When she feels herself slipping into a depression, she runs through scenarios, no matter how wild, in an attempt to find something that will get her out of here. Although the faint words from the loudspeaker penetrate her cell from time to time, she thinks the only way she’s going to get out is if she does it herself. If the others knew where she was, they would have been here by now.
The gray light of the overcast morning seeps into the cockpit as I sit heavily in the right seat. Robert will be flying from the pilot’s seat on this leg. He’s the one who verified the numbers in the flight computer, so if we get lost, he gets to figure out where we are and fly us to our destination. A stronger wind sprang up overnight and the ramp in front is a mass of sand particles blowing over the top of one another. It gives the appearance of the entire ground on the move. During the stronger gusts, the aircraft rocks and I can hear a hiss of blown grit against the fuselage. The walk-around was no picnic and, under the helmet, I feel dirt in my hair. Our tracks from the previous two days have been completely erased. I point this out to Robert and Bri in the midst of doing our checks stressing the importance of knowing the past day’s weather while tracking.
The engines start up, sending their familiar vibration and roar through the aircraft. We are soon taxiing to the south runway over the wind-swept ramp. The events of the previous day still weigh on my mind but fade as I focus on the day to come. It’s another short hop of a little over an hour to the southeast and McConnell AFB. Thinking of the name once again brings Lynn to the forefront of my mind. Damn I miss her. We haven’t even completed half of our journey and I’m so ready to see her again — like that didn’t start the moment we left. What we are doing is important but I’d like nothing more than to turn the aircraft west after takeoff and head home to her. I’m sure the overcast day and this forlorn place is not helping the melancholy feeling I have. I try the satellite radio while we taxi, but to no avail, which doesn’t help my mood at all. The radio station we heard yesterday is also silent.
Robert applies the power and we are soon speeding over the wind-blown runway. We bump along where the sand has been driven into small piles but our wheels soon leave the almost reclaimed airstrip. I raise the gear handle on Robert’s request and glance over at the B-1 bombers as they slide by my window. Raising the flaps, I see the bunkers at the north end of the air base wishing I knew how to load the armaments and fly those beasts. Those would make very short work of any night runner lairs we find.
Robert begins a turn to the southeast to pick up our route. At least the numbers are leading us in the right direction.
“Let’s head over to Lead one more time before heading off. I want to see if there is any indication they might have changed their minds,” I say.
“What are we looking for?” Robert asks.
“A painted sign? A big blinking arrow saying pick us up? Hell, I don’t know,” I answer.
The truth of the matter is that I feel bad about leaving a bunch of kids on their own regardless of their attitudes. Although I could have handled it differently, I firmly believe the outcome would have been the same. However, one more look won’t hurt.
Robert banks the aircraft, leveling out about a thousand feet below the overcast. We retrace our flight path of the day prior and arrive over the town. We circle it and the mesa to the west, but it appears the same as it did before. There is no painted sign or big, blinking arrow.
After a few minutes of orbiting, I tell Robert, “Okay, let’s head out and pick up our route.”
We depart, leaving the kids on their own. They’ve survived to this point and more than likely will continue to do so. I can’t imagine what kind of living that will be but I send thoughts of good will their way.
We pass over more fractured terrain bordering the southern edge of what used to be South Dakota and enter the northern part of Nebraska. Looking down at the terrain is a lot like looking through a slide of amoebic worms or something similar. It’s the only way I can think to describe it. Sand dunes stretch east to west but each dune is short with water and greenery in the valleys between them. Sometimes a strip of agricultural land is nestled between the dunes but other than that, it’s an empty place. It’s an odd look with dunes and greenery together like that.
The ceiling begins to rise but we maintain our altitude as we’ll begin a descent into Wichita shortly. Passing the Platte River, we fly over the Nebraska and Kansas that I remember. It’s a patch work of fields with green fingers of streams and rivers running throughout. The base is on the southeast corner of Wichita and abuts the city so I have a feeling that our nights of peace are behind us. With the abundant water and possible food sources, I’m guessing night runners will be prowling the streets in numbers. I just hope we find the soldier’s family. I’m not such a huge fan of our folks finding empty homes and their families lost. Yeah, I’m ready for a happy ending. We seem to have too few of those these days.
Robert sets up a descent into the air base. Our route will take us over the city which is too big to conduct an aerial observation over all of it. I want to take a look at the air base first and then the surrounding area for hints of human habitation. Once on the ground, we will be heading south for about thirty five miles to the town of Wellington. It’s a pretty direct route from the airfield along an interstate. After leaving the city, the path seems to go through a pretty remote area so we should make good time as we won’t have to stop and check out towns along the way. It’s getting through the city that could be tricky.
The vast metropolis of Wichita appears off our nose, growing larger as we descend. We’re busy with setting up our arrival and can only spare the occasional glance outside. What I see though is much like the other cities we’ve passed over — nothing moving. The streets are definitely clearer here than those farther north with regards to being covered with dirt. Descending over downtown, a civilian airport sits at the southwestern side of the city off our right wing. McConnell AFB itself is off our nose and Robert sets us up to cross over at a right angle limiting our exposure.
The two long, concrete runways run north to south and we drone over them coming from the west. At the north end, to the east of the runways, large tanker aircraft stretch in two lines covering almost the entirety of the tarmac. I glimpse vehicles parked around the aircraft.
“Bring us around again,” I tell Robert. Greg is poised behind us looking down.
Robert circles and we come in from the southeast altering our flight path across the field. Coming over from differing points of the compass is just a good idea. It doesn’t give anyone on the ground with ill intentions a consistent angle with which to fire at. Of course, we are in a 130 so it’s kind of a moot point — we are slow and big. The one good thing about the aircraft is that the droning of the engines and turning props is at such a low pitch that it makes it difficult to tell exactly where it’s at — it seems to come from all directions at once.
I look closer around the aircraft on this second flyover. There are a lot of pickup trucks and other 4x4 type of vehicles parked near the aircraft. Interspersed among them are people. Several jump in some of the trucks and head off the ramp while the remainder continues to stare up at us.
“Circle us over the airfield. I want to get a closer look,” I say.
Robert glances over as I reach for a set of binoculars and he banks the aircraft. Now, in his defense, it’s a common, almost ingrained habit for a pilot to bank the aircraft in his or her direction. His turn to the left, however, does me no good whatsoever. I might as well be drawing cartoon characters. At least that would be a less wasteful use of time.
“Hmmm…this is odd. Whereas I should be seeing aircraft, vehicles, and people on the ground, I instead see fourteen satellites and a small planet with three moons,” I say, looking out of my window with the binoculars pointing at the sky above.
“What?” he queries, turning to glance at me as I look out of my window. “Oh shit. Sorry.”
He brings the aircraft around and banks in the other direction putting the airfield on my side of the aircraft. “There we go. Much better,” I say.
Below, I see a knot of armed people staring up at us shielding their eyes against the glare. Some have their weapons in hand while others still have theirs shouldered. On the ramp, near the tailgates of the pickups, several BBQ grills are sending small drafts of smoke slowly spiraling skyward. Near the large hangars at the edge of the ramp, three reefer semi-trucks are parked. The trucks that departed have pulled into a nearby parking lot. The fact that they aren’t aiming their weapons skyward is remotely encouraging. The trucks that left appear to be a reactionary force should they be needed. However, my trust meter hasn’t spiked into the green level of the comfort zone as of yet.
