A New World 10 - Storm (7 page)

“Perhaps he’s at the one north of Atlanta.”

“No, there weren’t any more of these facilities activated,” I say, believing her story and relaxing a little. “But, this facility isn’t, or wasn’t, about anything you could ever imagine.”

I start by telling her what we learned about how things went down. As I tell it, the astonishment on her face grows. When I finish, she shakes her head in wonder.

“I can’t believe that of Gabe. He wasn’t the easiest man to work with, but I knew him for years. We shared the dangers of fieldwork. He was a man who thought highly of himself but I just…I just can’t believe he would be in on something like that. However, it does fit in with the inconsistencies, his blocking of our of our ability to test. I can’t fathom why, though. We worked for years to combat this kind of thing, not partake in its creation.”

“Who truly knows what drives people to do things like that? I certainly don’t get it,” I comment. “If you’ll excuse us for a moment.”

“Well?” I ask Lynn once we're out of the room.

“I believe her story. It does fit and accounts for her showing up like she did,” Lynn answers.

“She could have manufactured the story,” I state.

“Remember, Jack, if she was a part of this, she didn’t expect
us
to be here. She would have expected the others.”

“Okay. I believe her as well. However, the fact that we can’t account for the director means that we should plan for other arrivals.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think there is the possibility of another facility being operational?”

“I think Harold would have found mention of it, but we’ll ask him to double check. So, do we take her with us?”

“I don’t think we can afford not to. Especially if Harold can’t get the satellite functional,” Lynn says.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“We'll find you a room for the night and collect your things in the morning. I’d like it if you went with us when we leave. We could use your knowledge,” I say upon reentering the room.

She pauses for a moment before replying. “I don’t really have any other place to go.”

The three of us walk back to the control center, handing Jan off to one of the team members standing watch inside. We kept a contingent in place to watch over the technicians helping Harold. There are too many for him to keep an eye on by himself. It’s not that they can really do much, but they may be able to sabotage our efforts in some way. Harold said he’d be able to tell, but I’ve kept the guards there anyway as a reminder. A team member will guide Jan to a set of quarters and stay with her. I do believe her story but, well, it’s best to keep an eye on anyone new we bring in. Of course, there’s the possibility that we’ll be incorporating quite a few shortly, but that’s tomorrow’s worry.

Harold is seated at one of the consoles near the back of the room, surrounded by binders and files. He looks at a document and types quickly on a keyboard before picking up another sheet of paper. I’m loath to bother him, as he’s become somewhat the center of our focus. We are currently involved in a race against time on multiple levels. If Harold can figure out how to establish communication with the satellite, then many of our other problems will dissipate dramatically.

“Harold, is there any chance one of the other facilities became operational? I’m specifically asking about one about an hour north of Atlanta,” I ask, removing a pile of folders and taking a seat.

Harold sets down the document he was reading. Picking up the binder with all of the survivor encampments the other group discovered, he flips a few pages and begins typing.

The large screen on top dissolves into an overlay depicting the other prepared bunkers. A few more keystrokes and the display zooms in to a specific area.

“That would be this one,” he says, referring to the screen. “There isn’t any sign of it being inhabited and I’ve searched the communication logs. There hasn’t been a single signal emanating from or sent to the facility. As the command center, there would have been something, even if it was to check in. So I would say no, there’s no chance that it became operational.

“Have you reached a conclusion about my staying here? I mean, something definite?” Harold asks.

“I’m not sure how that will play out at the moment, but as I mentioned, I’m inclined to keep you here. I’m just not sure how that’s going to work at the moment,” I answer.

“Well, as I said, we could break down some of the equipment in place here and transport it to the compound. It really wouldn’t take that much. We’d just need to dismantle it, transport it, set it up, and establish a satellite comm link. Keep in mind that the satellites will only be useful for a couple more months. After that, they will effectively become paperweights. Still, it’s worth doing. But we have little time and every day counts. That’s why I’m being persistent about this. It would be better if I remained here, as it makes one less thing that could go wrong. If the sat link fails for whatever reason, then we’d be blind and I couldn’t work on the problem. We’d lose some of the precious little time we do have. If I was here, then we’d at least have someone at the controls with direct access to the equipment.

