Dead Zone

by Robison Wells

  Jack saw the sniper’s muzzle flash and an instant later felt a bullet graze his helmet.

  Jack took aim, not letting the sniper get off a second shot, and he fired.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  AUBREY SAW THE GLIDER DOOR open ahead of her. Three soldiers emerged from the building, carrying the lambda, still lying flat in his harness.

  Aubrey rolled onto her stomach, pain flaring through her right arm as she put pressure on it. She was aiming using her left hand instead of her right, but her arm was steadied against the ground.

  She fired, and the bullet went wide, punching a hole in the fiberglass body of the glider.

  The men didn’t seem to even notice the shot, and they continued to carry the boy to the plane, no change of pace, no ducking.

  Aubrey lined up the shot again, thought about trying it with her right arm, but knew it would be just as jumpy as her left. Or worse.

  She centered the sights on the lambda’s body, on the middle of the big canvas harness, and squeezed the trigger.

  The gun didn’t fire.

  “No,” she breathed, and pulled the trigger again.

  Nothing.

  “Come on.”

  She clicked the trigger four more times, and each time the gun did nothing. She ejected the magazine and a tablespoon of dirt came pouring out with it.

  “Damn it,” she whispered, ejecting the current round and working the slide back and forth. She slapped the magazine into place. She aimed at the lambda just as he was disappearing into the body of the glider, and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  “Damn it, damn it, damn it,” she said, dropping the gun and rolling onto her side to take the pressure off her bad arm.

  She’d come all this way, and her gun was jammed. She’d failed.

  From somewhere above her, she heard Jack’s voice.

  “Aubrey, you’re clear! You’re clear! Sniper down!”

  Too late, she thought, but she forced herself to her feet. Too late.

  She was woozy from loss of blood, and exhausted from being invisible and from a night-long jog, but she made herself move toward the glider. The three men were dashing away from it, back into the building.

  Aubrey was running out of clandestine maneuvers. She ran toward the closest man, tried to trip him, and bodychecked him instead. They both went sprawling.

  He wasn’t armed like an infantryman, but he had a pistol. It was blockier than her Beretta, but it was clean. She snatched it out of his holster, fumbled with the safety, and fired ten rounds into the body of the glider.

  She could see the holes—light glowed out of each—and they were a scattered mess. She was too shaky, too tired. Too not-left-handed.

  The towplane was moving, pulling the glider toward the runway.

  She ran after it. There was nothing else she could do. She had to chase it down. She didn’t know how many shots were left in the gun—didn’t know if this kind of pistol held thirteen or fifteen or seventeen or however many rounds. The gun still felt heavy—still felt like there was something inside it.

  She wasn’t going to keep up with the taxiing towplane. It was going too fast, and she was too tired. She left the tarmac and cut across the dirt center of the airfield. It had to go the long way following the triangle, but she could head it off with a hundred-yard run.

  As she sprinted, Aubrey wondered what had happened to Jack. He had yelled at her, told her that he’d killed the sniper, and that must have brought down a rain of fire from the Russians. His voice had come from above her—had he gotten up on the tower? That was crazy. They could surround him. Granted, he could hide up there and stay out of their line of fire, but for how long? Soon someone would get up on a building. He was trapped by what was left of a platoon.

  She turned to look, but by now the tower was just a blur. She couldn’t tell how many men were surrounding it.

  When this was over, when she stopped the glider—somehow—she’d go back. An invisible girl could clear out a platoon of soldiers standing around a tower. Even if all she had was her left hand, she’d go back and save him. She could do it. She had to do it.

  She wasn’t walking in a straight line. She was weaving and nearly tripping over the uneven ground.

  But the glider was coming in her direction. It had reached the runway, and was taxiing into takeoff position. She needed to be in place.

  And if she failed, there was still Rich at the end by the tank, ready to take a last-ditch shot at the towplane’s pilot as it took off.

