To The Beach
I awaken to the sound of soft snores echoing throughout the cargo interior. Teens—they can sleep the whole day away. Of course I can as well, and remember the days when noon was a normal wake up time for me in the summer months. I lay quietly thinking, nestled in my bag on the deck of the pitch-black cargo bay with my head resting on the small, white pillow, not knowing how in the world we are going to be able to stay alive with these things everywhere. There is no reasoning with them or calling a time out. There can be little to no mistakes on my part. I can’t let my emotions overcome common sense.
Those little snores remind me that I have to be more responsible and adept at analyzing situations; the choices I make mean more and have greater ramifications. I have been fairly proficient at making good spot choices in situations in the past, so I can’t be second-guessing, but on the same hand, those choices have to be the right ones. We would most likely have been just fine last night, if not a little more tired, had I just left things alone. However, we are still alive and, like a landing, any one you can walk away from is a good one.
My quandary is like that of any parent—how to keep your children protected yet still let them learn to make good choices. We are in a new world order, and some of the lessons they learned growing up to this point may not apply. Normally there is a gradual integration of ideas and lessons, but this is not the case now. There are different lessons to be learned—survival skills of a different order. I have a lot I can teach them and hopefully, I can do so in a somewhat controlled environment. I am not going to be able to do everything for them forever. Ugh! This is making my brain hurt. Enough early morning philosophizing. One day at a time, I think, unzipping my bag and crawling out.
I open the curtain to the cockpit and find it illuminated by the early morning light streaming in the windows. I step into the cockpit windows and look out. The eastern horizon is the pale blue of a just risen sun transitioning to a darker blue as I look westward across the cloudless sky. The shadows of the trees lining the air station cast long shadows across the green fields surrounding the runway. Looking out the windows to the other side, the two gray runways ahead and the paralleling taxiway behind stretches away to the west. The tarmac opens up off the taxiway with several tan buildings abutting against it. Several P-3 Orions are parked on another ramp angling off the main ramp. They look a lot like a C-130 but with low wings and the engines mounted upside down. There’s not a thing moving anywhere that I can see. The indications of last night remain scattered on the main ramp and taxiway; colored bits of clothing littered around but are tiny from this distance. In the early morning light, several crows hop around the strewn body parts.
I climb out of the cockpit and open the front door. Light streams in as it lowers to the ground. Chill morning air replaces the warmth of the interior, cooling my cheeks as it passes by with the smell of a fresh summer day riding the currents. I look out of the door gazing at the motionless, monstrous propellers. Their blades are feathered with the edges facing forward as if completely unaware and not caring what they faced the night prior or the carnage they were involved in.
Stepping down the stairs to the asphalt taxiway, I gaze along the side of the aircraft. It is there that the evidence truly reveals itself. On the fuselage, directly in line with the propellers, a thick line of dark red runs vertically down the aircraft with streaks reaching back toward the rear; the darkened streaks dripping down like paint that was put on too thickly. The darkened color is close to the same hue as the olive drab of the 130 and almost blends in. With the sun now fully above the horizon to the east, I do a walk around of the aircraft to check for damage. The aircraft looks in good shape with the exception of the new paint job. Unless these things figure out how to open the doors, the 130 offers a good mobile sanctuary. The light of the sun begins to warm the air. The sight and sound of birds flying around the distant trees, on whatever errand calls, makes last night and the events of the past few days seem surreal. I finish my walk around to find Robert standing by the bottom of the stairs.
“Quite an interesting past few days, eh?” I say, stepping up next to him as we both gaze across the fields to the north.
“Yeah, no kidding.” He turns his gaze along the side of the aircraft. “Wow!” he comments as his eyes reach the darkened streaks.
“The girls up yet?” I ask after studying the dried blood pasted along the side again.
“They were getting up as I left. Are we taking off soon?”
“As soon as we refuel,” I say, looking over at the ramp. “Let’s start ‘er up and taxi over while the girls are getting up.”
“Okay, Dad.” Robert starts up the stairs. We settle into our seats and begin our checks. I reach up to set the electrical panel.
“Ah crap. Really!” I say, noticing a low reading from the batteries.
“What?” Robert asks.
“Low batteries for some reason. We’ll use the cart, but we’ll need to figure out why the batteries are low. Let’s go hook up the cart,” I say as we head into the cargo bay.
