Well, just thanks.  I am really glad you’re my dad.”

You know, I live to just hear that line.  That makes my whole life justifiable to hear that and my eyes well up with tears.  “Hon, I’m the lucky and fortunate one to have been able to be your dad.”

She steps over and wraps her arms around me, burying her head in my shoulder.  I fold my arms around her and feel her shake as she releases the emotion of the storm passage and the events of the past few days.  That is my Nic, in all of my life with her, it is a rarity to see her cry and that is usually only a silent sob and the shedding of a couple of tears.  I hear the curtain swing back, “What’re you guys doing?”  Bri lightly asks stepping out.

Nicole steps back and I release my arms from around her.  “Nothing, babe.  Just picking some of this stuff up,” I say as Nicole starts for the bathroom.

“Are you okay Nic?”  Bri asks, half turning to follow her as Nic passes by her.

“I’m fine Bri,” responds Nic turning her head toward Bri but continuing to the toilet and pulling the curtain closed.

“Help me with the rest of this please Bri,” I say.

She turns back toward me and starts fishing loose items off of the floor with an occasional glance toward the curtains and Nic.  Those two have always been close.

With Nic finished and the loose items put away, at least as many as we could find and gather, we head back to the cockpit, settling in our seats for the final hour and a half to our stop.  I attach the night vision goggles to my helmet and brief Robert on what to do if we have to resort to a night vision approach.  Basically, he is to read out the airspeed and altitude on the radar altimeter.  The radar altimeter gives a reading on feet above the ground when we are within 2,000 feet.  The altimeters are basically worthless down low as we don’t know what the local altimeter setting is.  I will be looking out the front for the runway with my instrument lights turned down.  Night vision goggles aren’t the best for depth perception so it is important for Robert to call out the instrument readings so I can assimilate what I see with what he tells me to better present a three dimensional picture although my hope is to be able to just use the landing lights and the GPS.

Having called many times on the radio and only receiving the one garbled and scratchy reply, I make one more call before beginning a long descent into Brunswick NAS, hoping to raise someone there.  I call on UHF guard three times but as most every time before, am only met by continued silence.  Switching to VHF, I try there, “Otter 39 on VHF Guard for anyone that can read me.”

“Otter 39, this is Gulfstream Four Juliet Golf on guard.  How do you read?”  I stare down at the radio almost disbelieving what I just heard.  We all look at each other in astonishment.

“Gulfstream Four Juliet Golf, read you loud and clear.  What’s your position?”

“We’re about 100 miles west of Charlotte at flight level 350. Over.”

“Where are you out of and where are you heading? Over,” I say still incredulous about talking to someone.

“We left Florida a short time ago and are heading up by Columbus, Ohio.”

“Watch out for a line of thunderstorms up that way.  The line is basically over the Chicago area extending several hundred miles Northwest and Southeast from there.  You might be okay in the Columbus area though.”

“Copy that.  I don’t have anything on radar yet but will be looking out for them.  Thanks for the tip.  What’s your location?”

“Roger that Four Juliet Golf.  We’re an HC-130 a little over 330 miles west of Portland, Maine at flight level 200.  We plan to bunk there for the night before refueling and continuing to Kuwait in the morning.”

“Copy.  Where in Kuwait if you don’t mind my asking?  I have a sister stationed there.”

No freakin’ way, it couldn’t possibly be, I think.  Lynn had, or has I guess, a brother who was a pilot flying out of Ohio.  “Four Juliet Golf, your sister wouldn’t happen to be named Lynn would it?”

“Um, Otter Three Niner, that’s affirmative.”

“You wouldn’t by chance happen to be Craig would you?”  I ask completely amazed and a little befuddled by this seeming happenstance.

“Okay, this is weird and perhaps a rather strange coincidence.  I’m going to hazard a guess that you are Jack.”

“Yeah Craig, I am.  This is an amazing coincidence and I’m glad we met up.  I’ll tell Lynn when I see her.”

“Have you heard from her lately?”  Craig’s question comes into my earphones.

“Not in the past couple of days.  How about you?”

“About the same,” he replies back.

“You mentioned we, who else do you have on board?”  I ask leaving the hope that she is still okay open.

“Mom and two feline friends.  Do you know how hard it is to buckle two cats up?”

“About as hard as trying to herd them I guess,” I say chuckling.  “You’re welcome to follow us into Brunswick Naval Air Station.  I can give you the coordinates if you like.  I’ll leave the lights on for ya.”

“Love to Jack but I have to check on my other sis and dad.  What’s your plan after?”

I tell him about out plan to return to McChord in a few days and we continue to talk for a bit back and forth, at one point Mom getting on the radio, “You find my girl and bring her back Jack.”

“Will do ma’am,” I reply.

We didn’t want to get off of the radio after having made contact, however, each of our duties calls and we agree to meet back at McChord in 5 days.

“Good luck to you Craig.  I wish you and Mom the best.”

“To you as well Jack.  Tell my sis hi.”

“Roger that.  See you in 5.”  And as quick as he came, he was gone.

It is quite the miracle we came together like that.  Like the bubbling realm of possibilities in my mind and the quantum world came together to form a piece of reality.  The realm of possibilities are endless and don’t surface into to the realm of reality until observed in some fashion; whether through direct observation or through a conscious or sub-conscious factor.  Was meeting Craig like that, and the fact that he happened to be Lynn’s brother a direct manifestation of my mind and sub-conscious want?  I drift into thoughts of the quantum world and energy until my brain bleeds.  I shake my head bringing myself out of my reverie and into the current reality.

Beginning our descent, I switch our primary route to Robert’s nav instrument and the approach I designed to mine after accomplishing our checks.  The moon looms large in the sky above, casting a ghostly, silver blue light on the landscape below. Nowhere does the light of man show and only the drone and vibrations of the engines keep us company.

Having descended a little out over the Atlantic, I turn back to the west, centering the localizer needle, flying toward the naval air station.  Three miles from final approach fix, where we will start down toward the runway, with our flaps at 50 percent, I call for the gear.  The deep rumble vibrates the aircraft and then comes to a stop as three green lights are illuminated by the gear handle.  The horizontal needle on the instrument starts its downward trek toward the middle.  I pull the throttles back and flick on the landing lights as the needle centers with the vertical needle already centered.  It looks much like a crosshair and that’s the way we want it.

The moon disappears behind the clouds from the far away storm as they trek slowly eastward and the moon continues on its westward journey, leaving the land and sky around only very dimly lit by the stars above.  Too dark to see any buildings or runway from here.  I can only hope we are on the right path, that I have set up the right coordinates, and that the GPS is still accurate.

Continuing down the glide path, Robert calls out the airspeed and altitude on the radar altimeter for practice should we need to use the night vision equipment.   My eyes alternate between the nav readings, the airspeed, altimeter, and outside hoping to pick up the runway soon.

“500 feet,” he calls out through the microphone.  I can feel the tension from the girls.  Well, I can feel it from me as well.  I have been a long time out of the aircraft and here I am flying a night, GPS only approach to a foreign airfield that has no lights.  What could be more relaxing?

“300 feet.”

Suddenly, the lights pick up the threshold of a runway with the white threshold markings, then more of the runway and its surroundings illuminate as we draw closer.  “I have a visual,” I call out transitioning to a total visual approach.  “We’re going to do a low fly-by to check out the runway.”  For all I know, there are wrecked aircraft all over it or deer deciding the runway is a good place to gather and I have already had enough surprises for one day.

About 100 feet off of the ground, I push the power up leaving the gear down so we can have the lights.  We lumber down the runway for the length of it.  I try to get a visual on the wind sock but it is lost in the darkness somewhere when I realize forgot to have Robert check the nav system for wind direction and speed.  Well, it’s not like I have a choice on which runway to land on.  I can’t exactly circle around to an unlit runway.  I mean, I could but it is just like any other dark patch of land below us and winding up on an exact final would be a matter of luck.

We climb away after seeing the runway clear and clean up the aircraft, turning once more towards the markers I set in the nav and align with the runway again, this time with the intention of landing.  I pick up the runway at about the same point as the last time with our gear down and call for full flaps.  Robert checks on the wind and it shows that we have a very slight tailwind.  Nothing to worry about.  This time, rather than powering up, I pull the throttle and control wheel slowly back, flaring over the threshold.  I wouldn’t so much call what we did scant seconds later a landing but more of an arrival.  Thump!  Welcome to Brunswick!  Night landings can do that but at least the wheels stay on the ground and the wings are still attached.  Lowering the nose, I pull the throttles over the detent and apply reverse thrust.  The aircraft leans forward and our airspeed diminishes.

“Holy shit!”  Both Robert and I say at the same time as there is suddenly someone standing there in the glare of the lights.  I mean, just standing there right on the runway and just to the left of our path.  Idiot, I think pushing down on the brakes.  We still have a bit of momentum and they can overheat in a hurry causing the tires and gear to disintegrate.  There’s no way I’m going to stop in time, and, as quick as they appeared, they are lost below the windows and down the left side.  The aircraft lurches slightly to the left and, very quickly, so quick as to almost be non-existent, a vibration and buzz saw noise comes through the cockpit.  I quickly correct the direction and take the throttles out of reverse, applying brakes to bring us to a taxi speed.

“Was that what I think was?”  Michelle asks from her seat.

“Yeah, I think so,” Robert responds.

“Should we go see if they are alright?”  Nicole asks.

“I’m not sure that’s going do any good Nicole,” Robert says still incredulous.

“Besides, we’re not going out at night.  I’m pretty sure that was one of those things because no sane person would be standing in the middle of a runway with a plane landing,” I add.

I turn off the runway at the end and turn the aircraft around so we are facing the runway.  I would just park on the runway ready to take off again but there is the off chance that someone could come in and try to land here.  The runway wouldn’t be the best place to be if that were to happen as they won’t see us until too late.  Shutting down but shunting the electrical power to battery and setting the parking brake, we then head to the cargo area.  Drawing curtains across the cockpit, I also put covers over the cargo compartment windows.  The covers are for blackout operations and allow lighting within the cargo area without emitting any outside.  With the cargo compartment lights on, I check the doors and have everyone else ready the sleeping bags and get some food out.  There are three cots available within.

“Bri, Nicole, you have the two middle cots between the tanks there,” I say pointing.  “Michelle, you have the one over the window.”

They take out their bags, unfurling them on the cots with Robert unrolling his under Michelle’s location.  Smiling inside at that, I unroll mine in the aisle by the front door.  We find some small pillows in the storage compartments and heat up some canned food after arranging our beds and hunker down for some dinner.  We are all exhausted and so eat mostly in silence with little small talk.

“We’ll get some rest and head out of here in the morning,” I say as we finish dinner.  “Flashlights by your bed in case you need to get up in the night.  I’ll take the first watch.”

With everyone in their bags, I head up to the cockpit and flip the electrical system off plunging the aircraft into darkness.  My path illuminated by flashlight, I head over to my bag and climb inside, laying the M-4 and pistol by my side and switching off the light.  We all say our goodnights in the darkness.

I am just about to lay my head down and keep watch from inside my bag when a loud thump reverberates through the aircraft.  Nicole gives a small yelp.  “What was that?”  Robert asks sitting up in the darkness.  A shriek sounds outside.

“I guess that answers your question,” I say climbing out of my bag and grabbing my weapons.

Another thump as something slams into the side from outside, this one close behind me by the front crew door.  It is followed by another close to the rear of the aircraft on the other side.  Several shrieks sound out in the night and I hear growling outside, muted by the metallic skin of the fuselage.  The thumps against the fuselage increase with the shrieks and growling growing in intensity and numbers.  Apparently more are arriving outside the aircraft.

“Don’t worry guys and be absolutely quiet,” I whisper loud enough for everyone to hear just as two simultaneous thumps echo inside from opposite sides of the 130.  “This thing took the beating the thunderstorms gave it so we are quite safe here.  And, unless they know how to manipulate the doors, they can’t get inside.”

