by Ray Wench
“You think that's a good idea? We have no idea if anyone's out there.”
“That's true, but searching this way might take all night. Besides, with the rain, I doubt anyone will be outside standing guard. If there is a helicopter, I'd prefer taking it while we still have the night for cover.”
“You sure you can fly one of those things?”
“Girl, please.”
“Hey, just asking.”
Tara tore off a few rows of tape to allow a wider beam. She stood and moved her arm from right to left in a slow pan. She'd gone about a third way through the arc when she stopped and reversed. “Oh my God! Mel, does that look like a bird?”
“Hell, if I know. I just see a shape.”
“Can't you see the propellers?”
“I can't see shit. You sure you're not seeing it ’cause you want it to be there?”
“Only one way to know for sure.” She stepped from cover and followed the light. This time she didn't turn it on and off. As they drew near the shape took on a more recognizable form.
“It is.” Her voice was loud and filled with excitement. “It looks like an old MH-60A Black Hawk.” Her pace quickened. “Yes, look, four-bladed, twin engines. This'll work, providing I can get it started.” They arrived at the dark aircraft and Tara turned off the light. Working by feel, she worked her way to the door. It was not locked. She pulled it open and leaned in. “Yes, I think I can hot wire this if I can't find a key. Go around the other side and climb in. I'll have this baby airborne in a minute.”
“I don't think so,” the voice said from behind them.
They froze shocked by the sudden intrusion. Their chests tightened, restricting their breathing as the gunshot rocked them.
Forty-Three
Becca had no idea how long she lay there, but if not for an explosive crash of thunder seemingly right above her, she might have slept on till morning. She peered under the chain. Dim lights shone high in the distance, lighting her path to the bridge and the stairs below decks. Crawling out from under the chain, she bear-walked to the first stack of metal shipping containers. As far as she could tell the stacks would offer cover halfway to the bridge, but the open deck would leave her vulnerable to scrutiny and discovery.
She moved with caution along the containers noting all of them had their doors closed against the wind and rain. By the time she reached the last one, she’d decided on a course of action. A lot depended on being seen as one of the inhabitants of the freighter, a fact she hoped to accomplish aided by the night and the rain.
Taking a few quick short breaths, she stepped boldly from cover and walked, head down, against the rain and toward the stairs leading down. No one challenged her approach. Reaching the stairs, Becca ran down them, pulled open the hatch and stepped inside. To her surprise, the passageway was lit. Not brightly, as only every other bulb was on, but enough for her to navigate the labyrinth of intersecting walkways.
Now that she was inside, Becca considered where prisoners would be kept. She guessed her father wasn't being treated as a guest. However, if he were, it made her search all the more difficult.
Deciding her best bet was down, she took the stairs to the lowest level possible. The lower levels were much warmer. Becca welcomed the heat. Soon her body had a glisten of sweat.
Moving to what she thought was the rear of the boat, she came to the engine room. A small, thick portal dotted the center of the door. She crept forward and peered through. She spied a shadow just once but otherwise saw no one. She moved from the door and leaned against the bulkhead, puzzled by how few people there seemed to be. Other than the shadow, she had yet to see a living soul. For whatever reason and despite the warmth, that thought chilled her.
Becca took a different route back. Passageways lined both sides of the ship but none seemed to run through the middle. Fifty feet from the engine room she found another door. This one had no portal. The handle was a lever that pulled up. She gripped it, lifted, held her breath, and yanked it open. It gave with a squeal, its weight straining against the huge hinges.
She waited, but no one came to investigate or sound the alarm. The same caged lights lit the area. The interior was massive. She was in the bottom of one of the holds. Storage containers filled the area, but unlike topside, most of these had their doors open. In the dim light she saw movement within several of the containers. With a sudden start, she realized these were living quarters. She stepped back and swung the door closed, pushing the handle down to seal it.
She backed away until she hit the wall. How many people lived down here? She looked down the passageway. How many holds were there? This was a floating city. With a sudden realization, she understood how truly daunting finding her father would be. Get a grip, Becca. You're here, you have to check it all out.
She continued to the next door. Again she opened it to find a larger hold. This time someone called out to her. Without hesitation, she closed the door and hustled away. Panic struck a moment later, as she heard the hatch open behind her. An opening appeared to the right. She ducked inside. A bathroom. What did they call it on a ship? The head.
She noted the wall of urinals. Of course she would choose the men’s room. Was there a woman's room on a freighter? She darted into a stall and locked the door. Becca tried to control her breathing, but the harder she tried the louder it seemed to be.
The scuffling of feet came closer. The zip of a fly and running water next. The man hummed to himself. His body odor filled the room. She wanted to gag. A minute later, the feet shuffled away. She allowed her breath to exhale in a long release. This was nuts. She had no idea where to look from here.
Allowing a few more minutes to compose herself and for the man to reenter the living quarters, Becca stepped from the stall and went to the sink. She turned on the water to splash her face, but the tap was dry. That explained the man's foul odor.
