tanaquiljall (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tanaquiljall) wrote2011-12-26 08:19 pm
tanaquiljall) wrote2011-12-26 08:19 pm
Fic: Jericho - Tailspin - General - Part 4 of 4
Title: Tailspin
Fandom: Jericho
Rating: General
Warnings: None
Words: 34,820 words
Summary: On his return from Texas, Jake tries to fit back into a Jericho gearing itself up for continued resistance to Cheyenne control. But he finds everything has changed—and that everywhere he goes, he runs into Beck.
Disclaimer: This story is based on the Junction Entertainment/Fixed Mark Productions/CBS Paramount Television series Jericho. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended.
Author's Note: This story is part of Awesome!Jakeverse, the shared post-season 2 verse being written by Scribbler (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
scribblesinink) and Tanaqui (tanaquific). It follows on from events in Home Brew and Past Recall. Thanks to Scribbler (scribblesinink) for the beta.
Part One of "Tailspin" | Part Two of "Tailspin" | Part Three of "Tailspin"
oOo
The afternoon sun beat down on Beck’s back as he made his away across the camp toward the wind turbine. Heather and Sergeant Tran were standing next to it, holding an animated discussion that seemed to involve much pointing and nodding. As Beck approached, Heather laughed at something the sergeant had said, her face lighting up. He realized how little he’d seen her laugh and how much it suited her. There’d been far too much to worry about over the last week for any of them to find much amusement in their situation.
Sergeant Tran saw him first and straightened and saluted. “Sir.”
Beck returned the salute. “At ease, sergeant. Heather.” He nodded at her, noting that her expression had dimmed a little as she caught sight of him, tension creeping into her face, though she was still smiling. He guessed he was one of the things worrying her. Or, at least, walking the tricky path, as his liaison, between his needs and the town’s—and Jake’s hostility.
“I wasn’t going to bother you.” Heather gave him an anxious look. “I know how busy you are. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with the turbine.”
“It’s not a bother,” Beck reassured her, speaking almost before she’d finished, even though she was right that he had a dozen other tasks that should be claiming his attention. Except letting Heather know how much he appreciated the support and help she’d given him was important, and certainly more pleasurable than whatever awaited him back at his command tent. “I would have been sorry if you’d left without me seeing you.” Especially as he’d only discovered she was at the camp thanks to a chance remark from Lieutenant Posey.
Heather blushed and dipped her head. Clearing his throat, Beck turned toward Tran. “Anything to report, sergeant?”
“No, sir. Everything operating within spec.”
“Pleased to hear it.” He turned back toward Heather, intending to invite her back to the command tent for coffee. He was sure there was something that needed discussing, though he mostly just wanted to make sure she was all right. He’d barely had a chance to speak to her in days—and on most of those occasions, Jake had been looming disapprovingly in the background. Then he saw that she was no longer looking at him but at something over his shoulder. Turning, he saw Lieutenant Posey approaching at a trot, a radio in his left hand.
“Sir.” The lieutenant saluted, but didn’t wait for Beck’s acknowledgment before he carried on. “Two-Charlie patrol is reporting having just seen a plane. Checkpoint Three’s confirmed it.”
Beck’s stomach lurched. “One of Hoffman’s?”
Posey shook his head. “Don’t think so, sir. The patrol seems to think it may have taken off from the airstrip in Jericho. They say it was flying south, away from town, when they first spotted it, and then it turned east. No one else has reported seeing it yet, so it sounds like it didn’t fly over the town. Checkpoint Three thinks it may be making a circuit of the area. If they’re right, we should have visual contact ourselves from the east ridge in about ten minutes.” He gestured toward the slight rise that sheltered the camp on one side.
The radio in Posey’s hand crackled. “Lieutenant Posey? This is ops.”
Posey lifted the radio and pressed the transmit switch. “This is Posey. Go ahead, ops.”
“Sir,” The operator’s voice was slightly distorted, but his words were clear enough, “we’ve just had a message from Sheriff Green at City Hall about the plane. He thinks it may be his brother. He says one of the Rangers reckons the plane is their grandfather’s old cropduster.”
“Dammit!” Beck closed his eyes for a moment, praying for God to give him the strength to not just shoot Jake and be done with it next time he saw him. When he opened his eyes again, he met Heather’s gaze and saw she looked as worried as he felt. “Did you know about this?”
She shook her head. “No. Eric said he couldn’t find Jake this morning, but…. We had no idea he was up to anything like this.” She bit her lip.
That was the big question: what, exactly, was Jake up to? And what kind of response would he provoke from Hoffman’s troops that Beck would need to deal with? If the plane was headed this way, Beck decided, best he took a look for himself.
He turned back to Posey. “Have a humvee meet me by the main gate. I’ll be up on the east ridge. I want you back in the command tent and I want regular updates. Meanwhile, tell the checkpoints and patrols to hold their fire until we figure out what’s going on, but to stay alert in case Hoffman responds. And ask Sheriff Green to see if they can make radio contact with the plane.”
“Yes, sir.” Posey turned away, already talking into the radio as he headed back toward the center of the camp. Beck swung off in the opposite direction, making for the gate.
“Edward? Major?” Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Heather hurrying after him, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder. “I’d like to come with you.”
Surprise made him break his stride, letting her catch up with him. She fell into step alongside him while he tried to figure out what about her request bothered him, making an instinctive “No” spring to his lips. It was, he supposed, because he was heading out into the field, if not into actual combat, and taking civilian women along on an operation was… well, it just wasn’t something you did. He shook his head. “You should stay here. If you go to the command tent, Posey will take care of you. You’ll be safe there.”
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t change direction. When he took another look at her, she had her lips pressed together. They carried on for another fifty yards and then she said, her words quiet but sounding like her patience was wearing thin, “Sitting in the one place Colonel Hoffman’s most likely to drop a bomb if he does decide to attack?”
Abruptly, she skipped a couple of paces ahead of him and turned, forcing him to stop. “Look, if that is Jake up there,” she pointed upwards, “he’s one of Jericho’s residents. Don’t you think it would help to have your liaison with you, in case you need to make some decisions in a hurry.”
He searched her face, trying to figure out how to convince her of the “No” that his gut was still telling him was the right answer. Her expression was earnest and worried, and he could tell she wasn’t oblivious to the different kinds of dangers that coming with him might expose her to, even if she maybe didn’t completely appreciate them all. Besides, there were times when civilian women got involved in ops; though he hadn’t worked directly with them himself, there’d been a couple of female interpreters attached to their battalion when he’d served in Kosovo. Still, they’d had the particular skills for the work and they’d been hired knowing the risks.
“This isn’t the kind of thing—,” he tried.
“No, it isn’t,” she admitted, nodding at him. “You’d be better off with Eric. But you’ve got me.” When he still hesitated, she sighed heavily. “Look, my truck’s right by the gate. If you don’t take me, I’m just going to follow you anyway.” With a shrug, she turned and carried on walking toward the gate.
Following after her, he couldn’t help wonder if what was driving her was concern for Jake. Well, of course it was. The two of them were obviously close: she’d told him a few days back that it had been Jake who’d brought her into Hawkins plot and asked her to steal from his office. Then there’d been those faxes with the secret codes they’d exchanged. Even before that, there’d been the way Jake had greeted her when she’d walked into the Sheriff’s office and Beck had laid eyes on her for the first time. Hadn’t that been part of the reason, along with Colonel Hoffman’s recommendation, that he’d asked her to be his liaison in the first place? That she seemed to have some influence over one of the men he needed to get on side?
Watching Heather walking briskly ahead of him, it hit Beck that his irritation with Jake was about more than just the other man disturbing the arrangements he’d managed to put in place with the town. It was also because of the way he’d thrown things out of kilter between Beck and Heather, when they’d been getting along so well. And because, ever since Jake had gotten back, Heather seemed to have done nothing but miserably excuse each of them to the other. As if her job as his liaison wasn’t hard enough. He also had to acknowledge that, irrespective of her personal feelings for Jake, it probably wasn’t just worry about him that had made her ask to tag along, but a genuine desire to help mitigate whatever damage Jake’s escapade might cause.
They were close to the gate now and he was only a stride or two behind her. He called her name softly and when she turned, he gestured toward the humvee that waited for him.
She gave him a strained smile as she changed direction and murmured a quiet “Thank you” as he opened the rear door for her to climb in. A moment later, he was settling himself in seat in front of her and they were bumping off around the perimeter of the camp toward the rise of ground to the east.
By the time they crested the ridge, Lieutenant Posey had reported over the radio that the plane had also been sighted by Checkpoint Two and did seem to be circling the town. The soldiers at the checkpoint had estimated it was probably somewhere just beyond Hoffman’s patrol lines and not particularly high. Posey had added that there were no reports yet of any response from Hoffman’s troops, although Beck knew they must have seen the plane as well.
Getting out of the humvee, Beck scanned the horizon to the south-east while he fished a pair of binoculars out of a pocket in his vest. Beside him, Heather had her hand raised, shading her eyes, as she peered southward as well.
He caught the sound of the plane a moment before he spotted the distant dot hanging against the clear blue sky, already almost due east of them. “There.” He pointed it out to Heather. Raising the binoculars, he fiddled with the focus until suddenly the plane jumped into view, still small but clear.
He blinked, pulling back from the eyepieces and wondering if the stress and lack of sleep over the past few days had gotten to him and he was hallucinating. But no, when he put the binoculars back to his eyes and found the plane again, there it was: a tiny biplane, its doubled wings painted red and its fuselage blue. He shook his head disbelievingly: the ASA was sending over Apaches and F16s, and Jake was up there flying a damn museum piece?
“Is it Jake?” At his side, Heather still had one hand over her eyes.
“I can’t tell for sure.” Beck lowered the binoculars and wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead. “Definitely not Hoffman, though. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any biplanes.”
“It’s a—?” Heather gave him a surprised look and then held her hand out for the binoculars. “May I?”
Beck passed them across and carried on watching in silence as the plane continued to track roughly north-east, not getting any closer to their position. It seemed to be flying quite slowly, although Beck wasn’t sure how fast something like that could go. A suspicion formed in his mind as to what Jake might be up to. Not that it would make it any less idiotic if Beck was right, and not that it was likely to do them much good, but at least it would mean Jake wasn’t up there simply for a joyride.
“Sir?” The humvee driver was leaning across the passenger seat, radio in hand. “Checkpoint One reports a visual on the plane.”
Beck nodded to show he’d heard. “Thank you, corporal. Is Sheriff Green having any luck contacting the plane?”
“No, sir. Says he’s getting no response on any of the civilian frequencies.”
Beck huffed out a frustrated breath, but he wasn’t much surprised. It would be just like Jake to arrange things so it would be impossible for anyone to order him to turn back and land.
