by Myke Cole
“Keep me covered, Ollie!” Mankiller shouted, her eyes still locked on the screen.
“I got you, Sheriff!” he called back.
ATTACH PADS, the screen read. CHARGING.
“They’re already fuckin’ attached, you stupid sonofabitch!” Mankiller shouted at the machine. It couldn’t have taken more than five seconds for the light to turn green, but to Mankiller, it felt like five years. She could imagine Alba’s brain, slowly starved of oxygen, dying a little more with each passing moment.
“Clear!” she shouted as soon as the light turned green. There was no one to hear, but following protocol helped some sense of normalcy return to a world inhabited by the kind of monsters who had done this to Alba. Alba’s chest jerked, her back arched, elbows hammering into the ice.
ANALYZING, the screen read. PLEASE WAIT.
“C’mon!” Mankiller shouted.
“Sheriff!” Calmut shouted from the window. “Look out!”
Mankiller threw herself to the side just as something gray launched itself at her. She rolled, came up with her rifle braced against her shoulder.
It was another of the monsters. This one was lean and long-limbed, dragging itself forward by its hands. It was missing part of its leg, sheared off halfway down the shin, likely a victim of Crosshill’s bear traps. She recognized it as one of the two who had come with the one who had called himself the Director. Its gold crown was gone, but the jeweled pectoral was still strapped across its narrow chest.
It hammered one fist down on the defibrillator, drove the long claws on its other hand into Alba’s throat. Hot blood sprayed, and it thrust its face into the stream, gray tongue rolling out of its mouth.
Calmut’s gun barked, and the snow next to Mankiller’s foot jumped.
“Damnit, Ollie! Don’ you fuckin’ shoot me!” Mankiller shouted as she sighted in on the monster and pulled the trigger. Even the Alaskan’s big-bore round did little more than snap the thing’s head back, sending it sprawling.
It righted quickly, flopping over onto its stomach and scrambling for Mankiller even as she was standing and racing for the window. “Ollie! Hatchet!”
Calmut was one step ahead of her, jumping down from the window with Freddie’s sledgehammer, the big two-hander he used to drive the wood maul. Calmut might have been old and skinny, but he swung that hammer like a carnival strongman, cracking the thing so hard that its head deformed, rebounding off the frozen ground even as Calmut was raising the hammer for another blow. It tried to rise, but the hammer came down again, and this time, its head was squashed as flat as Denise’s.
Mankiller abandoned the idea of going after the hatchet and pulled her long knife instead, kneeling on the monster’s back and sawing at its shoulder. She ducked to the side as Ollie brought the hammer down on its spine, shattering it in a sickening crunch. “Don’ knock me with that thing, either!”
The monster snapped its arm up, sending Mankiller flying as if she been nothing more than a straw doll, the knife spinning from her hand. She slid on her back, rifle bouncing in its sling, the barrel smacking her in the eye something fierce. She scrambled to her feet, raising the rifle, desperately trying to sight in through the tears in her battered eye.
She needn’t have bothered. Calmut had gotten two more whacks in since she’d been thrown. The monster was little more than a twitching sack of shattered bones, but Calmut just kept raising the hammer and letting it fall, again and again and again. His eyes were wide and his teeth bared. He made little grunts with each stroke of the hammer, sounds like an animal would make.
Mankiller slowly lowered her rifle, went to Calmut’s side. If the defibrillator had revived Alba, it had been short-lived. She lay pooled in her own blood, her throat laid open to the spine, eyes staring sightlessly upward.
Calmut kept hammering.
“Ollie.” Mankiller touched his elbow. “’S all right. You got it. It’s done.”
Calmut’s eyes returned to their normal size, but he still took two more whacks before he finally let the heavy steel head slump in the snow and leaned on the handle, panting.
“You okay?” In all their years working together, she’d never seen him like this.
“Yeah.” Calmut cuffed a tear away from his eye. “I jus’ . . . I fuckin’ hate these things.”
“Yeah,” Mankiller said. “Me too.”
“Alba’s gone,” Calmut said.
