Bullard didn’t vocalize his thoughts, nor even point his finger at the map, much less use a laser pointer. Not with a dozen staffers in the room studying his every move. Military vehicles were being taken one after another, and each time, fresh bodies were being found. A pattern and a timeline were emerging. From Mannville, to the Nigerian outpost and now to Carrolton, the direction was clear. The only possible significance to Carrolton was its location by a key bridge over the Tennessee River. These incidents in southwest Tennessee were moving in a line toward Fort Campbell, toward him. It was just a matter of connecting the dots, and projecting them forward in space and time.
Bullard asked his deputy, “Where is this missing NAL humvee now? That’s our top priority. Let’s get over to UAV flight ops.” He not only wanted to know more about the Nigerian-Kazak situation, and find out about the missing humvee and its next possible destination, he also wanted to take a circumspect look at that corpse-filled ravine outside Mannville. Obviously, that wasn’t a topic that he could have discussed with Colonel Burgut on the video conference in front of his staff. But if those hundreds of bodies outside Mannville were still uncovered and visible from above, that would be the last straw for Burgut. He would not be given another chance. It was time to send the Predators down there and get some answers. What in the hell was going on in Radford County?
****
When Zack Tutweiler woke up for the final time, it was already daylight. Both Zack and Jenny were fully dressed with even their boots still on, and a triple layer of blankets over them. He was lying on his right side, pressed against Jenny’s back, his right arm under her head for a pillow. The top part of her pack was his pillow. His left arm was over her waist, over her arm, and over the baby. The baby was sleeping against her chest. He had heard and felt Jenny comforting and quieting the baby during the long night. They had been in this warmth-maximizing position for hours. Each time he had awakened, he had felt her breathing by the movement of her back. Her long hair tickled his face, but he didn’t mind.
He carefully extricated his arm from beneath her and slid away, careful to ease her pack beneath her head and tuck the blankets around her back. He took the diaper bag, pushed up the rear window hatch, rolled out and closed it again. There was frost on the ground and on the farm junk around him. The sky was mostly clear, with only some wispy stripes of high cirrus. Mares’ tails, his father had called them. The sun would soon show itself over the fields and trees to the east. It was going to be a day of mostly blue skies, a day to dry out and, he hoped, to warm up. Zack crouched between the camper shell and the old meat freezer, and scanned around him through all 360 degrees, searching every sector for signs of the enemy. The farmhouse had burned down to a pile of black timbers and ashes, still giving off smoke that was rising almost straight up into the still air. The barn was mostly gone. The back wall and the side closest to their camper shell had somehow stayed up. The tin roof had partially collapsed, resting on its front edge, blackened and warping.
Except for where his sightlines were blocked by the ruins of the barn, he could see for hundreds of yards, and in some directions up to several miles. The clear weather meant long-distance visibility. Outside of the maple trees planted around the farmhouse, there wasn’t much cover. Creeping along fences, hedgerows and tree lines would only get them so far. He knew from last night’s travels that they would be forced to cross open fields. If they tried to move from here during daylight, they would be seen and run down by any Cossacks remaining in the area.
Zack unzipped the dirty pink nylon diaper bag. Along with torn cotton sheets for diapers, there was the empty formula bottle, a sports bottle full of clean water from the cave, and the box of milk powder. Milk was priority number one. He refilled the baby bottle halfway with water, added as much powder as he thought would mix in it, shook it for a long time and then filled it the rest of the way with more water. But it was still ice cold. He’d been around babies, and he knew the drill. He knew what they needed. Unfortunately, the babies that he had helped to raise were all dead, along with his mother and his father too. Now there was just the little baby girl that Jenny had found. Tears came in a sudden rush, and after a minute for his own grief, he wiped them away with the back of his coat sleeve. He blinked up at the blue sky, mouthed a quiet prayer, and took several deep breaths to steady himself.
