William Forstchen - The Final Day

Ernie looked at him and finally nodded. “I change my vote, John, even though it will eat up a hell of a lot of our reserve fuel for that chopper. I say go and get your answers.”

John looked around at the others. “Let’s say Ernie’s statement is a motion. Those in favor?”

All but two raised their hands—the pilot who would have to take him… and Makala. And he knew there would be hell to pay once back home, but like it or not—and though the thought of a helicopter flight did turn his stomach over—it had to be done.

John finished packing in total silence. There had been no cross words between him and Makala after the meeting and the decision to go, and the silence was indeed deafening. He scanned through his checklist of extra clothing and winter survival gear one more time. He had added in old-fashioned auto maps once put out by Exxon covering Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina, just in case they went down and had to hike back. The backup plan if such happened was to try to raise radio contact with Billy Tyndall, who would attempt to fly out and pick them up one at a time, but if that could not be done, it would be at least a two-week hike, in winter, to get back home.

He had carefully cleaned his Glock and was packing along four extra magazines. His shoulder weapon would be drawn from the community armory, an up-to-date M4 with half a dozen magazine loads.

He heard Maury’s jeep, driven this time by Danny McMullen, pull into the driveway. Rather than come in, Danny wisely just tapped the horn a few times.

John shouldered his backpack and walked out to the sunroom, where Makala sat by the window. She was clutching Rabs, his daughter’s much-battered and beloved stuffed rabbit, and the sight of her brought tears to his eyes.

She looked up at him. She was crying. He walked over and knelt by her side. She turned away from him and began to shudder with sobs.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, John,” she gasped. Then she turned, holding Rabs, and threw her arms around his shoulders.

“I have to,” was all he could get out.

“We’ve all lost too much. Jennifer became like my daughter, poor old Jen like the mother I never really had. And now this. I never knew I could love a man with such intensity.”

She broke completely, holding him tightly, and as she did so he could feel their baby quaking within her. He loosened her embrace, leaned down, kissed her distended stomach, and tried to force a laugh through his tears.

“Little bugger just kicked me in the face!”

“And if I didn’t love you so much, I’d kick you too!” Makala cried. “Haven’t you done enough? Everyone in town feels the same as I do, even Ernie. You damn near got killed more than once this spring. You’ve done enough. Forrest is eager to go; so is Ernie. You’ve already written out a letter to this Scales person, if he is even real and still alive. They can carry it and just drop it. Please, John.”

Her tears were coming so hot and fiercely she couldn’t talk for a moment.

He did not reply. He had stated he was going, what was now defined as the Senate for their so-called state had reluctantly voted in agreement, and there was no backing out now.

Chances were she was right; he was acting on an assumption, and though he had not articulated all of it openly, he fostered a deep-seated fear that Quentin had come as a warning, that something terrible was about to unfold, and he might be the only person who could find out what it was and act.

He had argued with himself in the hours after the meeting that he was simply being paranoid and taking too much upon himself, but his decision had been made, and long years of training and experience still told him that so often a first hunch, a gut feeling, carried with it the need to act.

He could only pray that Makala’s gut feeling came from emotion and was wrong. At least he could hope that was the case.

Danny tapped the horn again. John reluctantly stood up, easing out of Makala’s embrace. She stood up and threw her arms around him.

“Damn it, John Matherson, if anything happens to you, I think I’ll kill you!” She began to laugh through her tears. “God go with you and bring you back safely to us.”

“Clearrotors!” Maury shouted, leaning out the window. It had been agreed that Billy Tyndall would stay behind in case he was needed with the L-3. Danny McMullen was therefore in the copilot seat. He had zero flying time in a chopper; his military experience in the air force was working on the big stuff—B-52s, KC-135s—but at least he had a sense regarding the Black Hawk’s power plant, and it was better than no one.

A security team of three was going with John, led by Forrest and accompanied by Kevin Malady and Lee Robinson. They could have taken half a dozen more, but each additional man was another two hundred pounds of weight, which equaled more fuel being needed. Besides, Maury’s few hours of flight experience were with an empty load, and Danny in the other seat would have to learn on the job, so the less weight the better.

Side doors were opened for liftoff at Maury’s insistence in case something went wrong and they had to get out quickly. The twin turbine engines above and behind John were whining up, rotor picking up speed, icy-cold air whipping in around him. He looked over at Forrest and Malady, sitting opposite him. John had of course endured many a chopper flight while in the army and never liked them; more often than not he had his puke bag out within minutes. Those two, though, were grinning, Malady shouting it felt like old times; Forrest, M4 slung across his chest, raising his one hand in a thumbs-up.

They are actually enjoying this, John thought, struggling to maintain a calm outward appearance. Several hundred from the town had turned out to see them off, for this, after all, was a major event for the community, with their police chief, Ed, struggling to keep the crowd back a hundred yards. Maury might have some idea about flying, but John knew that getting a helicopter up and away safely was a hell of a lot more difficult than taking off in the L-3.

They lifted off, nose pitching high, rolling as well to starboard. He could see Danny frantically pointing at something on the dash. The chopper then lurched forward, almost nosing in, Danny cursing so loudly that John could hear it even over the roar of the engines. And throughout it all, Forrest and Malady seemed unfazed. Lee Robinson, for whom this was the very first flight, had a nervous deathlike grip on John’s shoulder and was cursing as well. Glancing out the open side door, John could see the horizon tilting at what must have been a thirty-degree angle. In a light plane at takeoff, it would surely be a stall, but Maury nosed back over and gradually like a yo-yo, going up and down, they started to gain altitude, lose it, pitch back up again, and finally, nose tilted down slightly, began to move forward, still rising up, clearing the Ingrams’ parking lot.

Maury finally managed to gain some directional control, nose pitched forward a bit more, speed relative to the ground picking up, and he spared a quick glance over his shoulder, motioning for the side doors to be closed, blocking out the frigid blast.

The flight path was shaky at first, nose oscillating back and forth as Maury gingerly worked the controls but at least was putting more distance between them and the ground.

He nudged the chopper into a northeasterly direction, dipping the nose a bit more to gain bite with the rotors and forward speed. They crossed over the Swannanoa Gap, now up five hundred feet above ground level. It was the place where the great battle with the Posse had been fought out. Looking out the portside window in the door, John could see the steep slopes around what had been the Ridgecrest Conference Center, the woods still evidently flame-scorched from the battle. They hit a burble of turbulence as they cleared the gap, while still picking up speed. Down below were the twisting turns and tunnels of the Norfolk Southern railroad, an engineering marvel of the nineteenth century, the longest and toughest mountain grade east of the Rockies that had taken half a decade of labor by thousands to traverse those eleven miles to the top of the pass. He caught a glimpse of the Meltons’ sawmill, in spite of the cold the water still flowing with enough energy to turn the wheel and the saws within, while a mile farther down was the clearing where the power dam for Old Fort and beyond was being installed, work stopped for now.