by D W McAliley
The man swallowed hard and dropped his eyes.
"My," the man paused to swallow again. "My name is Charles Ganfield. Tactical Team Leader, Second Team, Confidential Services Division."
"What, is that some kind of rank? What country are you with?" Joe asked, his voice intense.
Charles Ganfield snorted a short chuckle. "You really don't get it, man," he said, shaking his head. "Yours. Your government hired me."
"Bullshit," Joe said flatly, sitting back. "Chris, this guys screwing with us. Time for contestant number two."
Chris placed the barrel of the 9mm against Charles' temple and pushed ever so slightly.
"Wait! WAIT!" Charles called out, flinching hard.
"I'm listening," Joe said patiently, and Chris lifted the gun just a little.
"September 10th," Charles stammered. "September 10th, 2001. Department of Defense announced they couldn't track $2.3 trillion in transactions. No one remembers it because the next day, everything happened, but on September 10th, they laid it all out in the open for people in the right positions, who know what to watch and listen for. I mean, think about it man, 2.3 trillion dollars worth of transactions just up in smoke. What could you build....what could you buy with that kind of money?"
"What are you, X-Defense, Hart, Blackwater?" Joe asked, and Charles started shaking his head.
"You're acting like they're different groups," Charles said. "We're all one big, happy, no compete family. We get our paychecks from the same place, my friend....and they're stamped United States Congress."
Joe cut his eyes at Chris, who gave a very slight shrug. In his experience when a detainee started off on an avalanche, the resulting information was good nine times out of ten. Joe looked carefully at Charles Ganfield's face and watched his eyes as he spoke. There wasn't the slightest bit of hesitation in his voice, no doubt in his eyes either. Whatever else might be said, he believed what he was saying down to his toes.
That didn't make it true, it just meant he didn't know it if it wasn't.
"So what is this, some kind of coup?" Joe asked once Charles had run down a bit.
Charles snorted. "You think they tell me? All I know is my orders came from the Tactical Operations Director himself. They told me to..."
Joe waited, and when Charles didn't continue, Joe leaned forward slightly "Told you to what?" he asked, his tone steely.
Charles shook his head. "Can't disclose tactical directives. That's a violation of the confidentiality statement. I've already said way too much, man. You don't know these people. If they find out I talked, you don't know what they'll do."
Joe pulled one of his short, fixed-blade tactical knives and held it with the point just in front of Charles' eyes. "What do you think I'll do if you don't?" he asked softly.
Charles still shook his head. "Doesn't matter. You kill me, they kill me.... doesn't matter, man. Dead's dead. You're on borrowed time, anyway, you just don't know it."
Charles closed his mouth so hard his teeth clicked. Joe sighed and took the roll of duct tape Chris handed him. Charles had just enough time to register what was about to happen, but Joe moved too quickly for him to do anything about it. Joe wrapped the duct-tape tightly around Charles' mouth several times, and then did the same around his eyes to make an adhesive blindfold. Just to be on the safe side, he even wrapped the zip-ties securing Charles' wrists.
Satisfied, Joe put the hood back on Charles and stood him up. Joe nodded to Chris, who slipped out the back and around the right flank of the house. Joe turned the knob on the door and opened it just a crack. He heard boot steps on the stairs as two of the guards outside came to investigate. When one pushed the door open with his support hand, Joe shoved Charles roughly at the two men. He stumbled and fell into them, carrying one to the ground. The other stood stunned for just a moment, and Joe stepped up to press the barrel of his 9mm against the man's temple.
"Your boss is still breathing," Joe said, pulling the man's weapons from him and using his body as a shield, "and if you want to keep breathing, you're going to tell your buddies to do exactly what I tell them to, got it?"
Just then, Chris stepped up to the driver's door of the Humvee and jerked the lone occupant out roughly. He used the driver as a shield and held the two guards at gunpoint for a brief, tense moment. The two guards shared a look, and neither decided to be the first to take a bullet at point blank range. Instead, they lowered their weapons slowly to the ground and put their hands behind their backs. Once Joe and Chris had secured the five team members, they left them duct-taped together in pairs, with one man's wrists taped to another man's ankles—back to back.
