Fight for Power (9 page)

When we were out, Herb looked my way. “I'm going to the main storehouse. Your mother is probably there already. Do you want to stay with your plane or come with me?”

“I'm coming with you.” I knew from the interviews Herb had had with Quinn that the main storehouse was where they kept weapons, ammunition, some vehicles, and food. Now I was curious what, if anything, had been left behind.

We started off across the compound. It seemed chaotic, with people running around and shouting. I could tell Herb didn't like it, as he repeatedly tried to calm the situation, stopping folks to ask what they were doing, slowing them down. Our men and women seemed pumped, excited, almost like they were at a party, although it was a party where everybody had brought a weapon and many of them were wearing body armor. But as Herb walked and talked his way through, everyone did seem to calm down.

The storehouse was right beside the burning barracks in the middle of the compound. As we closed in I could feel the heat from the flames.

“Do you think they left much behind?” I asked.

“They would have moved the most valuable things, but there are probably things they either couldn't move or didn't have the time or the ability to move. I guess we'll find out soon enough.”

My mother and I saw each other at the same instant.

“I'm glad you're okay!” I exclaimed.

“And you, too!” She wrapped her arm around me and we hugged through our body armor.

“Were there any casualties?” Herb asked, which surprised me.

“Two wounded,” my mother said.

“But how could anybody be hurt?” I questioned. “Wasn't the compound deserted?”

“Friendly fire,” my mother said.

“That's always a danger when you attack from more than one side at once,” Herb said. “Will they be all right?”

“Dr. Morgan is already working on them. He didn't think that either was a life-threatening situation.”

“Good. Excellent. So did they leave much behind?”

“Some bulk food, potatoes, and dozens of sacks of rice,” she said.

Food—nothing was more important with so many mouths to feed.

“Unfortunately,” she continued, “there are no weapons or trucks, but there is something that I know my son in particular will be really interested in.”

“What is it?” I asked.

She smiled but didn't answer. Instead she motioned for us to follow her inside. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise up, but knew I was being a bit silly. Obviously, my mother wouldn't lead me into danger.

The building was practically empty, dimly lit, but I recognized the outline of a plane.

“A Cessna!” I exclaimed. “Are you kidding me?”

Herb gave a surprised laugh. “If they had another plane, why wasn't it up in the air after the first one went down?”

I thought back to the other plane, the one that had once tried to shoot me and Herb out of the sky. In the end they were the ones who crashed and burned.

“Maybe they didn't have another pilot,” my mother suggested.

“Or maybe this one isn't flightworthy or doesn't even have an engine,” I said.

“There's only one way to find out.”

The plane was a vintage model, probably at least forty years old. That meant it didn't have computers and wouldn't have been affected by the virus. I pulled up the engine panel—there was indeed an engine, and it looked in pretty good shape. Of course, I couldn't tell whether it worked.

“Climb inside,” my mother said. “We have to get it out of here. I'm afraid of the fire spreading from the other buildings.”

“Even if the engine works, I don't know if I can taxi it out of here through those doors. They're not very wide.”

“I'll take care of that. You get inside and I'll find some people to push you out,” my mother said.

I slammed down the panel. There were blocks under the wheels and I pulled them free. They'd gotten it in here, so we'd be able to get it out—assuming they hadn't taken the wings off first and reassembled it inside. Maybe that was why it was still grounded.

I opened the cockpit door and climbed in. During my flight lessons over the last year I'd spent a whole lot more time in the passenger seat of a Cessna than in the pilot's seat, but I had taken the controls the last few times, getting ready to solo. I ran my hand along the instrument panel. It had a familiar look but with a slightly different arrangement from what I'd flown before. First off, it was mainly wooden and all of the dials were analog—sort of like the gauges on my car. That was what I expected from an older plane. Old was good in our new world. Of course it was very, very different from my ultralight and its open cockpit, and I had to think back to my time in the Cessna. It seemed like years instead of months.

I pulled back on the yoke and turned around to see the flaps on the tail—the elevators—rise up as they should. In flight this would cause the plane to gain altitude. I pushed the yoke forward, and the elevators dipped down, which would have pushed the nose down had we been airborne. I pulled it back and forth. It felt smooth. That didn't mean that the cables and levers weren't frayed or couldn't snap in a second but, still, potentially they were good.

I pushed the left rudder pedal and then the right. The rudder reacted properly. I could turn right and left—assuming the flaps on the wings, the ailerons, also worked. Still looking back I turned the wheel left and right. The flaps were sticky, but they moved.

There was a loud smash behind me and I jumped in my seat. Two men with sledgehammers were attacking the wall beside the door, making the opening larger. Good. The last thing I wanted to do was damage a wing before I got it outside and into the air. Actually, the last thing I wanted to do was get it up into the air and have the plane stall out or have a piece fall off.

Herb came in, accompanied by a dozen other men. He walked over to my door. I pushed down the window.

“Here are your friendly neighbors, ready to push you out,” Herb called over the pounding hammers.

“Just give me a minute and keep everybody away from the prop.”

“The engine works?” Herb asked.

“Let's find out.”

I turned on the starter. The lights on the panel blinked on, and the indicators came to life. So we knew the battery worked. There was only one more step. I twisted the starter one more turn and got nothing, not even a click. The engine was silent.

I leaned back out the window. “No go. I'll need a push. Could you guys make sure to only hold on to the struts and push the solid parts of the wings? It's important not to touch the elevators or ailerons.”

There were looks of confusion.

“The flaps. Don't touch the flaps. I'll show you.”

