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 head down the ramp with the morning sun just poking above the horizon. We drive in silence across the ramp and onto the base roads. Calloway repeatedly looks back at me through the rearview and the airman beside me gives me side-long glances. Sergeant Watkins is focused straight ahead through the windshield.
We arrive at 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 and walk around in front of it to the sidewalk. Watkins walks 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 and up a flight of stairs 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 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 orders to pick up some Army personnel in Kuwait and return them to Joint Base Lewis-McChord, sir.”
“I see. And under whose orders are those?” 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.
“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 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 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, salutes and then exits the room, closing the door behind him.
“At ease, Captain,” he says once the door clicks shut.
“I have kids too and 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.
“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,
