“Mayday, mayday… radio’s fried too,” Lieutenant Bigsby said, unable to conceal his concern. “We’re dead in the air.”
Through the small window Watkins saw how the dying embers of the sun shone red on the clusters of Sugar Maples, White Cedars, and Eastern Pines of the Adirondacks below. It reminded him of a bloody and jagged smile coaxing them lower into its waiting maw. His mouth went dry.
“Strap in, we’re going down!” Captain Ruiz shouted over his shoulder.
Watkins clutched the armrests and was thankful he hadn’t wandered from his seat. A short distance away his friend and electrician, Sergeant Treadway, caught off guard by the sudden power outage, flailed before slamming into a Humvee as the aircraft lurched downward. His death was heralded by the sickening crunch of skull on metal. Blood sprayed as Treadway’s corpse rag-dolled backward, flailing end over end — a human tumbleweed.
Clouds parted as the aircraft was spit from the sky, hurtling downward faster and faster.
Anything that wasn’t strapped down took to the air. A helmet ricocheted off the windshield of the Humvee leaving a spider-web crack. The jet engine mechanic, Lopez, was praying. Her lips moved as she crossed herself. Treadway’s corpse thudded onto a supply crate then floated sideways into Lopez who shoved it away. Watkins watched as gravity guided it, blood and all, straight at him. Unable to move, he waited.
“Level up!” Ruiz yelled, no longer calm. “Pull damnit, pull!”
Treadway’s mouth seemingly parted in a death-defying smile as the body slammed into Watkins. He kicked at the corpse but it rolled up over his leg and along his chest, pinning Watkins to his seat. He tried to grab it — to push it down, securing it under his feet — but slipped. This wasn’t the way Watkins wanted to die — strapped to a chair, pinned under a corpse, and possibly crushed by cargo or blown to bits. Their mission seemed pretty straight forward: recover and repair a downed C-17. He should have known something was amiss when the Delta Force squad boarded. Routine R and Rs almost never included heavy firepower. At least not Stateside.
The plane groaned like an injured beast as their descent hastened. Watkins could actually hear air rushing over the frame of the plane. Treadway shifted, jerking up. The force of their two skulls connecting sent stars washing over Watkins’ field of vision. Everything became one giant blur. He felt something warm rolling down his scalp. His eyes rolled up as the familiar coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils, his dead friend still grinning as if pleased with his actions.
The last thing Sergeant Watkins heard before unconsciousness settled over him was, “Brace for impact!”
Something hurt. Pain was a good thing. It meant Watkins was still alive. He took in a breath and winced as fiery pain stabbed at his mid-section. His ribs, he realized, were likely broken. He sat there a moment clearing the cobwebs from his mind. From somewhere nearby came the crackling noise of what Watkins assumed was fire, followed closely by the pungent smell of cooked meat. Please, God, don’t let it be me. He remembered Treadway’s corpse and opened his eyes.
Much of Treadway’s flesh had been charred black and crispy. The chairs to Watkins right were still smoldering. Thankfully, it looked like Treadway had shielded him from the blaze. Watkins grimaced, pushing what was left of his friend away. The corpse slid down the walkway until coming to rest on some kind of metal case. Where once Treadway’s face had been was an unrecognizable mess of melted flesh. Smoke wafted from his empty eye sockets, lending a hellish vibe to the already chaotic scene. Treadway’s dog tags had been fused to his flesh. There was no way Watkins was going to try and dig those out.
Where had everyone gone? The better question was why had they left him strapped to a chair in a burning wreck?
Watkins disengaged his seatbelt and stood, careful not to shift his broken bones too much. He had to steady himself on the nearest seat as the floor seemed to be on an incline. It wasn’t just the floor he realized, but the entire aircraft was askew, like it was lying on its side. One look at the windows and the earth poking through the broken glass confirmed his suspicions. He struggled his way over a row of seats toward the cockpit. The first thing Watkins noticed was a trail of blood.
The cockpit had collapsed under an ancient White Pine where the aircraft had scraped to a stop. Captain Ruiz had been folded in half as the instrument panel pressed his legs up. Watkins felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one. The other side of the cockpit was relatively clear of damage or debris. No Lieutenant Bigsby. The trail of blood looked like it originated from the co-pilot’s chair and trailed off toward the rear of the wreckage.
Watkins turned and noticed a giant crack toward the aft section of the aircraft. A sizeable gap had opened up where the tail tried to pull away at some point during the crash. The metal creaked as Watkins stepped past the blocked front entrance. No way to get through the rolled over door.
Further along the belly of the aircraft Watkins noticed two bodies pinned under a Humvee. They were Delta Force judging by their attire. It looked like the vehicle broke from the cargo straps and crushed them against the wall. He thought about trying to retrieve dog tags when the C-17 shifted. It whined in protest as it rolled toward the right. Watkins scrambled away from the wayward vehicle. He looked from the Humvee to the corpses and couldn’t help but feel thankful that wasn’t him. The poor bastards probably never saw it coming. The aircraft eased to a stop, the floor leveling out some. A HK416 assault rifle — he knew because he made it a point to ask one of the Delta Force guys, Haley from California — slid from under the Humvee and came to a stop after hitting Watkins’ boot. He wasn’t sure why he grabbed the weapon. All he knew was that it didn’t feel right leaving it behind. Other than a scuff on the butt, the weapon seemed ready for action.
After the aircraft settled, Watkins knew he had to get the hell out of there before it rolled back to its normal position. If that happened, he’d be a stain under the Humvee too.
A bang came from outside the wrecked aircraft. It droned through the silence like a ghost through a graveyard. Another bang. Watkins followed the sound in the direction of the right wing.
The banging continued in regular intervals. Someone was out there.
Watkins double-timed it through the cracked fuselage. He emerged to find several rows of sugar maples cut in two by the crashed aircraft. The trail of chaos was at least a mile long. It was easy to see where the C-17 first hit by the giant divot in the ground. Skid marks were clearly visible at regular intervals until the aircraft clipped the outer edge of the Adirondacks. Watkins could see the matte grey-blue paint of the left wing some distance away in the vegetation where it had broken free.
He turned his attention to the source of the noise. There were two people, one on top of the wing and another below the inboard engine. It looked like they were trying to knock it down.
Something didn’t seem right. Why wouldn’t they be helping the injured or salvaging supplies from the wreckage? They definitely should have moved the bodies to a more stable location until contacting Command for rescue.
Watkins crouched and inched along the outer fuselage, watching. One of the Delta Force guys was lying on his stomach hitting the engine with a long chunk of metal. The engine swayed, spewing fuel on the ground below. If the fire reached it, well, Watkins didn’t want to think about what would happen.
“Hey, dumb ass, what are you trying to do, kill us?”
The person on the ground turned at the sound. There was no mistaking Sergeant Lopez as she faced Watkins. Her long black hair had fallen from what was left of her bun, blood sticking long black strands to her face. Her arm hung loosely at her side like it was broken. She definitely needed medical attention. Why hadn’t Watkins thought to look for a first aid kit?