He looked around the junkyard, and found a plastic barrel full of trash, including a big rusty vegetable can. To heat the baby bottle in the old steel can, he’d have to waste more of their drinking water. Instead, he looked around for another source of water. A rain barrel had been filled from the stable’s tin roof. The excess was channeled into an old enamel bathtub, as a trough for livestock. He dipped the rusty can through ashes and charcoal into this dirty water; its purity didn’t matter. Nearby, a fallen roof beam from the stable was still glowing cherry red. He set the rusty can with the baby bottle into glowing embers among the hot coals.
While he waited for the milk to heat, Zack checked the area around the junkyard and barn for anything else of use. He could see where the Cossack’s horse had dug the earth with its hooves while rearing and turning. He remembered the scene. The rider was side-lit by the burning farmhouse, the Molotov cocktail in his hand, before his own arrow launched the fiery outcome. Further along the ruins of the barn, Zack saw something leaning against an upended zinc tub, something that wasn’t just farm junk. What he spotted on the other side of the metal tub had the shape of a rifle or shotgun stock.
He immediately went to it. It was an AK-47, or a weapon just like it! He’d shot a semi-automatic version of the AK before. This one’s wooden stock had been singed and blackened by flames. Its nylon sling was partly melted. He picked the rifle up; it was warm to the touch but not hot. A long black ammo magazine curved out from beneath its receiver. A little lever behind the magazine held it locked in place. Zack pushed it forward and removed the magazine. It was heavy, full of bullets. He could count them later. At least they hadn’t cooked off from the heat.
To see if a bullet was loaded in the rifle, he’d have to pull the bolt back and check the chamber. There was a steel finger hook on the right side to cock the AK’s bolt. The long safety lever was up in the safe position, blocking the rearward travel of the bolt, so he pushed it all the way down with a loud click. He pulled the bolt back, and a cartridge was ejected onto the ground. He picked it up: it was about the same size as an AR-15 or M-16 bullet. He’d fired semi-automatic AR-15s before. The bullets were fast and flat shooting, but not as powerful as the heavier 30-30s fired by his Winchester.
He let the bolt return to the forward position, and tried the trigger. The hammer snapped after a bit more trigger pressure than his Winchester had needed. It was important to know exactly how much finger pressure it would take to fire the gun. He pushed the loose bullet into the magazine, reinserted it into the rifle, and pulled the bolt back again. He let it snap forward, rechambering the first round. Finally, he pulled the safety lever bar all the way back up.
It would be better if he could practice shooting the weapon, but there was no way he could permit himself this luxury. A rifle shot would attract the attention of the Cossacks for sure. On a clear, still morning, the sound of a shot might travel for miles. He’d just have to trust that when he pushed the safety down and pulled the trigger, it would fire. He shouldered the AK and aimed along its iron sights toward a distant tree. They weren’t much different from the sights on his old 30-30 Winchester. If he needed to, he’d be able to fire the rifle and hit what he was aiming at. One thing he had heard all his life, or at least for as long as he’d been shooting, was that AK-47s worked every damn time you pulled the trigger.
Zack replayed last night’s battle in his mind. After being shot with at least one arrow and fumbling his lit bottle, the Cossack rider must have been trying to remove the sack of Molotov cocktails from his chest. If this rifle’s sling had been put on over the other satchel’s strap, the rifle would have to come off first, or
they would become hopelessly entangled around his neck and shoulders. So the Cossack had managed to remove the rifle, but not the sack of gasoline-filled bottles, just before he was fully engulfed in flames and his horse took off in a panicked gallop.
The AK’s brown strap was burnt and slightly melted, but it was still usable. He placed the strap over his head and behind his neck, the way soldiers carried their rifles at the ready. He practiced swinging the rifle up to his shoulder and getting a rapid sight picture. The weapon was about as heavy as his Winchester. Satisfied that the rifle was ready to use if it was needed, he crept back along the smoldering barn’s ruins to check the baby’s milk. The water in the steel can around the plastic baby bottle was beginning to boil. He crouched near the glowing embers, warming himself, until he thought the milk was ready.
The plastic bottle was tepid but not too hot in his hand. He returned to the camper shell, crouched and lifted the rear window hatch. Jenny was sitting up, the blanket around her shoulders. She held the swaddled baby on her lap. Little Hope was sucking her pacifier, her big brown eyes wide open. Zack passed the warm bottle to Jenny without explanation, and she deftly switched its rubber nipple with the baby’s pacifier.
