John O'Brien - Reckoning

As we climb, the dirty brown line we saw before hangs on the horizon to the south. My first thought is that it’s an inversion but, reaching an altitude level with the top, I don’t see the linear line of separation that is usually prevalent with that kind of weather system. The color is reminiscent of smog, the look and kind that used to be a constant fixture over Los Angeles. That, however, has since cleared out without any further poisons being introduced into the atmosphere. It’s entirely possible that the smog has merely shifted and some atmospheric phenomenon is holding it. It could also be from fires, either from a city or from brush fires burning out of control. Whatever its source, it stretches for some distance to the east. We don’t have time to investigate, for whatever good that might do, since I want to hurry to Cannon AFB. I want to have both aircraft prepped and refueled for an early morning flight. Getting Greg back into the fold is the highest priority.

The line of smog packs against the mountains to the east, but the top drifts over the peaks. As we fly almost due east, the smog thins and finally ends near the California border at Yuma. Transiting a line between Flagstaff and Phoenix, I begin making calls hoping to reach Greg. If we can locate him on our flight to Cannon AFB, we’ll arrange for a pickup and continue on with getting another Spooky and conducting our flyover of the opposing bunker complex.

By the time we descend and line up for runway at Cannon AFB, I haven’t heard a word from Greg responding to our calls. That adds to my already extensive list of worries. We have transited a major portion of the route that Greg was to follow. He should have heard us.

After circling to be relatively sure that no one has settled into the area since our last visit, we touch down on the grit-covered main runway. A thin line of dust billows toward the front when we bring the engines into reverse thrust and we use the throttles to stay in front of it. Exiting the runway, we pull onto the ramp and park in the same location that we did before. We remain in place with the engines turning, waiting to see if someone we missed on our overflight shows up. Seeing no one arrive, we shut down.

Reasonably assured that no one else is around, I assign some of Red Team to start the tedious task of refueling. Taking the others, we look over one of the Spookys sitting on the ramp nearby. Opening the crew door, stale air pours out. A check of the maintenance records and cursory pre-flight check shows the aircraft to be airworthy. It’s been sitting on the ramp for a while so we’ll run the engines to check for any fuel contamination. A run-up shows that the decontamination filters in place are still functioning. The others systems check out and we shut it down.

With the late afternoon sun drifting toward the horizon and both aircraft refueled, Red Team locates a transportation vehicle near the ramp. Gathering several batteries from other vehicles and hooking them up in a relay, it takes a few attempts to get it started. When it is successfully running, the team heads over to the bunker complex and begins emptying it of ammo for the Spooky. We fill the ammunition storage on board and crate what we can, filling the remaining space around the Stryker in the 130.

The task is finished by the time twilight settles in. I’m worried that we weren’t able to contact Greg on the flight over. That weighs on me as all of us, Red Team, Lynn, and the ammunition handlers have a bite to eat on the ramp near the back of the 130. We sit on the hard surface, watching the last of the day’s light fade toward nighttime. A chilly breeze picks up, swirling sand across the wide path we cleared as we taxied across the tarmac. Without a word spoken, we finish our MREs and gather inside, closing the ramp and crew doors, sealing them against the night. We’ll stay the night in the 130.

With the blackout panels placed on the windows, I turn on the red interior light. The others gather around as I unfold several maps showing Greg’s proposed route.

“What’s the plan?” Lynn asks, looking over my shoulder.

“Greg should have been somewhere near Luke AFB according the plan we came up with,” I say, pointing to the location on one of the maps. “He should have been able to hear our radio calls and that has me worried.”

“I agree that’s a cause for concern, but that didn’t really answer shit,” Lynn states.

“Well, we all know how plans go, so I figure we’ll head north to Albuquerque and backtrack to Petersen AFB, making calls along the way. If we don’t find him along that route, we’ll head east toward McConnell AFB,” I reply, tracing the routes with my finger.

“And if we don’t find him there?”

“Then we’ll make for Luke and search outward. Unless something drastic has happened, he’ll be somewhere along that route. Even if he had to take a different course, our radios will reach a far distance from the air. We should be able to get into communication, determine his location, rendezvous, and pick him up.”

“Are we taking both aircraft?” Robert asks.

“I’m undecided on that. I was thinking we could. Craig can fly this one. Seeing Gonzalez has handled the flight engineer position before, she could go with him. I’ll fly the Spooky with everyone else aboard,” I answer.

I would send Bri with Craig seeing how she has more experience in the flight engineer seat. Craig has a few hours in the aircraft, and even more in total. However, he doesn’t have that many in the 130, and Bri’s experience would offset his inexperience to a degree. But that would be placing her, my daughter, in an undermanned aircraft with someone with only a few hours of 130 flight time. That may not be fair, but there it is. I could also send Robert to fly the other one with Craig as a co-pilot and Bri as the engineer. I’d be more comfortable with that arrangement, but I want Robert in command of the control center in the back of the Spooky. Not only do we need good footage of the bunker surroundings as we fly over, but the lack of communication with Greg has brought my anxiety meter up a notch. There’s an off chance we’ll need the firepower that the Spooky affords us.

“What about just taking the Spooky and leaving this one here? We have plenty of Strykers and we can pick up another 130 from the Portland guard base,” Robert says.

“I’ve thought about that. We still have the fake mission to accomplish afterward and will need the Stryker for that. It may be moot as I’m sure they’ll figure out we overflew them on purpose, but there’s the off chance they won’t,” I reply.

“It’ll be daylight, so we won’t need all of the stations monitored. Gonzalez can run things in my place and I can fly this one with Craig and Bri,” Robert says.

“If we do that, I’ll need her to be the flight engineer on the Spooky,” I state.

“Then I guess she’ll have to multitask,” Robert says.

Lynn, still standing over my shoulder, chuckles in my ear. Patting me on the shoulder, she says, “How does that feel, Jack? Being put in your place, I mean.”

“Okay fine, we’ll do it that way. Have I told you lately just how much of a pain in my ass you all are?”

“You love it, Jack. You know you do,” Lynn says.

“Pain…in…my…ass,” I say, glaring at each of those in the formed circle.

Muted shrieks penetrate the fuselage, causing every head to turn in the direction of the sound. The screams indicate that we may be in for another of those nights, the all-night shrieks and slamming against the fuselage. We each have ear plugs, but they do little to shut out a night runner assault; and the slams are felt in addition to being heard.

With a plan formed, we settle into positions as comfortable as can be had. Some crawl into the Stryker to take advantage of the padded bench seats within. Once everyone has settled, I climb into the cockpit and turn off the power. The interior is at once plunged into darkness. Hooding a flashlight, I settle in on the lower bunk next to Lynn. In the chilled, darkened cockpit, as I finally manage to settle into my sleeping bag, the first thud is felt as a night runner slams into the side of the aircraft. In times past, I would have gone to the window to watch them, perhaps experimenting with the abilities I gained after being bitten. Tonight, I’m tired and other worries occupy my mind.