The slams and shrieks become a constant with the muted growls filling any void in-between.  Exhaustion fills us but we are unable to sleep with the noise outside coupled with the tension that so many things prowling around brings.

“Okay!!  Enough of this crap!”  I say after three solid hours of this constant barrage on our senses.  “This has got to stop!”

“What are you going to do?”  Robert asks as I turn on my flashlight and start toward the curtains at the bottom of the cockpit stairs.

“End this shit,” I say cupping the light in my fingers and drawing the curtains back enough to slip inside and up the stairs.

I step over to the commander’s seat and buckle up, placing my helmet on.  Buckling the chinstrap on, I notice Robert slide into his seat and buckle up.  “Are we taking off?”  He says after plugging into the intercom.

“No,” I reply reaching up to switch the electrics to battery and ensuring the main fuel tanks are feeding the turbines with the boost pumps on.

With the helmet on, the thumps and shrieks are muted even further; the thumps more felt than heard and the constant growling muted altogether.  If the helmets muted everything altogether, perhaps we could just put them on and enjoy some quiet, but well, that’s just not the case.  I don’t know how many are gathered outside trying to bash their way in, bu, from the sound of it, there are quite a few.

“Are we just going to move then?  Won’t they just follow us?”  Robert asks as I attach the NVG’s to my helmet and rotate them down over my eyes.

“We’re going to move alright and I hope they do follow us.”

I glance out my side window.  The runway and surrounding area is bathed in a greenish glow.  Depth perception is a little off but details are not.  I see at least fifty gathered around on my side and in front; some just milling around but others running at the aircraft only to disappear below my line of sight, the only indication that their run continues is a solid thump against the aircraft.  My line of sight cannot see much past our inboard engine toward the fuselage but I imagine it is the same all around us.

“There are about fifty over here.  How’s your side?”  I ask looking over at Robert to see he has put his NVG’s on.

“About the same I think,” he answers as the girls step into the cockpit and buckle into their seats.

“Are we leaving?”  Bri asks once she attaches her comm cord.

“Nope.”

“What are we going to do then?”  She asks only to be interrupted by Robert. “How are we going to start the engines with those things around them?”

“We just are,” I answer back as four sets of eyes turn toward me and I raise my NVG’s.

“I’m not even going to ask if it’s clear right,” I say moving the throttle lever to run and reach up to the number three engine start button.

Robert looks back in but keeps sneaking quick glances outside, both curious and appalled at the potential of what will happen when the engines start.  I push the button and hear the turbine start spinning up and see the gauges on number three rise.

“Oh sick!”  Robert says but he continues glancing outside.

I feel a couple of thumps as the props spin up to speed and the engine stabilizes smoothly at idle.  I run up the engine a little and begin the start on number 4.  I feel thumps along my side of the aircraft and some on Robert’s but they are distinctly lacking on the right rear.  The hurricane force winds generated by the engines and giant props prevent anything from being able to exist behind.

“They’ve moved away from the engines but are bunched up below me,” Robert says.

I start the remaining engines and the drone drowns out all but the slams against the front.  With everything stabilized, I flick on the landing and taxi lights flooding the area in front of us in light.  The crowd around the aircraft comes into full view, their mottled skin showing up brightly and they are clothed in a variety of manners; some in flight suits, others in fatigues and other uniforms, and still others in civilian clothing; shorts, jeans, t-shirts, button up shirts, some shredded, some whole.  The intensity of the lights causes them to appear as if in black and white with little color being reflected back to our eyes.  They are milling about anxiously with only the occasional one slamming into the side but all give the blur of the props room.  In the lights, more are running toward our front and sides from around the wind edges.

I release the parking brake, move the throttles up and the aircraft starts rolling forward.  “Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?”  Robert asks staring at the immense crowd outside.

“Yup,” I reply pushing the throttles forward.  The engines respond to my request and the 130 begins to pick up speed, the nose of the aircraft forcing the things outside to part to one side or the other.  “I wouldn’t look as it’s not going to be pretty.”

A change in the pitch and drone of the engines occurs as we head down the taxiway and onto the runway accompanied by a series of soft slaps against the sides of the fuselage behind us.  The things outside closest to us try to back away from our advance but are slowed by those behind them.  Some try to get away to the side only to be caught by the outside engines.  In the middle of the runway, I start turning the aircraft around, the light we cast turning with us and illuminates the outside by degrees, picking up the things outside coming back at us, first in singles as we turn, and then in groups as we complete our 180 degree turn.  The lights clearly show our previous path by the small and large clumps of shredded clothing and bloodied body parts strewn on the taxiway with a clearly defined path down the middle.

Some are now coming toward us from in front with more from the sides as we start down the taxiway to where we were parked just moments ago.  Some of those in front scatter to the sides and away at our approach but a few keep coming blinded by the intensity of our lights.  There are a couple additional buzz saw-like sounds and meaty slaps against the sides as we turn left and proceed down the main taxiway paralleling the runway.  The main ramp area opens to our right and I swing out onto it, doing yet another 180 degree turn at about midfield.  I bring the throttles back and step on the brakes bringing us to a stop.  The lights pick out an immense horde of things running after us down the taxiway and in the grass between the taxiway and runway.

“They’re persistent, I’ll give ‘em that,” I say watching them close in.

I push the throttles up a bit holding onto the brakes, the nose bows downward compressing the nose gear strut, waiting to be released.  “Won’t this damage the props?”  Robert asks as we all look at the well-lit group hurtling towards us.

“Should be okay.  Those are thirteen foot props turning at over 1,000 rpm.  Rocks and such will put nicks in them but I doubt they’ll even notice flesh and bones.”

“Dad, do we have to do this?”  Bri asks.

“Hon, we don’t have the fuel to fly our next leg nor do we have enough to just fly around all night.  Plus, they’re just pissing me off.  Sorry, sweetheart.”

There we sit, stopped on the taxiway, the deep, steady, strong drone of the engines, the propellers turning at high speed, lights blazing out into the darkness, and the approaching horde, steadily closing the distance, drawn by whatever it is in their heads that leads them to this chase.

When the mass is about 75 yards ahead, I release the brakes, the nose launching upward as the aircraft is finally released from its blocks.  We start down the taxiway, picking up speed as we near the horde, our closure rate increasing as we add our speed to it.  We close to within a few yards and the ones in front of us start separating from our path to the sides.  And then, just like that, they sweep behind us, the outboard engines catching a couple of them as we pass them by.

I taxi to the end of the ramp and taxiway, turning around once again, “Okay, let’s try that a little differently,” I say bringing us to a stop.

Once again, the horde has turned around and is pursuing us.  This time, I wait until they are only 50 yards ahead before releasing the brakes.  We surge ahead and draw closer to them.  They separate in the same manner and I turn to the right with them, maneuvering to bring the nearest edge of them close down our right side.  Our lights ahead show the ramp clear of obstacles other than the running horde.  Our engines plow through them, raw, meaty slaps against the fuselage barely heard over the roar of the turning props.  Slap…. Slap,slap…slap,slap,slap,slap..slap….slap..slap,slap.

“Oh my god,” Nic whispers sickly and with horror through the headset as the lights shining ahead of us turn a pale pink on the right side.

My anger at them turns to a sickness deep inside that rests in the pit of my stomach.  I gain a little distance and turn the aircraft around.  “You’re kidding,” Robert says as we stop for the third time and see the mass, although diminished, has turned around and are after us yet again.

“Dad, can we just get out of here?”  Bri asks.

“I wish we could, babe,” I answer back.  “I am really sorry, hon.”

I hear a heavyish sigh over the helmet speakers; I think from Michelle.

“If this is too much for anyone, just head into the back.  You can stuff bits of clothing in your helmet to drown out the sounds and you don’t have to watch.  Hell, I might even join you,” I say watching the diminished horde draw closer, most of them directly in front of us but a few scattered groups and single ones off to the side, looking almost like a flanking maneuver.

“I’m okay,” Bri says behind me.

“Me too,” says Nic.

“I’m doing alright,” Robert answers.

“I’m fine,” Michelle speaks out.

“Well hell, I’m not.  This is disgusting as hell,” I say.

There is a simultaneous “yeah” from everyone.

When they are again about 50 yards away, I release the brakes and the aircraft leaps toward them.  I stay to the right side of the taxi way with the ramp to my left as the horde and we begin another joust.  They separate as before and I head toward the left group trying to take them down the left side this time.  Rather than angle outward, they then turn a direct 90 degrees away from us attempting to get far away from our path, the ones off to the sides turn towards us, attempting to run around behind us.  We catch fewer of them.  Slap…slap,slap..slap….slap,slap,slap..slap. 

We draw to the end once more turning around.  Our lights illuminate the ramp and taxiway showing the asphalt littered with scraps and chunks of clothing, body parts, and bits of flesh and bone.  An absolutely disgusting sight that makes me want to flick the lights off but I need them.  The things hovering at a distance, milling about, and some lean towards us with their mouths open, obviously emitting those loud shrieks.  The only sound coming to us is the continuous droning of engines and heavy breathing in our helmet speakers.

“What the hell is that!?”  I say into the microphone.

“What?”  Michelle asks.

“Listen,” I say and then hear another faint thump; more felt than heard.  “There, that.”

“It sounds like it’s coming from behind us,” Robert says.

There must have been a group of them that waited while the rest of them ran towards us knowing we would turn around and stop here.

“Well, they’re apparently not overly dumb,” I say as we feel and hear more thumps from the rear of the 130.  They are apparently coming in directly behind us avoiding the wind from the propellers.  Luckily, we are in a secure aircraft but I note their quick change in tactics each time and do not like the ramifications.

I release the brakes and head toward the crowd a ways down the tarmac, taxiing over the mass of body parts and clothing.  The milling about of the horde ceases as they become completely still, all focused towards us and our ever closing lights.  They then, almost as one, turn and run, most of them heading towards the buildings sitting on the edge of the ramp, the others directly away from us.  I head across the ramp in an attempt to cut off the ones running towards the buildings.

“Daaad, they’re running away,” Bri says over the intercom.  “Please don’t.”

“Honey, we can’t feel sorry for them.  Ever!”  I say but turn the aircraft away nonetheless slowing our taxi speed.

I head on the taxiway to the end and close to the edge of the runway, just as we parked before except at the other end of the runway.  I will want to inspect the aircraft in the morning but have no intention of doing that in the mess we created at the other end.  I shut down the aircraft and we settle in once again for the night.  It takes us a while to get to sleep after the events of the evening with vivid images still floating through our minds but we eventually drift off one by one and are not bothered for the rest of the night.

To the Beach

I awaken to the sound of soft little 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 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 absolutely 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 various situations in the past and 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, if I had just left things alone.  However, we are all 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 up to the cockpit windows and look out.  The eastern horizon is the pale blue of a just risen sun transitioning to a darker blue as the eye travels 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 of us and the paralleling taxiway behind us stretch away westward.  The ramp opens up off the taxiway with several tan buildings abutting against it.  Several P-3 Orions are parked on a ramp angling off of the main ramp, looking 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.  Several crows hop around the strewn body parts in the early morning light.

I climb out of the cockpit and open the front door, light streaming in as it lowers to the ground.  Cool morning air replaces the warmth of the interior, cooling my cheeks as it passes on by; the smell of a fresh summer day rides the currents.  I peek out of the door gazing at the motionless, monstrous propellers, their blades 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 look down the side of the aircraft.  It is there that the evidence 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.  With the exception of the new paint job, the aircraft looks in good shape.  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 and 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 even more 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 says turning his gaze down the side of the aircraft.

“Wow!”  He comments as his eyes reach the darkened streaks.

“Yeah,” I say in response.

“The girls up yet?”  I ask after a moment of once again studying the dried blood pasted along the side.

