by Ben Reeder
“This is Magic Man, calling Jayhawk,” I said.
“Jayhawk here,” Nate’s voice came back almost immediately. “You just cost me a million dollars.”
“Told you betting against me was a bad plan,” I said. “Is Schafer around?”
“Yeah, he’s been breathing down my neck all damn night. One second.”
“This is Col. Schafer,” I heard a moment later. “Did you find the info on Home Shield?”
“Yeah, about that,” I said with a grin. “We stopped by, took a few pictures of Mt. Rushmore, even grabbed a few souvenirs from their shop, got a bite to eat in the diner, and you’ll never guess who we bumped into.”
“Spare me the bullshit, Stewart,” Schafer snapped. “What did you find?”
“Well, I was trying to ease you into it, but if you insist,” I said as I looked over my shoulder. “Hold for the President.” I stood up and let Morris have the seat. Almost immediately, Simone pulled me toward the exit.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“A lot of her conversation with the colonel is going to be classified.”
“She let us see the Home Shield file,” I said as we stepped into the hallway, “but her talking to Schafer is above my pay grade?”
“You had a need to know,” Simone said as the door closed behind us. “Now you don’t. Besides, you already knew about Home Shield. If it’s any consolation, I have to stay out here for this part, too.” We cooled our heels in the hallway for a few minutes. When the door opened, Morris’ looked like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and the beginnings of a smile were starting to crack the unexplored regions of her cheeks. We followed her into the room and she signaled to Simone, who turned and locked the door. When the tumbler clicked into place, Morris picked up the microphone and keyed it.
“Colonel, would you confirm for Mr. Stewart that he is to bring me to your location, please?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Schafer’s voice came over the speakers. “Dave, over Nate’s protests, I’ve agreed to have the president brought here. Her location might be compromised, so we need you to guide her here.”
“And you thought you had a big target on your back,” Amy said.
“Not helping,” I muttered to her. “Understood, colonel. I’ll get her there.”
“Good man. Madam President, in light of our previous conversation, I suggest reactivating Mr. Stewart’s enlistment.”
“Agreed,” Morris said, and this time the smile began to spread.
“Wait a second,” I said. “I finished my mandatory eight more than a year ago. I am not about to let you shanghai me into this.”
“Only the Navy shanghaies people, son,” Schafer said. “You’re being drafted.”
From the Journal of Maya Weiss
November 2, 2013
I got to see a rare thing today: Nate Reid impressed with something. We had parked the two convoys on the other side of the tree line, and Nate hadn’t made it down to see what he’d been roped into until this morning. We had stayed at his cabin that first night, and when we came back down the next morning, two tent cities had cropped up overnight. On one side, there was the military camp. Straight rows of tents with a group of bigger tents for supplies, eating and admin. Someone had even set up a flag pole. The Heartland camp was on the other side, and it was just as orderly. Half of the tents were the kind you’d get from any sporting goods store, but the other half…it was like stepping into history. Medieval style tents and pavilions were set up in neat rows, with a larger pavilion at one end surrounded by smaller tents.
On its own, that was pretty cool, but then we got to the “parking lot” at the far end. Dozens of trucks, vans and buses were parked next to the line of military trucks, and they were in the middle of unloading them when we walked up. It wasn’t until I saw the stuff piled up at the end of the row that I really got the scope of what the Heartland people had done. Lumber, drywall, bags of concrete, portable buildings, generators and boxes of tools were waiting to be put to use, and one of the Heartlanders told us it was going to take about two days to finish unloading everything. Nate just stood there for a moment and stared.
Dr. Shaked and Pete Gill had planned for the Heartland project to house three hundred people and feed them for almost a year. And they did it in less than two weeks, with a lot of help. Nate wasn’t the only person who was impressed.
One thing is certain: We’re all going to be very busy.