  The propeller was roaring like a buzz saw as it approached her. She stood just off the runway. Rich had to see her by now. He was more than a hundred and forty yards away. She almost wanted to wave at him—a sad, good-bye wave. She didn’t think she was going to make it out of here anymore. She was bleeding too much. It was over.

  Rich would take his shot once the plane had turned.

  She watched it rotate in place, turning in a very sharp circle that brought the glider to a stop in front of her.

  “Take the shot, Rich,” she said, holding out her pistol toward the towplane’s cockpit window. Her arm was shaking so bad she thought she might miss the plane entirely. But Rich could shoot.

  Why wasn’t he shooting?

  “Come on, Rich,” she said. “Take the shot.”

  There was nothing. Had the platoon of Russians found Josi and Rich? Had Josi and Rich tried to help Jack?

  “Now!” she screamed, tears starting to stream down her cheeks. Her words were caught up in the wind of the propeller and were blown away.

  Aubrey pulled the trigger, walking toward the cockpit, buffeted by the winds with every shot she took.

  Seven rounds. That was what was left in the gun. Seven rounds, and she put them all into the cockpit.

  And the plane didn’t move. The pilot didn’t punch the throttle and try to get away. Aubrey couldn’t see a thing inside the dark cabin of the cockpit.

  She turned toward the glider. She had to walk back around the wing of the towplane, and toward the door. As she did, she caught sight of the glider pilot, a confused look on his face as the towplane didn’t move.

  Aubrey stepped to the glider door, halfway back on the skinny little plane. She yanked it open, and looked inside just long enough to see the lambda, a boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, shriveled and emaciated. He had an IV in his arm that was hanging from the inside wall.

  The pilot turned in his seat. He would have seen the door open and empty.

  “Schto eto takoi?”

  “I’m sorry,” Aubrey said, her eyes still wet with tears. “I’m sorry they did this to you. I’m sorry for what I have to do.”

  The boy writhed in his canvas harness.

  Aubrey pulled a grenade from her vest. She glanced back toward the edge of the runway, toward the short grade down to the dirt.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She pulled the pin and threw the grenade, and then ran.

  FIFTY-SIX

  THE FUSELAGE OF THE PLANE ripped in two. Aubrey waited and listened, but there was nothing—no movement or noise.

  Aubrey began to sob. She knew she had to get up, she knew she had to run, but she sat on the side of the road and cried. She cried for the boy, and for Jack, and for all the Green Berets, and for whatever had happened to Josi and Rich and even for Tabitha and Krezi. She cried for those nine men she’d killed at the roadblock and all the men she’d killed since then. Enough for a lifetime. More.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  “I GUESS YOU’RE GOING TO be holed up with us here,” Tabitha said. “Until the medics come.”

  She was trying to make something in the kitchen out of canned goods. Alec kept speaking to Krezi, kept trying to make her say things. Tabitha didn’t know who he was, but he wasn’t on their side.

  At one point, Tabitha moved to the table and, as surreptitiously as possible given its size and weight, holstered her M9.

  Still Alec’s mind continued to assault her. She should trust h
im. They knew each other, back at that birthday party—at the dance—hanging out, getting ice cream. It was like he was feeding her memories so generic that her mind would fill in the details. He never said what kind of party it was, or what ice-cream shop. He’d probably done this very thing to a dozen—maybe dozens—of people. But for whatever reason, her telepathy turned his psychic promptings into plain English and she could understand simply what he wanted her to believe.

  Tabitha took the plates of food—mostly crackers and a little Spam—into the front room. She scooted a small stool between Alec and Krezi. Alec bent forward to get a cracker, and as he did so, Tabitha grabbed at his pistol. He wheeled away, faster than any movement she’d seen from him yet, and drew the pistol himself. Tabitha was on her feet, her M9 in a two-hand grip.

  “Who are you?” Tabitha demanded. “Why can I hear your thoughts?”

  He looked completely in control, even with a gun aimed right at his heart—he’d taken off his body armor, too.

  “You can hear my thoughts?” he said, sounding genuinely surprised. “No one can hear my thoughts. You must be special. Lambdas? I got quarantined with all the lambdas, but I was able to talk my way out of it. It’s a shame you didn’t. Now you’re on the losing side of a very nasty war.”

