone forth, she has made her way north in an attempt to sense the other two-legged one. She hasn’t felt anything and worries that he isn’t still alive. Perhaps he fled when she attacked. Whatever the reason, it worries her. She may have to kill the female after all and call it good. If she has to do that, she will move her pack away from here as Michael will surely do something at some point. Perhaps she will move back to their previous location. For now, she will watch and wait.
* * *
During the flight, Robert, Bri, and I take turns resting on the bunk to catch up on our lost sleep. After seeing Lynn, I plan to collapse on my cot and turn the world off for about two days. I would turn it off for longer, but it has shown a distinct lack of doing what I want it to. The droning of the engines is lulling — well, for some. The roar isn’t as strong in the cockpit. Those in back usually have a different story to tell with the engines being just on the other side of the thin, aluminum skin. The action and being up for twenty-four hours plus is starting to take its toll.
The earth below drifts slowly past us. I swear if it were to go any slower, we’d be going in reverse. I look at the airspeed indicator a few times to make sure we do, in fact, have forward momentum. Eventually, as does all things, time moves on and I wake Robert to begin our preparation for landing.
Beginning our descent, I call the compound. We’ve been out of contact for days and it will be nice to reconnect. I didn’t think the satellites would hold up for much longer, but it was nice to have the sat phones for the limited time we did. One of the aspects about losing that communication medium is that we won’t be able stay in contact with Leonard and his crew. When we fly back out to meet with Greg, whenever that might be — I glance at Robert assuring myself for the thousandth time that he looks okay — I’ll fly up the Western Seaboard on the way home and try to get into communication with him.
“Base. This is Jack on UHF. How do you copy?” I call.
“Jack. You’re back earlier than expected, but it’s good to hear you. Standby, I’ll go get Drescoll,” Kathy replies.
I’m a little confused as to why she didn’t say she’d get Lynn. “Can you get Lynn as well?” I ask, eager to hear Lynn’s voice.
There isn’t a reply and I assume she has darted off to round up Drescoll. Moments pass as Mount Rainier slides past our window and we begin a turning descent north toward McChord A
FB.
“Jack, glad to hear from you. Where are you?” Drescoll finally comes on the radio.
“We’re about twenty minutes out. Can you inform Bannerman that we’re bringing eighty-plus guests to dinner? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. And let the others know that Greg and his team are continuing the search on the ground. I’ll brief you in detail when I get there. Can you have buses brought up and we need some additional transportation as well?”
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. We just have an aircraft full of guests for delivery.”
There is a pause on the other end. “Okay, Jack, I’ll meet you at the field.”
“Is Lynn there?” I ask.
I’m puzzled why Lynn isn’t on the radio and going to meet us upon arrival. Worry creeps in. I feel that Drescoll is being evasive and isn’t telling me something. The more I think about it, the more worried I get. Perhaps she’s off with the others in training and not available. I have the tendency at times to let my mind come up with worst case scenarios. I’m sure there’s a perfectly plausible explanation. No doubt Drescoll’s next communication will tell me this is one of those times.
We float over Olympia as we line up on a long final for McChord AFB. The waters of South Puget Sound are rough with a strong breeze blowing from the north. The late afternoon sun glitters off the tops of the choppy waves like diamonds on a blue-aqua background. Cabela’s drifts past. On the other side of the freeway, equipment is busy cleaning up the rubble from the destroyed buildings. Trees around the compound lie on the ground as the area continues to be cleared away. The inner wall appears to be finished and workers surround upright shipping containers near the main entrance and wall corners. It looks like our inner defenses are almost complete. The scene passing below seems normal.
