Awakening anw-2 Read online

  Craig gathers the maps and approach charts to Kirtland AFB as the all arms and elbows show that a divert causes begins. Robert sets up and begins a descent to the city of Albuquerque. There is a continuing flurry of activity within the cockpit along with an increase in the bouncing of the aircraft. Robert looks at the map between checks to find the airport. I hold onto the back of his seat as the aircraft attempts to knock me off my feet at times. I can tell he is trying to locate the field with the way he is holding the map up in front of his face and looking outside.

  “Ah, there it is,” I hear him say over the intercom. With that, he sets the map down.

  “Craig, what runways are there?” Robert asks.

  “We have 08/26, 17/35, 03/21, and 12/30,” Craig answers looking at the field diagram in the approach charts. I’m interested in finding out which one he chooses.

  The long line of storms lies a few miles away. I’m surprised to see them so big this early on in the day but it does happen. Usually, squall lines like the one in front of us forms in the afternoons and evenings as the air from the heated ground rises and cools. The turbulence we are experiencing so far out shows an unstable air mass so that must have contributed to the early rising storms. I’m hoping we’ll be able to get down to Canon AFB in the morning. I glance over and notice tension around Gonzalez’ eyes. I’m not sure if it’s the flying, being nervous operating the panel, or if it’s because we are close to her home and family.

  Robert hesitates a moment deciding which runway to use. We continue our descent. “Which one is that longest one?” He asks pointing outside.

  “The longest one is 08/26,” Craig answers.

  “Okay, we’ll use that one. We’ll use runway 08 as it is closer. I would use whichever one the wind dictates but we don’t have that information,” Robert says turning the aircraft to get into alignment with the runway.

  “That’s a good choice,” I say deciding to interject my thoughts. “One, it is the longest and the ground level around here is over 5,000 feet high. You know what that means, right?”

  “Longer ground roll and takeoff distances,” he answers.

  “Yep, exactly. Plus, with the storms nearby, there is the chance one of those storms can have a downburst. That means strong winds can head this way in a hurry from them. I’d rather be heading into something like that rather than away when landing,” I add. I see the wheels turn quickly in his mind as he absorbs this information.

  “Makes sense. We could stall out if it came behind us,” he says after a moment of contemplation.

  I’m glad to see him able to work through these thoughts while setting up for a landing as well. It gives me more confidence about our return flight. I give him a pat on the shoulder. “You’ve got this handled,” I say glancing at the overhead panel to make sure Gonzalez, under Bri’s supervision, has them set up correctly. I still remember our near glider experience.

  The gusty winds and turbulence make the final approach a tricky one with the threshold of the runway bouncing around in front of the nose, like a drunk trying to fit a key in the lock, but Robert manages to get us down. The turbulence continues into the flare, we rise and then set down a little abruptly but we are able walk away from it so it’s a good landing. We taxi in to where a couple of HC-130’s are parked and shut down. The wind continues to buffet the aircraft as strong gusts blow through the area. I’m not sure if the storms will venture this way during the day or evening but their presence is certainly felt.

  We unbuckle and head into the back. There is the unmistakable odor of someone that didn’t enjoy the turbulence much. The 130 is notorious for shaking so I’m not surprised. I open the ramp and, after setting a schedule for the teams to guard the area, tell everyone they are free to loiter outside as long as they don’t venture far or alone. We find a shop vac in one of the open hangars and clean up the mess inside. We even find some of the aromatic “kitty litter” used for such messes. I’m not sure which is worse though, the original smell or the “aromatic” nature of the kitty litter.

  The gusts continue to sweep through the area but other than the occasional deep rumble of the storms in the distance, no other sound is heard. Surely there must be other survivors, I think surveying the ramp. After all, we’ve found others in our area. Perhaps they’ll respond to the sound of our arrival.

