Blinding Fear (3 page)

He completed the turn and again lined up on the column. This time his view was partially obscured by the burning vehicles. Nonetheless he pressed the attack, aiming for the middle of the pack and pressed the trigger. After only a one-second burst the gun stopped firing. He instantly knew he was out of ammunition and luck. He pulled up and away from the column to see what his second run had accomplished. Two more trucks were on fire but at least half a dozen other vehicles were still heading for Spud’s position. He had to do something. He knew the F-16s were inbound and could arrive within 10 minutes but that might be too late. He had to do something to slow down the Iraqis some more.

He turned on his radio and called out, “Eagle four, you still there?”

“Yeah. Hunkered down on a little hill watching the show. Good shooting Herc!”

“Well, I’m outta ammo. Got one more idea to try to stall the bad guys. I’m hoping the calvary will be here shortly.”

“You don’t have to do this Herc. I’ll be okay.” There was silence for a moment then he laughed, “Me and my trusty 45 can hold’em off.”

“Not a chance. I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe. Now keep your head down. I don’t want them to get a bead on you and maybe start shooting.”

“Copy that.....and thanks.”

“No prob. You’d do the same for me.”

Ramond turned and headed back to the rear of the convoy to set up for another pass. He didn’t have any more 30-millimeter to fire at them but they didn’t know that. He hoped to make a very low pass and force them to stop for at least another minute or so. He’d keep doing it until the fast movers arrived.

This time he pushed the A-10 as close to the ground as he had ever flown in anything before—including his Piper Cub trainer. As he neared the end of the blazing column his altimeter showed him to be close to zero feet—although he guessed he was actually around 30. His terrain avoidance alarm begin blaring and its automated female voice calmly told him to “Pull Up! Pull Up!” Although he couldn’t shoot anything or anybody he knew the 145 decibels of his turbo fan engines screaming at full power just above their heads would probably deafen anyone without ear protection. As he flashed over the column he was low enough to see agony on the faces of some of the men in spite of their trying to cover their ears with hands.

One man wasn’t.

He bravely stood up with a tube—or something—balanced on his shoulder, aiming it at the Warthog as it shrieked over him. Ramond knew immediately what was about to happen and what he had to do. He yanked on the control stick, again sending the plane into a sharp left-hand turn away from the column and the man—exposing the bottom of the plane. Even though he couldn’t see it, he knew a brilliant point of light was streaking toward his plane.

The rocket propelled grenade struck the bottom of the fuselage behind his seat, entering the cavity that held the 30-millimeter cannon. A millisecond later the rocket’s shaped charge exploded against the massive, cylindrical drum that held the gun’s ammunition. The heavy metal of the drum and supporting framework, along with the spent cartridge shells, as well as the massive gun itself, absorbed and contained some of the blast. The cannon was instantly turned to scrap but the plane was spared from being blown out the sky. Still, the explosion shook the plane to its core and something white-hot slashed at Ramond’s back. He screamed in pain but managed to keep his hands on the controls and the plane in the air. Multiple warning alarms sounded while a myriad of red lights flashed on his instrument panel. He knew the only thing that had saved his life from most of the deadly shrapnel was the 1,200 pound Kevlar-armored “bathtub” that surrounded his seat. Without it he probably would have been shredded like he had done to the unfortunate Iraqi soldiers.

He tried to clear his mind, fight through the pain and assess what was going on with the A-10. He scanned the flight controls and knew he couldn’t keep it in the air much longer. Pulling back gently on the stick he prayed he could get enough altitude to safely eject. Even though he could eject with the plane sitting on the ground he still wanted that extra margin of safety. With great relief he felt the fatally wounded Warthog struggle but begin to climb—300, 400, 500 feet. He turned on his radio, praying it hadn’t been damaged.

“Mayday! Mayday! This is Eagle flight leader. I’ve been hit! I’m ejecting just south of Eagle four’s last known position.”