“Morning, Dad,” Nic says, sitting up in her sleeping bag.
“Morning, Nic,” I say.
“What are you guys doing?” she asks.
“Getting the start cart out. Something’s up with the batteries,” I respond.
“Need any help?” she asks, climbing out of her bag.
“Sure,” I answer.
“Morning,” Michelle says as she climbs out of her bag, descends the small ladder, and joins us as we walk to the back.
“Good morning,” we all say in return.
We look like we just woke up from an all-night frat party. Well, I do at any rate. Michelle walks up to Robert and they both give each other a small good morning kiss. Okay, now this has to be one of the oddest moments I have lived through. Seeing your son kiss a girl for the first time. It is just…well…startling. I have always tried to keep up with their growth and treat them accordingly, but it is moments like this that make me realize they are more grown up than I realize; another big step in my acknowledgement of his being a man. My legs actually grow a little weak and I stumble over my own feet.
“You okay, Dad?” Nic asks me, looking up at me with a huge smile painted across her face and a twinkle in her hazel eyes.
“Um, yeah, just fine,” I respond as she continues smiling up at me.
“Bri, we’ll be outside,” I call out.
“Okay, Dad,” a sleepy voice answers on the other side of the fuel tank. We lower the cargo ramp and wheel the cart into position.
“Okay, Nic and Michelle, do your stuff,” I say.
They unroll the connector cables and attach the cart. Robert and I walk in through the crew door, pulling it closed behind us, and head into the cockpit. I switch the power over to external and, after confirming that Nic is online, start up the right two engines—numbers three and four. Switching to internal power, the electrical instruments read fine. Switching the DC to battery, the reading drops significantly.
“We’ll give them a charge taxiing back to the ramp,” I say, switching them back.
Robert unbuckles and heads back to help get the cart onboard and secured while I start the remaining engines. We really only have to start the outboard ones for taxiing, but it gives me something to do while they are stowing the cart. I make radio calls on UHF and VHF guard frequencies but silence is my only response as Bri joins me and buckles into her seat.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” I say, hearing the click of her plugging in and finishing up with my checks.
“Good morning, Dad.”
Moments later, Robert, Michelle, and Nic walk in and settle in and we taxi over to the ramp by the P-3s. I leave the engines running, checking on the battery readings. They haven’t changed. I leave them running for another twenty minutes with still no indicated change.
“Crap! We may have to change the batteries out with one of the P-3s,” I say, beginning the engine shutdown procedure.
“Do we need to?” Nic asks. “It seems to be running fine.”
“Yeah, we need them. I’m not going to head over the pond with bad batteries. At least, I’m hoping it’s the batteries,” I reply.
“Have you ever changed batteries before?” Robert asks.
“Nope.”
“Do you know how?” he asks.
“Nope,” I say with the engines winding down.
We shut the aircraft down and search for tools in the storage compartments, bringing them to the nose of the aircraft. The one thing I do know is where the batteries are stored in the nose and so, using the onboard tools and a large stepladder we found stored inside, I remove the hatch and look inside. Hooray, first try, I think, looking at the batteries sitting on a shelf just inside the aircraft. I notice one of them has a crack in the side.
“The thunderstorm must have bounced them around a little.” I show everyone the damaged battery.
“Robert, take Michelle, grab a fuel truck, and meet us over at that P-3,” I say pointing to the Orion parked closest to us.
“Okay.”
“Do you two have your weapons?” I ask as they begin their trek over to the truck.
“Yep,” he replies over his shoulder.
“Let’s gather this stuff up,” I say to Bri and Nic, indicating the tools on the ground.
The sun climbs higher into the blue sky, warming the air further as we start across the ramp towards the other parked aircraft. Our hands are full with tools and the ladder. The M-4 is slung over my shoulder and I keep an eye out for movement. Off to our right and behind us, on the edge of the gray ramp, lay the remains of last night scattered about and looking like someone just dumped their trash.
We arrive at the P-3 at the same time that Robert and Michelle pull up. An easterly breeze has sprung up. This is once again the type of day where we would normally be outside getting the Jeep or bikes ready for a day in the sun, listening to the first lawnmowers crank up and the smell of fresh cut grass, to be followed by throwing some burgers on the BBQ. The wafting breeze carries the morning smell of the trees and plants.