“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 says and 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 from the right seat.

“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 unbuckle and head into the cargo bay.

“Morning, Dad,” Nic says sitting up in her sleeping bag.

“Morning, babe.”

“What are you guys doing?”

“Getting the start cart out.  Something’s up with the batteries.”

“Need any help?”  She asks climbing out of her bag.

“Sure, hon.”

“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, unstrap the start cart, and wheel it around to the front of the aircraft by the crew door.  “Okay Nic and Michelle, do your stuff,” I say and they unroll the connector cables, unlatch the small door on the side of the fuselage, and attach the cart.

Robert and I walk in through the crew door pulling it closed behind us and head back into the cockpit buckling up as before.  I switch the power over to external and, after confirming that Nic is online, start up the right two engines – numbers 3 and 4.  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.  The readings 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.”

“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.  Looking them over with a flashlight, I notice one of them has a crack in the side.

“The thunderstorm must have bounced them around a little,” I say showing everyone the damaged battery.

“Robert, take Michelle, grab that fuel truck over there 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 say 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 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, about a quarter mile away 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 about 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 as this is an old one between us.  “Okay then, let’s finish this up and then we’ll grab a bite.”

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.”

The last one is finally removed and loaded onto the truck.  “Meet us over at the aircraft,” I say to Robert, putting the hatches back on and we all start our journey back across the ramp.  The sun has now climbed almost directly overhead.

“You guys go get something to eat,” I say once we are all back at the 130.  “I’m going to start working on the bad one.”

“You aren’t hungry?”  Bri asks.

“No, babe.”

“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 know, I’m just kidding,” he says back.

“Oh, and the pantry won’t be available so you’ll have to use the packaged food.”

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 god.

“Okay, let’s get it fueled up,” I say as we stow the tools and ladder away.  I look at my watch, “It’s almost 1500.  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 do have enough fuel to make the coast of Portugal or Spain and 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 a 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 start up and 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 us 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, only getting out of mine to stretch and get the blood flow back into my legs.  I venture to the cargo compartment once to change flight suits as 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 above 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 at our sides 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 250 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 rack 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, hon.”

“What about me?”  Michelle chimes in.  “Am I supposed to be yours as well?”

“Hmmm, 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.”

Descending through 10,000 feet, I set up the instrument approach on my nav while maintaining the enroute plot on Robert’s.  The stars still glitter above us 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 15 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 switch the radio.  “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 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.”

“Lajes, copy that.  Otter 39 passing through niner thousand for seven.  Left to 070.  Departed Lewis McChord.  Destination classified.”

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.”

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, Otter 39 copy. Five souls on board. Shutting down and remaining on freq.”

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 down the taxiway with blue lights flashing.  “Otter 39, ground.  Open your crew door and ramp.”

“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.”

“Otter 39 roger.”

We take off our weapons and leave them 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 first, setting my flight cap on my head.  I can barely make out the 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 am met by an Air Force Sergeant wearing the stripes of a tech Sergeant.  “This is your crew, sir!?”  He asks in an incredulous manner, stopping in front of me and saluting.

“It is, Sergeant,” I say returning the salute.

“Anyone else on board, sir?”  He asks.

“No, Sergeant Watkins,” I reply back noticing his name tag.  “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.

“Yeah, 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 ask

“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 his head toward the airman and the airman continues, “The aircraft is all clear.  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 here.”

“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, their heads all 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 as well and we drive down the ramp with the morning sun just poking above the horizon.  We drive in silence across the ramp and off onto the base roads.  I see Calloway repeatedly looking back at me through the rearview and the airman beside me giving me side long glances.  Sergeant Watkins is focused straight ahead through the windshield.

We pull up to the front of 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 at the same time as everyone else and walk around the front of it to the sidewalk.  Once there, Watkins starts walking 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 in this formation and up a flight of stairs that lead upward 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 states tersely.

“Not that I could see,” I say answering 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 almost 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, is 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 through the window.  Rows of decorations line the left chest of his uniform shirt but 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 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 standing orders to pick up some Army personnel in Kuwait and return them to Joint Base Lewis-McChord, sir.”

“I see.  And under whose standing orders are these?”  Colonel Wilson asks, his eyes drilling into mine as I continue to stand at attention.

“General Billings, sir,” I reply.

Wilson then opens a booklet on his desk and flips through it, his finger tracing down one of the pages he has opened it to.

“Very well, Captain,” he says after his finger stops its tracing, apparently finding what he is looking for.

See, thankfully, I noticed the pictures on the wall at McChord.  All military building 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.”

“Sir, my crew and I were on a refueling stop, heading back to base when all of this went down.  I was apparently one of the only pilots, well, still available,” I respond.

“And your crew, Captain?”

“Gone, sir.”

“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?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Son, what about your rather strange new crew members?”

My eyes drop down momentarily, meeting 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 desk top.

“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 lasting 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 says, saluting and then exiting the room, closing the door behind him.

“At ease, Captain,” he says once the door clicks shut.

“I have kids too and so 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 there soon.  The quarantine broke there and these things were running everywhere at night.  I’m not sure what the plans were but was only given these orders.”

“Sir, if I may speak.”

He merely nods and I ask, “How are things here?”

He laces his fingers behind his head, leaning back further.  “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?”

“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 what the silence and stare alludes to.

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 alludes to 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 sighing.  “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 to stop here on my return leg.”

“That might work, Captain,” Colonel Wilson says leaning back up in his chair.

“Captain Walker, I can authorize your fuel but you’ll have to depart immediately after.  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 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 half turn back towards him, “Yes, sir.”

“Godspeed and good luck son.”

“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 to ‘safe’ as we head down the stairs and out to the vehicle.

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 dying, 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 up 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, start them up, and head down the taxiway in Alpha’s wake.  The sound of the fuel truck pumping fuel into our aircraft 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 up 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 and buckle in.

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 slight 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 that 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 slight 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.

On into the night we fly, taking turns napping and monitoring the flight.  Our external tanks long ago emptied, we are on our last few hours of flight with the fuel remaining onboard. About 200 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, 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?”

Playing in the Sandbox

Sergeant First Class Lynn Connell hangs up the phone attached to her computer ever so thankful to have it.  That and the Internet service provided here in Kuwait allows her to maintain contact with her boyfriend back in the states; their twice daily calls and contact eases the deployment to a large degree.  During the times the Internet was down, time seemed to drag on for an eternity when she was off work.  It’s not like she could just waltz down for some beer and darts so it was reading and the Internet.  God a beer would go down good, she thinks shutting down her laptop and getting ready for yet another day in the desert.

Today just has that feel of one of those days, well, every day here is one of those days but this one just feels different.  Packing up, she opens the steel barracks door and steps out into the blazing morning sun, the temperature already beginning its climb to another scorching day.  Sand!  I hate sand!  She thinks adjusting her polarized sunglasses, her digital camo uniform instantly warm from the sun.  Not much longer to go.

Looking over the top of the barracks building as she starts walking over for breakfast, she sees an aircraft descending into the small field located on the camp, silhouetted against the light blue sky.  As the aircraft descends below the tan building, she ponders her day.  I have to get my shot today, she thinks to herself, the sand stirring up beneath her boots with each step.  Perhaps after lunch or after work on my way to the gym.  Most of the personnel in her office received them yesterday and, with military personnel having only 48 hours to get one, this is the last day to get it.

Arriving at the dining facility after walking down the sand-covered avenues between the various buildings; Sergeant Connell removes her cap and steps through the wooden door and into the cooler interior.  The first thing she notices is the distinct emptiness.  Groovy, she thinks heading to the chow line.  No lines.  It sure seems a lot bigger in here without the usual crowd.  Not caring why it is mostly empty, she grabs her usual omelet and notices that the usual cook who makes her big omelets is not here.

“Where’s Private Sampson?”  She asks as an omelet is placed on her plate and tray.

“Sick call,” the soldier behind the counter and clear plastic separator says.

Gathering her food, Lynn glances out over the expanse and selects one of the many empty tables after grabbing a paper to read.  Hacking away at the omelet with her plastic Spork, she catches up on the headlines.  The first few pages note the numerous sicknesses and escalating death rate from the Cape Town flu.  Another article reminds military personnel to get their vaccination by the end of the deadline.  There are articles detailing the enlisted, NCO, and officer of the month along with an inside view of the tactical operations center she is associated with.  The Master Sergeant list is also published and her name is listed along with the other promotees.

“Not bad, two months in a row,” she says under her breath, remembering her picture in the paper last month as NCO of the month.

Finishing her meal, Lynn steps back out into the morning sun and sand and walks through the climbing heat to work.  The only thing different about this day from the previous three hundred and some odd days is the amount of soldiers walking about, or lack thereof.  While not a crowd, there are usually a fair number of soldiers about on various errands, but today, there are very few to be seen.  Lynn sees a couple here and there hurrying about some business or another, well, hurrying being relevant as the intensity of the sun and heat prevents too much of that.  Walking into her building, actually a large tent structure, she notices this absence of people trend continuing.

Many desks are situated in neat columns and rows in a large open space to one side of the building and she heads over to her desk.  Many of the desks remain unoccupied.  She settles in and fires up her computer starting her day.  With the screen coming to life and logging in, Lynn opens up her email.  Nothing much greets her except a brigade-wide reminder to get flu shots.  A few others are reminders of meetings and odds and ends to take care.  As she opens up her third email, her commander, Captain Braser, walks into the open area and heads immediately for Lynn’s desk.  Lynn stands up at attention as Captain Braser approaches.

“Sergeant Connell, I’m going to need you to cover until 2100.  There’ve been a number of sick calls this morning,” Braser says.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lynn replies and Captain Braser then turns and walk away.

There goes the gym, Lynn thinks sitting down once again.  I really hate this place.  Well, maybe it will make the day go faster.  I hope Jack is still up when I get back.  She attempts to log onto her personal email account to send him an email telling him she’ll be working late but gets a notice stipulating that the site has been temporarily blocked and to contact her system administrator.  She tries sending a message from her work email but it comes back as undeliverable.  Great, she thinks and dives back into work, checking with those under her command to make sure that they will be getting or have received their flu shots along with a myriad of other tasks.

Just before noon, an email comes in extending the time to get the Cape Town flu shots for an additional 24 hours.  Good, I’ll just get it tomorrow, she thinks relieved in some way.  Lynn spends the rest of the day and her shift handling inquiries, sorting through messes that a redeployment can bring about, and ensuring that those under her are doing their jobs.  Shutting down her workstation at 2100, she retraces her route back to the dining facility for dinner and then to the barracks.  She fires up her laptop hoping Jack is still on but can’t get connected to the internet.  Yep, it’s definitely been one of those days, she thinks shutting it back down and settling back on her bunk with her book.  I hope it’s up in the morning.

The sun has yet to make its daily appearance but the eastern sky has started to lighten as Lynn wakes up early the next morning and heads over to the gym.  The night chill still hangs in the air as she sleepily makes her way amongst the darkened buildings under the outside lights on the building entrances and along the avenues.  I need 6 miles today, Lynn mumbles thinking about the marathon she is planning when she returns to the states and the missed run yesterday.  Stepping up on the treadmill, she thinks about how nice it will be to sleep in when she gets back, and to see Jack.  And drive my Jeep, she thinks, watching the first mile pass by.

With six miles and a shower under her belt, Lynn is once again back at the barracks and frustrated that the Internet is still down.  With nothing much to do in the barracks, she decides to head into work early.  Finished dressing, she heads back out into the desert as the sun crests the eastern horizon over the gulf just a few miles away.  With another omelet filling her up, she walks into work noticing again the lack of personnel around.  It’s early yet though, she thinks logging onto her workstation.  The several enlisted and NCO’s that are in the room with her are clustered around a desk close by shooting the shit.  Close enough that she can overhear some of their conversation as she starts through her email.