  “We’re joining the rebellion,” Tabitha said. “And . . . and . . . it’s none of your damn business. You come in here and play with our minds like you can do whatever you want.”

  He held the gun steady on Tabitha but glanced over at Krezi.

  “I—I can’t do anything.”

  “Liar,” he said with a grin. “I do so much enjoying getting secrets out of people. It’s where I really shine.” He focused back on Tabitha. “Of course, it’s easier without a gun pointed at you. Do you know what the problem with a standoff is?”

  Tabitha just stared back at him.

  He fired his pistol, three quick shots.

  As she lay dying on the floor, staring at the peeling paint of the ceiling, she heard him say, “You always think you’re fast enough to beat the other guy to the trigger pull.”

  There was a brilliant blaze of light and a cry of rage.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  THE EXPLOSION AT THE GLIDER had attracted attention, and the tank that had been sitting at the front of the runway came rolling toward Aubrey. She dropped the pistol, and gingerly stood up. She needed to get back to Jack. She needed another gun.

  She slowly walked around the wing of the plane and past the sputtering propeller. She could barely see. That didn’t matter. She needed to get back to Jack. He and the platoon were a hundred yards away.

  “Aubrey?” a voice called out.

  She stopped and looked around. It sounded like Josi. She hoped the tank crew hadn’t heard.

  “Aubrey?”

  The tank stopped.

  “Aubrey? Where are you?”

  The voice was coming from on top of the tank. Aubrey squinted in the darkness, trying to make out the face of the person in the tank commander’s seat.

  She turned visible. It felt like a huge weight was suddenly lifted off her back, like she could suddenly breathe again.

  “Josi?” she asked, exhausted.

  “Aubrey! You did it!”

  The driver’s hatch opened, and a face popped out. “Aubrey! You stopped them! What happened to your arm?”

  “I got shot,” Aubrey said, an exhausted smile covering her face. “How did you get the tank?”

  “The crew got out to pee,” Rich said. “Josi killed them.”

  “And Rich can understand any machine, including tanks,” Josi said proudly. “We were waiting down there for the plane to come. I have the mounted heavy machine gun.” She slapped the giant gun mounted on top of the tank.

  Aubrey stepped toward them. “I’m going to need some help up,” she said. “I’ve only got one arm.”

  “We watched you from the end of the runway,” Rich said, clambering out of his seat. Josi was climbing down from her perch as well. “You were awesome.”

  “Yeah,” Aubrey said, pain in her voice. “The plan worked.”

  “Where’s Jack?” Josi asked.

  The two of them pulled Aubrey up by her armpits. She wanted to scream, but she held it back.

  “He’s in a place where a tank would really come in handy.”

  The tank rolled across the airfield, passing the wreckage of the earlier bombing run and ignoring the calls from annoyed soldiers. Aubrey sat in the commander’s seat, and Josi in the gunner’s, both of them sticking their heads out of the turret. A dozen soldiers still stood around the tower.

  “Josi,” Aubrey said. “Clear us a path. That tower’s full of fuel, I think, so try not to blow us all up.”

  Rich had given Josi all the basics in how to operate the machine gun, and she pointed it at the soldiers sieging the tower. She only had to fire a dozen rounds—dropping five men and sending the rest of the infantry running. Their own tank was firing on them.

  Jack was ready. Aubrey had been talking to him the entire drive over from the glider. Rich pulled the tank in next to the tower, smashing the fence as he did so. Aubrey ducked inside the tank, watching as Jack scrambled down the ladder and climbed in to her commander’s seat. These tanks technically were only made to hold a crew of three, but Aubrey was tucked tight in the center.

  Rich revved the engine and in a minute the tank was going fifty miles an hour away from the airfield and into the residential streets of Ellensburg.

  “Hey,” Jack said, peeking down inside the body of the tank.

  “Hey.”

  “I killed that sniper.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Senseless. That was the word.”

