“Take us over the city,” I say to Robert, pointing in the direction of Rapid City.
He brings us around and we head toward the town paralleling I-90. The city is mostly urban and appears much like Grand Rapids — residential neighborhoods sitting among brown fields and empty streets. I sense several packs of night runners in scattered pockets below as we pass back and forth across the city. Although not as much as with the base buildings, there is sand piled against several of the outlying structures. Looking for survivors, I don’t spot anything that would indicate that any are still alive. From every indication, it appears to be a dead city.
Sturgis, our eventual destination, lies about thirty miles to the north-northwest. We have time and I’d like to get a look at the layout of the city, so I direct Robert in that direction. The interstate that we follow lies at the foot of the rugged terrain that is The Black Hills. Much of the ridge lines on the eastern edges are still green with evergreen trees but the interior has turned brown. The only exceptions are thin lines of green still within the deep draws and along the small waterways snaking their way through the steep topography.
It’s a short flight and we are soon upon the town that is the home of the annual summer motorcycle rally. The city itself sits astride the interstate with a mostly residential neighborhood at the southern end and downtown area to the north. The actual city proper is made up of larger buildings sitting astride a main street and is about five blocks long.
The soldier, whose parents and sister hopefully lie safe and secure below, is in the cockpit and points out his family’s house in a residential block just a short distance away from downtown. There are a couple of entrances to the town from the highway and, from my vantage point, it really doesn’t look like any one of them offers any advantages for entering the city. The other team members take turns looking out of the windows to get a layout of the town. Making a low pass over our intended ‘target’, there isn’t an indication of anyone below nor do I sense any night runners. The scene passing under us doesn’t give any promising signs of life, but the lack of night runners, or at least my lack of sensing any, lends a positive note.
Back at Ellsworth AFB, we make a low approach along the runway. I note that it’s not just the streets that are covered with sand blown in from the adjacent fields. The runway itself is covered in grit to the point that the runway numbers and markings are only partially visible. The black tire marks from thousands of landings are obscured.
I look at Robert as we gain altitude to come around for our final approach, “Did that flyby tell you anything?”
“There’s dirt on the runway,” he answers.
“And?”
“It didn’t look deep, so we shouldn’t have any problems with it but maybe we should make a soft field landing anyway,” he says.
“Okay. Good idea. Another thing to keep in mind is that those small drifts are uneven making for a pretty rough landing and rollout,” I state.
“So I’ll keep the nose up as long as I can.”
“Yeah. What about the reverse thrust?”
He looks at me as we make a descending turn to a base leg, the runway to our right. He ponders a moment longer — his thoughts divided between my question and setting the aircraft up for landing.
“I don’t know,” he finally says.
“The blades are reversed. Which way is the thrust going?” I ask, reaching to set the gear lever in the down position upon his command.
I almost see the flash of light go off in his head. “It will blow the dirt out in front of us. That means the engines will suck in the dust.”
“So, what do you think you should do?”
“Not use reverse thrust which will make our landing roll longer,” he responds.
“Nothing that drastic, but you need to watch for how far ahead the dust is blowing. Use your thrust reversers to minimize that. The engines will be fine. The thrust will keep the dirt out but there’s a chance that if there’s enough dust, it could be swept out ahead and obstruct our visibility.”
“Okay, Dad.” His tone tells me that this little addition has increased his stress level. The movements on the stick become jerkier but we maintain our alignment with the runway — more or less.
“Do you want me to take this one?” I ask.
“No. I have it,” Robert replies.
“Okay then, easy on the controls. Nothing has changed. It’s only another landing but just watch how much reverse thrust you use.”
Our wheels touch the runway — touch being a relative term. As much as slamming your toe into a bed post can be called caressing against it. Okay, it isn’t that bad. In fact, it is a relatively soft landing considering that our runway isn’t exactly an even surface. Robert holds the nose of the 130 off the ground as long as he can as our main wheels bounce across the uneven drifts. The nose lowers and we transition to four-wheel drive plowing across a dry creek bed. I feel our wheels catch on the piles of sand causing us to lurch in one direction and then the other. Robert corrects and holds us steady across the once smooth, concrete runway. He applies reverse thrust and billows of sand are thrown out in front, accompanying the increased roar of the engines. Adjusting the reversers, he slows us to a taxi speed without completely blinding us.
“Nicely done,” I say as the momentum of the 130 carries us past the wall of dust that accompanied our landing rollout.
“Thanks. Where do you want to park?” he asks.
“Let’s pull over to the main ramp.”
We taxi in and leave the engines running. I want us ready to leave quickly in case someone unpleasant shows up and takes offense at our arrival. The dust from our landing hangs in the air over the runway and along our taxi route. Minutes tick by without a reception committee and we shut down. By the time I make my way to the cargo compartment, Greg already has the Stryker unlashed and the 130 ramp open. Even though it’s sunny out, there is a definite chill to the air that seeps in through the open door.
“What did you do? Land us on top of parked cars?” Greg asks amid the metallic clangs of the Stryker hatch opening.
“You know, you don’t have to ride with us. I’m sure there’s a train station somewhere nearby,” I respond.
“I’m sure of that. I think you landed on the tracks.”
“Enjoy the walk from South Dakota, my friend. I’ll send someone out to get you when I get home…if I remember,” I state.
The noise from the Stryker starting ends our conversation right where it should, with me having the last word. The vehicle lurches as it is put into gear and backed out of the aircraft –again managing to emerge without damaging our ride home.
Walking out of the aircraft into the chilly yet sunny day, I notice mare’s tails sweeping across the blue sky, indicative of a front moving in and a possible change in the weather. I long for the days when I had access to forecasts and long-range radar. At least at altitude I can see weather forming at a distance and adapt accordingly — provided I’m not actually in it. Fall is a tricky time of year and almost anything can form. It can change quickly and often. Although we can fly in any weather, we don’t have the navigation facilities necessary to fly in it and be able to shoot approaches with any degree of accuracy. We have been relegated to fair weather flying.
I watch as the team members, including Robert and Bri, begin to gather their gear. The manner with which they go about it shows that they are tired as we prepare to embark on yet another mission. This constantly being ‘on the road’ and moving about is beginning to take its toll. Although wanting to find each of their families, I am feeling much the same and am not overly eager to start another road march. This is only our third stop with seven more to go. We’ll have to take a day soon to rest up. I know when we get home it will be busy as we prepare for the coming winter. A day or two of rest will do us good.