Swinging back round to watch the plane again for another minute, Beck was able to confirm for himself that the plane did seem to be making a circuit around the territory his troops held. Behind him, the driver was talking on the radio again.
Beck spared a glance for Heather and she must have caught the movement, because she lowered the binoculars and offered them back to him. He reached out to take them, intending to suggest they went back to camp, since there wasn’t much more they could do from here, when the driver spoke again.
“Sir. Checkpoint Two is reporting Apaches inbound. They think they’re on a course to intercept the plane.”
Beck closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to let the frustration he felt overwhelm him. It was pretty much the response he’d expected, and Jake should have anticipated it as well: he was far from stupid. Opening his eyes again, he saw Heather’s anxious gaze was fixed on him as she continued to offer him the binoculars.
“Hoffman?”
“Yes.” He took the binoculars back and once more focused them on the plane. “Come on, Jake,” he muttered under his breath, willing Jake to turn the plane around and head back to the airfield. But without a radio to warn him and with the sound of his own plane in his ears, Jake would likely have no idea the Apaches were on his tail until they were almost on him.
A moment later, Beck caught the clatter of the helicopters’ rotors, carrying clearly over the quiet fields. Swinging around, he quickly spotted them. They were closing fast on the plane, which was still progressing in a stately fashion when he looked back at it. When he spared a look in Heather’s direction, he saw she had her hands twisted together in front of her.
At last, much too late, when the Apaches already seemed to be almost on top of it, he saw the plane bank, turning and heading straight toward the town. The Apaches changed course as well, still moving to intercept. A moment later, Beck saw the plane bank again. He guessed Jake had realized he’d been leading the Apaches straight toward town and was now trying to steer around Jericho while he made his way back to the airfield to the south.
It only took a few seconds before one of the Apaches closed in on the plane, taking up station next to it on the town side, while the other settled into place at the rear. The three of them flew along in formation for a couple of minutes, growing every larger to the watches on the ridge. Then the helicopter alongside the plane shot forward some distance and positioned itself in the plane’s path, while the second replaced it alongside the biplane on the town side. Beck guessed the Apaches were trying to force the plane to turn and set down in ASA territory.
To his disbelief, the plane carried on along the same course for a few seconds, seeming, if anything, to increase its speed—for long enough that Beck began to wonder if Jake was crazy enough to try ramming the Apache. Then, suddenly, the plane began to climb. It went on climbing, more and more steeply, until it was heading almost vertically upwards—and then it still carried on climbing, going on and up and over, until it was almost upside down. At which point, it executed a tight roll and came out into level flight again—except it was now heading away from the Apaches and maybe two hundred feet higher.
The quiet “Oh my God!” that escaped from Heather as the plane sped away echoed his own mix of horror and admiration at the move. He guessed the Apache pilots were just as shocked by the time it took them to turn and follow.
It wasn’t long, though, before the helicopters had once more closed on the plane, clearly still trying to herd it away from Jericho but lining themselves up to prevent him from escaping with the same trick as before. A moment later, Beck’s heart leapt into his mouth again as he saw the plane drop like a stone for an instant. Then it steadied and shot forward, the loss in height allowing it to dive under the Apache that had been blocking its path. Almost at once, it began to make a tight turn, heading back toward them. Beck let out a breath, forcing himself to relax as he realized that whatever had just happened, it had been quite deliberate on Jake’s part and had once more allowed him to elude his pursuers.
His relief was short-lived. A few seconds later, he heard the distant rattle of gunfire and the plane lurched, first one wing dipping and then the other.
oOo
The shadows had been starting to lengthen but the light had still been bright and clear as, forty minutes earlier, Jake had taxied the cropduster to the end of the runway. It was the end of a long and busy twenty four hours since the seed that Bill had planted in Jake’s head in Bailey’s had finally blossomed into a fully formed plan while Jake had trudged around town trying to find the car batteries Heather wanted. A dangerous plan, maybe: Jake wouldn’t dispute that. But one that would give Beck some of the intelligence he was looking for about what Hoffman was up to. And—the thought had made Jake’s mouth curl up in a satisfied smile—show the rest of the town just why they needed Jake around.
The first order of business, once he’d managed to scrounge up a half dozen batteries and deliver them to Heather, had been to check the cropduster was still in the hangar and airworthy. When he’d gotten out to the airfield, the place had seemed deserted, silent in the late afternoon sun. He hadn’t been surprised: the airport itself hadn’t reopened while the ASA was in charge and he doubted there was much of any value left after the winter to draw anyone else out here. But though the doors to grandpa’s hangar had complained alarmingly as he’d slid them open, the light flooding in had lit up the familiar shape of the Stearman, her red, white and blue paintwork only a little dulled by a light coating of dust.
A quick duck around to the fuel tank at the back of the hangar had provided an equally satisfactory sight: the gauge indicated the tank was half full. Jake had guessed everyone—himself included—had forgotten about Grandpa’s stash when they’d been looking for fuel last winter, but Grandpa had always had his own fuel delivered. He’d said he didn’t have time to wait around for some spotty kid from Murthy’s to deign to answer the phone and come out from the gas station to pump fuel from the airfield’s supply. Jake had silently saluted his grandfather’s impatience as he turned back to the plane. Running a loving hand over the flaps on the nearest wing, he’d suddenly felt happier than he had in days.
Finding the plane had, of course, only been the first step. As he’d worked on her for the rest of the afternoon, until it grew too dark to see, making sure she could fly again, he’d considered the other items he’d need. The cameras had been easy enough: when he’d finally trudged wearily back to the ranch, he’d found Grandpa’s Kodaks—almost as old as Jake himself—stashed in the basement. But though the cameras and lenses, and even a supply of batteries for the winder, had been carefully packed away in their cases, alongside the enlarger and the pile of wartime blackout material that Grandpa used to rig up a temporary darkroom in the cellar, there was no sign of chemicals or paper; Jake reckoned his parents must have thrown anything like that out when they’d tidied the place after Grandpa’s death. No film either. And though Gracie’s had once sold film, along with pretty much else, Jake had reckoned asking Dale probably wouldn’t help; even if he did have a stash from before the bombs, it’d all be color. Jake could hardly ask Hoffman if he minded them taking a quick trip to the photo lab in Rogue River that, before the September attacks, had picked up film and dropped off prints weekly at Gracie’s.
But there was one person in Jericho that might have just what Jake needed. Bracing himself to have to listen to a long tirade about how President Tomarchio and the rest of the ASA government are all aliens, you know. That’s why they’re trying to take over the country. I said so all along and I was right, Jake had headed off the next morning to the warren of decrepit winnebagos and jacked-up trailers on the south side of town that Oliver Adams called home.
He did, indeed, have to listen to Oliver’s ramblings, but they’d secured him a half dozen rolls of black and white film, a box of all the chemicals he needed and several unopened packets of paper. He’d also had to promise, once the ASA ‘aliens’ had been defeated and sent packing back to their home planet, to take Oliver up in a plane to photograph a number of ‘UFO landing sites’ supposedly in the area. Jake had thought it would be a small price to pay once things were back to normal. Assuming things ever did get that way and they were both alive to see it.
Pleased with his stash, Jake had hurried back to the airfield and stowed the chemicals in a cool, dark corner, before turning his attention to finishing servicing the plane—and figuring where and how to fix the cameras in place, how to trigger the shutter release from the cockpit, and how high he’d need to fly, and how slowly, to be able to get a complete picture of the ground below, since he’d have just thirty six frames in each camera to play with.
With everything in place at last, Jake had pulled the chocks away, climbed into the cockpit, strapped himself in and fired up the engine. She’d chattered sweetly, if noisily, to him as he’d taxied out of the hangar and headed for the end of the runway. A rush of exhilaration had surged through him as he felt the familiar vibration of the engine through the stick.
Reaching the end of the runway, he halted, taking a moment to check the oil and temperature gauges again and test the flaps a final time. Pulling his goggles down and settling them over his eyes, he took a deep breath, relishing the knot of excitement in his stomach, and opened the throttle. A few seconds later, he was airborne, the airfield dropping away below and behind him.
He climbed quickly, wanting to be well out of range of anything Hoffman’s patrols could throw at him by the time he crossed their lines. He’d taken off heading south, and he decided to carry on in that direction. He’d start his circuit once he was a mile or so past where he reckoned Hoffman’s patrol lines and checkpoints were, and head east first: Hoffman seemed to have his main camp—and that meant probably most of his supply lines—to the north-east, toward New Bern; best to see if he could photograph that area first, in case he had to skedaddle back to town in a hurry.
He pushed away any thought of what Hoffman might send after him—he’d worry about that when it happened—and concentrated on checking the altimeter until he reached his planned cruising height and could level off. A quick glance over the side of the cockpit told him he probably had a couple more miles before he needed to make the turn. The sun was beating down on his neck and his shirt clung to his back with sweat, but he didn’t mind: the clear, bright light would help the photographs come out as well as they were going to. He was relying on the speed of the shutter and film to minimize any camera shake.
A couple of minutes later and several more glances downward to check his position and Jake had made the turn. Once the plane was leveled out again, he slowed her as much as he dared without the risk of stalling. Then, holding her steady with one hand on the stick, he groped with his other hand for one of the remote leads he’d fed into the cockpit and pressed the button.
He couldn’t hear the click of the shutter or the sound of the motor drive winding on over the noise of the engine and the air rushing past him, but he had to trust his jury-rigged system was working. With the button pressed, he began to count under his breath, even as he angled the plane slightly to take him in a wide circle around the town. Letting go of the remote for the camera attached to the right wing and transferring his grip on the stick, he reached for the remote on the other side of the cockpit. He’d decided to alternate between the cameras: more chance of getting something usable for the whole circuit than trusting first to one and then the other. Still counting, he went on checking the altimeter and airspeed indicator, in between quick peeks at the ground. When he estimated enough time had passed, he clicked the remote button for the other camera.
He was almost halfway round the circuit, keeping an eye out for the arrow-straight line of Route 6 heading north, when he finally noticed a new noise, barely audible at first. Twisting his neck, he caught sight of two small dots a little to one side of his six, growing rapidly larger as they sped toward him. Silently, he cursed. He’d been expecting it; he’d just hoped to have longer.
He wondered if he could manage another picture, but a second glance showed him that, damn, whatever Hoffman was sending to check him out, they were closing fast.
Dropping the camera lead he’d been holding, he put both hands on the stick and banked sharply, turning toward the center of town. Another look told him his pursuers had followed the move, angling to intercept him. They were close enough now for him to see they were Apaches, possibly the same two that had flown over the town the previous day. He wondered if they’d follow him in once he’d crossed Beck’s patrol lines. Probably.
He banked again, angling away from the town on the horizon so he could circle it and reach the airfield without flying over any of the more populated areas. The change in direction brought him closer to the Apaches, but it wasn’t as if he could outrun them anyway. Best he could hope for was to set down and grab the cameras before they decided to blast him to bits.