A glance in the oily, cracked mirror showed a person on the verge of a breakdown. A fire seemed to ignite in her eyes and an angrier, more determined, person looked back. They had her father. It was time to find him. She pushed away from the sink and went to the doorway. Peering in both directions, Becca found she was alone. She turned to the right and continued her search.
The way in front of her was blocked by a hatch. This one had a portal. It was cloudy, making it difficult to see through. She attempted to wipe the grime away with her hand, but only managed to smear it more. One small spot offered a clearer view. The passageway continued but had a lot more doors. This must be the section beneath the bridge where all the original living quarters were for the crew.
Becca started to open the hatch when she saw blurry movement on the other side. A man left a room midway down the corridor carrying what looked like a plate of food and a mug. He stopped at a door, different from the others in that it had a large deadbolt in the middle of it. Balancing the plate on the mug, he withdrew the bolt and pulled the door open. He said something to whoever was trapped inside, then went in. He stayed inside for at least five minutes before he came out, carrying an empty plate. He closed and locked the door then went back the way he came.
There appeared to be an open area on the right. Becca wondered if that might be the galley. She waited, but the man did not reappear. She tried to count the rooms but could only estimate there were four. If her father were kept anywhere, it would be somewhere locked. She opened the hatch and stepped through.
This door opened more smoothly than the hold hatches. She closed the door and hesitated about locking it, in case she had to make a hasty retreat. But someone might notice if she left it unlatched and go searching. With a sigh, she locked it.
Becca slid along the inner wall, keeping a steady gaze down the corridor until she reached the first door. No window. Indecision froze her. Should she open the door or go deal with the man? What if she discovered there was more than one man? Her fingers drifted to the knife she wore in a sheath hanging from her belt and strapped to her thigh.
If t
he door made any noise at all he would be alerted. If she was inside the room, she could easily be trapped. No, the best option was to deal with the man first. But what if his body were discovered, or his absence noticed? The argument continued inside her head for another moment before Becca forced herself to move. The longer she stood undecided, the better chance of being revealed.
She slid the knife free and edged closer to the opening. Becca passed the four doors, stopping at one as she heard crying from within. She moved on. At the opening, she noted the doorway was twice as wide as any of the others and though open, had a sliding door rather than a hatch. She lowered her height and peeked in. It was the galley. Six metal benches were bolted to the deck to the left. Kitchen equipment lined the wall to the right. A second exit stood on the opposite wall. The room was currently empty.
Becca moved fast. She ran back to the first door, drew back the bolt and opened it. The room was dark. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the ten-by-ten foot square was empty. Along one wall was a cot. She closed and locked the door and moved in a hurry to the second door, the one the crying came from.
Repeating the process, she stood allowing her eyes to focus. A gasp came from someone inside. She looked toward the galley before entering the room. Inside were two cots, both occupied. One woman sat on the edge of hers, while the other lay in a fetal position crying.
The sitting woman said, “Who are you?”
Becca didn't want to step too far inside the cube for fear of being trapped. “A friend. Are you ready to leave?”
The question sent the crying woman into a panicked frenzy. “Nononono!”
The other woman shushed her. “Stay if you want, Doreen, but I'm going.”
She stood. The woman was tall, thin and black. Her dark skin made it difficult for Becca to see her properly. As she came closer the woman said, “I know you.”
The statement took Becca by surprise, but not as much as the shock of hearing the voice behind her. “What the hell, is going on here?”
Forty-Four
Mark waited, but no one came. The effort to remain vigilant and ready to spring took its toll both mentally and physically. His mind wandered and his eyes grew heavy. After a while, his efforts to stay awake weakened and the need for sleep grew ever stronger.
At last someone did come to his door; he had to shake sleep from his brain, his actions slow and sluggish. By the time he made it to his feet, the door was already swinging closed. As the last of the dim light faded with the solid contact of door to frame, he spied a metal plate and cup on the floor. The bolt slammed home, a sharp reminder of his predicament. He chastised himself for giving in to sleep. Resigned, he lumbered toward the plate, bent and felt for it. He picked it up and went back to his cot.
Sitting, he probed the plate for what it contained. Bread and water. How appropriate. He weighed up whether he should drink the water, fearing it might be drugged, but shrugged off the notion. They wouldn't feel the need. He doubted they would see him as a threat. Breaking off a piece of the crusty bread he chewed it slowly. It was stale and needed extra mastication to swallow.
His stomach complained. He hadn’t eaten in a while. He sipped the water. The warm, somewhat scummy drink made him suspect it had been intentionally fouled by spit or urine. He tried not to think about it since the alternatives were non-existent.
As he ate, he thought over his plan. How many men had he seen before the door shut? He closed his eyes to bring the picture back to mind. One man had entered, set the plate down and backed out. But behind him, obscure for the most part by the first man, was a second. Was there a third? If so, he hadn't been in a position to be seen. He would go with two and hope that was all.