“Did you hear that Sergeant Vosel was attacked by Private Edwich last night?”  One voice from the group says.

“I heard he killed him,” a second voice says.

“I’ve heard of several attacks over in zone two and that some of the medics were attacked,” says yet a third voice.

“I have a friend over in an MP squad that says they had to round up several people who were just running around attacking others at random.  I don’t know if I believe it or not, he’s full of shit sometimes,” one of the voices speaks out.

“And what’s up with all of these sick calls?”  The first voice asks.  “I don’t want to cover yet again.”

“I’ve actually heard some of those on sick call have died.”

The conversation doesn’t exactly stop but the volume dies down to the point where Lynn can only hear an occasional murmur and wonders if she is going to have to cover another shift.  Not that it matters much really now, there’s not much else to do with the Internet down, she thinks concentrating and focusing once again on the redeployment.

After responding to a few more messages and making sure everyone is doing what they should be doing and where they should be, Lynn stands up, stretches, and heads outside for a break.  There has been no sign of Captain Braser and she is quite thankful for that.  The assault of heat greets her as she steps into the bright mid-morning sun.  Lynn sees her friend standing by the corner of the building having a smoke and walks over.

“Sergeant Connell,” he says and nods, inhaling on the cigarette between his fingers, as Lynn steps up in front of him.  Dressed in the same digital uniform with Sergeant First Class Stripes on the front and standing a good six inches taller than her, she has to tilt her head up slightly to look him in the eyes.

“Sergeant Drescoll,” she says, noticing the bags under his slightly bloodshot brown eyes.  “Stay up late?”  She asks.

“Yeah.  Had to cover an additional shift last night,” Drescoll says taking the cigarette from his mouth and exhaling; the smoke drifting away from the two of them.

“Me too.  It looks like more of the same tonight although I haven’t seen the Captain yet.”

“God, I hope not.  I’m exhausted from last night and just want to sleep,” Sergeant Drescoll says in response.  “I heard rumors over at the office of some attacks last night.  I mean, our own people attacking each other.”

“I just heard the same thing inside,” Lynn says glancing back toward the building entrance.

“I also heard they’re going to start quarantining those who report to sick call with the flu.  I hope that’s not the case; there are enough out as it is.”  Lynn merely nods at this wondering how long they’re going to be short staffed and how far behind this is going to put the redeployment.

“You know,” Drescoll says stubbing out his smoke, “I also heard that there are a lot of people dying from this shit.”

“Well, that’s already in the news,” Lynn replies remembering the news articles she read and commented on with Jack.

“No!  I mean from the vaccinations,” Sergeant Drescoll says with emphasis.  “You get yours yet?”

“No, I was planning to get it after lunch or work.”

“Hmm, I’d wait as long as I could if I were you.  Well, back to the grind,” he says crushing his cigarette butt in the ash can and starts off across the sandy strip towards his building.

“See ya later,” Lynn says, heading back to her building.

With her hand on the door handle, its heat radiating into her palm, she hears a shout from behind her.  Turning to look over her shoulder, she sees Sergeant Drescoll standing there mid-way between buildings looking at her.

“What?”  She says shouting back.

“Lunch?”  He calls back.

“Sure,” Lynn answers opening the door and steps into the darker and cooler building, wondering if there is anything to what Drescoll said.

The same rumor from two different sources, but rumors were rumors and she has tried to stay away from the rumor mill during her fourteen year career; thus far being mostly successful.  Even so, Drescoll worked in Intel and so may have more of a clue than others.  And, he wasn’t one to pass on rumors or talk just for the sake of hearing himself.  Shrugging it off but keeping it in some small part of her mind, she settles into her desk to finish some paperwork before lunch.  The others inside have also settled into their seats working on their assigned tasks.

Finishing up her lunch with Sergeant Drescoll, Lynn and he step out from the dining facility with the sun hammering down; the heat instantly bakes them and causes a sheen of sweat to quickly appear on their foreheads.  A squeal over the loudspeaker mounted on a pole close by them greets them as well indicates a coming announcement.  “Attention all personnel. The Cape Town Flu vaccinations are temporarily suspended at this time.  Repeat.  All Cape Town flu vaccinations are suspended at this time.”

“I guess that takes care of that,” Lynn says after the echo of the blasting loudspeaker silences.

“Guess so,” Drescoll says.  “Glad I waited.”

“Me too,” Lynn responds and they part company, each heading back towards their respective areas.

On her way, Lynn wonders again at the validity of the rumors.  The military loves their shots and so wouldn’t cancel a vaccination unless there was something very wrong.  What if people were actually getting sicker from the shot?  How long until people are back?  I sure hope this doesn’t delay my return home, she thinks arriving back at the office.  Oh my god, I hope Jack didn’t get one.  What am I thinking?  Of course he didn’t.  He wouldn’t even go to the doctor for his knee.

Back at her desk, there is an email from brigade stating that the flu vaccinations are suspended verifying the loudspeaker announcement.  With the other personnel out sick, there is actually quite a bit to do and the day passes by quickly.  There has been no sign of Captain Braser and most of the others in the office left at 1600.  At 1700, Lynn logs off of her workstation and heads out of the now almost empty building.  An odd feeling settles over her, this building has never been this empty, she thinks heading out into the late afternoon after making sure there is coverage through the night for the operations center.

The suffocating heat still permeates the outdoors but is cooling somewhat as Lynn finishes her dinner and heads back to the barracks.  I hope the internet is up, she thinks approaching the door to her convex barracks.  Only a couple of weeks and I am outta here.  Opening the rear door to the barracks, the coolness of the interior rushes out, chilling her and causing goose bumps to run up her arm.  The large interior is broken up by bunk beds with wall lockers breaking the area up into smaller, more private cubicles.

Her “roommate’s” bunk is just inside the door to the left sharing the private space with her own against the left hand corner.  Her roommate is lying on the lower bunk.  Just as the door begins to close, the loudspeaker squeals once again.  Knowing retreat has already sounded, Lynn turns to hold the door open and listens, “Attention all personnel.  Anyone experiencing flu symptoms are to report immediately to zone 2.  Repeat.  Anyone experiencing flu symptoms are ordered to report to zone 2.  If you notice anyone with flu symptoms, you are to notify security immediately.  That is all.”

Wow!  This is getting serious, Lynn thinks heading to her corner and grabbing her laptop out of her footlocker.  Finding that there is still not an internet connection and suspecting that it is purposely being blocked, she reaches for her book as a chill runs up her spine accompanied by a sad and lonely feeling.  Tomorrow is her day off and this was supposed to be one of the times that she and Jack could talk longer.  I hope he’s okay, she thinks settling onto her lower bunk and opening her book.  She reads until the lights go out at 2000 and falls asleep in her fatigues with her boots by the side of her bunk.

A groaning sound awakens her in the middle of the night.  It sounds like it is coming from the bunk next to her; her roommate’s bunk.  Groggily, Lynn opens her eyes to a mostly dark barracks lit only by the exit lights at either end of the building.  Accustomed to the various sounds of people sleeping in close proximity, she rolls over and closes her eyes attempting to get back to sleep.  The moaning sound penetrates her sleepy mind once again.  I can’t wait to get out of this place and have some privacy, she thinks, the sleepiness slowly vanishing.  Not wanting to get up but remembering the loudspeaker announcement, she shucks off her blanket and sits up, rubbing the sleepiness from her eyes.

Swinging her legs over and setting her feet on the cool concrete floor, she reaches overhead grabbing her flashlight.  Flicking the light on but cupped in her hand, letting only a little light shine through her fingers, she stands up and quietly walks over to where her roommate is.

“Are you okay?”  She asks, letting a small ray of light illuminate her roommate’s face.

Although there’s only a small amount of light, Lynn clearly sees her roommate lying in the bunk with her blanket pulled up to her chin, her fingers gripping the blanket edges as if it might fly away.  Only her face peeks out from under it.  The sight of her roommate’s face sends a chill crawling, well, not crawling but racing up Lynn’s spine.  Peeking up from her sweat-soaked pillow, her roommate’s eyes squint against the light; they are swollen and her face is ashen.  Beads of sweat form on her forehead and run down her temples and cheeks.  Drool has formed at the corner of her mouth, ready to join its compadres on the journey down her face.

“I’m fine,” her roommate half breathes and moans attempting normal speech.

“You have to go to zone 2.  I’ll help you,” Lynn says reaching a hand out to her.

“I said I’m fine,” her roommate says shrinking further back into the pillow.

Lynn stands up, walks back to her bunk, sits down on the edge, and slips her boots on by the light of the flashlight placed next to her on the bed.  Lacing up her boots and donning her fatigue top, she picks up her light up and, shielding it once more, passes by her roommate’s bunk and heads to the back door.

“Where are you going?”  A whisper calls out from the bunk.

“Out,” she responds and opens the back door into the night.

Her plan is to locate an MP on the way to her office, or, failing that, call from there.  Not wanting to walk all of the way to the security shop or a gate, this will be the quickest way to notify security that her roommate is exhibiting flu-like symptoms.  Plus, there is the fact of not wanting to be in a close proximity to someone with a reported highly contagious sickness.  Stepping out into the chill of the night air and into the circle of light cast by the light over the doorway, she starts off toward her work building and is swallowed up immediately by the dark.  The stars overhead cast a clear brilliance that only the desert can bring; the ground around is lit only at intervals by rings of light cast by the camp lights with the areas in between an inky black.

Strolling from one ring of lights to another, she rounds the corner of one building and starts up a central avenue lit at intervals by the pole-mounted lights.  Not taking three steps along the sandy avenue, a shriek shatters the stillness, coming from far away only to be followed a second later by a second one from the same area.  Coming to a stop, Lynn listens and unconsciously moves closer to the side of the avenue by a building.  The chatter of rifle fire erupts from the general area of where the shrieks occurred.  What the fuck is going on?  Lynn thinks suddenly aware she is unarmed and wishing for her M-16.  Are we under attack?  Where’s the alarm?

Another shriek sounds out from across the camp followed by a much louder one close by.  Damn, that sounded like it came from just up ahead, she thinks starting cautiously up the avenue again.  What the hell is that?  Up ahead, two figures emerge out onto the avenue a few buildings ahead and begin running in her direction, passing in and out of the circles of light.  With the reminder that gunshots were fired and people may be rather trigger happy, she shrinks back out of the circle of light she was standing in.  With an ear-piercing shriek, the two up ahead alter their course and race directly at her.  Crap, they saw me, she thinks looking off to the sides and around her for some place to head just in case.

A building away, with the fatigue-clad figures racing toward her, another figure emerges into the area, skidding to a halt.

“Hey, you two!  Where are you going?”  The new figure calls out at the two running ones that are just ahead of him.  The two figures adjust their course in mid-stride, angling now toward the newcomer.  Standing in the shadows, Lynn watches the scene unfold.

The two running figures show no signs of slowing up as they quickly close their distance.  “Hey, what are yo….?”  He calls out but doesn’t finish as, with a combined shriek, the two plow into him, one launching into the air.

The soldier standing there only has time enough to raise his hands before he is catapulted backwards, his feet leave the ground, and he slams onto his back with the two on top.  Dust billows out behind him from the impact with the ground.  A struggle ensues, with more dust rising into the air around them, but it is short-lived.  With a scream, a human one this time, the lone figure under the two attackers becomes still.  On their knees, leaning over the stricken soldier, the two begin tearing into him with their teeth, gnashing like dogs and tearing chunks of flesh off.  One raises his head shrieking into the night sky, blood painting its lower face.

Lynn’s initial reaction is to run to the soldier’s aid but it is over so quick that she never makes two steps in his direction.  Another shriek sounds out of the darkness amongst the barracks close behind her.  Okay, that’s enough for me, Lynn thinks and heads off across the road, using the shadows for concealment.