For a second he contemplated trying to set down quickly in the fields below, but he knew they weren’t nearly as flat and smooth as they looked. His best option was still to head back to the airfield.
Another glance over his shoulder showed him one of the Apaches was hanging back, but the other was closing fast, coming up on his right side. It slowed as it reached him, drawing alongside. He could see the pilot turning his head to look at him. After a moment, the pilot tapped his helmet, and Jake realized he was probably trying to hail him on the radio. Not that Jake would have wanted to respond anyway, but he couldn’t: he hadn’t bothered to dig out a radio headset before he took off. After all, who would he have needed to talk to, without a functioning tower at the airfield?
Jake shook his head. After a moment, the pilot gestured to their left and down. Jake guessed that meant he wanted Jake to set down on the far side of Hoffman’s lines. He shook his head again, and again when the pilot repeated the gesture more vigorously. Jake was reminded of the flight to Texas; he doubted Texas ANG would be turning up to save him this time, though. Taking another quick look down, he tried to figure how far he was from the airfield and how much longer it would take him to reach it.
Next to him, the Apache zoomed forward, outpacing him, before swinging around maybe half a mile ahead and hovering directly in front of the Stearman. A check on the other Apache showed it was steaming up behind him to take station where the first had been. Looked like they were planning on playing a game of Chicken and forcing him to change direction if he didn’t want to end up in a mid-air collision. Well, he was damned if he was going to let them push him around.
His hands and feet moved automatically, and the Stearman responded as he knew she would, climbing until she was vertical. And then on, ground and sky changing places, the straps digging into his shoulders as they took his weight, before he rolled and came out straight and level again. Drawing in a deep breath as he steadied the plane, he took the time to squint over his shoulder, to where the two Apaches were now scrambling to turn and climb to follow after him.
He let out a whoop of exhilaration—what he would’ve given to see those pilots’ faces—before he sobered, realizing he was now heading away from the airfield again. And it wasn’t as if he stood much chance of shaking the Apaches: they were faster and more maneuverable than the Stearman, and the old girl wasn’t capable of pulling too many stunts. The best he could do was hope to dodge and weave enough that he could keep heading roughly where he wanted to go and not where they wanted to herd him.
One of the Apache’s had taken up station above him, preventing him from doubling back with another Immelmann turn. The other was in front of him and a little to one side, clearly trying to herd him back out into ASA territory. Gritting his teeth, Jake pushed the plane into a slip, working the flaps one way and the rudder the other so that that plane abruptly lost height and he could dart under the Apache before it had a chance to react. Coming out of the slip as the shadow of the Apache passed over him, he began to turn back toward Jericho, losing even more height as he banked, his muscles bunching as he pushed on the stick and encouraged the old girl round.
The ground was a hell of a lot closer now, but he was still well above the tops of the trees that were sparsely scattered across the landscape, and he was heading back toward the airfield again. As for the Apaches—.
Something smacked into the fuselage a few feet behind him. What the—? The impact was followed by a half a dozen more blows in quick succession that shuddered through the Stearman’s frame. Jake barely had time to think, Oh, crap, they’re shooting at me, before the plane lurched and began to lose more height, no longer reacting to his touch the way she had been.
Instinctively, he worked the pedals, but there was no response and he knew the rudder was gone, though he didn’t have time to take a look and check. Probably one or both the elevators were damaged, too: the nose simply didn’t want to come up, no matter how hard he fought with the stick to level her out.
Still trying to gain height, he peered forward, knowing he now had next to no choice about where he was going to put down down. Best he could hope for was to avoid hitting anything, keep the wings as level as he could, and try not to come down too hard when he did crash.
As the ground rushed toward him, he comforted himself that at least he’d be putting down in Jericho territory. Things could be worse. If not by much….
oOo
A couple of miles away, Beck had jammed his binoculars back to his eyes, focusing on the plane. It was close enough that he could see the tail had been shredded.
At his side, he was aware Heather had wrapped her arms around herself. “Is he—?” She didn’t finish the question, maybe not wanting to give voice to her fears and make them real.
Beck watched for a moment longer and then let out the breath he’d been holding when he saw the wings steady and the nose come up a little, if too little: the plane was still on a shallow downward trajectory. It looked like Jake was probably okay, though the plane clearly wasn’t. “I think it’s just the plane,” he answered absently, sweeping the binoculars to the left and trying to figure out how much chance Jake had of putting down safely. The land ahead seemed to be mostly open farmland. He just hoped for Jake’s sake that his piloting skills when it came to unplanned landings were as good as his aerial acrobatics.
For Heather’s sake, too. Lowering the binoculars and turning toward the humvee, he took in the horrified look on her face as she stood frozen, staring out across the fields at the rapidly descending plane.
“Come on.” He took her by the elbow to hustle her back toward the humvee. If Jake didn’t make it out of the crash, and even if he did, it probably wasn’t something she needed to see.
She resisted the tug of his hand for a second and then seemed to come out of the trance she was in. Turning her head and meeting his gaze, she nodded and let him steer her toward the vehicle. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the plane was only a hundred feet or so above the ground now.
He still had his hand on her arm to make sure she got into the humvee when he heard the sound of the crash echoing across the fields: a loud bang followed by the grind and squeal of tearing metal. He felt her flinch and she started to try and get out again, but he said “Don’t” and pushed her back into place, slamming the door on her. Climbing into his own seat, he was relieved to see there was no sign of smoke above where the plane had crashed.
“Corporal.” He gestured ahead; there was no need to give the rest of the order. As the humvee lurched off, he reached for the radio. “Ops, this is Major Beck. Contact City Hall and tell them to send a fire truck and an ambulance out about two miles past the Tacoma Bridge. Exact location to follow. Possibility of one casualty, condition unknown.”
oOo
Jake, eyes closed, drew in a long deep breath and relished the silence that had descended once the cropduster finally came to a halt. Slowly, he unclenched his hands from their grip on the stick and wriggled his toes. Somewhat to his amazement, he appeared to be in one piece. He doubted the plane had been quite so lucky.
Opening his eyes confirmed what his body had told him: the plane was listing at a slight angle. Turning his head a little, he saw the end of the left wing had been been ripped away, the sheared off stump digging into the ground. He dragged off his goggles and fumbled to release the straps that held him in his seat so he could twist round further: behind him, a deep furrow marked one edge of a long curving swath of smashed corn shoots stretching to the rear of the plane. He guessed the landing gear must’ve caught on something a few yards after he touched down and then—.
He shrugged. It didn’t really matter. The old girl had stood up well enough. Easing himself out of the cockpit—God, he was gonna ache tomorrow—he chuckled at the memory of his grandfather proudly declaring that if you hit a barn in her, the barn’d come off worse. Though he knew he was going to eventually have time to regret smashing the plane up beyond repair, the important thing right now was whether the cameras had also survived the crash.
Slithering to the ground, he leaned against the fuselage for support and got a good look at the tail for the first time. The rudder was as mangled as he’d expected, while a scattering of bullet holes marked the fuselage. Raking his eyes over them, he cursed when he spotted fluid leaking from one of them. His brain finally acknowledged the frantic messages his nose had been sending for the past couple of minutes about being able to smell avgas. Looked like a bullet had caught the fuel tank.
Pushing himself away from the plane, he slapped at the fuselage in frustration but consoled himself with the thought that, as the plane hadn’t caught fire so far, there was a good chance he’d be okay for a few more minutes. He still needed to move quickly, though. Ignoring his complaining muscles, he ducked down so he could slide under the wing and reach the camera on that side. He was glad now that the length of the remote leads had forced him to fix the cameras close in to the body of the plane; the one on this wing hung just a few inches above the churned-up ground, but it seemed to have escaped any damage. Wriggling onto his side, he dug in the pocket of his hoodie for the spanner he’d stowed there before he took off and began to work on the nuts that held the camera in place. He tried not to think about the avgas still seeping from the plane and the possibility of it coming into contact with the hot metal of the engine.
He was half done with the fixings on the first camera when he noticed sirens, distant at first but getting closer. Tilting his head so he could peer toward where he knew a dirt road ran along the edge of the field, he saw a fire truck with an ambulance behind it approaching from one direction, while a humvee sped towards them from the other. Shaking his head at all the fuss, Jake turned his attention back to getting the camera free. He was just pulling it loose when he heard Eric calling his name.
“I’m here,” he yelled back. Holding the camera close to his chest, he shuffled out from under the wing and sat up. Eric, at the head of what seemed to be a small crowd, was jogging toward him. The smell of avgas suddenly seemed much stronger to Jake, making him feel a little dizzy. Holding tightly to the camera with one hand, he waved his other arm frantically. “Stay back!” he ordered. “There’s a fuel leak.”
“Jake!” Eric sounded both relieved and cross and, despite Jake’s warning, picked up his pace, stumbling a little on the rough ground as he ran toward the plane.
“I said keep back!” Jake scrambled to his feet. Behind Eric, most of the others had halted, but a couple of the fire truck’s crew, wearing yellow jackets and carrying extinguishers, were still heading toward him. Cursing silently, Jake hurried around to the far side of the plane, determined to rescue the second camera before the fire crew had a chance to spray it with god knows what and ruin the film.
When he reached the far side, he found the right wing was tilted up enough that he only had to kneel to be able to reach the second camera. He put the first camera down on the ground in front of him and began to work on the nuts that held the other camera in place.
“Jake!” Eric had followed him around the plane. “You need to—.”
“Not without the cameras.” Jake had gotten one nut loose and he let it fall into the grass. He jerked his head at the far side of the plane. “Fuel leak’s on the other side. They need CO2—”
“They know.” Eric cut him off, sounding irritated. “What cameras? What are you talking about? Come on, Jake. You need to get away from the plane. Now.” Jake could feel Eric hovering behind him and he suspected his brother was deciding whether to try and drag him away by brute force.
The second nut came loose. “I got pictures. Or at least I hope I did.” Oh god, he hoped he’d gotten something out of all of this.
“You—?” Eric was silent for a moment, and then he said, his voice rising in pitch. “Are you goddamn crazy?”
“Probably.” Jake shrugged slightly as the third nut came free. Eric had a point. Steadying the camera and taking its weight with his left hand, he worked on the final nut. At last the camera came away from the mount. Shoving the spanner back in his pocket, he reached down for the other camera. Holding them tightly, he got to his feet and turned back toward Eric. “Okay, let’s go.”
Eric nodded, looking relieved. He held out a hand to help Jake, but Jake waved it away. “I’m okay.” He rounded the front of the plane, where the other two fire crew—Gary and Carl; Jake recognized the anxious faces under the helmets—still waited. At a nod from Eric, they moved forward and began spraying foam over the plane and the grass around it.
