Battle Siege (The Battle Series Book 3)

by Mark Romang

  Brooke walked over and studied the fire pit, which was a 55 gallon trash barrel, doubling as a wood cook stove. A stove pipe came off the barrel and emptied into a duct system mounted to the ceiling beams. The ceiling duct disappeared into one of the mine shafts. Brooke smiled at him. “I think my dad doesn’t care much for ambience, just usefulness.”

  Banks nodded. “He probably intended to burn trash in the barrel at first. After all, there’s no trash service up here. But then he modified the barrel to heat and cook. Pretty cool.”

  Brooke walked over to the storage shelves. She quickly turned back around and smiled like a kid at their birthday party. “We have toilet paper, and lots of it.”

  “I’ll be living in a lap of luxury here. Except for the Spam, your dad is a saint,” Banks said.

  You’re right, Nathan. My dad is a saint. And if you perform one little act of confession to God, you can be a saint too, and then you can thank my dad in person someday for preparing this bunker for us.”

  “Our conversations always come back around to that, don’t they?”

  “I don’t ever want you to forget how much God loves you, Nathan. He created you for a purpose, and he has a plan for you all picked out.”

  “A plan to do what?”

  “How would I know? That’s between you and God to figure out.”

  Banks ended the exchange by walking away. He found nets lying on the ground by the storage shelves. He assumed they were fishing nets to be used during the salmon runs. The nets excited him. They might very well turn out to be the bunker’s most valuable items.

  And then he spotted a HAM radio. Next to the HAM radio he found a small generator with a propane bottle hooked up to it. A spare propane bottle sat nearby.

  He thought about the generator’s purpose. It was a small unit and wasn’t powerful enough to provide much electricity. And then all at once the answer became obvious to him.

  The propane powered the generator, which in turn charged the battery that ran the HAM radio. And lying on the ground was a disassembled radio antenna. If they wanted it to be, the ham radio was a link to the outside world. They would just have to be extra careful using it, and would have to mount the antenna in a hidden spot.

  Brooke came up to him. “I’m going to try to find a can opener and some plates and silverware.”

  “I’ll come with you. I saw a tub marked kitchen utensils. I’ll show you where it’s at.”

  They walked back into the main living area and shut the hidden door posing as a pantry shelf. Banks showed Brooke the tub containing plates and bowls. The tub also contained a freezer bag containing silverware and other utensils. They found a can opener in the bag.

  Banks lit additional candles sitting on wall sconces. By the time he’d lit them Brooke had their meal ready—Spam, baked beans and canned pears. He sat down at the picnic table across from her.

  She looked at him. “I’ll say grace, and then we can eat.”

  Banks nodded.

  “Father God, I thank you for giving my dad wisdom to prepare this place for us. I thank you for bringing Nathan and I together. I would’ve never found this place on my own. You used a bad scenario of me falling into a pit, for good. I ask you to give safety to C.J. and Tanner. Bring them here soon. Please bless this food and strengthen us with it. In your son’s name, Jesus, I pray. Amen.”

  They ate quietly without conversation. Banks noticed Brooke’s aquamarine eyes had changed color again. In the candlelight they looked green, like emeralds. Banks finished his plate. He scooted the empty plate to the side. “Spam isn’t bad when you’re hungry.”

  Brooke laughed. “My dad was always frugal. Growing up, I remember him having us on a super-tight budget. Knowing him, he probably got a killer deal on the Spam.”

  Banks formed his hands into a steeple—a habit he used to do back in his cubicle in Seattle, when he worked on computer programs. “Brooke, I’m a little worried about your brothers.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to worry about them. I’ll explain everything, why you’re here. They’ll accept you.”

  “I don’t mean that. I just wonder if this lifestyle fits them. Living off the grid is all about invisibility. Can they refrain from their rebellious acts against Henrik Skymolt’s one-world government? Can they just sit here in this bunker and do nothing? Your brothers have become folk heroes with their acts of rebellion. I can see them sneaking into nearby towns to do their thing, and then coming back here, leaving a trail for UWC officers to find this bunker.”

