William W. Johnstone (20 page)

Authors: Phoenix Rising

BOOK: William W. Johnstone

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C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Fort RuckerâSunday, August 5

Although Fort Rucker wasn't hit with the full force of the hurricane, there were sustained winds of sixty miles per hour as well as torrential rains, and the wind and rain pounded the walls of the hangar throughout the long night. When Jake and the others emerged from the hangar the next morning they were surprised at the amount of damage the storm had done. Because none of the helicopters on the field had been tied down, many of them had been overturned, or pushed into other helicopters nearby.

“I'm glad we found a helicopter when we did,” John said. “Look at that mess. I doubt there is one airframe left that could be used.”

“Yes,” Willie agreed. “It's a good thing we moved the zero-seven-seventeen inside.”

“The only thing we have left is to connect the servo, right?” Jake asked.

“That's it.”

“How long will that take?”

“No more than twenty minutes to connect it and bleed it,” John said. “Then it'll be ready for a test flight.”

“Why test fly it?” Marcus asked. “Let's just climb on it and go.”

“No,” Jake said. “If this thing is going to fall apart in the air, I'm going to be the only one on board. I won't do a complete, by-the-book test flight, but I do want to make sure everything is okay before I risk anyone's life but my own.”

Half an hour later, Karin and Julie pulled on the chain to raise the door as the men pushed the helicopter out of the hangar and onto the tarmac. Although the U-60 is a twin-engine aircraft, they had made the decision to disconnect the left engine from the freewheeling clutch at the transmission. That way they were able to cannibalize it for the other engine. It meant that the helicopter would have less power and would fly slower with less of a payload, but it also meant it would use just over half as much fuel.

“All right, Jake, why don't you climb in and see what we have?” John said.

“You don't mind if I do a pre-flight, do you?” Jake asked.

“Have at it,” John said.

Jake did a thorough walk-around inspection, checking all fluid levels, as well as the rotor system for any loose or missing items. He looked at the blades to make certain there was no damage or separation of the laminated surfaces. After that, he started checking for leaks in the engine, transmission, gearboxes for the tail rotor drive train, hydraulics, and blade grips. Everything checked out.

After the walk around, Jake climbed in to the right seat to start his cockpit checks. He put on his SPH4 flight helmet, then plugged in the radio jack. Once he had a good start with the engine and rotor coming up to flight idle speed quite nicely, he checked to see that all of the gauges were in the green. Smiling, he gave John a thumbs-up.

“Alright!” John said, returning the thumbs-up salute.

After the engine was running, Jake went through a number of other checks, including turning on and checking the inverters, checking the generator, and turning off the hydraulic system to check control travel, then turning it back on to insure that there were no stuck valves that might bring trouble, including even a hydrostatic lock, which could result in a loss of control.

It was now well over four months since Jake had sat behind the controls of a functioning helicopter, and he felt a strong sense of satisfaction at being there again. With the rotor blades spinning at full speed, he moved the cyclic around to check the rotor plane. It dipped exactly as it was supposed to, and he felt no falloff of rotor control as a result of John's jury-rigged pitch change link.

Automatically, he set the radios to departure frequency, then keyed the transmit switch before he realized he had nobody to contact. He released the radio transmit switch, and pulled up on the collective pitch control, causing the helicopter to lift from the ground. He stabilized it, then pulled the collective and pushed the cyclic forward. The helicopter took off easily and he climbed to five hundred feet as he passed over the edge of Hanchey Field. He did a complete circle around the field, looking down at the hangar and the little group of people who were gathered anxiously, awaiting his return.

He had just started shooting his approach to the tarmac right in front of the hangar when he saw a pickup truck coming quickly up Hanchey Road. He expedited the approach, sat down, then killed the engine.

“How did it go?” John asked, running over and sticking his head in through the open window.

“The flight was perfect,” Jake said. “But it looks like we're about to have company. Deon!” he called.

“What's up?” Deon asked, sprinting over to him.

“There is a pickup truck full of men coming this way, fast,” Jake replied. “It may not mean anything, but there is no sense in taking a chance.”

“I'll get a machine gun up in the tower,” Deon said.

“Good idea. But don't do anything unless you get word from me,” Jake said. “Or unless they start shooting.”

Deon nodded; then, grabbing the M-240 and an ammo box, he hurried up the outside steps into the tower.

“What is your plan?” Clay asked.

“Get everyone into the hangar, but have them armed, just in case,” Jake said.

“Are you going to stay out here?”

“Yes. I intend to see what they want.”

“I'm going to stay with you.”

“No need,” Jake said.

“I'd feel better. I'm going to be standing right beside you with an M-16.”

