Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Major? Come on over here, sir.”

Entering the huge open hanger doors, the major stood for a few seconds, adjusting to the much weaker light within the cavernous building. The seven huge helicopters, in various stages of assembly, demanded first attention. While none was fully assembled or had rotor blades attached, they were an impressive sight. Though, they did appear sad, like de-winged bugs waiting to die. Dusty with numerous dents and broken windshield glass made by marauders or scavengers, the helicopters were still quite serviceable and they might rise and be reborn, given time. Major O’Malley walked passed the final assembly point to the back of the hanger, waved forward by Scott. Near the chest-high shelving units, he paused.

“What’s up?”

“We got us an update to the nav motherboard.” Scott held a small box in his hands. The box trailed a bright array of wires dangling out of plastic wrap. He held it closer for the major’s inspection.

“Good deal. What’s that mean?”

“It means we got better GPS mapping, at least while those satellites last, and better stick control.”

“I see. How bout that driveshaft bearing?”

“Shamus and GT are in the warehouse still looking. We’ll find it.”

“Okay.”

“There’s enough parts and equipment here to keep our bird and several others runnin’ for years.”

“I’m glad.”

“Don’t worry. I bet they find the bearing in less than three hours.”

“That long?”

“That long! Are you serious? Major, there’s thousands and thousands of parts inside. All the shit’s catalogued by a computer using scan codes. The place is huge, mega huge, check it out. I bet its three acres if it’s a foot.”

“I plan on it.”

“And here’s the issue—what we gotta go through now is a manual and visual scanning process based on targeted size, weight, and general storage arrangement within this facility.”

“And?”

“GT’s laying out the search grid based on my projected mapping along with Shamus’ contributions on inventory volume probabilities. You know, based on bird maintenance and new build requirements.”

“What? Speak English, man.”

“Okay. Hold on. I’ll put it simply.”

“Yeah, do that.”

“Let’s say there’s lots and lots of little parts to these machines. Alright? Each part is needed at different times and for different reasons. Hence, a projected inventory flow .”

“Got it.”

“But, don’t worry. We’ll crack the inventory storage process that these Coatesville guys used. We’ll find the damn bearing.”

“Well, if that’s true, what’re you doing out here?”

“GT got pissed at me, sir.”

“Pissed?”

“For tellin’ him we’re completely screwed and that we’ll need at least a week to find that tailshaft bearing.” Scott smiled a bright and beaming smile, punctuated with a sharp laugh.

“A week? I don’t understand? Why you laughing?”

“Because if anyone can find it, GT can. As long as he has Shamus and my projections in hand.”

The major stood perplexed. “Okay—Scott, start talkin’ sense. I don’t understand.”

“Sir, GT does his best work when he’s pissed. He knows it and I know it. My job right now was to genuinely piss ’im off and get kicked out.”

“I see. And Shamus let this happen?”

“Shit, sir, Shamus winked as I was leaving.” Scott laughed once more.

“Um, okay—should I update the colonel that we’ll be here for a week?”

“Hell no! Wait a few hours, probably less. We’ll be ready with the part for the rebuild. If it’s here.”

“Ah, well, I guess—not sure I see the logic.” Major O’Malley turned to leave, wondering about the strange relationship between Shamus, GT and Scott.

“Major?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you somethin’ not mission related?”

“Ah, sure. I’ll keep it to myself, what’s the question?”

“It’s about Amanda.” Scott’s voice became softer.

Keeping a grin from crossing his face, Major O’Malley waited. When Scott kept quiet, he cleared his throat. “Go on?”

“Obviously, Amanda’s totally devoted to Connor MacMillen and this Marty guy.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“But what if…” Bashful, Scott stared at the electronic box in his hands.

“Scott?”

“What if those two, Mac and Marty are dead or lost or something?”

“So?”

“It could happen.”

“Maybe. What’re you asking?”

“Would you… do you… do you think she might—”

“Scott, are you askin’ if you’re her type?”

“I dunno…”

“You’re wondering if she’d entertain the notion of you and her becoming a pair?”

“Ah, yeah, I guess that pretty much sums it up.”

Major O’Malley interrupted him. “Scott, she’s pregnant with his child, man.”

“Sure, I know that. I’m thinkin’ long range … you know—”

“Scott?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d like to point out a few key factors, right now.”

“Okay.”

“ First , the likelihood of Connor MacMillen being dead is just not in the cards. If he’s dead, we got some serious worrying to do about this country. Second , Amanda’s one hundred percent fully committed to finding him and Marty.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“So your plans better be real long range. I’m talkin’ years. See what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. I do—guess I needed to hear it from somebody else besides GT and Shamus.”

“I’m sorry, Scott.”

“No, you’re right. I needed someone else’s opinion—before I got too caught up in this insane fantasy.”

“No problem. She’s a wonderful young woman… and tough as nails.”

“I know. Okay. Thanks. I’ll close that door before it opens.”

“Sorry, Scott.”

“No, thanks, Major.” Scott checked his watch and grinned, mischievously.

“A half hour is up.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Gotta make my grand entrance—up the ante.”

Sensing a devious plan unfolding, Major O’Malley laughed. “You guys always work like this?”

“We get the job done, sir. No matter what it takes.”

“Yeah, I heard that about you guys.”

“Wanna come watch the fireworks? GT’s quite the site when he’s on his game.”

“Huh,” laughed the major, “Ah, yeah, don’t mind if I do.”

Scott and Major O’Malley walked through the rear hangar door, after strolling the 200 feet toward the parts warehouse. At the door, Scott gave clear instructions.

“Hang back, sir. GT sees you, the nuanced dynamics of our interaction will change.”

“Ah, okay.”

“I’m serious. He sees you, you’re gonna cost us hours, maybe even days.”

“I get it, Scott.”

“Here we go. Hang back by the door and keep hidden. Watch me rev up GT’s mental search engine,” said Scott. He laughed enthusiastically and entered the door. He left it open for the major to listen and watch.

Connor leaned against the dusty Caprice outside the KFC, assuming a position of calm detachment. McLeod stood next to Connor—less calm, but trusting in Connor’s judgment. They both stared south along Brownsville Road where their eyes followed two men walking at a leisurely pace in the middle of the wide street. Connor struggled to read the insignia on the men’s uniforms and, as they neared, he spoke in the calm, but firm, tone he often used when commanding men in battle. “That’s far enough, captain.”

“Yes, sir,” said Captain Daubney. He and Top stopped twenty feet from the Chevy, presumably waiting for further orders. While the captain was content to wait, the sergeant’s eyes never quit moving, first assessing Connor and McLeod for an immediate threat before focusing his gaze on the KFC to see if there was any threat from that direction.