[ti]Ep 2[/ti]The Growing Edge - Closed
Apr 25, 2016 21:58:59 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 25, 2016 21:58:59 GMT -5
Week 3, Day 2! The time is around 10am.
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The sun blazed overhead.
It beat down against the aprons and taxiways of the Black Rock military airfield. An oppressive heat had settled in shortly after dawn, and as the sun rose into the sky it only grew more intense. Waves of heat baked off the ten thousand foot runway, obscuring one threshold from the other. It mingled with the exhaust and the whirling wingtip vortexes of the C-17 Globemaster that had just rotated and was now steadily climbing out on a northern heading.
It blasted the fifty some-odd hangars scattered on the northeast side of the field, the barracks, the mess halls, the administrative buildings, the communications facilities, the water and extensive fuel storage tanks. The surrounding military operating area was little more than arid desert, harshly scarred with extensive range testing. A light wind drew up dust from the desert and blew it over the base in a fine haze.
Despite the heat and the dust the base was busy. A fuel truck ferried between hangars; tugs parked a pair of large twin turbo-props on one of the aprons to prepare them for a scheduled departure. The maintenance hangars buzzed with activity. Tens of thousands of feet overhead contrails criss-crossed the blue sky, each one tracked by a tower of controllers below.
A man sat in front of a hangar at the far north end of the field.
The hangar was open, and mostly empty. Mostly. It had been stripped bare of all but the bare essentials: electricity and water. The lights were off and the big doors stood open to let in sunlight and fresh air. Dust eddied across the ramp and the cracked concrete floor.
The man sat on an old steel vehicle tool box, one of the few still left in the hanger. He was a tall man, but didn't seem to mind that the box forced him to hunch slightly over it, his knees spread. Dust had blown into his hair and the open collar of his khaki shirt, but it didn't seem to bother him. Nor did the sun overhead.
A small, battered softcover book sat between his worn hands. Now and then he flipped a page, pausing only to offer an unsmiling nod of greeting to any airman who passed. When a fuel truck roared down the adjacent taxiway he didn't raise his eyes.
In peace and quiet, he read.
--------
The sun blazed overhead.
It beat down against the aprons and taxiways of the Black Rock military airfield. An oppressive heat had settled in shortly after dawn, and as the sun rose into the sky it only grew more intense. Waves of heat baked off the ten thousand foot runway, obscuring one threshold from the other. It mingled with the exhaust and the whirling wingtip vortexes of the C-17 Globemaster that had just rotated and was now steadily climbing out on a northern heading.
It blasted the fifty some-odd hangars scattered on the northeast side of the field, the barracks, the mess halls, the administrative buildings, the communications facilities, the water and extensive fuel storage tanks. The surrounding military operating area was little more than arid desert, harshly scarred with extensive range testing. A light wind drew up dust from the desert and blew it over the base in a fine haze.
Despite the heat and the dust the base was busy. A fuel truck ferried between hangars; tugs parked a pair of large twin turbo-props on one of the aprons to prepare them for a scheduled departure. The maintenance hangars buzzed with activity. Tens of thousands of feet overhead contrails criss-crossed the blue sky, each one tracked by a tower of controllers below.
A man sat in front of a hangar at the far north end of the field.
The hangar was open, and mostly empty. Mostly. It had been stripped bare of all but the bare essentials: electricity and water. The lights were off and the big doors stood open to let in sunlight and fresh air. Dust eddied across the ramp and the cracked concrete floor.
The man sat on an old steel vehicle tool box, one of the few still left in the hanger. He was a tall man, but didn't seem to mind that the box forced him to hunch slightly over it, his knees spread. Dust had blown into his hair and the open collar of his khaki shirt, but it didn't seem to bother him. Nor did the sun overhead.
A small, battered softcover book sat between his worn hands. Now and then he flipped a page, pausing only to offer an unsmiling nod of greeting to any airman who passed. When a fuel truck roared down the adjacent taxiway he didn't raise his eyes.
In peace and quiet, he read.