John O'Brien - Takedown

“Bring us around again,” I tell Robert. Greg is poised behind us looking down.

Robert circles and we come in from the southeast altering our flight path across the field. Coming over from differing points of the compass is just a good idea. It doesn’t give anyone on the ground with ill intentions a consistent angle with which to fire at. Of course, we are in a 130 so it’s kind of a moot point — we are slow and big. The one good thing about the aircraft is that the droning of the engines and turning props is at such a low pitch that it makes it difficult to tell exactly where it’s at — it seems to come from all directions at once.

I look closer around the aircraft on this second flyover. There are a lot of pickup trucks and other 4x4 type of vehicles parked near the aircraft. Interspersed among them are people. Several jump in some of the trucks and head off the ramp while the remainder continues to stare up at us.

“Circle us over the airfield. I want to get a closer look,” I say.

Robert glances over as I reach for a set of binoculars and he banks the aircraft. Now, in his defense, it’s a common, almost ingrained habit for a pilot to bank the aircraft in his or her direction. His turn to the left, however, does me no good whatsoever. I might as well be drawing cartoon characters. At least that would be a less wasteful use of time.

“Hmmm…this is odd. Whereas I should be seeing aircraft, vehicles, and people on the ground, I instead see fourteen satellites and a small planet with three moons,” I say, looking out of my window with the binoculars pointing at the sky above.

“What?” he queries, turning to glance at me as I look out of my window. “Oh shit. Sorry.”

He brings the aircraft around and banks in the other direction putting the airfield on my side of the aircraft. “There we go. Much better,” I say.

Below, I see a knot of armed people staring up at us shielding their eyes against the glare. Some have their weapons in hand while others still have theirs shouldered. On the ramp, near the tailgates of the pickups, several BBQ grills are sending small drafts of smoke slowly spiraling skyward. Near the large hangars at the edge of the ramp, three reefer semi-trucks are parked. The trucks that departed have pulled into a nearby parking lot. The fact that they aren’t aiming their weapons skyward is remotely encouraging. The trucks that left appear to be a reactionary force should they be needed. However, my trust meter hasn’t spiked into the green level of the comfort zone as of yet.

“Bring us down the runway and rock our wings. Then circle so we can see their reaction,” I say.

I try radioing the people on the ground to no avail. Robert flies us out and aligns us with the runway, bringing us down the length of the larger runway. He rocks our wings down the entire length and then begins another circle. I look at the people on the ground, some dressed in regular clothing while others have fatigues. Several of them are waving their arms over their heads in a crossing fashion.

Ugh , I think, looking down.

Here’s the confusing part about rescue signals. Most people think getting the attention of a rescue helicopter or aircraft is achieved by waving their arms over their head. That signal actually means that it’s unsafe and dangerous to land. The correct signal is to move the arms up and down at the side, and then once you have their attention, form a “Y” with your arms over your head. Several people have been left stranded because of this misinterpretation. Here, I have no idea what is truly meant, however, judging by the fact that they are in the midst of barbecuing, I’m guessing they don’t mean it’s unsafe to land — unless their cooking is truly horrible.

“So what was their response?” Robert asks, continuing to circle.

“They waved their arms over their head,” I answer.

“Isn’t that the wave off signal?” he asks, confused.

“Yep.”

“What do you want to do?” Greg asks from over my shoulder.

“Find a white sand beach, crawl into a hammock, and sip drinks with umbrellas in them,” I reply.

“Dreamland fades and Jack finds himself in an aircraft flying over an inhabited runway following an apocalypse with Greg asking, ‘what do you want to do?’”

“You are the biggest buzzkill ever. I want to take a lower pass to get a closer look at the runway in case they’re serious about it being unsafe to land. If it’s okay, then we’ll land to the north but stop short of mid-field. Have the Stryker ready to offload once we stop. We’ll take your team, Greg, and see what these folks have to say. I didn’t see any heavy arms. Robert, leave the engines running in any case. If we have to, we’ll fall back to the aircraft and jump inside leaving the Stryker here. Robert, Bri, have the bird ready to get airborne in a hurry,” I say.

The runway looks clear of obstructions and debris as we zoom low down the runway. The people off to the side continue to look at us but from behind the cover of their vehicles. I’m sure our behavior isn’t causing them to have huge levels of comfort either. I have Robert give a final wing rock at the northern end and we climb to set up for landing.

He sets us down close to the threshold and brings the aircraft to a rapid halt. The Stryker is untied and offloaded as the ramp is brought down. I head out with Greg and his team to the north along the taxiway until we enter the edge of the ramp. I disembark and stand near the front watching the people through a set of binoculars waiting for their reaction.

It’s slow in coming, but several of them eventually pile into one of the pickups once it’s clear we aren’t proceeding any closer. I glimpse the pickup trucks that left earlier as they move down one of the streets near the airfield, moving behind us. I radio the observation to everyone.

The breeze brings a waft of the grilling food which makes my mouth water. It’s been a few days since I’ve had anything remotely close, having lived mostly off the canned rations and MREs which we heated on the small stove in the 130. The pickup drives our way, skirting the edge of the ramp near the hangars. It appears they want to stay close to an exit in case we open fire. I can’t say that I blame them. It doesn’t look like they’ve had much trouble with bandits in the area as they’ve left a lot of their gear outside. The grills, however, would draw every night runner within the state.

The white Dodge Ram pulls up to within fifty feet. Four men in camouflaged gear exit with three of them taking station behind the bed. I’m sure that’s only a feel good measure as they can see the .50 cal turret behind me. The fourth walks to the front as I’ve done. All of the men have their weapons ready but not in a threatening posture. My comfort meter climbs a notch but hangs there as I know there are several trucks somewhere behind me.

“Greg, keep a watch for the other trucks. I’m going forward,” I say into the radio.

“Gotcha covered,” he responds.

I shoulder my M-4 and walk toward the man. He doesn’t move his weapon to his shoulder nor does he put it away. The aroma of body odor wafts to my nostrils as I near. Of course, that may be mine catching up with me.

Reaching the man, I notice the subdued rank of a first lieutenant on his collar. I make out a varied number of stripes on the sleeves of the men standing on the other side of the truck.

“Lieutenant,” I say, extending my hand.

“Sir,” he replies.

“Let’s just make that Jack. Jack Walker,” I say.

“Tim…Tim Harkins.”

“Can we come to the agreement that we aren’t going to shoot at each other? At least for now. However, you may want to once you get a whiff of the rest of us,” I ask.