A lone helicopter and a single-engine plane sat on the runway at Pacific City Airport.
Richard articulated his plan. “We’ll land near that chopper. If there’s fuel, it’ll most likely be in that hangar, or we can siphon it.”
No one questioned Richard or Ted. As far as the operation of the helicopter, its maintenance, landing, and flight routes were concerned, it would be the decision of the pilots.
With no tanker in sight, their only hope was to find some smaller emergency drums inside the hangar. Their luck held out—this time.
Elliot and Tristan kept watch as the bird was fueled. Several cases of bottled water were found inside the hangar, along with assorted candy bars and jerky. The dark and cool of the hangar had kept them in good condition. The candy was probably okay as well, but no one on this flight had much in the way of a sweet tooth.
Elliot thought of his friends at Sandspit as he stood outside the hangar and surveyed the landscape, especially Chuck and Cindy. He would be back soon, he told her that. She’ll get over it. There were bigger problems to deal with right now. In a few days, just a few days…
Elliot heard the sound before he saw it. Wings flapping to his right. With the knowledge that foamers were now a daylight threat, his reaction was swift.
“A bird. A fuckin’ bird!”
“What did you say?” Tom came up from behind Elliot.
Not that anyone noticed—too busy trying to stay alive—but animal life had been scarce. In this quiet moment at Pacific City, Elliot witnessed a bird in flight, quickly followed by another.
And more importantly, both birds look healthy.
“I just saw a bird Tom, a fucking bird!”
Elliot didn’t bother to address Tom’s bewilderment. He would explain later. For now, he just wanted to enjoy the sight of the two birds flying.
Free, alive, unconcerned.
Elliot contemplated the future for a moment—maybe they could achieve a similar existence as those birds; not great, but alive at any rate. And that had to be better than the alternative. But time ran short.
Elliot showed renewed interest to get underway. “Hey, let's get a move-on.” They had four hours of flight time with one fuel stop in-between before they would need to find somewhere to rest for the night.
Sandspit 13
The sun shone brightly in the blue sky over Sandspit. Apart from a series of wispy streaks high in the stratosphere to the north, there were no clouds to be seen. There wasn’t enough warmth, however, to melt any of the snow which fell on their first night.
The night of the twin attacks.
With Elliot gone and Chuck incapacitated, the responsibility to see their plans were carried out on time fell to Riley, Bob, and Chess. No one—other than the team of Special Forces personnel that came in with him—knew (or had bothered to ask) for Chess’ second name.
Kath kept a busy bedside vigil over her man, Chuck. The patient—according to Sergeant Morris—missed a bullet, literally. But as Morris attended to Chuck’s wounds, he saw signs that this wasn’t the first time Chuck been shot or come close to buying the farm.
Margaret, Samantha, Janet, and Kamira oversaw the domestic tasks. That meant telling many of the soldiers what to do and how to do it—a task they enjoyed just a little too much. The fish market had served well and protected them against an assault on two fronts. But being too low and close to the harbor and the damaging winds was hardly an ideal situation.
The main project was to get all the materials from the catamaran brought to the market. Once permanent quarters were established, the fun and games of erecting the wind turbine could begin. Soldiers, pilots, Secret Service agents, and anyone not preoccupied helped with that assignment.
With the number of stores and houses around, there would be more than enough glass windows to build a hothouse—or several—to grow fresh vegetables all year ’round. With fresh inland water and the abundant fish—if they didn’t freeze in the process—they’d do all right. At least that became the consensus. The first positive look on life for some time.
Once all supplies had been brought up to the market, talk soon centered around a rescue of the Terrace force families, and what the reaction of these people would be when saw their men lying dead—their bodies still frozen in the snow.
“We can’t worry about that,” Riley said in response to how they might react. “They may not be happy, but they’d be a darn-sight happier than if we left to ’em for the foamers.”
“I’m in total agreement. We have to rescue those people now and deal with the consequences later, but we can at least move the bodies.” Bob said.
