“There are only two ways of getting there,” John continued. “The first by road. We have the captured Bradley to do that.”
“And Lord knows how many landslides, fallen trees, downed bridges, marauders like the ones that poor Quentin ran into, and, for that matter, the government garrison that is reportedly still in Johnson City to block you,” Ernie replied. “And we all know anything beyond Hickory is still a no-man’s-land, so that way is out too.”
“So the only other way is by air.”
He looked first at Billy Tyndall, the pilot for their precious L-3, who firmly shook his head.
“It is 140 air miles to Roanoke. I already looked it up. And sure, give me any open field and I can land, but after this blizzard, who knows? But we’ll have to haul our own gas to get back, and that all but maxes out the weight load. So my vote, no way in hell.”
“I already figured that, Billy. The L-3 is too precious to risk, its duty tactical to keep an eye on the interstate approaches, and you are doing a magnificent job, my friend.”
“And I for one am telling you—wait until spring.”
John shifted his gaze to Maury Hurt, whom he had not apprised of the plan he was formulating and the reasons behind it.
Maury, who had been leaning against the far wall, stiffened. “You got to be kidding me,” he snapped.
“Just hear me out, will you?”
“I already know what you are going to say next,” Maury replied. “We’ve got a captured Black Hawk helicopter that we took from Fredericks, and you want to use it to go to Roanoke?”
John simply nodded.
“You’re crazy.”
“Like I asked, just hear me out.”
“Oh, I’m all ears, John.”
“As Billy already pointed out, it’s 140 air miles to Roanoke. The Black Hawk has a combat radius of around 350 miles, a ferry range of over 1,000 if we keep the weight load down—which means we can fly up there, scope things out. If we get a clear indicator that my old friend General Scales is there and in command, I would venture a landing to meet with him. If not, we just turn around, haul out, and return without even landing.”
“And who do you mean by ‘we’?” Maury asked.
“You’re the designated pilot now.”
Maury shook his head, laughing nervously. “I had a couple of hundred hours as copilot in a Huey over twenty years ago.” He did not add that his career in the National Guard as a chopper pilot had been cut short by a nasty crash, a few cracked vertebrae among other assorted broken bones, and a lifetime of swearing off flying since then, until this current situation when they snatched one of Fredericks’s Black Hawks in the fight for Asheville.
“I’ve got a total of ten hours’ flying time in that damn thing, and it scares the crap out of me. Sure, we captured a helicopter, one without any manuals, or servicing routine other than what Billy, Danny McMullen, and I can guess at. Damn it, John, a chopper isn’t like that old plane of ours where you change the oil, do a compression test once a year, and that’s it.”
“It is a bit more complex than that,” Billy interjected, “but yeah, Maury’s right on this.”
“Maury, yes or no, can you fly me to Roanoke and back?”
Maury hesitated.
“Yes or no.”
“If I plan to see my grandchildren”—and he paused before the next jab—“or your child that’s coming, all bets are off.”
John sighed with exasperation. “Let’s get down to the bottom of this and why I feel I have to go. I think this Quentin Reynolds was carrying some information way too important to ignore and to let disappear in the frozen ground with his dead body. He died for a reason, and that was to somehow get to me with a message. What, I don’t know, but for him to set off over land to reach me means it must have been damn well important.”
“Or the excuse of a deserter who got jumped on the way—then, delirious, had some made-up story to worm his way into our community.” Ernie sniffed. “You yourself said you still aren’t even sure if he is valid or not.”
“Look, damn it. There is one fact that can’t be disputed. I served under Bob Scales during Desert Storm One. Without his help, I would never have moved here.” He hesitated, looking at Makala. “When my first wife was hit by cancer and wanted to be close to her family in her final months, it was my friend General Scales who networked me into a job at Montreat. If he is still alive, I owe him a hell of a lot. If he is still alive and sent this Quentin fella to find me, it must be important, damn important.”
Makala offered a sad smile of understanding, and he nodded his thanks for that.
“Quentin Reynolds, I believe, just might have been sent by my friend to contact me. Just to know he is alive means the world to me.”
“And you’ll risk your ass and the only helicopter in our entire state to find out?” Ernie interjected.
John wanted to shout yes in reply but thought better of it. If he turned this personal, the council would vote him down, and frankly he could not blame them then if they did.
“The question of why has to be answered and answered now. If it is about an EMP, another one, we had damn well better find out and quick. It might have been the ravings of a dying man remembering the tragedy all of us endured. Or was it a warning that we might get hit again?”
The low murmuring in the room of those he could sense were about to tell him to just calm down, relax, go home with his wife, and take a few days off after the stress of his trip over the mountain now fell silent.
“Are we going to be hit again?” John asked.
“By who?” Again it was Ernie. “Why bother? America is finished as we know it. Sure, we flattened Iran and North Korea. India and Pakistan are turning each other into radioactive wastelands, the same in the Middle East. We still have the nuke boomers at sea. Why would anyone want to hit us again?”
John looked at Forrest, and though he felt the demonstration would be absurd, perhaps it was the only way to get his message across.
“Forrest, you got any of those K-Cups of coffee on you?”
Forrest, who had been listening intently to John, recoiled slightly. “What the hell is this, a shakedown?”
“Just yes or no—you got any on you?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Give me one.”
“Why?”
“Okay, loan me one; I promise I’ll give it back.”
Forrest reached into the side pocket of his battered fatigue jacket and pulled one out and reluctantly tossed it over. John snatched it and looked at the lid.
“Hazelnut, my favorite,” he whispered, and he put it on the desk in front of him. “Okay, my friends, who’s gonna grab for it first?”
“Come on, John, what kind of game is this?” Reverend Black asked.
John could see the hungry gazes of those crammed into his office. His own indulgences with Forrest these last few days he had not discussed with anyone else in this room, Makala and Lee the only ones present who had enjoyed the largesse of Forrest’s secret hoard.
“To my point. You all want it; I know you do. But let me just add this one caveat in.”
“You and your professor’s Latin.” Ernie sniffed, his gaze locked on the small, white plastic cup.
“One chance in ten—no, make it one in a hundred that coffee in there is laced with cyanide poison. A one in a hundred chance it turns into you drinking the Kool-Aid—Jonestown kind of stuff. Some of you remember that insane day. Still want it?”
He could see the confused glances.
“Hell, you might risk it for yourself just for the taste of coffee again. But share it with your spouse, your kids? Who wants to try it?”
No one spoke.
He scooped up the white plastic cup and tossed it back to Forrest, who looked around a bit suspiciously, reminding John of Gollum the way he clutched at the One Ring, and quickly slipped it back into his pocket.