Here we go.
Zeb twisted his body left, violently so, working to create as small a profile as possible as he approached the entry point.
Three-two-one.
The succession of gasping for air, pain on impact, and muffled grunts was concluded surprisingly quickly. Deadwood. The branches snapped too easily to be healthy, growing appendages. A formidable veil of moss now draped Zeb after flying through to the other side. Hovering in place with a small patch of grassy meadow beneath him, Dalton felt relieved, but only minimally, because he also knew what was coming next.
Zeb's parachute line caught in the mass of wood chips he'd plowed through and could only play out so far. The point at which the cord stuck in the trees now served as the fulcrum for an enormous pendulum, with the former soldier coursing along its outer arc. For the briefest moment, Dalton relived the feeling every kid loves on the upside motion of a playground swing set; freedom from gravity's usual demands. This time around the experience turned out to be more sickening than joyful. As expected, the cordage played out and the forces of the universe exacted their revenge. Taught as a piano string for just a second, the tendenous fabric stopped its forward momentum and then abruptly slackened.
Dalton fell backward, down, out of control. Zeb wrenched his back away, anticipating, trying to avoid the full force of the back of his head colliding with the tree trunks holding him captive. Unexpectedly, he found a somewhat softer end to this unplanned experiment in kinetic energy as a row of underbrush received his frame as gently as a down comforter on a king size bed. It wasn't the hard impact he'd prepared himself for but it was wet, through and through.
On the ground now and shaking off the disorientation of the last few moments, Zeb looked around for his partner. Radio silence was the rule for descent, so Zeb had no way of knowing what Loch decided when he had burst through the clouds, seeing the realities of their original LZ as well. Had the sergeant attempted a touchdown there? Maybe he spotted the same breach as Zeb? Maybe he had gotten strung up, wedged in between the clutching limbs of these woodlands monsters or blown off course, crushed into so many pieces against an unforgiving rock face.
Nah. I pity the rock-face meeting up with Loch at 35mph.
"Loch?" Zeb half-whispered.
The attempt to re-establish contact needn't be as quiet as he'd assumed. There were no other humans, anywhere around. This was, after all, an incredibly foolish thing to attempt. A million to one.
And Zeb was proving them wrong.
Again.
The voice startled him.
"Well, don't yuuu look all comfy now, LT."
Clearly, his partner had fared at least as well.
"Dalton, this is nooo time for a nap. We got a meet on in abooot, oh say, ten hours. Lots of ground to take in the meantime."
Loch, always such a pleasure. The Scot reached out, extending his thigh-sized forearm toward Zeb, currently on his butt, entangled in all kinds of brush and polychord chute line material. Though he shouldn't have been, Dalton became surprised again by how little effort this small man needed to lift him off the ground and up onto both feet.
That's not right.
"Thanks, Loch."
Flicking a few pine cones and leaves off his chest, Zeb began to cut away the lines holding him in place.
__________________________________
Sanchez, out of Lakewood now and beyond the greater Tacoma area, was making superb time. Sunlight crested over peaks to the east as she paralleled State Highway 18, winding through the wooded areas surrounding Maple Valley. From there and on toward Snoqualmie, little traffic wandered these lonely roadways. No big surprise. The first phases of the take-over had primarily been concerned with controlling the everyday activities and movement of the populace. In time, the patterns might ease. For now, though, a firm grip was the norm. Sanchez counted on these towns and roads becoming more remote as each hour passed. That was a good bet, as entering the rural foothills this side of Seattle meant logging, not farming, and logging these days meant ghost-towns. Every once in a while a filling station or a mom-n-pop shop emerged in the muted environs but that was about it. As always, vigilance was the key. Fifty meters off the roadway at all times, she kept her left ear inclined toward any sounds or sensations that trouble might be afoot.
