A New World 10 - Storm (35 page)

I hand the aircraft off to Craig, telling him to keep it in a level climb. Unbuckling, I put the bleed air switches for the number one and two engines to the closed position. The affected engines should show an increase in torque if the valves close. Those needles, some of the few operating on that side, remain steady. I close the wing isolation switch. The instruments continue their crazy swings. Closing the bleed air from the two good engines, I take my seat again, frustrated. The wiring on the affected side must have already burned through, leaving the valves in the open position.

“We’re going to have to shut down number one and two,” I say. “That’s the only way we’re going to get this under control.”

“Will we be able to maintain altitude on two engines?” Craig asks.

“Probably not with our weight,” I respond. “But we don’t have a choice.”

“What’s going on up there?” Robert asks.

“We’re going to have to shut down number one and two engines.”

“What does that mean, Jack?” Lynn queries.

“That more than likely means we’re going to have to make an unscheduled stop,” I answer.

“Oh. Where?”

“Working on it. Now, please, we’re a little busy up here.”

We quickly run through the engine shutdown checklist, shutting down the inboard engine followed by the outboard one. The aircraft slews to the side and I apply rudder and decrease the power on the other engines. I keep our climb going, trading altitude for airspeed. After hitting the best glide airspeed, I lower the nose to maintain it, beginning a descent.

“Bri, use the left wing tanks to feed the two operational engines, but watch for a fuel imbalance. We can’t afford that right now,”

Glancing at the engine instruments, the ones we shut down are reading zero. A quick glance outside shows that both propellers are feathered. That’s a good thing; otherwise we might not be able to maintain directional control. As it is, I have to use quite a bit of rudder and bank angle to keep us flying straight. We have things mostly under control up front. Now it’s time to find a place to land and lighten the load. Following our emergency actions, we find ourselves heading toward the compound.

“What’s the plan? Are we heading back to the runway at Cabela’s?” Craig asks.

I look at the monitor screen. The second group of night runners is already at the compound, pouring through the open gates. While we attacked that group and escorted Frank out, the northern group made it across the river and are quickly closing.

“I think that’s a no-go. They’ll swarm over us like ants before we can get to the other 130 or a vehicle. We need something a little farther away,” I state.

“What about the Olympia airport?” Craig suggests.

“I don’t think we can make that,” I reply.

“There’s the field we were planning to use for planting. That’s cleared out for the most part,” Craig says. “And it gives us a little distance away from the compound.”

Looking down at the dark land below, it’s difficult to identify any other place that would suffice. That’s the hard part about an emergency landing at night; you can’t see what lies below. Night vision and the cameras help, but not nearly enough. As the maxim goes: At night, pick the darkest place. On short final, turn on the landing lights. If you don’t like what you see, turn them off.

“That’s as good as anyplace. Set the coordinates up in the flight computer. We’re going to have to use the force with this one,” I comment.

“Really, Jack…really?” Lynn states.

I forgot everyone else was on the intercom. With the nav system set up, I nudge our wounded aircraft directly toward the field, which is a couple of miles from the compound, now abandoned and back under night runner control.

“Robert, I want you and the others to start dumping the rest of our ammo,” I say, pulling the nose up to slow the aircraft. “Open the ramp and start tossing it overboard.”

I have a difficult time keeping the aircraft straight. Pulling the flap circuit breaker, I ask Craig to lower the flaps.

“What? Why?” he responds.

“I’m having a hard time keeping enough rudder to maintain directional control. I’ve pulled the flap circuit breaker. Putting the lever down will give us a boost to the rudder hydraulics,” I say.

A little pressure is relieved. A stream of red pours downward as Robert empties the Gatling gun. As we were already low on ammo, it’s not long before he calls that they’re finished and the ramp is closed.

“Okay Bri, let’s start dumping fuel. Use all ten pumps. Oh, and make sure you leave us a little,” I say.

Bri cleans up after dumping most of our fuel. We arrive over the field and set up a circling descent. As we continue to lighten our load, I try calling Frank but can’t raise him, or anyone else.

“Everyone, strap in and tighten your belts. This may get a little sporty,” I say, lining up on a final to the field.

“Gear down?” I call.

It takes longer than usual with the hydraulic pumps on number one and two engines shut down, but we eventually get three green. I leave the flap circuit breaker where it is in order to give me more rudder control. Our landing lights stab out into the darkness and I see the field looming ahead. Craig calls a steady chant of our altitude above the ground and airspeed. The tops of trees flash only a few feet below, but my focus is on the rapidly approaching patch of dirt and grass.

“Brace yourselves,” I call, pulling the throttles back and flaring.

With the engines in idle, the pressure needed on the rudder greatly eases. Grass, growing amid the plowed field, flows past our windows. I hold the aircraft off the ground for as long as possible, gradually pulling back on the controls as the mains seek the earth. A bump and we’ve touched. The mains bump again and the aircraft settles. Still pulling back, I hold the nose wheel off. The field races past the windscreen, our lights brightly illuminating the rising stalks. Bouncing across the rough surface, the Spooky’s airspeed quickly diminishes. Unable to hold the nose off any longer, it settles toward the field.

The aircraft slants to the right as the mains dig into a softer part of the ground. The nose slews to the side, slowly at first, but then faster. I mash on the rudder to correct it but the momentum carries us further into a skid. If the mains on the left catch something, the aircraft will tilt, burying a wing in the dirt. The wing may break, but it will definitely turn us sharply in the other direction. A series of ever-increasing actions will begin to occur that will eventually tear the Spooky apart. I bring the throttles up in a burst of power and lightly tap the brakes, ready to counteract should I cause an overcorrection. The aircraft swings around and the nose straightens. I pull the throttles into idle and the Spooky rolls to a bumpy stop.