  “I’ll talk to them about that. For a while my mom was pretty sick. I became like a second mother to C.J. and Tanner. They’ll listen to me.”

  “Good. Because this bunker is stocked and hidden well. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be able to make it to the end.” Banks stood up. “If you’re finished, we need to go erase our tracks in the glade. With any luck it will snow. But until the ground is blanketed, we’re vulnerable.”

  “Vulnerable to what?”

  “UWC officers. That drone may have spotted us and relayed our location back to a mobile unit.”

  “Why are they after you so much, Nathan? I feel like you’re not telling me everything.”

  Banks couldn’t meet her gaze any longer. He looked down at his feet. “It’s a long story.”

  “We have plenty of time, and nowhere to go. So why not tell me your story.”

  “Maybe I will sometime. But not now.” Maybe not ever, Brooke. If you knew who I am and what I did, you wouldn’t want me around. And I couldn’t blame you.

  Chapter 27

  Olympic Peninsula

  Special agent Nick Loomis studied the footprints near the fallen spruce tree. The tracks looked fresh, like they were made only a few hours ago, and the tracks were everywhere, leading up to the tree, around the tree, and even on top its trunk.

  Loomis wasn’t an expert on footprints, but judging by the footprints’ length and depth, the footprints came from a large man, and not Nathan Banks.

  Loomis placed his own shoe next to one of the prints. Loomis himself wore a size 11 shoe. But the footprint was at least three sizes bigger. And judging by the footprint’s depth, the person making the print weighed well over two-hundred pounds, and likely closer to three-hundred.

  I think Tucker Stiggs made these prints, Loomis speculated. Other than the size of the prints, the only other thing bringing him to this conclusion was that he stood near the last location Nathan Banks had been sighted by a drone.

  Loomis followed the prints as they left the tree in a northerly direction. The prints were far apart. But that makes sense. Tucker Stiggs is tall and has long legs.

  Loomis withdrew his Springfield Armory 1911 TRP pistol from his shoulder holster. He was entering the lair of his enemy, and wanted to be ready for anything. Stiggs was poison-mean and as dangerous as a mama grizzly, but a pair of .45 caliber bullets to his cranium would end his reign of terror in a heartbeat.

  From a young age Loomis had wanted to be a lawman. It was the only thing he’d ever wanted to be. To remove bad guys from the streets seemed like an ideal life when he was only a snot-nosed kid too young and dumb to know better.

  But now he knew the truth. Policing the streets was a thankless job. And seeing the depravity of mankind all day long and into the night ate at you. All he dealt with were murderers, kidnappers, child molesters, drug dealers and embezzlers. The worst of the worst.

  All that criminal filth made you feel gritty and unclean, like the slime rubbed off on you. And no matter how many hot showers he stood under, and no matter how hard he scrubbed his body, the grime remained. He just wished there was a reset button for the world, a do-over button to get rid of all the crime and ugliness.

  He supposed there really was such a thing, but it would be God pushing the reset button, not him. And there was still another three and a half years to go before God would do just that, and reset the world.

  Loomis shook himself free from his melancholy and followed the trac
ks Tucker Stiggs left behind, but then stopped as the tracks doubled back. Stiggs had more than likely canvassed the area in a search grid. Loomis followed the same search grid until he found Stiggs’ tracks breaking off and leading up the hill and into a hemlock grove.

  He was taking a big risk going after Stiggs on his own. The smart thing would be to hold off until he could get a partner assigned to him. But Tucker Stiggs wouldn’t hold up for that to happen. So for Nathan Bank’s sake, to keep him alive, Loomis wouldn’t loiter either.

  Just shy of forty, Loomis felt especially alone up here in the rainforest, more alone than at any time in his life. Ever since the Rapture took place, he had felt his isolation increase day by day. It didn’t help things that he was the only one at the office without a chip in his forehead or wrist, and the only Christ follower. Of course, none of his coworkers knew he was a man of faith, nor could they ever find out. If they did, he would soon be among the headless.

  Just another martyr.

  Killed for believing Jesus rose from the dead.

  Forgotten after a few days.