He knew he didn’t have time to wait for someone to respond so when he reached 1,000 feet he leveled the Warthog as best he could, grabbed the right-hand ejection handle and yanked up as hard as he could. Instantaneously, explosive bolts blew the canopy off. A tiny fraction of a second later his shoulder and lap belts automatically cinched him tight into the seat along with his boots. A split-second after that the rocket motor ignited with a deafening roar, launching him out of the cockpit and into the jet stream of the dying A-10. The g-forces were less than he had expected, but the 200 knot wind generated by the speed of the A-10 was brutal, nearly knocking him unconscious.

Then the rocket cut out and he was falling. Again the technology of the $150,000, ACES-II ejection seat worked precisely as designed, releasing him from the seat, sending him tumbling through the sky. The final step in the ejection process happened flawlessly as a small actuator opened his parachute.

The brutal, snapping force of the chute opening sent white-hot pain cascading agonizingly through his left side and back. When added to the initial shock of the ejection, it was more than he could bear. Ramond felt himself sliding into an abyss. Just before he passed out, as his chin slumped over onto his chest, he heard the unmistakeable sound of the calvary’s arrival—the four F-16s screaming in from the East.

His last thought as blackness enveloped him: Spud would be okay.

Chapter 3

Present Day

Breakfast had always annoyed Claire McBeth.

For most of the 15-odd years of her adult life she had tried to figure out ways to make it nutritious while reducing the time necessary to make it. The problem was that unlike the few friends, peers and co-workers she had, she liked sleep—lots of it. She’d done the research and knew that seven to eight hours a night was essential to being the best she could be in all aspects of her life. While they were out clubbing, partying or spending long, sexually charged nights with boyfriends and/or girlfriends till two or three a.m., she greatly preferred to simply stay home and hit the sheets by ten—eleven at the latest. While they dragged themselves out of bed at six, gulping down nothing more than a cup of coffee on the way out the door by seven, she would be up at seven and out the door to work by seven-thirty—which is where the breakfast problem came in. Because she frequently rode her bicycle from her one-bedroom apartment on West 57th Street in New York City to her job as a science and technology staff writer at The New York Sentinel, she needed energy—lots of it.

For years she had experimented with various cereals, breads, fruits, smoothies, energy bars and drinks—along with multiple combinations thereof—trying to find the one that gave her the most stamina. This to pedal the 18 blocks through the maddening midtown Manhattan traffic to the Sentinel Building at 520 Eighth Avenue. After much experimentation she arrived at the best formula: 10 ounces of whole milk, one packet of Carnation Instant Breakfast powder, one tablespoon of protein powder, one teaspoon of powdered vitamin C, one banana and one raw egg. Every now and then she would add some other fruit or perhaps baby spinach. She could assemble all the ingredients, throw them in her Vitamix blender and drink the concoction within 10 minutes.

In an additional effort to maximize sleep time and reduce morning prep time, she’d also managed to organize the usually chaotic art of getting dressed into a seamless act of science. It all started the night before as she carefully laid out exactly what she would wear the next day; placing those articles and items in exactly the same place each time. In some ways her plans reminded her of firefighters, who upon getting a call in the middle of the night, would leap out of bed directly into their precisely positioned boots and pants.

She would also lay out her make-up and sundry toiletry items. As best she could she would decide in advance which items she would apply, where she would put them on her face and body and about how much depending on her already thought out wardrobe.

The routine kick-started her day while providing the Claire McBeth definition of adequate rest—until the current day.

The upheaval started the day before when, as she was leaving, her boss, Anaya Williams-Jones, assistant managing editor, science and technology, had sent her an e-mail asking Claire to stop by her office first thing the next morning. Her peaceful evening and night were now reduced to much fretting and speculation as to the purpose of the meeting.

Her boss normally gave Claire great leeway once she received her assignment, rarely talking to her about it until Claire submitted the final draft for approval. If there were any changes Anaya would mark up the paper copy in traditional journalistic red ink and send it back. If Claire disagreed—which was rare—she would call Williams-Jones and the two would debate the issue until achieving a resolution.

The e-mail summons would mark the first time Claire set foot in the boss’s office since the day she was welcomed to the Sentinel family two years prior.