“First thing in the morning, weather permitting.”
“It will be best if you take one of the men Chuck captured, make it look less threatening,” Bob told Chess.
“Good point, I’ll take that Smith guy, and from our group, I’ll take Mitch, Dave, Peter Sims, and Sam.”
“Sam?” Riley questioned the inclusion of the Humphrey Bogart sound-alike they’d picked up along their journey.
“Yeah, Sam. He’s had experience with boats and could be handy. It’s a good stretch of water between here and Port Edward.”
“But—”
“You’re needed here. Everyone may look to Chuck for an immediate response when trouble arises, but he’s incapacitated. You’re the one they’ll look to now. Let's hope there’s no trouble while we’re gone.”
“I can’t argue with that. While you rescue these family members, we’ll begin the search, and hopefully transition to more permanent quarters. I would like to start our first fishing expedition, but we’ll hold off until your return.”
With solid plans in motion, a more-confident aura surrounded the group. But behind that and the assertive talk, there lingered thoughts of an unspoken dread. Would Elliot and the others return, would they be successful in their mission? And if they were, but ran afoul of foamers or a rogue militia group, how would those here in Sandspit know?
Until Elliot’s return, there wouldn’t be many peaceful moments.
That applied especially to Cindy and Janet Transky.
Sandspit 14
Sam woke first the next morning. While the others held on to whatever sleep they could grasp, Sam dressed and walked outside. The sun had barely risen yet as he crossed to the harbor’s edge and looked out over the water. The skies were clear and if that pattern continued, it meant good news. Just to be on the safe side, he remained at the harbor’s edge for about an hour to see if there would be any sudden changes. When there weren’t, he turned and walked back to the market building.
Opening the door, Sam saw Chess and the others had assembled and were ready to roll. He must have been outside longer than he realized. “Weather’s holdin’ up. I think we can make a run at this.”
“All right. Grab some water, jerky, cans of fruit, and some blankets from inside. We don’t know the conditions these people have been in,” Riley ordered.
Mitch and Simsy went into one office of the market and brought out some blankets and a few extra jackets. They were taken from the office room where they’d been stored the previous day. The former Terrace privateers who surrendered said the marina their wives and girlfriends were in was warm, but no blankets or other such articles were provided for their protection. Temperatures were in the low thirties at night and without adequate warmth provided by artificial means, such as a heater or bedding—or better still, a warm human body—death from freezing would be a real possibility.
“We’ll be back before dark, so don’t start chow without us, okay?” Chess told Riley, then gave a wink before he jumped into the dinghy for the trip to the catamaran which had been fueled up for the journey. There was more than enough gas at the harbor.
Port Edward 4
Halfway into their journey, Chess stood alongside Sam, who had control of the craft. The other members of the rescue team, Mitch, Simsy, Dave, and Smith rested in the cabin behind. With clear skies and little breeze to speak
of, the ocean was calm for this area of the North Pacific and they were right on time. But both were aware conditions could change any moment.
“You’re thinking about Elliot, aren’t you?” Sam asked, keeping his eyes on the sea.
“Yeah, shows, huh?” Chess had noticed Sam was very intuitive. “I won’t hide it from you, Sam, not at all. What they’re doing is beyond brave. To go back to the East Coast with no guarantee they’ll accomplish anything and with all kinds of hell around them… Hell, all I can say is we’ll need to show our appreciation when they get back, that’s for sure.” Chess took a deep breath. He found the cold air and the smell of the saltwater invigorating.
“Do you think they’ll make it back?”
Chess looked at the man who sounded like Bogey and walked like John Wayne. He noticed a trickle of a tear in the corner of one eye, under his black woolen beanie. Whether it was caused by the cold or from emotion, Chess didn’t know—nor did it matter.
“I consider myself a realist and don’t give over to feelings, if you know what I mean. I think they’ll make it back, but I can’t say if they’ll accomplish what they set out to. Anyway, we need to just concentrate on the tasks at hand.” In Chess’ experience, time spent wondering about what might or might not be, was time wasted.
