by Myke Cole
And she did, for four more shots. At last, the bolt slid back and locked to the rear, stubbornly resisting her efforts to slide it home. “Empty!” she shouted, turned to look to Nalren.
The master corporal had let the empty carbine fall. It hung by its sling, barrel trailing in the snow. She had her pistol in her hands, blazing away. The fire came quickly but not so quickly that she wasn’t picking her shots, making each one count. It was untenable. Mankiller was no coward, but they couldn’t take on a squad of well-armed enemies with nothing more than a pistol. Montclair or no Montclair, it was time to go.
As if it knew her mind, the tower gave a loud, creaking groan, underscored by the sound of splintering wood and the scream of shearing metal. The tower’s shadow lengthened. The beam that saved Mankiller from the bullet suddenly lurched away from her. Montclair’s weight had finally gone high enough. It was all coming down.
“Timber!” Mankiller shouted, but Nalren ignored her, staying on her gunsights. The tower’s shadow grew over her head. She was unwilling to stop the covering fire, wasn’t going to move, and that meant she was going to be crushed.
Mankiller wasn’t going to let that happen. She might not be able to save Montclair, but she could do something here. She dropped the Alaskan and dove for Nalren. Her shoulder struck the master corporal at the waist, carried her past the tower’s beam and into the clear snow beyond. They tumbled, Nalren’s curses lost to the freezing snow that packed Mankiller’s ears, her mouth, her nostrils. She felt something hard strike her head, Nalren’s pistol butt most likely, as the master corporal tried to throw Mankiller off and return to the aid of her friend.
There was a thundering crash, and Mankiller felt a gust blow over her, sending needles of ice, splinters of wood up under her parka. She coughed, shut her eyes and mouth so tightly that the muscles in her face hurt, did her best to push away from Nalren and roll clear.
Nalren kicked in the opposite direction, and suddenly Mankiller was free of her, the horizon and the ground switching places, gray-white, gray-white, gray, white, gray, white.
Blue.
Mankiller blinked up at the sky. She was lying on her back, coughing the wood dust from her frozen lungs, her rifle tangled between her legs.
The first thing that struck her was the silence. It was near total, as if the explosion of the falling tower had ripped all other sound from the air, so that even the flying bullets would make no impression on her. Had she gone deaf? She raised a fingertip to her ear, examined it. No blood. No clear fluid. She was conscious of some sounds returning. The sighing of the wind, distant calls of alarm from birds, receding as they fled the commotion.
No, her hearing was fine. The shooting had stopped.
Mankiller propped herself up on her elbows.
The first thing she saw was Nalren getting to her hands and knees, fumbling for her pistol, which lay a few feet away, barrel stuck in the snow, helpfully propping the handle toward her grasping fingers.
The tower lay on its side, a jumble of rusted metal and shattered wood, stretching out across the snow as if someone had painted it there. Mankiller was amazed that something so substantive could crush down so flat, little more than two-dimensional. Well, at least I don’t have to worry about it falling and hurting anybody anymore, she thought as she scrambled to her feet, ran her hands over her body, checking herself for wounds. Her hands came away dry, and she felt no pain other than from the furrow in her leg. If there was something to be discovered, she supposed she’d discover it when the adrenaline wore off.
Nalren was standing now, her pistol coming up to the low ready, turning toward the tower. “Montclair!” she shouted, headless of what enemy might be around to hear. “Montclair!”
Mankiller stumbled after her, picking her way through the wreckage of the tower, trying to find her way to where she remembered last seeing the leading seaman, her eyes flicking constantly to the horizon, body tensed with anticipation of enemy rounds, for the sharp report that would mean their foes had returned.
It never came. Instead, they found Montclair halfway up the tower’s length.
She was in two pieces, severed neatly by a rusted metal joining plate. The ropes of her intestines played out in green and purple loops that wound around the wreckage. She was smiling, her face as white as the snow behind her, her mouth working. “Can’t feel my legs,” she said.
