John O'Brien - Takedown

“Okay. Let’s go over the route while it’s still night. We’ll be leaving at first light. And, Greg…thanks.”

“Just remember…you owe me one.”

The night passes ever so slowly — far too slow for my liking. The kids nestle inside as best as they can and sleep for the most part. The teams trade off watches and try to rest on the hard pavement near the Stryker with mixed results. Some people can sleep anywhere while others toss and turn all night. Greg and I plan his route. Eventually, the horizon lightens and we rouse ourselves. Sets of tired, red eyes trudge inside and we are soon heading down the road back to the base.

Returning to the airbase just as the first rays of light streak across from the horizon, it is a much changed scene than the one we were presented with last night. The only evidence that the night runners were here are a couple of the grills knocked askew and some of our gear strewn about. The ramp of the 130 lies open, its end resting on the tarmac. Pulling up near the rear of the aircraft, we disembark.

The interior is cast in radiant light relieving any fears that night runners might have decided the aircraft would make a nice lair. The kids look on the tall aircraft with wonder, many pointing and signing. One of the doors of the tanker aircraft pops open and a ladder drops down. Harkins, along with several of his group and some of ours, descend. Several other doors in other aircraft open and soon, the entire contingent is on the ground. They immediately begin offloading their gear.

I send Red Team, minus Robert, out to locate a fuel truck and return. We weren’t able to refuel at our last stop and, although we have plenty to make it home, there’s nothing like a full load of gas. There are three things that are absolutely useless in flight; the sky above you, the runway behind you, and fuel on the ground.

Standing with Robert near the Stryker watching the ramp swarm with activity, a few other aviation sayings that I’ve picked up along the way enter my tired thoughts…gravity never loses — the best you can hope for is a draw. And given that most things in aviation come in threes, there are the three most common expressions used in the cockpit — Why is it doing that? Where are we? and, Oh Shit!

There are a ton of axioms and for some reason, my mind cycles through a few of them:

1. Every takeoff is optional. Every landing is mandatory.

2. The only time you have too much fuel is when you’re on fire.

3. Learn from the mistakes of others. You won’t live long enough to make all of them yourself.

4. Never let an aircraft take you somewhere your brain didn’t get to five minutes earlier.

5. Always try to keep the number of landings you make equal to the number of take offs you’ve made.

6. There are three simple rules for making a smooth landing. Unfortunately no one knows what they are.

7. If all you can see out of the window is ground that’s going round and round and all you can hear is commotion coming from the passenger compartment, things are not at all as they should be.

“Is there anyone home?” Robert asks, drawing me out of my thoughts.

“Huh… oh yeah. How’s the leg feeling?” I ask.

“It’s fine, Dad. Are you going to ask me that every five minutes?” he says.

“Probably. But you know this isn’t shit to mess around with. You’ve seen what can happen so I’ll stop asking…maybe…if you promise to tell me the moment you don’t feel right.”

“I will. I have a slight headache, but that’s only because of the long night and lack of sleep,” he says.

“Okay. Let me take one more look at it and put another fresh bandage and antibiotics on it.”

I kneel and take a look at his leg. Peeling back the bandage, I see it still has a little redness around the breaks in the skin, but it actually seems to be better than it was a few hours ago. I’m still carrying a tremendous amount of tension which most likely won’t fully go away until the wound heals and several weeks have passed. However, what I see relieves a little of the stress. The scratch I had never healed like Robert’s appears to be doing. I put on a fresh powdering of the crushed pills and have him take another.

“If you’re feeling up to it, let’s go plan our flight back while the others load their gear. I want to fuel up and be out of here within the next couple of hours,” I say.

While I still have the anxiety to get him home, it has dissipated to a small degree. The panic I felt initially is replaced by cautious concern. I just hope he isn’t concealing anything. I can usually tell when he isn’t telling the truth or is hiding something and I don’t have the feeling he is. That could be wishful thinking though. Red Team returns with a fuel truck and we are soon filling our tanks.

In the cockpit, Robert and I are verifying the flight data input into the computer when Harkins climbs in to inform us that their gear has been loaded and that they’re ready to go. Stepping to the rear, I see that the gear that we salvaged from the tarmac has been strapped down. A crowd of people are milling near the rear of the aircraft waiting for the word to go. Some are wearing anxious faces. I can’t say I blame them. They are about to depart from places they knew well into an unknown.

Gathering up the teams, I let the ones who are still searching for families know that they can take the Stryker and continue on the ground. I will be taking Red Team with me. Greg gives me his best guess at a route and schedule so I can rendezvous with them later. He takes a few radios and has piled cases of ammo, food, and water in the Stryker.

Although I don’t really need to say it, I nevertheless tell him that arriving back safely is the most important thing and, that if they run into trouble, they are to make for home. I’ll be calling on the UHF radio on the return in case they needed to take a different route and we’ll link up. The UHF has a decent range but not enough that he’ll be able to communicate with the sanctuary. With a handshake and well-wishes, he loads his team into the Stryker and they are off. I watch as the armored vehicle rolls across the ramp and disappears around one of the large hangers. I’m still uneasy with them heading off like this, but I really don’t see any other way to get Robert home and also be able to search for families in a timely fashion.

Turning, I see our eighty-plus passengers and new members of our group of survivors trudge up the ramp under Harkins’ and Reynolds’ supervision. And much as cutting our trip short is to get Robert home, it will also be good to see Lynn. It seems like we’ve been gone longer than we have. One more trip to rendezvous with Greg, once I’m assured Robert is okay, and these little jaunts will be over. It will then be time to concentrate on eliminating the night runners around us and focusing on our long-term supplies.

“Ready?” I ask Red Team who are standing in a loose circle around me.

“Ready as we’ll ever be, sir,” Gonzalez replies. “How’s the leg?”

“It feels like someone is holding a blowtorch to it and it’s about to fall off,” Robert answers.

I sharply turn to Robert only to find him and Gonzalez grinning.

“I see you haven’t been asked that much,” Gonzalez says to Robert.

“I’m surprised about the few times I do get asked,” Robert replies facetiously.

“Fuckers,” I mutter, turning back toward the aircraft.

However anxious I am inside, it is good to see Robert mix it up with Red Team like that. It’s a sign of acceptance and means that he’s now one of them. I seem to be the only who remains a holdout in that regard — accepting him as a member of a team. Before, it was telling him not to be in any car while someone has been drinking. Now it’s telling him not to go into any building inhabited by ferocious packs of night runners. I kinda wish for the good ol’ days.