by John O'Brien
Slamming up and over a small dirt lane, the Stryker crashes through a chain link fence that surrounds an industrial lot. Powering across the dusty lot and exiting from an entryway, they enter the highway. At the intersection, Greg engages the smoke generator. A thick cloud erupts from the vehicle, billowing outward and filling the cold air. Mixed with IR defeating particles, the smoke cloud will hide the thermal image of the Stryker from those making their way rapidly toward them. It may not hide their path, as there are only two to choose from, but it’s the only thing Greg has at his disposal. The highway south immediately enters into a pass. There is an off chance that they can be hidden by the time the other group works their way through the smoke. That may give Greg and the others some additional time…and distance.
Turning south, they enter between steep mountain walls rising directly from the highway. The hills aren’t as tall as those they came through earlier, but it’s still rough terrain. Snow hasn’t settled on any of the peaks as yet, but if the cold mountain air is any indication, that time isn’t far away. As the mammoth tires of the Stryker roll over the pavement, Greg is thankful they don’t have to deal with icy conditions in addition to being pursued by an armored force.
The crossroads behind are quickly lost from sight as the road meanders through the gap in the highlands. Before rounding a corner in the highway, which pushed the intersection out of sight, Greg wasn’t able to verify if the pursuit continued in their direction. For now, he can only assume that it does and continue their flight.
His plan is to run south through the night toward Santa Fe and Albuquerque. If they haven’t heard from Jack by that time, they will turn west, fleeing to the northwest and safety. He regrets not turning to the northwest when they had the initial choice. Every mile they drive south is taking them farther away from the compound. Greg knows there is only a small chance of linking up with Jack in the morning. And even then, the odds are remote that they’ll be able to create enough separation so that the 130 can land and pick them up. And that’s if there is a good place to land should they come into contact with Jack.
Yeah, I should have turned north, Greg thinks as they race between the hills.
The fuel situation will have to work itself out. Those behind will have to stop and refuel as well. Having more vehicles, it will take them longer to accomplish which is one advantage Greg and the others have. They escaped the trap with almost a full load of fuel, so they won’t have to worry about that until somewhere near Santa Fe. The others, having the same type of vehicle, will have to stop before then. Stopping for fuel where they did has given him the advantage fuel-wise.
Greg feels his head drooping and his eyes involuntarily closing as weariness sets in. They are all tired and he tells the others to rest as well as they can. They’re going to need it in the coming days. Greg knows the driver has to be exhausted and the last thing they need is to run off the road. He has another soldier switch places with the driver. The things they can control, they will.
“Sir?” one solider says, getting Greg’s attention.
Having almost fallen asleep, Greg snaps his head up. “Yeah, what is it?”
“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” the soldier asks.
Others in the compartment nod, the same question running through their minds. Hearing the question, Greg can’t imagine how the ones they rescued must be feeling. To be rescued from the caves, and almost certain death, only to be thrown into this wild chase must be traumatic for them.
“No…no, I do not,” Greg answers wearily.
“Any guesses, sir?”
“Well, we obviously pissed someone off pretty bad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was my ex. In lieu of that, your guess is as good as mine.”
“How long do you think they’ll come after us?” another soldier asks.
“They don’t seem to like us much, so I’m thinking they mean to chase us to the ends of the earth. If they were merely safeguarding a base camp, they would have stopped their pursuit long ago. The fact that they’ve chased us so hard and for so long gives me the impression that they’ll continue to do so. Sorry, but that’s the straight skinny as far as I see it.”
“What are we going to do, sir?”
“We’ll run south, to Albuquerque if necessary, then turn west and make our way back to the compound. We’ll fuel up whenever the opportunity arises. They’ll have to do the same, so we’re at least even with that. If Jack makes contact with us, we’ll find a place for him to land and haul our sorry asses out of here. Until then, we keep our heads on our shoulders and conduct a strategic withdrawal…at high speed,” Greg replies.
The last draws a few chuckles from the soldiers. Strategic withdrawal means retreat. It’s the military vernacular for ‘get the fuck out of Dodge’. The expressions of those they rescued ease to a degree. There are still lines of tension etched around the eyes, but there is some relaxation knowing there is at least a semblance of a plan, and that Greg isn’t entirely making it up as they go. Of course, there really isn’t anything to plan, or make up for that matter. It’s just run and try to stay far enough ahead. Kind of like a deadly form of tag…but in this game, there are no tag backs.
There is one thing that Greg has kept in a corner of his mind, which he doesn’t mention and has him worried. There is the second group that split off from their pursuers, the one that went south at Pueblo. They are unaccounted for, and he hopes they took that direction to cover the possible avenues Greg could have taken. If there is communication between those behind and that group, well, that wouldn’t bode well.
After the initial twists and turns, the mountain pass levels out and they are able to make good speed, even with having to drive on thermal imaging. The trip through the passage is a short one and they soon find themselves driving past lower hills, eventually spilling out into a long, gradually widening valley. So far, Greg hasn’t seen any sign of their pursuit, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there as the winding road prevents any distant view.
