“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 snores echoing throughout the cargo interior. Teens, they can sleep the whole day away. Of course, I can as well and remember the days when noon was a normal wake up time for me in the summer months. I lay quietly thinking, nestled in my bag on the deck of the pitch black cargo bay with my head resting on the small, white pillow, not knowing how in the world we are going to be able to stay alive with these things 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.
I open the curtain to the cockpit and find it illuminated by the early morning light streaming in the windows. I step into the cockpit windows and look out. The eastern horizon is the pale blue of a just risen sun transitioning to a darker blue as 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 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. In the early morning light, several crows hop around the strewn body parts.
I climb out of the cockpit and open the front door, light streaming in as it lowers to the ground. Cool morning air replaces the warmth of the interior, cooling my cheeks as it passes 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 along 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 seem surreal
I finish my walk around to find Robert standing by the bottom of the stairs. “Quite an interesting past few days eh?” I say stepping up next to him as we both gaze across the fields to the north.
“Yeah, no kidding,” he says turning his gaze along 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.
“Low batteries for some reason. We’ll use the cart but we’ll need to figure out why the batteries are low. Let’s go hook up the cart,” I say as we head into the cargo bay.
“Morning, Dad,” Nic says sitting up in her sleeping bag.
“Morning, 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.
