SECTOR 64: Ambush (28 page)

Sandy looked left and right again. Unless she wanted to risk flying into a wall of fire, turning was not an option. The debris cluttered runway rushed up to meet her. An exceptionally large twisted chunk of unidentifiable metal lay directly in her path.

Sandy yanked the parachute's right riser. The chute responded to that side's additional lift and drag by swinging her away from a direct impact. However, the pendulous action reached its apex just before she struck the ground. At the last second, her body dropped sideways, slamming her left hip and shoulder into the runway's surface.

The impact knocked the breath from Sandy's lungs. She felt something give in her left knee. Then a burning sensation shot up her left arm. A few feet later, fighting to breathe she finally slid to a stop.

From her curled-up position on the runway's skid-mark blackened landing area, Captain Fitzpatrick threw back her head, mouth agape, struggling to draw air into her burning lungs. After a seeming eternity, she managed to pull in a ragged breath. The acrid air sent her into a coughing spasm.

Battling her way upright, Sandy almost fell as the pain in her left knee blossomed into pure agony. Bent at the waist, struggling to balance on her right foot, she fought to maintain the hard won vertical position. Rummaging through the debris littering the runway, Sandy collected a bent piece of aluminum strut that worked as a makeshift crutch. Turning back, she spotted a pool of blood. A trail led from it.

Looking from the puddle to the line of red drops, Sandy followed them to where they connected to a smaller puddle under her left arm.

"Oh shit!"

Grimacing, she pulled up the flightsuit's sleeve. Blood streamed from a ten-inch slice running the length of her left forearm. Below it, dark red blood soaked her flight glove. Crimson rivulets crisscrossed the painted surface of the aluminum strut gripped in her trembling hand.

Sandy frantically scanned the runway for the ejection seat. She needed its first-aid kit. Finally, her eyes landed on the tangled burning mass of fighter and tank, realizing her seat must've dropped into it.

"Crap!"

Sandy hobbled to the fluttering tangled parachute. A chunk of twisted metal held it on the runway. Finally catching a break, she almost felt lucky. Digging out her survival knife, she hacked out a long ribbon of silk. After a few minutes of tugging with her teeth and right hand, Sandy fashioned an effective pressure bandage out of the parachute's canopy.

Now for the knee.

Like unending thunder, the jet-fuel fed fire shredded the atmosphere. Whipped into a frenzy by the conflagration's insatiable demand for oxygen, the channel of air rushing down the runway flapped and tugged at the ensnared chute. Sandy used another strip to tie-back her blowing blonde hair.

She found two short pieces of aluminum strut. Placing them on either side of her busted left knee, Sandy fashioned a splint by wrapping a long strip of silk around the whole thing.

Scrambling back to her feet, she made a quick assessment. While significant blood had soaked her forearm's pressure bandage, it appeared the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. Tentatively, Sandy transferred some weight to the bad leg. Fresh pain erupted, but it was manageable. She inventoried her equipment. In addition to the survival knife, her Baretta 9mm pistol still hung in its shoulder harness. Patting her leg, searching for the iPhone, she came up empty. Standing, Sandy looked at the burning wreckage of her F-22. "Shit." Left on the chart holder, it had gone up with the fighter. Pulling the emergency radio out of her survival vest, she studied its boxy form. "At least you're all right."

Sandy started coughing again as more smoke drifted over the runway.
I have to get out of here.

The wind had blown her closer to the east end of the field. While she was still between the two raging infernos, she was at their eastern edge. The airport's boundary fence laid beyond the end of the runway. Sandy saw something embedded in it. Leaning heavily on the makeshift crutch, she limped eastward.

As she emerged from between the fires, the oppressive heat finally relented. Sandy allowed a little hope to creep in as she identified the object she'd spotted. It was an airport maintenance pickup truck.

A few minutes later, she hobbled to the truck's side. Inaudible over the din of burning airport, its engine was still running. Nosed into the chain-link fence, its body panels vibrated as the still engaged motor struggled against the restraining perimeter barricade. A man's empty coveralls and work shirt lay in a heap under the steering wheel.