They drive out onto the flat plain of the valley and the road runs straight for miles. Greg looks back and is dismayed to see their pursuit emerge from behind the hills. The chase so far hasn’t enabled him to gain any separation, but the others still haven’t been able to close the distance either. Greg reasons that the armored column following them must have had to refuel by this time.
Perhaps they’re doing it in a series, refueling some while the others pursue, Greg thinks, feeling his eyes begin to close again. That way they can leap frog each other and continue the chase.
Greg, knowing he’ll need his wits with the coming day, trades places with a soldier. With instructions to wake him should the situation change, he gets as comfortable as possible and closes his eyes. He is soon fast asleep.
Carrying its crew of very tired people, the Stryker continues its journey south. Any apprehensions they have about the dangers are lost in the blur of exhaustion, especially among those who were rescued. They’ve been through a lot…and it shows.
Through the night, the Stryker maintains its flight toward Santa Fe, passing through the small townships of Villa Grove, Moffat, Hooper, Alamosa, and others that flash by in the blink of an eye, barely noticed before they fade from view. The tall peaks edging the long valley are darker shades against the night sky. The seemingly abandoned small towns, the twinkling stars above, and the faint lights sporadically visible behind are the only company as they race under the velvet of the nighttime sky.
The eastern sky above the peaks lightens with the impending arrival of the dawn, gradually turning a lighter shade of blue, outlining the dark shapes of the mountain tops. Somewhere in their run through the night, they passed the sign welcoming them to New Mexico.
Greg feels his shoulder being shaken and, as if from a distance, he hears someone calling him. He opens his eyes as consciousness slowly rises from the depths of his exhausted sleep. Across from him, on the opposite bench seat, soldiers and those rescued rest their heads on
each other, trying to sleep while constantly being jostled from the motion of the Stryker.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m awake. What is it?” Greg asks, gazing blurry-eyed at the soldier who awakened him.
“Sir, we’re approaching a large city. It’s nearly dawn,” the soldier responds.
“How’s our fuel?” Greg asks, rubbing his hand across his face in an attempt to banish the fatigue.
“We’re getting low, just under a third of a tank.”
“Anything on our pursuit?”
“They’re still behind us, sir. We haven’t gained or lost any distance from them.”
“Okay, good job. Get some rest,” Greg says, rising.
He wakes the driver and has him replace the soldier currently manning the position. Clambering over and around a tangle of legs, Greg resumes his position in the commander’s station. Looking at the map, he orients himself to their location and what they are facing ahead.
Sunlight illuminates the very tops of the mountaintops to the west as the team enters the beginnings of a once-inhabited town. It may still be populated, but whether that is by any remnants of humankind, night runners, or a combination thereof is unknown. The map shows several towns built next to each other. They surround the confluence of several streams, the waters having originated from the surrounding elevations.
Pursuit isn’t too far behind. Greg has few choices. They’ll need fuel within the next one hundred miles, and this may be the last chance prior to Santa Fe. If they don’t refuel now, they’ll be running on fumes by the time they reach the large metropolis, at which point, any choices will be taken away from them.
They are on the outskirts of a city large enough that they could possibly lose their pursuers within the myriad of streets. The last time didn’t work out very well, but there’s a better chance within the larger urban sprawl. If the armor behind passes them by, Greg can wait until they’re out of sight and flee to the north. To do that, he’ll have to make sure they all pass and aren’t operating in a leap-frog fashion as they refuel…and that they don’t have airborne surveillance.
The third option is to continue driving south in the hopes that they outrun those behind. He’s not comfortable continuing a chase of this manner in addition to running low on fuel.
Pondering the choices, Greg knows that the immediate priority is fuel. If they are to make a run back to the compound and safety, they will have to stay on top of the fuel situation.
The trick is how to accomplish that feat. It will have to be out from sight from the main thoroughfare with ready access to an escape route. They can’t use a gas station; that will take too long to set up. That leaves siphoning fuel from a semi-tractor or other large, diesel-driven piece of equipment.
Turning to the group, most of whom are now awake, he tells them, “Okay, folks. We’re going to need to fuel up here. Hopefully we still have some fuel canisters. If so, then we’re going to do it the same way we did it last time, three pouring fuel and the rest siphoning.”
Previously, on entering or approaching any town, they exhibited a tremendous amount of caution. Now, with the danger on their back trail, they can’t afford that luxury. Driving through the city, Greg looks down streets shadowed in the early morning light. Observing one such street, he sees a flash of yellow sticking out from the edge of a building.
“Driver, take the next right,” Greg orders.
A block past a major intersection, the Stryker turns into a dusty lot, entering a back street on the other side. Greg knows their tracks through the lot may be found but hopes that the group behind will turn down the highway rather than drive onward.
A few turns later, just as he hoped, Greg sees a school. The buildings surround a central courtyard with entrances to the middle at each corner. The Stryker, barely fitting between two of the buildings, enters the enclosure. Near one of the encircling wooden buildings sit four school buses. Classroom windows look out over the square which is filled with swirls of dirt mixed with debris. Grime covers the panes of the classrooms and buses alike, rendering them opaque.