“Point taken. What about the reliability of the technicians? I have some serious worries about them, however much we may think we need them,” I state.

“That’s true. But, really, this group is about tinkering with their toys; they don’t think much about who they work for. At least, that’s the feeling I get. They aren’t zealots. They were brought in because of their abilities. I’m sure there was something of an allegiance involved in their selection process, but they’ve been helping without a problem.”

“So far anyway,” I say.

“Granted, so far. You leave them under me and I’ll take responsibility for them. Like you said, we need them and I don’t see that we can replace them,” Harold states.

“Okay, fair enough. They’re yours, but know that I still carry some deep reservations about it. As far as you staying, you can count on that. I’ll figure out the logistics. Have you had any luck contacting any of the other groups?”

“I’ve sent a broadcast on multiple channels without a reply so far. It looks like we’ll have to contact them directly,” Harold replies.

“And the satellite?” I query.

“Nothing as yet. I think they were right in their supposition that the receiver onboard is malfunctioning. I’ve found the manual for the program they installed; I’ll be pouring over that next. But, without a functional receiver, it might as well not be there at all. I’ll also be looking at the notes on what they’ve attempted so far. I’m not sure how as yet, but if there’s a workaround, I’ll find it,” Harold reports.

“Okay, keep at it. I’ll try not to bother you too much. I don’t have to tell you what it would mean should you establish working communications. The plan is to leave sometime tomorrow afternoon, so if you could start gathering the equipment that we’ll need to take with us for the relay, that would be greatly appreciated.”

“I’ll get on that. It shouldn’t take too long to compile the equipment you’ll need. I would suggest taking three technicians with you to help set it up and to troubleshoot.”

“Okay, I’ll leave that to you. Pick three that you think have the expertise we’ll need. How do we keep them from sabotaging our efforts out there? The technical aspects of all this,” I say, sweeping an arm to indicate the entire room, “are beyond me. I wouldn’t know if they were doing something or not.”

“Well, with me here, I was thinking we’d only set up a monitoring station there. It would duplicate whatever information we gather, and we could send whatever you wanted on request. That way, they wouldn’t be able to initiate any commands with the equipment,” Harold responds.

“Okay. And if we set the relay up separate from the communications room, and didn’t allow them access, then we could be reasonably assured that they couldn’t contact someone here,” I say, mostly to myself.

“Exactly.”

Harold begins doing, well, whatever it is that Harold does. I pick up the binder containing the list of survivor settlements that the other group classified. Some of them we’ve come across but there’s also a smattering of others. I concentrate on the ones in what used to be the US and Canada. I notice there are several groups in northern Canada that seem to be holding out, with a couple in Alaska. Those are mostly scattered and away from populated areas. If it was winter, I would imagine the whole of Alaska would continue on as if nothing happened, well, to a point. Given the cold, those who survived the flu and vaccine wouldn’t have been shredded by the night runners. But, that’s neither here nor there. I note one location in northern Canada with quite a few survivors notated.

“Harold? I lied about not bothering you again. What’s this place?” I ask, pointing to the page in the binder.

He takes the notebook and pulls up the site on the screen. Zooming in, a town sharpens into a more detailed view. It’s not a live shot, just one used for mapping purposes, so I don’t see people moving around, but the binder indicates that there are quite a few there, perhaps as many as seven hundred. It’s one of the largest establishments, outnumbering us more than two to one. I can only assume that they weren’t given an "A" status due to their lack of training and armament; maybe because they weren’t a direct threat. Being in northern Canada, though, I would imagine everyone had a hunting rifle of some sort. I have no idea what went into the selection process, and frankly, I don’t really care.

“Fort McMurray, eh? I wonder why that place has so many survivors?” I ponder.

“It’s remote? I wouldn’t really know. There are other remote places that don’t have that many,” Harold ventures.

“What is that to the north of the town?” I ask.

The screen blurs before settling onto a very large patch of brown surrounded by greenery. Several buildings and what appear to be ponds come into view, but I can’t make out much more than that.

“Zoom in,” I ask, curious.

There’s a little dizzying sensation until the picture settles into sharp focus. On the large screen is the image of what must be a refinery. I have Harold pan the view around and spot at least five more.

