People's Republic

by Kurt Schlichter

  “Kelly,” asked Junior from the back. “Let’s assume that roadblock was for us.”

  “I already do.”

  “Okay, so if it was for us, then your idea about going back the way we came was totally wrong.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “So why didn’t they grab us at the roadblock?”

  “Not enough of them, maybe,” Turnbull opined.

  “So that’s got to mean that there are more coming from the west. I mean, we haven’t seen any bad guys from the east.”

  “What’s that tell you?”

  “They are behind us, following.”

  “Except we went off-road again, and they don’t know that.”

  “Maybe,” said Junior, but he sounded unconvinced.

  They drove on, using dirt tracks where they could and flat washes where there were no trails. The going was tough, and the sun was beginning to rise in the east.

  Turnbull looked at the nav system and decided it was time to turn east up a dry arroyo that jostled them with rocks every few seconds. It was slow going, but steady.

  The fuel reserve warning had been lit for a half hour, and it estimated four more miles until empty.

  Fine. Four less miles for them to walk out.

  Leaving about five or six miles to the Utah border.

  The Explorer did not run out of gas; the indicator said there were two miles left in the tank. Instead, the terrain simply became impossible for a vehicle. There was a low ridge ahead, the summit at least a mile ahead, and the Ford was just not going to make it over the rocky terrain.

  “Everyone out,” Turnbull said. He took his M4, his pack, and his ammo bag, and put on his PSF vest. Hopefully no one would read the letters “PSF” and shoot him. Junior hobbled out with his weapon slung around his neck, unsteady but game to give it a try. The hard drive was in his pack. Abraham was solemn, and Amanda looked happy to be out of the SUV and in the fresh air.

  “Let’s go,” Turnbull said, leading the way up the rocky incline.

  A half mile in, they had to rest. Abraham, the city boy, was having a hard time with the exertion. Amanda’s frequent gym workouts had her in better shape. Junior was obviously in pain, and blood was seeping out from under one of Amanda’s bandages, but he didn’t complain.

  “Everyone drink water,” Turnbull said. The sun was now rising well above the horizon, and the evening chill was gone. They were sweating. It was only going to get worse. Up ahead was a low ridge running north to south, its west face covered with rocks and brush.

  They took another break on the military crest of the hill, finding shelter out of the sun 20 feet below the ridge line. It was a good position, concealed in a small clearing behind vegetation, with sightlines back toward the abandoned Explorer and both north and south along the face of the hill.

  Turnbull had gone ahead a bit to scout, moving carefully up and over the crest. There was a three mile wide valley on the other side, full of rocks and scrub trees, then another low ridge. Somewhere beyond that was Utah. At this rate, it was going to take them most of the day to get there.

  Turnbull kept low coming over back west over the crest to link up again with the group, making his broken rib ache and hip hurt. They were still in the small clearing behind a clump of bushes. Inside it he found the group intently staring back towards the east.

  “You got the binos?” Junior asked. “Look, there, by where we left the vehicle.”

  Turnbull brought up the field glasses. Three black SUVs. At least 10 guys in black tactical rig, maybe more. Long weapons. And another one who didn’t quite fit with the toughs.

  “Shit. Amanda, your boyfriend’s back and I think we’re in trouble.”

  “How did they find us?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I was just wondering that too, Amanda. How did they find us?”

  “What are you saying?” Amanda demanded.

  “I’m saying they know exactly where we are. Are you sure you didn’t forget to mention a cell phone, or maybe a tracker in your keister? Something like that?”

  “Kelly!” said Junior.

  “Fuck you,” Amanda hissed.

  “Give me your pack.”

  “I don’t….”

  “Give me your fucking pack.” Amanda threw the brown backpack at him. Turnbull unzipped it and dumped it out in the dirt. There was a sweater, some food, her thick photo wallet. Turnbull grabbed the wallet and opened it. Photos of the Ryan family, her dogs, a trip to Hawaii before it became off limits to Americans.

  And a small gray metal disc.

