John O'Brien - Reckoning

The increasing brightness within the cockpit brings me out of a restless sleep. The night runners kept at us for some of the night, the sounds of their screams and attempts to gain entry fading after a few hours. Peeling back the top of my sleeping bag, cold air immediately replaces the warmth I had accumulated. Fighting the urge to throw the top back over me, I crawl out and sit on the edge of the bunk, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and kneading my forehead in an attempt to fully waken.

Cold rises through my socks from the metal floor. Lynn stirs next to me as I pull on my boots and rise. Standing, I hit my head on the upper bunk railing.

“Dammit! I do that every fucking time.”

Lynn rolls over and sleepily asks me if I’m alright. I mutter some vague response and, rubbing the top of my head, go down the stairs to locate some water in the cargo compartment.

With the sun just peaking above the horizon, the ramp door is opened, exposing everyone to the even colder air outside. Any prevailing tiredness is quickly vanquished as we step out of the aircraft. It will warm up as the sun works its way across the clear sky, but the night has brought the temperature down to nearly zero. That’s the desert environment, freezing at night and a furnace during the day. Winter will see one cold weather system after another as Arctic winds sweep across the central plains, unimpeded by any mountains.

Robert and I accomplish our walk-arounds for the aircraft. It’s a clear day so we shouldn’t have problems keeping each other in sight. We cover routes, emergencies, frequencies, and a hundred other things that he is patient enough to let me go through. I’ll be leading with him following. Making sure he has the route and plan down, I give him and Bri hugs before we head to our respective aircraft.

We check in over the radio. A short time later, down the ramp, I see the propeller on Robert’s number three engine begin rotating. I’m behind on the checklist with my having to do the co-pilot’s actions as well, but it’s not too long before I press the start button. At that point though, he is already starting the last engine, number one. I manage to catch up and we taxi out. I roll down the runway, which is still mostly swept clean from our landing the day prior. Cleaning up the aircraft, I hear Robert call “rolling” on the radio and bank the Spooky to the west-northwest toward Albuquerque.

As we climb, I have Gonzalez head into the back to make sure the equipment is readied there, leaving me alone in the cockpit. We should arrive over Albuquerque soon, as the flight is only about two hundred miles. Gonzalez reports that they are ready in the back. I have her remain as there really isn’t that much to do in flight except monitor the gauges and periodically switch the fuel tanks.

About ten minutes later, I level off at fifteen thousand feet. This will give us a medium altitude to visually surveil the ground and provide good distance for the radio. Keeping my airspeed down, I check in with Robert to find that he’s closed to a seven o’clock position about two thousand feet behind.

With everything seemingly in order, I begin making radio calls, alternating between the guard frequency and the one we had arranged. There isn’t a response to any of my queries by the time we draw near to Albuquerque.

As the southeastern outskirts of the city fades out of view, I notify Robert and bank the aircraft to the northeast, making for the southern end of a large range of peaks as they spill out onto the upper plateau we’ve been flying across. Once we round the vast ridgeline, we’ll turn north toward Colorado Springs. Albuquerque slides under, then past the wing. The worry I had from not reaching Greg the previous day multiplies. We should have been able to reach him even if he was hundreds of miles away.

Sunlight partially fills a large valley that heads north between two monstrous ridgelines. Ahead and to the side, I make out the city of Santa Fe, which brings Leonard to mind. I hope he is able to find family members well and whole in their home port.

“Sir?” I hear Gonzalez call.

“Go ahead,” I reply.

“I’m not sure what I’m seeing, but I’m picking up a heat signature on thermal,” she states.

“Which direction and how far?” I ask.

There is a moment of silence. “It’s off our left wing and looks to be about fifteen miles away, sir.”

I glance out of the window to our nine o’clock position. I don’t see anything, but the mileage she indicated would put whatever she is seeing near an interstate leading from Albuquerque to Santa Fe. The road itself isn’t very distinguishable from the surrounding terrain, but the shadows from the raised surface make it easy to locate.

“Zoom in,” I say, turning my monitor to what she is seeing.

Glancing at the monitor, I see the warm spot Gonzalez indicated sitting just off what I think is the interstate.

“Robert, set up a holding pattern here and maintain fifteen thousand feet. We’re picking something up on thermal to the north and I’m heading down for a closer look,” I radio.

“Copy that. We’ll be here at fifteen thousand,” he replies.

I notify Gonzalez that we’re descending and going to take a closer look. Pulling the throttles back, I lower the nose and turn toward the sighting.

As we draw closer, both in distance and altitude, I note a single, thin line of smoke wafting in the air. It soon becomes apparent that the plume is emanating from a Stryker sitting on the plain.

Thinking the worst, I call on the radio for Greg once again. No reply. A fear surfaces, thinking that we’ve found Greg and have arrived too late. I feel a lump in my throat. I sent him without adequate support and I dread that I may be staring at the result of that mistake. A measure of guilt fills me knowing that it was done because I was distraught over my son.

“Gonzalez, zoom in on the Stryker. Tell me what you see,” I call.

There’s a pause as we continue to close the distance. “I can’t tell much, sir. It appears to have some battle damage and I see a body lying beside it.”

“Look outward and see if you can spot what caused this,” I say, looking in the sky around for any indication of aircraft in the area.

If that is Greg’s Stryker below, I can only assume, yes, that word, that the other group who targeted us is responsible. Although we found details of the facility and their capabilities, those are only words in a database and may or may not reflect reality. I am marginally set at ease thinking that, if they had aircraft capable of this, they wouldn’t have sent a team halfway across the country to take us out.

“There are a few more bodies west of the vehicle, but I don’t see anything else in the vicinity,” Gonzalez reports.

Closing the distance, I see the situation in greater detail. Black streaks appear along the side of the Stryker where it has been hit hard. I circle, looking for any signs of life or movement but I don’t see anything except the slowly rising column of thin smoke. The fact that the vehicle is still smoking indicates that it may have happened recently. Looking farther outward for any tell-tales signs of whoever did this, I don’t see anything other than the brown dirt terrain with rising peaks to the northeast and northwest.

Gav watches the large screen with interest. The live feed shows one group of her armored vehicles as they speed down a valley, chasing a lone Stryker a few miles ahead of it. A short while ago, waking early, she gathered the video feeds from the night prior and watched the pursuit. She observed the squad she had sent her company against narrowly escape a trap in a remote mountain town; watched as the chase continued to the south. All the while, a second group raced to get ahead and trap the squad in the valley.