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?”

“Negative,” replied the Captain. “We thought they might be okay at first, but we found two recently killed people on the highway north of Washington and we think they did it. They had driven straight over the bodies with every one of those ten vehicles they are driving in. I think they are a bad bunch, whoever they are.”

“They must be the people we are expecting,” Martie replied. “They should probably reach us by tomorrow morning.”

“Where is that?” asked the Captain.

“We are situated off US 64 in North Carolina, on the shores of Jordan Lake about 15 to 20 miles west of RDU.”

“I know the lake well,” replied Captain Mallory. “I fly into RDU a couple of times a month.”

“I have about 20 minutes of light left, so I need to keep going,” Martie calculated. “If you want to come and use our facility as a home base, I recommend that you get to RDU. It is safe and still locked. We have a dozen Air Force guards on duty there since earlier today. Mention that General Pete Allen sent you. I apologize that we have already cleaned out the Southwest terminal of food, but if you head there in the morning, I will come and find you once we have dealt with this other group.”

“How do they know where you are?” John asked.

“Simple. Our transponders were coming out of our airfield for a day or so, and the Chinese, or whoever they are, still have their spy satellites up. We are now on high alert and the president should be at our airfield by now.”

“The U.S. President?” the captain asked. “Do you have enough firepower?”

Martie laughed. “We have what is left of the entire U.S. Air Force, and we definitely need more pilots!” Martie chuckled. “Our Air Force is hiring right now, actually. Your passengers will be safe with us and then we can get them to Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, if they prefer more of an official military presence.”

“Count us in,” the captain and John said at the same time. “We have a badly injured lady with three small kids and the young girl with Pam, who we believe was raped in New York. Do you have enough room in the 210 to take them with you? The rest of us can sleep here tonight, and get to RDU by midday tomorrow, and then wait for you.”

“Get your wounded aboard, Captain. I have four spare seats and a couple of the children can share a seat. Little Beth here would be glad for the company,” Martie replied, saying her goodbyes and walking back to the aircraft.

They hurried and Pam helped the young girl, the injured mother, and her three kids squeeze into the six-seater aircraft. Martie took off just minutes later, waggled her wings, and disappeared to the north, climbing hard to hide in the sky and sneak a peek at the other convoy further south.

*****

The White House hadn’t changed. The streets were quiet, and people stayed away from the sacred building. Everyone knew that if they got too close, they were likely to get trouble from the guards in return. Nobody in the White House rose early since there was nothing to do except wait. The president had never been so bored in his life.