  “Senseless. Agreed.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Not really. Let’s go home.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  AUBREY’S ACU JACKET WAS SOAKED in blood, from her collar to the middle of her chest. Jack and Josi began to help her take off her Kevlar vest. Together they opened Aubrey’s jacket to reveal an even-more-soaked T-shirt.

  “I promise I’m not being forward,” Jack said, “but we have to get you out of that shirt.”

  Aubrey stuck out her tongue. “You say that to all the girls who get shot.”

  Josi used her knife to slit Aubrey’s shirt from collar to sleeve while Jack opened Aubrey’s first-aid kit.

  The wound was gruesome—a jagged hole that punched straight through the collarbone. Josi exchanged a glance with Jack.

  “What does that look mean?” Aubrey asked.

  “I don’t know,” Josi said. “The bleeding has mostly stopped, so that’s good. This is going to hurt a little bit.” She reached to Aubrey’s back and felt for the exit wound. Aubrey gritted her teeth in pain.

  Josi pulled her hand back, wiping the blood—new and old—onto her pants. “It might have hit your scapula. I’m not sure. It’ll be a while before you play baseball again.”

  Jack wiped the wounds with alcohol pads, as gingerly as he could, which wasn’t very gingerly at all. Aubrey managed to keep from crying out, but he could tell it was taking all she had. She bit her lip until he was worried that she’d bite it clean through, and her fingers were wrapped around the strap of his vest, squeezing like a vise.

  Finally, he was able to apply gauze to the oozing bullet hole and secure it with tape. Josi held up a piece of cotton cloth tied into a loop.

  “It’s not perfect,” she said. “But you need a sling.” They closed her jacket and helped her lean forward enough to get the sling over her head and shoulder.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “You guys done?” Rich called.

  “Yes,” Aubrey said.

  “Do you want to know how to work the radio?”

  “We can call our base from here?” Aubrey asked.

  “We can. Normally the Russians would hear us, but I’ll walk you through the procedure of how to get a secure line.”

  Jack was sitting in the commander’s
chair, so he pushed the buttons on the radio in the order that Rich dictated—the red button, the yellow one in the bottom corner, a series of numbers, the red one again, then the other yellow.

  Jack handed the headset down to Aubrey. He had to help her slip it over her ears.

  “FOB, this is Lambda Private Parsons from ODA nine-one-one-nine. Come in.”

  There was a long pause, and then Aubrey repeated her name. “Serial number eight-oh-one-six-nine-one-nine-one-one-five. Yes, I’m calling from a Russian radio. We’re in a Russian tank, actually.”

  There was another long pause, and Jack began to wonder whether they’d disregard this as some kind of hoax or disinformation campaign.

  “I understand,” Aubrey said. “I understand. We need to report: the Russian lambda who could disrupt electronics is KIA. Repeat, the Russian lambda who could disrupt electronics is KIA.”

  It seemed to take whoever was listening a long time to process that information. Aubrey was waiting, not answering more questions.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “Yes, sir. This is Lambda Private Parsons, ODA nine-one-one-nine.”

  She tried to turn to look at Rich, and winced.

  Jack was quicker to ask the question. “Rich, where are we?”

  “Forty-six degrees, fifty-nine minutes, thirty point zero-zero-eight seconds latitude, negative one hundred twenty degrees, thirty-one minutes, twenty-three point six-five-six-eight seconds longitude.”

  Aubrey repeated the coordinates to Major Brookes on the radio. “We’re in a Russian tank—”

  “A T-eighty,” Josi said.

  “A T-eighty,” Aubrey repeated. “We’re trying to get back across the lines. Preferably before you bomb this place again.”

  They made Aubrey relate the entire story of how they found the lambda and how they killed him. Jack offered to take the headphones from her and let her rest, but she seemed to act like it was her duty.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “All the Green Berets in our ODA are either KIA or MIA. And two of the lambdas are AWOL.” She paused. “Yes, sir, we’re very lucky. Thank you, sir. We’ll be waiting.”