Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

to secure another airport location. He marveled at their ability to function without sleep for so long. Since he had nothing else to do, he had hung around the Black Hawk and helped prepare the helicopter for refueling. That’s when the gunner had asked for help fixing something Chad couldn’t even pronounce.

Chad heard footsteps on the tarmac and turned to see the shortest of the gunship pilots approaching him. He was wearing a sweat-stained, olive-drab jumpsuit and carried his helmet under his arm, along with his flight gloves. He had jet black hair cropped into such a tight buzzcut, Chad thought at first the man was bald. He stopped short of Chad and looked him up and down, his face completely emotionless.

“Hi,” said Chad. The pilot’s gaze was unnerving. It was like he was a wounded bird on the ground, being watched by a cat.

“So you’re the Source, huh?” the man asked. The other pilots walked up and gathered around.

“You’re why our entire base was wiped out? You’re the one the Koreans are after?” asked a second, taller pilot with blond hair and a haggard look to his long face.

Chad tensed, his anger building. He dropped the duffel bag just handed him from inside the Black Hawk. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, okay? I was just minding my own business—”

“But you’re some sort of freak that can cure the world or something, right? That’s why the President said we were supposed to find you.”

Captain Alston had followed the pilots over and stood in the background, watching. He made his way to the front of the little group to look at the short pilot. “Say again,” he said, glancing at the pilot’s name patch. “Lieutenant?”

The pilot stiffened and stared over the head of Chad. “Sir, last confirmed orders from HQ were to locate the Source.” His eyes flicked to Chad. “And assist ground units with capturing him.”

“Then all hell broke loose and my crew was slaughtered right in front of me,” said the second pilot. “Damn mortar went off, right on the flightline.” He shook his head. “Whole base was overrun in a few minutes. Koreans everywhere, man.”

“Then missiles started raining down out of the sky. We were scrambling for cover when the orders went out to get in the air,” added a pilot in the back of the group.

“We were already airborne on a patrol run to test out some new software on the guidance computer,” said a woman with her shoulder-length brown hair pulled into a tight bun. She too had a look that did not gush friendliness toward Chad as she faced him with her hands on her hips.

“My wingman took a SAM as I was talking to him. We’ve been flying together for six years.” She shook her head. “It came out of nowhere. Base CO got on the horn and said we were under attack, and ordered me to take my squadron south and regroup.” Her eyes were red with emotion. “I told him that we were circling back to counterattack. You know what he told me?

“He told me,” the female pilot continued, staring at Chad, visibly on the edge of breaking down, “that it was no use—we were overrun. We should save ourselves. That was when our comms went out.”

“So what makes you think Mr. Huntley here is the problem?” Captain Alston asked, arms folded across his chest.

“Because it’s all over the civvie-band radio, sir,” she replied. “Washington activated the EAS and it’s broadcasting hourly that Mr. Huntley,” she said with a nod toward Chad, “needs to be brought in, safe and sound, whatever the cost. That makes him a wanted man—”

“Which makes us expendable. And that, Captain, makes him the problem,” said the tall pilot.

Chad took a step forward. “You think this is all my fault?”

The short pilot looked around. “You see anyone else here the Koreans and Washington got a hard-on for?”

“We oughta take him in—” began the angry woman.

“We oughta give him to the Koreans,” said another. “I heard that the NKors are only here because we wouldn’t give them any more vaccines. They can get all they want out of his corpse.”

“That’s a big negative, warrant officer. The Koreans are also saying that we attacked them last week. You believe that, too?” Captain Alston put his hands on his hips now as he faced down the half-dozen pilots. “That kind of talk will get you shot in this man’s army. You want to give an American citizen to the people who have invaded our country? What the hell is wrong with you?”

The other pilots shied away from the last one to speak. The Ranger continued, “This man is my responsibility. I, too, have lost men trying to find and secure him. My orders come from—”

“The President himself said we need to bring him in and that anyone helping him avoid capture was a traitor,” said the pilot with bloodshot eyes. Her tone wasn’t exactly hostile, but it wasn’t friendly, either. She shook her head. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, anymore, sir.”