“I know it. I’ll get a detail together so we can get ’em all buried.”
“Defib’s gone too.”
“Well, hopefully, we won’ need it. There’s another one in the chapel, but I don’ wanna stray too far from here unless we gotta, okay?”
“Sure.” Calmut was already turning, heading back to the open window, where a crowd of citizens had gathered, crouching with their guns, doing their best to look brave. It wasn’t much of an army, especially when you considered what they were up against.
“That gold?” Calmut nudged the pectoral with the toe of his boot. There was precious little left of it after the flurry of axe blows.
“Leave it,” Mankiller said. “We can worry ’bout gettin’ rich after all this is over.”
“They comin’ at us again?” Calmut asked.
Mankiller nodded. “Jus’ don’t know how soon.”
Calmut looked back at the folks in the window. “Sorry bunch, ain’t they?”
“Let’s jus’ hope Joe got through.”
“That one . . . guy was after him pretty quick, boss. I dunno that I like his chances.”
“Joe’s harder’n he looks,” she said. “If anyone can make it, he can.”
They returned to the window and helped the burial party down. Sally’s sister Angela came first, her jowls shaking. She’d been Sally’s staunch ally in hating Denise, and Mankiller wondered what she’d think, seeing her bitter enemy so poorly served. She didn’t envy her the hurt she would probably feel. Somehow, the death of an enemy was almost always worse than that of a friend. Maybe it was because you realized you would never have a chance to make things right.
But no sooner had Angela’s boots hit the snow than she turned and scrambled back up the building’s scorched sides.
Mankiller and Calmut both whirled, guns coming up.
A lone figure was shuffling down the track, dragging himself along like a horror-movie zombie.
“Guess they’re comin’ already,” Calmut said as he sighted in.
“No.” Mankiller pushed the barrel of his gun down. “They’re faster than that.”
She started forward at a walk and, after three steps, burst into a run.
Because it was Joe Yakecan coming down that road. His clothes had been soaked and frozen solid. Red icicles hung from his lips, a gory winter beard. He shuffled and shivered, arms hugging tight about his chest.
“Joe!” Mankiller shouted. “Joe, I’m comin!”
Yakecan nodded and stopped walking, swayed on his feet.
Mankiller ran with everything she had, but she was still three steps shy of Yakecan when he fell.
CHAPTER XII
FIGHT THROUGH
Yellowknife was a passable city, but Schweitzer was still amazed by the remoteness. It nestled into a scrub of semi-tundra, stunted trees, and half-frozen bogs. The lake itself was beyond beautiful, a long blue-gray scroll of placid water dusted with frost. The vista was broken by shifting chunks of green-tinted ice catching the thin light and scattering it into a spray of color that made the living members of the team squint.
The Canadian Forces Northern Area HQ was a huge, modern structure, the glass front evoking the squat frame of the Entertech office building that covered the Gemini Cell facility. It looked weirdly out of place in the pristine wilderness. Barbed wire rolled out to abut a robust flight line big enough to take heavy transport planes. RCAF—440 TRANSPORT SQUADRON, read a sign posted to the f
ence.
They’d debated how best to mask Schweitzer and finally settled on what would draw the least attention. They put him in a snowsuit and parka with a large, fur-lined hood, his head covered by a neoprene facemask that left only his burning eyes exposed. These were covered by a pair of ski goggles with a reflective plastic lens. The only catch was his buzz saw of a hand, covered by the parka, leaving his right sleeve empty. It looked strange but not nearly as strange as it would have had the broad disk been left exposed.
“This would go easier if we had more support,” Schweitzer said as they bundled him into all that gear. “The American and Canadian governments have a lot of resources they can throw at this.”
“Hell, no,” Ghaznavi said.
“You’re only protecting Senator Hodges,” Schweitzer said. “Sometimes, you have to put the mission before the man.”
“It’s not just about Hodges,” Ghaznavi said.
