John O'Brien - Conspiracy

“Is everyone okay?” I ask, looking to Bri and moving the throttles back to their original settings.

Her helmet is oversized and has been shoved down over her eyes. She reaches up to push it back and looks up at her instruments. I’m impressed that she has the wherewithal to check the panels after having gone through what we did.

“Yeah… yeah, I think so,” Robert calls after a moment. His voice is shaky, otherwise he sounds fine.

The rest respond in a similar fashion; Bri merely nods and Craig gives a thumbs-up.

“Are we okay?” Robert asks, his voice still shaky but quickly recovering.

“Yeah, we appear to be, but I think it’s time that we call it a night. We need to get this aircraft on the ground,” I answer.

“What in the hell was that?” Robert asks.

“We hit a propane storage facility,” I answer.

“Fuck me…I need to look closer,” I hear him mutter.

The mushroom cloud off to the side has expended its energy and is breaking up, the smoke drifting slowly northward. I turn the aircraft toward the hole in the clouds and slowly descend until we are once again below the overcast. The area below us is devastated for a half mile around where the facility was. Everything there has been vaporized. I radio base to let them know that we are on the way back. I hold off telling them what happened. It’s not like they can meet us with emergency equipment.

On the return flight, I look for damage on the wings and have others look along the fuselage. We run through the structural damage procedures, but it looks like we escaped without harm. We’ll still conduct our approach as if there is.

The strip carved out of the field looks small in the glow of the night vision goggles. It’s a long strip, but not overly wide. The runway wants to keep sliding to the side. I’m still a little shaky from what happened and my post-adrenaline rush isn’t helping much. I keep bringing the nose into alignment as we descend ever closer. It’s hard to judge the glide path at night without nav instrumentation or glide slope lighting, especially seeing as how the NVGs aren’t that great with presenting a three dimensional picture. Craig calls out the airspeed and altitude as I adjust the throttles in accordance.

I finally reach a point where I think I can see the runway without the aid of the NVGs and peek out. Sure enough, the picture resolves itself into a better dimensional representation.

“Okay, I have a visual,” I tell Craig.

The aircraft thumps down on the dirt landing surface and we slow, turning onto the ramp Bannerman had carved out.

“I’m not sure which hurt the aircraft more…the explosion or that landing,” Craig says.

I hear more than one chuckle on the intercom.

“Thanks for volunteering to help out the mechanic tomorrow,” I reply.

Frank meets us with several Humvees in tow as we shut down. I brief him on what happened as we make our way back to Cabela’s and hand him the tape of our sortie.

“Show the entire camp the combat footage. I’m thinking they need an uplift after this week and need to know that we are doing something positive. Oh, and you can leave out that little episode where we are tossed around the sky.”

“Will do, Jack,” Frank replies.

The debrief with the crew is quick. The part with the propane storage is covered by only mentioning that we need to take a closer look at our surroundings before delivering explosives. There’s no need to harp on this as the lesson was learned by everyone seconds after the facility was hit. I do, however, record the devastating effects in the back of mind. It’s not like we can drop fuel-air bombs, but it bears thinking about.

Gonzalez leaves the debrief and makes her way to her cubicle. Plopping down on her bunk, she leans, resting her elbows on her legs. She’s exhausted to the point where untying her boots seems like a chore beyond her power to complete. She stares at them, willing them to undo themselves, but they remain glued to her feet. With a heavy sigh, she reaches down and unlaces one boot, pulling it off with effort and dropping it to the floor. She then stares at her other boot as tired thoughts drift through her mind.

The flight tonight only emphasized a point she has known throughout her career — that anything can happen at any time. Jack and Craig downplayed it during the debrief, but she knows they were moments away from plummeting. She thinks on how small, seemingly insignificant things can make such a difference. If they were a hundred yards closer to the explosion, it might have been enough to toss them out of the sky. There was one time that she moved away from a position only to have it shelled seconds later. She didn’t have any feeling of foreboding or that she should move, it just happened. Or Jack bending over when he did. He would have been hit and Allie would be sitting here sharing a joke or story with her. It’s not that it is good or bad, it just is.

The thought of McCafferty causes her to sigh heavily through pursed lips. Gonzalez’ shoulders sag farther as she continues to lean on her legs, staring at her one boot, not truly seeing it anymore. Allie’s death has really shaken her. She’s lost friends before, and yes, they shook her then, just not to the extent Allie’s has. Perhaps it’s the times they live in now, or that Allie was really her last friend. Before, she had other friends, and they would console each other — help each other through the hard times. She doesn’t have that now. There are the others in Red Team, but it’s not the same. She doesn’t feel as if she can share like she and Allie could… or her other friends.

A tired tear runs slowly down her cheek. It’s soon joined by others to create a stream. Her vision blurs; she wipes one hand across her eyes to no avail, the tears keep coming. Her shoulders shake with the first sob. Emotions pour out of her as grief takes hold.

No matter what happened the previous day, she would always wake ready to take the world by the horns and give it a ride — she would experience it fully. Sometimes exhaustion would make that a short ride, but she would meet the day with what she had. She is finding that hard to do now. With the daily stress and constant threat to their survival, it seems like they are hanging by a thread. And Drescoll leaving. He just gave up. She can see the ‘why’, but to leave like that. There are people that depended on him…cared about him. Not in the way Allie did, but cared nonetheless. She wishes he could have seen that and used it for strength.

Her thoughts wind back to Allie. Gonzalez sees her face with that silly grin she always wore when the team was joking around. Her small stature and features made her seem like the eternal high school princess. The look of determination she exhibited when fighting loomed near — completely fearless. Something you wouldn’t expect from just looking at her. Gonzalez remembers the mischievous grin Allie had when they discovered the Twinkies and her pure joy when she brought them out to share with the others in that strange town. Her spirit lifted the team up when times were hard. Allie was her friend and she misses her.

With her elbows on her knees, Gonzalez wraps her hands at the back of her head and grips her hair. Sobs wrack her body as she remembers her friend and the times they had together, even if just for a short time.

Other thoughts come in a jumble — the night runners coming down from the north, the group apparently targeting them, the larger group of night runners somewhere in the vicinity. When will we get a break?

She cries herself out and places her arms back on her legs with a big sigh.

Quit whining like a little girl , she tells herself. We have a secure location with good people. And we have the ability to strike back and strike back hard. We’re alive right now, and that’s all that matters.