Settling in between buildings and feeling somewhat protected in the dark, Lynn hunches down against one of the buildings.  What the fuck was that and what the hell is going on here?  She thinks remembering the rumors floating through her office and from her friend.  That could have been me and I would have been oblivious until it was too late.  More thoughts come at lightning speed, filling her mind as time progresses slowly in the physical world; who to trust and how to figure who to trust.  Is this an isolated event?  In seeming answer, the sounds of more shrieks and gunfire off in the distance reach her in the darkness, along with the closer sounds from the avenue in front of growling and the wet sounds of flesh being rendered and eaten.

Well, can’t stay here, that’s for sure. She thinks rising slowly to her feet.  Calling security from the phone still sounds like a good idea although for different reasons now.  Stay quiet and in the dark and trust no one.  Finding a weapon might not be a bad idea.

Lynn turns toward the back of the building and silently creeps along it, the sounds out front grow dimmer as she nears the back corner.  Another smaller avenue appears in front of her running between this row of buildings and another one across the way.  With only smaller circles of light appearing by entrance doors, the light here is not as prevalent as out front so the center of this smaller avenue is almost completely dark.  Kneeling by the corner, Lynn sees the back of the operations center a little way down the row of buildings she is currently on.  She heads out into the middle of the avenue; giving her the darkest route to the operations center but knowing she won’t be able to see whatever those things were that attacked the soldier out front; her ears vigilant for any sounds close by.  What am I thinking? Those were soldiers and I am thinking of them as things, she thinks stepping lightly along the sand path.  No, those weren’t soldiers.  At least not rational ones.  No one rational attacks another and eats them.

Keeping to the dark with only the sounds of distant shots, shrieks, and the occasional generator running to keep her company, she arrives at the operations center building.  Pausing at a darkened corner of the building, she listens for anything close by.  Lights illuminate several of the windows along the side.  Well, someone was here after I left, she thinks pondering her best approach at the door lit by a light above.  I could break the light I suppose, her suddenly becoming very reluctant to enter into any light.

Looking at the windows along the side of the building, she realizes they are too high to look in, or to climb in for that matter.  I’ll just try the door quickly, Lynn thinks rising from her crouched position.  Sliding along the back of the building, she approaches the demarcation of light and shadow, listening once again for sounds.  Taking a deep breath, she steps into the light and walks briskly to the door.  Grasping the handle, she pulls it towards her; the steel door gives a little before stopping with a metallic clunk, indicating it is locked from within.  She is just about to turn and head back into the shadows when a voice calls from within, “Who’s there?”

“Sergeant Connell,” Lynn whispers loudly, not wanting her voice to carry.

“Who?”  The voice within asks again.

“Just open the fucking door!”  She says firmly and louder this time.

There is a short pause the door swings outward.  She darts through as soon as there is enough opening.  “With a response like that, there’s only one person that could be,” a Specialist says once she is in and the door closes behind her with a metallic click.

The door opens into the large room where her desk is located, lit by only a half section of light overhead.  Four other soldiers are in the room clustered together around the middle, their eyes wide and heads pivoting in every direction.  She knows the Specialist behind her from her previous position in the operations center but doesn’t recognize anyone else.

“Specialist Taylor, is there anyone else here?”  She asks of the Specialist who opened the door for her as she steps up to the group in the middle.

“No, Sergeant,” he answers.

“Anyone have any idea of what’s going on?”  She asks looking at each one.

“I think they’re killing people out there,” one Private says looking back over her shoulder towards the front of the building.

“Easy soldier.  We don’t know that,” Lynn says feeling a little more relaxed in the familiar environment of her office and being in command.

Picking up the handset from a phone from the metal desk in front of her, Lynn dials the number for the security shop.  She lets it ring for a few times before returning the handset to its cradle.  She then tries the gate but no one answers.  Several more calls to other locations reveals the same.  Turning to Taylor, she asks, “Has anyone tried calling in?”

“No, Sergeant,” he responds.  “It’s the same with other bases as well.  No one’s home.”

“Is the front door locked?”

“Yes, Sergeant Connell,” another Specialist answers as a shriek sounds outside the front of the building.  All heads turn that direction.

“Anyone bring a weapon?”  Lynn asks.  Their heads swing back toward her and they all give them a shake.  “Great!  Specialist Taylor, take someone with you and gather all of the emergency flashlights.  And don’t make any noise.”

Nodding to the other Specialist and another Private, Lynn says, “You two, I saw lights on through the windows outside.  Go turn them off and make sure the windows are locked.  I want this building secure.”

They both give a “Yes, Sergeant” and head off.  Lynn sits down at the desk and ponders over this bizarre day, thoughts and ideas run a blitzkrieg through her head.  She tries the security shop again but gets no response as a volley of gunfire sounds faintly outside.

“Sounds like that’s coming from zone 2,” she says softly.

“I think so, Sergeant,” the Private remaining with her says.

“Okay, I’m not sure what’s going on here but we’re treating this as an attack and going on lockdown.  No one goes in or out of the TOC unless they identify themselves and show their ID.  Clear!”  Lynn says once the two groups returned having completed their assignments.

“Yes, Sergeant,” they respond in unison.

“Private, you man the phones,” Lynn orders one of the Privates, “Specialist, you get on the phone and try to raise anyone starting with the security shop.”  Both respond with a “Yes, Sergeant” and seat themselves at adjoining desks.

She turns to the other three to give them assignments when a terrific knocking sounds at the door at the front of the building.  The Specialist pauses in mid-dial and all eyes turn towards the sound.

“Specialist Taylor, you’re with me.  The rest of you stay alert,” she says starting toward the front door and the pounding.

She walks to the locked, steel door, arriving just as the pounding resumes on the door.  She stands in front of it with Taylor off to one side.  “Identify yourself,” she calls.

“Sergeant Connell?  It’s Drescoll,” a voice responds from the other side of the door.  “Hurry, they’re right on my ass.”

Lynn bumps her hip against the latch bar running horizontally across the door cracking it slightly but keeping her hand on the bar ready to close it again quickly.

“I need to see your ID,” she says once the crack appears and a thin stream of light pours in from the lights outside.

However, as soon as the door cracks open, she loses her grip on the door, the door flies open as Drescoll pulls on it and darts into the entrance, running past Lynn and into Taylor knocking both of them off balance.

“Close it, hurry, close it!”  Drescoll says breathlessly as soon as he is inside.

Lynn grabs the door and begins to pull it closed, the picture outside imprints itself in her mind like a snapshot.  The wide sandy avenue, the tan, convex buildings across the way with their entrances lit by lights over the doors spreading circles of light on the ground, the avenue itself lit by pole-mounted lights.  The faint sound of generators reach her ears and the sight of approximately ten people running directly for her from across the way freezes in her mind, each member of the group in a different part of their stride.

The picture is cut off by the closing door and disappears entirely with a click.  There was a pause as the door was closing during which she contemplated holding it open for them, but given what she has seen and the fact that she issued a lockdown order, they need to ID everyone coming into the operations center.  Followed closely by the sound of the door shutting comes several loud shrieks from those running toward it, as if frustrated, along with the sound of many feet striking the ground which grows rapidly louder by the second.

“Holy shit that was close.  Thanks,” Drescoll says between gasps of breath and bent over in the semi-darkness of the entrance with his hands on his knees.

A loud thud sounds as something slams against the door in front of them startling the three of them as Drescoll finishes his sentence.  Something else slams against the door right on the heels of the first.

“Identify yourself,” Lynn calls out to the other side of the door only to be met by a loud shriek and another large something banging against the door.

“Or don’t,” she says more quietly.

“I think they just did,” Drescoll says just as quietly having caught his breath and standing back upright.

“Specialist Taylor, stay here but don’t open the door and stay quiet.  I’m going to send one of the Privates up with you.” Lynn says turning from the door and starting back to the open area with Drescoll on her heels.

“Private, go up with Specialist Taylor at the front door and keep watch,” she says once she returns to the central open room.

Turning to Drescoll who is leaning against one of the desks, Lynn asks, “So, what the hell was that about?”

“Fuck, I don’t know exactly,” Drescoll answers getting a rather faraway look in his eyes.  “I was in the Intel shop when about twenty people suddenly stormed into the building.  They immediately began attacking everyone there, jumping on them and literally tearing them apart.  I tried to help but they were overwhelming and it became apparent very quickly there wasn’t anything I could do.  Everyone in the shop was down and just that quickly.  I headed out the back but some of them apparently saw me and chased me all of the way here.”

The faraway look vanishes and he focuses on Lynn, staring intensely into her eyes.  “They were our own people Lynn,” Drescoll adds, his shock apparent by the use of her first name.

Releasing his gaze and staring down at the floor, he goes on, “I recognized some of them.  Only, they weren’t really the same.  They were just, well, crazed and out of control.  All they did was shriek and howl as they tore everyone apart.  And, they were pale and blotchy.  Christ, it was a mess in there.  Thanks again for opening the door,” he finishes looking at her once again with the slamming and shrieks almost continuous outside.

“No worries,” Lynn says and looks at the others in the room.  They are alternating their wide-eyed stares between her and Drescoll.  “Continue your calling,” she says to the Specialist and he turns back to the phone in front of him, the mesmerization broken.

“Okay, we’re going to continue to man the TOC and try to get contact.  Any questions?”

The Privates and Specialist answer with a “No, Sergeant.”

Lynn turns to Sergeant Drescoll, “I want to get a look outside.  Do you mind waiting here and overseeing this for a bit?”  She asks, waving her left arm in a circular motion to indicate the room.

“Not a prob,” Drescoll responds.

Lynn walks to where Taylor and the Private are standing by the front door.  The shrieks have grown less frequent in nature but the sounds and reverberations of something slamming hard into the building are no longer confined to the door.  There are things slamming against the building walls as well.  Between the howls and pounding sounds, there is now a continuous growling that seeps into the building from outside.  The sporadic gunfire heard in the distance earlier is now either non-existent or overshadowed by the closer sounds.

“I’m heading in the office for a look outside.  Have you heard anything different than, well, this?”  She asks indicating the obvious noises with a nod of her head, barely visible in the gray darkness.

“No, Sergeant,” Taylor responds and Lynn heads into the office on her right.

In the office, the window stands at about eye level looking out to the front of the building.  She steps up to the window and gazes out over the wide avenue.  The building is raised from the ground and so eye level to her is a ways off of the ground outside.  Looking left and right, the avenue is clear with the exception of about twenty people crowded in front of the TOC.  The crowd consists mostly of fatigue-clad soldiers but mixed in are people in shorts and t-shirts.  A couple of them are darker skinned and dressed in jeans and button-down short-sleeve shirts.  They are mostly milling about but definitely focused on the building she is in.  A few of them take short runs at the building and slam into the sides or up the steps outside and into the front door with their shoulders.  Some attempt to run and jump up at the window where she is and at the other window on the other side of the door but the windows and their small ledges seem too high for them to reach.

As she continues to gaze out at the crowd, she notices one detail prevalent in all of them by the light streaming down on them, and that is the paleness of their skin.  It seems to be pale gray with both small and large darker gray blotches.  Several appear to have blood painted on their faces and hands.  Some of their clothing is soaked in what appears to be either dried or drying blood.  A very large chill crawls up her spine and a sense of surrealness steels over her.  Oh my fucking god, are those freakin’ zombies?  She thinks shaking her head not believing entirely what she is seeing outside.  No, can’t be.  A flash of memory passes through her mind as she recalls the many zombie discussions she and Jack had in the past.  Talking about what they would do in the event of a zombie invasion and discussing the various zombie books they had read.

The trip down memory lane is broken when one of the crowd notices her in the window and shrieks out.  She looks down at the figure hunched toward her with its mouth open.  The others pause in whatever activity they were at and focus on her, running towards the window.  The one who discovered her runs at her, launches itself up, and slams into the side of the building.  She notes that all of them have focused on her and that a distraction could possibly work in the event they need to hastily exit.  The shrieks and pounding increase in intensity with their having discovered someone inside.  Lynn backs away from the window and out of the office.