Nalren knelt beside her. “They’re fine,” she whispered. “You’re fine.”
The stink of Montclair’s innards was worse than an outhouse baking in the sun.
“Made the call,” Montclair coughed. “Got through. Gave them grid coords off the phone. Help’s coming.”
“You’re a fucking hero,” Nalren said. “You know that? Christ, I’m putting you in for the Victoria Cross.”
“You can’t do that.” Blood bubbled at the corners of Montclair’s mouth. “Why’s the shooting stopped?”
“You scared ’em off,” Nalren said. She was crying now, tears tracking through the dust of the shattered tower coating her face.
In the distance, a long, low howl sounded. Something scared them off, Mankiller thought, but it wasn’t us.
“Nalren,” Mankiller said, standing. “It’s comin’.”
“I know that,” Nalren said. “You think I don’t fucking know that? Just give me a minute.”
The howl again, much closer, rising to a broken wail. “We don’ have a minute.”
“Fuck,” Nalren said, looking around. “Help me to find some—”
“No.” Mankiller’s stomach was doing loops, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, but she made her voice steel. “Call is made. We need to go.”
“She’s right, boss,” Montclair coughed. She reached a hand up to her tac vest and unclipped one of the small green globes there, hooked a finger through the metal loop at the top. “You can’t fix me, but I can buy you some time. Head out.”
“Fuck,” Nalren said again, “you don’t know that. I just need to find a way to carry you and—” Her words were cut off by the metallic chink of Montclair pulling out the pin and tossing it away.
Nalren turned back to her, eyes wide. “You dumb fuck. What the hell did you do that for?”
“Pin’s out, boss. I’m letting go of the spoon in exactly five seconds. You better get moving. You’re the best NCO I’ve ever worked for, and I’ll see you in heaven. Thanks for everything.”
“Jesus,” Nalren began, but she was already backing up, and she didn’t resist when Mankiller seized her elbow.
“Five.” Montclair looked away from Nalren and fixed her eyes on the sky. Mankiller could see the Gold now, tearing around the side of the hill and loping toward the shattered tower. Mankiller looked at Montclair’s steaming innards, her hot blood soaking into the packed snow.
“You know how these things operate, boss,” Montclair said without looking away from the wide gray-blue expanse above her. “It’ll come straight to me. The mess will bring it. Four.”
And now Nalren did turn and run, and Mankiller turned with her, pelting heedlessly back the way they’d come, letting the fear of the Gold and the grenade both drive them on. Mankiller caught Montclair’s faint “Three” before they moved down a gentle rise that pushed them out toward the rocky shore, cutting off the softer sounds behind them. Mankiller heard the Gold’s shriek again, sounding so close that she feared the thing had bypassed Montclair and was right on top of them.
But when she glanced over her shoulder, there was nothing but the unbroken gray-white of the slope, the scrub trees that managed to cling to life despite the subarctic cold. A moment later, there was a sharp bang that shook the snow from the branches.
Nalren flinched, tears frozen on her cheeks, turned back toward the sound. “Can’t do that.” Mankiller put her hand on Nalren’s elbow. “Either she blew it up and the living enemy will be coming back, or she didn’t
and it’s after us already. We gotta keep moving.”
Nalren turned and ran, so fast that Mankiller could barely keep up. She could see Nalren’s pumping thighs and knew her pace was about more than wanting to escape the enemy. She thought of Yakecan, his staring eyes. I know exactly how you feel.
They ran on, not even bothering to seek cover this time, racing across the lakeshore with complete abandon, as if speed alone could protect them from enemy weapons. Mankiller felt too tired, too empty to care much. If there was a sniper out there who had her number, well, he could just punch it and let her get some rest.
But if anyone was able to line up a shot, they didn’t take it, and the women ran flat out until the edges of the village cleared the horizon and reared up out of the field of frost.