  Whenever he felt especially alone and insignificant, Loomis harkened back to a profound statement a man named Caleb Brennan once told him. “One man can accomplish great things with honor and valor pushing at his back,” Brennan had said to him. That statement had stuck with Loomis to this day. And it often popped into his mind at strange times, like now.

  Even as Loomis stalked Tucker Stiggs, he felt himself transported a few years back to a jail in New Plymouth, New Zealand. Caleb Brennan sat behind a Plexiglas wall, a phone to his ear and looking at Loomis. Loomis sat on the other side of the Plexiglas, holding an identical phone to his ear, and looking at Brennan.

  Caleb Brennan, an ex-SEAL instructor, had helped Loomis and his partner, Eric Shank, track down an American fugitive wanted for murder. Andrew Maddix, an ex-SEAL, was a prime suspect in a triple homicide. Brennan had traveled with Loomis and his partner to New Zealand where Maddix was thought to be hiding.

  It turned out Brennan had ulterior motives for traveling to New Zealand. He wanted to help his prodigy, Andrew Maddix, avoid capture more than he wanted to help Loomis arrest him. And Brennan soon found himself in jail for obstructing justice.

  Loomis glanced at his watch. It was still set at American time, not New Zealand time. Even so, he could tell he needed to wrap up his conversation with Brennan.” Our time is up, Caleb. I need to go.”

  “Take care, Nick. And don’t give up the fight on Henrik Skymolt. You might be the last person left that can do anything about him.”

  “I’m just one man, Caleb. There’s a limit to what I can do.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Nick. One man can accomplish great things with honor and valor pushing at his back. I’ve seen it happen time and time again.”

  “Goodbye, Caleb.”

  “So long, Nick.”

  Just like that the flashback ended and Loomis was back in the rainforest.

  Stiggs’ tracks veered due east. Loomis hoped the footprints he followed would continue on this heading. At two in the afternoon, storm clouds that once promised rain or snow, had blown away, leaving behind nothing but blue skies. The sun—although strangely low in the sky for the hour—beamed onto Loomis’s back, and if he could keep the sun behind him he held at least one advantage. If Stiggs figured out he was being pursued, he would have to look back into the sun to see his pursuer.

  Loomis found it strange there was so much sunshine in a rainforest. He read up a little bit on the Olympic Peninsula, and learned that it typically rains up to 170 inches a year, the winter months the wettest. But Loomis had experienced only dry weather so far.

  The worldwide drought just wouldn’t end. It even dried out rainforests.

  Loomis felt his cellphone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. He recognized the number. It was his boss, William Trestman. Loomis was a little surprised his phone still worked out here amongst the mountains and giant trees.

  “Hello?” Loomis answered softly.

  “Nick, I’m glad to hear your voice. I was a little worried when I discovered you’re all by your lonesome out there.”

  “I’m okay, Bill. I haven’t run across Tucker Stiggs yet. But he’s left me an easy trail to follow. I’m in hot pursuit, at least as much as I can be.”

  “Listen closely, Nick. There’s been a change in plans.”

  “Are you pulling me in, Bill?”

  “No, Nick. But as you know, I’m required to report all ongoing operations to the UWC. When the UWC brass found out you’re after Tucker Stiggs they pitched a fit. They want you to quit pursuing Stiggs and go after Nathan Banks. If you can bring Banks in alive there’s a promotion waiting for both of us.”

  “Why the change in plans?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t given an explanation. I just think they want to double their chances at finding Banks.”

  “They really want Banks badly, don’t they?”

  “That’s an understatement, Nick.”

  “This may take me a while. I have no idea where Banks is at. He moves around like a ghost. I was able to find his hideout. But it’s deserted. He’s long gone.”

  “Just keep at it, Nick. Something will break. If nothing else, follow Stiggs. Maybe he knows where Nathan Banks is at.”

  “I’ll do my best. That’s all I can promise.”

  “I would expect nothing else from you, Nick. Take care and keep me posted.”

  The call ended. Loomis put the phone back into his pocket. He resumed the hunt. Trestman was right. Stiggs would lead him to Banks. But then what? He could care less about Nathan Banks and a promotion. He just wanted Stiggs behind bars, or six feet under in an unmarked grave.