Eric himself stuck by Jake’s side as Jake headed toward the group of vehicles at the side of the field. Making sure he got there, Jake supposed.
They were still a dozen yards from the road when Jake saw Beck detach himself from the crowd gathered around the vehicles and stride toward them. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” Jake didn’t think he’d ever seen Beck look so angry, not even the night he stopped Eric and the others from heading to New Bern.
Jake halted and smirked down at the shorter man, feeling the comforting weight of the cameras clutched to his chest. “Getting you the intelligence you wanted.”
Beck’s gaze fell to the cameras. His lips tightened and he was silent for a moment, before he looked back up at Jake’s face. Taking a step closer, he caught Jake’s eye and held it. “You do realize you could have provoked Hoffman into a response against the town?” He spoke more quietly than before, but it was evident he was still just as angry, and that Jake’s explanation hadn’t impressed him in the least. “That we’re all damn lucky he decided it didn’t merit anything more than a couple of Apaches?”
“Well, he didn’t, did he?” Jake shot back. “Everyone’s fine.”
Beck’s gaze narrowed. “This time. But you don’t get to make those decisions, Jake. You are not in charge here.”
“Neither are you,” Jake returned his glare.
Beck’s expression grew even grimmer. “No. That would be Mayor Anderson and your brother. So I’ll leave them to explain to you just how irresponsible your actions are and how your recklessness is endangering the lives of everyone in this town.” Wheeling on his heel, Beck strode back toward the humvee.
Jake snorted. “A thank you would be nice,” he muttered mulishly, before he turned at Eric’s touch on his elbow.
“Come on, Jake.” Eric gestured toward the ambulance. “Let’s get you to the Med Center and get you checked over. They’ll be plenty enough time for us to, uh, ‘discuss’ what you did later.”
oOo
Heather hovered in the doorway of the interview room, watching Edward for a moment as he examined one of the photographs Jake had taken. There’d been a whole group of them in there until a few minutes earlier: Edward and Jake, of course, and Eric and Lieutenant Goodman, along with Colonel Davies and Chavez. Jake had laid the photographs out on a map spread on the table and there’d been a lot of pointing and picking up individual photographs and asking questions and answering them. It had all seemed very amicable, even if Jake had worn a very smug expression the whole time.
Heather quietly rapped on the door. Edward looked up with a start and then smiled at her, laying down the photograph he’d been holding. “Heather. What can I do for you?”
She took a step into the room. “I wanted to let you know I spoke to Mrs Dawson at the Library this morning. She’d be happy to arrange a bookmobile for the camp. So if you could send someone to talk to her….”
“I’ll get Lieutenant McCoy on it.” Edward dipped his head at her. “Thank you.”
Heather smiled back at him, realizing how much she liked it when she could provide these small moments of support. He had so many problems weighing him down that she couldn’t do anything about at all—no one could. “And I brought you this.” She held out the book she was carrying.
He took it and turned it round. “Middlemarch?”
She blushed. “I thought, you know, if you liked Les Miserables, you’d like this. It’s sort of historical and has politics as well and, well, I didn’t know if you’d read it before, but—.”
“I have.” He gently interrupted her with a smile. “But not for a long time. I shall enjoy re-reading it. Thank you.”
He went on smiling at her, apparently in no hurry to get back to examining the photographs. But Heather needed to know—. “So, were they useful? The pictures?” She gestured toward them.
“Yes.” Edward perched on the edge of the table, putting down the book and picking up one of the prints. “Surprisingly so. Some of them don’t show much, but even that’s useful to know. And some of them are extremely useful.”
“Oh, that’s good!” Heather unconsciously took another step toward him, twisting her hands together. “I didn’t want to think that Jake had… you know, that he’d almost gotten himself killed for nothing.”
“Not at all.” Edward fiddled with the edge of the photo, looking down at it but, Heather suspected, not really seeing it. “It was still very foolish of him, but the results did justify running some risk. I just wish we could get more.”
“Oh, good.” Heather paused, thinking a little more about what Edward had just said. She frowned. “Umm, you didn’t tell Jake that, did you?” When Edward looked up at her, eyebrows raised questioningly, she elaborated, “I know he smashed up the cropduster, but it’s not the only plane at the airfield and if he thought….” She left the sentence unfinished, her mind shying away from the idea of Jake risking his life like that again. She doubted he’d be so lucky a second time.
Edward shook his head. “No. I didn’t tell him that. Just that these were extremely useful.” He gave a slight shrug. “I had the same thought myself. That he might try again. And for all I’d like more intelligence, it wouldn’t be a good way to go about it. It’s putting too many lives at risk.” He shook his head, his expression rueful. “I never fully appreciated before what kind of backing the rest of the Army gave me. How spoiled I was.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Heather gave him a nod of encouragement.
“Yes, we will.” He dipped his head at her. “But thank you for the book,” he put his hand on it, “and for the news from the library. I’ll talk to Lieutenant McCoy when I get back to camp.”
Heather recognized he was bringing the conversation to a close, though something about his manner told her he’d like to stay chatting as much as she would. But they were both busy: a pile of other tasks awaited her at her desk, and she still needed to go over to the High School and talk about the troops using the gym sometimes. With a nod, she left him and headed back out into the main office.
Later, on her way over to the school, she found herself thinking about how else the Army got its intelligence. She was, she realized, casting about for ways to prevent Jake taking Edward’s enthusiasm for the intelligence as a license to take another plane up. If he didn’t have to do that….
There were satellites, of course, and Colonel Davies had promised to see what he could do through his superiors in San Antonio. But didn’t the Army also have model planes that they took pictures with? Maybe she and Jake could build something like that between them?
Working with Jake would be hard, of course, for lots of reasons, some of which she didn’t want to think about too closely. She’d discovered that over the past few days. But if it kept him safe, it would be worth it, wouldn’t it? At the very least, it might keep him from taking up another plane for a while.
oOo
Jake ignored a faint knocking sound coming from somewhere above him in the house and transferred the photo from the fixer into wash tray. Enough of the pictures he’d taken had turned out sufficiently well for Beck to eventually admit grudgingly that they’d be very useful—and would Jake please be able to provide a second set of prints with increased contrast, as well as enlargements of parts of some of them? The photo he’d just blown up showed a group of soldiers clustered round some kind of heavy artillery.
As he swirled the print in the water, the knocking came again, this time accompanied by a woman nervously calling, “Jake?”
He recognized Heather’s voice. Turning his head while he went on rinsing the print, he called back “Hang on. I’m in the basement.”
By the time he’d hung the print up to dry, checked the packet of paper was tightly sealed and pulled back the blackout material that formed his temporary darkroom, Heather had found her way inside and made it halfway down the basement stairs.
“Hey.” She twisted her hands together as she gave him a shy smile.
He nodded at her, letting the blackout cloth fall back behind him. His still sore muscles protested the movement and he winced. Heather must have noticed because she said anxiously, “You’re still hurt?”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t feel quite as rough as he had the day after the crash, but he still felt like someone had given him a good kicking all over. He crossed his arms and turned his head away. “You come to yell at me as well?”
She was about the only person so far who hadn’t expressed disapproval in some way of what he’d done. Eric had started in on the way to the Med Center and his mom after he’d gotten there, while Gray had weighed in once Kenchy had checked Jake over and pronounced no permanent damage. Then his mom had had another go at him when he’d refused to come back to the town house and insisted on returning to the ranch on his own. He might have given in if he hadn’t caught sight of Emily hovering at the other end of the hallway. He knew she’d be worrying about him and that she just wanted to take care of him, but the thought of being fussed over by her brought the same sense of panic clawing at his throat that he’d felt every time he’d seen her in the past few days. Coming back to the town house wouldn’t do either of them any favors.
He’d gone a second round with Eric the morning after. At least, in between the stern lectures about how Jake had to work with everyone else and not just do what he wanted, he’d told Jake he’d be rostering him onto a patrol—once Jake was fully recovered from the crash. Meanwhile, when Jake wasn’t printing photos, Dale could do with some more advice on figuring out how to bring in supplies.
But Jake had to admit that Beck, for one, had been as good as his word and not said anything following his initial outburst. He still couldn’t like the man, but he had to respect him a little for that.
“Actually, no.” Heather’s words drew Jake from his memories; she sounded faintly amused, as if she could tell what he’d been thinking. Looking back up at her, he saw she’d taken another step down the stairs, putting her hand on the rail. “I came to make a suggestion.”
“That I stay out of trouble?” He quirked an eyebrow at her
That made her chuckle. “I’m not sure that’s possible.” She tilted her head. “But if you could try not to get yourself killed, I… uh, we’d all be a lot happier.” She took another step down the stairs toward him and said with sudden intensity. “Jericho needs you, Jake. Just because we need Ed—uh, Major Beck right now doesn’t mean we don’t need you as well. Just as much as always.”
Jake snorted faintly. Despite Eric having finally involved him properly in what was going on in town, he wasn’t so sure about that as she seemed to be.
She took a deep breath. “Anyway, I was thinking. The photographs you took.” She gestured toward the makeshift darkroom. “Umm, while the way you went about it maybe… wasn’t the best, I do know Major Beck’s really grateful for what you managed to get. So I was thinking about how we could maybe get some more. But without the being shot at and crashing part, you know? So I was thinking… don’t the Army use some kind of remote control plane for that sort of stuff?”
“UAVs?” Jake took a step sideways and sat down on a nearby crate, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Yeah, but I’m guessing Beck’s not got any, or he’d have used them already.”
“Right.” Heather plopped down on the stairs, drawing her knees up and resting her arms on them. “But I thought maybe we could build one. Or two. Or, you know, lots!”
Jake blinked at her in surprise. She tilted her head, giving him an encouraging smile while he tried to absorb the idea. At last, slowly, trying not to squash her enthusiasm, he said, “That’s a pretty complicated bit of kit.”
“I know.” She nodded, her face still bright with excitement. “But I was thinking about how one of the kids in my class, Lucas, had a remote control helicopter. Which probably got fried by the bombs, but, you know, maybe we can figure out how to fix it? And how to fix a camera to it so we can take pictures. Your Colonel Davies might be able to help us get some of the parts we need from Texas….”
“I guess.” Jake wasn’t so sure Texas was going to be much help with anything. “So why are you telling me all this?”
Heather gave him one of those don’t-be-so-slow looks. “Well, I know a lot about engines and stuff like that, but I’m pretty clueless when it comes to planes. So I, umm, was kinda hoping you’d be willing to work with me on it. I mean,” she suddenly sat upright, wrapping her arms around her, her expression dimming, “you know, if you want to. If it wouldn’t be too much bother. When you haven’t got anything else better to—.”