Zack said, “Look what I found,” and showed her the Kalashnikov rifle. “It’s a little burnt, but it’s still in good shape.”
Jenny grinned at him and said, “Well, that’s more than you can say for the Cossack you lit on fire last night.”
Her smile blossomed inside Zack’s heart and he smiled back, forgetting his own crooked teeth for a moment. Suddenly Jenny’s smile was worth everything, was worth anything, including his very life.
****
State Road 13 meandered northward from Lynnville, most of the way in a valley following a tributary of the Tennessee. The countryside quickly became rural, with just a scattering of small farms and horse ranches, and the small properties of some isolated Tennesseans who had never ascended much beyond shacks and mobile homes. Five or six miles north of the town, the humvee passed a junkyard, and Boone told their driver to slow down and take the next right. The junkyard was enclosed by a ramshackle wall made of rusty steel sheets, set fifty feet back from the state road. Opposite a vehicle gate in the wall was a single metal building like a hangar or a large garage.
The right turn took them onto another two-lane country road, but narrower and without a yellow stripe down the center. After making the turn, Boone told Lieutenant Malverde to park by an abandoned fruit stand and wait for a minute. Carson understood without asking that Boone had to leave a clandestine signal back at the crossroads, so that their contact, if he passed by, would know that they were waiting for pickup. He’d leave a distinctive rag on a stick, make a unique mark on a road sign, or just draw a chalk arrow on the pavement, whatever signal had been prearranged. In a minute, Boone jogged back down to the humvee. A few cars and trucks passed on State Road 13, but nobody came down their side road.
Boone gave terse directions, taking them onto a narrower road and then a dirt trail between trees. Lieutenant Malverde drove more and more slowly, perhaps sensing that they were not going to release him after all. They finally approached the junkyard from the rear. The rusted steel wall was missing some panels, and did a poor job of protecting the back acres of abandoned automobiles, buses, cranes and trucks.
As ordered, Lieutenant Malverde parked the tan humvee under a corrugated tin roof, which covered a small work area along the junkyard wall. Benches, tables, tools, an acetylene torch and an old arc welder were sheltered from the elements under the very basic covering. There was sufficient room to hide the humvee from airborne reconnaissance, and that was the entire point.
Lieutenant Malverde said nothing, not to beg, joke, or stall. Undoubtedly, his mind was spinning. The three Americans took their packs and all of the weapons with them when they climbed out of the humvee. Boone appeared to be familiar with the place, and led them through a gap in the steel fence and past an ancient fire truck, to what appeared to be an abandoned and forgotten thirty-foot travel trailer. A willow tree growing just outside the wall spread an umbrella of green whip-like branches over the faded and peeling trailer. A hefty padlock secured a hasp bolted to the door. Boone went to the trailer’s towing hitch, felt around under it and returned with the key. The four men went directly inside. The condition of the interior was in some contrast to the exterior. It was not as moldy or stale as Carson had expected it would be. Curtains made of striped yellow and orange material were closed across all of the windows, so that the interior was bathed in a soft golden light.
Doug asked, “Now what?”
“Now we wait,” said Boone, dropping his pack on the floor and settling into the most comfortable upholstered easy chair. It faced a small television mounted in a shelf, but there was no electricity. Boone pointed at Malverde and indicated an empty hard-backed kitchen chair in the opposite corner. Then he laid his rifle across the padded armrests of his own seat, popped out the rear connecting pin, and pulled out his bolt carrier. Boone’s SR-25 was similar to an M-16, but firing the heavier 7.62 millimeter bullet, and with a large telescopic sight in place of a carrying handle.
Half of the trailer consisted of a living room, which also contained a kitchenette at one end. Carson put the loose weapons on the dinette table, slid into a seat, and began to wipe each one down with a cloth kitchen towel. His loaded Beretta was left visible on the table, lest their prisoner have any idea of bolting.
