In Charge of the Field Trip Charter

by Split Scimitar

Failed Warnings

*call from Mario*

“Hello?”

“Heya Cap! Mario here! What’s happening?”

“Hey Mario, nothing on my end. You?”

“Well, we heard about the rapidly worsening situation. How are things with you?”

“Eh, not good. My first regular clients in a long time cancelled right before we took off.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. That’s one hell of a tease.”

“If you could call it that. Has your world started closing the pipes?”

“Yes. We’ve closed off all the Seattle routes, which is actually what I was calling you about.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. With how little you use your cars here, could you take a couple and park them in front of the pipe?”

“Yeah. Are your Tacomas ready to be transferred?”

“They will be once you come.”

“Perfect. I’m in Chicago now, but I can head over there.”

“I’ll meet you at the office then.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’m helping a friend move out of their house, so I can hop over there.”

“That’s fine. We’re wrapping up our World Summit anyway.”

“I hope you don’t catch what we have if what I sense with this virus is true.”

“That’s why we’re closing all the pipes.”

“I’ll be over tomorrow afternoon, is that good?”

“Alrighty. B-bye!”

While the rest of the world takes its time to process the news that’s sure to rock it to its core, I wait until the late evening before I file to HPN. Actually, I don’t want Rarity to know we’re there, lest she take us captive, so instead, I plan to an airport already served by airlines, KISP.

All ready to go, we climb in to N772SW and I initiate pushback before leeching some power from the tug to aid in engine start.

Engine 1 start valve open...

10% N₂

12.5% N₂

15% N₂

“Come along, come along.” I chant.

20% N₂, fuel control on.

Alight!

Start valve off.

Idle speed dropping.

18% N₁

See if it goes back up in 15 seconds.

15% N₁, and the engine is vibrating in the caution range, N₂ is struggling to hold 20%.

The VIB number is now flashing red along with N₂. The whole plane is vibrating.

“Alright, that’s 5 yards. Shut her down.”

Fuel, ignition off. Return to the gate.

Deciding I don’t want to deal with it right now, and figuring that it may have just been a timing issue or something, I tow us remotely controlled to a different terminal, where my next suitable replacement is parked.

“What happened?” Scootaloo asks.

“We had a hung start, or a false start if you like sports. It turned over and lit, but it wouldn’t hold idle speed. We could wait for the engine to stop spinning and try again, but I’ll just use a different one.”

---

Pushed back, 2 alight and stable, flight plan changed to reflect equipment change, cleared as filed except next flight level down (350 instead of 370).

When we arrive, fortunate to have been vectored over Connecticut to avoid the Class B, Scootaloo bids us farewell rather impromptu as her parents are returning home early. To this, I book her first class back to ORF via PHL, with plenty of hugs, her prorated paycheck, and a bit of extra cash for the journey.

As much as Sweetie B would like to see Rarity, she understands that we will be held captive by her, so quietly, we head for Kings County to meet Mario.

When we roll in, I open the gate and have the girls help me pull the tarps off both trucks, revealing them somewhat clean, but dusted up in the windows. Their batteries I’m sure are flatter than a degassed fizzy drink, so with my full-size pickup and its strong, powerful electrical system, it should have little difficulty getting the Toyotas jumped.

When Plumber 1 emerges from the pipe, in his gloved hands are a Manila envelope and some cables. Regally and eagerly waiting for him, we all exchange hugs and catching up small talk before he unlocks each truck and pops the hoods, propping them up and handing AB and SB their respective keys and titles.

I pop the bonnet on my truck and hook the cables, looking for a place to ground since only the positive terminal is accessible.

Since these trucks have been sitting for such a long time, getting them jump started may be the first of potentially many problems to be faced, but fortunately, the Apples are good with this kind of stuff.

After about 2 minutes, one truck’s lights faintly illuminate, so we give it a few more minutes before attempting to start it assisted with a slight throttle input from my truck as it cranks.

Once one starts to idle, Sweets closes the hood and lets it run for a couple minutes to rejuvenate the oil, fuel, and fluids. The tank is just above the gas light, so as it runs, we get the other one started, with even better luck, as its tank is about 3/8.

While they run, I move my pickup back to the front so we can make space for my blockade. The security of the back of the office plus the gate is its own theft deterrent, so we can get away with all of us warping and bringing a vehicle back while the batteries recharge under their own power.

The backlot to the vehicle warp pipe can hold about three or four cars, which should serve as more than enough of a blockade, so after I grab all the keys, the four of us fire up a vehicle. As Marc is visiting King Bowser, we wait for him to come in from the city of Castle Koopa, where he waves hi to me, which I acknowledge, before we head back to Brooklyn.

After the four of us emerge, Mario and I then move the trucks outside so we can park my Mushroom World cars in such a way that access to the pipe is near impossible. Fiddling around a bit with cars both RHD and LHD requires a bit of Tetris, but once we’re parked, the three of us all share tight hugs of “goodbye for a long while.” Rosalina has elected to return so she can be with the Lumas. She’s been there for awhile now. I’ve been tasked with watching the business, which has shuttered operations after the end of the month.