Eventually, they'd be able to work their way free, but it would take them hours to manage it. Joe and Chris loaded all of the weapons and gear onto the Humvee along with Meg and Sam. Joe grabbed the discarded clipboard off the couch and hopped in the driver's seat. Chris took over the .50cal machine gun, keeping an eye on the road ahead and the road behind. As Joe pulled out of the neighborhood and onto a main street, the sun was just coming over the eastern horizon behind them. It cast long shadows on the road ahead and bathed them in a deep red light.
"Red skies in the morning," Joe whispered to himself, unwilling to finish the old sailor's rhyme.
Ch. 27
Single File Please
Eric crouched on the high side of the ditch and looked over the crest of the small hill. The park below him was a shallow bowl of grass with dirt embankments on three sides. The fourth side fell in a sharp slop to a rocky dry creek bed. It was scenic and suburban in every sense of the word.
Four black and green camouflage painted trucks were parked in the parking lot and a contingent of guards with big black armbands designating them National Guard soldiers were setting up tents in the green-way in nice, orderly rows. There were little lanes and avenues between them that all led up to the picnic shelter, which was ringed with crates and rolls of what looked like shiny steel wire.
"What is that?" Eric asked.
"FEMA evacuation camp," Mike whispered back. Eric shot him a questioning frown, and Mike shrugged slightly. "I was a rescue swimmer with the Coast Guard for nine years before I became a park ranger. When Katrina hit, I was called up to active duty. I saw camps like that where people were taken before being bused out to the huge trailer parks."
Eric slid down the back side of the slope and motioned for Mike to follow him. The two kept the hill between them and the troops at the park. They followed the dry creek bed to the northwest for a few hundred yards until Eric was sure there was a good buffer of thick woods between them. Then he turned sharply to the right, climbed the bank, and struck off northeast.
Mike was winded, but he was keeping pace with the younger man. He was impressed with Eric's sense of direction in the woods and his confidence in choosing a path. And, after what seemed like an eternity, Eric dropped to one knee and gestured ahead of them.
"On the other side of this field," Eric said between breaths, "just past that thin tree line, is a long wooden fence. That is the boundary for our neighborhood. We should be pretty close to right straight across from my back door, but it's still a little too dark to tell. We might have to follow the fence a bit."
Mike nodded, trying to catch as much of his breath as he could.
"How high is the fence?" Mike asked, trying to buy a few more moments.
"Seven feet," Eric replied. "We should be able to reach the top."
"Not from here," Mike said, as he straightened, wiping some of the sweat from his face.
The sun was still not quite showing, but the morning was already warm and thick with humidity. Steam was rising from the deep, uncut grassy field in front of them, and it formed a misty shroud of the thin tree-line and fence across the way. Eric crept slowly forward, listening for any noise.
Satisfied, he nodded to Mike, and the two of them shuffled forward low and fast across the field. Eric reached the fence first and collapsed against it, panting. A dog on the other side immediat
ely started barking loudly and jumping against the fence. Eric backed carefully, cautiously away from the fence, his hand on his pistol in case the dog made it over the fence.
"Are we close?" Mike panted when he got there.
Eric shook his head. "Not really. That sounds like a dog I'll hear from time to time, but if it is we're about a block and a half too deep in the neighborhood. I usually come at it from the other side, so I guess I got a little mixed up."
"So how far do we have to go?" Mike asked, a little disgruntled.
Eric gave a small shrug. "Quarter of a mile, maybe just a little more," he replied hesitantly, "but, if I remember right, the woods get a little thicker as we go, and this road veers away back towards the lake. So at least we'll be tougher to spot."
Mike opened his mouth, but before he could make a reply, Eric turned and trotted off through the sparse trunks. Mike stood for a brief second, on the verge of yelling after him, but in the end he really didn't have any choice. So, he swallowed his irritation and followed Eric. After a few hundred yards, the trees did indeed begin to close around them, and Mike started to relax a little more with the added cover.
