Free A New World 10 - Storm by John O'Brien Page A

Mountain Home AFB, just to the south of the city itself, Robert and I begin our arrival checks. I don’t know what to expect and hope that Jason and his group of survivors have fared well.
    Approaching the airfield, I set us up for an orbit so we can get a look before we set down. It will also give notice to the camp, assuming they are still there, that we’re arriving and avoid spooking them. With what I’ve seen in the world we’re living in, trust sometimes isn’t high on anyone’s list, and it’s often a "shoot first and ask questions later" mindset...myself included. I’d rather avoid an inadvertent confrontation.
    Looking down on the base, it appears much the same as it did before. The exception is that more layers of dirt cover the roads, ramp, and runway. I don’t see any vehicles moving, but there are tracks along some of the roads and on the ramp implying that they have been used recently. Jason and the group had converted several of the hangars into greenhouses and the roofs have been replaced by clear, plastic sheeting.
    Continuing to circle, I spot several people by the front gate and near the ramp, shielding their eyes as they look up. They don’t appear to be scurrying for cover or running for gun emplacements, which is a good sign. However, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t others that we can’t see. Lining up with the dirt-covered runway, I make a high-speed pass down its length – the term "high speed" being a matter of perspective in a 130. There aren’t any tracers that arc out to meet us, nor the ping of rounds slicing through the fuselage, so I bring us around for a landing.
    With all of the dirt covering the runway, it’s hard to tell where it actually starts and ends. The entire area, from the ramp to the security fence on the other side of the runway, has all but blended together. My only clue as to where the runway should be is a slightly raised surface stretching out ahead. The sand doesn’t appear to be too deep and I know there is a hard surface below, so I opt to set it down on the first attempt.
    The wheels touch and I hold the nose off for as long as possible before easing it down. The thrust reversers send a wave of dust forward and I jockey the levers to keep the billowing cloud from passing us. Bringing the aircraft out of reverse, we pass the line of dust. Looking over to the ramp, I see that the people who were gathered there have vanished. That doesn’t exactly bode well, but I doubt that I’d just camp on the ramp as a strange aircraft arrived either.
    I taxi off the runway, hoping I’m actually on a taxiway and not about to sink belly-deep into soft soil, stopping at the edge of the ramp. I’m not really in position for a quick takeoff should things turn sour, but at least I'm close to the runway and I have some distance from the buildings adjacent the ramp. Stopped with the props turning, I look back along the runway. Dust hangs in the still, morning air, and there is a strip of paved surface showing where we carved a path through the dirt.
    I hold our position until I see a couple of people emerge from around the side of one of the buildings, stopping at the edge of the ramp. Seeing nothing amiss, I nudge the throttles and we start forward, halting in the middle of what I assume is the tarmac. Shutting down the ramp-side engines, I leave Robert at the controls.
    “If something happens, I want you to get the fuck out of Dodge. And, don’t wait for me. Just push the throttles forward. Start the dead engines while taxiing at high speed and lift off. Use the tarmac to get airborne if you have to. Don’t forget to close the ramp,” I instruct.
    “Okay, Dad. Do you want us to swing around and come back for you?”
    “No. Just make a beeline for the bunker and get everyone home,” I state.
    I head into the cargo compartment and brief Red and Blue Teams. Both sides of the fuselage are filled with soldiers slumped forward with their arms resting on their knees or