The driver had locked the door, but fortunately, he had left the window rolled halfway down. Standing on her tiptoes and reaching through the opening, Sandy pulled the inner handle. The door popped open. A startled scream slipped past her lips as a hardhat fell out, landing on her right boot. Resisting the angry urge to sweep the pile onto the dusty ground, Sandy folded the clothes and respectfully placed them into a neat stack on the edge of the road, topping it with the boots and hardhat. The collection looked like an odd memorial. She supposed it was.

Sandy climbed into the truck. As she suspected, it was still in drive. Selecting reverse, she backed the truck away from the fence. Initially, it snagged the truck's front bumper. She pumped the accelerator, but the fence wouldn't let go. On the third attempt, it finally broke free. Being careful not to run over the airport worker's memorial, Sandy guided the truck back onto the perimeter road.

Ahead, paralleling the airport boundary, the road disappeared into the northern fire. Behind her to the south, the other conflagration obscured that end of the road. Hammering the truck's accelerator, Sandy spun the truck one hundred eighty degrees. Following the perimeter road south she crossed the runway's east end. Here, the road disappeared into the southern fire.

"Shit!"

Sandy looked west. The runway was still a narrow canyon between two churning walls of fire and smoke. "Screw that!"

Looking left, she studied the fence and the down-sloping terrain beyond. She knew Highway 68 lay at the bottom of the scrub-covered hillside that formed the airport's eastern boundary. The road's southeast trajectory would take her farther from the weapon's epicenter. Had she still needed to find its range, Sandy would take that route. Also, it led to her parent's home. She could only hope they were outside of its reach. Along with a pang of worry, an epiphany blossomed, and a plan took root.

"That's it!"

With her aircraft destroyed, along with apparently every airplane at the airport, Sandy realized she now had a good excuse to check on her parents.

Utilizing her hand-held emergency radio, Sandy contacted Omaha Four-Four and appraised him of her situation. Shocked to hear she had ejected, the controller kept asking if she was okay.

Glancing at her leg, she said, "I'm a little banged up, but nothing I can't handle." Since the iPhone likely was a melted bubbling lump, Sandy had the controller relay her plan to General Pearson.

A few minutes later, the Base Commander's response came through. "Sorry to hear about your fighter, but glad you're okay. I like your plan, Captain. I'll see you back here when you're done."

Smiling for the first time that day, Sandy tucked the radio into its holster. The truck rolled to a stop pointing due east, aimed straight at the field's perimeter fence. Sandy buckled her seatbelt. After a few deep breaths and a short prayer, she floored the truck's accelerator.

The airport maintenance truck crashed through the fence. With the inertia of its thirty miles an hour velocity, the vehicle shredded the wire mesh. Now outside of the airport's perimeter, Sandy struggled to rein in the truck as it sped down the sharply sloping terrain. Braking, Sandy felt the tires slide across the hill's gravelly surface. Unsuccessfully, she tried to steer away from a doomed scrub bush. The impact sent leafless brown branches flying. The plant's root mound launched the truck, its tires momentarily leaving the ground. Sandy braced her hand against the cab's ceiling, glad she'd put on the seatbelt.

Letting off the brakes, Sandy finally gained a measure of control. As long as she kept the tires rotating and didn't turn the steering wheel too sharply, she could maneuver around the biggest obstacles.

A horrifying minute later, the truck crashed through a wood rail and passed from the steep limestone onto the gently sloping grass of a small municipal park. Rolling to a stop, Sandy leaned against the headrest. Staring at the sagging dust-covered headliner, she slowed her breathing, willing herself to calm down. Another bout of coughing wracked her body.

She killed the pickup's engine. Grasping its handle, Sandy threw open the door. Spilling out of the truck's cab, she fell to the damp grass, crumpling awkwardly onto her side because of the splint on her left knee. She breathed deeply between coughs. While she was able to purge the airport's smoky air from her lungs, she knew she'd never purge the horrific visions of the last few hours.

Looking around, Sandy rolled onto her butt. Intermixed with the sweet aroma of freshly mown sod, the bitter smell of damp bird guano wafted from under a nearby tree. An asphalt jogging trail ringed the park. Scattered piles were all that remained of the early morning joggers present when the alien's energy wave struck. While the majority of the people in San Francisco had known of the menacing alien presence hovering over their city, many here had likely not been aware of their otherworldly presence. When the ship approached from the south, its catastrophic atmospheric entry had reportedly lain waste to a huge swath of southern California. However, the ship had passed this area slowly enough to go unnoticed by most. They may have heard distant sonic booms, but many had likely written it off as something with a terrestrial origin and gone back to sleep.