With that, as Mario steps through the warp pipe for the final time indefinitely, I almost tear up as the pipe summons a barricade with a giant ‘no entry’ sign on it, then in a flash of near-blinding magic, the pipe orifice itself is covered with some orange non-Newtonian fluid.

After draping tarps over each car and securing them, I‘m drawn heavily to the “flaming sword” impression the now closed warp pipe is projecting. I feel like the biblical Adam, banished from the Garden of Eden as I both figuratively and literally get driven out.

Anyway, after we stop at a petrol station to throw in some much fresher fairy juice into the tanks, we head for Ronkonkoma. Once we clear to the airside, we carefully load each truck onboard and set course for Fort Smith.

Electing to further delay the reception of money, the Apple family have been working hard to collect this upcoming year’s harvest, especially with the looming threat. In fact, Apple Bloom planned to spend all of her year’s vacation days for all three trips, so with what’s happening now, she’s pretty much stuck at home. As you would expect, the local runs to the neighborhood are now contactless, and reduced from daily to twice weekly, albeit in slightly larger quantities apiece, resulting in a net change from 7 normal shipments to 2 shipments of about 1.75 times the normal.

Oddly to me at least, Sweet Apple Acres does expect a subsidy not to grow anything, probably to rest their farmland. They’re unaffiliated with mainstream food suppliers, except for whoever the warehouse sends to, so in a way, they are a bit of a surplus supplier, or a bit more accurately, Sweet Apple Acres “fills in the gaps.” Nevertheless, if and when that subsidy or “land conservation” letter does arrive, then they‘ll start to receive money from me.

---

“I am the President. I call the shots. I cannot, and will not, take any responsibility for what’s occurring in our nation. Everything that stands in our way is the result of rules and regulations previous administrations set forth. It’s their fault, not mine. I accept no responsibility. I wash my hands of this.”

---

“We are in an emergency.”

---

“American citizens are stranded across all corners of the globe unable to return home!”

---

“The world is in a state of panic as a biological killer has begun its track infecting hundreds of thousands worldwide.”

---

“Sources are unsure of where it started, but it is suspected that it may have spread at the World Cup in Qatar.”

---

“If that’s true, we may have a full-on global disaster on our hands!”

---

“Geez, stop panicking.” I think to myself. “Next thing you know, people will be running for toilet paper or some shit.”

Wait, what do we do about those that need to get home?

*incoming call*

“Hello?”

“Hey, Max? It’s Dash, this is the office line.” She responds sounding a little less Rainbow than normal. “I’m sure you’re busy, but I have orders to patch you in to my superiors. Stand by.”

I wait with a broken dial tone, but suddenly a computer generated voice breaks the “static” by saying,

“Stand by for caller.”

Following that, the dial tone is television static before it fades, rather than cuts.

“Is the… is the line secure?” I hear on the other end. “Scimitar!” They suddenly exclaim.

“Yessir?” I respond trying to speak in the affirmative rather than the confusion/fear on my face.

“Clipper, correction, Soarin’ speaking. I hope you aren’t too busy right now.”

“Not at all. I’m just at home. How can I be of service?”

“I will need to direct you to the current Master Chief Petty Officer, currently stationed in the Gulf. Please mind the time difference.”

“Yes sir.”

“Stand by.”

The same dial tone repeats but instead this time says, “stand by for Officer Thunderlane.”

Static fade to some slight white noise, along with a faint “line secure, go ahead sir.”

“Message for Mr. Split Scimitar?” He asks.

“Speaking. Go ahead.”

“Officer Thunderlane, United States Navy. My apologies for skipping the pleasantries, but as we prepare to return home, I understand you have been recommended by Ms. Rainbow Dash to assist us with repatriation efforts.”

“The honor would be mine, if what I am inferring is correct.”

“Given how little our CiC (Commander in Chief) seems to care, we cannot simply stand on the sidelines.”

“Aye, sir. Ready to help how I can. If I may, ‘reporting for duty.’”

“At ease. We’re attempting to work with other branches to materialize these efforts. HS Sec and SecDef are onboard so far.”

“Will I need to report to any of them?”

“I can’t say. Pending the approval of my other superior officers. POTUS may call the shots, but right about now, I trust Clipper and Crash to get stranded Americans back to the safety of our own soil.”

“Yes sir. Awaiting further orders.”

“You will receive them from Crash. My apologies, as you’re only a civilian.”

“Understood.”

“Expect further communications within seven days.”

“Roger that.”

“Thunderlane out. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Even though here it’s almost midnight, I begin my rudimentary process of “mobilizing” this airfield. Boy am I glad my move of fleet from Victorville is still in progress, even though we haven’t actually been approved to do any flights yet. My fleet and I are and/or will be ready, I’ll just need to know when to go.