  “That sneaky bastard,” Turnbull said, holding it up. “Your boy really didn’t trust you, did he?”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A tracker, a pretty primitive one. New ones are a lot smaller. They can even have microphones so they can listen in on your conversations. This one’s just good for a location. But that’s good enough for government work.” He slipped the tracker into the pocket of his jeans.

  “What do we do?” asked Junior. “They’re coming.”

  “We don’t do anything. You three beat feet east. They will be following the signal until they figure out I’m not you guys.”

  “There’s a dozen of them,” Amanda said. “And there have to be more coming.”

  “No, there won’t be any more. They’d be here now. No, your boyfriend wants to wrap up us loose ends personally and quietly. It’s just these guys.”

  “They still outnumber you a dozen to one,” said Junior.

  “They aren’t soldiers. This isn’t their house. It’s mine. Now, you get going. I’m going to hold them off. It should give you enough lead time, but don’t slow down, no matter what. You gotta get this cargo out, Junior.”

  “I have the drive. I’ll get it out.”

  “I mean them. These two. They’re the cargo. You get them out. You keep my promise for me, okay?”

  Junior nodded, and handed over three 30-round magazines.

  “Keep them,” said Turnbull.

  “No, you take them. If it gets to the point where I’m shooting it out with them, I’ve already lost.”

  “That’s probably true.” Turnbull took the spare mags. “Now get the hell out of here. Tell Meachum’s guys I may be coming east running, so don’t shoot me. Stay low over the crest of the hill, and when you hit the other side, haul ass.”

  “Bye, Kelly,” Junior said. “See you tonight.”

  “Sure,” said Turnbull, sounding unconvinced.

  The trio scrambled up and over the hilltop as Turnbull remained in the space inside the clump of bushes, watching his pursuers begin moving his way. Whatever movement formation they were in, Turnbull didn’t know it. It wasn’t a wedge, it wasn’t a column. It was a clusterfuck. But it was still a clusterfuck with a lot of M4s.

  They were at least 20 minutes away, but coming fast. They would only get faster as they acclimated to the rocky terrain. Turnbull took the suppressor out of his pack and screwed it on. Then he took a few other items out of his gear. He had time enough to prepare.

  Time enough to welcome these bastards to his house.

  Rios-Parkinson staggered and fell on the sharp rocks. No one laughed, but he felt like they were laughing at him. Not that any of them were doing much better. They had only gone a few hundred meters and already most of his tactical team was drenched with sweat. Perhaps black uniforms and black-covered Kevlar helmets were not the best choice for desert operations.

  Larsen held the tablet and kept checking it.

  “Where are they?” Rios-Parkinson demanded.

  “Still there. Right up there just over the crest of the hill from where they were resting when we got here, not moving much. A little, back and forth, but they are pretty much sitting there, maybe out of the sun behind a bush or something.”

  Rios-Parkinson grunted. “Can they see us?”

  “They could if they looked back over the hill,” Larsen said with disgust. His attempts to cajole the others into something like a tactica
l movement formation and to use the natural cover had simply been ignored. “But if they had, they would have moved by now.”

  Most of their force was ahead of them, picking their way forward through the bushes and over the rocks. Larsen and Rios-Parkinson held back, with a pair of tactical team members hovering nearby, weapons ready. Their radios, hooked onto their vests on the left shoulder, buzzed and crackled quietly.

  They approached to about 200 yards from the crest, slowly moving forward. By now, they had spread, quite without consideration or coherent plan, into a skirmish line with a frontage of about 150 meters.

  “This is Alpha team leader. We’re moving up the left and we’ll come over and take them from the flank, over.”

  Larsen keyed his mic. “Affirmative.”

  On the left, the Alpha team leader waved his men forward, then dropped out of sight. A high pitched wail of pain echoed over the desert.

  Rios-Parkinson looked stricken, his head swiveling back and forth until Larsen pulled him down flat on the rocky ground.

  “Oh God, I’m hit, I’m…I’m fucking shot!” cried the Alpha team leader.