Quickly, I shut down the engines. The aircraft is plunged into darkness before Bri reaches up to turn the power to internal. Our seatbelts have held and the Spooky, at least the front end of it, is largely intact.

“Is everyone all right?” I ask.

“Are we dead?” I hear Lynn utter.

“Yes. It was a peaceful transition, wasn’t it?” I reply.

“It sucked balls,” she shakily responds. “But yeah, we seem to be okay.”

“Drop the ramp if you can and let’s get the fuck out of here. The night runners are sure to be coming. Grab weapons, ammo, and goggles. Leave everything else,” I say.

Craig and Bri leave the cockpit. On my way out, I turn the electrical switch off. On shaky legs, I make my way into the cargo compartment and outside.

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Michael feels the packs up north losing members by the hundreds as they push toward the two-legged lair. As each one falls from his mind, he feels a rising anger. It’s more than he thought they’d lose, but they’re at the crossing. The pack leaders send images of the ruin and destruction that the sky is delivering. They can’t get across.

Michael sends a message to his pack, “Push harder.”

The roar from the vast numbers surrounding him drowns out anything else. He is taken aback when the red streams out of the sky into his own, feeling each and every loss. Getting into the two-legged lair is the only way to stop the deaths. The light stops for a moment. He feels the surge of the pack as they race across their own dead and dying. Death returns, cutting once more into his pack.

Solid thumps pound through pack members directly to his front, and he feels the ground vibrate under a barrage of something heavy slamming into it. Many fall at his feet. Looking skyward, he sees a dark shape overhead, moving silently and blotting out the tiny points of light. It looks very much like that thing in the sky he saw many, many nights ago; the one that sent him scurrying for cover.

Stepping over mutilated bodies, he urges the pack forward. He’s so angry that his blood feels like it’s going to boil. The pack rushes onward, driven by his strong emotions. They are close to the two-legged lair. Once there, they will scale the walls, with their own dead if need be. Tonight, the two-legged will die.

His pack reaches one of the hard pathways close to the walls of the lair. Many of the box-like things that carry the two-legged are on the path. For once, he and his pack have some of the two-legged in the open. Michael directs his pack to attack.

Many more are cut down. They surround the two-legged but can’t get to them. The death that comes from above won’t let them. He watches as the objects move past and disappear. Gathering his pack, he races for the lair, noting that the death raining down on the packs is gone. With a scream of excitement, he enters an opening in the walls and is inside.

The pack frenzies, and he lets them. Some run toward large, four-legged prey located in a far part of the lair. Others head toward a large building; toward the scent of two-legged. Michael pauses while his pack races past. Looking overhead, he sees the dark sky shadow pass by. He follows it as it vanishes behind trees in the distance. Letting most of his pack run loose, he gathers others and heads toward where he saw the thing disappear.

Arriving some time later, he sees an object on the ground in the middle of a field. He approaches cautiously, sniffing the air. Among other smells, there is a lingering scent of two-legged in the air. They caused thousands of deaths to the packs this evening, so he’s wary. Nothing happens on his approach. Surrounding it, the smell of two-legged is stronger. He knows they were somehow responsible for all of the deaths. He was right to attack. Sniffing the air, he picks up the scent of their trail. With a shriek, he and his pack race after, entering the nearby woods.

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We’ve been heading west for an hour, trying to put as much distance between the crash site and ourselves as possible. It’s the only direction that leads away from the hundreds of thousands of night runners. I open up for short periods, sensing a large pack on our trail. They are getting closer, obviously tracking us by our scent. We’re all winded, having alternated between jogging and walking.

I’ve tried all that I can to throw the pack off our trail, but they’re too big to be fooled by throwing stray pieces of equipment and clothing into the woods. Luckily, everyone has goggles, which allows us to keep our speed up reasonably well. The terrain is composed of woods with overgrown fields in between. Barbed wire fences slow us down whenever we encounter them, but luckily they are far and few between. All along, we’re chased by the faint sound of shrieks. We run out of the fields and onto a two-lane country road, where we pause to catch our breath.

“We have to split up,” I say with my hands on my knees.

“There’s no way that’s happening, Jack,” Lynn states.

“Look, the night runners are closing, and the way it is, they’ll be on us long before dawn. I have to lead them away,” I state.

“Won’t they chase in both directions?” Robert asks.

“I’ll open up and lead them to me,” I answer.

“Well, it’s not going to happen, so you can just forget that idea,” Lynn says.

“I don’t have time to argue this with you, Lynn. You have to get my kids to safety. Head south toward the bay and find a boat. Come back at dawn and I’ll meet you at the compound.”

“Dad, why can’t we all go to the bay?” Bri questions, her voice shaky.

“If we all go, we won’t make it, sweetheart.”

“Dammit, Jack. You’re not leaving me,” Lynn states.

“I love you dearly, Lynn. But even you know this is the right thing to do,” I say.

“Then I’m going with you.”

“No, what you’re going to do is lead my kids to safety. We don’t have time to stand here and argue this. This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to lead everyone south, get on a boat, and I’ll meet you when the sun rises.”

“Dad, please don’t go,” Bri pleads.

I fold her into my arms, hugging her tightly. “I have to, Bri. Don’t you worry, I’ll be okay. Stay with Gonzalez and the others. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dad,” Bri says with a shaky voice.

I hug Robert. “You take care of everyone. And know that I’m very proud of you.”