Red Palm

by Ochse, Weston

  Barry said, “If the RV is still outside. It wasn’t protected.”

  Nelson’s smile fell. “Damn, I didn’t think of that. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, leaving.

  “Everyone assess and get back to me. We need options. We need information. Most of all we need a mission.” Sebastian lay back down with a deep bone-rattling moan. “And Blane?”

  “Yes, Sebastian.”

  “You still want to leave?”

  “No, Sebastian.”

  “Good, because I might have a job for you.”

  And with that, Sebastian closed his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Joshua Tree Combat Outpost. Lance Corporal Rutherford B. Hayes of the 29th Fusiliers gazed down the barrel of the Ma-deuce, traversing it slowly from side to side to see what else might come out of the fog today. So far they’d had two chupacabra, fourteen rabid jackalopes and one mastodon try and get past them, or in the case of the ‘cabra, get to them. The killing ground downslope stunk with their success and as long as they had ammo, they were destined to succeed. That is, as long as they had ammo.

  A squad of newbs surrounded the mastodon, field dressing the meat so they could add it to their larder. They had two lookouts armed with SAWs. While they could protect them from ‘cabras and the like, if a Sonoran Death Worm had it in its mind to come up for air where they were, there’d be little chance. It was the same way his mother had died and to this very day, he refused to eat mastodon, even when it was the only protein on the table.

  Sergeant Dirk Foster came up behind the young black lance corporal and called up. “Anything new?”

  Hayes kept his gaze fixed for possible threats. “Not a thing, Sarge.”

  Hayes sat in the cockpit of an old semi they’d modified as a gun turret. Beneath him and running south and north was the Joshua Line, a barrier made from burying vehicles nose down in the hardscrabble Mohave Desert that ran from Morongo Valley to Barstow and then up to Vegas.

  “UAVs aren’t detecting anything new, either. I think they might be done for the night.”

  Foster had the dramatic Viking features of his ancestors—square jaw, piercing blue eyes, and chiseled features. At six feet four inches he would have been a Viking had this not been present day. He wrinkled his nose as the wind changed and pushed the rotten aroma of their work back on them.

  “Jesus, I could do without the smell.”

  Hayes chuckled. “That’s what the day shift is for. We do the killing—”

  “And they do the milling,” said Foster, finishing their self-made adage. He grabbed the side of the cockpit and pulled himself up. He scanned the field, then chuckled. “By the looks of that mastodon, we should have some good eating.”

  Now it was Hayes’s turn to wrinkle his nose. “I’d think that barbequed mastodon was getting real old. Plus, you know I don’t eat mastodon, Sarge.”

  “Sorry, kid. I forgot.”

  Hayes rolled his eyes. The sergeant didn’t forget anything, much less what had happened to his mother who’d been the fusiliers cook until she’d passed. But he kept silent about it. Instead he said, “What I’d give for beef, or even pork.”

  “Good luck finding any. Damn ‘cabras have eaten every last one. Never used to be this bad. I remember my grandfather talking about ‘cabras when he was on the Great California Wall. He might go weeks without seeing them, but now it’s as if that’s all that we have anymore.”

  Hayes sighed. “I remember when all we had to eat was ‘cabra.”

  Now it was Foster’s turn to make a face. “Didn’t you get sick?”

  “Mom cooked it with dandelions. Made it somehow…edible. You remember some of the things she cooked, Sarge. Ever have the ‘Cabra-stuffed Clams?”

  “Never had the honor, Hayes. But I heard they were amazing.”

  “Yeah,” Hayes sighed. “Amazing.”

  “You remember those days when you’re biting into some mastodon later.” Foster stared out across the plain, then lowered himself to the ground.

  “But I don’t eat mastodon, Sarge.”

  Foster stared for a long moment. Hayes couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but the Sarge had been through enough combat that it could have been anything. Or it could have been nothing at all.

  Finally, Foster said, “That’s right. You told me that once. I forgot. Sorry, kid.”