“Do you suppose those surviving are refinery workers?” I query.

“I can’t imagine what else they could be in such a remote territory,” Harold responds.

“Hmmm…lock that in for the future. If they know how to run one of those refineries, perhaps they can get it up and running, if they haven’t already. Is there a way we can get a live shot?”

“I’ll have to redirect one of the satellites, but we can do it. I’d like to use one of the older ones so we don’t burn fuel on the higher-res ones.”

“That’s fine. I’ll leave you to your work.”

I wonder what kind of fuels they process up that way
? I think, rising and leaving the control center.

Walking back through the vehicle bay with Lynn, I get Sergeant Montore’s attention and pull him aside.

“I’d like for you to select fifty of your men to potentially be dispersed to another group of survivors. That comes with the understanding that they would be under the supervision and control of the person in charge of the camp,” I say.

“I can do that. They won’t like being split up like that, but they’ll understand,” Montore replies. “What about weapons and ammo?”

“We’ll load enough to keep them supplied, but they won’t have access to them until the person in charge accepts them as part of the community. And, just so you know, they’ll be under guard during the flight.”

“Okay, I get that. I understand your reluctance to trust us. We were seemingly fighting for the wrong side, regardless of how much we knew, or didn’t. What I’m trying to get at, sir, is how long are we going to be kept under watch? Hearing what went on, most of the men are certainly in shock, but that doesn’t mean that they are going to like being treated like criminals. If I may speak frankly,”
Montore
asks, to which I nod.

“They’re more than likely feeling down about the part they played, and treating them like this will only make that worse. They need something to believe in again…something that will make their lives worthwhile.”

“Sergeant, I understand what you’re saying. I truly do. But we,” I say, nodding toward Lynn, “need to make sure that nothing comes about from any hard feelings. I know about losing friends and how hard that can be. It will take some time, on both sides, for trust to build. Given the world we live in now, and the fact that we’re barely hanging on, that will come about quicker than it normally would.”

Montore nods. “That’s the best I can hope for, thank you. I appreciate you at least giving us the chance. I’ll see to selecting the men.”

“Thank you. We’ll be loading up close to first light and leaving shortly thereafter. And, I’d like those remaining to assist with clearing the grass around the perimeter. I want to create firebreaks around the buildings and solar farm, and then set controlled fires to clear it out,” I comment.

Leaving Montore to sort out his men, Lynn sets a watch schedule with the teams, and after notifying Robert, Bri, and the Red and Blue Teams about our departure in the morning, we head into the back rooms to find a place to rest. As we walk down the well-lit corridor, our boots echo down the wide hallway.

“I was thinking of taking two teams to Mountain Home. That will leave you with five to watch over the control room and the soldiers. Will that be enough?” I ask.

“With the 24/7 watch schedule we’ll have to keep, that will leave us a little thin, but we’ll do what we have to. I’ll make sure the weapons are all gathered, stored in the armory, and guarded. How long do you think you’ll be gone?” Lynn queries.

“I’m not really sure. Without looking at it in detail, I’m thinking it will take a little over an hour and a half to fly there. Then, perhaps an hour or so on the ground and then there’s the return flight. Overall, it may be four plus hours,” I answer.

“Well, it is what it is. Keep in mind that the night runners aren’t going to sit back and wait for us. The sooner we get home, the better I’ll feel about things. We certainly have our hands full maintaining the operation here and dealing with the night runners spreading south,” Lynn comments.

“I hear ya. It seems the more headway we make, the farther behind we fall.”

“You know, Jack. This place isn’t all that bad. We could just move everything here,” Lynn states.

“That thought has crossed my mind. Let’s stabilize the situation here, get home, and figure things out from there,” I say.

The night passes without incident. My watch says that it’s about time for the sun to make its appearance on the land above. It’s odd being underground and not being able to see the day unfold and wind down. Even though it’s only been one day and a night, I already feel the internal changes. I noticed that the lights dimmed around sundown and fully expect them to brighten with the coming day. Perhaps it’s just a mental thing, knowing that I’m underground.

