The Final Day (After, #3)(41)
“If they really wanted me dead, they would have taken this place off the map months ago. That’s why I have to believe that Bob Scales is real, most likely in command of the forces up in Roanoke, and is trying to reach out to me, perhaps to prevent further bloodshed.”
“It still makes me anxious.”
He did not reply that it filled him with the same concerns and fears. If there was no reason for anxiety, if Scales was indeed alive, the overture to meet would have been overt, out in the open. Not like this.
Whatever the reason, he did know one thing for certain: He had to find out the truth and find out now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Black Hawk, which had crested over Linville Gorge just a few minutes earlier, came sweeping in low over frozen Lake James, crossed over the railroad bridge that spanned the Catawba River where it emptied into the lake, and came sweeping down the length of the snow-covered runway at well over a hundred miles an hour.
John shaded his eyes against the glare of the early morning sun, watching as it raced in, scanning it carefully with a pair of field glasses, feeling a touch of nostalgic pride at the sight of the chopper painted in faded desert camo, taking him back to the desert of Iraq so long ago when, filled with awe, he watched scores of them sweeping out ahead of his armored battalion.
He spared a quick glance to Forrest, who was watching intently, silently, wondering what this torn-up veteran of Afghanistan was feeling at the sight and sound of a machine that meant that friends were overhead, ready to protect, ready to attack anything in their way.
The chopper thundered past, the Doppler roar dropping in pitch as it passed, and then it pitched up in a steep turning climb.
The pilot was hotdogging a bit, but then again, if he was coming into a potentially hostile site, it was standard to do at least one high-speed pass and if they drew any fire to get the hell out fast.
He had more than fifty with him, concealed in several hangars and scattered in the wood line across the runway. If this was a setup for a trap, it was about to turn into one hell of a fight. Danny, who stood beside him, clutched a flare gun firmly in his gloved hand, ready to fire off the signal if anything looked even remotely hostile.
The day was cold, crystal clear, perfect for keeping a sharp watch aloft. Several of his people, concealed under white blankets, were doing just that, sweeping the sky overhead for any telltale glint or whisper of a contrail indicating that someone was hovering up at twenty thousand feet, just waiting to unleash a Hellfire or gravity-dropped munitions.
The chopper, leveling off from its high-speed pass, circled around, the sound shifting as the pilot throttled back, pitching the nose up slightly to bleed off speed as he started to make a landing approach.
“So far, so good,” John whispered as if to himself.
He looked around at his friends Danny, Maury, Forrest, and Lee, who stood to either side, all watching intently and waiting for the slightest suspicious act.
A hell of a world we have become, John thought. There was a time when we never would have doubted the sight of a helicopter with that star on its side. But now?
The chopper continued to settle, kicking up a near whiteout of swirling snow, the pilot edging it toward where John had ordered that Forrest’s 4×6 should be parked as an indicator of their presence.
“If this goes bad,” Forrest complained, “you own me a new vehicle and the gas that took it here.”
John said nothing, the chopper all but invisible as snow swirled about, a glimpse of it then touching down, turbine engines throttling back, and as the snow began to settle, he saw the side door swing open.
Even from this distance, he could see that it was indeed him. It was Bob.
John stepped out of the concealment of the hangar, ignoring the protests of his friends, Lee cursing and then stepping out behind him and protectively moving in by his side. The rotors continued to wind down, and he started to lift a hand to cover his face from the stinging blast but thought better; he wanted Bob to see that it was indeed him and not some sort of setup.
Bob leaped down from the doorway, nearly fell, and came up slowly, and John could see that his friend had indeed aged, remembering long ago how in so many training exercises, inspection tours, and their brief hours of combat together in Iraq, Bob would always be the first one out with a leaping bound and confident stride, radiating self-assurance and leadership. The snow from the three storms that had rolled in within as many weeks was nearly two feet deep at the level, even down in the piedmont region of Marion. The chopper’s rotors had blown most of the ground cover back as Bob moved slowly toward him. Perhaps, John realized, it was to make sure he did not slip and fall, and it be misinterpreted by his crew and what John could now see was a security team inside the chopper, that he had been shot.
Bob pulled back the hood of his parka, John doing the same, and with this mutual gesture, the two old friends could now see each other’s grinning features. Bob had indeed aged, his thick short-cut thatch of gray having gone completely white, features ruddy, heavy bushy brows squinting nearly shut from the morning glare and blowing snow.
They stopped half a dozen feet apart, and old instincts kicked in, John coming to attention and raising his right hand in a near-reverent salute.
“General, sir.”
Bob, coming to attention as well, silently returned the salute, the two gazing at each other, and then Bob made the final steps forward and threw his arms around John.