A New World [7] Takedown (22 page)

“Well, everyone had to have their say, and some twice, but we’ve decided to come along if the offer still stands. There were a few who weren’t eager to ride for days so I promised them I’d ask this, is there any way you could pick us up on your way home?”

“Of course the offer still stands and we’d be happy to have you along. However, I’m sorry to say we won’t be returning here. Maintenance could become an issue with the aircraft so the sooner we can get home, the better,” I answer.

“That’s kind of what I thought. Okay, give us a chance to pack our stuff up. How much room do you have?” Dixon asks.

“Some, but not much I’m afraid. We can cram what we can in but realize that we have the vehicle there,” I say, pointing at the Stryker, “It takes up most of our available space.”

“Okay, I’ll tell them to keep it to a minimum. Some have mementos they want to hold onto,” he responds.

“Pictures and the sort aren’t going to change things one way or the other so those are fine. Favorite couches on the other hand…” I reply.

“We’ll be ready in about an hour if that suits you. How do you want to do this? Follow in vehicles?” he asks.

“That will be fine. Just realize that the vehicles will also have to be left,” I say.

He nods and vanishes inside once again. People come and go, tossing articles into vehicles and eventually everyone is ready to go. I tell the teams to mount up. The ride back is more of the same with the exception that we have a convoy of loaded pickups and vans following. We pull into the airfield and park our caravan by the 130. I take Dixon over and introduce him to Tim. Harkings glances over the crowd gathered by the aircraft and pulls me aside.

“We talked after you left. We want to come with you, but I have to ask now, will there be enough room?” he asks.

“I won’t lie. It’ll be a touch cramped, but we can all fit,” I answer.

“Okay, well, if it won’t be too much trouble.”

“None at all. We plan to hunker down here for the night and leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds good. We’ll be ready. If you want, we have plenty of space in the tankers if some people want to stay in there for the night,” Tim says.

“That would be great. It’ll give everyone one more night of being able to stretch out. After that, we’ll just have to endure. If it’s okay, I’ll have everyone but the teams stay with you.”

“That will be more than fine. We saved some food for you. Not enough for everyone, but we have enough daylight left to light up the grills again. We can have one more feast before we depart. It’s not like we’ll be able to take truckloads of food with us,” he says.

“That would be way cool. Thanks.”

With the afternoon sun settling over the city to the west, we cook more than enough hamburgers and chicken to fill an army of people. The odor of the grilling food wafts over the ramp, reminiscent of what summer is supposed to smell like. Contentment reigns over the gathering. I tuck it away in the back of my mind that we’ll have to score some grills and have days like this when we get back. I’ve been so consumed with getting things done that I’ve forgotten how times like this can rejuvenate people. Yeah, we need to do this. It may bring night runners to our walls, but the mental needs of our group are important as well. We can’t afford to do this every day, but we can set aside a day of rest once we set up the inner wall and towers. Unless something comes up, which it always seems to.

Some of the smaller children, which were with Dixon and his group, run across the ramp chasing after one another. Their laughter mixes with the murmur of conversations. One of the younger boys, not looking where he is going as he races from one of the girls chasing him, runs into me. He stops and looks up with a mixture of fear and awe. I hesitate and, with a smile, reach down to ruffle his hair. The sweet upturned face of the young boy smiles in return and he races off. Watching the boy run off, I wonder if that might have been what the boy in the trees was like once.

We finish our meal and stow the Stryker. With the last rays casting an orange glow in the cockpit, Robert and I verify our numbers for the next hop to Petersen AFB. The last time we were there, we barely escaped with our lives rescuing Mullins and his men. The memory of the chase through the night sends a shiver up my spine. I’m not all that keen on returning to that place but I remind myself that we’ll only be out during the day. The question of whether night runners are there in abundance is not in doubt, or at least they were. At any rate we’ve reached the eastern most location of our journey and our direction west will draw us closer to home. We are close to the line we drew some time ago with regards to the nuclear power plants and possible radiation zones.

As expected, when the sun gives its final farewell and disappears below the horizon, faint shrieks begin to filter through our metal walls. Before long the tarmac is filled with our nightly visitors. It isn’t until now that I fully appreciate the quiet evenings we had the prior couple of nights. Looking outside, I see packs of night runners filling the ramp and the beatings against the side of the aircraft begin. The people resting in the tankers look like they might be having an easier go of it as the night runners can’t scale the wings to the fuselage. I set the battery and radios on. I’ve taken to monitoring the radios at night in the hopes that we can finally break through to base. This hour’s watch takes their place fore and aft as I pull away from the window with a sigh.

It’s going to be another restless night
, I think, settling into the lower cockpit bunk and listening to the periodic thud of the persistent night runners slamming into the side of the 130.

“If anyone is out there and can hear this, we need help!”

The radio call is hushed as it exits from the cockpit speaker but startles me awake nonetheless.

“Sir?” the soldier on watch in the cockpit says.

“I heard it and I’m up,” I reply, climbing out of my sleeping bag into the chilled air.

“Shall I wake the others?” he asks.

“Let’s wait and see what’s up first,” I answer.

I step across the steel deck feeling the cold seep through my socks. The night is still filled with night runners prowling the ramp; some exiting while others emerge from between the hangars. I hope there isn’t a problem with anyone in the other aircraft parked along the ramp adjacent to us. If there is, with the number of night runners out, there really won’t be much that we can do to assist.

“Jack, this is Tim. Did you catch that?” I hear over the radio.

“Yeah. I caught that. I’m about to try and make contact. Any idea of who it might be?”

“Not a clue,” he answers.

