“Bring us down the runway and rock our wings. Then circle so we can see their reaction,” I say.
I try radioing the people on the ground to no avail. Robert flies us out and aligns us with the runway, bringing us down the length of the larger runway. He rocks our wings down the entire length and then begins another circle. I look at the people on the ground, some dressed in regular clothing while others have fatigues. Several of them are waving their arms over their heads in a crossing fashion.
Here’s the confusing part about rescue signals. Most people think getting the attention of a rescue helicopter or aircraft is achieved by waving their arms over their head. That signal actually means that it’s unsafe and dangerous to land. The correct signal is to move the arms up and down at the side, and then once you have their attention, form a “Y” with your arms over your head. Several people have been left stranded because of this misinterpretation. Here, I have no idea what is truly meant, however, judging by the fact that they are in the midst of barbecuing, I’m guessing they don’t mean it’s unsafe to land — unless their cooking is truly horrible.
“So what was their response?” Robert asks, continuing to circle.
“They waved their arms over their head,” I answer.
“Isn’t that the wave off signal?” he asks, confused.
“Yep.”
“What do you want to do?” Greg asks from over my shoulder.
“Find a white sand beach, crawl into a hammock, and sip drinks with umbrellas in them,” I reply.
“Dreamland fades and Jack finds himself in an aircraft flying over an inhabited runway following an apocalypse with Greg asking, ‘what do you want to do?’”
“You are the biggest buzzkill ever. I want to take a lower pass to get a closer look at the runway in case they’re serious about it being unsafe to land. If it’s okay, then we’ll land to the north but stop short of mid-field. Have the Stryker ready to offload once we stop. We’ll take your team, Greg, and see what these folks have to say. I didn’t see any heavy arms. Robert, leave the engines running in any case. If we have to, we’ll fall back to the aircraft and jump inside leaving the Stryker here. Robert, Bri, have the bird ready to get airborne in a hurry,” I say.
The runway looks clear of obstructions and debris as we zoom low down the runway. The people off to the side continue to look at us but from behind the cover of their vehicles. I’m sure our behavior isn’t causing them to have huge levels of comfort either. I have Robert give a final wing rock at the northern end and we climb to set up for landing.
He sets us down close to the threshold and brings the aircraft to a rapid halt. The Stryker is untied and offloaded as the ramp is brought down. I head out with Greg and his team to the north along the taxiway until we enter the edge of the ramp. I disembark and stand near the front watching the people through a set of binoculars waiting for their reaction.
It’s slow in coming, but several of them eventually pile into one of the pickups once it’s clear we aren’t proceeding any closer. I glimpse the pickup trucks that left earlier as they move down one of the streets near the airfield, moving behind us. I radio the observation to everyone.
The breeze brings a waft of the grilling food which makes my mouth water. It’s been a few days since I’ve had anything remotely close, having lived mostly off the canned rations and MREs which we heated on the small stove in the 130. The pickup drives our way, skirting the edge of the ramp near the hangars. It appears they want to stay close to an exit in case we open fire. I can’t say that I blame them. It doesn’t look like they’ve had much trouble with bandits in the area as they’ve left a lot of their gear outside. The grills, however, would draw every night runner within the state.
The white Dodge Ram pulls up to within fifty feet. Four men in camouflaged gear exit with three of them taking station behind the bed. I’m sure that’s only a feel good measure as they can see the .50 cal turret behind me. The fourth walks to the front as I’ve done. All of the men have their weapons ready but not in a threatening posture. My comfort meter climbs a notch but hangs there as I know there are several trucks somewhere behind me.
“Greg, keep a watch for the other trucks. I’m going forward,” I say into the radio.
“Gotcha covered,” he responds.
I shoulder my M-4 and walk toward the man. He doesn’t move his weapon to his shoulder nor does he put it away. The aroma of body odor wafts to my nostrils as I near. Of course, that may be mine catching up with me.
Reaching the man, I notice the subdued rank of a first lieutenant on his collar. I make out a varied number of stripes on the sleeves of the men standing on the other side of the truck.
“Lieutenant,” I say, extending my hand.
“Sir,” he replies.
“Let’s just make that Jack. Jack Walker,” I say.
“Tim…Tim Harkins.”
“Can we come to the agreement that we aren’t going to shoot at each other? At least for now. However, you may want to once you get a whiff of the rest of us,” I ask.
“I think we can agree on that,” he comments.
“Great. You can pull your men in the trucks back and I’ll have the 130 taxi up.”
“You saw that, eh? Sorry. You can’t be too careful these days, Jack.”
“I’m with you on that. It’s been…an interesting experience to date,” I agree, calling Robert on the radio to bring the aircraft up and telling Greg all appears okay.
“Are you guys from a military unit?” Tim asks.
“Well, yes and no. We have a few soldiers from varying outfits but nothing official. Like that’s even a thing anymore. Most of the folks we have back home are civilian, though,” I answer, hearing the throaty roar of the 130 increase as Robert taxis along the runway.
“Same here. We have a few military and some civilians who either worked on base or wandered in. So, there’s nothing left, huh?”
“Not that I can tell. We’ve made several hops to different places and have met with differing results in every location, but nothing that remotely resembles a form of government control,” I reply.
“We’re just grilling up something to eat. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”
“Now, that sounds like the best plan I’ve heard in a while. We don’t have much of anything to bring to the party, though,” I state.
“No worries. Your company and news will be good enough,” Tim says.
Robert parks the 130 at the far northern end and Greg brings the Stryker up. Lengthy introductions are made and the pickups that left, return. I notice a line of port-a-potties lining one of the hangar walls. The grills have been tied down to the ramp with concrete anchors and chain.
“The night creatures kept knocking them over every night,” Tim says, noticing my looking over the setup.
“So where do you hole up at night?” I ask.
“In the aircraft. We have bedding set up in them and pull ladders in with us when we button down at night. So far, they haven’t been able to get inside or up on the wings. It’s insulated, so their nightly screaming doesn’t bother us very much. Plus, we’ve grown accustomed to it so it’s not all that bad. They also haven’t managed to break into the reefer trailers so far, thank goodness. We scavenged a lot of frozen goods at the outset and stocked them,” he replies.
I give him a rundown of our situation and end by asking him how many he has here.
“We currently have twenty-three. We had more but have lost a few going into buildings for supplies. The military folks are from the base here and come from different units. The civilians drifted in from all over. We haven’t had anyone new in a while, but we keep an eye out when we make supply runs.”
“Any trouble with bandits?” I ask.
He pauses, looking a little confused before answering. “No. None so far.”
“Well, they’re around in places. We’ve had some run-ins with several groups.”
“We keep watch but haven’t had any problems so far.”
“So, what did you do, Tim?” I ask, noticing all of the men, and a couple of women intermingled, are all armed with M-16s or M-4s.