“All right,” Jake said. “If you say so.”

Clay hurried back into the hangar, then returned with the rifle just as the red Dodge Ram pulled onto the airfield and started toward them.

The pickup truck approached at full speed.

“What the hell?” Clay said. “They plan to run us down!”

Clay raised his rifle to fire, but there were two men in the back of the truck, with their rifles resting on the top. They opened fire and Clay was hit.

“Clay!” Jake shouted and reached for him.

“No! Get out of the way!” Clay yelled, and he shoved Jake hard, knocking him down, but getting him out of the way of the onrushing truck. Even as Jake hit the ground, he heard a sickening thump when the truck ran Clay over. The driver slammed on the brakes, then swung the truck around. In the meantime, the two gunners opened up on Jake. Jake was still on the ground and he rolled hard to his right as the bullets ricocheted off the blacktop just beside him. Deon opened up with the M-240 and Jake saw the tracer rounds streaming into the truck. Then he saw the driver lose control, and crash into the helicopter. Both helicopter and truck exploded into a huge ball of fire. Neither the driver, nor the two shooters got out.

Jake moved quickly to check Clay, but jerked his face away when he saw that Clay's head had been smashed by one of the wheels. Steeling himself, he turned back to his longtime friend, removed Clay's shirt, and spread it over his head. There was no need for either of the women to see this, and even though Karin was a nurse, this was more than anything she would ordinarily see.

Deon came down from the tower as the others came out of the hangar.

“What happened?” Karin said, then seeing Clay lying on the ground, his head covered by his shirt and blood pooling underneath, she gasped. “Oh my God,” she said.

“Damn,” Willie said. “The sergeant major got through Iraq and Afghanistan, only to have some homegrown bastard kill him.”

There were some secondary explosions from the burning truck and helicopter.

“Think anyone survived that?” Marcus asked.

“I hope they did,” Willie answered. “I hope the sons of bitches are roasting alive. They may as well get a taste of what it's like before they go to hell.”

“I doubt anyone survived,” Jake said.

“Including the helicopter,” Deon said. “We're going to have to start over from scratch.”

“Scratch is right,” John said. “Because there isn't anything left we can build from. We are, as they say, SOL.”

“What about one of the other airfields?” Marcus suggested.

“No good,” Jake said, shaking his hand. “One of the last things we did while the post was still functioning was move all the UH-sixties to Hanchey. If we can't put together another one from what we have here, we are going to have to come up with another plan.”

“A Chinook?” Marcus suggested.

“I don't think so,” John said. “They've got more parts than a Blackhawk; it'll be harder coming up with all we need for them than it was for the zero-seven-seventeen.”

“What are we going to do with Sergeant Major Matthews?” Karin asked.

“We're going to bury him,” Jake said.

“Where? How? There is nothing here but blacktop and cement,” Marcus said.

“There's real ground behind the hangar,” Jake said. “And an old warrior like Clay would probably want to be buried on an Army base, even if there is no Army anymore. If a couple of you will help me carry Sarge around back.”

“We'll get him,” Marcus said, nodding toward the others.

Willie and Marcus took Clay's arms, Deon and John took his feet. Jake, Karin, and Julie followed them around the side of the hangar.

The rain from the storm made the ground soft, so it took no more than half an hour to dig a grave for Clay. With his blood-soaked shirt still wrapped around his head, they lowered him gently into the grave.

“I wish we had a flag to drape over him,” Karin said.

“We do!” Deon said with a big smile. “I saw one while I was up in the tower. I'll go get it.”

“You knew the sergeant major a long time, didn't you, sir?” Marcus asked. For the moment, the rank and military courtesy seemed appropriate.

“Yes,” Jake answered. “I don't think I would have gotten through Officer Candidate School without him.”

A moment later Deon returned with the flag. It was a storm flag rather than a garrison flag, so it was considerably smaller.

“It's not big enough to drape over him,” Julie said.

“We'll fold it into the triangle, then put it in his hands. He will like that,” Jake said.

“I've often wondered why we fold a flag like that,” Julie said. “It has to be symbolic of something.”

“It is,” Jake said. “Folded properly, it takes exactly thirteen folds, two lengthwise and eleven triangular. That represents the thirteen original states.”

Willie and John folded the flag into the triangle.

“Now,” Jake said, holding out the flag. “This triangle resembles a cocked hat, representing every solder, sailor, marine, and airman who has ever served. And finally, you can see that there are now only four stars visible. Those four stars stand for âIn God we trust.'”

“I'll put the flag in his hands,” Deon offered, and taking the flag from Jake, he leaned down over the open grave and placed the flag so that Clay was holding it over his heart, with his hands over it. It was almost as if the sergeant major was actually holding on to the flag.

