A Time to Die Read online

  A Time To Die

  Mark Wandrey

  Acknowledgements

  As a writer, one of the most difficult things we do is to write realistically about a situation we've never encountered. For me, a life long flight enthusiast, to write about multiple military and civilian aircraft making difficult landing and in unusual operational situations is thrilling, but daunting. Especially since I'm not a licensed pilot. It's something on my bucket list, but that's another story.

  Making that gap in real world knowledge even more difficult is writing about an airliner where very little information is public, and a military aircraft where most of it is classified. Dear FBI, please ignore my browser history.

  I wanted to offer a special thanks to Lee Smith, an Air Force veteran who reviewed certain details of the complicated landing sequences in this novel, and his son Chris Smith who graciously put me in contact with him. Thanks, Lee, without you this would probably have come off rather poorly.

  To my legion of willing friends, especially those Airdales. You know who you are. Thanks for making the USS Gerald Ford a little more realistic. Yeah, I might have bent the rules and misstreated the Ford, but it think it all came together, and the math works.

  To my test readers, valiant and patient they are. A good writer needs even better test readers, and I have some of the best. Robert Ewald, Patrick Welch, Robin Stephens, Alijah Ballard and my son Patrick Wandrey who managed to read a chapter or two between rounds of various computer games.

  And finally to my family, Joy and Patrick. My love and thanks, always.

  Published by Henchman Press

  Edited by Leo Champion

  Cover by Cedar Sanderson

  A Time To Die copyright 2016 Mark Wandrey

  Cover image copyright 2016 Henchman Press

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-941620-27-4

  Published in the United States of America.

  Prologue

  The fox watched the rabbit with the patience born from untold eons of evolution. More than two hours passed as it observed the little herbivore transit a tiny grove in the woods, picking and eating the more tender shoots from grasses of the early spring evening. The rabbit was thin and wary, knowing subconsciously that hungry predators would savor its flesh. The fox certainly coveted the flesh, it desperately needed it to survive. The winter had been long and harsh, keeping creatures like the rabbit in their burrows weeks longer than normal. Hunger gnawed at its being like a primal scream.

  Finally, after all the waiting, the rabbit moved towards the fox who watched with hungry eyes, barely moving. Inch by inch, succulent fresh clover to wild grain sprouts the rabbit moved closer. Then the time was right. The same ancient instincts that kept the fox still spoke that the prey was close enough, and it was time to pounce. Muscles tensed, whiskers twitched, and it leaped.

  The sky exploded with light and fury, a thunderous roar followed a half second later. The fox’s leap was off by inches and the rabbit spun, wiggling sideways and escaping the hungry jaws, leaving the fox with only a few wisps of fur for the effort.

  The light and roaring sound grew in intensity, chasing the fox under the gnarled roots of an ancient oak tree exposed by many seasons of rain and snow. Running was out of the question, in seconds the light grew to many times that of the noonday sun and the sound was a physical force of pain. The fox had been shot at before, while eating chickens and a little dog once. This was louder, and it went on and on.

  The sound and light cut off in an instant, and the ground shook violently. Dirt rained on the fox's head and it yipped in fear, darting out from cover and running blindly into the gathering darkness.

  Two days passed before the fox ventured into the same stretch of woods once more, this time near evening. Three mice, six lizards, and an unlucky cardinal had found their way into his jaws since the night of light and sound. The fox's mind wasn't designed to remember events in detail; it only knew that caution was called for in returning to this place. But likewise it was the memory of the rabbit that drew it back. Curiosity served numberless generations of the fox's predecessors to find food and carry on their genes.

  There was the faintest hint of the rabbit smell and its passage. Perhaps enough to trail it to its den? The fox worked back and forth, nose busy on leaves, grass and dirt for any sign of the rabbit’s passage. There was a strange foreign smell that kept interfering. Not man-smell, it was different, yet also similar. Nothing in the fox's experience could make sense of it. Then it caught another smell, more familiar, the smell of death.

