speed quite nicely, he checked to see that all of the gauges were in the green. Smiling, he gave John a thumbs- up.
“Alright!” John said, returning the thumbs-up salute.
After the engine was running, Jake went through a number of other checks, including turning on and checking the inverters, checking the generator, and turning off the hydraulic system to check control travel, then turning it back on to insure that there were no stuck valves that might bring trouble, including even a hydrostatic lock, which could result in a loss of control.
It was now well over four months since Jake had sat behind the controls of a functioning helicopter, and he felt a strong sense of satisfaction at being there again. With the rotor blades spinning at full speed, he moved the cyclic around to check the rotor plane. It dipped exactly as it was supposed to, and he felt no falloff of rotor control as a result of John’s jury-rigged pitch change link.
Automatically, he set the radios to departure frequency, then keyed the transmit switch before he realized he had nobody to contact. He released the radio transmit switch, and pulled up on the collective pitch control, causing the helicopter to lift from the ground. He stabilized it, then pulled the collective and pushed the cyclic forward. The helicopter took off easily and he climbed to five hundred feet as he passed over the edge of Hanchey Field. He did a complete circle around the field, looking down at the hangar and the little group of people who were gathered anxiously, awaiting his return.
He had just started shooting his approach to the tarmac right in front of the hangar when he saw a pickup truck coming quickly up Hanchey Road. He expedited the approach, sat down, then killed the engine.
“How did it go?” John asked, running over and sticking his head in through the open window.
“The flight was perfect,” Jake said. “But it looks like we’re about to have company. Deon!” he called.
“What’s up?” Deon asked, sprinting over to him.
“There is a pickup truck full of men coming this way, fast,” Jake replied. “It may not mean anything, but there is no sense in taking a chance.”
“I’ll get a machine gun up in the tower,” Deon said.
“Good idea. But don’t do anything unless you get word from me,” Jake said. “Or unless they start shooting.”
Deon nodded; then, grabbing the M-240 and an ammo box, he hurried up the outside steps into the tower.
“What is your plan?” Clay asked.
“Get everyone into the hangar, but have them armed, just in case,” Jake said.
“Are you going to stay out here?”
“Yes. I intend to see what they want.”
“I’m going to stay with you.”
“No need,” Jake said.
“I’d feel better. I’m going to be standing right beside you with an M-16.”
“All right,” Jake said. “If you say so.”
Clay hurried back into the hangar, then returned with the rifle just as the red Dodge Ram pulled onto the airfield and started toward them.
The pickup truck approached at full speed.
“What the hell?” Clay said. “They plan to run us down!”
Clay raised his rifle to fire, but there were two men in the back of the truck, with their rifles resting on the top. They opened fire and Clay was hit.
“Clay!” Jake shouted and reached for him.
“No! Get out of the way!” Clay yelled, and he shoved Jake hard, knocking him down, but getting him out of the way of the onrushing truck. Even as Jake hit the ground, he heard a sickening thump when the truck ran Clay over. The driver slammed on the brakes, then swung the truck around. In the meantime, the two gunners opened up on Jake. Jake was still on the ground and he rolled hard to his right as the bullets ricocheted off the blacktop just beside him. Deon opened up with the M-240 and Jake saw the tracer rounds streaming into the truck. Then he saw the driver lose control, and crash into the helicopter. Both helicopter and truck exploded into a huge ball of fire. Neither the driver, nor the two shooters got out.
Jake moved quickly to check Clay, but jerked his face away when he saw that Clay’s head had been smashed by one of the wheels. Steeling himself, he turned back to his longtime friend, removed Clay’s shirt, and spread it over his head. There was no need for either of the women to see this, and even though Karin was a nurse, this was more than anything she would ordinarily see.
Deon came down from the tower as the others came out of the hangar.
“What happened?” Karin said, then seeing Clay lying on the ground, his head covered by his shirt and blood pooling underneath, she gasped. “Oh my God,” she said.
“Damn,” Willie said. “The sergeant major got through Iraq and Afghanistan, only to have some homegrown bastard kill him.”
There were some secondary explosions from the burning truck and helicopter.
“Think anyone survived that?” Marcus asked.
“I hope they did,” Willie answered. “I hope the sons of bitches are roasting alive. They may as well get a taste of what it’s like before they go to hell.”
“I doubt anyone survived,” Jake said.
“Including the helicopter,” Deon said. “We’re going to have to start over from scratch.”
“Scratch is right,” John said. “Because there isn’t anything left we can build from. We are, as they say, SOL.”
“What about one of the other airfields?” Marcus suggested.
“No good,” Jake said, shaking his hand. “One of the last things we did while the post was still functioning was move all the UH-sixties to Hanchey. If we can’t put together another one from what we have here, we are going to have to come up with another plan.”
“A Chinook?” Marcus suggested.
“I don’t think so,” John said. “They’ve got more parts than a Blackhawk; it’ll be harder coming up with all we need for them than it was for the zero-seven-seventeen.”
“What are we going to do with Sergeant Major Matthews?” Karin asked.
“We’re going to bury him,” Jake said.
“Where? How? There is nothing here but blacktop and cement,” Marcus said.
“There’s real ground behind the hangar,” Jake said. “And an old warrior like Clay would probably want to be buried on an Army base, even if there is no Army anymore. If a couple of you will help me carry Sarge around back.”
“We’ll get him,” Marcus said, nodding toward the others.
Willie and Marcus took Clay’s arms, Deon and John took his feet. Jake, Karin, and Julie followed them around the side of the hangar.
The rain from the storm made the ground soft, so it took no more than half an hour to dig a grave for Clay. With his blood-soaked shirt still wrapped around his head, they lowered him gently into the grave.
“I wish we had a flag to drape over him,” Karin said.
“We do!” Deon said with a big smile. “I saw one while I was up in the tower. I’ll go get it.”
“You knew the sergeant major a long time, didn’t you, sir?” Marcus asked. For the moment, the rank and military courtesy seemed appropriate.
“Yes,” Jake answered. “I don’t think I would have gotten through Officer Candidate School without him.”
A moment later Deon returned with the flag. It was a storm flag rather than a garrison flag, so it was considerably smaller.
“It’s not big enough to drape over him,” Julie said.
“We’ll fold it into the triangle, then put it in his hands. He will like that,” Jake said.
“I’ve often wondered why we fold a flag like that,” Julie said. “It has to be symbolic of something.”
“It is,” Jake said. “Folded properly, it takes exactly thirteen folds, two lengthwise and eleven triangular. That represents the thirteen original states.”
Willie and John folded the flag into the triangle.