Mid-morning, the seasoned soldier stopped beside a hollowed log, pulling out her canteen for a moment of pause. She was doing fine, temperature-wise. This altitude was now post-winter so frostbite and hypothermia wouldn't present a challenge. Liquids, though, she would need to keep track of. Early on her training officers had warned of the counterintuitive nature of ops like this one. Hydration, they'd pressed, was the ever-present concern, obvious when stationed in the biggest sand pits the world has to offer. Iraq, Yemen, Qatar. Places like this though, where the surroundings obscured the need, could spell real disaster, real fast. In habitats where glaciers, gravity, and precipitation reign, water seems easy to come by. It is just as true that many of these sources are not mission-beneficial. Micro-bacterial foes might be invisible but they could be as fatal as someone pointing a gun at your head. And if they didn't do you in outright they could certainly make it hard to perform at a combat-ready level. Nobody wants to have engraved on their headstone that they succumbed to the enemy while attending to some kind of digestive malady. There really isn't a sense of valor in that.
Her wilderness ops class had laughed together at the thought while at the same time taking the lesson dead seriously. This duality about the professional, all-volunteer military; laughing hard, throwing barbs back and forth and then getting down to work was something she had grown to deeply appreciate. Taking on the absurdities of life and death with the dignity and gravity of their task never coming into question. It was the truest form of community, of brotherhood, she had ever been privileged to know.
Sanchez was not her birth family name.
She loved her adoptive parents, thinking often of them, almost daily, since their deaths a few years back. Together fifty-three years and, except for dad's brief tour of duty at the end of the Korean conflict, never apart for long, it made a certain cosmic sense that her mother and father had parted from this life in close succession. Mom had been diagnosed with a vicious cancer, found by the docs in its last stages, ravaging her body. Dad succumbed in a tragic car accident, only nine months later. They were all Jessica had known, yet this stable, loving environment had not been her beginnings. Her saviors—yes, but not, strictly speaking, her tribe. This eagerness to connect, to be a part of something authentically her own DNA, had been a lifelong yearning for this woman. Parts of this thirst for identity she found satisfied in the Army. So she ached for her co-warriors stationed on the other side of these mountains. She missed them. And she longed for them to have a chance to do what they did best.
Sanchez screwed the cap back on her canteen, leaving the momentary calm of the six-foot diameter Spruce and moving into wilderness ahead. The next ten miles were harder going, ankle high scrub and thorns at every step, but both her instincts and training kept her from getting sloppy. Too much to gain and far more to lose, in her estimation. Sanchez had come alive with the realization a signal had been sent, and the possibility of an actual response to China's aggressions. She would not jeopardize it with carelessness or lack of focus.
She glanced down, checking the current time on her wristwatch. Her pacing, as always, was perfect.
THIRTY SEVEN
Late morning sunshine filtered through the canopy a hundred feet above. Beams of broken light danced off mossy green and the spray of pine needles at their feet, like a laser show at a rock concert, albeit with a greater sense of reverence.
These wooden icons didn't prance about, drawing attention to themselves. Instead, they set a most beautiful scene; one of stillness and glory. The two men present in these magnificent surroundings, Dalton and Loch, walked quietly forward, through the grand setting that communicated such peace and authority.
Zeb re
ached into his left shirt pocket to remove a small figurine, given to him in General Steven's office following their final briefing. His fingertips ran over distinct segments of carefully painted wood, drawing up images in his head. An eagle: the topward, most prominent figure. The symbol of strength, clarity of sight, and wisdom—the ability to make right choices for everyone in the tribe.
Not uncommonly, Zeb knew, men and women carried tokens of some sort into battle. Most of them, though, weren't literally totems, like this one. For generations, religiously-inclined soldiers embarked on the worst of missions with medallions of Catholic Sainthood around their necks, facing mortality with a James or an Athanasius along for the ride. With over ten-thousand choices you're sure to find a good fit eventually, right? Others favored pictures of loved ones or the emblems of memberships in fraternities and societies. Whatever the form, the piece always spoke their best hopes, their trust and values in the face of possible, sometimes certain, death.