Chapter 8
Out of the Eagle’s Nest
~ Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing. ~
Helen Keller
“We call it Stagecoach,” McGregor said as we loaded our gear onto the armored vehicle. “It’s built off the M117 Guardian.” The big vehicle in front of us looked a lot like the convoy security escorts I’d seen in Iraq. Its sides were angled to keep from presenting a flat surface to RPG or IED blasts, and it sat on four thick tires that came up to my chest. An easy eight feet high and more than twenty feet long, it sported a low turret with twin barrels that pointed toward the ceiling. And, it came in black. Six of them were lined up in the massive garage area, alongside a heavy black bus and three olive drab cargo trucks. People were loading gear and supplies into the Guardian in front of us and one of the trucks a little ways down. After spending the morning being poked and tested by Dr. Parsons and the afternoon learning to use the P90 and the Five-seveN pistol under McGregor’s critical eye, it felt good to be in a little less structured environment.
“Looks pretty safe,” I said as I stroked my chin, “but does it come with power windows?” McGregor shook his head as he opened the hatch on the side. The top half swung toward the rear, and the bottom half folded out to become a step.
“No, but it’s fully climate controlled, NBC sealed and the interior is upholstered in rich, Corinthian naugahyde,” he said with a straight face. “Stow your packs on the top there; long arms in the racks, side arms on your person, condition three.” He tossed his pack onto the vehicle’s roof by example, then climbed in. I threw mine up alongside his before I unslung the P90 I’d just been issued and my M4.
“What’s condition three?” Amy asked as she tossed hers up onto the rear deck.
“It means you have a full magazine, but no round in the chamber and the hammer down,” I said.
“We always do that,” she said, as if someone had just tried to teach her how to breathe for the first time. “It’s that Israel thing you told me about when you first taught me to shoot.”
“Israeli carry,” I said with a note of pride in my voice that she’d remembered it at all. “Not everyone does it that way all the time. And not all pistols have an open hammer.” I stuck my head inside, and let out a low whistle at the size of the interior. The Guardians I remembered from Iraq could only comfortably handle one passenger, but this one sported four seats around the interior, in addition to the three crew positions.
“The Presidential armored car comes in the stretch version,” McGregor said as I handed him my M4.
“Too bad we’re only taking two of these,” I said as I climbed in. “This would make the morning commute a breeze.” Amy got in behind me and craned her neck to look around once she handed her Ruger over.
“Do we just sit where we want, or is there assigned seating?” she asked as she folded down one of the black seats.
“Well, the sergeant here is going to be spending a little time in Stagecoach One, so I’d suggest not getting too comfortable.”
“Aside from an RTO, what is she going to need me for? Comic relief?” I asked.
“No,” McGregor said without a hint of a sense of humor. “Now that you’re trained on the P90 and the Five-seveN, you’ll be pulling security detail in the vehicle like the rest of us. You’ll also get a crash course in driving one of these bad boys, and in opera
ting the turret guns.” I stood in the turret and looked at the controls, then ducked back down.
“I’m more management material,” I said. “How about vehicle commander? That has a nice ring to it.” Once again, my humor bounced off his exterior.
“I’ll ask President Morris if she wants comic relief, but I don’t think we have any clown makeup.” He stepped out and gestured for me to follow him. “One last thing. If something gets in with you, you do not discharge a weapon inside the vehicle. You take a bullet or a bite before you fire at someone inside Stagecoach, you got that?”
“I got it,” I said as I caught up with him. “I want to show Amy how to use the P90 before we head out. She needs to know this as much as I do, even if you’re not going to issue one to her.” His eyes narrowed as he looked over his shoulder at her, then he gave me a steady look.
“Fine, you can show her, nothing more,” he finally said.” She doesn’t touch anything, she doesn’t fire it. She does not get one issued to her. You will not let her touch one unless she is the last person standing.” We followed him toward the side door of the underground garage to get ready for the evening meal.