Sandy saw plenty of evidence the Montereyans had been going about their normal morning rituals. A collection of three bicycles painted a tragic scene. Two laid on their side while a third smaller bike stood in the middle, its training wheels still holding it upright. Lying on its right side, mom's pink trimmed mountain bike led the way while dad's black bike brought up the rear. His black biking gear and safety helmet, as well as mom's pink gear and helmet, sat strewn around the bikes. The toddler's pink and lime green shirt had fallen across her pink bike's handlebars. White handgrips, their red, white, and blue tassels fluttering in the wind, protruded from either side of the tiny shirt. Buffeted by the onshore breeze, the little girl's safety helmet rocked like an upside down turtle in front of the small bike.

Sandy imagined the threesome pedaling in formation, the parents assuming their normal protective stations front and rear. In her mind's eye, Sandy saw herself on the front bike, looking back at Jake and then to a beautiful blond girl with the same curly golden hair she'd had as a toddler. Then, night turned to day as the onrushing energy wave filled the sky. All three froze in horror. As it neared, they screamed in agony. Deafening silence fell over the scene as the weapon's life stealing wall of light passed. As if in slow motion, their empty clothes and unsupported bicycles drifted earthward.

Shaking her head, Sandy banished the disturbing imagery. To her left, lay another tiny outfit, this one trimmed in blue. The bird-shit tarnished odor of toddler-trampled sod still hung in the park's air. However, all that remained of the little boy was the small turf stained shoes and clothes that had hopped, rolled, and tumbled with him through sandboxes, over climbing-timbers, and down slides.

Sandy looked down. Unbidden, her hand had gone to her abdomen again. She hadn't told Jake about the baby, yet. She'd thought about it during their video call, but she wanted to tell him in person.

Standing, Sandy turned back to the truck with mounting anger. The park's scenery was too much. Everywhere she looked, signs of lost life screamed for recognition. Her hormonal state turned every loss personal. She couldn't help but see every tragic waste of human life from a first-person perspective.

Sandy placed both hands on her stomach. Her maternal instinct kicking in, she'd never felt so protective. Glaring at the northern horizon, in the direction the aliens had departed, she screamed, "Fuck you!"

Ready to put the scene behind her and get on with the mission, she turned and stepped toward the truck. An advertising flyer tumbled across the grass. It came to rest against Sandy's right calf. As she climbed into the truck, she grabbed the yellow sheet. Across the top, it read: "Buck's Sport and Fish." Under a long-handled fish net graphic, it said: "Open till 9:00 p.m. Saturday and all day Sunday for last minute Father's Day shoppers."

Forlornly, she looked southeast. "Please be okay, Daddy."

With reverence, Sandy set the damp sheet on the seat next to her right leg. Wiping another tear from her wet cheek, she started the old truck's engine. Placing it in drive, she guided the vehicle across the park, turning to avoid running over any of the small piles of clothes or bicycles.

As the truck dropped across the curb onto Salinas Highway, Sandy turned it southeast. The tires squealed as she floored the accelerator. Slowly, it rattled up to sixty miles per hour. She pressed the pedal harder, but the pickup refused to go faster.

Behind Sandy, the park's disturbing milieu shrank. Dwarfing it, the airport's inferno painted a hellish panorama across the truck's rear and side-view mirrors.

She spent the next few minutes negotiating the highway's post-apocalyptic obstacle course. Several times, Sandy had to veer to the shoulder and even off the road to maneuver around pileups. As she'd seen from the air, the wrecks were concentrated at intersections and bends in the road.

Finally, she approached the crossing highway that would take her over the ridge separating Salinas Valley from her parent's Carmel Valley. A burning heap of cars, SUVs, and tractor trailers blocked the entire intersection.

She bounced on the bench seat as the airport truck rode over the curb and into a bank's tree-lined parking lot. Picking her way around and through the confused mass of vehicles, she worked her way across the lot. Passing between a burned out hulk she recognized as a Toyota Highlander and a still running late model red Camaro, Sandy gasped and locked the truck's brakes. Something about the car made her do a double-take. It was running, and the doors were open, something she'd already seen numerous times. However, in its ashtray, a wispy trail of smoke rose from a half-burned cigarette.