“You holler if anyone or anything breaches the front of the building. Watch out for the windows,” she says passing by Taylor and the Private once more.

“Will do, Sergeant,” Taylor responds.

In the open area once again, she signals Sergeant Drescoll to her rather than joining the small group.  She relates everything she saw, although not her thoughts.  Their voices don’t carry past their position.

“What the fuck is going on?”  He asks after hearing her report.

“I have no idea,” she replies back.  “We need to keep away from the windows and maintain silence though.  We’ll just hole up here and see what the morning brings.  In the meantime, we’ll stay on the phones.”

Drescoll nods in agreement.  “What about the lights?”

“We’ll turn on a couple to indicate to anyone outside, well, the ones that haven’t gone crazy, that the TOC is manned.”  He nods and Lynn steps over to the others in the room informing them of her plans.  Next, she heads to the front to notify Taylor and the Private.

The remainder of the evening is spent with little change in their situation.  There is no response from any of the calls outbound and none of the lines ring with anyone calling in.  The sounds outside become more sporadic with the exception of the constant muted growling.  The only change occurs a little after 0200 when the occasional pounding and growling begins occurring along the side of the building under the windows from where their inside lights are emitting outside.  After turning the lights completely out, submersing them in almost total darkness, the sounds along the side eventually transition to the back door.  With everyone keyed up and facing a very confusing situation, there is no sleep to be had.

Little is said during the rest of the night.  Lynn ponders whether this is an isolated incident but the fact that they cannot raise anyone either inside the camp or any of the other bases in country, leads her to believe this may be on a much larger scale.  Calls to other bases within the states or Europe also go unanswered.  Could this be happening world-wide?  She thinks staring out through the window from her position near the center of the room at the star-speckled sky.  I hope Jack is okay and her heart both tightens and warms at the thought of him.

With the coming dawn, the sky not yet lighting with the false dawn but promising it is near, something happens that draws everyone’s attention.  Or really, it is more like the lack of something happening that draws their attention.  The sounds outside suddenly, and without warning, cease.  Complete silence ensues.  In the dark gray of the building, Lynn walks into the front office once again and slowly peers out of the side of the window, careful not to draw any attention.  The buildings, avenue and lights remain the same but there is no one to be seen.  To the east, she can barely make out the sky beginning to light up.  The one thing that does draw her attention is a form on the ground under one of the lights far down the avenue to her left.  That must be that guy who was attacked by those first two, she thinks and withdraws from the window.

“You two with me,” she says to Taylor and the Private as she passes by them on exiting the office and proceeds back to the other group members.

Drawing the group together in the center of the room, she notifies them of the situation out front.  “When it gets fully light, you two will continue to man the TOC,” she says pointing to the Specialist and one of the Privates.  “The rest of us will draw weapons and head over to the security shop.  I’m not sure what happened so we need to stay together and alert.  This facility will remain on lockdown and you ID anyone trying to come in.  No ID, no entrance.  Any questions?”

Drescoll shakes his head and the others respond with, “No, Sergeant Connell.”

The sun crests the horizon transitioning from night to day.  The transition in the desert comes quickly.  One moment night holds sway, and the next, the land stands bathed in daylight.  After checking through the office window once more and verifying that nothing is moving outside, Lynn opens the front door and steps out into the morning light, squinting against the sudden change in brightness.  The chill of the night quickly turning into the heat of the day but moderately comfortable at the moment.  With Sergeant Drescoll and Specialist Taylor off each shoulder and slightly behind her, and the two Privates behind them, she starts off through the sand towards the armory to draw their weapons.

On the way, they pass by the form in the avenue.  It is indeed a soldier, or rather, what once was one.  Its field cap lies on the ground by its head.  I say ‘its’ because the gender is unidentifiable.  The tissue on the face has been completely removed leaving only the facial bone structure staring up at the blue sky lighting up with the rising sun.  The uniform is shredded and has been almost completely removed from the body.  The only piece remaining is the belt and small section of the pants just below it.  That piece and the shreds of uniform lying on the ground around are covered in dried blood.  The rest of the body has been almost completely eaten with the bones only holding small bits of tendons and flesh.  Blood has soaked into the sand around the body which is churned up denoting a frenzy of activity.  One lung and chunks of internal organs are the only things remaining within the torso and chest cavity.

One of the Privates in back leans over and throws up the little in his stomach, dry heaving once everything has been expelled but unable to stop.  Lynn looks over at Taylor and he walks to the Private and guides him a little ways down to the avenue removing him from the proximity.  As he is doing this, Lynn reaches down and removes one of the dog tags, sticking one in her pocket and leaving one with the body.

“Okay, let’s move on,” she says straightening.

The only sounds in the area are of generator motors running in the distance with some closer.  The usual morning activity of people heading off on various assignments and errands are non-existent.  A little further away from the TOC and the body of the soldier in the road, a figure steps out from a building ahead and into the roadway.  The small group freezes into place, ready for anything that may come.  Stopping in the road, the figure ahead looks anxiously to the left and right before sighting the group.  Appearing startled by the sight of her group of five, the figure walks warily toward them, tensed and ready to run.  Lynn turns her head over her shoulder and tells everyone to remain in place.

As the figure draws near, Lynn observes the wariness and tension from the fatigue-clad soldier.  “Identify yourself,” Lynn calls out once the soldier closes in to where they can hear without her broadcasting their location.  The tension visibly leaves the soldier as she replies back, “Corporal Horace.”

“You’re the first ones I’ve seen today, Sergeant,” Horace replies as she steps up to the group.

She then relates her story of the night prior detailing how she headed out to the latrine in the middle of the night and was chased repeatedly until taking refuge in one of the buildings for the night.  She was over by zone 2 and listened all night to the shrieks, howls, and apparent running gunfights with the sounds of the gunfire dying around 0200.  Watching from the windows of her building, she saw several other soldiers attacked and taken down,

Heading over to the camp armory, the group encounters more bodies of soldiers and civilian contractors laying in the sand in various positions but looking like the first body they encountered to some degree or another; bones stripped mostly to the skin.

“What in the world could or would do this?”  Taylor asks quietly as they pass two more bodies lying in the warming desert sun, not really expecting an answer.

As with the first soldier she encountered, Lynn removes a dog tag from each one adding them to the growing number in her pocket.

“I don’t know but we’re going to have to assume the camp has been overrun at this point,” Lynn replies noting the very distinct lack of people or the noises normally associated with a large group of people assembled in one place.

Stepping around the corner of a building and onto the roadway leading to the armory, Lynn sees a larger group standing in the roadway in front of the armory a short ways ahead.  She signals the others with her to hold up, not knowing if the group ahead is friendly or not, and draws to a stop with the rest of the group behind her.

“I think we should head between the buildings here,” she says pointing back in the direction they came and a pathway leading between them, “until we can get closer and find out their disposition.”

Retracing their steps, still unseen by the larger group, they turn left and walk down the pathway, keeping the buildings between them and the other group.  As they draw closer, the sound of voices begins to penetrate the mostly silent area.  They squat down behind the building directly across from where the others have gathered.

“What do you think, Sergeant Connell?”  Drescoll asks quietly as they all gather in a circle.

“I don’t recall hearing any of those affected ones speaking and they’re not attacking each other, so I think we’re going to have to assume they’re okay,” she says squatting in the shadow of the building.  “I’ll go out and make contact.  The rest of you stay here.  Sergeant Drescoll, keep an eye on what happens.  If it goes bad, get out of here.  If we become separated, the rally point will be the TOC.  Everyone clear?”

“You got it,” Drescoll responds.  The rest of the small group gathered around her answer with a quiet “Yes, Sergeant.”

Lynn stands up and brushes some not-so-imaginary sand from her fatigues, more from an anticipatory action and readying herself to step into an unknown, and steps around the corner heading towards the front of the building, watching the group ahead of her for any reaction.  There are about twenty soldiers gathered in front of the armory in a semi-circular fashion centering their attention on another solider.  For the most part, their backs are to her and her approach.

Lynn walks out from the shadow of the building and into the bright morning sun beating down upon this barren part of the world.  Stopping momentarily to let her eyes adjust, she sees one of the soldiers closer to the central figure as he turns in her direction and notices her standing there.  He immediately turns back toward the central figure and starts speaking, pointing in her direction, the exact words not quite reaching her ears.

All eyes turn on her as one, the open end of the semi-circle reorienting so that it is now facing her.  “Approach and identify yourself,” the central figure states.

“Sergeant Connell,” Lynn responds feeling relieved as some of the tension inside her releases.

She begins to walk toward the group.  As she approaches, she notices that the group is a mix of enlisted personnel and NCO’s.  She recognizes the short, slightly overweight central figure as Major Bannerman.  Walking across the roadway, she steps up to him and salutes.

“I have another small group with me, sir,” she says as Major Bannerman returns her salute and she motions them out.

As her small group walks out from their location and into the roadway, Major Bannerman says, “We were just going to draw weapons and gear and head over to the TOC.”

“I just came from there, sir.  We haven’t been able to make contact with anyone else on base nor with anyone on the outside.  We haven’t encountered anyone else this morning with the exception of Corporal Horace here.  Lots of bodies though.”

“We haven’t either ,Sergeant.  We’ll form a temporary unit comprising of those with us until we can get in contact and help arrives.  Sergeant Connell, you’re now my First Sergeant.  Let’s arm up and head over to the TOC,” Bannerman says.

“Yes, sir,” Lynn responds.  “Sergeant Drescoll, draw your weapon, then take seven with you who can drive and bring eight Humvees back here.  The rest of you will draw your weapons and start bringing ammo out, stacking it in front.”

The handles on the double steel doors leading into the large tan armory building are warm to the touch as Lynn reaches out and pulls the left door open.  Cool air from the dimmed interior rushes out and brushes against her.  The concrete floor of the small entrance room is lit only by the light streaming in from the now open door.  Stepping into the room, Lynn looks to the right wall and, finding the light switch, flicks the bank of lights to the on position.  The fluorescent lights hanging from the false ceiling of the convex building come to life, flickering momentarily before flooding the room.  To the immediate left and right of the entrance, offices show through glass panels set into the walls with their doors open.  A short distance on the other side of the room, another small room sits behind a wire enclosure with another set of double steel doors leading into the back of the building next to it.

“Private, check those doors,” Lynn says pointing at the other steel doors as others come into the room.  “I’ll see if I can find the checkout sheet.”

Stepping to a door leading into the caged area, Lynn tests the door, surprisingly finding it unlocked and opens it.  “The doors are locked, Sergeant Connell,” the Private says, checking the doors leading into the armory proper as Lynn steps into the caged room.

Rummaging through the small area, she finds several sets of keys.  Pocketing those, she then finds a clipboard and several sheets of paper.  Standing close to the wire and addressing the group within the entrance room, she says, “Okay, listen up everyone.  When you draw your weapon and gear, I want your name, unit, serial number, and the serial number of your weapon on the first sheet.  When we start bringing the ammo out, I want quantity and type on the second sheet.  We’ll enter in groups of five.  Is that clear?”

A chorus of “Yes, First Sergeant” resounds in the room.  With clipboard in hand, Lynn moves towards the steel doors leading into the armory proper.  Testing various keys, she eventually finds the right one and unlocks the doors.  Swinging them outward and bracing them open, she looks inside.  The large room appears to run the remaining length of the building but is shrouded in darkness lit only to a depth of about the first fifteen feet from the doors where she is standing.  A bank of light switches sits against the wall to her left.

“You five in with me,” she says to the first five behind her and reaches over to the switches, flicking them upward.

The sound of relays closing echo in the room from front to back.  The lights come on in a sequential fashion, ‘chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk,’ spreading light into the room in stages as banks of large, hanging lights come on inside the warehouse.

