Chapter 7

The truck slewed to the left and ground to a halt, sitting diagonally across the road. The Cessna passed in front of us, and I could see a gun barrel protruding from the passenger window. “Get down!” I barked.

Sharon yelled something as a bullet punched through the windshield between us, and I heard at least two bullets hitting the truck. I sat up as the aircraft turned away and rolled wings level. I pressed the accelerator, and nothing happened. I looked out over the hood, and saw a heavy plume of steam. “Truck’s dead, we need to get out!”

The plane, now about a mile away, turned left back toward us. I thought he was going to make another pass, and then I saw the flaps extend. He was landing! But where? Then I saw it – there was a crop duster strip right beside the road! “There’s a runway off to the right, that’s why they stopped us here!”

I jumped out of the truck, and opened the rear door, while Sharon crawled across the cab. She had one of my range bags in her hand, and she thrust it at me. “Here! I grabbed a few things while we were at the cemetery.” I took the bag, and picked up the Winchester. Sharon grabbed the AR, and I noted that both rifles had two extra magazines in the stock carriers.

We charged our weapons, and then I heard the plane’s engine shut down. The near end of the runway was only a hundred yards away, and I peeked around the front of the truck. The plane had stopped at the end of the runway, and both doors were open. Three men climbed out, all carrying long arms. I had time to identify an AK, and then I whirled to Sharon.

“Get down!” I clasped her to me, and ducked down behind the truck’s left front wheel. Bullets thudded into the truck and camper, some of them shattering glass, and others tearing through the thinner parts of the vehicle. They were probably using hardball ammunition, and I prayed that none of the shots would go low and penetrate the rim where we were hiding.

The fire stopped, and I lifted my head. “Come on, and stay low!” I steered us both into the ditch on the far side of the road. “Lay down!”

“I’ve got it,” Sharon snapped as she brought her rifle up over the lip of the ditch.

I flopped down and brought the Winchester up into firing position. I looked up the road, and immediately spotted one of the gunmen stepping onto it from the right. I shouldered my rifle, centered my crosshairs on his sternum, clicked off the safety, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked, and the gunman staggered, took one step, and dropped face first onto the blacktop. “One down!”

Another hail of gunfire came from the other side of the truck, and we hunkered down in the shallow ditch as several rounds passed under the truck and sizzled over our heads. “The truck!” Sharon hissed.

I chanced a look and groaned. A stream of fuel was pouring from the tank, and puddling on the road. Under the hood, the steam from the cooling system was joined by smoke. The truck was burning, and there were two propane tanks in the camper. We had to move, and quickly. “We need to get these clowns. You go right, I go left. For God’s sake, be careful!” If we let them get the upper hand, we were dead.

Sharon nodded and low crawled down the ditch, holding her rifle in the crook of her arms like a professional. Where did she learn that, a corner of my mind wondered. I pushed the thought away and focused on keeping low as I scuttled up the ditch. It was strewn with trash, and I crawled over a discarded beer can. A few feet later, I eased the rifle up over the ditch. I caught sight of both gunmen, moving in a rapid crouch to my right. They disappeared behind the truck, and I rose to my feet in a crouch.

Turning to Sharon, who was about ten feet past the back of the truck, I pointed at my eyes, lifted two fingers, and pointed past the truck to where the gunmen were moving. She nodded, and I took a breath. I worked the bolt on the rifle, realizing belatedly that I hadn’t done that, and moved across the road.

Reaching the front of the truck, I spotted the two gunmen. Time slowed to a crawl, and I was able to see and hear everything that went on. The men, two young white males in their early twenties, raised their weapons and pointed them in Sharon’s direction. They were about twenty yards from us, and I lifted the Winchester into firing position. All four of us fired at once. I heard Sharon’s AR fire at least twice, and then my rifle boomed, drowning out the gunmen’s fire.

The man I’d aimed at crumpled and fell back away from me, and the other gunman staggered and emptied his magazine into the ground. Sharon fired four more rounds, and he collapsed gracelessly to the ground.

I turned and ran back around the now-burning truck to find Sharon. She was climbing out of the ditch, and her face was pale and streaked with dirt. “Are you okay?” I looked her over anxiously.

She smiled at me, a hideous death head’s grin devoid of any humor. “I got him.” Her eyes were wild, and I nodded.

“Yes, you did.” I’d had classes about handling reactions after a shooting, and she needed to have something else to focus on. The fire reached the spilled gas under the truck, and a wave of heat hit us as it woofed into a sheet of flame. “Come on!”

“Where are we going?”

“We need to get away from here. I doubt these yahoos were alone, and someone will have certainly heard the shots.” I held onto Sharon as we trotted up the road.

“The airplane,” she gasped. “We can take it!”

“Good idea!” I steered her across the ditch, and up onto the grass airstrip. The doors were still open, and I tossed my bag and rifle on the rear bench seat. “Help me turn it around!” We were at the west end of the strip, so we had to turn the plane around. I went to the tail, and pushed down on the horizontal stabilizer at the root. I turned, sat on the stabilizer to bring the nosewheel off the ground, and shoved against the fuselage to turn the plane. Sharon pushed on the wing strut, and we pivoted the plane through a half circle, and pointed it down the runway. I ran for the nearest door, and climbed into the right front seat.

Sharon appeared on the left side. “I haven’t flown one of these in a long time!”

“Me neither. Get in!”

She climbed into the seat, and looked down for the seat release.

“Front left.” I pointed.

She lifted the release, and slid her seat forward so she could reach the controls. “Okay,” she muttered. “Master and key. Throttle open a little;” her hands followed as she worked the controls. The instrument gyros began to whine when she pressed the Master switch. “Okay, here we go!” She twisted the key, and the prop turned once, twice, and then the engine caught with a roar and a blast of air that blew the doors back from their catches.

We fastened our seatbelts, and closed our doors. I reached down to the floor to ensure that the fuel valve was open, and then turned to Sharon. “Use twenty degrees of flaps; the field is short!”

“Do it,” Sharon replied as she held the brakes and ran up the engine briefly.

I pushed the lever down to the correct detent, and turned my head to verify the flaps’ position as the electric motor whined to extend them “Set!” I called when they stopped.

“Here we go!” Sharon opened the throttle, waited a moment, and then released the brakes. She shoved the throttle all the way forward, and pulled back on the yoke. The Skyhawk trundled down the turf, and then the nosewheel lifted off. We rolled another two hundred feet, and lifted off. Sharon pushed the yoke forward a bit, coaxing the Cessna into the sky.

“Damn thing is heavy for just the two of us!”

I looked down at the pedestal. “The trim is way out!”

“Shit!” She thumbed the electric trim, easing the pressure on the yoke. “Alright, we’re at seventy knots. Start the flaps up, but easy.”

The cabin noise was incredible, since neither of us had headsets. I’d seen them in the side pockets, though. “Flaps coming up!” I called. I brought the slide switch up slowly, retracting them a bit at a time. Sharon lowered the nose, allowing the aircraft to accelerate.

As we passed five hundred feet, I sat back and took a huge breath. I reached down to the side pocket, picked up the headset, and put it on. The noise level was much more bearable, and I pointed to her headset. “Put that on!” She complied, and I grinned at her. “Much better.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “First, how much fuel do we have?”

I looked at the group of rectangular gauges just above the glove box. “We are at just over three quarters on both tanks.” I opened the glove box and pulled out the aircraft’s operating handbook. “I’m a good co-pilot. I will get you a range estimate.”