  Although it was relatively short flight, we are all thankful to be outside regardless of the blustery conditions. It’s warm and humid but it’s nice to be out of the aircraft. If the storms alter their direction and decide to pay us a visit, we’ll be confined back in the 130 and all of its “comforts.” Read facetious. MRE’s are opened and we take as much protection from the gusts as the leeward side of the aircraft will allow. The thin air of the high desert is keenly felt. After being at sea level for so long, I feel like I can’t catch my breath. The team on guard splits into teams of two and stations themselves, with binoculars, around the ramp. They should be able to give us some warning of anything untoward.

  Sitting on the ramp, I notice just how gritty and covered with sand it is. The desert is slowly beginning to take back what was once its domain. I look across the ramp and notice a wide trail cut through the grit where we taxied in. It’s not something that will affect us greatly at this point but definitely something to keep in mind. We’ll have to conduct low passes at each field to verify its condition. I should have thought about that here but my attention was focused on both Robert and the near thunderstorms. Even sheltered against the wind, the gusts continue to blow bringing more sand with it. I even feel the grit of it in my mouth as I chew.

  “Are we going to fuel up here?” Robert asks finishing his meal.

  “I think we should be okay. The storms look like they may be building in this direction and I don’t want to be in the midst of fueling if they do. They can move rather quickly when they want,” I answer.

  “Makes sense,” he says.

  “Sir, we have company,” I hear Horace say over the radio. Blue Team is currently on guard. The call gets everyone’s attention and we stand quickly with weapons in hand; lunches half eaten fall to the ground.

  “What do you have Horace?” I ask looking around the area.

  “Three people near the end of the runway to the west. Two men and a woman. Armed but not bringing them to bear in any overt fashion. They are just standing and looking our way,” she reports.

  I look in the direction reported and contemplate getting the Humvees out for additional fire support and mobility. There are only three reported but there could be others around. I don’t see anything but it is some distance away. I head into the aircraft to grab a pair of binoculars.

  “Keep an eye out for others,” I radio the team as I grab the binoculars and head back outside.

  I direct the other team members to cover around the other HC-130’s parked on the ramp. This is the only C-130 I see and we’ll need it to carry our Humvees. The move to different cover is to keep any rounds away from our transport in case gunfire is exchanged.

  “Any change?” I ask Horace as we settle into our new positions.

  “No, sir. They are just standing there watching us through a set of binoculars as well,” she replies.

  “They can see you then?”

  “I’m pretty sure they can, sir. At least they appear to be looking directly at us.”

  “Okay, wave them in. Everyone stay alert and keep an eye on the entire perimeter,” I say.

  A moment passes and I glass the area indicated by Horace. Adjusting the focus, three people come into view. It appears one of the men and the woman have hunting rifles with the other man carrying a shotgun. All have a sidearm strapped to their side. I see them talk to one another and begin heading in our direction. They cautiously approach with their weapons ready but not threatening.

  As they draw closer, I head over to Horace’s position. Reaching where she and Bartel are hunkered behind a concrete barrier along the edge of the ramp, I see the three have stopped about 100
yards away. I rise and begin walking toward them telling everyone else to stay in position. With my approach, they continue nearing once again until we are standing about twenty yards away from each other. The men appear to be in their late twenties and have the appearance, with their stance and short haircuts, of being either in the military when everything happened or at least have prior service. The woman appears to be middle-aged with dark, curly hair cut to her shoulders. They are all a little disheveled with streaks of dirt covering their faces and stains ground into their jeans and shirts.

  “We mean no ill will and as long as you have the same intentions, you’re welcome to join us for lunch and conversation if you’d like,” I call out. They look to each other. One of the men shrugs and they all shoulder their rifles and close in. I shoulder mine as well and have the teams stay on the alert but stand down.

  “I’m Jack,” I say reaching my hand out as we come together.

  “Thomas,” one of the men says accepting my shake.

  “Jeremy,” the other says.

  “Laurel,” the woman says with a hint of a Texan accent.

