The Falling Men

THE FALLING MEN

AUGUST 2021

Musa hammered the accelerator. Their Humvee leapt onto the tarmac with a screech of tires and spume of dust and then they were screaming down the runway.

The Moose was already a quarter mile ahead but lumbering and going much too slowly, its engines not even close to half-power. Clearly hampered by the crowd, the pilot was probably just as worried about someone getting sucked into an engine. While the person would end up as so much hamburger, the plane would also be crippled. Two armored vehicles filled with Marines still rolled alongside, but they were mostly waving their arms, shouting, and letting a couple of bullets fly into the air. A bad idea since what goes up must come down.

Ahead, John heard pops and saw that Meeks had pulled even with the Moose's nose on the right. This meant both Roni and Driver were able to place their shots at the crowd's feet to drive people away from the aircraft. That was working, too. People closest to the plane flinched and skipped back, away from the plane's wheels.

A rapid-fire crack-crack-crack to his right: the Afghan woman, sending bullets into the tarmac just behind the phalanx of people jogging after the plane.

"Stop! Don't!" he shouted as those farthest back screamed and broke ranks, zipping right and left in front of the Humvee with Flowers, who steered a hard screaming right, tried to work out of the skid, failed, and spun out. The rear of their vehicle just missed a lanky teenager—and then Flowers and Harris were gone, receding into the distance as Musa steered around them and flashed past.

"What are you doing ?" Furious, John rounded on the woman who was again sighting down the barrel of her AK. "You want to kill people, just shoot them, for God's sake. Pick your targets!"

"We need peoples away from plane!" The woman hollered something in Pashto at Musa and then their vehicle seemed to levitate as the man stomped on the accelerator. "Isn't that what you want?"

"Not if you nearly get our own guys killed, not to mention that kid… No! " He straight-armed the woman's rifle, knocking it off true just before she squeezed the trigger. "I said stop! That's not the way!"

"You not in charge here!" The woman rounded, fury twisting through her features, and with her came her rifle, swinging his way. Ducking, he pushed himself forward, below the barrel's arc. Out of the corner of an eye, he saw Musa's face flash their way and then the vehicle was swerving. But now he was inside her reach, shouting into her face: "Stop, stop! "

For a millisecond—and it was only that because things were moving that quickly—naked hatred twisted her features, turning them ugly and harsh. Then she gave him a mighty shove and screamed, "Then shoot, if you are so good! Shoot, shoot !"

Not yet. Turning, John leaned down to bellow into Musa's ear. "Pull ahead of the plane on the other side from Driver! Get to where the pilot can see me!"

"What you doing?" the woman shouted.

He didn't turn or answer. Too much going on, too much happening too fast, careful, careful... Dead ahead, people were shedding clothes; there were piles heaped here and there on the runway. They closed on a jumble of tunics and abayas and, wait… He squinted. Was that a sandal? Was that a?—?

"Watch it!" he bawled into Musa's ear a split second before the big Afghan jinked right. Flashing by, John saw an elderly man, his eyes almost comically wide and his mouth open in a slack O —and then they screamed past, missing the old man by less than a foot.

Close. Turning to face front, he braced his knees against the back of Musa's seat, steadying himself as the Afghan mashed the accelerator. Three seconds later, they were even with Roni's Humvee and, more importantly, the cockpit. Looking up, he saw the oval of the copilot's face as the man spared them a quick look…

Please understand. Please. Propping his weapon between his knees, John threw his arms out to either side then brought them up over his head before inscribing a quick circle with his right hand.

"What you do?" The woman demanded.

Hoping I got the right signal and all those hours watching the planes at Benning pay off. He didn't turn. Instead, he held up a hand, flashing five fingers twice. Five plus five...come on, come on. Come on, you have to get it.

They were so close he saw the copilot's head cock to one side, the way a dog struggles to understand a command—and then, as John signaled again, the copilot jerked his head in a quick nod and flashed a thumb's up.

"What you tell him?" The woman was at his elbow. "What your hand mean?"

He didn't reply. Had Roni seen the exchange between him and the copilot? Would she understand? On the other side of the plane's nose, there was Meeks, keeping pace with them, and then Roni. They locked eyes for a moment. He willed the knowledge into her brain, felt a quick instant's relief when she nodded and said something to Driver. Two seconds later, their vehicle leapt ahead and roared past the Moose.

Excellent. She gets it. "Musa," he said, "do what Meeks is doing. As soon as the pilot sees us veer off, the plane will make an emergency stop. Ten seconds later, he's going to power up and then he'll wait another ten before releasing his brakes. So, I want you to pull ahead, give us some distance and then turn around so we're facing the plane."

The woman: "He do nothing?—"

"He has to. You're wasting time."

"I no understand!"

"And you don't have to. Musa, please, just do it!"

The woman showed her teeth in a snarl. "And what you going do once plane stop?"