Captain Alston was about to reply when Chad heard, “Perimeter secure, Cap.”

The captain stepped away for a second to reply. It still seemed surreal to Chad that he could hear someone’s voice over the headset and see that person talking at the same time.

“Roger that. Keep an eye out—”

“Wait one—I got movement by the control tower!” barked Deuce.

“Come with me, Mr. Huntley,” the captain said through clenched teeth as he walked past, reaching for his rifle.

Chad grabbed his lever-action Henry from where it was leaning against the helicopter and followed Captain Alston. He avoided the dangerous looks from the pilots and skirted their little group. He saw the captain making a beeline for the rather small-looking control tower on the other side of the runway. There were two other white-clad Rangers making their way along the sides of storage hangers, all converging on the tower.

By the time he caught up with the others, the confrontation had already started. “Hands in the air! Now!” roared Deuce’s tinny voice.

Chad heard Captain Alston’s voice as next man on the scene. “Sir, drop that weapon unless you want to be buried with it.”

As he approached the corner of the control tower, Sergeant Fryer, the one the Rangers called “Tuck,” motioned for Chad to stay next to him. The two of them then cautiously moved around the opposite side of the tower in order to approach from behind the individual the captain was confronting. Chad could hear a faint, mostly inaudible though heated conversation over his headset—but the man Captain Alston was addressing was just too far away for Chad to understand what he was saying.

“Be that as it may, sir, you don’t have much of a choice here. Drop that weapon or we will drop you,” was Captain Alston’s reply. “Sir, we’re both Americans, and I have no wish to do you harm—believe me, I have bigger fish to fry.”

“Moving into position,” whispered Tuck. He nodded at Chad to stay put. Tuck then trotted across a walkway to a corner of a nearby supply building. Chad, now in sole possession of the control tower, risked a quick look around the corner and saw Deuce with his rifle aimed squarely at the chest of an old man holding a shotgun. The old man was aiming at Captain Alston’s stomach and appeared to have no fear at all.

“Look here, son, you ain’t proved one damn thing to me. For all I know, you could be some damn Russian sent in with them Gooks. I was in Grenada, ’83—the Commies threw a lot of shit at us, but did I run? Hell no. Some kids with their little pop-guns don’t scare me, Jack.”

Chad acted before the rational part of his mind could scream, What the hell are you doing?, a sentiment that matched the look on Tuck’s grimy face when he saw Chad step around the corner. He racked the lever on his Henry. The sound was loud as it echoed between the tower and the supply building.

The bearded old man turned and spotted Chad approaching with his Henry held casually at hip-level. “How about this one, old timer?”

The gray-beard grinned, showing a few missing teeth. “Well, I’ll be. A Henry lever-action. Ain’t seen one of them in a coon’s age. Octagonal barrel.” He nodded toward Chad. “That a .308?”

Over the old man’s shoulder, Chad could see Captain Alston signal his Rangers to stand down and lower rifles. He grinned and nodded at Chad to keep going.

“No sir, it’s .45-70,” replied Chad.

“Ah…” the old man said wistfully. “My daddy had one when I was growin’ up.” He reached a hand out. “May I?”

When he noticed the older man begin to drop the barrel on the shotgun, he lowered his as well. He turned the rifle away and offered it forward. The old man held the Henry reverently and examined the bluing on the barrel, the walnut stock and polished brass lever, the corners worn smooth with use.

“This here’s a real man’s gun, son. Not them rapid fire pop-guns your soldier friends got. Ain’t no Commie-bastard I heard of would carry one of these.” He nodded to himself and handed the rifle back. “Mmmhmmm, that’s a fine gun you got there, Jack. Damn fine. Does me good to see one again.” He turned around to face the captain and Deuce, who’d swung their rifles behind them now on tactical slings.

“All right, hey, I suppose you fellers can land.”

Captain Alston nodded gravely. “Thank you, sir,” he said with a smile.

“Still, I think I could’ve taken you young-pups down a notch—or at least slowed you down some,” the old man continued, as if he hadn’t heard the captain’s reply. “You