“I'm going to have a little service for him, if you don't mind,” Jake said.

“Who would mind?” Deon asked. “I think it is entirely appropriate.”

“So do I,” Karin said.

Jake lowered his head, and the others did as well. “Dear Lord,” Jake began. “We commit into your keeping Sergeant Major Clayton Bertis Matthews the Third. Clay served his country and his fellow man with honor and valor. He took up arms to defend all that good men find dear: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. He lived his life according to those ideals, and, moreover, he imparted that dedication and his wisdom to others. He was my mentor, my friend, and my strength. We leave him here now, secure in the knowledge that you hold him in the palm of your hand. Amen.”

“Amen,” the others repeated.

As they left, the others, one at a time, passed by Clay's grave. Willie and Marcus both signed themselves with the cross.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

By the time they returned to the front of the hangar the fire had burned out and all that was left was the smoldering wreckage of the truck and helicopter. No longer red, the truck had rusted out in the flames. The tires had been burned off and the aluminum wheels were no more than molten slag. Inside the truck a charred body was draped over what was left of the steering wheel. The two gunners had been thrown forward over the cab of the truck and their charred remains lay in the blackened residue of what had been the helicopter.

“How much fuel was on board?” Jake asked.

“Unfortunately, we had it topped off,” John said.

“That leaves us just under four hundred gallons. If we can put another one together, we won't be able to top off the tank, but we'll have enough fuel to get to where we are going.”

“
If
we can put another one together,” John said. “I'm going to take Clay's Jeep and drive around the field to see if I can find something we can use to start over.”

“I've been thinking,” Jake said.

“Well, Major, that's why the Army pays you the big bucks,” Deon said, and the others, including Jake, laughed.

“John, while you are looking at the other helicopters, I suggest that the rest of us build some hasty fortifications of some sort. That way if this happens again, we'll be ready for them.”

“Good idea,” Marcus said.

“I'm glad you think it's a good idea,” Jake said. “Because now that I have suggested that, I have no idea what we can use for the fortification.”

“There are ten fifty-five-gallon drums over in the hangar next door,” John said. “They are empty, but if we put dirt in them . . .”

“Yes,” Jake said interrupting him. “We did that in Iraq, built up around our Quonset huts. It worked well.”

“You'll have to cut the tops off to get the dirt in,” John said. “I've got a hacksaw and some blades here.”

“Won't you need that if you find something out on the line?” Jake asked.

“If it isn't something I can take off using a wrench or a screwdriver, then it's not likely to be anything we can use. Take the hacksaw.”

“All right. Let's get started,” Jake said.

“A suggestion, sir?” Marcus offered.

“Any suggestion is welcomed.”

“As soon as we get the top off one of the barrels, I suggest that one of us saw, while the rest of us fill the empty with sand.”

“Good idea.”

An hour later they had only two barrels filled with sand. Jake raised up from digging and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead.

“You know, when I said that we did this in IraqâI forgot. There was no âwe' to it. We hired local contractors for the job.”

“Yeah, I was wondering where you got that âwe,'” Deon said.

By nightfall, they had the ten barrels in a V shape in front of the personnel door. Back inside, they wondered aloud whether or not John would find anything they could use.

It was almost an hour later before John returned, and when he came into the hangar, the expression on his face told everything.

“We're stopped cold,” John said. “There is nothing left that is salvageable.”

“Do you mean to say that out of a hundred or more helicopters, that you can't put together one that is flyable?” Jake asked.

“I'm not saying that,” John said. “But what I am saying is that there is so little salvageable remaining on each of the aircraft that it would take days, maybe weeks, to put one together. The biggest problem is with the airframes. Those that haven't been destroyed by all the scavengers are too badly damaged by the storm. I wish I had better news for you, but I don't.”

“What do we do now?” Karin asked.

“What about the museum?” Deon asked.

“The museum? What about the museum? What are you talking about?” John asked.

“During the Vietnam War my dad was a door gunner on a Huey. There is a Huey on display at the museum just like the one he was on. I've seen it a dozen timesâit looks like it's ready to fly.”

“I wonder if the engine and transmission are in it.” John said.

“They are,” Jake said with a wide smile. “I remember reading an article in the
Flyer
last year about when it was brought to the museum. It was landed out front, then moved inside.”

“How long has it been there?” John asked.

“I don't know, twenty years, maybe a little longer.”

“And it was flyable when it arrived?”

“Yes, in the article I read, they had a big ceremony about it. The pilot who flew it in was one of the last Vietnam veterans still on active duty. Do you think you could make it flyable?”

