Down at the base of the slope of Mount Mitchell, there was a secondary explosion, a vehicle igniting, an old RV that appeared to lift off the ground, a fireball erupting, most likely its propane tank blowing.
They were still several miles out, and John now guessed that this was in fact the same encampment site he had been dragged into as a prisoner. So contrary to what Burnett had said, they had not pulled up stakes. Moving a camp like that would drink up a lot of gas, and Burnett had rightly guessed that John had dampened down the calls for a vengeance raid.
“If only we had those Apaches when facing the Posse, it wouldn’t even have been a fight!” Billy exclaimed. “Seems like a waste of good ammo on a bunch of junk vehicles.”
A couple dozen fires were burning in the clearing below. The second helicopter began its strafing run, no longer aiming at the vehicles but instead at a stretch of woods several hundred yards east of the clearing, and a few seconds later, John could see a couple dozen people sprinting out of the woods, breaking cover, running across a road.
“Jesus Christ, those are kids!” Billy cried. “Look at them.”
The attacking helicopter yawed slightly, its rounds stitching the road, bodies tumbling, bursting, going down into twisted heaps.
“John, what in God’s name are they doing?”
“Killing people,” John said coldly.
Its run completed, the helicopter banked up and away to the north.
“Ah shit, we got company!” Billy cried.
John turned to look straight ahead and barely had time to cry out as the first helicopter, which they had lost track of while watching the attack, was now coming straight at them, at eye level. There was that frightful split second, which John had faced several times before in his life, when he figured that all was finished and he was about to die.
Billy slammed the L-3 hard to starboard, and the helicopter shot past them.
“That son of a bitch was playing chicken, and I blinked, damn it!”
“Here comes the other one!” John shouted. And indeed, the second one was closing in, gun turret swiveled toward them. A quick burst of tracers shot across in front of them fifty yards ahead.
“Damn him!”
“He’s warning us off, otherwise we’d be dead now!” John shouted.
“Hell with this. I’m turning back. First time I ever get shot at in the air, and it’s by my own side, damn it!”
“Billy, you got one of those signal-to-ground streamers in the back well?”
“Yeah. Why?”
John turned, having to unbuckle his seat belt in order to lean into the storage well, and he pulled out a six-foot-long, bright-orange streamer, tearing off the rubber band so that it would unravel. He fumbled in his pocket.
Damn it, no pen!
“You got a marker pen back here?”
“In the side pocket well, with the maps. A grease pen.”
“Fine. Now I want you to turn about and fly straight over where those vehicles are burning; edge it in alongside the woods. It’ll be tight from the way that smoke is blowing. I don’t want this going into the woods or the fires.”
“What in the hell are you doing, John? That son of a bitch just fired at us.”
“He knows who we are. He was trying to warn us off. He won’t shoot us down.”
And as if in answer, there was a popping sound, the aft overhead plastic window behind John cracking with a neat bullet hole through it.
“What the hell?” Billy cried.
“Ground fire, that’s all. Just keep weaving!”
“Oh shit, great!”
The first helicopter was back, slowing as it came up along their portside wing. John could clearly see the gunner looking at him, turret swiveling to point straight at them.
John held his hand up and actually waved. The gunner just gazed at him, looked forward, another warning burst in front of them. John grabbed the head of the streamer, braced it on his knee, and quickly jotted a note on the streamer.
Forrest, it wasn’t us. John M.
It had struck him that the survivors below, who had without doubt been watching every move of his community for months from atop Craggy Gap, had most likely seen the first flight of the L-3. There was a chance the reivers might link his town’s ability to fly with this attack. If he had stayed well clear of it all just now, chances were their rage would be focused on Asheville. But flying over like this, he had to make it clear that though the town’s plane had been seen in the middle of this attack, they had nothing to do with it. Otherwise, they might catch the blame for it with a murderous vendetta rather than just a food-gathering raid—that is, if any down below had survived this onslaught.