CHAPTER XV
RELIEF
Mankiller was fortunate that Calmut wasn’t particularly eager to shoot anyone. She realized that she was running straight toward the station as fast as her exhausted legs would carry her. It would be the most ironic event of her life if she’d survived the trip to the mine, the lopsided firefight, and the Gold, only to be gunned down by one of her own frightened townies.
Mankiller realized the danger only as she cleared the barricade line of parked trucks and leaned panting against the station’s blackened wall. She found herself angry. No one had shot at her, which was good, but no one had even challenged her, which was not. “Jesus . . . Ollie,” she panted. “Nobody’s watchin’ . . . the back.”
Calmut appeared around the broken entry stairs. “Everyone’s real tired, boss. Figured if I didn’t let ’em get some sleep, they wouldn’t be any good, anyway.”
“So you post watches, damn it!” The effort of raising her voice took the last of her breath and brought on a coughing fit that lasted a solid minute. “You’re lucky nobody crawled up your damned ass! What the hell would we have done if we’d got back here and you was overrun?”
“We had an eye on things,” Desmarais said, appearing beside Calmut. His eyes immediately narrowed. “Where’s Montclair?”
“She was wounded getting signal on the satphone, then stayed behind so we could get out. She went down fighting, sir. I’ll write the citation if we ever get out of here.” Nalren’s eyes were dry and her voice composed now. There was no trace of the grief she’d shown back at the mine.
Desmarais’ face tensed in sadness for an instant, but it was all the grief he showed. “I’ll sign it,” he said. “Did you get through?”
“We did, sir,” Nalren said. “Coordinates are at Yellowknife. They should be scrambling a team now.”
A rifle cracked, and Desmarais’ head swiveled toward the station. It was followed by a shotgun blast, which made Mankiller wince. Nobody was close enough for that shot to be effective. It was just wasted ammo. Yakecan would have known that. That old 870 was always his favorite long gun.
She raced up the steps to find Calmut sighting down his rifle, an old .22 target piece, into the distance.
“They comin’ again?” Mankiller asked.
“I think they’re sounding us out,” Calmut answered. “Just a couple of fellas sticking their heads up on purpose. I think they want to see if we’re payin’ attention.”
“I don’t see why they don’t just blow us up,” Reeves said. He was crouched under the window, so still that between the shadows and the scorched wall, Mankiller had missed him.
“Because then they won’t get what they’re after,” Ghaznavi said from the doorway to Mankiller’s office. Schweitzer lay slumped against the wall beside her.
“Her grandfather,” Schweitzer said. “He’s the reason they’re here.”
“Lived-With-The-Wolves.” Calmut shot again, cursed. “These fuckers are persistent.”
“They want his inkoze,” Mankiller said. “They ain’t gonna get it.”
“They might,” Schweitzer said, “if they have you over a barrel when they ask him.”
The words stopped Mankiller short. She had always just assumed that they hadn’t gone after Grampy because they couldn’t find him. She had never considered the possibility that they would use her as a bargaining chip. The fear immediately gave way to anger, and she gritted her teeth. “I ain’t so easy to get over a barrel.”
“Well, if they don’t want to blow us up,” Reeves said, “why don’t they just send a bunch of those dead things?”
“Two reasons,” Schweitzer answered. “One, the Golds are like wild dogs. They’re not the best tool for the job if you’re wanting to capture someone. Two, I think they might be running out.”
“Runnin’ out?” Mankiller asked. “They had a big cage full of ’em.”
“How many have you killed?” Ghaznavi asked.
“You can’t kill ’em,” Mankiller said.
Ghaznavi rolled her eyes. “How many have you destroyed?”
“Dunno,” Mankiller said. “Haven’t been keepin’ count.”
“Around five,” Schweitzer said, “and that’s not counting the ones we took down when we hit their facility before coming out here. These things are tough to make. You need the corpse of a special operator just to get started, and then you need a Sorcerer to Bind the spirit in.”