A loud shriek sounds to her immediate right.  Whipping her head in that direction, she is in time to witness something large slam into one of the soldiers who accompanied her into the room.  The soldier is knocked from his feet with a cry of surprise, lands on the concrete floor and slides to a stop just a few feet in front of her.  Another figure in fatigues is on top already clawing and biting into him.  A wet ripping sound echoes across the vast interior, followed by the soldier’s screams.  Small droplets of blood splatter against the gray concrete floor beside the pile of two writhing bodies.  The four soldiers stand just inside the armory doors, almost paralyzed as the one that was swept from their midst continues to be ravaged on the concrete floor at their feet.

However, without hesitation, Lynn drops the clipboard and launches herself at the soldier on top.  Landing on its back, she wraps her right arm around its throat and continues her roll to the right, finishing on her back with the other on top in a choke hold.  The thing on top of her growls and writhes in an attempt to break her hold.  Lynn wraps her legs around the others legs in order to subdue the creature thrashing on top of her.

“Calm down soldier!”  She yells into its ear and tightens her grip around its throat.

Time both slows down and speeds up as the thing on top of her continues to thrash.  The central thought of subduing the soldier on top of her permeates her mind, but another small thought enters and she is thankful for the daily workouts in the gym as the thing on top latches onto her right arm around its throat and pulls attempting to break her grip.  Damn he’s strong, she thinks as she feels her choke hold weaken.  She brings her left hand up to her right arm to add strength to her grip and feels the hold tighten up once again.  The being on top of her whips its head wildly about but the adrenaline coursing through her adds strength and the thrashing becomes less and less until it stops completely, becoming a dead weight on her chest.

Lynn releases her grip and rolls the creature off and to the left.  She rolls up to her knees and reaches over to the limp form now lying face down on the floor beside her, checking quickly for a pulse.  Finding one, she then scans around the armory interior before crawling over to the injured soldier who is now sitting up with his left hand to his cheek, streams of blood run between his fingers and down onto his fatigue shirt.

“You four, make sure he stays subdued.  Let me know the instant he starts coming around,” she says pointing to the unconscious form on the ground and startling the four out of their trance.

“Here, let me see that,” she says to the bleeding soldier.

As he withdraws his hand, she sees a chunk of flesh has been taken out of his left cheek and is bleeding freely as facial wounds will.  Lynn removes her fatigue shirt and t-shirt underneath pressing the t-shirt against his wound.

“Hold that tight,” she says and replaces her fatigue top.

The Corporal turns his head, looking into her eyes, his eyes still wide with fear and adrenaline.  “Thanks, Sergeant,” he says pressing his hand to the t-shirt, holding it in place.

“No worries, Corporal,” she replies and looks to the door, noticing heads poking into the room.

“Go find me some speed tape,” she says to a group gathered at the entrance, peeking in, and the heads disappear.

Lynn then sits down with a heavy sigh and looks over the lit interior more closely.  Racks of weapons line the middle interior and walls.   There are also crates stacked at intervals throughout the room.  There is no sign of movement and she glances back at the three enlisted men and one woman around the unconscious form on the floor.  One of the men is holding the form’s arms at its back while another sits on its legs.  Standing, Lynn takes a couple of steps over to assess.

“Roll him onto his back,” she says wanting to get a look at him.

Releasing his hold on the arms, one of the soldiers rolls it face up.  There is almost a unified gasp as the attacker is shown in the bright lights.  Its skin is a pale ashen gray, mottled by darker gray patches both large and small with a patch of bright red blood splashed on the lips and skin around the mouth.  Thinking she has killed the soldier, Lynn reaches out once again to check for a pulse.  The skin feels clammy and cool to the touch, almost like it should be wet.  Her fingers come up dry though as she verifies a rapid pulse from its neck.

“What happened to him?”  One of the Privates asks gazing down with wide eyes and raised eyebrows at the still form.

“I don’t know,” she says thinking it must have something to do with the vaccinations or the flu itself.  Perhaps that’s why they stopped the vaccinations, she thinks to herself.

She hears steps behind her and turns her head over her shoulder to see another soldier approach with a roll of duct tape in his hand.  “Found some, Sergeant,” he says and hands it to her.

Rolling the thing on its back once more, they bind its hands and ankles.  “Get him outside,” she says as they finish up.

“Clear a path!”  She yells to the group at the entrance and the entrance room beyond.

Lynn follows behind as they carry the body, two grabbing under the arms and another at the feet.  She can hear several muted gasps as others see the body for the first time.  They carry it outside.

“Set him there,” she says pointing to a spot of deeper sand just away from the building. “And find something to shade him with.”

Emerging from the shadow of the building, with the entire group in tow, they set the still unconscious body on the sand.  “What happened in there, Sergeant Connell?”  Major Bannerman asks once they are outside into the bright sun and fierce heat.

The question falls on seemingly deaf ears as Lynn and the rest are now staring at the figure and the immediate transformation it seems to be going through.  The exposed skin of the face begins to redden, becoming like an instant sunburn.  The thing’s eyes pop open widely and it begins to howl and shriek, thrashing wildly, its back arching up as though in extreme pain.  The skin’s redness darkens even further, to the point where it seems like it should be smoking.  The ear-piercing shrieks continue almost non-stop, and all of this happening within seconds.

“Get it inside!”  Lynn yells above the shrieks and takes a step towards it to help.

Before her second step, the wild arching subsides and it falls limply to the ground as the shrieking abruptly ends.  She rapidly goes to her knees beside the limp form checking for a pulse but finds none.  The skin is extremely warm and dry to her touch.

“He’s dead,” she says, looking back over her shoulder at the group and Major Bannerman.

Standing back up, Lynn then answers Bannerman’s question and relates the events inside, giving more of an overview than a detailed description.  “Sir, may I speak?”  She asks after finishing her description.  Major Bannerman then leads her a little ways away from the group.

“Sir, I think we may be dealing with some kind of reaction to either the vaccination or the flu itself.  It appears that whatever it is makes them hostile attacking others.  And whatever transformation it is apparently makes them quite sensitive to light.  Or outside light at least,” she says pulling several facts together.  Those being that they seem to be active at night and that they found this one in a darkened room along with its reaction to the outside light.  “I think we should deal with them as hostiles until we know better.”

“Good idea, Sergeant,” Bannerman says, “We’ll draw weapons and hole up in the TOC until help arrives.”

“Sir, I’m not sure help is coming if this is associated with the vaccinations.  The whole world was inoculated or at least exposed to the virus.  And, I tried calling almost everyone back at Lewis along with several other installations.  No one answered.”

“What’s your suggestion then, Sergeant Connell?  How are we going to get out of here?”

“I would suggest we arm up, gather water and rations and hole up in the tower at the airfield.  It will have telephones along with radios to contact any aircraft still flying along.  Plus, it’s easily defendable.  We have plenty of food and water here if things are truly a worst case scenario,” Lynn replies to his questions.  “If we can hold out here for perhaps five days and no help arrives, then we can load up vehicles with rations, fuel, and ammo and evaluate the best route and destination.”

“Very good, Sergeant.  That sounds good to me,” Bannerman says and turns back towards the group.

The very first thoughts of the surrealness of the situation begin to form in Lynn’s mind.  This may be similar to the very situations Jack, her, and a few others discussed as wild, ‘what if’ scenarios.  What would they do if a zombie invasion happened?  Is this really something global?  She thinks.  I hope Jack is okay.  Will he actually come pick me up as they discussed?  Too weird to think about but the tower is a logical place to go in any case.

Back at the group, who is mostly staring at the limp body lying in the sand, Major Bannerman addresses the group and details the plan they came up with.

“What about leaving now, sir?”  A voice sounds from somewhere in the group.

“It’s a deathtrap here, sir,” another sounds out.

“I think the best idea is to stay here until we get more info,” Bannerman says and turns to Lynn.  “Sergeant Connell, see to the weapon dispersal.”

“Yes, sir.  You four, with me,” Lynn says pointing out four enlisted, “We’re going to clear the armory and then same plan as before.”

After making sure the injured soldier is treated, Lynn and the four soldiers enter back into the armory.  She gathers them at the doors leading into the actual armory.  “Wedge formation. We’ll draw weapons at the first rack and then proceed to clear the room.  Heads on a swivel.  No firing if your line of sight isn’t clear; use the butt of your weapon,” Lynn says and details positions for the others; two in front with two on the sides putting herself in the middle to help out on either side.  “Everything clear?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” they answer and proceed inside.

The weapons inside stand in mute silence.  The detail detects no movement as they move warily to the first rack of M-16’s leaning in their racks; tense and with heads moving constantly.  They draw weapons and, although expecting something, no sounds or attacks greet them on their journey through the room.  All is silent.  They clear the room and proceed back to the door.

Lynn tells three of them to accompany each of the five that come in to get their weapon and one to remain with her at the doors.  She shoulders her weapon and picks the clipboard back up.  The unit then gathers their weapons in groups of five as Lynn keeps their annotations accurate.  Once all weapons are drawn, she details Drescoll to get the Humvees and other soldiers to carry ammo crates outside.

“Sir, I suggest we stop at the TOC and police up the intel.  We can then break into groups to police up other intel, gather rations and medical supplies, and other personal gear in the barracks,” Lynn says after crates of ammunition, NVG’s, and extra weapons are loaded into the vehicles once Sergeant Drescoll returns with them.

“Okay, Sergeant, see to it,” Bannerman responds.

Gathering the group around her, Lynn gives vehicle assignments, order of travel, and instructions to meet at the TOC, “And be sure to look out for stragglers.  We still don’t know what we’re dealing with here.  Report on the radio any sign of movement with location and numbers,” she adds and everyone disperses to their assigned vehicles.

They arrive at the TOC without further incident.  Exiting her vehicle, Lynn directs four Humvees to block the wide, sandy avenue in front and stand guard, locating two in each direction down the road facing outward several buildings down.  She then allocates a detail of soldiers led by Sergeant Drescoll and two Humvees to locate and gather water and food, setting their return for two hours hence.  Major Bannerman opts to leave with the detail party leaving Lynn in charge of the TOC operations.  The two detail Humvees head out leaving a trail of dust in the still air behind them, the sound of their engines fading as they head away from the TOC.

Meeting up again with the Specialist and Private she left at the TOC, Lynn assigns them and two additional soldiers to head inside and gather up the intel.  She then details Specialist Taylor, a communications specialist, to stay in one of the Humvees parked in front of the TOC to monitor the radios and keep in contact with the detail party.  She also tells the remaining soldiers to stand watch around the TOC before heading down to the road to one of the Humvee pairs to check on them.

Arriving at the Humvees with the heat of the day truly building up, she checks on them and talks with for a few moments.  Looking back toward the TOC, she notices several of the soldiers grouped around one of the Humvees and, oddly, Specialist Taylor standing away from the Humvee and his assignment with another small group.  Looking further up the road, she also notices that the two Humvees that were guarding the other end are nowhere in sight.

What the fuck, she thinks turning back to the soldiers she is standing next to.  “You know anything about what’s going on?”  Lynn asks the group staring down the road with her, putting a quick picture together and suspecting the worst.

“No, Sergeant,” they reply in intervals without taking their eyes from the road; their responses coming from behind her.  Lynn strides back towards the TOC.

About half way there, she sees the one group pile into one of the Humvees and hears it start up.  Her stride becomes a run as the doors to the Humvee close.  Lynn arrives in front of the TOC with sweat dripping down her forehead, just as the Humvee begins to pull away.

“Soldier, stop that Humvee now!!!”  She yells directing her order to the driver and skidding to a halt.

The driver, now only yards away and with his elbow resting on the window frame of the door, sticks his head out of the window and looks back at her.  “Sorry, Sergeant,” he says and pulls his head back in as the Humvee picks up speed.