John held on to the end of the streamer and tossed the weighted head out the side window. Another shot fired from below hit the wing just a few feet from his face. He let the end of the now extended message streamer go and saw it flutter down to land by the edge of the woods.
“Okay, Billy, get us the hell out of here!”
John suppressed a yelp of fear as Billy stood the plane on its starboard wing and pivoted sharply, dropping the nose and then leveling out and skimming low over the trees, turning back toward Craggy Gap. One of the helicopters was again beside them, the pilot looking toward them, pointing at them, then to the southwest, back toward Asheville.
John shook his head in reply, pointing due south. There was a tense moment, the gunner looking at them again, chin turret swiveled. John kept pointing south. The helicopter sped up a bit and then swung in front of them, Billy cursing loudly, swerving to the west as they were hit by the turbulence it kicked up. For several minutes, it was a game of cat and mouse, the helicopter repeatedly trying to force them to follow its lead.
“Okay, Billy, act like we’re going along!” John shouted. “We’re too low yet to climb over the mountain anyhow.”
“Thank God you finally got some sense, John,” Billy replied as he turned on a heading toward Asheville, pointing straight ahead to the watching gunner, who nodded a reply and repeated the gesture that they were to follow him back. The two helicopters backed off slightly to a hundred yards out, the three aircraft beginning to climb to clear Bull Gap, which was half the altitude of Mount Mitchell and an easy enough ascent for the L-3. The turbulence picked up severely as they cleared over the south side of the mountain and began to descend into the Swannanoa Valley. John could see home eight miles or so to the east, Asheville looming up straight ahead.
As they reached the eastern end of town, one of the choppers edged back alongside the L-3, the pilot pointing toward the parking lot of the long-abandoned and burned-out mall. Their operational base was apparently set up there; both of the Black Hawks were on the ground there. Parked nearby were half a dozen trucks and an equal number of Humvees. A couple of military fuel bladders, each capable of holding a thousand gallons, were deployed out, the Black Hawks apparently being loaded up again.
One of the helicopters edged in closer, the pilot motioning down to the parking lot. Billy vehemently shook his head. “That guy’s an idiot if he thinks I’ll put this girl in there. I might be able to land, but there’s not enough room to take off again.”
Billy pointed to I-240, motioning again and again, circling the road at five hundred feet until the helicopter pilot finally relented and nodded in agreement.
“Billy, you know what to do. If we land there, this plane, all your hard work, belongs to them forever after. Act like you’re setting up to land. How good are you at tree hopping?”
“Used to love it, but then again, no one was shooting at me for real.”
“Your call. You’re the pilot in command.”
“Well, damn glad you finally realize that, John. Make sure you’re buckled in tight and hang on. You still feel like puking?”
John chuckled. “Been there, done that. Then I was so terrified back there I forgot about puking again.”
“Just don’t mess the plane up now.”
Billy turned the plane where Interstate 40 merged with 240 and started to drop as if setting up to land. Just as he passed the abandoned Walmart to his right, he shouted for John to hang on. He slammed up to full throttle, pushed the nose forward, and dived, skimming over the store’s parking lot and going under a power line, a move that left John speechless.
“Always wanted to do that—no FAA now to take away my license!” Billy laughed.
It was eight air miles back to Black Mountain, but it turned into nearly fifteen as they played cat and mouse with one of the Apaches that took off in pursuit after them. The helicopter was just as maneuverable as they were with the added advantage that it could come to a complete stop and hover if necessary. It was up to Billy to outnerve that Apache’s pilot, and John wondered if the pilot of the helicopter pursuing them was just being an annoying bastard or if maybe he was actually having a bit of fun with this game of who could outfly whom.
By the time they reached Swannanoa proper, John knew that it was turning into something more than just a game. The Apache pilot was getting increasingly aggressive, with Billy pushing the edge of sane piloting in response. He started to line up to go underneath a highway overpass, John finally asserting himself and shouting for Billy to break it off.
Skimming only half a dozen feet above Interstate 40 for the last few miles, the helicopter circled wide and came across their front, the pilot half saluting them, but Billy returned the gesture with finger extended as he instantly pulled full back on the joystick and clawed for altitude, the plane shaking violently from the rotor downwash that would have slammed them into the pavement if he had not reacted.
