A New World: Conspiracy (17 page)

As we claw our way over the perimeter fence,
I think of how I should have thought to bring the aircraft inside
the compound earlier. It sure would have made some things easier.
It’s funny how we become trapped in the way things are usually done
even though we think we have accustomed ourselves to the newness of
our environment. I turn the aircraft north as the sun sends a last
flare of light through the heavens.

It seems, once again, that the more we do to
ensure our survival, the harder it becomes. It’s like we have to
fight against our own advances. The farther we get, the more we
seem to be attacked from so many angles. I’m ready to be done with
this stress shit and get on with our rebuilding. We’ve done well to
survive to this point, but at what cost – Nic gone, McCafferty
gone, Drescoll apparently giving up and leaving, Allie’s dad taking
his life. They won’t be the last unless we can get some respite
from the continual attacks.

Robert’s voice on the intercom, readying the
aircraft for our mission, breaks into my thoughts and brings my
mind to the operation at hand. I reach down to the monitor and set
it to the thermal imaging. That will be the best way to find out
just how prevalent the night runners are. The plan is to engage if
we find numerous night runners, but the primary mission is to get a
feel for the numbers in the area. Our first sweep will be to check
out the bases themselves.

The last glow vanishes from the western sky.
The sun is setting noticeably earlier now, giving us fewer hours in
the day to do what we need. The aircraft is quiet and tension
builds as each member watches the screens to see what will happen.
I, for one, am hoping it stays just the way it is – dark.

I might as well have hoped for all of the
night runners to instantly drop dead. The camera zoom is pulled
back so we can see a wider area. White blips suddenly appear from
multiple locations. The packs are of medium-sized and not the
complete white out we experienced when they gathered in the
thousands a while back. Still, there are hundreds of them pouring
from the buildings below. Lynn and Frank were right, there is no
way we would have made it to the aircraft last night.

“Are we recording this?” I ask Robert
through the intercom.

“We are,” Robert replies. “Do you want us to
engage?”

“No, not right now. We need to make sure we
get a good picture of the entire area before taking them out,” I
answer.

“Copy that.”

After circling the base, we head over the
surrounding areas of Tacoma and are met with the same picture; a
few small to medium-sized packs roaming the streets for food.
Taking a tour of the rural areas, the night runners are definitely
less numerous than in the built up areas. This may be because they
want to stick close to their lairs but, as Frank has said many
times, they will have no choice except to venture farther afield
once the food supply runs out.

Glancing at the monitor, it is apparent that
the area has been infiltrated. They are not as numerous as they
were around our compound, but they are definitely here in numbers.
What I wouldn’t give to find out where that large gathering is in
our area, if they are still there. We’ll have to conduct more
searches for them when we return. I don’t like not knowing where
that large pack is, especially as we were recently attacked by a
smaller group.

After a few hours of drilling holes in the
sky, we manage to cover the Tacoma area. Looking at the white
figures on the monitor, I think of Drescoll being out there
somewhere. I hope that wherever he has decided to go, that there
aren’t night runners in these numbers near him. Or any for that
matter. That would be a horrible way to go.

I bank the aircraft in the night sky,
keeping below the overcast, wanting to take a look at the corridor
between Seattle and Tacoma before we settle down to the business of
delivering steel to flesh and bone.

The farther north we go, the more we
encounter packs on the prowl. The number directly corresponds to
the level of urban buildup. It seems Frank is right and the night
runners are pushing out of the Seattle area. I’m sure, like he
said, that the food supply is drying out up there and they are
pushing in all directions. The thought arises that if we take out
any night runners in an area without depleting their food source,
the vacuum created will eventually fill up again until the food is
gone. That is provided that there are night runners that can
transition to the area. That doesn’t bode well for us as the
western corridor, from Olympia to north of Seattle, was heavily
populated with only narrow breaks between the developed areas.

There is no way we can take out all of the
night runners. We may be able to destroy their food source. That
may keep their numbers down; but how do you demolish miles and
miles of urban development? The only way to keep night runners out
of an area is to develop a scorched earth policy…burn everything to
the ground. That’s not as easy as it sounds, but it may be our only
recourse. Nature adapts though, and it may be that we drive the
night runners to another course which will make them even more
dangerous. I shake off this train of thought and decide that I will
take it up with Frank and the others at a later point. Right now,
there are targets below that are itching to be taken out.

“Okay, we’ve seen enough. Get ready to start
delivering your magic,” I announce.

“We’re past ready,” he replies.

“We’re going to concentrate with the ones
around base. Make sure to stay away from the aircraft parked on the
ramp. We need to also avoid getting close to the armories, the
maintenance sheds, the helicopters, the hospital, and I’d like to
avoid the housing if possible. You never know if we may use those
down the road.”

“You’ve pretty much just eliminated any
place that we can hit,” he responds.

I hear Bri chuckle on the intercom.

Fuck, he’s right
, I think, looking
down into the blackness below where unseen night runners run
through streets separating abandoned buildings. My enhanced vision
doesn’t allow me to see that far into the night.

“Okay, we’ll concentrate on a built up area
outside of the burnt out sections. Give me a heading to the most
significant sightings,” I say.

“Stand by one,” he replies. “Okay, head
toward downtown. A heading of three-one-zero degrees ought to do
it.”

The hotels and office buildings of downtown
Tacoma slide into view on the monitor and we set up our usual orbit
pattern. We’ll hit the outskirts of the downtown proper as the
taller buildings will restrict our view and, subsequently, our
shots. Thermal imaging picks up the white figures of several packs
as they move through the streets. The night runners pause to look
up as we pass.

Robert’s voice comes through the intercom as
he marks targets and runs through last minute safety checks to
bring the guns to a final readiness.

“You are weapons free,” I call once I hear
him complete his checks.