“Okay. I’ll call you back if I find out anything,” I say and switch the radio to transmit over the emergency channel.

I’m guessing the call must have come over that frequency. It will transmit over all UHF or VHF channels depending on the type of radio. That’s really the only way we could have heard the call unless they happened to be on our frequency.

“Calling on UHF guard, this is Captain Walker. I hear you loud and clear. State the nature of your emergency,” I call.

“Sir, Sergeant Reynolds here. We’re holed up in a school and close to being overrun by these night demons,” Reynolds replies.

“Can you hold out until morning?” I ask.

“Doubtful, sir. We held them off last night, but they’ve broken through some of our defenses and we don’t have unlimited ammo,” she answers.

Sporadic gunfire echoes in the background of her transmission.

“Okay, Reynolds, how many do you have with you and what’s your location?” I ask, knowing we’ll be hard pressed to offer any help.

It’s night and the ramp is teeming with night runners. We’d be lucky to get ten feet if we managed to get out at all. We could get into the Stryker, but that would mean opening up the aircraft. I’m not keen on coming back and having to clear it of any night runners that decided to stay. Gunfire in aircraft tends to put holes in the side, along with taking out hydraulic, electric, and other equipment necessary for the 130 to leave the ground. That would effectively strand us here.

“I have six other troops and eleven kids of varying ages. We’re in a large school to the southwest of a town called El Dorado…in Kansas,” she answers.

“Kids! You have kids with you?”

“Yes, sir. There are eleven of them left. They are, um, were from a deaf school nearby,” she answers.

“A deaf school? They’re deaf?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have an exact location?” I ask.

“I think the GPS still has some juice left. Standby.”

“Go wake the others and have Greg come to the cockpit,” I say to the soldier leaning over my shoulder.

He nods and immediately disappears down the stairs. Reynolds radios back their coordinates. Each time she presses the mic, I continue to hear gunfire and shrieks in the background. It doesn’t sound like they are having a lot of fun.

“Okay. Standby. We’re in Wichita. Let me see what we can do. No promises, sergeant. We have night runners all over us as well,” I reply.

“Okay, sir. I understand, but any assistance you can give would be…well…helpful.”

I pull out a map as Greg enters the cockpit and I relay the conversation.

“It’s about thirty miles away,” I say, pointing to the coordinates given on the map.

“Is there anything we can really do?” Greg asks. “I mean, I understand with kids and all, but look outside.”

Night runners continue to streak across the ramp with numerous ones gathered around the various aircraft. The moon’s rays sneak through a break in the overcast illuminating a portion of the tarmac. Several night runners glance up at the bright light while others look in our direction. The moon catches a few just right and their eyes glow in its radiance sending a shiver up my spine. There’s no way I want to be out there. I think about the kids and the soldiers fighting for their lives; the fear they must feel in the dark with night runners pressing in.

“We could unfasten the Stryker and load up. Rig something to lower the ramp, seal up the vehicle, and drive out,” I say.

“That would leave the aircraft open.”

“Yeah, but if we left the windows uncovered, there really isn’t a place they could hide out. We could just wait out the night in the Stryker and return in the morning,” I state.

“How many did you say were there?” Greg asks as Robert joins us.

“Seven soldiers and eleven kids,” I answer.

“That would make it a little cozy in the Stryker and there’s no way we can go outside to get another vehicle. Could we even fit everyone in?”

“We’d just have to pile in on top of one another and make do,” I respond.

“It’s your call, Jack,” Greg says.

Yeah, I’ve always loved that statement. It’s the one where there is no right answer, and I get to make the decision with anything I do decide being the wrong one. I know, because I’ve used the statement myself many times.

“Round everyone up and get them ready. Load them up and rig something to press the ramp button from the Stryker turret,” I say.

“Yeah, right. Want me to lasso the moon while I’m at it?”

“Well, while you’re at it, if you wouldn’t mind. It might come in handy,” I reply.

“Okay, Jack, I’ll figure something out. See you in the back,” he says and exits.

“Tim, did you catch all of that?” I ask, dialing our regular frequency back up.

“Yeah, I did. I don’t see what we can do, though,” he answers. I outline our plan to drive out of the aircraft and go.

“I don’t envy you. If there’s anything we can do to help, let me know,” Tim says.

“I can’t think of anything. We’ll be back in the morning,” I reply.

“Okay, see you then.”

“Reynolds, we’re going to try and make it to you. How are you holding up?” I ask, switching frequencies once again.

“We’re expending ammo at a high rate, but managing, sir. And thanks,” she answers.

“Does your radio have enough juice for the night?”

“It should, sir,” she replies.

“Okay. I’ll call you when we get closer and ask about specifics. It’ll take us about an hour to reach you.”

“We’ll be here, sir…hopefully.”

I walk down the stairs into the dimly lit cargo compartment where the teams are gathering their gear; some donning their NVGs and checking them while others load mags into their vests. There is little talk amid the sounds of getting ready; boots walking across the steel decking, the metallic clink of a mag being inserted, the rattle of chains falling to the floor as the Stryker is unhitched. From time to time, the shrieks outside rise and everyone flinches each time a night runner pounds into the fuselage. Everyone has been briefed and, although they had a long day with little rest, their game faces are on.

Tension is etched on everyone as they realize we are venturing out into the realm of the night runners and will more than likely have to battle with them once we reach our destination. They also have looks of determination. There are kids and comrades out there who are in trouble and need rescuing. A soldier lives for the one next to them and will do anything for them. Kids, well, that goes way past any thought of themselves. To the soldiers donning vests and stashing ammo inside the Stryker, it’s a given that we will help.