The impending face-to-face meeting created a minor seismic event in Claire’s carefully orchestrated evenings.

Typically she would get back to her apartment around six-ish, assuming the weather allowed her to take her bike. If not, then it might be five-thirty-ish, having been forced to take an outrageously expensive cab. She almost never took the subway given the many hassles, both environmental and other-human-related, of walking to and from the stations, which were not convenient to her apartment anyway. She would pop a Marie Calendar’s or Weight-Watcher’s meal in the microwave, then work on whatever articles and associated research were on her Sentinel plate. She would also try to make some progress on her crocheted afghan blanket and perhaps watch another episode of “Friends” on Netflix. Some nights she would spend an hour or two working on her historical romance novel based in part on the lost colony of Roanoke, Virginia in 1590. Eventually she’d “hit the hay” between ten and eleven.

This night she found it difficult to concentrate on anything except the elephant-sized question of the moment—Why?! Why did Williams-Jones want to meet with her? As a direct consequence of her inability to focus and associated irritability, she made a mistake in several stitches of her blanket and had to rip out seven rows; thought the writing of the “Friends” episode to be vapid along with just plain stupid; and while researching an article on a biotech company ran into trouble navigating the New York City Public Library website. Finally, rather than struggling with whatever she did, she simply went to bed, hoping she could fall asleep at a reasonable hour.

The next morning, after a fitful night, she got up and began her normal morning routine. Before pulling on her already-laid out jeans and blouse, she stepped on the scale and found that in spite of riding to work an extra two days the previous week she’d gained a pound. She knew women in their early thirties often had trouble maintaining their weight but this was annoying. She was now up to 142 pounds, seven pounds above what she considered the optimal weight for her five foot, eight inch frame.

“Come on, Claire!” she snapped out loud at herself in her normally gentle alto voice. “You’ve got to get it under control!”

After dressing and then drinking her blenderized breakfast she stood in front of the bathroom mirror preparing to apply makeup. She stopped for a moment, carefully considering her face. Although she was overweight—albeit just a little—she had to admit her face still had a youthful glow without obvious wrinkles. She again thanked her mother’s African roots for it, as well as her supple, light-brown skin. She had to admit, though, that what turned—and kept turning—a lot of men’s heads of all ethnicities were her striking green eyes in combination with her medium-length auburn hair with natural copper highlights. Those genes she’d obviously inherited from her father’s Scotch-Irish ancestors.

The powerful combination of face and body had kept many male suitors striving for her attention. Some had even compared her to Inami, the African-Swedish female vocalist. The comparison to the international superstar would have flattered most but Claire was offended. She had nothing but absolute distain for the pop singer and her garish, highly politicized, Hollywood lifestyle of conspicuous consumption and carefully staged, semi-nude photo-ops.

She sighed as she applied a touch of light-pink lipstick, thinking of the many men she’d dated over the past few years. Most never saw a second date when she discovered their interest in her was strictly carnal. They somehow thought that such an attractive woman needed “conquering” by a worthy challenger. Others had gotten a bit further only to be written off when they eventually revealed their lack of interest in world events and cluelessness about all things political. Invariably, when she started talking about her interest in the American Civil Liberties Union’s latest cause or animal rights or global warming solutions the “loser’s” faces would start glazing over.

She’d been serious about only two. The beginning of the end for both began at dinner parties hosted by the boyfriend of the moment. Each party was intended to introduce her to the boyfriends’ inner circle of family and friends. Each resulted in crashing and burning for similar reasons.

As boyfriend number one—a wealth management consultant whose parents had immigrated from Sweden when he was an infant—introduced her to them she could immediately sense the cold politeness; a sure sign of the racism she occasionally experienced. Two days later she called the whole thing off before the relationship got any deeper.

Months later she had a deja-vu moment at the party of serious-boyfriend number two—a cardiac surgeon from Liberia. His mother had greeted her politely then refused to even look at Claire for the rest of the evening. She’d never understood until a week later when the surgeon rudely broke off their relationship via text. He clumsily tried to apologize, explaining he was very close to his mother. She “expected” him to only date and marry someone from their home country. In short: more racism with a side order of mama’s-boyism.