Hours later, Sam eased down on the catamaran’s throttle on the approach to the docks of Port Edward.
Sam indicated toward the docks ahead.
“At least this place has a good-sized area to park the boat!” There were two areas for boats at the Port Edward Harbor: one for pleasure craft with wooden access ramps, and a larger dock for bigger vessels.
There was no taking the back way in, as Richard Holmes did. They weren’t sneaking back to elicit support from the remainder of the unit with false tales of ambushes. This was a rescue of the women and children left behind.
“So, whereabouts are they at, Smith?” Chess asked the former member of Holmes’ team in a none-too-pleasant voice after the cat had been secured. He was still of a mind that these men face a charge of some sort.
“Once out of the dock, it’s a left turn down the street. The Port Edward Harbor Marine Complex on Nelson Avenue.”
“How far?”
“I’d say no more than five hundred—”
“Time. How far in time?” Chess corrected.
“Shouldn’t take us more than ten minutes. It’s to one side of the boat complex entrance, which is just off Nelson.”
Sam steered the boat in perfectly and allowed the cat to drift in against the dock. Chess and Peter Sims jumped out and tied the craft to the nearest pylon. It wasn’t that heavy a vessel to demand much more than a boy scout knot. There were no keys to lock up the cabin doors and as much as Chess wanted to leave a guard behind, the team was small already. A further division would reduce their firepower—they couldn’t do that.
“Okay, let's go!” Chess said to the team.
The water lapped along the docks and the shoreline. The open air and low-lying mist at the top of the tall pines that surrounded Port Edward gave a very empty and lonely feeling. Voices were raised higher than intended, and the noise discipline associated with a Special Forces combat team had all but vanished.
“Smith, you take point. Go with him, Mitch. Sam, you stay with me in the center. Peter and Dave, you watch our six. Any questions?” When none came, Chess continued. “Right, let’s get going.”
The six men in various forms of camouflage dress started off along the road running parallel to the waterfront. Their heavy boots clunked into asphalt in rapid succession. No one wanted to be here any longer than they had to. Had they been aware of Elliot’s recent brush with daylight foamers, far more caution would have been exercised. A pedestrian overpass above the train tracks from the deserted parking lot of the harbor marine building now came into view. Chess worried about the lush trees on the right-hand side. The Alpine Firs and tall pines made for great cover, should an enemy plan an ambush here. He had to remind himself it was daylight and foamers weren’t active then…were they…?
Smith crested the rise in the road. “There it is. That’s the place!” He pointed to a white, two-story building with metal stairs on the outside.
“Hold up,” Chess called, then jogged up to Smith’s position. “Where are they, specifically?”
“The top floor, where that line of windows is. Straight up the stairs.”
From their position, they could see the outside steps on the outside - led to directly to the second floor. One door in, one door out.
Without question, Chess didn’t like it—no one did. The windows showed it was dark inside and foamers loved the dark. The stairs too presented a problem as far as Chess saw it—width. It would be single-file only.
“How many did you say there were all together?”
“Not sure, twenty maybe. Plus five or six kids,” Smith said.
Kids. Chess hated children, and the prospect of traveling back to Sandspit with half a dozen of the noisy pests inside the catamaran cabin wasn’t appealing.
He was about to find out that was the least of his worries.
“Smith, you stick with me. You said they were armed, right?” After receiving confirmation from Smith, Chess continued. “Then you stay close. When we get to the top of the stairs, you let them know we’re here rescue them, understood?”
Smith confirmed with a sharp nod.
“Dave, cover the bottom of the stairs with Pete and Sam.” Chess posted a guard. “Mitch, follow us, but wait halfway up, okay?”
“You got it,” Mitch said.
“We’ll get them moving down the stairs in single-file. No luggage unless its life-depending, okay.”
Chess bounded up the stairs, Smith and Mitch right behind. The other three remained at the bottom of the stairs. Chess discovered there was barely enough room for one person between the metal rail and the wall of the building. Mitch, as instructed, halted at the landing halfway up and took guard.