My M9 had been given to Amy to make room for one of the FN Five-seveN pistols. I still had the Ruger pack for the Takedown, and I had topped off its supplies. As much as I disliked not having it on me or in arm’s reach, I left it on my bunk as we headed down to the dining room.
“Airman, you’re out of uniform,” one of the Secret Service detail said to me.
“Screw you, Armstrong,” I said as I sat down across from him. “I’m off duty.” That got a laugh from him and everyone else at the table. I looked down at the unadorned Park Ranger uniform I had on. Of all the supplies at Eagle’s Nest, the one thing that hadn’t been updated since the Fifties had been the wardrobe.
“Why the hell are you even trying?” Landry asked as he sat down across from me. “It makes you look like a fuckin’ wannabe soldier.”
“Because the effort is what’s important,” I told him. “It sets me apart, says something about me.”
“Yeah,” Landry laughed. “Says you’re a goddamn idiot.” He laughed at that, but his mirth was short lived. We ate in silence after that.
Just as I was finishing my second slice of freshly thawed apple pie, the doors to the mess hall opened and Morris walked in with Simone at her side. Habits I thought I had dropped years ago brought me to my feet, though I did manage to keep from calling the room to attention.
“At ease, sergeant,” she said crisply. “We leave at dawn, ladies and gentlemen. I can’t promise a safe trip, but I can assure you it won’t be boring. So, I’m unlocking the liquor cabinet a little. There is beer for everyone…over twenty one, that is,” she hastily corrected herself with a look at Amy. “Limit two to a person.” There was a collective moan at that, but no one stayed in their seat once the tub was rolled in. I grabbed my two bottles and went back to sit next to Amy. A chorus of pops and hisses filled the room as bottle tops were twisted off. Without a word, I set the first bottle in front of Amy and twisted the top off the second one.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Yours, if you want it,” I told her. “I figure you had to deal with all the bullshit of growing up too early, you might as well get to enjoy some of the other parts.” She grinned and twisted the top off, then held it up toward me. We let the bottles clink together before we both went to take a drink.
I saw Amy’s hand move before I registered that Landry was reaching for her beer. Her palm smacked lightly against the back of his wrist, and she lowered the bottle to give him a glare as he drew back his arm. He sat there for a second, his face screwed into a foul look, then he came to his feet. We came up to meet him, and in spite of having a good six inches of height on me, and even more on Amy, he took a half step back. The room went silent as we faced each other across the table, everyone seeming to wait for one of us to make a move.
“The kid’s not old enough,” Landry said, his voice petulant. “You heard the boss.”
“My kid,” I said slowly, “my call. You got a problem with that, go tell your mommy.” He went red faced as a few snickers reached our ears.
“She’s not your kid,” he spat. “You’re just-”
“Landry!” McGregor cut him off. He turned to face the older agent with a glare, but McGregor was immune to it. “That’s enough, son.” With a final hard look my way, Landry grabbed his other beer and headed to the other end of the table.
“I’m really starting to not like that guy,” I said as we took our seats.
“I could’ve taken him,” Amy said with mock confidence.
“That’s a question I could living without knowing the answer to,” I said as McGregor walked our way. He sat down across from us and took a swig of his beer.
“Cut Landry a little slack,” he said. “Boy’s lost a lot of friends the past few weeks. He was just getting serious about a gal who worked on the First Lady’s staff, too. We listened to Air Force One go down the second day. He took that pretty hard.”
“We’ve all lost people,” I said. “But I’ll cut him some slack the minute he ditches that attitude.”
“He’s grieving. Dr. Parsons said he’s probably going to be angry for a little while, then he’ll get over it.” Amy got up and stalked off without a word, her face set. “What’s wrong with her?” McGregor asked.
“She watched her father jump out of a helicopter to save her life a couple of weeks ago,” I said calmly. “Asking her to cut Landry some slack because he’s a little fucked up over his girlfriend doesn’t hold water with her, I’m guessing.”
