Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

The trio of cars drove through the rock cut marking the end of the ‘Back Mountain’. At that point, the road morphed into a raised highway above the suburbs lining both sides of the Susquehanna. Creatures large and small moved down there but the caravan raced along, not stopping to observe.

As the expressway swept eastward, the northern neighborhoods of Wilkes-Barre climbed a slope toward the valley wall and overlooked the highway. A ridge of commercial buildings stood watch above the road; quiet retail temples that had been a thriving shopping district only four months prior.

The route banked sharp to the north and the convoy aimed for an exit that bridged the expressway to I-81 north. That exit went beneath an overpass where graffiti on a concrete strut asked, Why Have You Forsaken Us?

Two miles along the Interstate, they saw their first "hostile" lumbering through a far-off neighborhood. The featureless, lanky black figure stood six stories tall. Trevor thought it a walking shadow. It did not notice the convoy.

After fifteen more minutes of driving between toppled tractor-trailers, crashed cars, and flocks of crows feasting on decaying flesh, they reached the airport exit.

Located on a plateau alongside Interstate 81 and under the shadow of the Montage Mountain Ski Resort, the small ‘international’ airport incorporated two runways, one large terminal, a traffic-control tower, and a series of hangers and small buildings.

Parked cars and shuttle buses-including one overturned-sat discarded outside the terminal. A mass of skeletal remains lay near the main entrance, apparently burned to the bone by whatever fire had damaged the building's fascia.

The convoy bypassed the terminal by breaking through a security gate and driving directly onto the tarmac.

A split and burnt fuselage littered one runway. More planes of various sizes slept near boarding ramps and hangers. Luggage from an abandoned baggage cart had sprung open sending t-shirts and underwear across the grounds.

Trevor's team drove to a hanger on the south side of the airport where two army deuce and a half cargo trucks stood. Several crates lay outside the trucks as if they were in the process of unloading when something interrupted their work, yet no bodies or signs of conflict.

The convoy halted and people poured out. Trevor sent K9s swarming into the hanger while Woody Ross and Shep inspected the army trucks.

Nina jogged to the front of the hanger. In the distance, beyond the tarmac, lay open air and a magnificent view of a mountain range. As beautiful as that view was, it was not nearly as beautiful-to Nina-as what waited in front of the hanger.

"Jackpot."

– Jon rolled the hand truck full of ordnance from the hanger.

"Careful with that," Nina Forest advised as she examined the pilot’s helmet in her hands.

In front of the hanger sat two Apache attack helicopters in near-perfect condition, having been armed, maintained, and fueled before their unit disbanded.

What had happened to that unit they may never know. Nonetheless, two of the military’s most effective close-support craft were theirs for the taking, and Nina Forest could fly them.

During her stint in the National Guard, Nina was primarily restricted to flying Blackhawk transports but she had experience with Apaches, too, because her commanding officer had been impressed by her instincts and wanted to see how she handled those birds-of-prey (he also drooled over how she looked in a flight suit).

She handled them quite well but army protocol did not allow her to fly them in combat. Instead, she trained for and flew several ferry missions.

Apache helicopters have two seats with the front cockpit earmarked for the gunner and the back for the pilot. However, both cockpits offer redundant controls, making it possible to either fly or shoot or both from either position.

The Apaches were not the only prize. The day’s lucky strike included a topped-off tanker truck full of aviation fuel.

Nina did not need to consult with their ‘leader’ to know the best course of action: she would fly one of the choppers to the estate and the ground team could drive the tanker home.

Nothing to it.

Rockets and chain gun rounds presented a bigger issue. A fair supply existed at the hanger, but the local police station or even the 109 ^ th Field Artillery armory in Kingston would not have that type of ordnance on hand. They would need to use the Hellfires sparingly.

"Okay," she announced to everyone in earshot. "I guess I’ll fly one now and then we can come back tomorrow for the other one."

A voice suggested, "Why not take both?"

Trevor Stone strolled casually from the shadowed confines of the hanger. He wore a flight suit and helmet.

– "This isn’t a game," her voice crackled over the headset as Trevor punched ignition switches for the main rotor. "Seriously. You don’t need to impress-"

"Hey, Forest," Trevor transmitted. "Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll do fine."

He could hear her growl over the mic.

The rotors spun to full power. He worked the pedals and stick.

The first Apache, with Trevor at the helm, lifted off the tarmac. The second followed.

Jon Brewer gaped as the helicopters rose above the hanger then banked to the southwest. The deep thump-thump-thump of the helicopter blades echoed over the plateau and bounced off the picturesque mountain range.

Stonewall-standing next to Jon-said, "I was not aware that Mister Stone had experience with such machines."

Jon muttered, "Wow."

Trevor's revelation that he could fly the Apache shocked Jon even more so than Nina. He knew what Trevor would tell him: the same thing he told him when he asked where Trev had learned how to shoot and clean an assault rifle; where did he learned tactical hand signals; where had he learned how to fix generators.

I just picked it up.

Jon shook away his disbelief and gathered the ground convoy together including the new, fully loaded fuel truck. The time had come to return home.

– Nina glared through the cockpit window at the other helicopter, her gaze nearly violent enough to knock Trevor’s Apache from the air.

As for Trevor, he sat in the pilot’s seat, amazed. Everything on the control panel appeared familiar to him. He knew the purpose of each button.

Yes, there, counter-measures. Okay and those are the fire suppression systems. Oh yeah, that button activates the targeting controls linked directly to the helmet.

Radar? Clear. Orientation? Slightly banked but hey, no one is perfect.

But the lighter-than-air feeling…

He snickered.

Lighter than air in such a heavy machine? Silly sounding, but true. The beast, as massive as it felt, glided through the sky above the highway as if hanging from an invisible rope.

He glanced down at the world. The homes and the buildings all looked small and fake, conjuring memories of the train table in his grandpa’s basement; the one with the Lionel engines and blinking RR crossing signs.

Trevor suddenly felt lightheaded. The orange and red trees of autumn, the houses, the highway…they faded…

…desert, flat and featureless stretching as far as he could see. Plumes of thick black smoke rising from the horizon and filling the sky ahead, blocking the sun in an oily veil.

Below him, a burning hulk in the desert. He knew that hulk had been a T-72M1 tank. He knew it had been a part of the Medina Republican Guard Division. He also knew it burned from the Hellfire missile he had put into its hull.

The radio crackled with the conversation of others.

"C2 this is ‘Venerable’, ah, we need some support over here."

"Ah, Roger that, two Ghostriders en route to your location now…going red in two minutes…"

Trevor’s dizziness dissolved. The desert disappeared and he saw the towns, forests, and roads of northeast Pennsylvania again.