John O'Brien - Takedown

I entered the valley with the dark gray clouds just above my wings. As I proceeded farther into the mountains, the clouds lowered. Abrupt, forested hills rose steeply beside me and vanished into the clouds. There wasn’t much room to turn in the narrow valleys if I found my way blocked. Lower and lower I descended as I pushed through. The river flowing below me was my only option if something happened. I was constantly looking for a place to put down in an emergency. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling too comfortable with my decision-making skills at this point. And, the worst thing — I couldn’t turn back at this point.

I remembered someone mentioning the dangers of being a one hundred hour pilot just before that flight. I do believe my response involved some eye-rolling. Well, there I was. I seriously thought this could be my last flight as I transitioned from valley to valley. I was worried I would head up the wrong valley, all of which wound their way higher into the mountains and just ended. The rain poured against the windscreen and my little shell of aluminum was bouncing all over the place. I was afraid I was going to get bounced up into the clouds, at which point I would have no option but to climb upwards. Descending blindly back down in the hopes I would manage to get back into the valley was out of the question.

Onward I flew, twenty pounds lighter at that point — all water loss and not all due to sweat. Three weeks later, or so it seemed, the valley I was in began to widen out and I found myself shooting out of the mountains and into the Willamette Valley. Every time since, when I found myself faced with similar situations, I brought this memory up. Yeah, I wasn’t about to do that again.

There are two real dangerous levels of being a pilot — those with one hundred hours and those with ten thousand. The hundred hour pilots — no offense to anyone — think they have a good handle on their skills as do the ten thousand hour pilots. Complacency has a tendency to settle in at both of those points. Those in between those two points have experienced situations and still remember the lessons learned.

Of course, that may not be entirely true , I think as we maneuver through the mountains, remembering more than one instance of flying around with my head on fire.

There were a few times when I looked at something and said, “Hmmm…”

Like the time I flew over Fort Walton Beach at about a hundred feet during Spring Break at about five hundred knots with both jet engines screaming. By the way, just so you know, that’s not a good idea. Apparently, base commanders enjoy hanging out there on nice days. Yeah, I left a good part of my ass on the floor with that “great” idea.

We skirt our way through the mountains. The clouds on the other side rise, and before long, begin to break up. We climb to a more reasonable altitude. I look over at Robert from time to time during our flight, exhibiting a tremendous amount constraint in order not to ask how he is doing.

“I’m fine, Dad,” he says on perhaps my fortieth glance.

The rest of the flight is just the way I like my flights: boring.

The time runs endlessly on, some moments filled by panic and terror, other ones with strength and determination. Sensory deprivation does strange things to the mind. Lynn has tried concentrating on events, plans, and other memories to occupy her, but, here in the inky blackness of the room, her thoughts slip away and she comes back to her emotions, to fear.

The one thing that has kept her on the sane side is her unfailing belief that Jack or the teams will find her. She has been kept alive for a reason — what that reason might be is still beyond her. She has no idea why she is being held — or is still alive for that matter. The broadcasts she hears sporadically keep her spirits from sinking into some very dark depths.

The struggle isn’t so much against the night runners near the door, but against her own mind. Each low, menacing growl sends shivers through her body in waves of dread. It gets to the point that she wishes they would just attack and get it over with. She wishes for that at times so at least something would happen. In the darkest of moments, she wonders if she is being kept for food…that the night runners have advanced to the point where they are starting to collect people for food — farming them as it were.

Lynn forces her mind back from these depths and concentrates on logical reasoning. She hasn’t witnessed any time when night runners haven’t attacked and eaten the very moment they find someone. Now they seem to have the ability to restrain themselves and take hostages. They certainly couldn’t have made this leap overnight.

If she knows anything, it’s that Jack will turn the city inside out to find her. After all, she would do the same for him — or for anyone in the compound for that matter. And the fact that she hears the broadcasts from time to time lets her know that the others believe she is alive. How they will find her is another matter. She doesn’t delude herself into thinking that they will go into every single darkened building in search for her.

Well , she thinks, chuckling, Jack would .

She is torn over that thought. She knows what Jack will do — put any semblance of danger aside — and she doesn’t want him to do one of his…well, Jack things. On the other hand, she wants this, whatever this is, to be over one way or the other. There have been moments when she has thought about just rising and fighting. That is in her basic instinct when dealing with fear. Push the fear aside and charge forth — doing whatever is necessary. She has actually had to force herself to sit back down after rising to attack the night runners. The fear she has is increased by the fact that she was unaware that she had actually risen.

She searches her body for the hundredth time, hoping that she missed one of the knives she usually keeps close at hand. And, as with the other times, she finds that the night runners were too thorough in their search. She has nothing to help her in a fight with them, and without something to give her an edge, she knows she will be quickly overwhelmed. Sure, she may take down one or two by using surprise and ferocity, but not four or five. And certainly not an entire building.

She still has no idea where she is except somewhere in the city. The faint announcements have made that clear. Having heard their feet storming down what she assumes are hallways on the other side of the door, she knows that the building she is in houses a lot of night runners. The entire building reeks of them. Not knowing even where she is in the building makes the odds of making it out, even if she were to overpower the guards, close to impossible.

The constant panting, sniffing, and occasional growls keep her on edge. Even though she knows that the others won’t give up on her, she doesn’t know how much more of this she can take. If she had her vision, then it would be different — maybe. On the other hand, she’s not sure it would be better if she could actually see the night runners poised by the exit door. That may be too much. As it is, not being able to see them makes them the boogie man in the closet. Something she can either bring to life in her mind or shut out.

She wants to take action and she has to go against her very nature not to — she will wait. She doesn’t know how long she can hold out, but she will as long as possible. As much as she wants to control her own environment and make her own way out, she knows her best bet is to wait for help from the outside and keep up her strength. She’ll give it more time, but, if no help arrives soon, she knows it will be up to her to extricate herself. A firm determination settles within and she continues planning scenarios to escape.