“All right. I’m gonna pound on the door, and you let them know loud and clear we are friendlies. You got that, Smith?”
“Roger.”
Chess took his right hand from the M4 pistol grip, moved closer to the edge of the metal door, and gave three heavy, hammer-fist blows in the center.
“HEY EVERYONE. IT’S OKAY, IT’S OKAY. IT’S ME, SMITH. WE’VE COME TO TAKE YOU BACK WHERE YOU’LL BE SAFE.”
Chess tapped Smith on the shoulder for a job well done. But a few moments later when nary a sound was heard, he suspected the worst.
“Should I call again?”
“Never mind,” Chess told him as he pulled off the leather glove on his left hand. The instant cold air on his digits made him thankful for the gloves. He snapped his fingers three times to Mitch on the landing.
Get ready.
He put his glove back on and told Smith to open the door then get back fast. Chess eased the safety off from his weapon. If anything came out from the dark recesses, he’d fire a full magazine then call a quick retreat. Back to the catamaran—back to Sandspit.
Smith grabbed the handle and tugged hard—too hard. The door flew open with a whoosh and he tumbled over. Chess was ready to leap into action and had started to bring the butt of his M4 to his shoulder when the stench of rancid flesh hit him. It was so thick he could taste it.
“Damn!” Chess staggered back before he covered the lower part of his face. Not exactly what a well-disciplined, well-trained soldier would do, but the smell was so intense he doubled-over and started dry reaching.
“What the fuck is that?” Smith said as he staggered to his feet.
“Death. The smell of fucking death!” Chess shouted before summoning all his strength to lunge for the door and slam it shut. There was no one inside to rescue.
“Let’s go. Back to the boat!” Chess shouted from the top of the stairs after he gathered himself.
“What’s wrong? Why are we leaving without anyone?” Mitch called. He could see that Chess was distresse
d and Smith had lost all color in his face.
“Just get moving,” Chess ordered.
But Mitch wanted to know why they were leaving without the women and children and pressed on. “Why, Chess, what’s gone wrong?”
“They’re dead, all fucking dead. Good enough?”
Mitch understood the urgency. Whoever—or whatever—killed those inside the Harbor Marine Complex could be nearby, or in the building, or worse—on the docks and taken their boat.
“I’m sorry, but they’re all dead. I don’t know how it happened, it was too dark and too much of a risk. But the smell suggested they’d been dead longer than a day. Probably since they were left here—alone.” Chess was angry. He also felt like he was about to puke at any moment.
Chess directed his last remark toward Smith, it was plain to see who he held responsible.
Once everyone gathered at the bottom of the stairs, they double-timed it back towards the docks and their only means of transport out. The catamaran had enough fuel to get them back to Sandspit safely.
If it was still there.
Elliot 5
Straight inland; head straight inland. That was the unanimous decision aboard the chopper. No more fucking around along the coastline.
“Fly the helicopter as far as each full tank will take us,” Elliot had said not long after takeoff from Pacific City. They landed for a quick re-fuel at Condon, Oregon, and the small single strip airport. Chopper fuel was easily accessed, and each took a moment to make use of the restrooms after a thorough check for foamers. The opportunity to use the extra water they had with them for a sponge bath was too good to pass up—the inside of the chopper already started to smell like a three-day-old raw steak left in the sun.
Condon was a small farming town of old-style buildings and a population of around a thousand—at least it was before the foamer breakout and fire. Mile after mile of rolling hills that now had become a blackened wasteland, courtesy of General Stodge’s scorched-earth policy to eradicate the foamers. Still, the chopper team took precautions. But with the devastation from the fire, the threat of foamers wasn’t anticipated as much as in previous towns. Condon itself was situated a mile or so from the airport and smoldered like a boy scout’s campfire. All that would have been needed to whip the fire up once more would be a strong wind. Fortunately, there wasn’t one, and neither was there anything left to burn.
Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Page 7
