Eric Walters - The Rule of Three

“If I’m to have any chance of hitting him, I need to have a clean, level shot.”

“I can’t do that without him having a shot at us first.”

“Then that’s what we’re going to have to do,” Herb said.

“What?”

“What choice do we have? He can keep coming back at us until we crash, run out of fuel, or get shot down. Just do it.”

I nodded. I knew what to do. I just didn’t want to do it.

I banked again, pushed down on the stick, and hit hard rudders. I kept the turn until I was almost parallel with the bank of the valley on my left and then kept dropping until I was just below the top of the ridge. I wanted him to have to come up on the right, on Herb’s side. Next I adjusted my speed. I needed to be going slowly but well above my stall speed to force him to fly as slowly as he could to try to match my speed. I had to focus on the contours of the valley as it jutted in and out. I wanted to make sure I was so close that he couldn’t come up on our left, but that meant flying dangerously near the side of the valley.

“Tell me what he’s doing,” I yelled at Herb.

Herb’s head was swiveling around, trying to find the plane. “He’s there, almost right behind, slightly to the right, slightly higher.”

“How fast is he closing?”

“He’s closing but not quickly.”

“How far is he?” I demanded.

“Two hundred yards or even less than that.”

“Keep watching. I need to know when he’s about twenty-five yards behind.”

“Okay. I’ll count it down,” Herb said. “He’s less than a hundred… closing quickly… seventy-five.”

“Get ready to fire,” I said.

“I’m ready. Forty… Thirty-five… It looks like he’s slowing down even more… Thirty.”

“Is he still to the right?”

“On the right, almost level with us and farther out.”

I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him there in my blind spot. I had to fight the urge to swerve, bank, dive, climb, or speed up.

“Twenty-five!”

I pulled back hard on the stick and eased up on the accelerator. We slowed, and the Cessna roared by us again. I opened the throttle fully and dove, and suddenly we were not only on the tail of the Cessna but gaining on it. It had all happened so quickly that the pilot hadn’t adjusted to the speed.

Herb fired again and again, the bullets finding their targets in the tail and fuselage of the Cessna—six, seven, eight, or more spraying along the top of the plane. The Cessna jerked to the side as the pilot tried to shake us and more bullets hit into the top of the cabin—and then it dropped sharply.

We soared past, and I knew what was going to happen next. There was an explosion, louder than the roar of our engine. The Cessna had crashed into the valley wall.

Herb strained to look back at the wreck. I kept my eyes focused ahead, both hands on the stick, and slowly started to turn, putting the bank at a safe distance.

“We got him,” Herb said with hardly any emotion.

I understood. I should have felt happy, maybe even thrilled. Instead I just felt drained, worn out, worn down. I cut the turn and plotted a sight course back to our neighborhood. All I wanted was to get home, and get on the ground, and I wanted to get there without passing by the crash site. I could already picture it too sharply in my mind without my eyes having to see it. But still, I couldn’t look completely away. There on the far side of the valley, almost at the top of the cliff, thick black smoke rose into the sky. Whatever was left of the plane and its crew was burning away to ash and bone and twisted metal.

I banked again so that I couldn’t see it and then gained elevation and climbed up and over the Burnham bridge, flying above it as a convoy of our cars passed over it. The bridge was so far above the river that it almost looked like they were flying, too, and I had the irrational thought that I should bank away again so they couldn’t chase after me.

Slowly I brought the plane around, coming in from the north. I’d land and get something to eat and drink. It was funny how, despite it all, I was so hungry and thirsty. After what I’d seen, what had just happened, all I could think about, all I was worried about, was my stomach. I’d witnessed so many people who were never going to have to worry about eating again. There were hundreds of dead on the ground and the four in that plane.

I aimed the front wheel for the middle of the strip the way I always did. I passed over the highway, the walls ahead, the heads of guards poking over the top, slower and lower until I could have seen their faces if I had looked directly down. We dropped beneath the height of the houses and the little bit of crosswind that had been present was blocked out completely. I focused on the landing and eased the plane onto the road, smooth and perfect. We rolled along and slowed down, finally coming to rest almost directly in front of our houses.

I turned off the engine.

“Nice touchdown,” Herb said.

“Better than the Cessna made.”

Herb gave me a concerned look. “Adam, there was no choice.”

“I know that.” I hadn’t fired the weapon, but their blood was still on my hands.

“We did what we had to do.”

“I know that, too. I just want to eat.” I unbuckled my belt and Herb grabbed my arm.

“I killed those people, not you.”

I laughed and, judging from Herb’s expression, it surprised him as much as it surprised me.

“Herb, I know you fired the gun, but I know I’m just as responsible. And you know what? I don’t care. I just want to eat.”

“Do you remember what you’re supposed to say?” Herb asked.

I nodded. I remembered. I hoped I could pull it off. After three days’ rest, hanging out with Todd and Lori, who both worked hard at trying to distract me, trying to blunt the horrors of that day, I was ready to do what I could do to help. And that meant getting information from the enemy.

“You look so honest that he’ll believe you. You could fool anybody.”

I hoped he was right. If this didn’t work, though, Herb would simply try to convince the man to provide information through interrogation. He said it was best to try this first in case he wasn’t willing to cooperate.

I opened the door and walked in carrying the tray. Herb slipped in behind me, staying out of sight behind the curtain, and I stepped around it. Inside, recovering from his surgery, was the man—the enemy. He was propped up in bed, both wrists handcuffed to the rails of the bed. He eyed me suspiciously.

“Afternoon.” I gave him my best attempt at a friendly smile.

He gave a semi-smile back. Smiles meant nothing. Not mine and not his.

“I’ve brought in your lunch. Are you feeling like you can eat?”

“I could, if I had a free hand.” He held up his right hand and the handcuffs rattled loudly.

“I’m going to undo one wrist.” If he was right-handed, I figured it was better to free his left hand to eat. I tapped the revolver strapped to my belt. “Don’t make me use this.”

I undid the cuff on his left hand. I leaned back, away so that he couldn’t reach my gun, but I was still glad to have Herb standing by behind the curtain.

“You shouldn’t complain about anything. You’re one of the lucky ones,” I said.

He gave me a questioning look.

“At least you’re alive. We retaliated last night. We killed almost everybody. We stopped counting when we reached three hundred bodies.”

He looked shocked, and then that look gave way to one of disbelief. “I don’t understand. We overran you—there was only token resistance.”

“That wasn’t us,” I said. “But they were our friends. They radioed to us when you attacked. We couldn’t get there in time to save most of them, but now we got almost all of you.”