“I’d like that.” Jake cut across her babbling. Now he’d had time to think about it, it wasn’t a bad idea to at least try. And he and Heather had made a good team, the past few days, with the turbines. Before that, too, right after the bombs, when they’d gotten gas and she’d nearly helped him fix the ventilation system for the Med Center fallout shelter. She was good to be around. He found himself smiling back her. “Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”
Fandom: Jericho
Rating: General
Warnings: None
Words: 34,820 words
Summary: On his return from Texas, Jake tries to fit back into a Jericho gearing itself up for continued resistance to Cheyenne control. But he finds everything has changed—and that everywhere he goes, he runs into Beck.
Disclaimer: This story is based on the Junction Entertainment/Fixed Mark Productions/CBS Paramount Television series Jericho. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended.
Author's Note: This story is part of Awesome!Jakeverse, the shared post-season 2 verse being written by Scribbler (
scribblesinink) and Tanaqui (tanaquific). It follows on from events in Home Brew and Past Recall. Thanks to Scribbler (scribblesinink) for the beta.Part One of "Tailspin" | Part Two of "Tailspin" | Part Three of "Tailspin"
The afternoon sun beat down on Beck’s back as he made his away across the camp toward the wind turbine. Heather and Sergeant Tran were standing next to it, holding an animated discussion that seemed to involve much pointing and nodding. As Beck approached, Heather laughed at something the sergeant had said, her face lighting up. He realized how little he’d seen her laugh and how much it suited her. There’d been far too much to worry about over the last week for any of them to find much amusement in their situation.
Sergeant Tran saw him first and straightened and saluted. “Sir.”
Beck returned the salute. “At ease, sergeant. Heather.” He nodded at her, noting that her expression had dimmed a little as she caught sight of him, tension creeping into her face, though she was still smiling. He guessed he was one of the things worrying her. Or, at least, walking the tricky path, as his liaison, between his needs and the town’s—and Jake’s hostility.
“I wasn’t going to bother you.” Heather gave him an anxious look. “I know how busy you are. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with the turbine.”
“It’s not a bother,” Beck reassured her, speaking almost before she’d finished, even though she was right that he had a dozen other tasks that should be claiming his attention. Except letting Heather know how much he appreciated the support and help she’d given him was important, and certainly more pleasurable than whatever awaited him back at his command tent. “I would have been sorry if you’d left without me seeing you.” Especially as he’d only discovered she was at the camp thanks to a chance remark from Lieutenant Posey.
Heather blushed and dipped her head. Clearing his throat, Beck turned toward Tran. “Anything to report, sergeant?”
“No, sir. Everything operating within spec.”
“Pleased to hear it.” He turned back toward Heather, intending to invite her back to the command tent for coffee. He was sure there was something that needed discussing, though he mostly just wanted to make sure she was all right. He’d barely had a chance to speak to her in days—and on most of those occasions, Jake had been looming disapprovingly in the background. Then he saw that she was no longer looking at him but at something over his shoulder. Turning, he saw Lieutenant Posey approaching at a trot, a radio in his left hand.
“Sir.” The lieutenant saluted, but didn’t wait for Beck’s acknowledgment before he carried on. “Two-Charlie patrol is reporting having just seen a plane. Checkpoint Three’s confirmed it.”
Beck’s stomach lurched. “One of Hoffman’s?”
Posey shook his head. “Don’t think so, sir. The patrol seems to think it may have taken off from the airstrip in Jericho. They say it was flying south, away from town, when they first spotted it, and then it turned east. No one else has reported seeing it yet, so it sounds like it didn’t fly over the town. Checkpoint Three thinks it may be making a circuit of the area. If they’re right, we should have visual contact ourselves from the east ridge in about ten minutes.” He gestured toward the slight rise that sheltered the camp on one side.
The radio in Posey’s hand crackled. “Lieutenant Posey? This is ops.”
Posey lifted the radio and pressed the transmit switch. “This is Posey. Go ahead, ops.”
“Sir,” The operator’s voice was slightly distorted, but his words were clear enough, “we’ve just had a message from Sheriff Green at City Hall about the plane. He thinks it may be his brother. He says one of the Rangers reckons the plane is their grandfather’s old cropduster.”
“Dammit!” Beck closed his eyes for a moment, praying for God to give him the strength to not just shoot Jake and be done with it next time he saw him. When he opened his eyes again, he met Heather’s gaze and saw she looked as worried as he felt. “Did you know about this?”
She shook her head. “No. Eric said he couldn’t find Jake this morning, but…. We had no idea he was up to anything like this.” She bit her lip.
That was the big question: what, exactly, was Jake up to? And what kind of response would he provoke from Hoffman’s troops that Beck would need to deal with? If the plane was headed this way, Beck decided, best he took a look for himself.
He turned back to Posey. “Have a humvee meet me by the main gate. I’ll be up on the east ridge. I want you back in the command tent and I want regular updates. Meanwhile, tell the checkpoints and patrols to hold their fire until we figure out what’s going on, but to stay alert in case Hoffman responds. And ask Sheriff Green to see if they can make radio contact with the plane.”
“Yes, sir.” Posey turned away, already talking into the radio as he headed back toward the center of the camp. Beck swung off in the opposite direction, making for the gate.
“Edward? Major?” Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Heather hurrying after him, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder. “I’d like to come with you.”
Surprise made him break his stride, letting her catch up with him. She fell into step alongside him while he tried to figure out what about her request bothered him, making an instinctive “No” spring to his lips. It was, he supposed, because he was heading out into the field, if not into actual combat, and taking civilian women along on an operation was… well, it just wasn’t something you did. He shook his head. “You should stay here. If you go to the command tent, Posey will take care of you. You’ll be safe there.”
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t change direction. When he took another look at her, she had her lips pressed together. They carried on for another fifty yards and then she said, her words quiet but sounding like her patience was wearing thin, “Sitting in the one place Colonel Hoffman’s most likely to drop a bomb if he does decide to attack?”
Abruptly, she skipped a couple of paces ahead of him and turned, forcing him to stop. “Look, if that is Jake up there,” she pointed upwards, “he’s one of Jericho’s residents. Don’t you think it would help to have your liaison with you, in case you need to make some decisions in a hurry.”
He searched her face, trying to figure out how to convince her of the “No” that his gut was still telling him was the right answer. Her expression was earnest and worried, and he could tell she wasn’t oblivious to the different kinds of dangers that coming with him might expose her to, even if she maybe didn’t completely appreciate them all. Besides, there were times when civilian women got involved in ops; though he hadn’t worked directly with them himself, there’d been a couple of female interpreters attached to their battalion when he’d served in Kosovo. Still, they’d had the particular skills for the work and they’d been hired knowing the risks.
“This isn’t the kind of thing—,” he tried.
“No, it isn’t,” she admitted, nodding at him. “You’d be better off with Eric. But you’ve got me.” When he still hesitated, she sighed heavily. “Look, my truck’s right by the gate. If you don’t take me, I’m just going to follow you anyway.” With a shrug, she turned and carried on walking toward the gate.
Following after her, he couldn’t help wonder if what was driving her was concern for Jake. Well, of course it was. The two of them were obviously close: she’d told him a few days back that it had been Jake who’d brought her into Hawkins plot and asked her to steal from his office. Then there’d been those faxes with the secret codes they’d exchanged. Even before that, there’d been the way Jake had greeted her when she’d walked into the Sheriff’s office and Beck had laid eyes on her for the first time. Hadn’t that been part of the reason, along with Colonel Hoffman’s recommendation, that he’d asked her to be his liaison in the first place? That she seemed to have some influence over one of the men he needed to get on side?
Watching Heather walking briskly ahead of him, it hit Beck that his irritation with Jake was about more than just the other man disturbing the arrangements he’d managed to put in place with the town. It was also because of the way he’d thrown things out of kilter between Beck and Heather, when they’d been getting along so well. And because, ever since Jake had gotten back, Heather seemed to have done nothing but miserably excuse each of them to the other. As if her job as his liaison wasn’t hard enough. He also had to acknowledge that, irrespective of her personal feelings for Jake, it probably wasn’t just worry about him that had made her ask to tag along, but a genuine desire to help mitigate whatever damage Jake’s escapade might cause.
They were close to the gate now and he was only a stride or two behind her. He called her name softly and when she turned, he gestured toward the humvee that waited for him.
She gave him a strained smile as she changed direction and murmured a quiet “Thank you” as he opened the rear door for her to climb in. A moment later, he was settling himself in seat in front of her and they were bumping off around the perimeter of the camp toward the rise of ground to the east.
By the time they crested the ridge, Lieutenant Posey had reported over the radio that the plane had also been sighted by Checkpoint Two and did seem to be circling the town. The soldiers at the checkpoint had estimated it was probably somewhere just beyond Hoffman’s patrol lines and not particularly high. Posey had added that there were no reports yet of any response from Hoffman’s troops, although Beck knew they must have seen the plane as well.
Getting out of the humvee, Beck scanned the horizon to the south-east while he fished a pair of binoculars out of a pocket in his vest. Beside him, Heather had her hand raised, shading her eyes, as she peered southward as well.
He caught the sound of the plane a moment before he spotted the distant dot hanging against the clear blue sky, already almost due east of them. “There.” He pointed it out to Heather. Raising the binoculars, he fiddled with the focus until suddenly the plane jumped into view, still small but clear.
He blinked, pulling back from the eyepieces and wondering if the stress and lack of sleep over the past few days had gotten to him and he was hallucinating. But no, when he put the binoculars back to his eyes and found the plane again, there it was: a tiny biplane, its doubled wings painted red and its fuselage blue. He shook his head disbelievingly: the ASA was sending over Apaches and F16s, and Jake was up there flying a damn museum piece?
“Is it Jake?” At his side, Heather still had one hand over her eyes.
“I can’t tell for sure.” Beck lowered the binoculars and wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead. “Definitely not Hoffman, though. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any biplanes.”
“It’s a—?” Heather gave him a surprised look and then held her hand out for the binoculars. “May I?”
Beck passed them across and carried on watching in silence as the plane continued to track roughly north-east, not getting any closer to their position. It seemed to be flying quite slowly, although Beck wasn’t sure how fast something like that could go. A suspicion formed in his mind as to what Jake might be up to. Not that it would make it any less idiotic if Beck was right, and not that it was likely to do them much good, but at least it would mean Jake wasn’t up there simply for a joyride.
“Sir?” The humvee driver was leaning across the passenger seat, radio in hand. “Checkpoint One reports a visual on the plane.”
Beck nodded to show he’d heard. “Thank you, corporal. Is Sheriff Green having any luck contacting the plane?”
“No, sir. Says he’s getting no response on any of the civilian frequencies.”
Beck huffed out a frustrated breath, but he wasn’t much surprised. It would be just like Jake to arrange things so it would be impossible for anyone to order him to turn back and land.
Swinging back round to watch the plane again for another minute, Beck was able to confirm for himself that the plane did seem to be making a circuit around the territory his troops held. Behind him, the driver was talking on the radio again.