For her entire life Claire had prided herself on the diversity of her small circle of friends; how she went to great lengths to be open and accepting of everyone she met. She’d always assumed she’d been that way as a result of being raised alone by her nurturing—although some of her friends would say doting—Irish father. She also guessed it had something to do with her African-American mother leaving her father when Claire was an infant. Dad said his wife decided to “find her roots” somewhere in central Africa and never heard from her again. Claire found it crushing to believe a mother would walk away from her own daughter just so she could understand what it “meant” to have dark skin in a lighter-skinned world. She’d sworn to herself she would never be that way.

Claire also attributed her openness to her education. First at Palos Verdes Peninsula High School, in between the beach cities of Los Angeles, where the vastly white, upper-middle class student population had warmly accepted her from her days as a Freshman. Hardly anyone there cared much about ethnicity. They were generally laser-focused on getting into prestigious colleges and universities in preparation for professional careers. She’d done the same. Since her dad was a professor at the University of Southern California it was only natural for her to apply there—not to mention she could attend tuition free. She was astonished to discover on campus there were nearly 50 societies and clubs aimed at politically organizing the black student population. Some had approached her to join. She’d politely declined, finding their sometimes-harshly divisive tactics and language to be counter-productive within society as a whole.

And so now she almost felt trapped in her own skin; adrift in a world becoming increasingly polarized into strident camps of black and white, rich and poor, educated and not; where people like her were essentially isolated and cutoff in the grayish middle. Hoping to avoid any more such catastrophes, she stopped dating entirely, withdrawing into her cloistered world of word smithing, research and rigidly-adhered-to schedules.

As she finished up her brief makeup session with a very light dusting of rouge to her high cheek bones she wondered if the time had come to get back into the dating world. Maybe her requirements for the men were too stringent. As she laid her rouge case on the vanity table she looked in the mirror and pointed a polish-less finger at herself. “You’ve got a great life, Claire. Don’t screw it up with the wrong man. He’s out there and he’s worth waiting for.”

She turned from the mirror, satisfied with her appearance and selfie pep-talk.

At 7:29 she walked her foldable, 20-inch Schwinn, 7-speed bike out the front door, down the front steps, climbed on and started pedaling east on 57th Street. She favored the bike because of its higher seat and handle bars and nimbleness in traffic. She also liked that it had fenders and a rack over the back wheel to which she had zip-tied an old milk crate. In it she carried her MacBook and a change of clothes. She did so in case one of the endless supply of rude New York motorists, cabbies or truckers sprayed water or other debris on her as she navigated through traffic. She’d also attached a thin, six-foot fiber glass pole to the frame with a bright-yellow pennant on top as well as LED flashers facing front and back for added visibility. The final piece of equipment was an air horn attached to the handlebars with which she could warn of her impending approach to semi-conscious drivers and pedestrians.

As with every commute, she wore a bike helmet, leather motorcycle jacket and gloves, goggles, a day-glow orange safety vest, along with knee and elbow pads. After several falls and near-collisions with various obstacles—both moving and unmoving—resulted in painful scrapes and bruises, she finally learned that safety trumped style.

For the next sixteen blocks she was able to maneuver through the cacophonous minefield of midtown Manhattan’s streets and alleys without further incident, generally enjoying the morning crispness of early autumn. She was able to suppress the upcoming meeting with her boss only until she turned east on 40th Street. Then the 1,000-foot plus skyscraper where she worked came into view and the anxiety returned.

She turned north onto Eighth Avenue, zipped across the street, just avoiding a blaring cab, swung onto the sidewalk and pulled to a stop in front of the spectacular New York Sentinel Building; the 1.9 million square foot and fifth tallest building in the city. She reached down and released the latching mechanism on the bike frame, allowing her to fold the front wheel 180 degrees back next to the rear. She then tilted it up on its back wheel, pushed it through the front entrance and into the massive, yet stylish main lobby toward the elevator banks. She looked at her watch and saw that she had fifteen minutes to stash it in the bike commuter room and get to her bosses office.