“Dad, I’m hungry,” Nic says as we drop our tools and ladder by the front of the P-3.
“Me too,” Robert says.
“What? I fed you yesterday,” I say. “I feed you once and now you expect it every day. Is that the way it’s going to be?” They all smile; this is an old one between us. “Okay then, let’s finish this up and then we’ll grab a bite,” I add.
It takes a while to find the batteries, as I don’t know this aircraft. However, several panel removals later, I find their super-secret location and manage to remove one. It takes both Robert and I to actually lift it out of the aircraft.
“Have Michelle help you take this one over and set it in the truck,” I say after we finish with the first one and start in on another.
“How many are we going to take? I thought only one was broken,” Robert asks, seeing me reach in again.
“We’re going to take them all, just in case,” I answer. The last one is finally removed and loaded onto the truck. “Meet us over at the aircraft,” I tell Robert. Putting the hatches back on, we journey back across the 130. The sun has now climbed almost directly overhead.
“You guys go get something to eat,” I say once we are back. “I’m going to start working on the bad one.”
“You aren’t hungry?” Bri asks.
“No, Bri,” I respond.
“I suppose that means you aren’t fixing anything,” Robert says with an exaggerated sigh.
“You are perfectly able to fix your own food,” I say.
“I know, I’m just kidding,” he replies.
“Oh, and the pantry won’t be available, so you’ll have to use the packaged food,” I say.
The day presses on. They eat and we get the new battery in place and hooked up. We should’ve been a few hours in the air already, I think, reattaching the panel. I head up to the cockpit and check the battery reading. The indicator jumps up to normal. Thank goodness.
“Okay, let’s get it fueled up,” I announce as we stow the tools and ladder away. I look at my watch, “It’s almost 15:00. Let’s try to be off the ground within the hour. Looks like we’ll have another night approach and landing.”
I am a little more worried about this one as our airfield is in the middle of the Atlantic with very few options available should something go wrong or we end up not being able to find it. We have enough fuel to make the coast of Portugal or Spain so that might be a second option. However, if we lose the GPS, or it is a little off, we could end up searching endlessly and only find water. The only thing I truly don’t like is not being able to see the weather visually from the same distance as you can during the day. I don’t want to have another evening like last night.
Fueled up, and with the cart and extra batteries stowed away, we take off with the afternoon sun wending its way over the blue sky behind us. Climbing out on an easterly heading, the coast of Maine fades away beneath us, eventually becoming a dark smear on the horizon. The sparkling blue of the Atlantic spreads out around us in all directions. The skies above are clear with only a few scattered clouds high above as we level off at flight level 250. Far to the south, only the very tips of cumulus clouds appear, covering much of the southern skies, obviously part of a very large storm system. Ahead of us, though, the skies remain clear. The only interruption of our flight is our intermittent calls on guard frequencies and the switching of fuel tanks. I keep an eye on the electrical system but everything seems to be operating smoothly.
I let everyone take turns on the controls from the right seat. I only get out of mine to stretch and get the blood flowing back into my legs. I venture to the cargo compartment once to change flight suits since my current one is starting to offend not only me, but I am sure those around. The others eventually venture to do the same. We drone ever eastward with nothing but the blue of the ocean below and the skies above to keep us company. The blue skies change to a deeper blue as the sun sinks to the horizon behind, transitioning in the east to a dark blue, merging with the ocean below.
We continue on into the dark, dialing up the interior lights to watch our instruments by and have dinner in the cockpit, the food having been heated in the pantry with Michelle graciously doing the honors. We replace water bottle after water bottle as the dry altitude air sucks moisture from our bodies. Outside, we are flying in a dark void with only the stars shining brightly above us; the only indication of our movement is the mileage on our NAV instruments slowly counting downward as we drone ever closer to our destination. About two hundred fifty miles out from Lajes Field, I pull the throttles back and start a gradual descent.
“Okay, guys, if there is anyone left there, it’s the same as we talked about before. As far as you know, I’m on a mission to pick up some soldiers in Kuwait. I picked you up and we headed out. Don’t lie about anything other than the mission you believe I’m on. And let me do the talking.”
I’m really going to have to come up with a good reason why I have brought kids along on a military mission. I mean, you can’t just plop your family on a military aircraft and head off any time you want. That would be very much frowned upon. I wrack my brains trying to come up with something but nothing plausible emerges. I guess I’ll just wing it if I have to.