He was just starting to think he shouldn't have overreacted when he almost ran headlong into Eric's back. Mike skidded to a halt and nearly lost his balance. Eric was standing over the bodies of two women and a little girl. Each had been shot twice in the heart.
"I used to see them walking," Eric said softly. "They would always wave back to me."
Mike put a hand on Eric's shoulder and squeezed softly. The other man's eyes popped up, and Mike said softly, "We gotta go, man. We gotta go now."
Eric nodded, wiped hard at his eyes with the backs of his hands, and started trotting away. He moved stiffly at first and almost ran into a tree more than once from looking back over his shoulder. After a while, though, his stride became stronger and he stopped looking back. It wasn't long before Eric dropped to one knee, breathless, and pressed his face against the slats of the fence. After a long moment of silence, he gave Mike a thumbs up sign.
"This is it," he said. "We're here."
Mike nodded. "Okay, how do we tackle this now? I'm exhausted."
Eric took a deep breath. "Me too,” he said. “Tell you what...I'll boost you up.... You pull me up and over if....I can't make it..... Okay?"
Mike nodded, and took a few deep, steadying breaths through his nose. He gave Eric an “OK” sign. Eric squatted down and cupped his hands, bracing his elbows against his legs. Mike put his right foot in Eric's hands, and Eric pushed up with his legs as Mike jumped. Mike grabbed the top edge of the fence easily and began pulling himself up. Eric helped as much as he could by pushing on Mike's feet, and eventually the ranger was straddling the top of the fence.
Eric and Mike were both out of breath.
After a moment to collect himself, Eric jumped for the top. Mike grabbed the back of Eric's belt and pulled. When Eric's arms were up and over the edge, and he was able to swing one foot up to catch the top edge as well, Mike slid as carefully as he could down the inside of the fence to the ground. A few moments later, Eric dropped to the ground next to him.
When Eric sat up, he was looking directly into the eyes of his elderly neighbor, Mr. Sheickles. Mr. Sheickles stood in a stark white tank top, faded blue boxers, and a pair of Velcro strapped tennis shoes. His face was pinched in a sour frown.
"Something wrong with your front door, Tillman?" Mr. Sheickles asked in a thin, raspy voice. "You notice the lights are out? I wonder if I should flip my breakers? I'm used to fuses, but breakers don't burn out, so I don't know what to do."
"I don't know what to tell you, Mr. Sheickles," Eric whispered, trying to be as quiet as possible. "If you want to flip your breakers, then you probably should. It can't hurt anything."
Mr. Sheickles made a sound deep in his throat and quirked his mouth into a half-frown. "No sense being quiet now, Tillman. You done woke half the neighborhood kicking around on this fence out here. Your computer top working, Tillman?"
"I doubt my lap top's working, Mr. Sheickles," Eric said with a chuckle, "but I'll check. I just got in, sir."
Mr. Sheickles snorted. "Quit calling me, 'sir' you sister foot," he rasped. "I wore stripes for thirty seven years. I was a workin man, Nancy."
Mr. Sheickles turned and spat to the side. He turned his back on Eric and muttered over his shoulder, "You look like crap, Tillman. Clean yourself up before your woman sees you."
"What the heck was that?" Mike asked from his back, still out of breath and panting.
Eric shook his head and stood. "My neighbor," he replied. "Crazy old Marine Gunnery Sergeant who thinks he's still in the trenches, I guess."
Mike snorted. "The only trenches the Marines liked to fight in were the enemies'. You should have more respect for the guy."
"Oh, I've got plenty of respect for him," Eric said, helping Mike to his feet. "I made the mistake of calling him 'sir' the first time we met and he tore me up one side and down the other for it. His wife had to calm him down."
Eric gave a slight shrug and started for the back door.
"He apologized a couple of days later, though," Eric said, "and we've been pretty much cool since. I learned last year not to ask him if he needs help raking leaves, though."
"What happened then?" Mike asked, but Eric shook his head.
"Oh no," Eric said, "I'm not getting into that." Eric looked around cautiously. "He might be where he can hear us, and I don't feel like listening to a lecture."
Mike started to laugh, but Eric shook his head firmly, a serious look in his eyes.