Beck spared a glance for Heather and she must have caught the movement, because she lowered the binoculars and offered them back to him. He reached out to take them, intending to suggest they went back to camp, since there wasn’t much more they could do from here, when the driver spoke again.
“Sir. Checkpoint Two is reporting Apaches inbound. They think they’re on a course to intercept the plane.”
Beck closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to let the frustration he felt overwhelm him. It was pretty much the response he’d expected, and Jake should have anticipated it as well: he was far from stupid. Opening his eyes again, he saw Heather’s anxious gaze was fixed on him as she continued to offer him the binoculars.
“Hoffman?”
“Yes.” He took the binoculars back and once more focused them on the plane. “Come on, Jake,” he muttered under his breath, willing Jake to turn the plane around and head back to the airfield. But without a radio to warn him and with the sound of his own plane in his ears, Jake would likely have no idea the Apaches were on his tail until they were almost on him.
A moment later, Beck caught the clatter of the helicopters’ rotors, carrying clearly over the quiet fields. Swinging around, he quickly spotted them. They were closing fast on the plane, which was still progressing in a stately fashion when he looked back at it. When he spared a look in Heather’s direction, he saw she had her hands twisted together in front of her.
At last, much too late, when the Apaches already seemed to be almost on top of it, he saw the plane bank, turning and heading straight toward the town. The Apaches changed course as well, still moving to intercept. A moment later, Beck saw the plane bank again. He guessed Jake had realized he’d been leading the Apaches straight toward town and was now trying to steer around Jericho while he made his way back to the airfield to the south.
It only took a few seconds before one of the Apaches closed in on the plane, taking up station next to it on the town side, while the other settled into place at the rear. The three of them flew along in formation for a couple of minutes, growing every larger to the watches on the ridge. Then the helicopter alongside the plane shot forward some distance and positioned itself in the plane’s path, while the second replaced it alongside the biplane on the town side. Beck guessed the Apaches were trying to force the plane to turn and set down in ASA territory.
To his disbelief, the plane carried on along the same course for a few seconds, seeming, if anything, to increase its speed—for long enough that Beck began to wonder if Jake was crazy enough to try ramming the Apache. Then, suddenly, the plane began to climb. It went on climbing, more and more steeply, until it was heading almost vertically upwards—and then it still carried on climbing, going on and up and over, until it was almost upside down. At which point, it executed a tight roll and came out into level flight again—except it was now heading away from the Apaches and maybe two hundred feet higher.
The quiet “Oh my God!” that escaped from Heather as the plane sped away echoed his own mix of horror and admiration at the move. He guessed the Apache pilots were just as shocked by the time it took them to turn and follow.
It wasn’t long, though, before the helicopters had once more closed on the plane, clearly still trying to herd it away from Jericho but lining themselves up to prevent him from escaping with the same trick as before. A moment later, Beck’s heart leapt into his mouth again as he saw the plane drop like a stone for an instant. Then it steadied and shot forward, the loss in height allowing it to dive under the Apache that had been blocking its path. Almost at once, it began to make a tight turn, heading back toward them. Beck let out a breath, forcing himself to relax as he realized that whatever had just happened, it had been quite deliberate on Jake’s part and had once more allowed him to elude his pursuers.
His relief was short-lived. A few seconds later, he heard the distant rattle of gunfire and the plane lurched, first one wing dipping and then the other.
The shadows had been starting to lengthen but the light had still been bright and clear as, forty minutes earlier, Jake had taxied the cropduster to the end of the runway. It was the end of a long and busy twenty four hours since the seed that Bill had planted in Jake’s head in Bailey’s had finally blossomed into a fully formed plan while Jake had trudged around town trying to find the car batteries Heather wanted. A dangerous plan, maybe: Jake wouldn’t dispute that. But one that would give Beck some of the intelligence he was looking for about what Hoffman was up to. And—the thought had made Jake’s mouth curl up in a satisfied smile—show the rest of the town just why they needed Jake around.
The first order of business, once he’d managed to scrounge up a half dozen batteries and deliver them to Heather, had been to check the cropduster was still in the hangar and airworthy. When he’d gotten out to the airfield, the place had seemed deserted, silent in the late afternoon sun. He hadn’t been surprised: the airport itself hadn’t reopened while the ASA was in charge and he doubted there was much of any value left after the winter to draw anyone else out here. But though the doors to grandpa’s hangar had complained alarmingly as he’d slid them open, the light flooding in had lit up the familiar shape of the Stearman, her red, white and blue paintwork only a little dulled by a light coating of dust.
A quick duck around to the fuel tank at the back of the hangar had provided an equally satisfactory sight: the gauge indicated the tank was half full. Jake had guessed everyone—himself included—had forgotten about Grandpa’s stash when they’d been looking for fuel last winter, but Grandpa had always had his own fuel delivered. He’d said he didn’t have time to wait around for some spotty kid from Murthy’s to deign to answer the phone and come out from the gas station to pump fuel from the airfield’s supply. Jake had silently saluted his grandfather’s impatience as he turned back to the plane. Running a loving hand over the flaps on the nearest wing, he’d suddenly felt happier than he had in days.
Finding the plane had, of course, only been the first step. As he’d worked on her for the rest of the afternoon, until it grew too dark to see, making sure she could fly again, he’d considered the other items he’d need. The cameras had been easy enough: when he’d finally trudged wearily back to the ranch, he’d found Grandpa’s Kodaks—almost as old as Jake himself—stashed in the basement. But though the cameras and lenses, and even a supply of batteries for the winder, had been carefully packed away in their cases, alongside the enlarger and the pile of wartime blackout material that Grandpa used to rig up a temporary darkroom in the cellar, there was no sign of chemicals or paper; Jake reckoned his parents must have thrown anything like that out when they’d tidied the place after Grandpa’s death. No film either. And though Gracie’s had once sold film, along with pretty much else, Jake had reckoned asking Dale probably wouldn’t help; even if he did have a stash from before the bombs, it’d all be color. Jake could hardly ask Hoffman if he minded them taking a quick trip to the photo lab in Rogue River that, before the September attacks, had picked up film and dropped off prints weekly at Gracie’s.
But there was one person in Jericho that might have just what Jake needed. Bracing himself to have to listen to a long tirade about how President Tomarchio and the rest of the ASA government are all aliens, you know. That’s why they’re trying to take over the country. I said so all along and I was right, Jake had headed off the next morning to the warren of decrepit winnebagos and jacked-up trailers on the south side of town that Oliver Adams called home.
He did, indeed, have to listen to Oliver’s ramblings, but they’d secured him a half dozen rolls of black and white film, a box of all the chemicals he needed and several unopened packets of paper. He’d also had to promise, once the ASA ‘aliens’ had been defeated and sent packing back to their home planet, to take Oliver up in a plane to photograph a number of ‘UFO landing sites’ supposedly in the area. Jake had thought it would be a small price to pay once things were back to normal. Assuming things ever did get that way and they were both alive to see it.
Pleased with his stash, Jake had hurried back to the airfield and stowed the chemicals in a cool, dark corner, before turning his attention to finishing servicing the plane—and figuring where and how to fix the cameras in place, how to trigger the shutter release from the cockpit, and how high he’d need to fly, and how slowly, to be able to get a complete picture of the ground below, since he’d have just thirty six frames in each camera to play with.
With everything in place at last, Jake had pulled the chocks away, climbed into the cockpit, strapped himself in and fired up the engine. She’d chattered sweetly, if noisily, to him as he’d taxied out of the hangar and headed for the end of the runway. A rush of exhilaration had surged through him as he felt the familiar vibration of the engine through the stick.
Reaching the end of the runway, he halted, taking a moment to check the oil and temperature gauges again and test the flaps a final time. Pulling his goggles down and settling them over his eyes, he took a deep breath, relishing the knot of excitement in his stomach, and opened the throttle. A few seconds later, he was airborne, the airfield dropping away below and behind him.
He climbed quickly, wanting to be well out of range of anything Hoffman’s patrols could throw at him by the time he crossed their lines. He’d taken off heading south, and he decided to carry on in that direction. He’d start his circuit once he was a mile or so past where he reckoned Hoffman’s patrol lines and checkpoints were, and head east first: Hoffman seemed to have his main camp—and that meant probably most of his supply lines—to the north-east, toward New Bern; best to see if he could photograph that area first, in case he had to skedaddle back to town in a hurry.
He pushed away any thought of what Hoffman might send after him—he’d worry about that when it happened—and concentrated on checking the altimeter until he reached his planned cruising height and could level off. A quick glance over the side of the cockpit told him he probably had a couple more miles before he needed to make the turn. The sun was beating down on his neck and his shirt clung to his back with sweat, but he didn’t mind: the clear, bright light would help the photographs come out as well as they were going to. He was relying on the speed of the shutter and film to minimize any camera shake.
A couple of minutes later and several more glances downward to check his position and Jake had made the turn. Once the plane was leveled out again, he slowed her as much as he dared without the risk of stalling. Then, holding her steady with one hand on the stick, he groped with his other hand for one of the remote leads he’d fed into the cockpit and pressed the button.
He couldn’t hear the click of the shutter or the sound of the motor drive winding on over the noise of the engine and the air rushing past him, but he had to trust his jury-rigged system was working. With the button pressed, he began to count under his breath, even as he angled the plane slightly to take him in a wide circle around the town. Letting go of the remote for the camera attached to the right wing and transferring his grip on the stick, he reached for the remote on the other side of the cockpit. He’d decided to alternate between the cameras: more chance of getting something usable for the whole circuit than trusting first to one and then the other. Still counting, he went on checking the altimeter and airspeed indicator, in between quick peeks at the ground. When he estimated enough time had passed, he clicked the remote button for the other camera.
He was almost halfway round the circuit, keeping an eye out for the arrow-straight line of Route 6 heading north, when he finally noticed a new noise, barely audible at first. Twisting his neck, he caught sight of two small dots a little to one side of his six, growing rapidly larger as they sped toward him. Silently, he cursed. He’d been expecting it; he’d just hoped to have longer.
He wondered if he could manage another picture, but a second glance showed him that, damn, whatever Hoffman was sending to check him out, they were closing fast.
Dropping the camera lead he’d been holding, he put both hands on the stick and banked sharply, turning toward the center of town. Another look told him his pursuers had followed the move, angling to intercept him. They were close enough now for him to see they were Apaches, possibly the same two that had flown over the town the previous day. He wondered if they’d follow him in once he’d crossed Beck’s patrol lines. Probably.
He banked again, angling away from the town on the horizon so he could circle it and reach the airfield without flying over any of the more populated areas. The change in direction brought him closer to the Apaches, but it wasn’t as if he could outrun them anyway. Best he could hope for was to set down and grab the cameras before they decided to blast him to bits.
