Free Into the Guns by William C. Dietz

Omata said as she pointed to a pink envelope. “He had a girlfriend named Karol.”
    â€œHad?”
    â€œShe dumped him two weeks prior to the meteor strike.”
    â€œAnd she told him in a letter?”
    â€œThat’s affirmative.”
    â€œWhat a bitch . . . All right, find your boss and tell him I would appreciate a low-level reconnaissance of the area.”
    Omata’s face lit up. ‘You’re clearing us to fly?”
    â€œYes, I am.”
    Omata produced a whoop of joy and nearly bowled Evans over on her way out of the building. He looked at Mac. “Why so happy?”
    â€œShe gets to fly.”
    Evans shook his head. “Rotor heads . . . They’re crazy.”
    The Apache lifted off half an hour later, circled the base, and went looking for trouble. That was useful, but the true purpose of the mission was to keep the pilots sharp and to boost their morale.
    Shortly after the helicopter’s departure, Mac went to check on Sergeant Esco. The dispensary was well lit, and the air was warm. Hoskins was sitting in the tiny waiting room drinking a cup of coffee. He nodded. “Thanks for the power . . . I could operate by lanternlight. But I don’t want to. A bullet punched through Sergeant Esco’s right thigh, and another was lodged in his right buttock. Both projectiles came up through the bottom of the cabin. No wonder he crashed . . . The poor bastard was bleeding to death.”
    Mac sat down. “And now?”
    â€œAnd now he’s all patched up,” Hoskins informed her. “Obbie’s with him. He’s a good hospital corpsman, by the way . . . You’re lucky to have him.”
    â€œWe are,” Mac agreed. “Although we call them medics.”
    â€œWho cares?” Hoskins responded. “He’s good. That’s the point.”
    â€œRoger that,” Mac said. “I appreciate the feedback. So when can I speak with Sergeant Esco?”
    â€œWhen he wakes up,” Hoskins said. “I’ll let you know.”
    â€œGood,” Mac replied. “And thanks . . . We’re lucky to have you as well.” And with that, she left.
    Mac was sitting in the Flight Control Center fretting about the unit’s quickly dwindling supply of food when she heard the helicopter clatter overhead and come in for a landing. If it hadn’t been for the MREs stored at Vagabond, the platoon would have run out of food weeks earlier. It was a perplexing problem, and one that became increasingly acute with each passing day.
    Mac’s thoughts were interrupted when the door opened, and a blast of cold air flooded the room. The generator was off, and the stove provided what warmth there was. Evans sat with his back to the rest of the room. He said, “Hey, close the fucking door,” before turning around to look.
    â€œThat’s ‘close the fucking door,’
sir
,” Peters said with a huge grin.
    â€œMy bad,” Evans conceded, as Peters trooped in. “I should have known. Only a pilot would be stupid enough to leave the door open.” Peters flipped him off, and both men laughed.
    â€œSo what’s going on out there?” Mac inquired.
    â€œNot a helluva lot,” Peters said, as he plopped down. “Unless you’re into mining trucks.”
    â€œMining trucks? What
kind
of mining trucks? And where were they?”
    â€œ
Big
honking mining trucks,” the pilot replied. “On the other side of the river. They’re parked next to a convenience store. Omata has gun-camera footage, but we’ll need some juice in order to show it to you.”
    Evans looked at Mac, she nodded, and he left. Once the generator was purring, it took five minutes to download the footage. There wasn’t much to see at first . . . Just some widely separated homes.Then the helo crossed both the freeway and the Yakima River. That was when four