  The decay was mixed with the strange new smell. A new kind of death. The curiosity that served its species so well drew it towards the source. Even in death there was often benefit. The fox's metabolism was tolerant of carrion. It wasn't a favorite food, or even preferred in any way. However an empty stomach spoke of opportunity. Even an animal dead for several days could have a few pieces of edible meat, especially a larger animal.

  The rabbit forgotten, the fox easily followed the smell of decay to its source. Near the source was a structure, like a man-thing. It was not very large, not like a chicken coop. Saliva dripped from the fox's jaws as it approached a still form on the ground next to the structure.

  Flies circled without landing, as if they also sensed the strangeness of this dead thing. Its shape reminded the fox of nothing. The head was strange, shaped somehow wrong, and the limbs also different. The fox paced back and forth for a while, looking at the animal and sniffing the air. No other predators were nearby and no carrion eaters either. Everything was wrong about this. Everything except the undeniable hunger of the fox as it finally turned and moved in.

  The fur of the animal was smooth and reflected green in the diffused sunlight. The fox sniffed tentatively before reaching in for a bite of dead flesh. Only it wasn’t dead. Fast as lightning the strange creature spun its head around and bit the fox. Needle sharp teeth easily penetrated fur and hide and the fox yipped in pain and panic.

  But just as fast the animal released the fox which spun and raced off. Some distance away it stopped and licked the tiny wound in its foreleg. It stung but bled only slightly, the blood already drying. It looked back in the direction of the not-dead animal ruefully, regretting the loss of a meal regardless of the price.

  As night came on the fox lay under a bush blind with fever and shaking uncontrollably. By morning the fever was gone and it was surveying the woods with and quiet intensity. Its memory yielded some details and the fox set off through the underbrush.

  As the sun beat down on it the fox passed another of its kind. The other fox sniffed as its fellow passed and shied away from the wrongness. The first fox regarded the other for a moment, thinking then moved on.

  Half a day of travel brought it to a road that bisected the woods. It watched with calculating eyes as first one automobile, and then another rumbled past. It seemed to come to a decision, and the fox set out along the road in the same direction the last vehicle had taken.

  Chapter 1

  Friday, April 6

  Andrew Tobin watched the instruments as his student execute a gradual banking turn to enter final approach to the Mid-Way Regional Airport. The Cessna 162 Skycatcher practically flew itself so it took little of Andrew’s attention. The student, a forty-something computer technician from Dallas named Linda, was in her final hours before her solo and, like the Skycatcher, required little supervision.

  “Smooth turn,” he praised, almost automatically once the plane leveled out and Linda established a textbook angle of attack towards the closing runway. He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair and continued to w
atch. She only nodded as they passed over highway 287 with its busy Friday afternoon traffic carrying commuters between Midlothian and Waxahachie. The approach from the south sometimes distracted newer pilots. Linda had herself squared away and didn’t spare it a glance. Less than a minute later the fixed tripod landing gear settled down with a perfect flare and they were taxiing to the flight center.

  “That felt good,” Linda said as she applied the brakes and cut power to the Continental engine.

  “Glad to hear it. A couple more cycles and I think you’re ready to solo next week.”

  Linda smiled and carried on some banter as they did the post-flight walk around of the Cessna. She helped Andrew attach a pair of ground cords to the wings (something most students didn’t bother to do) before heading in for him to sign her log book. A couple comments on her stick handling, a handshake, and she handed him that week’s check before heading out to her car. He watched her go, glancing at the horizon to see a line of thunderstorms developing.

  Spring in North Central Texas was often a study of contrasts. Typical warm weather battled with sudden storms that could be as violent as they were unpredictable. You never knew if you were going to get sunshine or hail. He’d grown up farther south, not far from Waco. The weather was not much different down there.

  “Any more students today?” Andrew asked Tina, the flight school’s matronly office manager.

