“It’s about thirty miles away,” I say, pointing to the coordinates given on the map.
“Is there anything we can really do?” Greg asks. “I mean, I understand with kids and all, but look outside.”
Night runners continue to streak across the ramp with numerous ones gathered around the various aircraft. The moon’s rays sneak through a break in the overcast illuminating a portion of the tarmac. Several night runners glance up at the bright light while others look in our direction. The moon catches a few just right and their eyes glow in its radiance sending a shiver up my spine. There’s no way I want to be out there. I think about the kids and the soldiers fighting for their lives; the fear they must feel in the dark with night runners pressing in.
“We could unfasten the Stryker and load up. Rig something to lower the ramp, seal up the vehicle, and drive out,” I say.
“That would leave the aircraft open.”
“Yeah, but if we left the windows uncovered, there really isn’t a place they could hide out. We could just wait out the night in the Stryker and return in the morning,” I state.
“How many did you say were there?” Greg asks as Robert joins us.
“Seven soldiers and eleven kids,” I answer.
“That would make it a little cozy in the Stryker and there’s no way we can go outside to get another vehicle. Could we even fit everyone in?”
“We’d just have to pile in on top of one another and make do,” I respond.
“It’s your call, Jack,” Greg says.
Yeah, I’ve always loved that statement. It’s the one where there is no right answer, and I get to make the decision with anything I do decide being the wrong one. I know, because I’ve used the statement myself many times.
“Round everyone up and get them ready. Load them up and rig something to press the ramp button from the Stryker turret,” I say.
“Yeah, right. Want me to lasso the moon while I’m at it?”
“Well, while you’re at it, if you wouldn’t mind. It might come in handy,” I reply.
“Okay, Jack, I’ll figure something out. See you in the back,” he says and exits.
“Tim, did you catch all of that?” I ask, dialing our regular frequency back up.
“Yeah, I did. I don’t see what we can do, though,” he answers. I outline our plan to drive out of the aircraft and go.
“I don’t envy you. If there’s anything we can do to help, let me know,” Tim says.
“I can’t think of anything. We’ll be back in the morning,” I reply.
“Okay, see you then.”
“Reynolds, we’re going to try and make it to you. How are you holding up?” I ask, switching frequencies once again.
“We’re expending ammo at a high rate, but managing, sir. And thanks,” she answers.
“Does your radio have enough juice for the night?”
“It should, sir,” she replies.
“Okay. I’ll call you when we get closer and ask about specifics. It’ll take us about an hour to reach you.”
“We’ll be here, sir… hopefully.”
I walk down the stairs into the dimly lit cargo compartment where the teams are gathering their gear; some donning their NVGs and checking them while others load mags into their vests. There is little talk amid the sounds of getting ready; boots walking across the steel decking, the metallic clink of a mag being inserted, the rattle of chains falling to the floor as the Stryker is unhitched. From time to time, the shrieks outside rise and everyone flinches each time a night runner pounds into the fuselage. Everyone has been briefed and, although they had a long day with little rest, their game faces are on.
Tension is etched on everyone as they realize we are venturing out into the realm of the night runners and will more than likely have to battle with them once we reach our destination. They also have looks of determination. There are kids and comrades out there who are in trouble and need rescuing. A soldier lives for the one next to them and will do anything for them. Kids, well, that goes way past any thought of themselves. To the soldiers donning vests and stashing ammo inside the Stryker, it’s a given that we will help.
Greg, having already donned his vest and gear, stands by the rear ramp staring at the control with a couple of long poles and duct tape in hand.
“Contemplating whether you prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream?” I ask, drawing next to him.
“We don’t have anything that will reach,” he says, referring to finding something to activate the ramp switch and completely ignoring my comment.
“Okay. I’ll press the controls and jump in the back. The ramp lowering will give us time to close the Stryker up,” I say.
“I could have figured it out, but I really just wanted to see you run again,” Greg says, deadpan.
“Yeah, right. You haven’t seen me really run. When I do, all you see is a blur of movement,” I reply.
“That’s only because everyone’s eyes are teared due to of the agony of watching you.”
“I’m sorry, did I just hear you volunteer to lower the ramp?”
Greg smiles and sets his large hand on my shoulder. “You run like a ballet-trained gazelle, Jack. The honor is all yours.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Team members board the Stryker in ones and twos as they are ready until all have gathered inside. I do a last walk around to make sure the vehicle is completely untied. It wouldn’t do to lower the ramp and be swarmed by the night runners, who are waiting ever so patiently outside, only to find out that we are still attached to the aircraft. That would pretty much seal it for the kids and soldiers battling a few miles to the northeast. I head to the cockpit to turn off the battery, plunging the interior into darkness.
“Everyone ready?” I ask, poking my head inside the vehicle.
“Hooah, sir,” they all respond, filling the interior with their quiet shout.
“I hate my life,” I mutter, shaking my head and turning to the ramp controls.
The Stryker starts, filling the interior of the aircraft with diesel fumes and noise. Red light from the vehicle interior bathes the rear of the aircraft with an eerie glow.
The hydraulics whine, barely heard above the noise of the idling diesel and the shrieks outside. The top half of the ramp begins to rise. I hotfoot it a couple of steps and enter the armored vehicle. The Stryker ramp is quickly drawn up sealing us inside. The screams from the night runners increases momentarily as the 130 ramp opens up and then is muted once again with the closing of our door. The thick steel of the Stryker mutes a lot of the sound coming from outside, but there is the unmistakable sound of night runners scrambling into the aircraft as the ramp reaches a position where they can climb in. Shrieks surround us as night runners pour into the now-exposed cargo compartment. I keep an eye on the ramp through the monitor and see it fully lower. The screams from the night runners prevents me from hearing the usual clang of it hitting the hard pavement.
“It’s down. Back us out…nice and slow,” I tell the driver.
The engine revs and we all lean forward as the wheels engage. Inching backward, the vehicle is completely surrounded by a shrieking horde. The Stryker pushes the ones behind us out of the way, its mass and power enough that there is no way the night runners can prevent it from moving. I would like to open up and see what they are ‘saying’ but my mind is centered on getting out without damaging the 130. I’m also thinking about how to get the soldiers and kids out. The actual plan will have to wait until we get there and see the situation firsthand. It’s in a school so I imagine we’ll have to go inside at some point and that isn’t leaving me with a warm glow of comfort.
The vehicle levels out after transiting down the ramp at an angle. Night runners continue to scream outside and we hear them clambering on top. We’ll have to shake them off somehow as they will hinder any rescue attempt. We may have to leave the Stryker and having the creatures on top will limit our options. I’m quite the fan of having all choices available.
With the tarmac bathed in moonlight, we begin to pick up speed across the concrete. A couple of night runners get caught in the press of those behind them and end up under our wheels. I look through the monitor only to see a mass of them chasing, their mouths open in screams. The ones on top leave of their own accord.