“The hell it’s not,” Schweitzer answered. “I don’t—”
“She’s right, Jim,” Desmarais cut him off. “This is something best handled by the dark side. Big government always places appearance over operational efficiency, and this is far too important to fuck up. We don’t need to be voting on this one. We need to move quickly and decisively. That is the polar opposite of what big government does. It’s why organizations like SAD and JTF2 were created.”
Schweitzer nodded. Desmarais had a point. “I’m just saying that you don’t have the benefit of the experience of the fight we just went through in Colchester. If it gets . . . overwhelming out there, we’re going to wish we had more resources to draw on.”
Desmarais hefted his smartphone. “All those resources are still available to us just as soon as we call for them. All I’m advocating for is to put that call off for as long as possible.”
“Just trust us, Jim,” Ghaznavi said. “We may not be magically powered supersoldiers, but we’ve both been doing this kind of thing for a long, long time.”
They were met on the flight line by a lone woman in military fatigues. She saluted Desmarais, not so much as glancing at anyone else. “Welcome to Yellowknife, sir.”
Desmarais acknowledged her with a nod. “I’d like to get loaded and moving as quickly as possible, thanks.”
She nodded. “Everything’s been prepared. Please follow me.”
She led them to a long, low Quonset hut abutting the flight line. A pair of black SUVs were parked beside it, the windows tinted. Schweitzer was surprised to see that the flight line was completely deserted. No aircrew, no mechanics, no fuelers. Desmarais had likely ordered it cleared, just as he had probably ordered the woman not to acknowledge anyone else but him. Schweitzer’s respect for the man grew.
Inside, three operators waited, ready to roll. Two were dark-haired women with wide faces and almond eyes. The third was a man so pale that he would probably be invisible in the snow. The woman who’d greeted them didn’t follow them in, simply closed the door behind them, leaving them in the room’s slightly warmer air and harsh fluorescent light. It looked like a dozen other ops ready rooms Schweitzer had been in, bare save for a cheap folding table in the center, piled high with gray hiking duffels stuffed with gear. A manifest was printed and taped to each one.
One of the women got to her feet, extended a hand to Desmarais. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Master Corporal Nalren, detailed to the 427. Thanks for your trust in me.”
Desmarais took her hand in both of his, shaking it firmly. “Everyone I’ve spoken to says you’re the best there is, Master Corporal. I’m honored to have you on board.”
“Thanks, sir. I’d like you to meet Corporal Fitzgerald and Leading Seaman Montclair.”
Desmarais shook the other woman’s hand. “So, you’re our bluewater rep?”
“Brownwater, sir,” Montclair answered. “Riverine ops my whole career. Got my boat packed in that duffel over there.”
“Well, I hope we don’t need it. And both of you speak Denesuline?”
“Yes, sir,” Nalren said. “Do you anticipate our needing it?”
“I’m not sure. The package we’re securing is an old man out in the sticks. If he just moved there to seek his solitude, he’ll probably speak English. But on the odd chance he’s old-school, I want to make sure we can talk to him.”
The three Canadians exchanged glances, turned confused faces back to Desmarais. “Anyway,” Desmarais said, “I’d like you to meet Jala Ghaznavi and her team.”
Ghaznavi shook Nalren’s hand, then introduced the rest of the team, save Schweitzer.
“This is Jack,” Desmarais said, gesturing to him. “He’s got a special role on this mission.”
“Just Jack,” Montclair said. “No rank. No last name.”
“That’s right,” Desmarais said.
“Uh-huh.” Nalren arched an eyebrow. “Look, sir, I appreciate the need for secrecy here, but in the end, you brought me on to run an op. It’s gonna be really hard to do that if I don’t know all the players on my team.”
“Trust me,” Desmarais said. “If there was anything I needed you to know about Jack here, I would tell it to you. All I need you to do is bring him along. He’ll volunteer information when the situation warrants it.”
“You’re not hot under all that?” Montclair asked. “Gonna take us a while to load out.”
Schweitzer shook his head and Ghaznavi smiled. “He doesn’t talk unless he has to.”
Nalren turned back to Desmarais. “I know it’s a little unusual,” he said. “Your patience and flexibility are greatly appreciated.”
Nalren shrugged and turned to Ghaznavi. “So, you’re running the op?”