Greg has the Stryker pulled up next to the main building, effectively hiding the armored vehicle from view. It’s really the perfect setup and he can’t think of anything he would improve, other than the diesel instantaneously moving itself from the bus tanks to his own.
Chill air rushes in as the ramp lowers, the metallic clang echoing off the buildings enclosing the courtyard. Through the dust swirls, there are faint lines showing where small feet once played hopscotch and others where mighty games of four square reigned. To the side, a lone metal pole stands with an ochre ball still attached to a thin cord.
The inside empties quickly as everyone rushes out, their warm exhalations producing small clouds of vapor in the motionless, cold air. The exhaust from the idling Stryker emits the same, dissipating quickly as the fumes reach the same temperature as the surrounding atmosphere.
Soldiers scramble to remove a couple of fuel canisters that survived the near misses. With the exception of a tattered tarp and a few tools, the rest of the top has been swept clear of their supplies. Luckily, they still have a few cartons of MREs and bottled water inside.
Greg stations two soldiers at either end of the main building looking out toward the road. He warns everyone to stay out of sight of the highway. While the refueling operation begins, he walks around the Stryker looking for damage. Bright metal shows where shrapnel impacted and dented the sides. The large tires have some of the rubber missing but they are, for the most part, intact. The damage that worries Greg the most is that the antennas have been severed. Should Jack fly into the area, there is no way they will be able to communicate. Jack could fly mere miles away and not even know Greg’s team is in the area. If he sees the 130, he’ll try using a signal mirror to contact them.
Noting the exhaust plumes of the Stryker, he looks to make sure that their heat signature is kept within the confines of the square and doesn’t rise above the single-story school. Satisfied that they are in as good of a position as they possibly can be, Greg helps carry full fuel canisters from the buses.
As the seconds tick by, Greg keeps expecting to hear from the scouts that they’ve been spotted and that armored units are closing in. Each minute means more fuel. Tension fills him knowing their vulnerability, mixed with the hope that the others will pass them by. He notes the same anxiety with the others. They are carrying out their tasks quickly and quietly. Plumes of breath follow each person as they lug the heavy canisters to the Stryker. The only sound is the idling engine and occasional ringing as the metal cans contact the ground or vehicle.
Ten minutes…fifteen minutes. The first rays of sunlight begin penetrating the valley floor. Greg begins to relax in the hope that they might have given the other units the slip. If that’s the case, they’ll wait a while and slip back out to the main road and strike north, retracing their route and continuing toward the northwest, hoping to eventually arrive back at Cabela’s. Any thought of continuing their mission is long gone.
“Sir, two Humvees are heading in our direction. Four Strykers and a lot of other Humvees just passed on the main highway heading south,” the northernmost lookout calls.
“Fuck. Everyone inside, now!” Greg calls.
As he runs for the ramp, Greg again wonders how they were found. They didn’t travel down the road on which the two Humvees are approaching so there’s no way the others saw their tracks, yet they are making a beeline right at them. The only way that could be is if they have some form of airborne surveillance. And that makes anything they do a straight out fight for survival. In a way, it makes decisions about what they have to do easier. There’s no second-guessing about how to lose their tail, they won’t. They just have to finish this race in first place. First though, they have to extricate themselves.
Two soldiers are lugging a heavy canister laden with fuel across the lot. Knowing the importance of the fuel, they aren’t giving up their load. They make it up the ramp and it closes as the f
irst Humvee barrels into the north opening opposite the one Greg’s Stryker entered. With a squeal of breaks, it partially slides to a halt. Another fills the second opening on the north side seconds later.
Greg opens up with the .50 cal before the gunner of the first vehicle can fire. Sparks strike off the roof as the heavy rounds pound into the Humvee. Torn metal flies around the gunner as the rounds find their mark. Blood and metal fill the turbulent air.
“Go, now! Into the corner of the building,” Greg shouts as he shifts his aim point.
A flurry of .50 cal rounds punch into the windshield of the Humvee, tearing holes in the thick glass and sending splintered shards into the vehicle. Blood splatters on the inside of the glass remaining within the frame, coating it red.
The Stryker launches forward as the gunner from the other Humvee opens up point blank. Heavy thuds pound against the armor, sparks flying as the rounds ricochet off. One of the heavy caliber rounds finds its way through the thick armor. It careens through a piece of equipment on the wall sending sparks into the interior. Slowed, but still packing a punch, it collides with the shoulder of the boy they rescued from the crosses the other night, severing his arm from his shoulder. His arm falls limply into the lap of the soldier next to him and splatters those across from him with blood. Several screams punctuate the interior.
The soldier stares mutely at the arm in his lap, not knowing exactly what it means. An arm just landed in his lap and the shock of not understanding the implications causes him to just gaze at it for split-seconds. He lifts it and looks to the boy next to him. The realization hits with full force as he sees the mutilated remnants of the boy’s shoulder. Splinters of bone are all that remain of the arm with blood streaming from the wound. The soldier only heard the boy give a compressed sigh and slump to the side.