  He turned to go, then seemed to think better of it. “By the way, you still want to go out on a mission?”

  Hayes glanced furtively at his prosthetic legs, all plastic and metal and not able to fill out the pants like normal legs. They’d never let him go on mission because of them. Said he was better holding the line, even if they were probably better than real legs. They were probably right. Still…

  “Hell yes, Sarge. What do I have to do to make it happen?”

  Foster shook his head. “Nothing, son. We need someone to be our M2 gunner and you’re an expert at it. Honing your skills holding the line has put you on the list. Plus, it’s about time you went outside the wire.” He gave Hayes a stern look. “So I can count on you?”

  “Aye aye, Sergeant.”

  “Then have your gear ready at sixteen hundred in front of Ammo Dump Four. We’re moving out at seventeen hundred. We have reports that the cutters are gathering south of us.”

  “Do we know how many?”

  “A full company. We think they’re being led by a dozen Monks of the Western Wind.”

  “Cutters.” Hayes spat over the wall. “Killed me a cutter or two, but never been able to take down a Monk. Think I’ll get the chance, Sarge?”

  Foster was already leaving. Still, he called back, “Ammo Dump Four. Seventeen Hundred. Got it?”

  “Got it, Sarge.”

  Foster didn’t even seem to hear.

  “Hey Sarge?”

  Foster stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Yeah, kid. What is it?”

  “Thank you?”

  “Thank me when you get back in one piece.”

  Hayes watched Sergeant Foster head back for a moment, then returned his attention to the line. He pushed his excitement aside as he concentrated on his mission. Two awesome things just happened. He was asked to go on mission and the Sarge gave him a compliment. He didn’t know the last time either of those had happened. In fact, he can’t ever remember the Sarge giving him a compliment.

  His previous excitement disappeared under an avalanche of worry.

  What was the real reason Sarge wanted him to go on mission?

  And he kept wondering about it all the rest of his shift.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Berdoo Canyon. Hide Site.

  CODENAME: TRAVESTY

  Flight Sequence 20051025b

  CLASSIFIED TALENT KEYHOLE

  UAV Narration: Sgt Frank Spann

  UAV Mode: Pathetic

  …1 fly 700 meters, overview of Cathedral City. Construction continues as they build more barracks to handle the influx of cutters.

  …1 fly 700 meters, overview I-10 cutting ground.

  …1 fly 30 meters, tracking a golem in the wild.

  Frank cheered at the screen as his Hunter strafed the golem running down the back side of Mount San Jacinto. It wasn’t doing anyone any harm and there was no one who it could threaten, but it made his heart warm to see the nasty creature tumble to its death. How the fusiliers had managed to get the Hunter through the fog he didn’t know, but getting an armed variant was a godsend. And instead of the GBU-44B Viper Strike glide bomb, it had twin 10mm machine guns with three hundred rounds of ammo.

  He slung himself back in his seat, flipped open the fridge, and grabbed a Diet Coke. This was a good day. It would be an even better day if he could get his last two Hunters working. The fusiliers were going to count on some close air support from his side and the only way he was going to be able to make it work was if Dieter was able to find the right circuit board to replace the one that had fried. Even now, he was scrounging through Fry’s Electronics, seeing if they had
anything that might fill the bill.

  He shifted his gaze to the feed from the Hunter surveilling the cutting ground on I-10. A mile long stretch of what used to be the highway was being used and new recruits were cutting themselves in various methods, each meant to provide a different form of pain and pleasure that could be harvested by the blood sorcerer Monks of the Western Wind. He’d been tracking the preparations for a week. The only difference was that today there were a whole lot more of them. He counted the cutters and soon came to the conclusion that they were preparing a battalion-sized element for combat.

  Which was a bad thing.

  He’d sent back one of his UAVs to the fusiliers with the information that a company-sized element was heading their way. To have triple the size of force engage might be devastating, especially if the fusiliers sent just enough to attack and defend against a company. This meant that Frank would have to send back another UAV with the new information.