“I’m the executive,” Ghaznavi said. “Reeves runs the show. He just has to call me ‘ma’am.’”
Nalren smiled and gestured to the gear. “Well, let’s go over everything and get everyone billeted out. Six of us makes two sticks. I guess we should divide on national lines, eh? And I guess you three are our HQ element?”
“Actually,” Desmarais said, “Jack will be rolling with the American stick.”
“We’re travelling light,” Fitzgerald said. “Twin Otter’s only rated to four thousand pounds, and we’re going to take up sixteen hundred of that with just passengers. I tried to keep it to just ess—”
“Try eighteen hundred,” Desmarais interrupted. “Maybe even two thousand.”
“Sir?” Fitzgerald asked.
“Jack weighs a bit more than most folks.” Desmarais smiled. “He’s a big eater.”
“Don’t look that big,” Nalren mused.
“He mostly eats metal,” Ghaznavi said.
Fitzgerald shook his head. “I’ll have to ditch some gear.”
“Why such a light plane?” Reeves asked. “I know we want to keep this quiet, but surely you can spare something with a little more lift?”
“Not out here,” Nalren said, smiling. “You think this is the middle of nowhere, wait’ll you see the south shore. We could drive, but there’s so little road traffic that they’d spot us a mile out. Only real way to approach quietly is by seaplane.”
“Won’t that make extraction tough?” Reeves asked.
“This is Canada,” Nalren said. “Tough is how we like it.”
The flight from Yellowknife to the Great Slave Lake’s opposite shore took under an hour in a shaking DHC-6, the twin propellers spinning threateningly close to the fuselage. The huge pontoons were fitted with wheels that enabled them to make their bumpy ascent from the Yellowknife flight line, but they would come down in the water. The plane was painted white and blue, with the words VIKING AIR stenciled on the side, but otherwise bore no markings. The windows were tinted, but Schweitzer’s magically augmented vision enabled him to see the lake stretching out beneath him. He watched the huge ice floes, some the size of buses, gently drifting in the huge expanse of water below. It wo
uldn’t be easy to land this crate in that.
As if she sensed his unease, Nalren tapped Schweitzer on the shoulder, gestured to the pilots in the cockpit. “Don’t sweat it, Jack,” she said. “Those guys are out of the 427. They could land this in a teacup if they had to.”
Schweitzer nodded, hoping they wouldn’t have to.
The flight was taken up mostly with the final targeting brief, going over the ops plan as the thin light failed into one of the most glorious sunsets Schweitzer had ever seen. “It’s getting on winter,” Nalren said. “You ever see the aurora?”
Schweitzer shook his head. Ghaznavi looked like she would tell the Master Corporal to stop interrogating Schweitzer, but she only watched, uncomfortable.
“Well, maybe you’ll get lucky. It’s quite a sight.”
Schweitzer nodded. He didn’t tell her that Sarah had always wanted to see the aurora, that he had gone so far as to price out a lodge in Alaska where they would have a pretty good chance. It would have been expensive, and he’d been saving for it when the pistol had been jammed under his chin. He wished now that he hadn’t waited, had charged the trip to his credit card and worried about paying it off later. He’d always thought there’d be time.
“Okay.” Desmarais leaned over his ruggedized laptop, screen facing out. “Here’s what our sources tell us—Lived-With-The-Wolves is supposedly one Charles Plante, an Athabasca Chipewyan First Nation trapper who lives somewhere southwest of Fort Resolution. We don’t know exactly where, but we have to secure him.” The screen flashed a black-and-white mug shot of an old man, his skin so wrinkled that it nearly absorbed his features.
“If we don’t know where he is, then how are we going to secure him?” Nalren asked.
“His granddaughter is Wilma ‘Mankiller’ Plante, the sheriff of Fort Resolution. She’s an Army veteran, been a cop her whole life after she got out. Straight shooter, good lady. We think she’ll be cooperative.”
“Mankiller?” Reeves asked.
“Wilma Mankiller was a famous Cherokee chief. Guess the family liked her legacy.”