  Nothing has changed, thought Loomis. I’m still going after Tucker Stiggs. The UWC can keep their promotion.

  Chapter 28

  British Columbia—forty-five miles to the border

  Perched on a natural overlook, C. J. and Tanner looked down from their vantage point and studied the private airstrip and hangar situated in a small valley. The airstrip was nothing more than a long, narrow strip of overgrown grass not far from a ramshackle hangar. Plywood covered the windows on the hangar.

  “The place looks deserted to me,” C.J said.

  “You know what they always say, looks can be deceiving. And I see a floatplane on the lake. Why would someone just abandon their plane?” Tanner looked through binoculars and focused his gaze onto the floatplane. The aircraft, moored to a dock, listed to one side. Its starboard wingtip nearly touched the water.

  The sparkling lake was small, not too much bigger than a pond. Lodge pole pine trees surrounded the lake and stood in even rows like Roman legionaries forming a battle line.

  “Maybe they left the floatplane because it doesn’t run anymore. Or maybe the owner was taken up in the Rapture,” C.J. speculated aloud.

  Tanner swept his binoculars over the property, looking for signs of life. But he saw nothing suggesting a human lived or worked at the airstrip. “I do think you may be right. The place sure looks abandoned.”

  “Then let’s spend the night here under a roof. I’m tired of building shelters and pitching our tent.”

  “The hangar door is probably locked, C.J. How are we going to get into the place?”

  “We’ll have a better idea how if we go down there.”

  “And if we can’t get into the hangar we’ve burned more time that we could’ve used to get closer to the bunker.”

  “Do you always have to be so difficult, Tanner?”

  “Do you always have to be so impulsive?”

  “Point taken. We are what we are.”

  Tanner rolled his eyes. “And I always give in to your harebrained wishes, even when it’s stupid to do so.”

  “So then what are we waiting on? Let’s go down there,” C.J. said.

  “What if there are UWC officers hiding inside the hangar and hoping to ambush us?”

&nb
sp; C.J. began to descend the overlook. “That’s not going to happen, Tanner. Trust me.”

  “I’m fast running out of trust, brother,” Tanner grumbled as he picked his way down off the rocks.

  A half hour later they circled around the lake and warily approached the hangar. Up close the hangar and airstrip looked even shabbier. Weeds had grown up knee-high. A large, rusty padlock hung from the hangar door.

  Tanner looked at the padlock. “I left my bolt cutters at home, C.J. So I guess we better be moving on.”

  “Maybe we can get in through the windows.”

  Tanner glanced at the windows. “They’re all boarded up. Do you happen to have a pry bar in your backpack?”

  A spine-chilling sound from behind them interrupted their conversation. It was the sound a shotgun makes when a shell is pumped into the chamber.

  They lifted their hands and slowly turned around.

  A girl in her late teens held a pump shotgun waist high and pointed right at them. “No one is prying any boards off my hangar.”

  Tanner looked at the girl. Scrawny and barely over five feet tall, she wore a blue hoodie that hid most of her face, but couldn’t contain her long red hair.

  The big shotgun didn’t waver in her hands. And Tanner could see enough of her face to see that she was determined to protect her property at any cost.

  “We’re sorry, Miss. We thought maybe the place was abandoned and we could spend the night here. We’re not vandals,” C.J. said.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” the girl said firmly. Without lowering the shotgun, she said, “Lift up your bangs so I can see your foreheads.”

  Tanner looked at C.J. for a long moment. He finally shrugged his shoulders and lifted his scruffy hair, exposing his forehead. C.J. did the same.

  The girl stepped forward three paces and examined their faces. She quickly lowered her shotgun. “You’re both believers,” she mumbled, her quiet voice filled with incredulity. “It’s been a long time since I’ve run across another Christ follower.” She looked up and panned the sky in all directions. Her eyes darted anxiously. “I don’t see any drones, but sometimes they fly so high you can’t see them. So let’s go inside and talk. There’s another door in back. We’ll use that one.”