John O'Brien - Takedown

“I feel funny walking around like a hobo,” Robert says, referring to his torn pant leg. “I’m going into the cockpit to change.”

“Okay, we’ll be along shortly. Say…how’s the leg?” I ask.

“You’re funny,” Robert replies, walking away.

The red nylon seats have been pulled down and secured by the time I make it inside. A low hum of conversations is taking place as I step around our lashed down supplies. The talk ceases momentarily and all look at me as I raise the ramp. The light of the early morning grows dimmer and soon, only a thin beam of light stretches through the cargo compartment. It too vanishes as the doors come together and seal. The whine of the hydraulics stops, bringing silence to the interior. I give a quick briefing to those inside about the aircraft such as where the bathroom is and a few other miscellaneous details. With that, after verifying that Robert has finished dressing, I step into the cockpit.

The engines roar to life and we are soon airborne. I thought about having Robert rest on the bunk the entire way back but he does seem to be doing well and it’s easier to fly with two. I’ll keep an eye on him, though, and he’ll just have to get used to that idea. The rays of sunlight that peaked over the horizon with the sunrise are now hidden behind an overcast layer of clouds. It will take us about five plus hours to get home depending on the headwinds. It’s always slower heading west than east due to the jet stream.

The one thing I’m not looking forward to on arrival is my imminent death at the hands of Michelle and Lynn for Robert getting injured. Maybe I’ll just tell them that he pissed me off and I bit him. They may go for that if Robert plays along. Yeah, that might work.

The objects on the ground grow smaller as we climb and my thoughts go to Greg and his team. I hope letting them go off on their own doesn’t become a learning experience. I look down hoping to see a sign of the Stryker but only see the empty countryside sliding by below.

I have to level off before reaching our normal cruising altitude in order to remain below the cloud deck. It will burn more fuel but we’ll also be dealing with fewer headwinds so I’m more than okay with the trade-off. It’s not that we have to pay for the fuel and anyway, it won’t be around for very much longer. If we had refinery workers, we could possibly do something. There’s oil in Texas and it wouldn’t be difficult working out a supply system, but cracking the crude oil isn’t just throwing a switch and watching magic happen. Maybe that’s for the best, but it will make things a little more difficult as our range of operations will be drastically reduced. I’m hoping Bannerman has come up with something about the use of bio-fuels.

“Anyone monitoring this frequency, we are calling from Oklahoma City and need assistance,” the radio crackles to life.

“Calling on UHF emergency, this is Captain Walker. State your needs,” I reply after a moment of hesitation.

The airwaves certainly seem to be busier lately. I would have expected them to be busy when this first went down but it seems to be the opposite. Maybe it’s people finding this resource or they are coming out of their shock — who knows.

“We are in need of evacuation…if possible,” the voice states.

“Are you able to move to a different location for pickup?” I ask.

“We may be able to.”

“Okay. Standby, caller,” I reply.

“My name is Jax,” the caller states.

“Okay, Jax, standby for a few.”

Fuck , I think, turning the aircraft to the south.

“Are we going to pick them up?” Bri asks.

“No, we’re going home. I’m turning to see if we can contact Greg,” I answer.

I fly a few miles to the south and attempt to raise Greg on the radio. My first attempts are met with silence, but eventually, we make contact.

“What’s up, Jack?” Greg answers.

I tell him about the caller and their desire to be picked up.

“Do you want us to continue south then?”

“I’d rather keep to our timetable and have them come to meet you. They are on freq, but I doubt they can hear you,” I answer.

“Either way. It would be easier if we didn’t have to detour though.”

“Okay, I’ll radio them to meet you if they can.”

“Copy that.”

“Jax, this is Captain Walker. If possible, you can rendezvous with our other unit at Petersen AFB,” I call. “If you decide to, radio a few miles out to coordinate the link up.”

“Will do…and thanks.”

Having dealt with that, we turn back on course. I’m aware this could be a trap, but I know I don’t have to tell Greg to be cautious. He’s seen enough to be careful. The engines drone continuously — the most favorable of conditions — as we make our way ever so slowly to the northwest. We have to gradually decrease our altitude due to a lowering cloud layer and the land starts rising upward to eventually become the Continental Divide — not favorable conditions.

As we near the mountains east of Denver, we have descended to level that we have to cut through the passes — flying down valleys with timbered slopes to either side. The tops of the taller peaks are lost in the clouds as we pass them. It’s not that we have to cut down valleys and risk the possibility of being penned in them by the weather. We have plenty of room to turn if we need to and good visibility. I won’t put myself in that kind of position again without the aid of accurate GPS equipment and terrain following radar. That was the first big lesson learned early on in my flying career.

Flying is a matter of putting tricks in your bag — usually done by making poor decisions and living through them. As the saying goes, there are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots. I think I had a total of a hundred hours under my belt and felt pretty good about my skills. I had flown over to visit my grandparents for the weekend and we were fishing on a lake. I had to get back for work that evening, but that didn’t stop us from getting in a day on the lake before I had to fly back.

It was a hot, summer day. We were on a lake with tall, steep rising cliffs on all sides. The sky overhead was the light, clear blue that is found on most summer days in Eastern Oregon. I looked to the west to see the very tops of clouds building over the Cascade Mountains. The fact that I could see their tops from my vantage point meant they were already billowing high into the sky.

My grandmother, seeing me constantly peek at the growing cloud masses, asked me if I had to go. I think my look of worry said it all. We packed up and I watched the thunderstorms build in a line down the length of the range as we speedily drove back to the airport. By the time I had the aircraft ready, the dark cumulus clouds, with their anvils stretching to the east, covered the path home.

Asking if it was a good idea for me to fly through those, I answered that I’ll go up and take a look to see if I can find a way through. If the path was blocked, I’d turn around. Of course, I also knew myself and that, once I started, I’d do about anything to get through. Plus, I had to be at work and calling in because I had been trapped by weather just showed I hadn’t been paying attention. I worked at an airport and my boss wasn’t exactly very understanding.

With trepidation, I took off. With a map on my knees, I stared at the mass of storms growing bigger in my windscreen. Sweat began to gather under my arms. I flew down the length of the mountains looking for an opening under the storms. The single-engine Cessna wasn’t going over so under was the only way I was getting through. I found a small opening under the towering, boiling masses.

Following the valley with my finger on the map, I saw that I could possibly use it to skirt under the storms and make my way toward the Willamette Valley. To get there, I would have to cross over to other valleys at points. I had to make doubly sure that I kept a close watch on where I was at all times in order not to miss any of them. With that stupid thought in mind, I turned and descended.