“We could come a hell of a lot closer with it than I can with anything that's out here,” John said. “All of the parts should still be there, but after all this time there will be dried-out bushings, filters, gaskets, and so forth. We'll have to rehydrate them, if we can.”

“Question is, how do we get it here?” Marcus asked.

“We'll get it here in Clay's Jeep,” Jake said.

“What? You can't get a helicopter in that Jeep.”

“We could if we took the body off. Then we could set the helicopter on the Jeep's frame. The tail cone will stick out, but it's on skids, not wheels, so we can tie it down securely without worrying about it falling off.”

“Yeah!” Deon said. “Damn right.”

“Thing is, I hate doing that to Clay's car,” Marcus said.

“Believe me, Marcus, I knew Clay better than anyone here. And if Clay were still alive, he would be the first one to say do it,” Jake said.

“Yeah,” John said. “I think he would too. All right, let's get this buggy stripped down.”

It was a tired bunch who ate their supper that night, but before they turned in, they drew little slips of paper upon which times were recorded, the times determining who and when they would pull guard duty.

The next morning, with nothing left of Clay's Jeep but the frame, the men drove over to the Army Aviation Museum. Like all the other buildings on the fort, the museum had been vandalized and stripped of anything that could be construed to be of value. But the display of a Huey, depicting an LZ in Vietnam, was still intact. John opened the cowl and took a quick glance at the engine.

“All right!” he said. “Looks like nobody has messed with it. I think we've got a shot at getting this thing going!”

The hardest thing was going to be getting the helicopter loaded onto the back of the Jeep, but anticipating that, they had brought a crane and pulley system from the hangar and, after half an hour getting everything rigged up, John climbed up onto the engine deck and screwed a lifting eye onto the top of the mast. This was exactly the kind of lifting eye that was used by the aircraft recovery teams when they were sent in to pick up a downed helicopter on the battlefield.

When everything was rigged up, they began cranking on the crane and pulley system until the helicopter was lifted from the place it had occupied on the display for nearly twenty years, then swung over to the Jeep frame and lowered. The skids were lashed in place, and everyone but Deon, who was driving the Jeep, climbed into the helicopter for the drive back to Hanchey Field.

Once they had the helicopter in the hangar, John began a more thorough examination.

“Damn!” he said. “How did I not see this?”

“What?”

“We're missing a drag brace.”

“How important is that?” Deon asked.

“Not all that important, if you don't mind throwing a rotor blade,” John said.

“Anything out there we can use?” Jake asked.

John shook his head. “No, they are very precise.”

“John, isn't there a Cobra helicopter there in the museum?” Marcus asked.

A huge smile spread across John's face. “Yes! And they share the same rotor system!”

“Let's go back.”

“Deon, go with them,” Jake said. “It's getting a lot more antsy out there. I don't know what they might run into.”

“All right,” Deon said. “Willie, the M-two-forty is still in the tower. How about you going up there and keeping an eye open while I'm gone?”

“Good idea,” Willie said.

John, Marcus, and Deon climbed back onto what was left of the Jeep, as Willie went back up into the tower. That left Jake, Karin, and Julie alone in the hangar.

“If you don't mind, I'm going to see if we can get anything else on the radio,” Julie said.

“You know how to do it?” Karin asked.

“Oh, yeah, I've been watching Willie.”

Julie turned the crank to build up the power; then she turned the radio and started moving the dial through all the frequencies.

. . . establish contact. We have to be very careful in this, because the IRE, the Islamic Republic of Enlightenment, has their spies everywhere. No doubt they are monitoring this very transmission. Well, I've got news for you, IRE, there are millions of us out here. We've been knocked down, but we aren't knocked out. We have survivalist groups coalescing all over the country and the time is going to come, and soon, when we get together and reconstitute the United States of America.

To my fellow American patriots, find safe ways to contact each other, make yourselves strong, grow in strength, until we are able to join together as one unbeatable band. Until then, this is General Francis Marion of the Brotherhood of Liberty, and I'm using that term in its most generic sense, because we welcome our sister patriots with open arms. And in the Brotherhood of Liberty, men and women, black, white, Asian, American Indian, Protestant, Catholic, Christian, Jew, freedom-loving secularists, we are united, we are strong, and we will be victorious. I am asking you to grow strong, hold on, and wait until that glorious day when we will take our country back. God bless America!

Oh, do you think that's real?” Karin asked.

“I don't know if it is for real or not,” Jake said. “But his name is obviously false.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Francis Marion was in the American Revolution. He was the first guerrilla fighter.”

“Are we going to try and make contact with them?”

“We'll play that by ear,” Jake said. “For now our primary objective is to survive.”