  A warning light lit up on a feed.

  He flipped to it and saw that the Hunter that had just taken out the golem was being painted by a laser designation device. Frank toggled the controls to real time, and sent the UAV vertical, hoping he could climb higher than the anticipated missile could reach. For all he knew the missile might have already been fired.

  At 500 meters, he juked it level.

  “Come on. Come on. Come on. Shit!”

  There was no explosion. There was no ball of fire. The feed just went dark and that was enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

  He pounded the arm of his chair. It’d been a long time since he’d lost a UAV. At least six weeks.

  Another alarm.

  He toggled to the one over the cutting ground just in time to see a man with a man-portable surface-to-air missile fire his missile.

  The doomed UAV was too close to maneuver away and was no match for the speed of the missile. So instead of running, Frank zoomed in on the man with the MANPAD so he could get a good look in it. And there it was—an SA-7 Grail.

  This had to be a trap.

  He’d fallen for chasing down the golem.

  And now he’d lost two UAVs.

  He scrambled to the controls for his sole remaining UAV and sent it into a hard arc, pouring on the maximum speed it could. He’d been operating without threat for so long, he’d let his guard down. He watched the image for thirteen seconds and knew every second that the UAV was doomed. Maximum speed of the Hunter was just over one hundred and ten miles an hour, which translated to forty-nine meters per second. The SA-7, if that’s what they were firing, had a maximum speed of five hundred meters per second, which was ten times the speed of the UAV.

  At fourteen seconds the feed went dark.

  Unlike before, he didn’t hit the chair. He didn’t do anything. Instead, he sat back in his chair and breathed as he stared at the row of monitors. Most had been turned off because of the UAVs that never came back. These had dark gray screens, his image reflected darkly within. Three other screens were filled with dark static. When he used to look into these he’d see the world. There was nothing he couldn’t see. Too often he wondered if his view was the same as God’s view.

  But no more.

  Now he was effectively blind since before the first time he’d graduated UAV training at Fort Huachuca, Arizona.

  Now it was all up to Dieter. If he couldn’t find the right circuit boards to get their last two airborne, they’d remain blind. And worse. The fusiliers would be walking into a force three times stronger than they expected.

  He sat for a time, then decided he needed a smoke.

  He stood and went to the door, but right as he was reaching for the handle, it swung open.

  “Well don’t you just look like a cat just pooped in your lap,” she said, pushing past him. “I got you some more Diet Coke and a carton of smokes.” She glanced at the monitors and stopped, her hand still holding a carton of cigarettes she’d been pulling from the bag. She turned back to him. “What happened?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Let my guard down. They set me up with a golem, then took out all three.”

  She put the carton of cigarettes down and went to him. She put her arms around him. “Come on, Sergeant Frank Spann. Snap out of it.” She pecked him on the cheek, then looked into his eyes.

  “Thanks, Jenkies.” He sighed. “I guess it makes me feel a little useless. Without my eyes, I can’t do much. At least you have your network.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Right. I was going to tell you. I convinced Marnie to plant the package in the Cathedral.”

  He pushed her out to arm’s length. “Are you serious?”

  “As a razorblade.”

  “Have you tested the range?”

  “I got a positive ping. We can detonate it anytime we want.”

  Then his grin fell. “We need a UAV to see if the area is clear. Was Dieter able to—”

  “Get the circuit boards?” she asked, finishing his sentence. “Yes. He found several he thinks will work. I dropped him off and he’s working on them now.”

  Frank signed audibly. “Did he give you a time hack?”

  She smiled sweetly. “He said he’d probably have one running in a few hours.”

  “Good, because I have to send one to the fusiliers.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “It looks like the Black Bishop is sending one of his battalions after them.”

  “Not a company.”

  “No. Not a company.”