  We walk back to the group which has reconvened in our sheltered spot on the lee side of the C-130. Our three newcomers are handed MRE’s which they dig into. They share the story of their meeting during a day scrounging for food and water. Thomas, Jeremy, and Laurel have been holing up in one of the gyms of a high school nearby and ventured our way after hearing our aircraft arrive. They mention seeing a small number of others from time to time but haven’t made contact with them. They heard our 130 fly over and thought perhaps it was a remnant of a military group left over from the calamity. The supplies in the area were getting more difficult to gather with their small group and it was only a matter of time before their place was finally overrun. So far, they had kept the beasts at bay during the night but were worn out from having to do so.

  “We’re based up in the Northwest. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like,” I mention. I give a synopsis of our story and a rundown on our situation.

  They look at each other and all shrug as if saying ‘why not.’ “If you don’t mind, I think we’ll take you up on that,” Thomas says. We share our stories. Sure enough, both Thomas and Jeremy were prior Army while Laurel was prior Navy and was on her way to purchase a horse when everything went down.

  The early afternoon passes with the storms staying a short distance away. Their bases have become darker if that were even possible; looking like bruises. The gusts of wind carry the distinct smell of ozone giving me the indication that they could drift our way. Echo Team replaces Blue Team on watch. Soon after, the radio crackles to life once again.

  “Jack, Greg, we have additional company. They just emerged from behind a hangar over by the tower. I count fifteen but that could be one or two off. They spotted us at the same time and went to cover,” Greg reports. “They’re currently by the tower with what appears to be automatic weapons pointed in our direction.”

  That again gets our attention and we fan out finding whatever cover we can find. I immediately glass the area by the control tower and see people with muzzles pointing in our direction. The ones I see are in uniforms and, judging from the barrels sticking out from their cover, they do appear to be armed as Greg reported. There is about two hundred yards separating us.

  No one makes a move in either direction. I am still cautious of our marauder experiences. I’m not sure where their caution is coming from but I certainly can understand it. We have three teams here with eighteen soldiers and they have fifteen or so. Depending on various factors, it can come out either way if steel starts being exchanged. We are definitely more in the open but the parked 130’s provided ample coverage. We don’t have many flanking options as we have to traverse the open part of the ramp. We could if we laid down covering fire and gained the upper hand. However, we could easily find ourselves stuck here if their rounds found vital parts of the aircraft around us. At least stuck as far as flying options go.

  The standoff continues. I try yelling to the other group but my voice is carried away with the wind. At least I assume so as I get no response back; either vocally or from any movement on their side. I decide that we are not going to get anything resolved in this manner.

  “I’m going out,” I say over the radio. “If I go down, Red and Blue Team, lay down a base of cover fire. Greg, you’ll be in charge. I suggest you take Echo across the ramp under the cover fire and flank them from the hangars.”

  “Are you sure that’s the best of ideas to go out there? We could just do as you suggest,” Greg replies back.

  “No, I’m not sure but I don’t see where we have a choice. There’s a good chance the aircraft will be disabled should we exchange fire,” I answer.

  “Okay, Jack, best of luck to ya,” Greg says. I look to Gonzalez and Horace crouched nearby. They both nod their reply.

  I hand my M-4 to Gonzalez and rise. Keeping my hands in the air, I walk onto the open ramp separating the two groups. I see some activity from the ones behind cover eventually observing an individual rise and walk in my direction. I take note that he isn’t carrying a weapon. The ACU-clad soldier and I meet close to the middle of our two groups with the wind whipping around us in gusts. The storms faintly rumble in the background. We drop our hands to our sides.

  “I’m Jack Walker,” I say opening up the conversation.

  “Sergeant Prescott,” the younger man replies. He appears to be in his early thirties with his sandy brown hair cut tight against his tanned head.

  “We aren’t looking for trouble and if you’re thinking the same, what do you say we stand down?” I say.