Putting on my boots, that thought is pushed to the back of my mind almost as soon as it appears. Taking its place is how much we have to accomplish today. We have to fly to Mountain Home and make contact with Jason, assuming he’s still running the camp of survivors. Then, return and figure out the situation with Harold before heading home. I still have the group in northern Canada in the back of my mind, but that will have to wait until later. Frank would have informed us if events have changed back home, but there’s nothing like seeing it for myself. And, we have some big decisions to make.

Red and Blue Teams set to hauling enough weapons and gear out of the armory for the group of soldiers we’ll be taking, stowing them in vehicles that we’ll use to transport to the 130. Lynn tasks the remaining teams, excluding the one that kept watch during the night, to watch over the control room and to guard the prisoners when they head out to clear the grounds around the perimeter. She ensures that the security room is manned and begins setting up a secondary security station in the control room. Before long, the bunker is a hive of activity, filled with echoing shouts, doors being closed, boots running across the concrete surface, and a myriad of other noises that come from people on the move.

In the midst of this rising clamor, Robert, Craig, and I settle into a relatively quiet corner of the control room to plan the flight. I’m opting to bring Craig just in case. There’s nothing for him to do here and it’s always nice to have another pilot along. Harold brings up a display from one of the weather satellites. Fall is a time of unpredictable weather patterns, so it’s nice to have that resource back, even if it will only be for a short period of time. With the time showing the sun has made its appearance, those of us making the short hop over to Mountain Home gather in vehicles and head out. Edging around the SUV Jan left parked at the gate, we drive across fields to where we left the 130.

The shadow from the aircraft stretches across the dirt field, rippling where it crosses undulations in the land. With Red Team watching over the soldiers, Blue Team loads the crates of gear while Robert, Bri, and I start our checks. Finishing, the soldiers all tromp up the ramp and take seats on the red nylon webbing stretched along both sides of the fuselage.

With all four props turning in a blur and a deep roar rumbling through the aircraft, I push the throttles forward. The 130 starts rolling across the dirt field, bouncing as we pick up speed. Robert places his hand on top of mine so it doesn't shake off the throttles and inadvertently pull them back. Having walked the surface, I know we aren’t in danger of slamming into a trench or gully, but that doesn’t make the ride any smoother. Throwing a stream of dust behind us, we eventually become airborne, clawing for altitude into the early morning sky.

Turning west, the eastern slopes of the Rockies are bathed in morning light. The angle of the sunlight shrouds the ravines in darkness, making them appear even deeper and the terrain even more rugged. We’ve passed over these mountains numerous times in our search for survivors, but looking down on the brilliantly lit peaks, I’m not sure we’ll get the chance to see them many more times.

There are very few roads showing on the expanse of wilderness below. If we do go down, we might never be found. We’d just be another notch on the belt of humankind’s downfall, only existing in the memories of those we left behind. If we did survive, there would be no way we could walk out of such a place. Our world would become significantly smaller, amounting to only the hills and valleys that we could see.

A little over an hour into our flight, nestled against steep, ragged peaks, Salt Lake City appears ahead of us to the left. Pulling the throttles back, the drone of the engines decreases as I begin a shallow descent into Mountain Home. To the south, the Great Salt Lake glimmers in the sun as we fly past, while the white of the Bonneville Salt Flats to the west are almost blinding from the sunlight striking them. It’s not long before a large U-shaped valley appears with Idaho Falls on one end and Boise on the other. Angling toward Mountain Home AFB, just to the south of the city itself, Robert and I begin our arrival checks. I don’t know what to expect and hope that Jason and his group of survivors have fared well.

Approaching the airfield, I set us up for an orbit so we can get a look before we set down. It will also give notice to the camp, assuming they are still there, that we’re arriving and avoid spooking them. With what I’ve seen in the world we’re living in, trust sometimes isn’t high on anyone’s list, and it’s often a "shoot first and ask questions later" mindset...myself included. I’d rather avoid an inadvertent confrontation.

Looking down on the base, it appears much the same as it did before. The exception is that more layers of dirt cover the roads, ramp, and runway. I don’t see any vehicles moving, but there are tracks along some of the roads and on the ramp implying that they have been used recently. Jason and the group had converted several of the hangars into greenhouses and the roofs have been replaced by clear, plastic sheeting.