"I'm not kidding," he said. "I respect the guy, but he scares the crap out of me. He looks all old and frail, but I saw him splitting wood one day. Don't let him fool you, that guy isn't weak. He is old, though."
Eric quickly unlocked the back door to his garage, and Mike followed him through the dark, empty garage and into the house. Eric paused just inside the door, and breathed a deep breath in through his nose, and his face wrinkled a little in a slight frown.
"Even with a kind of refrigerator funk," Eric said with a broad smile, "it's good to be home."
Ch. 28
A Long Row To Hoe
Joe pulled the Humvee to a rough, sliding stop in front of Tom's house. He reached back and tapped the rough under the gun turret to get Chris's attention. "Chris, keep on that .50 cal. Anything turns down this street that doesn't look friendly, you light 'em up. Don't wait. We'll be out quick."
Chris stomped his foot to let Joe know the message was received. Joe climbed out and held his rifle high over his head. He turned towards the house slowly, keeping his hands in plain view.
"Tom, Henderson," Joe called, "I'm coming in, okay? I can explain about the transport, but you gotta let me inside."
The front door opened just a crack, but no one came out, and no sounds emerged from the house. Joe kept the rifle held high over his head as he walked slowly up the steps to the front porch. He nudged the door open slowly and handed his rifle inside to Henderson. Joe stepped inside the doorway and found both Henderson and Tom waiting and armed.
Their weapons weren't raised, at least.
"Okay, I know it looks bad," Joe said. "We got to Chris' house this morning right before sunrise. There was a team there; looked like a grab-n-go squad looking for Chris. They ended up hassling his wife instead, and we interrupted them. Long story short, the Humvee was theirs, and we repurposed it."
Tom shook his head. "Wait a minute, you mean they had Chris's address and came after him personally?"
Joe nodded. "Yep. The lead guy had a clipboard with a list of names. I recognized a couple from the Teams. I didn't look through the whole thing, Tom, but if they had Chris in there, then you and I are too. You know that as well as I do."
"What about me?" Henderson asked, his face suddenly pale.
Tom shook his head. "I doubt it," he said. "You're base security, but you're not SOF. What do you think it is, Joe?"
"Do
you have a UV penlight?" Joe asked, and Tom nodded. "Then maybe we can find out. Right now, you have to get your kids and your wife, and we have all got to hit the road."
Tom nodded and ran up the stairs. Joe motioned for Henderson to follow him into the pantry.
"Look, we've got to get anything we can get our hands on," Joe said. "Water, canned foods, medicine, alcohol, glass cleaner, sugar and salt. You start at one end of the kitchen; I'll start at the other and we work our way together."
Henderson started to ask a question, but Joe shook his head. "I don't have time to explain it now; just do it, son. We can talk about it later, on the road, okay?"
Henderson nodded and went to the other side of the kitchen with a handful of empty grocery bags from under the kitchen sink. Joe opened the pantry doors and started stacking canned foods in his bags. He bagged all of the rice, sugar, and salt he could find. Two 24-packs of water in the back of the pantry completed his haul.
By the time Joe had everything in the center of the kitchen floor, Henderson finished his round of the kitchen. They had seven grocery bags full of food and supplies along with twenty four liters of water, total. Joe gave a nod of satisfaction and said, "It's a start."
Shortly, Tom came down the stairs with his wife and all four of his children. They all grabbed the supplies and carried them out to the Humvee together. Chris kept the roof mounted machine gun moving, searching for threats as Tom's family piled into the rear of the vehicle. Tom road shotgun and Henderson sat in the very back of the troop compartment.
Joe pulled out as carefully as he could and turned out of the neighborhood. He kept off of the main roads and the interlacing highways and interstates whenever possible. Burned out cars were scattered alongside some of the streets and thick black columns of smoke rose from more than one neighborhood they passed.
Tom pulled the small UV penlight from his pocket and clicked it on. He took the clipboard of papers and swept the light over the list. Immediately hidden watermarks lit up with phosphorescence and showed the crests of the Department of Homeland Security, FEMA, and from lower left to upper right corners, block letters spelling out, COGCON 0.