The three remaining soldiers, including Specialist Taylor, come up to her and kneel in the sandy road next to her, bringing their M-16’s to their shoulders and sight down on the Humvee, now rapidly growing smaller and the dust partially obscuring it.

Lynn reaches her palm out to the top of the weapon next to her and pushes the muzzle downward.

“Stand down,” she says and the remaining muzzles lower as the soldiers rise to their feet.

“Sorry, Sergeant Connell,” Taylor says as the Humvee ahead makes a left hand turn and disappears from view, “there wasn’t much we could do.”

“No worries,” she says still staring after the departed Humvee, “I suspected some would want to go but didn’t think they would do it this way.”

“Everyone okay?”  Lynn asks turning to look at the soldiers around her.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“What about those inside?”  She asks.

“They’re still in there,” Taylor responds and then proceeds to relate the details.

He had been half sitting in the driver seat when he noticed the two Humvees down the road drive off.  Just as he climbed out of the Humvee, one of the soldiers came up behind him and told him they weren’t staying here but leaving with the other group, asking him if he wanted to go.  When he told them he was staying and that they were, in effect, conducting a mutiny, he was rather forcefully ‘asked’ to join the other two; the ‘asking’ being made by way of a drawn Beretta and him being on the wrong end.

Turning back toward the two Humvees she left guarding the other end of the avenue and seeing they were still there, she tells Taylor, “Get on the radio and have them report back here.”

Taylor seats himself back in the remaining Humvee and the other two return a short time later.  The soldiers inside accomplish their mission and stand outside just as the vehicles arrive, coating Lynn and the small group in a small cloud of dust as they pull to a stop.

Lynn gathers the group around her, “Okay, is there anyone here who also feels the need to leave?”  She asks sternly with her hands on her hips and looking at each one in turn.

As she locks eyes with each soldier, they answer with a “No, Sergeant.”

“Very well.  If you hear of any rumors or word of such, you’re to let me know immediately.  Understood!”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

She then reassigns a single Humvee at each of the previous locations and gets on the radio informing Major Bannerman of the situation.  “Very well, Sergeant Connell, we’ll be returning shortly,” Bannerman responds.

It’s at this time that she notices one of the soldiers that departed was the one that had been bitten in the armory.  She lets out a heavy sigh of disappointment and turns to await the arrival of the foraging party.

The detail party returns a short time later loaded with water and food.  Lynn brings Bannerman up to speed with the events and their situation.  “Sir, I recommend we break into single Humvee groups to gather our personal ready packs and meet back here in ninety minutes before heading out to the tower.  We’ll need to recon the tower and set up before dark,” she finishes looking at the blazing sun pass it zenith and heads into the afternoon.

“Very wel,l Sergeant Connell.  Make the assignments.”

Lynn breaks the groups into four separate groups with, Bannerman, Drescoll, Taylor, and herself leading them.  “Stay as a team and gather your items one person at a time,” she instructs them.  They synch their watches, load into their respective vehicles, and head out to the various barrack facilities.

“What about our armor, Sergeant Connell?”  Taylor asks.

“Bring them just in case but it’s not necessary to don them right now.”

With Corporal Horace and two other Privates in her group, Lynn parks the Humvee in front of her barracks.  She steps out of her vehicle and scans the area after grabbing her M-16 and several magazines from inside, sticking the extra ammo in the cargo pockets of her fatigues.  The occasional birds that can usually be heard or seen around the camp seem to be taking a break from the heat that has now climbed to over the 100 degree mark.  Nothing disturbs the still heat of the day.  Even the muted sound of generators running near the TOC are silent giving a possible indication to Lynn that the power in this area has been disrupted by either mechanical failure or they may have simply run out of fuel.  The closing of the Humvee doors sounds unnaturally clear and loud; even the sound of their boots hitting the ground is crisp and disturbs the quiet more than it should.

“We’re going to move through here and clear the barracks cubicle by cubicle from front to back.  There may be survivors holding up within.  I’m going to give a shout upon entry and, if no one responds, then we’ll assume anything moving is hostile,” Lynn says gathering her small group around her.  “Corporal Horace, you and Private Manning take the right side.  Private Turnbull, you’re with me.  Side by side down the central corridor.  Any questions.”

“No, Sergeant,” they respond above the clicking sound of their weapon’s selector switches transferring from ‘safe’ to ‘burst.’

Lynn steps up to the long and narrow convex building door; the steel building and door radiating the absorbed heat.  Standing to the left of the door against the building with Turnbull behind her and the other team of two off to one side in front of the door; Horace kneels in the sand and Manning stands beside her looking over her shoulder, Lynn reaches out to the door’s handle.

Looking back over her shoulder at Horace, she says, “You’re right, I’m left.  Manning and Turnbull, you have the corridor to the right and left respectively.”

She then gives Horace a nod which the Corporal returns, and, after each soldier verifies that their flashlights they picked up from the TOC and Humvees are on, Lynn swings the door open, darts in turning instantly to her left, sinking to her knees to the immediate inside left of the door and bringing her weapon to her shoulder, her light shining in her assigned area.  Corporal Horace darts in immediately on Lynn’s heels accomplishing the same to the right.  Manning and Turnbull follow in setting up five feet further inside focusing down the concrete corridor.

The light streaming through the closing door illuminates the barracks in a thin stream along the corridor for about fifteen feet before dimming into blackness.  The thin stream narrows in width as the door begins to swing shut on its own behind them.  The light from their flashlights shine about a third of the barracks picking up rows of tan lockers along the corridor, separating the open space into smaller enclosed cubicles.  The only other light in the building comes from the far end exit light above the only other door casting very little light around it.

The light from Lynn’s flashlight shines into the first cubicle to the left revealing closed locker doors and two made bunks placed end to end against the front wall with footlockers neatly set against the foot of each bunk.  No movement greets any of the team and the only sound is the soft rustle of the clothing as they adjust their bodies.  The door behind them closes with a loud click and a soft booming noise, echoing throughout the large enclosed space, shutting off the outside light and bathing the team in the soft glow of the exit light set into the wall above them.  The beams of their flashlights cast searchingly into the darkness of the building.

“It’s all clear here, Sergeant Connell,” Private Turnbull says.

“Here too,” both Horace and Manning say only a second later.

“Anyone here,” Lynn calls out into the darkness as she reaches up to the light switch just above her head.

She flicks the bank of switches into the upward position just as several shrieks scream in close intervals out of the darkness.  The interior lights remain off, indicative of a lack of power to the barracks.  The echo of the screams make it difficult to ascertain their exact location but they seem to be coming from further back in the building and from the side cubicles in various locations.

“Assume they’re hostile.  Fire at will but hold these positions,” Lynn says to her team as she orients herself down the corridor, still on her knees.

Immediately upon situating herself into her new position behind and slightly to the left of Private Turnbull, three figures burst out into the wide hallway from the cubicles on the left and four from the right.  They immediately turn toward the team breaking into a run directly at them.  More enter into the light cast by their lights from the far end of the building right on the heels of the first ones.  The sound of Lynn’s M-16 barks loudly into the diminishing echoes of the shrieks as three rounds leave the barrel of her weapon and streak towards the closest figure, the first round catching it square in the sternum.  Her second round hits in the neck causing an explosion of bright red blood that spreads in all directions.  A millisecond later, the third round hits the creature’s pale gray face just above the tip of its nose and emerges from the back of the skull, bathing the creatures just behind it in blood and gore as its head basically explodes backwards.  The force and solid thud of the three rounds impacting immediately stops the forward momentum of its upward body as the legs continue to take one more step resulting in the figure being knocked backward and the legs flying into the air in front.  The body hits the concrete floor with a loud crack.

Before the strobe-like flashes of Lynn’s first shots vanish, more flash throughout the immediate area as the rest of her team opens fire on the rapidly swelling group running toward them.  Bodies are flung in all directions as the corridor is filled with steel and the tinkling of shells hitting the floor as rounds are expended from the chambers of four weapons firing into the mass of bodies.  Time slows.

Lynn calls out, “Reloading,” as she ejects the now empty magazine from her M-16.  The magazine hits the ground beside her with a ringing metallic sound as she grabs for another from her cargo pocket.  Two clicks sound as she inserts a fresh magazine firmly into the lower receiver and triggers the bolt release.  She quickly adds additional rounds into the air in front of them.

Although they are dropping bodies left and right, the figures are getting closer by the second due to their number and closeness in which they started pouring into the corridor.  A cacophony of noise fills the barracks from a mixture of shrieks, growls, and gunfire.  The additional sounds of cartridges hitting the floor and solid smacks of rounds finding their targets fills the air as the surrounding area is lit by a constant flashing of weapons being fired.  Although thinned substantially from the accurate fire, the creatures close the distance to within a few feet of the kneeling team.

Time suddenly accelerates as one creature leaps into the air with a shriek and slams into Private Turnbull, launching him backward toward Lynn.  He lands beside her on his back with the creature on top.  Lynn rams the butt of her M-16 into the side of the creature’s head knocking it off of Turnbull onto the ground on the other side.  She quickly reverses her weapon and fires into its chest point blank.  Blood flowers from its chest from three neat holes close together in the middle of its chest as Private Turnbull quickly rises back to his knees.

Another creature simultaneously slams into Private Manning launching him in a similar fashion next to Corporal Horace.  Warm liquid sprays outward and bathes the left side of Horace’s face as the creature bites into Manning, ripping a large chunk of meat from the side of his neck.  His piercing scream fills the air.  Horace puts the muzzle of her M-16 against the creatures head and fires.  The head disintegrates and the thing falls heavily to the floor.  She turns back to face the hall only to find it empty.

The sudden lack of sound is almost deafening compared to the amount of noise that permeated the interior only moments before.  The only exception is the quick, shallow, panting breath from the three still on their knees and the moaning from Manning immediately beside Horace.  The smell of cordite hangs in the air.  Lynn scans the surrounding area quickly but sees only a multitude of bodies covering the entirety of her immediate front to the limit of the shifting light from their flashlights.

Lynn looks over at Private Manning and is immediately at his side.  Blood spurts from the gouge in his neck covering the floor around him and splashes on her fatigue pants.  His entire neck, side of his face, and fatigues covering his shoulder are bathed in bright red blood.  She drops her light and covers his wound with her hand in an attempt to stop the bleeding.  Blood leaks out beneath her hand and through her fingers.  Private Manning looks up widely at her and their eyes lock; his eyes are full of pain and a fear that his last moments are drawing near.

“It’s okay, Private.  We stopped ‘em thanks to you,” she says keeping eye contact with him. 

A slight smile crosses his ruined face as his body stiffens with a slight tremor and the life leaves his eyes; dimming them and glazing over.  The blood that flowed beneath her hand stops and she reaches up to close his eyes.

Lynn looks up from her kneeling position towards Horace and Turnbull noticing Turnbull holding his left forearm.  “Are you injured?”  She asks.

“It bit me but it’s only superficial.  I’ll be fine thanks to you, Sergeant,” he says looking at her with a smile of gratitude.

He lifts his hand from the wound and shows her.  A bite mark that has penetrated the skin shows but the wound is not gouged out.  Lynn gives a nod, turns her attention to Horace and says, “Get the med kit from the wall there and dress that up.”

“Yes, Sergeant Connell,” Horace responds walking over to retrieve the med kit.

Taking bandages and tape from the inside, Horace wraps Turnbull’s arm.  Private Turnbull then pulls his sleeve back down over the bandage.  All three check their ammo, insert their last fresh magazine into their receivers, and gather up their empty mags, putting them into their pockets.

“What about Private Manning?”  Horace asks as she pulls the flap over her pocket.

“We’ll clear the rest of the barracks, pick up my gear, and pick him up on the way out.  I’ll lead in the middle.  Corporal Horace, you are behind me on the right, Private Turnbull, behind me on the left.  Same plan as before.  Clear each cubicle to the rear,” Lynn says answering.