"Wait for the pilot to power up." He snugged his rifle against his shoulder. "Then pick off anyone who's left."

Most planes work pretty much the same way. In order to take off, enough power needs to be generated to push the aircraft forward until it reaches a speed where the wings generate lift. The pilot then raises the plane's nose to the right angle so the plane climbs.

There are two ways to do this.

One is kinetic. Given a sufficiently long runway, the plane builds lift by increasing speed over a long distance.

Another is static. The pilot applies the brakes while revving the engines to full power before releasing the brake. A certain length of runway is still required but not as much because the plane's engines are already at full. Think of aircraft slingshot and blasting up and away from a carrier.

The beauty of the Moose is that, in a way, it can do both.

When the Moose put on the brakes, all the civilians around and on parts of the plane simply froze. No one spoke. No one moved. The seconds passed...though they seemed to crawl for John.

Come on. Come on. His tongue skimmed sweat from his upper lip, and he tasted salt. Come on, already.

And then the Moose revved its engines.

The sound was monstrous: a guttural, deafening roar that vibrated up his legs and into his teeth. On the opposite side of the tarmac, he saw Roni and Driver took up their stances.

The roar also had the desired effect. Those around the plane jumped back and, as the engines continued their screaming crescendo to full power, as the air became more turbulent and tugged at their clothes…most who were left began to scatter.

Most.

He counted seven left on his side. With only ten seconds to work with, he would have to be fast. Even as he drew a bead on a bearded man in a striped tunic, he heard the sporadic pop-pop-pop that had to be Roni and Driver on the other side: carefully picking their targets and shooting just close enough not to actually hit them or the plane. It was all in the angle, which was why he'd had Musa pull their Jeep in close enough not to be sucked into an engine but shallow enough so any bullet would miss the plane and pass into open space beyond.

The man's striped tunic twitched with his first shot—one second in the countdown already gone—but that was enough. Even as the man jumped away, John was swiveling to peg the shemagh wrapped around another man's head. Two seconds gone . He fired. The shemagh went flying was as its owner stumbled back when— three— John swung to a third man perched on a wheel. The man saw him, waved his arms, and tried standing at the same moment John squeezed the trigger. This time, there was a jump of blood and then the man was tumbling off the wheel, clutching at his leg as others nearby dragged him away from the plane.

Damn. He hoped that was a through-and-through. Either way, he'd likely be tending to that guy in twenty minutes or so. And with no fresh supplies.

At that, the crowd broke apart. Men scattered, slipped out of wheel wells, dropped from sponsons, and ran —just as the transport's engines slid from an idle to a throb and began to surge.

John let go of two more shots, but they were moot. There was no one left around the plane and, with eight seconds gone, they had to move.

"Musa!" Shouldering his rifle, he braced himself. On the opposite side of the plane, Roni's vehicle was already spinning back and away from the plane. "Back up. Do what they're doing. Go, go, go!"

There was a terrific lurch as their Humvee spun backward, wheels spinning and skidding, and then the remaining seconds slipped away?—

And the Moose's pilot released the brake.

With a deafening roar, the Moose shot past. Not a soul on a tire that he could see, not a person hanging from a sponson. John had about a half-second's relief.

But then…he did spot something.

Oh, no . He spun toward the woman. "You got binoculars?"

Her brows drew together. "Yes, but… "

"Give them to me!" By the time he was able to glass the plane, it was nearly at the end of the runway. Its nose was up and then the wheels were just leaving the ground. He focused the binos, spotted what he thought he'd seen.

No. His heart knotted. No, God, please no.

"John?"

A part of his brain registered Roni's voice. He'd not even heard the rumble of her Humvee coming alongside. But he didn't take his eyes from the Moose, which was well above the end of the tarmac and lumbering to altitude.

"John." Roni put a hand on his biceps. "What are you?—"

"Ah, man." Driver was glassing the plane with his own binos. "Yeah, I see them. Just above the wheel trying to get inside the well but…" Driver cursed but didn't lower his binoculars. "Something in his way."

"Got to be another person." John couldn't look away. "Someone already there who I didn't spot. I didn't see him. I just didn't?—"

"What?" Roni had her own binos out. "Oh," she breathed. "Oh, John."

"Yeah, there goes one." Daniel's tone was grim. A second later. "There goes another. I think that's it."

"I missed them." John's mouth was dry. He was still glassing the plane. "I didn't see them. "

"You couldn't know, man," Driver said. "They were probably way up in the wheel well already and then the second guy must've slipped on takeoff. We were all focused on the guys we could see. Still, only two people out of the hundreds who could've been hurt?—"

"No," John ground out. "Not only two."

"What?" Driver brought his binoculars up again. "What do you?—"

"Look above the wheel at the edge of the well," John said. "See it?"

"What?" Roni peered through her own binos. "I don't see anything."

" I do." Driver let go of a soft curse. "A foot."