“Okay, Dad. Do you think there will be anyone there?” Bri asks with a twinge of both excitement and worry in her voice.
“I’m not sure,” I answer.
“What about me?” Michelle chimes in. “Am I supposed to be yours as well?”
“Hmmm, I haven’t thought about that one. I think we’ll need to keep it as real as possible so our stories match up and are believable, so you’re Robert’s friend that we picked up on the way,” I reply.
Descending through ten thousand feet, I set up the instrument approach on my NAV while maintaining the en-route plot on Robert’s. The stars still glitter above and the weather looks clear. The nav system shows the wind out of the south at about twenty knots so I set up the approach I designed for Runway 15.
A little over fifteen minutes out, I switch over to the UHF guard. “Lajes approach, this is Otter 39 on UHF guard.”
To my absolute astonishment, I get the following reply back, “Otter 39, Lajes approach on guard. Contact Lajes approach on xxx.xx.”
Uh oh, I think. Someone’s home and there’s going to have to be some quick explaining. Can I hide the kids? No, that might even be worse if they were found. Surely, they know the situation and will understand. I’m going to go with that for now.
“Otter 39, roger. Lajes approach on xxx.xx,” I reply on the radio and switch over.
“There’s someone there?” Bri asks.
“Apparently so,” I answer and key the mic. “Lajes approach, Otter 39, an HC-130 100 miles west descending through one zero thousand. Request vectors for the straight in for the ILS runway one five.”
“Otter 39, Lajes approach, copy. Squawk 0271 and ident. Altimeter three zero one four, landing runway one five,” I hear the controller say.
I set up the code in the IFF and flick the ident button. This will create a momentary larger blip on their radar screen allowing for a positive identification.
“Otter 39, Lajes approach, radar contact. Turn left heading 070 degrees, descend and maintain seven thousand. This will be vectors for the straight in ILS one five. State departure point and destination,” control says.
“Lajes, copy that. Otter 39 passing through niner thousand for seven. Left to 070. Departed Lewis McChord. Destination classified,” I respond.
I am still astonished, and my mind is working overtime thinking about what kind of reception we are going to get and setting up for the approach. Although civilian aircraft do refuel here, I am in a military aircraft landing at a military field. And, oh yeah, I kinda borrowed this aircraft. My worry meter is climbing steadily.
Approach control gives us vectors to the instrument approach and we set up for landing. Passing the final approach fix, configured for landing, with the runway lights ahead of us and the lights from the base to the side, we are told to contact the tower.
“Lajes tower, Otter 39 on final for runway one five with the gear,” I say after switching to the tower frequency.
“Otter 39, Lajes tower, cleared to land runway one five.”
We touch down, reverse thrust, and slow to taxi speed. “Otter 39, Lajes tower. Taxi to the end of the runway onto the taxiway and shut down. Contact ground on xxx.xx leaving the runway for further instructions.”
“Otter 39 copies,” I reply.
Taxiing to the end of the runway, I pull off onto the taxiway and stop the aircraft contacting ground on the assigned frequency. “Ground, Otter 39 clear of the active.”
“Otter 39, ground, roger. Shut down there. Security will meet you. Remain on this frequency. State souls on board,” ground controls says.
“Ground, Otter 39 copy. Five souls on board. Shutting down and remaining on freq,” I state.
Going through the shutdown procedure, I pull the prop levers back and the props begin their long, winding journey down. To our right, through the windscreen, multiple vehicles are approaching on the taxiway with blue lights flashing.
“Otter 39, ground. Open your crew door and ramp,” ground control says on the radio.
“Ground, Otter 39, roger,” I say and direct Robert into the back to open the door and ramp.
The security vehicles pull up, stopping a short distance away in a semi-circle around the nose of the aircraft. With the sky lighting in the east signaling the coming dawn, security personnel scramble out of their vehicles, several taking positions behind the hoods and three stepping up by the crew door.
“Otter 39, exit out of the crew door one at a time keeping your hands in sight and unarmed,” ground control says.
“Otter 39, roger,” I reply.
We leave our weapons on the seats with our helmets and head to the now open crew door. Spotlights illuminate the entirety of the aircraft, blinding me as I walk down the door stairs and set my flight cap on my head. I barely make out three security personnel standing off to one side silhouetted by the blinding lights. The kids follow me out and down exiting one at a time. I stop at the bottom and an Air Force Tech Sergeant meets me.