Dalton's neckline and pockets lay empty on every engagement except this one. Still, he'd only taken the keepsake from the general as an act of respect, a reminder of all that was at stake. And it was a good one.
The totem, so to speak, had fallen in Seattle and throughout all of Western Washington. While these formerly American citizens surely had a wide variety of figures they might place on their own individual statues, the one they all held in common was the one most painful to them now.
Zeb wanted to break out of this way-too-serious moment in his mind. Something told him to keep his lips closed. In the hush he ruminated about the ancient residents of these trails, peaks, and rivers.
I know why you guys worshiped this stuff. It makes sense on the surface.
We had nothing to do with it. We didn't design this incredible place.
Somehow, we plopped down in the middle of it. It's bigger than us.
Better than us.
Loch broke the silence.
"Two klicks to target," he whispered.
Walking on, the duo matched the vibe with a quieted yet persistent bearing.
Forty-five minutes later Loch held his right hand up and made a fist. They were nearing now, close enough that the roar of rushing water would soon overtake their voices. Loch kneeled, signaling Zeb to move toward him. They spoke at three-quarters volume.
"Well, it's show time, maaah friend."
"I don't like this part of the plan, Loch. Way too exposed. Too many ways to get trapped. Too many options for pain-filled death, if you know what I mean."
"Stop whining. You and I both know this is how it haaas to go down. The message wasn't any more specific than this, so we have to live with it. Could be good."
He paused for effect.
"Could be baaaad. Very baaaad."
Sometimes it almost seemed like he wanted trouble.
"We'll know soon enough," Zeb said. "That's for sure."
Another fifty yards. Slow, purposeful. The wet, natural cover only thickened, the rumblings ever more intrusive, affecting their reasoning and reactions. Startling white noise. Their ears no more use, eyesight alone would have to make up for this sensory loss.
The drop zone was north of the falls. They'd actually overshot it, the price to be paid in gaining thick camouflage cover. The extra time and mileage proved worth it. Stopping near the head of the gorge would've left them out in the open.
Zeb stayed still in the oversized greenery, behind a couple of generous ferns at water's edge. Cold river spray covered him. A thousand freezing droplets. Shivering.
The crest of the waterfall, some 260 feet above, sent a relentless volume of liquid over its precipice. This was the heavy rain season, with snow-melt flowing off alpine ridges, forcing its way into swollen tributaries and reservoirs. From there the circular, downward force pulled anything near it downstream. Dark water, the lovely pool at the base, was topped with a frothy layer of whitish foam. The whole thing was unbelievably beautiful and mercilessly powerful.
Loch held three fingers up and pointed far left, to the ledge above.
Of course, a guard post would be here.
Zeb looked up, where Loch had motioned.
Three Chinese soldiers stood to the side of the lower entrance of the large gray, concrete structure. From there a metal doorway led to a stairwell and down another 300 feet. The generating plant on the site had been built 75 feet under the bottom of the falls—as in underneath the waterline—with a second turbine another half mile downriver. The three men up top reminded them that more still lingered in the vicinity and not so far away. Though the value of Snoqualmie was something the Chinese couldn't leave to lax security, these men were not exactly the picture of disciplined vigilance. Uniforms: untidy. Guns hanging to the side at awkward angles and unavailable for quick deployment.
With their smoke break finished, they ducked back inside.
Loch tapped his wristwatch, hand over his mouth. It was time. They would wait here in silence.
Heady mist dripped down Zeb's face and then off his clothing. A small puddle gathered at the soles of his boots. He kept looking up, scanning the area every few seconds. Dalton had a good look forward and to the sides, but his "six" was closed off. With Loch out front of him, this was a most unpleasant reality.
Nothing.
Five minutes more.
Still nothing.
Ten, fifteen, thirty minutes.
