One Year After: A Novel Read online

  It was Don Barber’s old Aeronca L-3B World War II recon bird, fully restored. The plane had served as the crucial all-seeing eyes of their community in the months after the Day. With no electronics in it whatsoever, to start it, one had to pump an old-fashioned primer, with a brave soul out front grabbing hold of the propeller and throwing it to bring the engine to life. The plane had played a crucial role in first monitoring the approach of the Posse, providing recon on their attack deployment and flanking moves up Swannanoa Gap. Against strict orders, Don had tried to provide close air support during the battle by dropping pipe bombs, and he was shot down. Don was killed, and the canvas-fabric plane burned, one entire wing gone. And he had assumed, as had everyone else, that it was a write-off.

  Rare indeed was the private plane that had survived the Day and the chaos afterward, but there were still more than a few old pilots alive who, like any pilot, felt only half alive if he didn’t get his hands on a plane on a regular basis. Billy Tyndall was such a pilot, and Maury Hurt, the owner of the WWII-era Jeep—though not a pilot—was a master mechanic with equipment from that war. They were joined by Danny Mullen, an airplane mechanic from the Vietnam era who had serviced B-52s, who said if you work on one plane, you just get a feel for any type of plane. They had hauled the wreckage back to an abandoned warehouse by the Ingrams’ market. They scrounged up tools, canvas, and even spruce spars from the garage of old man Quinten, who had been working on a homebuilt plane but had died from heart failure in the first weeks after the start of things.

  Now, two years and a couple of thousand man-hours later, she was ready for her checkout flight. The paint job was army green, taken from Maury’s workshop, with the original touch of white and black stripes from aircraft that had flown on D-day. They towed the plane up to the interstate as their landing strip, the test postponed for several days until finally dawn revealed clear skies and no wind.

  It had become a source of concern for John that word might leak beyond Black Mountain that they were rebuilding a plane, and he made sure, as best as he could, that all were sworn to secrecy as to what was going on in “hangar one.” It was something Dale had not picked up on during his visit, and John was pleased that the hangar crowd had kept their mouths shut.

  The alleged secret project was now public when they towed the plane out of its hangar. Word rapidly spread that the big day was at hand, and several hundred spectators had come down to watch and definitely pray.

  The team who labored so hard for this moment now stood in a tight circle, quietly arguing about the next step. Danny, Maury, and a couple of others who had flown were saying that Billy should just stick to what was called “crow hopping,” getting a few feet off the ground and then gliding back to a landing.

  “It’s the way the FAA used to insist upon it being done,” someone said.

  Billy sighed. “There ain’t no FAA anymore.”

  There was a time when one mentioned the FAA and most pilots started to mutter under their breath, but at that moment, there were no certified inspectors to check the work, no professional pilots to take on the risky job of the first test flight. This was yet another throwback to a long, long time ago when those who wanted to reach the clouds built a plane in their barns from some basic designs in an old magazine, rolled it out, said a prayer, and took off.

  “Look, either it flies or it doesn’t. And there’s only one way to find out.”

  The circle around him fell silent. Danny finally extended his hand and patted Billy on the shoulder.

  “Okay, but if you kill yourself, I’m going to be really pissed that you wrecked the plane again.”

  John knew better than to go over and stick his head into it. His own military experience had taught him a way for a colonel to get a royal chewing out from a sergeant was to interrupt a pilot and ground crew during a preflight check.

  Billy’s wife was obviously not happy in the slightest with the entire routine, running up to hug him fiercely before he finally broke loose and climbed into the narrow cockpit. She looked back at John, the gaze conveying that if something went wrong, she would hold him personally responsible.

  Danny went forward, calling to Billy to check that the magnetos were off, and then he turned the prop a dozen rotations to work oil into the pistons and called for three shots of primer.

  Danny now ran down the brief checklist yet again, Billy checking that ailerons, rudder, and elevators were clear and the primer closed. “Mags hot! Contact! Clear prop!”