“This is your crew, sir?” he asks incredulously as he stops in front of me and salutes.
“It is, sergeant,” I say, returning the salute.
“Anyone else on board, sir?” he asks.
“No, Sergeant Watkins,” I reply, noticing his nametag. “This is it.”
He turns and grabs the mic at his right shoulder, “Cressman, take Bravo and secure the aircraft.”
Sergeant Watkins then turns back to me. “Sir, I was instructed to bring you to Colonel Wilson. Actually, I was instructed to bring the entire crew, but given the circumstances here, I will escort you and allow, um, them, to remain here.”
“Very well, sergeant, lead the way
Sergeant Watkins turns to a senior airmen standing to the right and behind. “Calloway, notify the tower, base ops, and the colonel’s office of our situation. Tell the colonel’s office we are bringing a Captain Walker to him, and then meet me back here.”
“Yes, sergeant,” Airman Calloway says and trots over to one of the vehicles.
“Sir, I heard you came out of McChord,” Watkins says as we await Calloway’s return.
“That’s right, two days ago,” I reply.
“How is it back there, sir?”
“Not good,” I answer and he just shakes his head. “How is it here?”
“I am not sure I’m at liberty to say, sir,” he answers as a security member pokes his head out of the door above us.
“Sergeant Watkins,” the young airman calls out. Watkins turns toward the airman and the airman continues, “The aircraft is clear. There were some weapons in the cockpit and cargo bay which we secured.”
“Okay, Jones,” Watkins replies back. “Bring the rest of Bravo out and sit with these kids.”
“Yes, sergeant,” Jones says, and disappears back into the cargo bay.
“Yours, sir?” Watkins asks, nodding toward the kids standing at the bottom of the ramp with their heads turned towards us.
“Most of ‘em,” I reply and he merely nods. Calloway returns a short time later.
“Sergeant, I’ll be expecting our weapons back once we return,” I say as Calloway draws up.
“Yes, sir. This way if you please, sir,” Watkins says, extending his arm in a sweeping motion, inviting me towards the nearest vehicle.
I climb into the back of the vehicle as Calloway climbs into the driver’s seat with Watkins hopping into the passenger seat. The other airman climbs in the back seat with me and we head down the ramp with the morning sun just poking above the horizon. We drive in silence across the ramp and onto the base roads. Calloway repeatedly looks back at me through the rearview and the airman beside me gives me sidelong glances. Sergeant Watkins is focused straight ahead through the windshield. We arrive at a building a few minutes later, pulling directly up to the sidewalk leading to the front doors, bypassing the surrounding parking lot.
“Sir?” Sergeant Watkins says, looking back over his shoulder at me.
I step out of the vehicle and walk around in front of it to the sidewalk. Watkins walks ahead of me to the front door with Calloway and the other airman behind me at each shoulder. I remove my cap, sliding it in my right calf pocket. We head inside and up a flight of stairs a short distance down the entrance hall.
“It’s so strange to be in a building with the lights on,” I say as we reach a landing.
“What’s that, sir?” Watkins asks, half turning his head around.
“Just that every other building we’ve been in lately has been completely dark. No power or lights. It’s just nice to be in a building that’s lit.”
“There’s no power back in the States?” Calloway asks just behind and to the left of me.
“Calloway, that will be enough!” Watkins snaps tersely.
“Not that I could see,” I answer Calloway’s question.
We proceed into a hallway on the second floor and arrive at a wooden door with a translucent glass panel set into the upper half. Entering within, the room opens into a reception area covered with light gray carpeting and wood paneling. A large, dark, wooden desk sits in the middle of the room with chairs against the wall to our left fronted by a coffee table. The walls have prints of the base and aircraft on them with the usual chain of command photos on one wall. Two wooden doors with the same translucent glass panes set into their upper halves open off the room and we head over to the one on the left. Written on the glass panel in black lettering is ‘Colonel Frank Wilson’ with ‘Vice Commander’ in print below it.
Sergeant Watkins raps once on the glass panel and we hear “Enter” from within.
Watkins swings the door open, and I walk in with him close on my heels. He stops, steps against the wall inside the door, and comes to attention. The room has the same carpeting and paneled walls as the waiting room. Aircraft pictures line the walls with bookcases below them. Another desk, similar to the one outside, sits by a large window to the right facing us.
