Dead Again by George Magnum

memories, but whenever he opened the floodgates, they came rushing in, and it was too hard to stop them. He suddenly had a flash, a hot day in June, a day with his father, the two of them blueberry picking. His father had thought it would be a good way to teach him about the great outdoors, to teach him fortitude, to show him the labor that real farmers went through. So instead of the leisurely outing that other fathers and sons had, Peterson’s Dad made him stay out there all day, hour after hour. Ten hours later, Peterson’s skin was burned badly, he was dehydrated, covered in bug bites, and his fingers, bleeding, hurt so bad, he could barely open them for days. What upset Peterson most, though, were the images of little brother. He was weaker, and more sensitive, an easier target, so his father bullied him somewhat horrible. Remembering his little brother crying, sometimes days at a time, racked Peterson with guilt. He wished he could have protected him. That was his father.
    “Sir?” came Tag’s voice again.
    Peterson snapped out of it.
    “Keep heading east,” Peterson said. “See that smokestack on the horizon? That’s Trenton. There’s a small local airport about four miles east of here. Set down there. It’s close, and small, and if things get hairy, it will be easier to defend ourselves.”
    Peterson went back to his seat, sat down, and checked all of his guns for the third time today. They were well-polished, locked and loaded, the alignment perfect, the action easy. He felt that itchy feeling in his fingers, which he always did when he knew a battle was coming. He tensed up and looked down at the ground.
    He couldn’t wait.
     

 
     
    CHAPTER NINE
     
     
    The beeping noise of the fuel gauge grew louder as the chopper’s blades slowed and it descended for the rural airfield. It was just where Peterson said it would be. And, as he predicted, it was empty.
    It was the right decision. Peterson kept glancing at the fuel gauge, and noticed it had dropped, in just the last few minutes, to close to empty. They wouldn’t have made it to the military base if they’d tried. And landing in someone’s backyard would have been a hell of a lot worse.
    Peterson kept trying his technology—his secure line, his two-way, his relay headset—but nothing was working. He’d woken all the others, too, with a rough push to their shoulders, and had ordered them all to check their devices as well.
    But no one was having any luck.
    As their chopper descended, Peterson felt a sense of relief. At least it was a controlled landing. He only prayed that the airfield’s fuel tanks hadn’t been tapped. This bird needed a lot of gas.
    Still, as the chopper descended lower and lower, as they came down within 200 feet, then 100, then 50, there was something about this place that Peterson did not like. It was too exposed. Too close to the woods. And the woods were too thick, too deep. And there were too many outbuildings. Right now, everything seemed quiet. There were none of those things walking around down there. And that was good. But still, there were a dozen places from which they could be ambushed, and just too many angles. They’d have to hit the gas tanks quick and get out.
    “No delays!” Peterson barked in a loud voice, as the chopper neared the ground. “No wandering off, no piss breaks. I want us back in the air in 10 minutes. Understood?”
    “YES, SIR!” came the chorus of voices.
    The chopper touched down, landing on the overgrown grass, about 10 feet from the pump. It was a smooth landing.
    “Armstrong,” Peterson yelled, “I want you at twelve o’clock. Ishmael and Angelo, nine o’clock, Cash and Johnny-Boy at six o’clock, and Sharon you are with me are at three o’clock. Tag and Spooky, you stay with the bird. Fuel her up, and see if you can patch this leak.”
    “What about me?” came a voice.
    Peterson spun and noticed Dr. Washington, sitting there.
    He snorted. “What about you? Stay with the