  Danny threw the propeller downward with his right hand, stepping back to one side and away as he did so, and the engine started to fire up on the very first try. There was backfiring, and black smoke blew out with the exhaust, and it nearly stalled. Billy eased in the throttle. There was more backfiring, and then it settled down to a steady low roar. A cheer erupted from all, John thrilling to the sound of it. Yet another connector back to the world before the Day, coming back into their lives.

  Danny was around to the side of the door on the starboard side of the plane. He pulled it half open and talked with Billy, the engine running up, checking oil pressure and temperature, and switching mags on and off amid the occasional backfire. Dan finally stepped back, latching the door shut. He leaned down low and pulled out the wheel chocks.

  Billy looked over at the crowd with a boyish grin of delight. He had taken to sporting a handlebar mustache and goatee, looking like an aviator of the First World War. He raised his hand and saluted. Dan, John, and Maury, all vets, formally returned the salute.

  Billy revved the engine up, and there was more backfiring and dark smoke exhaust, the aircraft trembling as if eager to be away. Billy looked over at Dan and held up two fingers and then one.

  “Twenty-one hundred RPM,” Maury announced. “Would like a hundred more, but what the hell. He’s got miles of runway ahead of him.”

  Billy released the brakes, and the plane seemed to leap forward as if alive and eager to get back to where she truly belonged, as if the follies of foolish humanity had kept too many planes grounded for far too long.

  Dan was absolutely rigid. “He’s at twenty … twenty-five…” There were a couple more backfires, Dan wincing with each, now cursing steadily.

  The tail of the plane was up, and the plane swerved a few feet off the centerline of the highway.

  “Dance on those pedals, damn it,” Danny snarled.

  And then, ever so gracefully, she was up, leveling off a half a dozen feet above the highway, gaining speed now that she was free of the ground. The crowd cheered and swarmed around Danny and Maury, slapping them on the back, Danny yelling for everyone to get back, still intent on following Billy, who was easing the stick back, beginning to climb, still flying straight and level until nearly out of sight.

  Danny suddenly gasped as Billy pulled the stick back even more and pushed the plane into a turning bank of at least thirty degrees or more.

  “Damn him!” Danny shouted. “Take it easy!”

  Billy continued the turn, banking around, disappearing behind the trees for a moment where the highway curved to the north on the far side of town. There was a moment of silence and then another rousing cheer as he reappeared a hundred or more feet up, flying level and straight back toward them. He came straight on, and then a couple hundred yards out, he nosed over as if going into a dive, leveled off ten feet above the crowd gathered on the highway, and roared over them, everyone now cheering wildly.

  “Stupid son of a bitch. There was a time when he’d lose his license for that dumb trick!” Dan cried, but no one was paying attention; even John was caught up in the moment. Billy continued to climb, and then, in a moment that drew nervous comments from some, he pulled the nose up higher and higher, engine still running full out.

  “Stall check, damn it, not this time, Billy,” Dan whispered. The plane appeared to hang motionless for several seconds, nose pitched high at over forty-five degrees, and then it suddenly dropped, one wing dipping a bit. It leveled out, the throttle cut back to
idle.

  “Keep this damn road cleared!” Danny shouted. “He’s coming in to land. Clear the road!”

  Danny muttered suggestions that only he could hear as the plane drifted down, gliding past where John, Maury, and Danny stood, still up by half a dozen feet.

  “A bit too high, too high,” Danny groaned. “Let her settle, let it settle—don’t flare yet.”

  Still several feet off the ground, the plane appeared to just fall, bouncing hard, tires squealing in protest. The plane bounced back up several feet.

  “Don’t fight it!” Danny shouted. “Just let her settle!”

  The plane leveled off, the nose a bit high again, easing down a hundred yards farther on. With two small puffs of white smoke from the tires and a slight swerve to port side, it straightened out and then rolled to a stop.

