John O'Brien - Takedown

Tension is etched on everyone as they realize we are venturing out into the realm of the night runners and will more than likely have to battle with them once we reach our destination. They also have looks of determination. There are kids and comrades out there who are in trouble and need rescuing. A soldier lives for the one next to them and will do anything for them. Kids, well, that goes way past any thought of themselves. To the soldiers donning vests and stashing ammo inside the Stryker, it’s a given that we will help.

Greg, having already donned his vest and gear, stands by the rear ramp staring at the control with a couple of long poles and duct tape in hand.

“Contemplating whether you prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream?” I ask, drawing next to him.

“We don’t have anything that will reach,” he says, referring to finding something to activate the ramp switch and completely ignoring my comment.

“Okay. I’ll press the controls and jump in the back. The ramp lowering will give us time to close the Stryker up,” I say.

“I could have figured it out, but I really just wanted to see you run again,” Greg says, deadpan.

“Yeah, right. You haven’t seen me really run. When I do, all you see is a blur of movement,” I reply.

“That’s only because everyone’s eyes are teared due to of the agony of watching you.”

“I’m sorry, did I just hear you volunteer to lower the ramp?”

Greg smiles and sets his large hand on my shoulder. “You run like a ballet-trained gazelle, Jack. The honor is all yours.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Team members board the Stryker in ones and twos as they are ready until all have gathered inside. I do a last walk around to make sure the vehicle is completely untied. It wouldn’t do to lower the ramp and be swarmed by the night runners, who are waiting ever so patiently outside, only to find out that we are still attached to the aircraft. That would pretty much seal it for the kids and soldiers battling a few miles to the northeast. I head to the cockpit to turn off the battery, plunging the interior into darkness.

“Everyone ready?” I ask, poking my head inside the vehicle.

“Hooah, sir,” they all respond, filling the interior with their quiet shout.

“I hate my life,” I mutter, shaking my head and turning to the ramp controls.

The Stryker starts, filling the interior of the aircraft with diesel fumes and noise. Red light from the vehicle interior bathes the rear of the aircraft with an eerie glow.

Here goes nothing , I think, pressing the button to lower the 130 ramp.

The hydraulics whine, barely heard above the noise of the idling diesel and the shrieks outside. The top half of the ramp begins to rise. I hotfoot it a couple of steps and enter the armored vehicle. The Stryker ramp is quickly drawn up sealing us inside. The screams from the night runners increases momentarily as the 130 ramp opens up and then is muted once again with the closing of our door. The thick steel of the Stryker mutes a lot of the sound coming from outside, but there is the unmistakable sound of night runners scrambling into the aircraft as the ramp reaches a position where they can climb in. Shrieks surround us as night runners pour into the now-exposed cargo compartment. I keep an eye on the ramp through the monitor and see it fully lower. The screams from the night runners prevents me from hearing the usual clang of it hitting the hard pavement.

“It’s down. Back us out…nice and slow,” I tell the driver.

The engine revs and we all lean forward as the wheels engage. Inching backward, the vehicle is completely surrounded by a shrieking horde. The Stryker pushes the ones behind us out of the way, its mass and power enough that there is no way the night runners can prevent it from moving. I would like to open up and see what they are ‘saying’ but my mind is centered on getting out without damaging the 130. I’m also thinking about how to get the soldiers and kids out. The actual plan will have to wait until we get there and see the situation firsthand. It’s in a school so I imagine we’ll have to go inside at some point and that isn’t leaving me with a warm glow of comfort.

The vehicle levels out after transiting down the ramp at an angle. Night runners continue to scream outside and we hear them clambering on top. We’ll have to shake them off somehow as they will hinder any rescue attempt. We may have to leave the Stryker and having the creatures on top will limit our options. I’m quite the fan of having all choices available.

With the tarmac bathed in moonlight, we begin to pick up speed across the concrete. A couple of night runners get caught in the press of those behind them and end up under our wheels. I look through the monitor only to see a mass of them chasing, their mouths open in screams. The ones on top leave of their own accord. Apparently they don’t like road trips much.

We plunge into the gloom of the night and push off the base, speeding down the Interstate heading northeast. I am fairly sure we won’t be encountering bandits trying to block the road as we travel through the inky hours of darkness so we hasten down the four-lane highway without a worry of being ambushed. Committed as we are, time is now of the essence. Greg and I pour over maps under the light of a red lamp, plotting the best route to the school. The maps are only street diagrams so I have no idea what we’ll encounter when we get there.

The teams sit in hushed silence, crunched together on the seats along the wall, each lost in their thoughts. They rock slightly in the vehicle as the driver guides us along with the use of night vision. The hum of the diesel is felt through our boots. The miles pass silently by.

As we near a road that will give us a more direct route, I call Sergeant Reynolds. “What’s your situation?” I ask once we establish radio contact.

“We’re holding them back so far, sir, but when we run out of ammo, that will change in a hurry,” she answers.

“Where are you located within the school?”

“We’re in the main building on the third floor. You’ll see it straight ahead when you pull into the main entrance. It will be the one that is being swarmed. I’m assuming it will be apparent which one from the outside. We’re holding a hallway just outside a classroom that we have the kids hiding out in. We had the stairs blocked but they broke though that earlier this evening. I think we’ve sealed the windows in the room effectively, but I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to hold,” she answers.

“Okay, sergeant, we’re just a few minutes out. Will you be able to move to our location if we set up a perimeter?”

“Not with the kids in tow, sir. I think we’d be easily overwhelmed if we tried to,” Reynolds replies.

“I guess we may have to come to you. We’ll analyze it from the outside when we arrive and let you know what we come up with,” I say.

“Roger that, sir. Faster would be better.”

“We’ll do what we can, Reynolds. Just hang tight a little longer.”

The road we selected doesn’t have an actual off-ramp so we exit onto a grassy shoulder and power up a slope. Traveling at high speed, we arrive at a “T” intersection. Across the road is a large refinery. A dirty white sign, seen in the glow of the night vision optics, hangs loosely on a fence denoting this as the ‘El Dorado Refinery’. It would be rather nice to actually be able to operate one of these plants. That and to operate one of the finer grade oil plants. That would take care of our fuel situation but I, nor anyone else in our camp that I know of, has the first clue about how they work.

Those are thoughts for another day , I think as we turn north. Right now, it’s about getting the kids and soldiers out.