  She bit her lip. “Then that is a problem. I’ll go check on Dieter, then dial up my network and see if I can get any more information.”

  She kissed him on the lips, pirouetted, then left out the door.

  Frank watched her go. God he loved that girl. It felt like they’d been together forever, even though they’d just met a few months ago.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Cathedral City. The irony of it was outstanding. Blane had fought almost his entire life against the Black Bishop and to see him come out on top like this made him want to puke. Sebastian wouldn’t get into it, but evidently there was some sort of supreme entity who’d decided that the Black Bishop and his forces should be elevated. If this didn’t prove that god didn’t exist, he didn’t know what did.

  Which made his decision all the easier.

  He didn’t give a rat’s ass about seventy-two virgins because there was no heaven.

  He wasn’t worried about going to hell, because if there was no god, there couldn’t be one of his fallen angels.

  And he didn’t care to live in a universe where the Black Bishop and this new man known as Rook could spread their evil upon the land, snatch children whenever they wanted, and establish cutting as a national sport.

  So it was easy to decide to become the Red Palm’s version of a suicide bomber.

  Easy on the bad thoughts, came the voice of Barry in his head. Your heart rate is elevating along with your blood pressure. You need to remain calm if we’re going to pull this off.

  I am fucking calm.

  I can tell. Just remember, Blane. You wanted to do this. I’m just here to help you. I’m not even going to drive unless we have to. As far as we’re concerned, we’re just along for the ride.

  Blane forced himself to calm down. Another sad piece of irony was that Barry was right. He’d never be able to get close enough to Rook or the Black Bishop if he couldn’t remain calm. With ten pounds of C4 strapped to his body, it was hard enough as it was. Reciting the litany of wrongs done in the universe was no help at all. He needed to die forward and not live backward.

  He flashed back to Sebastian when they’d had The Conversation.

  “We might only have one chance at this,” he’d said. “Our mission is finished. I’m actively seeking support from other areas outside our new fog-shrouded reality, but it seems as if the 88 have been sent to shepherd the world into further chaos.”

  “Who or what is this 88?” Blane had asked.

  They sat a
round an old suite which had been converted into a conference room. Sebastian, who hadn’t been upstairs in years, had made the trek and now lay on a steel reinforced bed. Frezzie and Pippa sat on either side of Blane. Barry sat off to the side. Even Nelson was there, staring wide-eyed at the television, which had the sound turned off but still showed people cutting themselves in any way imaginable.

  “Representatives of this mysterious entity… ambassadors, I gather. If this was god, then they’d be angels. If this was the devil, then they’d be his demons. This is neither. All I know is that there are 88 of them and Rook is one of the 88.”

  “It sounds hopeless,” Pippa said, brushing aside a tear.

  Barry cleared his throat and said, “Every group who has a boot heel to their throat feels helpless right up until the point where they figure out where hope lives.”

  “Who said that?” Frezzie asked.

  “George Washington.”

  “He did not say that,” Frezzie said, eyes narrowed.

  Barry spread his hands and smiled slightly. “He could have. Maybe he did, who knows? The bottom line is that it’s true. Hope has to live somewhere. We just don’t know where to find it.”

  “The Middle East,” Blane said.

  All eyes turned to him.

  Pippa’s brow furrowed. “What? The Middle East?”

  “Sebastian and I talked about this already. He was ready to disband our little group. I mean look at us. We’re all that’s left of the League of the Red Palm if you exclude all the drivers who went crazy during the quake. Us against them and they are now legion. It is hopeless. We can’t overcome them. Not alone at least. But we can hurt them.”

  Pippa said, “By hurt them you mean…”

  “Blow them the fuck up.”

  It was as if all air left the room. Not a single person spoke for the next minute as everyone took what had been said and formed the logical conclusion. It was to a flashing montage of young girls cutting their arms and thighs on the TV that everyone erupted into shouting. Only Blane remained silent, letting them get out what they needed to. The decision had already been made because it had been completely up to him to make it.