  Billy hit hard rudder, turning the plane around, taxiing back the several hundred yards to where the crowd waited expectantly and then shut the engine down. He had the door open and was grinning like a kid, the way so many pilots grinned after a flight and a safe landing.

  “Damn you!” Maury and Dan shouted at the same time, launching into separate tirades about taking off in the first place, pulling such a sharp bank, going for a power-on stall, and the bounced landing. Billy just stood there smiling, taking it in.

  “She flies, and she’s a beauty,” was all he said before finally lapsing into a review. He suggested that the replacement wing was most likely causing the plane to yaw to the left, the fabric under the starboard wing was fluttering, and he couldn’t get the engine up above 2,200 RPM even when flying straight and level, but he did apologize for the sloppy landing—it had been well over two years since he had last flown.

  “We have an air force,” John said with a smile, looking over at Reverend Black. “Guess I should get back home and get ready to find out what the hell is really going on in Asheville.”

  * * *

  “The meal was excellent, thank you,” Makala said politely, sliding her chair back slightly and putting her napkin on the table.

  John had been filled with barely contained excitement for most of the day because of the successful test flight, trying not to think too much about the meeting with Fredericks. He had taken a cold bath, plunging into the creek to clean up. Jen, still the matriarch of the house, had laid out his one good set of slacks and blue dress shirt, but he refused to wear a blazer. It might work for Fredericks but not for him. Makala had carefully shaved him, noting with disapproval that his cheek appeared to be swelling from the bad tooth. She reminded him that with the effects of the concussion clearing up, it was time for a visit to the dentist.

  For John, this ritual of dressing up almost felt like they were going out on a date rather than a meeting that would most likely decide their futures. Following their routine of her driving while he kept careful watch—this time with a twelve gauge laid across his lap—they made their way to Asheville. He insisted the two of them take this trip alone; having his guards waiting outside just struck him as wrong.

  Dale nodded his thanks for her compliment regarding dinner. “Amazing this long-term survival food that was being sold before the Day,” Dale said. “I thank heavens FEMA thought to buy up a billion rations before things went bad—beef stroganoff that tastes almost as good as I remember it once being and strawberries that you just add water to and chill.”

  “What we would have given for just a couple thousand of these after the Day,” Makala said quietly, looking over at John.

  John looked to Dale, wondering if he was picking up on his wife’s barely veiled rebuke.

  “So where did these come from?” she asked.

  “I managed to get two hundred thousand rations on order. They’re shipping them in now.”

  “Oh? From where?” Makala asked.

  Dale smiled. “I really wish I could tell you that, Makala, but it is still one of those classified things for now.” Dale stood up from the table, which was set up in a private side room to the courthouse dining hall, and he motioned for the door. “Let’s head over to my office where we can relax and talk a little business.”

  “I think I’ll take a walk around town while you two have your meeting,” Makala announced.

  “Mind if I have one of my security people tag along?” Dale offered. “Asheville is secure, but after dark, we still do have a problem now and again. And with you dressed as nicely as you are and obviously a bit better fed than most, it might be a concern.”

  A bit better fed. John caught that one and wondered if it was a veiled insult. More than a few who had supposedly been running Asheville until the army arrived had obviously been more than “a bit better fed.” Most had disappeared when the army commander started to inquire into exactly how the city was managed after the Day, fleeing to God knows where in several well-stocked vehicles. Rumor was they had run afoul of a reivers community in the highlands along the South Carolina border, and no one expressed regret as to whatever their fate had been.

  “I can take care of myself,” Makala replied as she reached into her purse and drew out a hammerless .38 revolver.

  Dale looked at the gun, a bit surprised, and then he sighed. “I hate to remind you, but in the future, weapons really should be checked at the door when you come in the building. We’re trying to reestablish some rules, Mrs. Matherson.”

  “Oh, but of course. Sorry. I just plain forgot.” Without further comment, she was out the door and heading for the exit.