Colonel Wilson, I am assuming, is the man sitting behind his desk. He is dressed in a light blue, short sleeve Air Force uniform. His close-cropped, graying hair is illuminated by the morning sunlight streaming in through the window. Rows of decorations line the left chest of his uniform shirt and I notice the lack of wings above them. I approach to within three feet of the desk and come to attention.
“Captain Walker reporting, sir,” I say while saluting, focusing my eyes about a foot over his head.
“Captain Walker. Am I to gather that you departed from Lewis-McChord?” he asks, returning the salute.
“Yes, sir.”
“And your mission?”
“I am under orders to pick up some Army personnel in Kuwait and return them to Joint Base Lewis-McChord, sir,” I reply.
“I see. And under whose orders are those?” he asks. His eyes drill into mine as I continue to stand at attention.
“General Billings, sir,” I say.
Wilson then opens a booklet on his desk and flips through it. He stops with his finger tracing down one of the pages.
“Very well, captain,” he says after apparently finding what he is looking for.
See, thankfully, I noticed the pictures on the wall at McChord. All military buildings have pictures of the Chain of Command from the president on down including the joint base commander. He opens another booklet and starts flipping through. Stopping on one particular page, he looks up.
“Captain, how do you explain how you were selected for this mission? The 17th is not based at Lewis-McChord,” he asks.
“Sir, my crew and I were on a refueling stop and heading back to base when all of this went down. I was one of the only pilots…well…still available,” I respond.
“And your crew, captain?”
“Gone, sir,” I state.
“And General Billings sent you on this mission himself!?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Security reports blood along the side of your aircraft. Care to comment on that, captain!”
“It was a rather interesting time getting here, sir,” I respond.
“Then I am to assume that the blood is from the infected ones?” Wilson asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Son, what about your rather strange new crew members?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. My eyes drop momentarily to meet his before snapping back up to the imaginary point over his head.
“Those are my kids, sir.”
“Am I to understand this correctly, captain!? That you smuggled your kids onboard a military aircraft on a military mission!” he asks, leaning toward me, his left hand grasping the edge of his desk in front of him, jutting his chin forward as he slams his right hand down on the desktop.
“Yes, sir.”
It is one of those moments when time seems to completely come to a halt and the abyss opens up before you, seeming to last forever. Colonel Wilson then sighs heavily and leans into his chair.
“Sergeant Watkins, that will be all. Please wait outside,” Wilson says, looking over at the sergeant.
“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Watkins salutes and then exits the room, closing the door behind him.
“At ease, captain,” Wilson says once the door clicks shut.
“I have kids, too, and would’ve done the same in your circumstance. How is it at McChord? We haven’t had any contact with anyone for the past two days,” he asks as I come to parade rest, folding my arms behind me.
“Not good, sir. I’m not sure there will be anyone left soon. The quarantine broke and these things were running everywhere at night. I’m not sure what the plans were, I was only given these orders,” I answer. “Sir, if I may speak?” I add. He merely nods and I ask, “How are things here?”
He laces his fingers behind his head, leaning back farther. “We’re holding our own for the moment. But we’ll have to make a decision soon as we aren’t getting supplies anymore.”
“Sir, do you have any information on what these things are about? Anything?” I ask.
“No, son, I don’t. We don’t have anything at all nor have we heard anything.”
“How are you keeping them subdued or under control if I may ask? How are you keeping your containment and quarantine when no one else seems to be able to?”
Colonel Wilson merely stares at me.
“Oh, I see,” I say after a moment, understanding to what the silence and stare alludes.
That is why he doesn’t have any information on the things. There aren’t any of them here, well, not any anymore—alive that is. The silence and stare suggests the fact that they are shooting those with any of the flu symptoms. Maybe that’s the right way to go, I think, knowing that I’m quite certain I don’t want to meet the general who issued those orders or this little joyride of ours across the world will come to a quick and decisive end.
“Do you have any information on the rest of the States?” he asks.
“Sir, we didn’t see anything on our transit. I did pick up a garbled radio transmission as we came east of the Rockies up by the Canadian border and one civilian aircraft heading into the Columbus, Ohio area, but that’s it. I imagine there have to be others, though,” I say, leaving out the contact with Andrew. Too many questions could arise about that one.