Doug Dolan looked around the rest of the trailer as if searching for clues, peering into the tiny bathroom and the bedroom that took up most of the front end. Lieutenant Malverde tried to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, sitting in his designated kitchen chair in the corner opposite Boone. If anything, he appeared slightly relieved. Perhaps he had expected to be shot, once the humvee had parked in this remote location. He had not yet been handcuffed or tied up; it had not been necessary. The three men guarding him were each carrying several firearms. Only a few of the weapons were field-stripped for cleaning at a time, then they were immediately reassembled and reloaded. Carson knew that after what the lieutenant had witnessed back at the gas station, he would not be anxious to try his luck against even steeper odds.
Doug asked Boone, “How long will we have to wait before we’re picked up?”
“As long as it takes; there’s no fixed schedule. We’ll stay until somebody shows up, or until we give up and leave. If nobody shows, we’ll stay here at least overnight, so make yourself comfortable. Hey, while you’re up, see if there’s anything to eat. We should save our MREs in case we don’t get picked up. Or if you have any rice left over from the cave, eat that.”
Doug asked, “Is there usually any food in here?”
“I don’t know. I was only here once, and I didn’t stay long enough to find out. If there is, we’ll eat whatever we can find.” Boone took a drink from his camelback tube, sucking it dry. “Look in the pantry, and under the sink. There should at least be some water bottles around here somewhere.”
“You think we should set security outside?” asked Carson.
Boone said, “Yeah, we should. After we clean our weapons and grab a bite, we’ll set security. Not that it’ll do much good: if we’re compromised, it’ll be from fifteen thousand feet up, and we won’t know it until a rocket comes through the roof. If anything, somebody wandering around outside just increases our exposure. We’ll do it, but very carefully. And when we’re off-watch, we’ll take turns sleeping in the bedroom. We might be here for awhile.” Boone yawned, and went back to cleaning the internal parts of his rifle, using a small kit from his vest.
Lieutenant Malverde looked to each man in turn, and since nobody else spoke to him, he said, “You’re in a safe place now.” He nodded his head toward Carson. “Like the colonel said, we made a deal, back in the garage. But I can understand if you don’t want me to leave before you do. When you go, you can just let me stay here. I’ll wait a few hours, and then I’ll walk back to Lynnville.�
� The NAL officer spoke perfect, nearly unaccented English.
Boone looked at him with amusement. “First of all, Lieutenant, there’s no such thing as a ‘safe place’ these days. A Predator could have tracked us here from any point on our trip today. A Hellfire or a Viper could drop through this tin roof any second. Or they might be watching the trailer and waiting to see who else shows up. In fact, that would be standard operating procedure in this kind of situation. They might be surrounding this place with troops at this very minute. So don’t tell me about safe places, because there ain’t no such thing. And second of all, it was my colleague who made that private arrangement with you. I didn’t, and I’m in charge. Not him.”
The young officer looked to Boone with a hurt expression and said, “But he gave me his word of honor.” Malverde had expressive hazel-brown eyes and a thin well-trimmed mustache. Under better circumstances, Carson imagined that he would be quite the lady-killer. But there were no ladies here to sway to his side with his Latin-lover good looks.
“Yeah, and if I’m not mistaken, he shot some of your compadres right around the same time. Listen LT, he just did what he had to do to get out of that situation. I’d say you’re lucky you’re not with your men back in the garage. But as far as ‘deals’ go, you’re back at square one. There’s no deal. I’m the only one here authorized to make a deal.”
Lieutenant Malverde paused, looked from man to man, and then said, “If your word means nothing, then you rebels have no honor.”
“Honor?” Boone sprang from his chair, clutching the lower receiver of his disassembled rifle and shaking it at his prisoner. “You want to talk about honor? What about your honor, Lieutenant? What are you doing in my state, wearing that uniform? Pull out your wallet and any papers you have on you. Just hand them over, unless you want to be strip-searched. You want to make a deal? Okay, let’s make a deal. But that means you have to have some chips to throw in the pot, and I don’t see that you have any. The only thing you have that I want is information—maybe. Something of value, something worth my time. So pass over your wallet, and then start with ‘I was born’.”
Foreign Enemies and Traitors Page 58