  John just smiled.

  “She’s an interesting woman, John. Bet there is a tough side to her beneath all that charm.”

  “There’s a tough side to any of us who survived out here,” John replied, still smiling.

  There was silence as they headed to Dale’s office, the foyer dimly illuminated by a single fluorescent bulb overhead. Once into the office, Dale closed the door and threw the light switch, the fluorescent lights overhead winking on, a gesture that startled John a bit. For months after the Day, nearly everyone at times, when walking into a dark room, fumbled for the light switch and then stood there confused for a few seconds before reaching for a precious match to light a kerosene lamp—if they still had any fuel left—or just settling down into the darkness. The casual reality of just flicking a light switch was startling.

  “We do run a little power at night to keep our communications gear online, and the fluorescent bulbs only burn a couple of dozen watts. It’s a luxury you are not used to, I know.”

  What happened next really put John off balance. Dale sat down at his desk, reached to a cupboard behind him, and pulled out a real bottle of prewar scotch. Without asking, he took out two tumblers, pouring a couple of ounces into each and handed one to John.

  “To the restored United States of America,” Dale said solemnly, raising his glass, and John could not help but follow. Memory of old traditions of the officers’ mess on formal occasions hit John, with toasts to the republic, the president, and whoever might be an honored guest.

  John sipped the scotch and let out a sigh of pleasure. He had not tasted real twelve-year-old scotch since before the Day. Dale settled back in his chair, loosened his tie, and put his feet up on the desk. “Well, I guess folks down here call this next step ‘time to talk turkey.’”

  “Where you from originally, Dale?”

  “Massachusetts. Why?”

  “I can’t recall a single soul here every saying ‘talk turkey’ when it was time to get down to business.”

  Dale nodded, still smiling. “Thanks for telling me. I know I am seen as an outsider sent in by some distant entity. More than a few around here are grumbling that a local should have been appointed to run this administrative district. But I think you’ll agree with the report sent up by the army commander that was here before me that more than a few in this county office were not up to the job, and others were downright corrupt, taking care of themselves first and the hell with you folks stuck out in the boondocks.”

  “You mean folks like
me in places like Black Mountain, Waynesville, Brevard, and Canton? I could name fifty other towns, if you wish.”

  “Well, yes, places like yours.”

  “In that, I’ll agree. You undoubtedly read the reports. I turned in a few myself to the army. The crew that took over running this city had more than enough food for themselves while the rest of us were on our own. They tried to confiscate what we did have, and when the crap really hit the fan with the murdering gangs, they cut us off, sealed up the highway leading into the city, and just looked out for themselves without offering any help. So, yes, I can understand why some thought it was best to bring in new blood.”

  “Good, I’m glad you see it that way. Thank you.” He extended his hand, which John took, and then he offered a refill of his glass, which John refused. Whether it was going to be talking turkey or down to real business, two ounces was enough, and the glass was not yet drained.

  “John, I’ve been sent here by the federal government to reestablish overall stability to the entire region. My district encompasses all of western North Carolina, down to Interstate 77.”

  “So that includes Charlotte, as well?”

  “Eventually, but Charlotte right now is still a no-man’s-land. The few still living there are considered lawless, and once our strength is secured here, we’ll eventually head down that way to bring things back under control.”

  “Who is we?”

  “That’s a long way off. Right now, I got my hands full just with those border reivers you dealt with last week. John, I’ll be frank. Your town is a model of how to survive and then rebuild, and I’m not blowing smoke at you with that compliment. That’s why the administration up in Bluemont sat up and took notice when I sent in a report with the recommendation you go back into federal service as a major general, and they jumped on it. Your country, our country, needs damn near every skill possible to rebuild. You have those administrative skills, and I’m anxious to hear your decision.” He paused and continued to smile. “I heard there was a bit of an upset meeting yesterday regarding the draft notices.”