Captain Mallory then decided to get off the southbound highway and rejoin it driving south on the northbound lanes. If they came across the people in front of them, they could have a little cover from the crash barriers.
They drove slower, keeping to 25 miles an hour once they left the Washington area. The snow covering the asphalt was down to sheets of ice in parts and it was getting more and more slippery. The cold was increasing, as was the wind, and it looked grey, like it could snow soon. For four hours they drove, not stopping once, and finally they had to decide whether or not to go around Richmond. It wasn’t a tough decision because they stopped and checked things on foot and found out that the forward convoy had reached the 295 interchange and had gone straight south on I-95. They predictably chose to continue on 295 around the city.
It was 3:30 by the time they had reached the end of the 295 belt line around Richmond, refilled their tanks as much as they could, and reconnected with I-95. They thought that they would be further behind the other convoy, but there were no tracks on either side of the highway and they decided to carry on as far as possible on the northbound side hoping that the ten vehicles, now behind them if they were still going south, would stay to the other side.
For an hour they headed south, the skies clearing again and the threat of snow diminishing. The roads were also drier, with patches of ice in the shadows and dead vehicle congestion lighter than around Washington and Richmond.
“We should be coming up to the North Carolina border soon,” John stated over the radio from the rear SWAT truck. They had three working radios, in the two SWAT trucks and the fire engine, which was being driven by one of flight attendants.
“About 12 more miles,” replied Captain Mallory, still driving the lead truck. They were bunched up as close as possible making themselves a smaller target for anyone watching. “I used to refuel at a very small airport a few miles from here. The town of Emporia has a small municipal airport and I’m thinking we could stay there tonight. Hopefully those other guys will just carry on and leave us alone.”
“I’m think I hear a small aircraft engine somewhere close by. Do you hear it, Mike?” asked John.
“Yes, I think I can. The Emporia turnoff is two miles ahead. Let’s turn off. The airport is to our east, and if we head there maybe it will follow us, or maybe it’s even headed in to land there. Make sure nobody sees us turn off from behind. Use the binoculars. We don’t want to be followed.”
The five vehicles headed off the highway following the on-ramp and had to push a small car to the side that had turned over. A small Nissan, it moved easily as the SWAT truck pushed it down the ramp and off to one side. It was empty. They then followed SR 58 east. A road sign showed that the airport was a couple of miles outside of the deserted town. Here, a couple of the buildings were blackened ruins and one three-story building was still on fire. Damage, the Captain figured, that had started after midnight. They were in the eastbound lane of SR 58—a two-lane highway—and it was several minutes before the small airport was seen on their left side. They drove into the airport and found it deserted.
The five vehicles stopped in a line in the only aircraft parking lot in front of a couple of buildings and hangars, and switched their engines off. For several minutes, the three radios had been tuned to try and find the frequency the aircraft, which could still be heard far off to the north, was using. They tried, but did not get any response.
It was 4:30 pm, and Captain Mallory thought that they had about 45 minutes of daylight left. There was no other noise, apart from the flying aircraft, which sounded like it was getting closer.
“Sounds like a Cessna 210,” John suggested now standing next to his captain. Owning one himself, the captain nodded his agreement. It sounded like his own aircraft he kept where he lived just outside Dallas, Texas. The M4s had good sights on them, and it didn’t take the captain long to find the aircraft. The Cessna was coming towards the airport, easily silhouetted by the grey northern sky, and dropping rapidly from a high altitude.
“Southwest staff, get your uniforms on!” ordered the captain, going for his jacket and replacing his warm jacket with it. Within seconds, his crew—again dressed as Southwest flight personnel— moved several yards closer to the only northwest/southeast runway to their right. He ordered everybody to hide all weapons and for all the women and children to line up in front of their vehicles to show the incoming pilot that they meant no harm.
The 210 came down to the northern edge of the airfield at well over 200 miles an hour, and they waved as it passed over the runway at full speed less than 100 feet above the asphalt. The aircraft rose into a steep climb, slowed, and dropped its flaps and wheels for a swift landing from the south.
The Southwest pilots knew what the pilot was doing and within a minute the wheels touched down and the Cessna came to a stop very quickly on the runway. It did not take the little feeder road, but turned back on the runway and slowly came forward, stopping about 200 yards from them. As the engine shut off, the pilot got out of the left side with an M16—the older version of the M4 they carried—and aimed at them from beneath the engine cowling of the Cessna.
“You are wearing pilot uniforms. Who are you?” the unexpected woman’s voice shouted over to them. “I have enough firepower here to blow you apart before you can get back to your friends. I also have enough company in my plane to help me. You, the most senior pilot, come closer. Tell me your name, rank and serial number.” The captain went forward, and she saw by his insignia that he was the most senior person in the group.
“Captain Mike Mallory. I fly 737-400s for Southwest. We went down in New York, and I’m trying to get my remaining passengers and crew to safety. That is my co-pilot and two of my three flight attendants. We lost one.”
“Senior Flight Attendant, please come forward,” the lady pilot asked, and Pam Wallace stepped up to where the captain stood. The young girl from New York went as well, not wanting to leave her side. “Tell the other one to stay where she is,” the pilot ordered.
“I can’t, she’s injured and I’m looking after her. She’s a kid, only sixteen,” Pam replied. The pilot then ordered both of them to come forward and spoke to Pam for a few seconds. Then she dropped her weapon’s barrel and went around to the passenger door of the 210. She leaned in and pulled out a young girl, putting her on one hip, and came forward to the captain, Pam, and the teenager.
“I’m sorry about that, Captain Mallory. I needed to make sure we weren’t in any danger. We are expecting it at any moment. I’m Martie Roebels and this is little Beth. Where are you guys going in such an interesting group of vehicles?”
“South,” the Captain replied, gladly shaking the hand offered to him. “Pam, tell everybody to relax, and send out a couple of armed men to search the hangars and offices over there for a place to stay while I chat with Ms. Roebels here. Did you see another convoy on your flight north?”
“Yes, they were less than a couple of miles behind you on the southbound side. You were heading south on the northbound side. By the time I lost sight of them, they had just passed this exit still heading south. They have ten vehicles—trucks, by the look of it, and not as pretty as yours. Do you want me to tell them where you are?”