It’s going to be another restless night, I think, settling into the lower cockpit bunk and listening to the periodic thud of the persistent night runners slamming into the side of the 130.
Act of Courage
“If anyone is out there and can hear this, we need help!”
The radio call is hushed as it exits from the cockpit speaker but startles me awake nonetheless.
“Sir?” the soldier on watch in the cockpit says.
“I heard it and I’m up,” I reply, climbing out of my sleeping bag into the chilled air.
“Shall I wake the others?” he asks.
“Let’s wait and see what’s up first,” I answer.
I step across the steel deck feeling the cold seep through my socks. The night is still filled with night runners prowling the ramp; some exiting while others emerge from between the hangars. I hope there isn’t a problem with anyone in the other aircraft parked along the ramp adjacent to us. If there is, with the number of night runners out, there really won’t be much that we can do to assist.
“Jack, this is Tim. Did you catch that?” I hear over the radio.
“Yeah. I caught that. I’m about to try and make contact. Any idea of who it might be?”
“Not a clue,” he answers.
“Okay. I’ll call you back if I find out anything,” I say and switch the radio to transmit over the emergency channel.
I’m guessing the call must have come over that frequency. It will transmit over all UHF or VHF channels depending on the type of radio. That’s really the only way we could have heard the call unless they happened to be on our frequency.
“Calling on UHF guard, this is Captain Walker. I hear you loud and clear. State the nature of your emergency,” I call.
“Sir, Sergeant Reynolds here. We’re holed up in a school and close to being overrun by these night demons,” Reynolds replies.
“Can you hold out until morning?” I ask.
“Doubtful, sir. We held them off last night, but they’ve broken through some of our defenses and we don’t have unlimited ammo,” she answers.
Sporadic gunfire echoes in the background of her transmission.
“Okay, Reynolds, how many do you have with you and what’s your location?” I ask, knowing we’ll be hard pressed to offer any help.
It’s night and the ramp is teeming with night runners. We’d be lucky to get ten feet if we managed to get out at all. We could get into the Stryker, but that would mean opening up the aircraft. I’m not keen on coming back and having to clear it of any night runners that decided to stay. Gunfire in aircraft tends to put holes in the side, along with taking out hydraulic, electric, and other equipment necessary for the 130 to leave the ground. That would effectively strand us here.
“I have six other troops and eleven kids of varying ages. We’re in a large school to the southwest of a town called El Dorado…in Kansas,” she answers.
“Kids! You have kids with you?”
“Yes, sir. There are eleven of them left. They are, um, were from a deaf school nearby,” she answers.
“A deaf school? They’re deaf?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have an exact location?” I ask.
“I think the GPS still has some juice left. Standby.”
“Go wake the others and have Greg come to the cockpit,” I say to the soldier leaning over my shoulder.
He nods and immediately disappears down the stairs. Reynolds radios back their coordinates. Each time she presses the mic, I continue to hear gunfire and shrieks in the background. It doesn’t sound like they are having a lot of fun.
“Okay. Standby. We’re in Wichita. Let me see what we can do. No promises, sergeant. We have night runners all over us as well,” I reply.
“Okay, sir. I understand, but any assistance you can give would be…well…helpful.”
I pull out a map as Greg enters the cockpit and I relay the conversation.
“It’s about thirty miles away,” I say, pointing to the coordinates given on the map.
“Is there anything we can really do?” Greg asks. “I mean, I understand with kids and all, but look outside.”
Night runners continue to streak across the ramp with numerous ones gathered around the various aircraft. The moon’s rays sneak through a break in the overcast illuminating a portion of the tarmac. Several night runners glance up at the bright light while others look in our direction. The moon catches a few just right and their eyes glow in its radiance sending a shiver up my spine. There’s no way I want to be out there. I think about the kids and the soldiers fighting for their lives; the fear they must feel in the dark with night runners pressing in.
“We could unfasten the Stryker and load up. Rig something to lower the ramp, seal up the vehicle, and drive out,” I say.
“That would leave the aircraft open.”
“Yeah, but if we left the windows uncovered, there really isn’t a place they could hide out. We could just wait out the night in the Stryker and return in the morning,” I state.
“How many did you say were there?” Greg asks as Robert joins us.
“Seven soldiers and eleven kids,” I answer.
“That would make it a little cozy in the Stryker and there’s no way we can go outside to get another vehicle. Could we even fit everyone in?”
“We’d just have to pile in on top of one another and make do,” I respond.
“It’s your call, Jack,” Greg says.
Yeah, I’ve always loved that statement. It’s the one where there is no right answer, and I get to make the decision with anything I do decide being the wrong one. I know, because I’ve used the statement myself many times.
“Round everyone up and get them ready. Load them up and rig something to press the ramp button from the Stryker turret,” I say.
“Yeah, right. Want me to lasso the moon while I’m at it?”
“Well, while you’re at it, if you wouldn’t mind. It might come in handy,” I reply.
“Okay, Jack, I’ll figure something out. See you in the back,” he says and exits.
“Tim, did you catch all of that?” I ask, dialing our regular frequency back up.
“Yeah, I did. I don’t see what we can do, though,” he answers. I outline our plan to drive out of the aircraft and go.
“I don’t envy you. If there’s anything we can do to help, let me know,” Tim says.
“I can’t think of anything. We’ll be back in the morning,” I reply.
“Okay, see you then.”
“Reynolds, we’re going to try and make it to you. How are you holding up?” I ask, switching frequencies once again.
“We’re expending ammo at a high rate, but managing, sir. And thanks,” she answers.
“Does your radio have enough juice for the night?”
“It should, sir,” she replies.
“Okay. I’ll call you when we get closer and ask about specifics. It’ll take us about an hour to reach you.”
“We’ll be here, sir… hopefully.”
I walk down the stairs into the dimly lit cargo compartment where the teams are gathering their gear; some donning their NVGs and checking them while others load mags into their vests. There is little talk amid the sounds of getting ready; boots walking across the steel decking, the metallic clink of a mag being inserted, the rattle of chains falling to the floor as the Stryker is unhitched. From time to time, the shrieks outside rise and everyone flinches each time a night runner pounds into the fuselage. Everyone has been briefed and, although they had a long day with little rest, their game faces are on.