For a second he contemplated trying to set down quickly in the fields below, but he knew they weren’t nearly as flat and smooth as they looked. His best option was still to head back to the airfield.
Another glance over his shoulder showed him one of the Apaches was hanging back, but the other was closing fast, coming up on his right side. It slowed as it reached him, drawing alongside. He could see the pilot turning his head to look at him. After a moment, the pilot tapped his helmet, and Jake realized he was probably trying to hail him on the radio. Not that Jake would have wanted to respond anyway, but he couldn’t: he hadn’t bothered to dig out a radio headset before he took off. After all, who would he have needed to talk to, without a functioning tower at the airfield?
Jake shook his head. After a moment, the pilot gestured to their left and down. Jake guessed that meant he wanted Jake to set down on the far side of Hoffman’s lines. He shook his head again, and again when the pilot repeated the gesture more vigorously. Jake was reminded of the flight to Texas; he doubted Texas ANG would be turning up to save him this time, though. Taking another quick look down, he tried to figure how far he was from the airfield and how much longer it would take him to reach it.
Next to him, the Apache zoomed forward, outpacing him, before swinging around maybe half a mile ahead and hovering directly in front of the Stearman. A check on the other Apache showed it was steaming up behind him to take station where the first had been. Looked like they were planning on playing a game of Chicken and forcing him to change direction if he didn’t want to end up in a mid-air collision. Well, he was damned if he was going to let them push him around.
His hands and feet moved automatically, and the Stearman responded as he knew she would, climbing until she was vertical. And then on, ground and sky changing places, the straps digging into his shoulders as they took his weight, before he rolled and came out straight and level again. Drawing in a deep breath as he steadied the plane, he took the time to squint over his shoulder, to where the two Apaches were now scrambling to turn and climb to follow after him.
He let out a whoop of exhilaration—what he would’ve given to see those pilots’ faces—before he sobered, realizing he was now heading away from the airfield again. And it wasn’t as if he stood much chance of shaking the Apaches: they were faster and more maneuverable than the Stearman, and the old girl wasn’t capable of pulling too many stunts. The best he could do was hope to dodge and weave enough that he could keep heading roughly where he wanted to go and not where they wanted to herd him.
One of the Apache’s had taken up station above him, preventing him from doubling back with another Immelmann turn. The other was in front of him and a little to one side, clearly trying to herd him back out into ASA territory. Gritting his teeth, Jake pushed the plane into a slip, working the flaps one way and the rudder the other so that that plane abruptly lost height and he could dart under the Apache before it had a chance to react. Coming out of the slip as the shadow of the Apache passed over him, he began to turn back toward Jericho, losing even more height as he banked, his muscles bunching as he pushed on the stick and encouraged the old girl round.
The ground was a hell of a lot closer now, but he was still well above the tops of the trees that were sparsely scattered across the landscape, and he was heading back toward the airfield again. As for the Apaches—.
Something smacked into the fuselage a few feet behind him. What the—? The impact was followed by a half a dozen more blows in quick succession that shuddered through the Stearman’s frame. Jake barely had time to think, Oh, crap, they’re shooting at me, before the plane lurched and began to lose more height, no longer reacting to his touch the way she had been.
Instinctively, he worked the pedals, but there was no response and he knew the rudder was gone, though he didn’t have time to take a look and check. Probably one or both the elevators were damaged, too: the nose simply didn’t want to come up, no matter how hard he fought with the stick to level her out.
Still trying to gain height, he peered forward, knowing he now had next to no choice about where he was going to put down down. Best he could hope for was to avoid hitting anything, keep the wings as level as he could, and try not to come down too hard when he did crash.
As the ground rushed toward him, he comforted himself that at least he’d be putting down in Jericho territory. Things could be worse. If not by much….
A couple of miles away, Beck had jammed his binoculars back to his eyes, focusing on the plane. It was close enough that he could see the tail had been shredded.
At his side, he was aware Heather had wrapped her arms around herself. “Is he—?” She didn’t finish the question, maybe not wanting to give voice to her fears and make them real.
Beck watched for a moment longer and then let out the breath he’d been holding when he saw the wings steady and the nose come up a little, if too little: the plane was still on a shallow downward trajectory. It looked like Jake was probably okay, though the plane clearly wasn’t. “I think it’s just the plane,” he answered absently, sweeping the binoculars to the left and trying to figure out how much chance Jake had of putting down safely. The land ahead seemed to be mostly open farmland. He just hoped for Jake’s sake that his piloting skills when it came to unplanned landings were as good as his aerial acrobatics.
For Heather’s sake, too. Lowering the binoculars and turning toward the humvee, he took in the horrified look on her face as she stood frozen, staring out across the fields at the rapidly descending plane.
“Come on.” He took her by the elbow to hustle her back toward the humvee. If Jake didn’t make it out of the crash, and even if he did, it probably wasn’t something she needed to see.
She resisted the tug of his hand for a second and then seemed to come out of the trance she was in. Turning her head and meeting his gaze, she nodded and let him steer her toward the vehicle. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the plane was only a hundred feet or so above the ground now.
He still had his hand on her arm to make sure she got into the humvee when he heard the sound of the crash echoing across the fields: a loud bang followed by the grind and squeal of tearing metal. He felt her flinch and she started to try and get out again, but he said “Don’t” and pushed her back into place, slamming the door on her. Climbing into his own seat, he was relieved to see there was no sign of smoke above where the plane had crashed.
“Corporal.” He gestured ahead; there was no need to give the rest of the order. As the humvee lurched off, he reached for the radio. “Ops, this is Major Beck. Contact City Hall and tell them to send a fire truck and an ambulance out about two miles past the Tacoma Bridge. Exact location to follow. Possibility of one casualty, condition unknown.”
Jake, eyes closed, drew in a long deep breath and relished the silence that had descended once the cropduster finally came to a halt. Slowly, he unclenched his hands from their grip on the stick and wriggled his toes. Somewhat to his amazement, he appeared to be in one piece. He doubted the plane had been quite so lucky.
Opening his eyes confirmed what his body had told him: the plane was listing at a slight angle. Turning his head a little, he saw the end of the left wing had been been ripped away, the sheared off stump digging into the ground. He dragged off his goggles and fumbled to release the straps that held him in his seat so he could twist round further: behind him, a deep furrow marked one edge of a long curving swath of smashed corn shoots stretching to the rear of the plane. He guessed the landing gear must’ve caught on something a few yards after he touched down and then—.
He shrugged. It didn’t really matter. The old girl had stood up well enough. Easing himself out of the cockpit—God, he was gonna ache tomorrow—he chuckled at the memory of his grandfather proudly declaring that if you hit a barn in her, the barn’d come off worse. Though he knew he was going to eventually have time to regret smashing the plane up beyond repair, the important thing right now was whether the cameras had also survived the crash.
Slithering to the ground, he leaned against the fuselage for support and got a good look at the tail for the first time. The rudder was as mangled as he’d expected, while a scattering of bullet holes marked the fuselage. Raking his eyes over them, he cursed when he spotted fluid leaking from one of them. His brain finally acknowledged the frantic messages his nose had been sending for the past couple of minutes about being able to smell avgas. Looked like a bullet had caught the fuel tank.
Pushing himself away from the plane, he slapped at the fuselage in frustration but consoled himself with the thought that, as the plane hadn’t caught fire so far, there was a good chance he’d be okay for a few more minutes. He still needed to move quickly, though. Ignoring his complaining muscles, he ducked down so he could slide under the wing and reach the camera on that side. He was glad now that the length of the remote leads had forced him to fix the cameras close in to the body of the plane; the one on this wing hung just a few inches above the churned-up ground, but it seemed to have escaped any damage. Wriggling onto his side, he dug in the pocket of his hoodie for the spanner he’d stowed there before he took off and began to work on the nuts that held the camera in place. He tried not to think about the avgas still seeping from the plane and the possibility of it coming into contact with the hot metal of the engine.
He was half done with the fixings on the first camera when he noticed sirens, distant at first but getting closer. Tilting his head so he could peer toward where he knew a dirt road ran along the edge of the field, he saw a fire truck with an ambulance behind it approaching from one direction, while a humvee sped towards them from the other. Shaking his head at all the fuss, Jake turned his attention back to getting the camera free. He was just pulling it loose when he heard Eric calling his name.
“I’m here,” he yelled back. Holding the camera close to his chest, he shuffled out from under the wing and sat up. Eric, at the head of what seemed to be a small crowd, was jogging toward him. The smell of avgas suddenly seemed much stronger to Jake, making him feel a little dizzy. Holding tightly to the camera with one hand, he waved his other arm frantically. “Stay back!” he ordered. “There’s a fuel leak.”
“Jake!” Eric sounded both relieved and cross and, despite Jake’s warning, picked up his pace, stumbling a little on the rough ground as he ran toward the plane.
“I said keep back!” Jake scrambled to his feet. Behind Eric, most of the others had halted, but a couple of the fire truck’s crew, wearing yellow jackets and carrying extinguishers, were still heading toward him. Cursing silently, Jake hurried around to the far side of the plane, determined to rescue the second camera before the fire crew had a chance to spray it with god knows what and ruin the film.
When he reached the far side, he found the right wing was tilted up enough that he only had to kneel to be able to reach the second camera. He put the first camera down on the ground in front of him and began to work on the nuts that held the other camera in place.
“Jake!” Eric had followed him around the plane. “You need to—.”
“Not without the cameras.” Jake had gotten one nut loose and he let it fall into the grass. He jerked his head at the far side of the plane. “Fuel leak’s on the other side. They need CO2—”
“They know.” Eric cut him off, sounding irritated. “What cameras? What are you talking about? Come on, Jake. You need to get away from the plane. Now.” Jake could feel Eric hovering behind him and he suspected his brother was deciding whether to try and drag him away by brute force.
The second nut came loose. “I got pictures. Or at least I hope I did.” Oh god, he hoped he’d gotten something out of all of this.
“You—?” Eric was silent for a moment, and then he said, his voice rising in pitch. “Are you goddamn crazy?”
“Probably.” Jake shrugged slightly as the third nut came free. Eric had a point. Steadying the camera and taking its weight with his left hand, he worked on the final nut. At last the camera came away from the mount. Shoving the spanner back in his pocket, he reached down for the other camera. Holding them tightly, he got to his feet and turned back toward Eric. “Okay, let’s go.”
Eric nodded, looking relieved. He held out a hand to help Jake, but Jake waved it away. “I’m okay.” He rounded the front of the plane, where the other two fire crew—Gary and Carl; Jake recognized the anxious faces under the helmets—still waited. At a nod from Eric, they moved forward and began spraying foam over the plane and the grass around it.
Eric himself stuck by Jake’s side as Jake headed toward the group of vehicles at the side of the field. Making sure he got there, Jake supposed.