Mankiller stared at him, feeling as if the world was spinning away from underneath her. She had always known that inkoze was real, but it had always been confined to the medicine of her grandfather, of the holy men of the Dene, as rare as diamonds. She had never believed that white people could use inkoze, let alone . . . formalize it. For her, magic had always been part of the woods and the snows, her people’s patrimony out in the wilderness. The thought of it happening in a city, on a military base, in the cold bureaucracy of a government office took something that had always felt like a part of her and ripped it away.
“And the Director’s personally banged up, thanks to you,” Schweitzer went on. “He’s going to be cautious from now on, particularly with his most limited asset.”
“It’s not like he can get living people anymore, either,” Ghaznavi said. “Hodges cut off his funding line.”
“All the more reason for him to be careful. We’ll have some breathing room now.”
“Well, we got other problems,” Calmut said. “Ammunition, for one.”
“How’re we lookin’?” Mankiller asked.
“Not good,” Calmut said. “We ain’t snipers, boss. People get scared and then they just start unloading. We need resupply or we’re gonna run dry halfway through the next attack.”
“Shit,” Mankiller said. “Grampy’s got all that stuff. Enough ammo to stock an army, medical supplies, food, you name it.”
“So, he’s the Unabomber,” Schweitzer said.
“He’s an old man who lives out in the middle of nowhere,” Mankiller said. “He don’ get visitors much and we don’ got Wal-Mart out here.”
“We don’t need to make it through the next attack,” Desmarais said, stooping through the doorway. “Yellowknife is just across the lake. We’ll have everything we need soon enough.”
“How soon will they get here?” Mankiller asked.
Nalren appeared beside Desmarais. “The call went out about an hour ago. If they scrambled right away, it shouldn’t take them more than another hour.”
“They won’t scramble right away,” Desmarais said. “They’ll go up the chain to find out why the hell we’re here. And nobody will know.”
“Why not?” Mankiller asked.
“Because we’re in the business of people not knowing what we do,” Ghaznavi said. “How long will that slow things down?”
“Not long.” Desmarais shrugged. “Another hour, maybe. I’ll catch hell when I get back, but I’ll worry about that when I get back.”
“All right.” Reeves stood, dusting himself off. “Well, ma’am, I hate to leave you here, but we’re running short on operators as it is. I’m going to f
loat out and cover our flank until rescue arrives.”
“Yeah, me too,” Nalren said.
“You’re sure you don’t want . . .” Desmarais began, but he was speaking to her back, and she was already drifting out the door. Mankiller thought about going with her, but she looked around at the frightened faces of the villagers, Calmut chief among them. She was needed here. A familiar face. A Dene face.
She grabbed a rusted folding chair, slid it over to the remains of the window, and slumped into it. As soon as her butt touched the ripped vinyl surface of the cushion, fatigue nearly overwhelmed her. The adrenaline had gone, and even knowing that there were enemy within firing range, all she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep, if only for a few minutes. “Ollie, grab me a cup of coffee; everybody else, get some shut-eye. Even if it’s just a few minutes, it’s something.”
“Sheriff, are you sure—” Calmut began.
“Coffee, Ollie. Right now.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“You need to sleep,” Schweitzer said.
“I’m not gonna be able to sleep,” Mankiller said.
“You need to at least try. Or look at a wall, something to take the edge off.”
“That’s a nice thought,” Mankiller said. “Don’ wanna get jumped.”
“Drag me over to the window. I can see and hear better than you, anyway. They’re just trying to sound out your ammo anyway or get you to waste it. I’ll sing out when they come on in earnest.”
“Thanks,” Mankiller said, but she didn’t move.
“Sheriff,” Schweitzer said. “I may be dead, but you’re not the only veteran here. I know what’s going on in your head right now.”
Mankiller turned at that, shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She stood, made her way over to him, paused. “How do I . . .”
Schweitzer held out a hand. “Just drag me like a sack of potatoes. I won’t break.”
