John O'Brien - Chaos

During the drive back to the flightline, I think about my conversation with Colonel Wilson. He seems a strict yet fair man and it certainly does seem he has stuck his neck out for us. I imagine General Collins is not going to be pleased in the least when he finds out that Wilson let us go. Colonel Wilson could have kept us here to take care of his own personnel but let us go on with our ‘mission’ to save others. I believe in his mind, he could have saved his own at the expense of others, but did what he felt was the right thing to do in spite of the potential consequences with Collins. A good man , I think feeling guilty about continuing on as I don’t even know if Lynn is alive or not and here are living beings. But that guilt is minimal compared to my need to keep my commitment to Lynn. I will be returning here in a couple of days and do what I can to help them.

“Colonel Wilson is a good man, sir,” Sergeant Watkins says as if reading my mind.

“He is at that, Sergeant,” I say responding from the front passenger seat this time.

We return to the flightline and I see our aircraft sitting in its original position as the morning rays of the sun strike it. Several security vehicles still surround the front in a semi-circle yet I also see a fuel truck heading along the taxiway towards it. Behind me, I hear Sergeant Watkins speaking into his mic, “Alpha, you are cleared off. Bravo, remain in place and bring the weapons to my vehicle when we arrive. And clear room for the fuel truck to get through.”

“Alpha copy. Bravo copy,” I hear the responses come through his radio.

We arrive, stopping by the open aircraft crew door, just on the heels of the fuel truck as it pulls alongside our 130 and begins to attach the fuel line. The kids are seated at the foot of the door with two security guards standing nearby facing them while several other security personnel head into several of the vehicles parked around the aircraft. Two security personnel stand at the rear of the aircraft by the open ramp. Two soldiers walk up to Sergeant Watkins as I exit out.

“Bravo, stand down and head to your vehicles,” Watkins says over his radio as we head over to where Robert, Michelle, Nic, and Bri are sitting.

“Bravo copies.”

“You two, stay with me,” I hear him say behind me.

By the time we reach the door, the security surrounding the kids have turned and left to their vehicles, along with the two from the rear of the aircraft. The kids stand as the guards leave.

“Sir, I believe these are yours,” Watkins says handing us our weapons with the sound of vehicles starting up and leaving in the background.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” I say taking them from the two MP’s at his side. I hand the .45 back to Robert and the .38 to Michelle, taking the two Berettas and the M-4. “I wish you the best of luck.”

“And to you, sir,” he says saluting.

I return his salute and the three of them turn back toward their vehicles and head down the taxiway in Alpha’s wake. The sound of the fuel truck drowns out any other noise from the flightline and base.

“I take it from the fact that the truck is giving us gas and they gave us our weapons back that everything went well,” Robert says as we head up the stairs.

“Yeah, it went fine. I’ll fill you in on the details later. Right now, we have to head out after we are refueled,” I say as we head down the aisle to the rear of the cargo compartment and close the ramp.

“By heading out, you mean we are flying out now?” Robert has to shout above the noise of the closing ramp and fuel truck just outside.

“Yes, now go get strapped in and ready to leave,” I shout back.

The ramp closes, shutting out a majority of the noise outside, and I walk up the aisle a little behind everyone else. They head up the cockpit stairs and I head outside into the early morning sun to do a walk around. A strong northerly breeze has sprung up bringing a chill to the day. With the wind whipping against my flight suit, I walk around the aircraft checking for any damage or anything out of the ordinary and continue past the fuel truck just as they are finishing and reeling their hose in. I make sure the fuel hatch is latched and secured as the truck drives away leaving just the sound of the wind in my ears and flapping against my clothes. With a final glance at the base and surrounding area, I close the crew door, head back to the cockpit.

Turning the power on, I check the batteries assuring they are still fine, and turn on the radios once the checks are complete.

“Lajes ground, Otter 39 starting engines.”

“Otter 39, ground, roger.”

We start up the engines and get ready to taxi. “Lajes ground, Otter 39 taxi.”

“Otter 39, ground, taxi to runway 15, altimeter three zero one four.”

“Otter 39, three zero one four.”

We taxi along parallel to the runway and, once we arrive at the runway, contact the tower for takeoff.

“Otter 39, Lajes tower, you are cleared for takeoff. Maintain runway heading and contact departure on xxx.xx passing three thousand.”

Pushing the throttles up, the engines respond with their deep, throaty roar and we accelerate down the runway lifting off into a blue sky dotted here and there with high, white clouds. Cleaning up the aircraft and passing through three thousand feet, we contact departure and are cleared to flight level 250 and direct. “See you on our return, Lajes,” I say in reply.

“Good luck to you, Otter 39.”

We are about 150 miles out when the radio comes alive again. “Otter 39, Lajes departure, over.”

I look at the radio suspiciously wondering whether to answer. I look over at Robert and he is looking at me out from under his helmet. He merely shrugs. I press the talk button, “Lajes departure, Otter 39, over.”

“Otter 39, you are instructed to return to Lajes.” I knew I shouldn’t have answered.

“Lajes, you are coming in broken and garbled, over,” I say responding to their ‘request.’

A pause ensues.

“Captain Walker, this is General Collins and I am ordering you to return to Lajes.”

“General, I apologize but I am unable to comply as I have standing orders to complete my mission.”

“Captain! Dammit, I am countermanding those orders and you will turn that god-damned airplane around!” Note to self, do NOT answer the radio once we are away from any air field that is still under control. I am already calculating a different route home.

I look around the cockpit; four sets of eyes are alternating between the radio and me. “General, sir, I have a direct order from General Billings and your orders are contrary to the completion of my mission.” I am thinking it is fortunate there are not any pilots remaining there or we would soon have the pleasant company of a flight of F-15’s or F-18’s parked alongside of us.

There is another pause. “Captain Walker. I am then ordering you to return here for refueling once your pickup is complete.”

“Yes, sir. I anticipate a return in approximately 48 hours. And general, sir, good luck to you.”

A much longer pause. “Good luck to you as well, Captain. I hope you get those soldiers out. Lajes out!”

A dark line appears off the nose on the horizon where the blue sky meets the blue of the Atlantic; the coast of Portugal. Our route will take us over central Spain and out over the Mediterranean Sea, skirting the toe of Italy. I would rather have just flown up the central Med and avoid country overflights but our distance and range dictate as direct a route as possible. I expect to be intercepted if there is any military capable of flight left on this side of the ocean. I continue making calls on guard but hear nothing but the continued silence as we make our way through the daylight and into night as the sun sets behind us in a fiery display.