  Bravo team responded – the five of them rose as one and unloaded on the face of the ridge, firing long bursts. The remaining Alpha members joined them, their M4s tearing off long bursts in their general direction of travel. Lines of impacts scored the ground as bits of rock face disintegrated and puffs of dust erupted everywhere, in no particular pattern or order.

  They stopped shooting when their weapons ran dry. At once, everyone seemed to be shouting “Loading!” as they slammed in fresh mags.

  “Cease fire!” yelled Larsen into his mic. “Does anyone see a target?”

  Again, the Alpha team leader cried out, “I need a medic, oh God!”

  They had no medic.

  “Did we get him?” Rios-Parkinson asked, his voice revealing his fear.

  “I say again, did anyone see any of them?” shouted Larsen into his radio.

  No one answered.

  “Help me, oh fuck, fuck! It hurts. I need a medic!” the wounded man screamed.

  “This is Sawyer,” came a voice from the radio. “I’m here with Collins and he’s hit bad in the gut. The bullet went right under his plate. He’s hurt bad, over.”

  “Oh, mother fuck!” Collins screamed.

  “Sawyer, you get Sanchez and you haul Collins back to the vehicles and wait for evac, do you read me? Tell him to put pressure on the wound while you two carry him out, over?”

  “What if he shoots us while we’re carrying him, over,” asked Sawyer.

  “He’s not going to shoot you when you’re leaving, Sawyer. Out.”

  Rios-Parkinson looked over at one of the two team members near him. It was obvious that Collins’s screams had shaken them.

  “I told you he was a professional,” Larsen said. “He stayed behind to delay us.”

  “Your professional only wounded Collins,” protested Rios-Parkinson dismissively.

  “He wanted to wound him. Now we’re down Collins and the two guys carrying him out, and the rest of our men are pissing themselves!” Larsen returned to scanning the ridgeline.

  Rios-Parkinson frowned, but said nothing. What could he say? He had no idea what to do. But he could not defer to Larsen. He was the Director.

  “Get them moving,” Rios-Parkinson hissed.

  Larsen stared back, the patience draining from his face, but he keyed the mic.

  “Bravo, I want you to take two men and move slowly – slowly – to that spot under the crest where they were holed up. Everyone else, provide overwatch. Watch for movement, especially on the crest. If he tries to go over it will silhouette him and you take him down. All copy? “This is Bravo team leader, copy, over.”

  Rios-Parkinson watched as two black clad team members began moving forward in short rushes, then falling and taking up concealment behind bushes or rocks every few steps, at which point his partner moved out. They were heading straight up the middle. The rest of the force scanned the face of the ridge with their optics, looking for movement, a shadow, a shaking branch – anything that would reveal their enemy’s position.

  “Those two will clear that rest position they were in and see if anyone is still there. From that position they can dominate north and south along the ridge,” Larsen explained.

  “Yes,” Rios-Parkinson said, as if he fully understood.

  Larsen halted the two men about 10 meters from the rest position, telling them to look and listen. After a couple of tense minutes, they called back that they saw nothing.

  Larsen had them hold fast but remain vigilant. Then he used the radio to order the rest of the team to move rapidly forward toward the ridgeline.

  “Come on,” he told Rios-Parkinson, who staggered to his feet and tumbled forward behind Larsen, waving his SIG pistol uselessly in his right hand. For his part, Larsen moved quickly and confidently, staying up no more than three to five seconds, then falling behind whatever stunted tree or large rock was closest, M4 up and ready.

  Rios-Parkinson stumbled along behind, his throat parched, reluctant to fall fully on the ground like Larsen, instead crouching and panting between rushes. Larsen took his final position some 40 to 50 yards east of where their quarry had holed up, covering the ridgeline with his carbine. After thirty seconds, Rios-Parkinson caught up and collapsed beside him, panting. He had no canteen; instead, he had stuffed a plastic one liter bottle of French sparking water into his cargo pocket. Lying there panting, he pulled it out and opened the twist top; the pressurized mineral water, shaken by his exertions, sprayed it all over him and Larsen.