  “Are you part of a military unit?” He asks as his reply.

  “Most of the folks with us were when this all went down. I’m prior Air Force,” I reply.

  He nods. “Okay, I’m for standing down. We have some itchy trigger fingers behind me as I’m sure you have as well,” Prescott says finally answering me. We both speak into our radios telling our individual groups to stand down but standby.

  “I take it you and your group are military?” I ask.

  “Most of us,” he replies. “We have a few civilians we’ve met up with as well.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any pilots with you?”

  “No. I wish we did. We have a variety though; a couple of mechanics, medical orderlies, clerks, security personnel and such. Most are Air Force like you. I was with base security,” he answers.

  “We have about the same except most are, or were, Army soldiers,” I say and give a rundown or our situation and setup.

  We share stories. Prescott and his group have holed up in the tower for the past couple of months. They forage during the day and secure the tall concrete structure at night. The night runners tried desperately to get in at the beginning but have mostly left them alone in the past couple of weeks. Water has become scarcer as the summer progresses but they have been collecting rain water as the storms venture over their area.

  “Well, it might be a little crowded in the 130 at the moment but you’re welcome to join us if you feel so inclined,” I say as our stories draw to a close.

  “I’d have to talk it over with the others. We’re pretty secure here and the water situation will clarify itself,” Prescott answers.

  “Okay. We’re staying here tonight and leaving early in the morning. We can drop by here on our way back if you’d like to talk to the others about it. We’d be happy to have you but I get staying in a place you are familiar with and that feels secure,” I respond.

  “That sounds good to me. It’ll give us time to analyze our choices. Just a warning, the night runners, as you call them, prowl around the base at night,” Prescott says.

  “We should be pretty secure in the 130. We’ve spent many a night with the pounding and shrieking outside. It’s not the best situation sleep-wise but I doubt they can get in unless they’ve figured out how to manipulate intricate doors. If we don’t talk to you before we leave, we
’ll see you in a few days, weather permitting.”

  “Sounds good, Jack. Good luck to you. By the way, what did you do in the military?” He asks. I give him a brief synopsis of my military career. I note concern creep into his eyes as I talk.

  “I guess that should be a ‘sir’ then,” he says as I finish.

  “Nah, Jack works. See ya in a few days.” With that, we turn and head back to our respective groups.

  Prescott rejoins his group and they head into the tower. I let our teams know it’s all good and we break out of our cover. The wind whips a little stronger bringing a sharp chill. The first large drops of rain begin to fall as the storms expand and head our way. We gather in the aircraft and button it up. The flashes of lightning and subsequent rumbles grow closer and louder. The angry looking clouds swallow up the sun and the day grows dark. I have Robert start the 130 and taxi us closer to the hangar. I don’t think New Mexico has a lot of tornadoes but my experience in Texas with these storms makes me a little cautious. If we do spot one, we’ll dart into the hangar. If one does come at night, like I’ve seen them do on occasion, well, I just hope it doesn’t sweep over us. If that happens we’re pretty screwed. It will, however, keep the ramp clear of night runners.

  The interior is lit up at close intervals as the storms draw overhead; the brilliant flashes of intense white light fill the inside. The cracks of thunder follow at close intervals with their sound fading off in rumbles. The sky opens up and heavy rain beats against the skin of the aircraft. The din inside makes it hard to hear anything else. We just settle in where we can and wait it out.

  With the storms hammering outside and turning day into night, it’s hard to actually tell when night comes. The only way I know, besides it actually getting darker outside, is the stirring of pictures/voices in my head. I pack them down to where they are a remote and almost ignorable buzz. However, the increased signals denote the time of the night runners is about to begin. I’m not sure how the storms will affect their normal activity but I’m interested in finding out. I don’t feel them moving about a whole lot as I can only sense the ones close. The range of sensing becomes limited the more I keep the ability in the back of my head.