“Copy that. Opening fire.”

“Make sure you are recording,” I state.

“We are.”

I look down to the monitor and see that he
has targeted one of the medium-sized packs loping down a wide
avenue. Flashes appear outside as the 40mm cannon opens up, spewing
rounds out into the dark, lighting the outboard engine nacelles and
propellers for split seconds at a time. Looking down to the
monitor, I see the first shell hit at the edge of the group. The
figures are lost momentarily as the screen flashes with the heat of
the impact. A figure of white is launched to the side and crashes
forcefully into a parked vehicle. Just as the screen begins to
clear, another flash of light signifies another 40mm shell
exploding as it hits in the midst of the group.

The screen clears and I count seven white
figures scattered in various positions on the roadway below. None
are moving. Robert calls out the next target and engages. I notice
that these don’t immediately vanish into the buildings as did the
others that we encountered closer to our compound.

After hitting several groups in the area,
the figures in white below finally do disappear into buildings. We
mark these before moving on to other groups in the open. In another
area, the night runners vanish almost immediately after we hit a
single group. I’ve come to realize that I’ll never get a grip on
night runner thinking. They behave differently wherever we go,
whether in the air or on the ground. Again, we mark the buildings
and start engaging those with the 105mm howitzer.

Looking down into the dark landscape below,
large orange mixed with yellow flashes flare briefly, like matches
being struck at a distance in an unlit room. The explosion, from
the 105mm as it impacts one of the buildings that a group of night
runners ran into, bursts skyward and then vanishes. There’s not a
night runner to be seen on thermals, but Robert has marked a few of
the buildings and we hit a few of these before moving to another
area. We are beginning to run low on 40 and 105mm ammo as we hunt
the night runners through the blackened neighborhoods.

It’s a good feeling to be exacting some
measure against the night runners. It’s doesn’t take away from our
recent tragedies, but it still feels good to be doing something
other than sitting by the side waiting to be hit.

In another orbit, Robert tracks a large pack
in an industrial area. The pack is the largest we’ve seen tonight.
At best count, there appears to be over a hundred moving behind a
single figure in front. I hear Robert target the pack and set up
the 105mm for an initial attack. He will follow up with the 40mm
and Gatling gun for any that remain.

Concentrating on the size of the pack and
its leader, I don’t focus much on the area they are running
through. I’m guessing Robert didn’t either. Suddenly, that lack of
vigilance jumps into my vision like turning the page of a pop-up
book. I hear the order to fire before I can utter a word.

The screen goes completely white. I look
outside to see a white-hot explosion rocketing upward and out,
lighting the terrain for miles around. Secondary explosions rock
the ground below and combine with the initial blast. White and blue
flame shoots outward, obliterating everything in its path. White
hot fire and flame boil upward with immense speed, hurtling
skyward. The mushroom cloud, filling now with yellows and oranges,
reaches our altitude and soars past. I grip the wheel in
anticipation and instinctually start turning the aircraft away from
the fireball. I know what’s coming next.

“Hang on!” I shout into the intercom.

It’s all I can get out before the aircraft
is hit by the initial concussion of the tremendous explosion. It
feels like we’ve been swatted by a gigantic hand and flung to the
side. The Spooky is lifted and thrown, the nose turning at least
thirty degrees to the side. The left wing rises, threatening to
roll us, and the nose points skyward. It’s all I can do to hang on
to the wheel as it tries to force its way from my grip.

Unsecured objects crash to the floor in the
cockpit and cargo compartment. I am thrown to the side and only
held in my seat by the harness. Almost subconsciously, I hear
strangled screams and shouts through the intercom. I push the
controls forward and to the left, mashing the left rudder down, but
the actions have little effect with the pressures being exerted on
the aircraft. The Spooky now has the flight characteristics of a
thrown brick.

“Pull number one to idle and push four to
mil,” I shout to Craig, trying to right the aircraft.

I would position the throttles, but it’s all
I can do to keep control of the wheel. The control surfaces are
exerting pressure in the exact opposite direction that I’m trying
the hold them. Craig positions the throttles and I feel a decrease
of the pressure being exerted against the control wheel as we
continue to be buffeted by the force of the explosion.

And then, just as suddenly as it hit, the
buffeting ceases. The nose and wings begin to respond to my control
inputs, and we achieve level flight six thousand feet above where
we started and on top of a layer of clouds. Moonlight shines
brightly, casting its silvery glow upon the undercast. A blanket of
whites and grays float gently below us, the calmness they portray
is in direct contrast to what we just went through. The top of
Mount Rainier pierces the clouds, the moonlight reflecting brightly
off the snowfields.

To the side, the fireball still rises, but
has slowed significantly. The heat from it has vaporized the
clouds, creating a hole of clear air around it. The fact that we
are still flying is a testament to the strength of the 130. We’ll
definitely have to have it checked over by the mechanic we picked
up before taking it out again. If we’ve sustained any structural
damage, we may have to fly down and pick up another one. At the
very least, it will delay our flight by a day in order to get it
looked over. It’s not that we are going to fly it south with us,
but I’ll need to know whether we need to pick up another one. I do
a quick scan of the instruments to verify that we are indeed flying
and the engines are still operating.

“Is everyone okay?” I ask, looking to Bri
and moving the throttles back to their original settings.

Her helmet is oversized and has been shoved
down over her eyes. She reaches up to push it back and looks up at
her instruments. I’m impressed that she has the wherewithal to
check the panels after having gone through what we did.

“Yeah…yeah, I think so,” Robert calls after
a moment. His voice is shaky, otherwise he sounds fine.

The rest respond in a similar fashion; Bri
merely nods and Craig gives a thumbs-up.

“Are we okay?” Robert asks, his voice still
shaky but quickly recovering.