  “That was the last, Andy.” He nodded and headed back to the flight lounge. He’d tried to get her to stop calling him Andy when he’d come to work six months ago. The effort was completely wasted. The other pilot instructors explained that it was Tina’s M.O. that every instructor got a nickname. If your name was able to be shortened, that was what happened. “You’re just lucky she didn’t make one up for you,” explained an older teacher, Mark. She called him Buzz, and no one would tell Andrew why.

  The Mid-Way flight center kept him busy, which Andrew was grateful for in many ways. The pay wasn’t bad, and the flow of students was steady. The two adjacent towns provided more than a small amount of their business, and Dallas/Ft. Worth just north sent a steady stream of prospective pilots looking to get away from the much more expensive schools of the metroplex.

  Andrew dropped into one of the three worn easy-chairs in the lounge (once the airport’s terminal in the days before the 70’s when DFW Airport took away a lot of their business) and sighed. He bent over and removed his left lower leg. The stump was covered in angry red splotches, victims of the not-quite perfect mating of the artificial limb with his own body.

  “That freaks me out every time I see it,” said a voice nearby.

  Andrew craned his neck to see William LeBaron sitting by the back door, drinking a Coke and trying to pay attention to a technical manual. “How do you think I feel?”

  William grunted and nodded before turning back to his book. Andrew wasn’t offended. William was a Gulf War vet himself, with more than a thousand hours behind the stick of an A-10 Warthog. He’d picked shrapnel from his own thigh after one particularly hair raising CAS mission near Bagdad, but was lucky enough to come home with all his limbs. Andrew hadn’t been that fortunate.

  “They ever going to get you back in for a new fit on that thing?”

  “The schedule keeps getting pushed back.”

  “They’re just cooling you until your commitment is up.”

  Andrew nodded. He’d been thinking the same thing. If the limb could be fit well enough, he’d still be eligible to fly again. A Cessna 162 might pay the bills, but it was a piss poor substitute for an F-35. A year ago he’d been dusting antiquated Syrian fighters two at a time. Then after a long day of one sortie after another, he’d brought his Lightning back to the base without a scratch. As he was doing his walk around, a young army ground tech, straight out of school, screwed up and lost control of a GBU-31 JDAM. The 1,000 pound bomb clattered to the deck and rolled onto Andrew’s leg. The corpsman had said he was lucky to be alive, but his foot and eight inches of lower leg were not as lucky. With his foot went his chance for a second bar, and probably his fighter pilot career.

  “At least no one is shooting at me for fun anymore,” Andrew quipped, halfheartedly.

  “Careful what you wish for!”

  Later Andrew drove his aging Chevy back to his apartment in Waxahachie just after seven, long after the modest rush hour traffic was gone. The sun was lighting up the western horizon in one of its famous Texas sunsets that made him glad of where he lived. As he parked at the apartment, some of his gratefulness faded. He’d rented the second story walkup as a compromise, figuring he’d only be here for a few months while he finished his temporary detachment and healed up. The job was another ‘compromise’, provided by a contact in his squadron. His whole damn life was becoming a series of ‘compromises’.

  He made the two flights of stairs with a lot less pain than he’d experienced the day he’d moved in. The refrigerator yielded a slice of two-day old pizza and an ice cold beer for dinner. Life wasn’t too bad. He flipped through a few channels of boring afternoon network sitcoms and reality TV before catching a news report. A meteor storm last week was being investigated by NASA in South Texas. More than a hundred meteors had made ground impact and they were eagerly searching for them.

  * * *

  Ranger Erin Burr drove the Jeep Wrangler down the old trail with her jaw locked tight, thus reducing the chance of losing a piece of her tongue. Another ranger had done just that her first year working in the Big Bend National Park, hitting a large rock and jarring the Jeep hard enough that he bit the tip of his tongue off. The story was the thing of legend, but only all too true. The man still worked in the Terlingua Resort and his speech was more than a little difficult to understand.