  Rios-Parkinson threw the damned bottle away with all his strength; it flew a dozen feet and the contents spilled out on the desert floor. His mouth was still parched. Larsen said nothing, returning to his observations.

  They waited, at least five minutes, until Rios-Parkinson finally spoke.

  “They could be getting away. We must move.”

  “But the tracker says they are right over the crest, maybe 35 meters east on the other side. They are not moving.”

  “Tell the men to go forward now.”

  “If you go too fast, people die. There is a professional out there. He is waiting for us to make a mistake.”

  “He is waiting for the rest of his group to escape with my hard drive,” Rios-Parkinson said. “He is a professional, but there are nine of us. Get them moving now.”

  Larsen looked down at the dirt, considering, but a split-second before his pause could have been considered defiance, he relented. He keyed his mic.

  “Bravo, you two, slowly, move forward and occupy that rest position. If anyone’s still there, take him or her out, over.”

  “Look for any gear, anything they abandoned,” Rios-Parkinson said. “Tell them.”

  “And look for anything they left behind. Out.”

  The two PBI troopers advanced, first one moving ahead five yards, then the next, always with the other in overwatch. Ahead, behind the clump of bushes where the trackers said their quarry had rested, there was no movement. At the edge of the bushes, the pair came on line, and silently counted down from three. On zero, they burst through the vegetation into the small clearing, sweeping it with their weapons.

  No people, but lots of tracks and disrupted dirt. They had been here. And a small brown backpack was leaning against a shrub.

  “We got a day pack here,” said the team leader, advancing.

  Rios-Parkinson keyed his radio first. “What is inside?”

  The PBI officer picked it up. There was something in it, something heavy, and there was resistance, but he tugged hard and the resistance suddenly disappeared.

  Larsen’s hand flashed to his mic, desperately shouting. “Don’t touch…!”

  The pack came free and the PBI officer saw that two 18 inch lengths of OD green 550 cord were tied to the trunk of the shrub. At the other end of each were tied two round metal rings that were now falling to the ground out of the underside o
f the backpack.

  The two frag grenades detonated about a foot from the first tactical team member and about three feet from the second. Their respective distances were immaterial; both were blown apart.

  Rios-Parkinson and Larsen watched slack-jawed as the clump of brush detonated, showering them with dirt, rocks, bits of vegetation and, likely, their two former companions.

  “Fucking idiots,” Larsen spat. He turned to Rios-Parkinson. “He’s waiting over there for us, just waiting for us to come over. So the way we get him – the only way – is to hit him from the side and front simultaneously. So I am going down there” – he pointed south – “and I am going to slip over and come at him from his flank.”

  Rios-Parkinson stared, confused.

  “His side. I’ll come at him from the side and when I radio you, you send the other five guys over the crest spraying full auto. He’ll get one or two of them, but the others can pin him down and then I’ll be able to close in and take him out. Do you understand?”

  Rios-Parkinson nodded.

  “Tell me, what are you going to do?” Larsen said, no respect at all in his voice.

  “I – you, you are going to go down there and sneak over and come at him from the side. When you call me, I send them all over firing automatic. They pin him down and you close in and finish him.”

  Larsen nodded. “When I call, the second I call, you send them all over.”

  Rios-Parkinson nodded again, a cold fury welling up inside him at the insolence, the lack of deference, the contempt in his deputy’s voice and manner. If Larsen survived this encounter, there was no assurance that he would survive the one coming once they returned home.

  Larsen bolted toward the south, and Rios-Parkinson called over the surviving members of his team to give them their new mission.

  Turnbull had kept Amanda’s backpack and now he took a knife and cut two small slits in the back. Next, he cut two lengths of the OD green 550 parachute cord and tied the ends to the trunk of a bush. He took out two of his M67 hand grenades and unbent and straightened the pins so they would pull out smoothly. Then he ran each 550 parachute cord line through a hole, slid the grenades inside the pack, and tied the ends of the cords to the metal rings. Carefully, he zipped up the bag and leaned it back against the bush, ensuring the 550 cord remained hidden.