Bust. Like a dud firecracker on the fourth of July. All anticipation, no payoff. This was another of the scenarios examined in the sit room at Ft. Clark. Their greatest fear was that bad guys would respond to the call. Yet there was just as strong a potential no one at all would see the lighthouse signals and arrive on time. And then they would be on their own. Stevens' timeline allowed for only three hours here before proceeding. Like a beautifully choreographed ballet, all assets had to be advancing at once, moving toward the hoped-for climax, as more actors than Loch and Dalton now shared this stage.
U.S. Naval power was heading steadily, and hopefully stealthily, across the Pacific, ready to engage when or if the opportunity presented itself. The geeks back at the Vault kept tabs on the degradation of the Chinese code and reduction in control over U.S. nuclear assets. And this two-man contingent faced extremely long odds in not only getting in place unimpeded but also somehow making the Chinese finger on the big red button go away.
The red button. This was Zeb's job. He was sure he could make it happen but in this moment, with cold and wetness all around him, doubts grew as to whether he'd actually get a shot.
1330 came and went. As did 1430 and 1530.
He and Loch had shifted positions over the last 120 minutes but only slightly.
Two more rotations of the guards up top.
1615.
Loch turned, giving Zeb the tap the watch-face cue. Pull out. Gear up. They were on their own.
Lochland backed up. Still crouching, he slid past Zeb and turned, facing deeper into the thicket leading out, alongside state highways and then to their next objective on the near side of Lake Washington. Less than ten hours now to achieve their next station. It was possible but hustle would be called for.
Zeb followed two steps behind Loch and then stopped, mid-stride, body weight pulled back on his heels.
The cold, smooth edge of Army issue eight-inch steel pressed remorselessly against his neck. Positioned right at his Adam's apple, the blade didn't waver, not even a single millimeter. He couldn't speak, didn't want to take a breath for fear the sharpened surface would forge his skin, bleeding him out, right there on the forest floor.
Loch took one more pace and stopped. Sensing his partner's physical presence changing, he pivoted. The image of Zeb held there at knife-point informed him to enter the situation gingerly.
"So, I'm gonna puuuut my weapon down and we can all proceed with caution, 'kay?"
A little more assurance for the assailant:
"I'm sure we can make sure mah friend leaves this place with his cranium atop his shoulders, can't we?"
The other voice spoke now.
"Who are you? What are you doing here? I want answers. Short, clear, truthful."
"Well, my teammate and I.... ", Loch was looking for the right approach.
"... we were only shining a little light in the darkness, you see."
Was his hint subtle enough?
The knife came away and Zeb coughed instinctively, placing his hand where the blade had been. A slight imprint, but no severing of the derma, remained as evidence of the attacker's skill. Whirling, he scowled at the newcomer.
"Just, who... what in the world... ?" he sputtered.
"Well, it's not the entire 1st Armored Division like I was hoping for," the aggressor remarked. "But I guess you gotta start somewhere."
The combat knife was sheathed as expertly as it had been brandished.
"I assume we're on the same team... gentlemen?"
A smaller hand extended, was received tentatively, and introductions began.
"SFC Jessica Sanchez, Army 1 Corps, Sniper/Recon. And you might be...?"
"Well, Sergeant," Dalton spoke up. "You have before you a retired signal corpsman and a staff sergeant who is quite a piece of work... and a one-man wrecking crew. Sorry to disappoint," he continued. "But given we've been waiting in the mist here for three hours, it would appear we're all you've got."
THIRTY EIGHT
Fifteen miles outside Gansu Province
The bus rolled on, mile after hot, dusty mile. Four hours passed since the last time its doors had opened. The air inside the mostly sealed tube was thick, heavy, stagnate. Extreme stress. Elevated carbon dioxide levels. Despite his best efforts, Junjie's mind wandered. And the memory surfacing in this half-dream state was one he preferred not to revisit.
When Totems Fall Page 19