The sparse meal finished, his stomach still protesting, Mark set the plate aside and stood. He put his body through a series of stretches. If they came back for the plate, he wanted to be ready. The time passed and with it his concentration. He paced in a steady rhythm to keep alert. His chances were running out as the dawn approached. He might only get one more. He couldn't afford to sleep through the next one.
He picked up the plate and reflected on its use as a weapon, but the lightweight aluminum would do little damage. He might be able to use the edge, driving it into the man's throat, but if he was going to do that, he might as well use his fingers or the edge of his hand. He renewed his pacing and his plotting.
Was it her imagination, or was the sky getting lighter? Lynn had slept little. Her mind refused to shut down. The rain continued to fall. Most of the thunder and lightning had moved off to the east. She wondered how Mark and Becca were faring. Mel and Tara too. The group had spread out and the lack of knowledge or control ensured her anxiety level remained elevated enough to prevent sleep.
Someone entered through the back door. The silhouette stood and scanned the room. Corporal Ward strode toward her and whispered. “Sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but I have a man out back who wants to speak with you.”
“A man?”
“Yes, ma'am. That man you met with earlier in the woods.
Elijah was a distraction she did not need. She debated whether to have Ward send him away. Her mind was too exhausted to reason what he might want, but she forced her body to a standing position amid the collective protests of her muscles.
Ward turned and led. Outside, Elijah stood against the wall under the small coverage of the overhanging roof. Water ran and dripped from the shingles in a steady flow from a multitude of places. The flat roof had no gutters or downspouts.
Ward stepped to the side but stayed close. Lynn appreciated his presence.
“It’s Lynn, right?”
She nodded cautiously, waiting for whatever was to come with a feeling of dread.
“I have come to offer my services. Well, mine and that of my followers.”
Whatever she had expected, that wasn't on the list. “And what are you volunteering for?”
He studied her for a long moment. “I have nearly twenty fighters. Surely you can use the added firepower against the raiders?”
That was true, but keeping in mind they had been at odds not long ago, she would only allow a “Yes.”
“I am here to assist.”
“Why?” The word was out of her mouth before she could halt it.
His smile was patronizing. “I realize we've had a somewhat rocky beginning, but, if Mark can risk his life to free our people, I think it's our duty to aid him in that endeavor.”
“What is it you are offering?”
“Well, for one, we can man a few boats to give you more firepower on the water. Two, I can keep a small group on shore to offer cover for escapes or retreats.”
Lynn mulled over his words. The extra guns would be useful, as long as she could trust they'd be pointed at the raiders and not at them. “Okay. We're happy to have you. Corporal Ward, would you escort Elijah to the docks and help him find suitable boats for his people, please?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Elijah gave a slight bow and flashed a knowing smile. The question was, what was it he knew and how would it affect them? Elijah's followers appeared from nowhere. She watched them disappear again around the building and went inside to pretend she was ready for sleep.
“You,” the armed man said, “Why are you in that uniform?”
Tara looked over her shoulder. Her arms were up and all her weapons, save one pocket knife, were on the ground. “What do you mean, why?”
“It's not a hard question. Why are you in uniform?”
“I'm a captain in the 180th National Guard Unit.”
“Bullshit! If that's the case why isn't she in uniform? And where's the rest of your squad, or platoon, or anything?”
“We're on a rescue mission. Some of our people have been captured and are on a ship on the lake.”
An eerie silence fell over them. “And what does that have to do with you being on this base?”
Tara wondered how much to tell the man. If she admitted they were there to steal the ’copt
er, he might shoot them. But, on the other hand, how did she explain their trespassing? “I didn't know the base was occupied. I'm a pilot. I was hoping to use the bird to fly over the ship.”
“You know how to fly this thing?”
“Yes. It's what I did before the Event.”
“Ha. The Event is it? Not an act of terrorism by country or countries yet unknown, although I could hazard a few good guesses. This country is at war. What I have to determine is whether you're the enemy or not.”
“I serve this country and the people of the community in our area.”
“Easy to say when you've got a gun pointed at you.”
“Why are you here?” Mel asked.
“I'm assigned to this post. My job is to protect it from all intruders. That would be you. The only reason you're still alive is because of the uniform.”
Tara turned slowly to face the man. “What I have told you is the truth. A few miles down the road is a small group of like-minded people who have tried to re-establish civilization. We are not your enemies, nor do we wish you harm. This copter might make the difference between life and death in the rescue of our people. If you let us borrow it, we’d be grateful. If not, allow us to get back to our people.”
“Not saying I believe any of this, but if I let you take it, how do I know you'll bring it back?”
“You'll have my word. That's all I've got.”
“You could come with us,” Mel offered. “That way you can see for yourself we're telling the truth. Besides, we can always use another gun.”
The man seemed to think about that. “Is the base you belong to operational?”
“Yes. We're just under fifty in number. You are more than welcome to join us.”
He laughed. “And what of my duty to this camp? Who will watch it? Protect it from being looted?”
“I can't answer that. You have to do what you think is right. As do I. Right now, I'm asking you, can I take this copter?”