I opened the door and jumped out. First things first. We had to turn it around and aim it toward the door, which was becoming wider with each crash of the sledgehammers. I showed them where to touch and where to avoid. Together we picked up the tail section and rotated the plane around to have its front facing straight out. I climbed back into the plane so I could control the brakes and signaled for them to start pushing. With this many men and this much muscle, the plane started forward.

We were just barely off line with the doorway. I depressed the right brake ever so slightly to shift us in the right direction. “Slow, no need for speed!” I yelled out the window.

The plane lurched to the side and we moved across the storehouse. The nose inched out through the doors. I swung my head left and right anxiously. It looked like there was room on both sides for the wings to pass through, but not with much to spare.

“Stop! Stop,” I yelled as I stepped on both brakes. I needed to be certain there was space. A plane with banged-up wings either wasn't getting off the ground or was landing in a heap. I jumped down and went from one side to the other. The openings were jagged but bigger. There was a foot of clearance on the right and what looked like a few inches on the other.

“Okay, guys. Really slowly, let's do this.”

They started pushing again, and I stood directly in front of the plane so I could guide it out.

“Slowly … slowly,” I called out.

This was going to be even closer than I thought. The leading edge of the wing was almost there and just brushed by on the left. Now the wing was past, the plane was out and free! If I could get the engine to fire up, I had myself a Cessna!

“Push it away from the barracks!” Herb yelled. “Quick!”

The fire in the three buildings was even stronger now, the flames higher.

I jumped back into the cockpit, stepping on the left brake hard, and as they pushed, the Cessna spun around, away from the flames. Once it came right around, I let off the brake and the combined muscle moved us quickly down the runway. I looked over my shoulder as we put more and more distance behind us, until it felt like we were far enough away from the flames.

“This is good!” I yelled out the window. They stopped pushing and I coasted to a stop. I climbed out.

“We'll have two mechanics in your mom's squad look at the engine and see if it can be started,” Herb said as he walked to my side.

“If they could get it running I could fly it home.”

Herb shook his head. “Negative, son. I'm not prepared to risk your life until we've checked out everything from prop to tail. You should know better than anybody that just because the engine starts doesn't mean it won't quit midflight or that one of the cables might not snap or that a wing won't fall off.”

Of course he was right. Putting it into the air right now wasn't smart. There might be a very good reason it was sitting in the storehouse instead of being up in the sky.

“But how will we get it back to the neighborhood if I don't fly it?” I asked.

“We'll get it there if we have to push it the whole way. Believe me, I'm not going to risk losing the most valuable thing we found here,” Herb said reassuringly.

“Herb!” my mother called out. “Come with me. The compound isn't deserted. We think there are people in one of the buildings!”

 

8

Herb and my mother took off, and I ran to catch them.

“It's the building in the far south corner. We have it surrounded, and our people have taken cover,” my mother said as she raced back to the building.

“Anything else?” Herb asked.

“I've got our sentries on the walls keeping their focus on the outside,” she reported. “We don't want to be caught in the middle between one group attacking from the inside while a second coordinates an attack from the outside.”

“Do you think that's what's happening?” I asked.

“I don't see any signs, but I guess I'm always suspicious when things aren't difficult,” my mother said.

“This has all been too easy,” Herb agreed.

We took a wide route around the burning barracks. Once past the buildings and free of the smoke, we could clearly see the building in question. It was surrounded by our vehicles, which were being used as cover a safe distance away. Behind them were about fifty of our men and women, weapons at the ready, aimed at the building. Bent over, trying to stay low, we came forward and took refuge behind a truck. No sooner had we gotten there than both Howie and Brett came over.

“Brief us,” my mother said.

“Some of my men were doing a building-by-building search,” Howie said. “They tried to approach this one, but then they heard movement and some voices and I ordered them to retreat to safety.”

“Good thinking,” my mother said.

“We set up the perimeter and that's all there is to tell,” he added. “So what comes next?”

“I think we should establish contact and try to get them to surrender,” Herb said.

My mother nodded. “Somebody get me a bullhorn,” she ordered. Quickly one was handed to her.

“Howie, can you go around and try to position our people so there's less chance of us shooting each other in the crossfire?” Herb directed. “I want to make sure that nobody fires unless they hear the order from the captain.”

“Will do.” Howie rushed off.

“Does that mean you don't think they're going to listen and surrender?” I asked.

“I think we have to be prepared. Your mom asking to speak to them might trigger a response that we don't want.”

“If they don't respond, this might make them listen,” Brett said, tapping the side of the RPG launcher he was carrying.

“I hope it doesn't come to that,” my mother said.

“
They
better hope it doesn't,” Brett said.

“It would be better for all of us.”

Brett shrugged. “I was hoping to have a chance to use this thing, but either way they're coming out—walking and alive or dead and feet-first.”

“Let's take it down a notch, son,” Herb said to Brett.

My mother poked her head slightly above the cover of the car. “This is Captain Daley,” she called out, her metallic amplified voice bouncing off the building. “You are surrounded. We want you to come out … hands up … no weapons. If you surrender you will not be harmed.” She put down the bullhorn. “This sort of situation is usually handled by our SWAT team.”

“Well, you made it sound like you've been through trouble like this before.”

“Part of the job … one more thing to do. I have to give them a time limit.”

She brought the bullhorn up again. “You have five minutes to respond. If you do not surrender within that time, we will be left with no choice but to come in by force.”

“Perfect,” Herb said.

“So now we wait,” my mother said.

“If they don't react in five minutes, we give them one more warning—one more minute and then, well, we act,” Herb said. “We've given them the choice and a chance. The rest is up to them.”

“I'm timing it,” Brett said.