“I can see that,” McGregor said with a slow nod. “It’s been hard on everyone.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking around for a moment before I checked the clock on the wall. “I need to get to a radio,” I muttered to myself.
“You can’t just go making calls on our comm gear,” he said.
“I brought one of my own,” I said with a tight grin. “I made a promise to some folks back in Nebraska.” McGregor stood when I did and followed me out into the hallway. Amy was leaning against the wall, holding the empty beer bottle in her left hand while she rubbed at her eyes with her right. I pretended not to notice the red splotches on her cheeks and her puffy eyelids.
“What now?” she asked.
“We’re going topside to call St Mark’s.” She smiled at that and fell in beside me, giving McGregor a curious glance.
“I’m tagging along to make sure you don’t compromise opsec,” he grumbled as he pushed the door to the ops center open. “And to make sure you don’t bust the damn radio. Your gear and your bikes are already packed. I’m too tired to deal with breaking it out and getting it stowed again.” I grabbed the Shadowfire’s case and headed for the door on the far side of the room. All of the comm gear had been disconnected from the antenna array, so we were going to have to set it up on our own. Lugging the case up the stairs wasn’t quite as hard as it might have been one upon a time, but I was still a little winded by the time I got to the doorway behind the sculptures. The heavy steel portal let in a rush of cool air that made my nose tickle as I got to smell the outdoors for the first time in a couple of days. We emerged from the tunnel into twilight, and followed the beam of our flashlights to a metal ladder that led onto the top of the ridge.
From the top of Mt Rushmore, we could see for miles. Most of the world was covered in shadow, but the horizon was a stark line of black against the fading violet sky. For a moment, we gawked at the view, unable to ignore the majesty of the Black Hills. Off to the east, I could see the evening star shining bright in the sky. I knew it was really a planet, but I wasn’t sure which one. A few weeks ago, all I would have had to do was look it up on the internet. Now, all I could do was wonder and feel a little overwhelmed by all the things I suddenly realized I didn’t know.
Amy’s hug pulled me out of my ruminations, and I looked down at her. She grinned when she saw my face and stepp
ed back. “For a minute there,” she said softly, “everything felt…okay. Like I was on the coolest road trip ever.” I nodded and chuckled in spite of myself.
“Next time, we have to bring your mom,” I said as I set the radio down.
“We’ll have to bring her a t-shirt or something.” She clambered up onto a crag of rock and looked west, leaving McGregor to hold the flashlight while I set up the portable dish.
“You make a pretty decent father,” he said as I fiddled with the dish.
“Now, yeah,” I said. “Point the light a little more to the left…thanks. Before Zompoc Monday? Not so much. Most parents taught their kids things like…God, I don’t even know what they taught them. But now? I’m teaching her how to use a sword, how to field strip and clean a pistol…how to kill zombies. It’s a really screwed up world where I’m a good role model.” I worked in silence after that as I aligned the dish toward the satellite I needed.
Twenty minutes later, I was on the air.
“Magic Man, this is Lucky,” McKay’s voice answered on my third call. “How was your trip?”
“Not so bad,” I said. “No one was on the roads. Is Coach back?”
“Yeah,” her voice came back, suddenly less cheerful. “But the news isn’t all good. Hang on, I’ll get him.”
“Dave,” George’s voice came a few moments later. “How ya doin’ son?”
“Pretty fair,” I said. “Allie says you’ve got unpleasant news.” Amy’s boots sounded on the rocks as she came closer.
“Some good, mostly bad,” he said. “We found the farm, but by the time we got there…hell, son, there’s no good way to say it. The parents were dead, and so were two of the kids.”
“Which two?” I asked, my voice suddenly tight. Behind me, Amy let out a soft sob.
“Tad and Molly, the oldest boy and the youngest girl. We’re still not sure what happened. The two who were still there are pretty traumatized. I’ll spare you the details, but…”