  “Isn’t there a regular road to the… site!” The last was accented as the man’s head bounced off the fabric roof as they jumped a particularly challenging rut in the trail.

  “No such thing after you get south of Boquillas Canyon,” she told the man. He was some kind of NASA scientist, her park supervisor had told her. He looked like a scientist in his conservative suit, a floppy hat his only compromise to the conditions around him. His grey suit was coated in light brown trail dust and his steel cases of instruments in the rear of the Jeep flew around like dice in a cup as they bounced down the trail. A cliff loomed off to their left and she negotiated a turn.

  “Is that Mexico?” he asked, his knuckles white on the Jesus bar as the wheels got within a foot of the drop off.

  Erin smiled, she’d purposely taken them closer to the drop off to see his reaction. Weren’t astronauts supposed to be bad-asses? “Yep, the Rio Grande is about a thousand feet down that-a-way!”

  “Shit,” he hissed silently as they got even closer.

  An hour later they were just east of the river landing used by summer rafting trips and the man was cursing nonstop as he examined his hard worn equipment. Several of the delicate instruments were much worse for wear after the 20 mile excursion. “I should have gotten a helicopter,” he complained.

  “Can’t land on this side of the river,” she pointed out and gestured at the overhanging pine trees. “When we get a rafter that needs evac, we take them off the Mexican side.”

  He grunted and tried to salvage his gear. As he worked through the morning, Erin busied herself checking the tail markers and other park equipment of the area. Someone had been out here only last week, but she had nothing else to do. She hiked up the trail a half-mile and inspected the emergency solar-powered radio, calling in a radio check before marking it off on a clipboard. By the time she got back to the NASA scientist, she’d worked up a good sweat.

  “How much longer?” she asked as she came into view.

  “A while,” he said distractedly. He had a dizzying array of devices with blinking lights, displays, and touch-screens set up on a pair of ingenious folding aluminum tables he’d had in a pack.

  “I’m going to get in a swim then,” she said, “If you don’t mind?”<
br />
  “Suit yourself,” he replied.

  Erin went down to the water’s edge and sloughed her pack. It was weeks before the rafting season started or she wouldn’t have even considered what she was about to do. In an instant, she’d stripped off her green park ranger jumpsuit and stepped out of it naked as the day she was born, and dabbled a foot in the water.

  Fifty feet away the scientist had forgotten his instrument completely as he unabashedly gawked at the naked woman. The annoying professional ranger had transformed into a centerfold model before his eyes, the muscles playing under the supple flesh on her behind as she moved her foot back and forth in the water, testing its temperature. She tossed her waist length ponytail over her shoulder with her right arm, turning slightly so he could see her well-shaped breasts.

  It was a show put on entirely for his benefit, at least that what he would think. She navigated the ancient natural rock landing until she was knee deep. Erin considered bending over and splashing some water. By the look on the man’s face, he’d probably pass out if she did, so she sufficed to squat slightly and leap into the chilly water. She’d always been an unapologetic flirt. Her job so seldom gave her a chance to practice her art.

  Erin paddled in the eddies of the landing, well outside the main channel of the Rio Grande. The occasional look confirmed the scientist was observing much more than his devices. There was no way in hell he was going to miss her exit from the water. The finer art of the flirt often involved leaving them wanting more… much more. She hadn’t thought to bring a towel, otherwise she might have hidden it elsewhere to avoid giving him everything he wanted.

  Finally, the chilly spring water chased her onto the shore. She figured she’d play it to the hilt and climbed out slowly, using her arms to wipe some of the water from legs, belly, sides, and of course breasts. The chill had her nipples hard enough to scratch glass. All the while she avoided looking at him. Instead she walked the last few feet up the landing and found a rock still in the afternoon sun, and lounged on it to dry off. Was that a groan she’d just heard? She sunned and half napped for an hour as the man struggled with his equipment… and his libido.