“I think that bastard was trying to crash us at the end!” Billy shouted.
John did not reply. With the tension of the last hour at an end, he finally relaxed enough to reopen the barf bag and let go for a second time. There was a crosswind as they came in to touch down, Billy tensing up as much as when dodging the helicopters, landing with portside wing down low and rudder in the opposite direction, the plane coming down a bit hard and then rolling out. A couple of cars were parked on the westbound side of the highway, one of them Ed’s much-battered patrol car, the other Maury’s Jeep.
They rolled to a stop while still on the highway, Billy popping the door, staggering out, and walking around the plane to look at the bullet hole in the wing and the one through the cab farther aft, which had shattered the overhead window. Then, like John, he just leaned over and vomited. “Damned if I ever fly you again, John,” he gasped.
Leaping the highway crash barriers, Ed, Danny, and Maury approached the two, all three shouting questions as Ed grabbed hold of John, who was definitely shaking from the experience. He well understood now a conversation shared long ago with a general who had been a veteran, first wave in on Omaha Beach, and from there led his battalion all the way to the Elbe in 1945. He had once asked his elderly friend what was the most frightening moment of the war, and the general laughed, saying he was trained for Omaha and too busy on the beach that day trying to bring order out of chaos to be scared, but the time he had gone up with his recon pilot, the experience had scared him half to death. Though frightened by the game of chicken with the helicopter pilots, John was now furious, as well.
Ed was still holding him by the arm. After all the noise, shouting, and confusion, it was hard to sort out what the police chief was saying, and then he caught it. “Fredericks wants to see you now, John.”
John nodded. “You’re damn straight he does, and I want to see him now!”
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the parking area in front of the courthouse, John having quickly briefed Ed on what he had seen and what happened afterward.
They got out of the car and headed for the courthouse entrance. The same sergeant who had hassled John on an earlier visit was out front and came toward him as if waiting to strike. John slowed and glared at him coldly. “Son, either you get the hell out of my way or you’re going to quickly find out if that gun of yours is for show or not.”
The guard hesitated, and John stepped around him.
“Bullshit trooper,” John snapped as they continued on. “No guts when facing someone really pissed off.”
“Keep it calm, John,” Ed whispered.
“Not after what I just saw,” John snapped.
They stepped into the cool darkness of the courthouse. The fluorescent lights were off this morning. Another security guard blocked their way as they came into the foyer.
“Your weapons,” he snapped as a preemptive order.
“Yeah, right,” John growled, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a pocket Ruger semiautomatic, and slapping it on to the table. “Careful, son. It’s actually loaded.”
The guard glared at him but said nothing then turned to Ed.
“Like hell,” Ed announced loudly, his voice echoing in the foyer. “I am chief of police of my town, and for fifteen years, I’ve walked in and out of here and never surrendered a weapon unless going into a courtroom. So like hell, son.”
He started to step around the table, and the guard stepped back, unclipping the safety strap of his holster.
“Listen, boy, you are an amateur,” Ed snarled. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be before the devil or Saint Peter. So just leave your gun in that holster.”
“Sir, step back three feet, turn around, and keep your hands over your head.”
“Go ahead and try it.” Ed was actually grinning. “I was sick of your type before the war, and I’m doubly sick of you now.”
“Sir, I will shoot to disable you.”
“Oh, really? Go ahead, damn you!”
John began to step between the two.
“Charlie, back off.” It was Dale, storming out of his office with two security guards in tow.
The guard looked away from Ed, and John’s friend laughed. “You village idiot. Wrong move, Charlie. Bang-bang, you’re dead.” Ed was holding up his empty hand, forefinger pointed at the guard, thumb moving like a gun hammer.
One of Dale’s guards did have his gun out and drawn in reaction to Ed’s gesture, and for a frightful instant, John thought Ed was a dead man.
Dale actually came to a stop, letting the guards move in front of him.