“Well, if things get bad here, we’re going to take one of the KC-10 birds out of here to the States. The problem is, we don’t have a pilot certified in one,” he says with a sigh. “I was thinking about using yours, or your crew, but you have a mission to fulfill.”
“Sir, we could arrange for a pickup after I return the troops back. At the very least, I could bring some supplies. I plan on stopping here on my return leg,” I suggest.
“That might work, captain,” Colonel Wilson says, leaning back in his chair.
“Captain Walker, I can authorize your fuel, but you’ll have to depart immediately afterwards. I cannot overrule General Billings’ order, but General Collins might, and he’ll be arriving in a couple of hours. Maybe earlier, if he heard your aircraft arrive. You might want to be gone by then. That will be all, captain.”
“Yes, sir. And thank you, sir,” I say, coming to attention and salute.
“Sergeant Watkins,” Wilson hollers in the direction of the door and returns my salute.
“Sir!” Watkins responds, opens the door, and salutes.
“Sergeant Watkins, escort Captain Walker to his aircraft and see it’s refueled. He’ll be departing within the hour,” Colonel Wilson orders Watkins.
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Watkins says. “Shall I notify the general, sir?”
“That won’t be necessary, sergeant,” Wilson responds.
“Yes, sir,” Watkins says after a pause, accentuating the underlying subtleties involved with the decision and order.
Sergeant Watkins and I start out of the door to Colonel Wilson’s office when Wilson calls to us, “Captain Walker.”
I turn back towards him, “Yes, sir.”
“Godspeed and good luck, son,” he says.
“Thank you, sir. And to you as well.” The image of him sitting behind his desk in the rays of the morning sun is forever imprinted on my mind. Calloway and the other airman are waiting outside the door as the sergeant and I exit. They take up their previous stations behind me.
“Calloway, Foster, at ease. The captain has been cleared,” Watkins says. I hear the distinct click of fire select levers being flipped to what I hope is ‘safe’ as we head down the stairs and out to the vehicle.
During the drive back to the flight line, 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 considering that I don’t even know if Lynn is alive or no—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 I’ll 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 flight line 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 truck as it pulls alongside our 130 and the re-fuelers attach the fuel line. The kids are seated at the foot of the door with two security guards standing nearby facing them while many of the other security personnel head into several of the parked vehicles. Two security personnel stand at the rear of the aircraft by the open ramp. Two soldiers walk up to Sergeant Watkins as I exit.
“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,” I hear.
“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 MPs 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 flight line 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 and airworthiness. The fuel truck is 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 flapping against my clothes. With a final glance at the base and surrounding area, I close the crew door and 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,” I call.
“Otter 39, ground, roger,” Ground Control responds.
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,” I confirm.
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,” the tower gives us our clearance.
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 reply.
“Good luck to you, Otter 39,” Lajes departure says.
We are about a hundred and fifty 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 see him 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,” I respond.
“Captain! Dammit, I am countermanding those orders and you will turn that god-damned airplane around!” Collins says, raising his voice.
Note to self, do NOT answer the radio once we are away from any airfield 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 reply. 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-15s or F-18s 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 forty-eight hours. And general, sir, good luck to you,” I say.
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 over-flights, but the distance and our range dictates 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 beyond the continued silence as we make our way through the daylight and into night while the sun sets behind us in a fiery display.
On into the night we fly, taking turns napping and monitoring the flight. Our external tanks have long ago emptied and we are on our last few hours of flight with the fuel remaining onboard. About two hundred miles out from Kuwait, I start a gradual descent with the bright stars and quarter moon lighting our way. The ground below us is dark with the exception of a few fires in the distance at various points with some just showing an orange glow as the smoke conceals the extent of the fire below. It has been this way since the sun descended, darkening the world above and below as it wends its way around to get ready for its rise and another day.
I feel wary about transiting through this area. I mean, after all, this is a war zone. If there are any fighters still around and capable, odds dictate this is the place they would most likely be. However, there is no reply to my calls on guard or lights suddenly showing up on our wingtips. Nor do we suddenly blow up. About fifty miles out, I see a very faint glow on the horizon ahead of us. I am unsure whether it is just a glow from another fire or actual lights. Continuing my descent, running through my checks, and setting up the NAV, I make a call on guard, “This is Otter 39 on UHF guard. Anyone read?”