They were still a dozen yards from the road when Jake saw Beck detach himself from the crowd gathered around the vehicles and stride toward them. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” Jake didn’t think he’d ever seen Beck look so angry, not even the night he stopped Eric and the others from heading to New Bern.
Jake halted and smirked down at the shorter man, feeling the comforting weight of the cameras clutched to his chest. “Getting you the intelligence you wanted.”
Beck’s gaze fell to the cameras. His lips tightened and he was silent for a moment, before he looked back up at Jake’s face. Taking a step closer, he caught Jake’s eye and held it. “You do realize you could have provoked Hoffman into a response against the town?” He spoke more quietly than before, but it was evident he was still just as angry, and that Jake’s explanation hadn’t impressed him in the least. “That we’re all damn lucky he decided it didn’t merit anything more than a couple of Apaches?”
“Well, he didn’t, did he?” Jake shot back. “Everyone’s fine.”
Beck’s gaze narrowed. “This time. But you don’t get to make those decisions, Jake. You are not in charge here.”
“Neither are you,” Jake returned his glare.
Beck’s expression grew even grimmer. “No. That would be Mayor Anderson and your brother. So I’ll leave them to explain to you just how irresponsible your actions are and how your recklessness is endangering the lives of everyone in this town.” Wheeling on his heel, Beck strode back toward the humvee.
Jake snorted. “A thank you would be nice,” he muttered mulishly, before he turned at Eric’s touch on his elbow.
“Come on, Jake.” Eric gestured toward the ambulance. “Let’s get you to the Med Center and get you checked over. They’ll be plenty enough time for us to, uh, ‘discuss’ what you did later.”
Heather hovered in the doorway of the interview room, watching Edward for a moment as he examined one of the photographs Jake had taken. There’d been a whole group of them in there until a few minutes earlier: Edward and Jake, of course, and Eric and Lieutenant Goodman, along with Colonel Davies and Chavez. Jake had laid the photographs out on a map spread on the table and there’d been a lot of pointing and picking up individual photographs and asking questions and answering them. It had all seemed very amicable, even if Jake had worn a very smug expression the whole time.
Heather quietly rapped on the door. Edward looked up with a start and then smiled at her, laying down the photograph he’d been holding. “Heather. What can I do for you?”
She took a step into the room. “I wanted to let you know I spoke to Mrs Dawson at the Library this morning. She’d be happy to arrange a bookmobile for the camp. So if you could send someone to talk to her….”
“I’ll get Lieutenant McCoy on it.” Edward dipped his head at her. “Thank you.”
Heather smiled back at him, realizing how much she liked it when she could provide these small moments of support. He had so many problems weighing him down that she couldn’t do anything about at all—no one could. “And I brought you this.” She held out the book she was carrying.
He took it and turned it round. “Middlemarch?”
She blushed. “I thought, you know, if you liked Les Miserables, you’d like this. It’s sort of historical and has politics as well and, well, I didn’t know if you’d read it before, but—.”
“I have.” He gently interrupted her with a smile. “But not for a long time. I shall enjoy re-reading it. Thank you.”
He went on smiling at her, apparently in no hurry to get back to examining the photographs. But Heather needed to know—. “So, were they useful? The pictures?” She gestured toward them.
“Yes.” Edward perched on the edge of the table, putting down the book and picking up one of the prints. “Surprisingly so. Some of them don’t show much, but even that’s useful to know. And some of them are extremely useful.”
“Oh, that’s good!” Heather unconsciously took another step toward him, twisting her hands together. “I didn’t want to think that Jake had… you know, that he’d almost gotten himself killed for nothing.”
“Not at all.” Edward fiddled with the edge of the photo, looking down at it but, Heather suspected, not really seeing it. “It was still very foolish of him, but the results did justify running some risk. I just wish we could get more.”
“Oh, good.” Heather paused, thinking a little more about what Edward had just said. She frowned. “Umm, you didn’t tell Jake that, did you?” When Edward looked up at her, eyebrows raised questioningly, she elaborated, “I know he smashed up the cropduster, but it’s not the only plane at the airfield and if he thought….” She left the sentence unfinished, her mind shying away from the idea of Jake risking his life like that again. She doubted he’d be so lucky a second time.
Edward shook his head. “No. I didn’t tell him that. Just that these were extremely useful.” He gave a slight shrug. “I had the same thought myself. That he might try again. And for all I’d like more intelligence, it wouldn’t be a good way to go about it. It’s putting too many lives at risk.” He shook his head, his expression rueful. “I never fully appreciated before what kind of backing the rest of the Army gave me. How spoiled I was.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Heather gave him a nod of encouragement.
“Yes, we will.” He dipped his head at her. “But thank you for the book,” he put his hand on it, “and for the news from the library. I’ll talk to Lieutenant McCoy when I get back to camp.”
Heather recognized he was bringing the conversation to a close, though something about his manner told her he’d like to stay chatting as much as she would. But they were both busy: a pile of other tasks awaited her at her desk, and she still needed to go over to the High School and talk about the troops using the gym sometimes. With a nod, she left him and headed back out into the main office.
Later, on her way over to the school, she found herself thinking about how else the Army got its intelligence. She was, she realized, casting about for ways to prevent Jake taking Edward’s enthusiasm for the intelligence as a license to take another plane up. If he didn’t have to do that….
There were satellites, of course, and Colonel Davies had promised to see what he could do through his superiors in San Antonio. But didn’t the Army also have model planes that they took pictures with? Maybe she and Jake could build something like that between them?
Working with Jake would be hard, of course, for lots of reasons, some of which she didn’t want to think about too closely. She’d discovered that over the past few days. But if it kept him safe, it would be worth it, wouldn’t it? At the very least, it might keep him from taking up another plane for a while.
Jake ignored a faint knocking sound coming from somewhere above him in the house and transferred the photo from the fixer into wash tray. Enough of the pictures he’d taken had turned out sufficiently well for Beck to eventually admit grudgingly that they’d be very useful—and would Jake please be able to provide a second set of prints with increased contrast, as well as enlargements of parts of some of them? The photo he’d just blown up showed a group of soldiers clustered round some kind of heavy artillery.
As he swirled the print in the water, the knocking came again, this time accompanied by a woman nervously calling, “Jake?”
He recognized Heather’s voice. Turning his head while he went on rinsing the print, he called back “Hang on. I’m in the basement.”
By the time he’d hung the print up to dry, checked the packet of paper was tightly sealed and pulled back the blackout material that formed his temporary darkroom, Heather had found her way inside and made it halfway down the basement stairs.
“Hey.” She twisted her hands together as she gave him a shy smile.
He nodded at her, letting the blackout cloth fall back behind him. His still sore muscles protested the movement and he winced. Heather must have noticed because she said anxiously, “You’re still hurt?”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t feel quite as rough as he had the day after the crash, but he still felt like someone had given him a good kicking all over. He crossed his arms and turned his head away. “You come to yell at me as well?”
She was about the only person so far who hadn’t expressed disapproval in some way of what he’d done. Eric had started in on the way to the Med Center and his mom after he’d gotten there, while Gray had weighed in once Kenchy had checked Jake over and pronounced no permanent damage. Then his mom had had another go at him when he’d refused to come back to the town house and insisted on returning to the ranch on his own. He might have given in if he hadn’t caught sight of Emily hovering at the other end of the hallway. He knew she’d be worrying about him and that she just wanted to take care of him, but the thought of being fussed over by her brought the same sense of panic clawing at his throat that he’d felt every time he’d seen her in the past few days. Coming back to the town house wouldn’t do either of them any favors.
He’d gone a second round with Eric the morning after. At least, in between the stern lectures about how Jake had to work with everyone else and not just do what he wanted, he’d told Jake he’d be rostering him onto a patrol—once Jake was fully recovered from the crash. Meanwhile, when Jake wasn’t printing photos, Dale could do with some more advice on figuring out how to bring in supplies.
But Jake had to admit that Beck, for one, had been as good as his word and not said anything following his initial outburst. He still couldn’t like the man, but he had to respect him a little for that.
“Actually, no.” Heather’s words drew Jake from his memories; she sounded faintly amused, as if she could tell what he’d been thinking. Looking back up at her, he saw she’d taken another step down the stairs, putting her hand on the rail. “I came to make a suggestion.”
“That I stay out of trouble?” He quirked an eyebrow at her
That made her chuckle. “I’m not sure that’s possible.” She tilted her head. “But if you could try not to get yourself killed, I… uh, we’d all be a lot happier.” She took another step down the stairs toward him and said with sudden intensity. “Jericho needs you, Jake. Just because we need Ed—uh, Major Beck right now doesn’t mean we don’t need you as well. Just as much as always.”
Jake snorted faintly. Despite Eric having finally involved him properly in what was going on in town, he wasn’t so sure about that as she seemed to be.
She took a deep breath. “Anyway, I was thinking. The photographs you took.” She gestured toward the makeshift darkroom. “Umm, while the way you went about it maybe… wasn’t the best, I do know Major Beck’s really grateful for what you managed to get. So I was thinking about how we could maybe get some more. But without the being shot at and crashing part, you know? So I was thinking… don’t the Army use some kind of remote control plane for that sort of stuff?”
“UAVs?” Jake took a step sideways and sat down on a nearby crate, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Yeah, but I’m guessing Beck’s not got any, or he’d have used them already.”
“Right.” Heather plopped down on the stairs, drawing her knees up and resting her arms on them. “But I thought maybe we could build one. Or two. Or, you know, lots!”
Jake blinked at her in surprise. She tilted her head, giving him an encouraging smile while he tried to absorb the idea. At last, slowly, trying not to squash her enthusiasm, he said, “That’s a pretty complicated bit of kit.”
“I know.” She nodded, her face still bright with excitement. “But I was thinking about how one of the kids in my class, Lucas, had a remote control helicopter. Which probably got fried by the bombs, but, you know, maybe we can figure out how to fix it? And how to fix a camera to it so we can take pictures. Your Colonel Davies might be able to help us get some of the parts we need from Texas….”
“I guess.” Jake wasn’t so sure Texas was going to be much help with anything. “So why are you telling me all this?”
Heather gave him one of those don’t-be-so-slow looks. “Well, I know a lot about engines and stuff like that, but I’m pretty clueless when it comes to planes. So I, umm, was kinda hoping you’d be willing to work with me on it. I mean,” she suddenly sat upright, wrapping her arms around her, her expression dimming, “you know, if you want to. If it wouldn’t be too much bother. When you haven’t got anything else better to—.”
“I’d like that.” Jake cut across her babbling. Now he’d had time to think about it, it wasn’t a bad idea to at least try. And he and Heather had made a good team, the past few days, with the turbines. Before that, too, right after the bombs, when they’d gotten gas and she’d nearly helped him fix the ventilation system for the Med Center fallout shelter. She was good to be around. He found himself smiling back her. “Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”