Continuing to circle, I spot several people by the front gate and near the ramp, shielding their eyes as they look up. They don’t appear to be scurrying for cover or running for gun emplacements, which is a good sign. However, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t others that we can’t see. Lining up with the dirt-covered runway, I make a high-speed pass down its length – the term "high speed" being a matter of perspective in a 130. There aren’t any tracers that arc out to meet us, nor the ping of rounds slicing through the fuselage, so I bring us around for a landing.

With all of the dirt covering the runway, it’s hard to tell where it actually starts and ends. The entire area, from the ramp to the security fence on the other side of the runway, has all but blended together. My only clue as to where the runway should be is a slightly raised surface stretching out ahead. The sand doesn’t appear to be too deep and I know there is a hard surface below, so I opt to set it down on the first attempt.

The wheels touch and I hold the nose off for as long as possible before easing it down. The thrust reversers send a wave of dust forward and I jockey the levers to keep the billowing cloud from passing us. Bringing the aircraft out of reverse, we pass the line of dust. Looking over to the ramp, I see that the people who were gathered there have vanished. That doesn’t exactly bode well, but I doubt that I’d just camp on the ramp as a strange aircraft arrived either.

I taxi off the runway, hoping I’m actually on a taxiway and not about to sink belly-deep into soft soil, stopping at the edge of the ramp. I’m not really in position for a quick takeoff should things turn sour, but at least I'm close to the runway and I have some distance from the buildings adjacent the ramp. Stopped with the props turning, I look back along the runway. Dust hangs in the still, morning air, and there is a strip of paved surface showing where we carved a path through the dirt.

I hold our position until I see a couple of people emerge from around the side of one of the buildings, stopping at the edge of the ramp. Seeing nothing amiss, I nudge the throttles and we start forward, halting in the middle of what I assume is the tarmac. Shutting down the ramp-side engines, I leave Robert at the controls.

“If something happens, I want you to get the fuck out of Dodge. And, don’t wait for me. Just push the throttles forward. Start the dead engines while taxiing at high speed and lift off. Use the tarmac to get airborne if you have to. Don’t forget to close the ramp,” I instruct.

“Okay, Dad. Do you want us to swing around and come back for you?”

“No. Just make a beeline for the bunker and get everyone home,” I state.

I head into the cargo compartment and brief Red and Blue Teams. Both sides of the fuselage are filled with soldiers slumped forward with their arms resting on their knees or leaning back, trying to gain a measure of comfort. Getting Gonzalez and Horace’s attention, I pull them aside.

“Okay. We have people here but I’m not exactly sure of the situation. So far, they haven’t acted overtly hostile, but I’ve instructed Robert to get airborne quickly if rounds are exchanged. I’m heading outside to make contact. Horace, I want Blue Team near the back of the ramp to provide cover fire if we need to get the fuck out of here. If you have to fire, it would be way cool if you don’t hit the engines. Gonzalez, you and Red Team keep watch over our passengers,” I brief.

“Copy that, sir,” Horace responds. Gonzalez merely nods her reply.

With the soldiers eyeing my passage to the rear, I open the ramp. As it lowers, the roar from the two running engines floods the compartment. Fed by the rapidly rotating props, hurricane force winds push a curling line of dust flowing behind the aircraft. The ramp hits the dirt covering the tarmac with a subdued clang.

Stepping down the metallic surface, I walk onto the tarmac and into the clear where I can readily be seen. With my M-4 hanging from its lanyard at my side, I stare across the dirt-covered surface toward a building where a small group of people has gathered. Two of them, each carrying a carbine strapped to their back, detach from the rest and begin riding bicycles in my direction. The sand isn’t deep enough to impede them, and as they draw closer, I see that it is Jason and the soldier who stayed behind to be with his family.

They arrive and dismount. Both of them look a little more gaunt than when I saw them last. Gaunt may not be the right word, but they definitely look much thinner. Their cheeks are drawn tighter and their eyes have the tired, sunken look of constant stress. I imagine I don’t look much better, though. However, that doesn’t seem to dampen their enthusiasm at seeing us.