Mac hadn’t thought to ask but knew Evans would have told her if someone had gone over the hill. “The people who were MIA yesterday still are,” she replied. “But the rest of the platoon is here.”
“Good,” Hollister replied. “Two members of the second platoon are AWOL, along with a soldier from the third. All of them have families who live off base.”
Mac winced. It made sense given how bad things were. An effort was under way to bring dependents inside the wire—but that could take weeks. And how would families fare in the meantime? Had she been in their place, Mac might have done the same thing. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Okay,” Hollister said as he offered a printout. “Here’s the plan. Take your platoon to the Tacoma Mall parking lot, where the buses will be waiting for you. Then you’ll lead the column up I-5 and onto Highway 18, which will take you to I-90. From that point, it will be a straight shot up and over the pass. I will ride with the second platoon at the head of the column. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes, sir,” Mac said. “Odds are that at least one of those buses will break down. What then?”
“That’s a good question,” Hollister answered. “We will have forty-two buses. Two more than we need, plus a fuel tanker, and a wrecker following along behind the column.”
“That’s awesome,” Mac said, as she gave Hollister points for planning. It looked as if the ex–desk jockey had a clue. Thank God.
The sky was starting to lighten as the first platoon led Archer Company down Forty-first Division Drive to I-5. Mac was riding in one-two, with her head and shoulders sticking up through the forward air guard hatch. There were two reasons for that. The first was that she wanted a clear view of what was taking place—and the second had to do with her incipient claustrophobia.
So Mac was in a good position to see the Bradleys, the aid station, and the recently established food-distribution point. Two six-bys were parked next to it, and soldiers were busy unloading boxes of MREs for the people lined up to receive them. The line stretched west and under I-5 to the neighborhood beyond. MPs were patrolling the column to prevent people from jumping the queue—and that was critical to keeping the situation under control.
It was cold, though . . . And most of the folks in line were wearing winter coats or had blankets draped over their shoulders. Mac waved at them, and most waved back. That boosted her spirits. The feeling was short-lived, however, as one-two pulled up the ramp and onto the freeway. There was enough light to see by then, and I-5 was strewn with cars, RVs, and trucks. An Apache helicopter roared overhead and disappeared to the south. God help anyone who fired at it.
Having determined the situation to be relatively safe, Mac ordered the ESV to take the lead. Then, with the blade lowered, it began to push cars out of the way so that the other trucks could follow. Most of the abandoned vehicles had been looted. So smashed windows and open doors were a common sight. Items the thieves didn’t want lay strewn on the highway. There were a lot of brightly colored toys.
The process went slowly at first. Too slowly. But as the ESV’s driver continued to gain confidence, the pace quickened. That, plus the fact that there were occasional open spaces, meant that the rest of the column could travel at a steady 5 mph. Bodies lined the route, and the crows covered them like black shrouds. As the ESV approached, some of the birds were so full, they were barely able to take off.
There were signs of life, however, including pet dogs that didn’t know where to go and refugees who came in all shapes and sizes. Some, like a disheveled businessman, were on foot. But there were bicyclists, too . . . Plus people on horses and a steady stream of heavily laden motorcyclists traveling in both directions. Mac tracked them with the machine gun mounted forward of the hatch, but none posed a threat.
It took an hour to make what should have been a fifteen-minute trip. The snow had tapered off by the time they arrived at the mall. The parking lot was strewn with items looted from the stores and later rejected. Dozens of people were picking through the castoffs, searching for shoes that fit them, a jacket for a child, or something to eat.
As the company entered the parking lot on the east side of the Tacoma Mall, Mac saw that while some of the stores were intact, about a third of the complex lay in ruins. According to Hollister, the two thousand people who were going to take a bus ride east had been chosen from roughly five thousand people camped in and around the mall. Were they looters? Hell yes, they were. Although the line between thief and survivalist had started to blur.
A lottery had been held to determine who the “winners” would be—assuming that the people who boarded the buses were better off as a result. But would that occur? The final outcome was anything but certain. As one-two came to a stop, Mac saw that the last passengers were passing through a security checkpoint before boarding the buses. That’s where they were required to temporarily surrender their weapons or remain in Tacoma. A commonsense precaution that was intended to prevent violence along the way.
Some of the buses were yellow and had the words TACOMA SCHOOL DISTRICT painted on their flanks. Others were the property of Pierce County Transit and Greyhound. “Archer-Six to Archer-One,” Hollister said over her headset. “Send some people out to verify that each and every bus has a full tank of diesel. Over.”
Mac’s estimate of Hollister’s competence went up another notch. “This is One. Roger that, over.”
Evans had already dispatched a squad to do Hollister’s bidding by the time Mac ducked down into the cargo area and exited through the rear hatch. It took the better part of an hour to check all of the buses, top off tanks, and get the riders settled.
Meanwhile, more people had arrived at the mall, and some of them were pissed. Why weren’t they on one of the buses? Hollister tried to explain, but many of the newcomers refused to listen, and the situation had started to get ugly when Mac received orders to move out. “Clear the way,” Hollister told her. “The second will lead the convoy out—and the third will provide security until the last bus is clear.”
Mac returned to one-two and her position in the front hatch. The ESV led the rest of the platoon out of the parking lot, over I-5, and onto the freeway. That stretch of highway was depressingly similar to what they’d experienced earlier. But things went smoothly until they arrived at the point where an overpass had collapsed onto the freeway, blocking all the northbound lanes.
Mac radioed a warning to Hollister and ordered her vehicles to execute a U-turn. Even though it took fifteen minutes to reach the last exit, they still arrived before the column did and were able to lead it down a ramp onto a frontage road. It took them north under the portion of the overpass that was still standing.
After that, the column crept through the maze of stalled cars, RVs, and trucks that littered the highway—until it arrived at the junction with I-90 northbound. Even though the communities on the east side of Lake Washington could lay claim to businesses of their own, Microsoft’s campus in Redmond being a good example, the suburbs north and south of the freeway owed their existence to Seattle. And prior to the impact, many of the people who lived on the east side had been forced to make the difficult commute across one of two floating bridges each day. How many of them had been trapped downtown? Or been killed in the aftermath? Thousands at the very least.
The population began to thin as they passed through the town of North Bend and entered the foothills beyond. And, because there were fewer wrecks to deal with, there was less work for the ESV’s driver to do. So as Mac’s platoon began to pick up speed, they were able to get out in front of the column, where they were supposed to be.
Vehicles passed going in the opposite direction every now and then. Traffic consisted of motorcycles for the most part, but there were cars and RVs, too. People who were trying to hook up with their families—or folks who’d been caught on the east side of the mountains when the poop hit the fan. Maybe they’d be happy to return
home, and maybe they wouldn’t. Some waved, and Mac waved back. Thickly treed slopes began to press in from the right and left, and snowcapped peaks appeared in the distance. They were tall and stood shoulder to shoulder, as if to bar all further progress, and their flanks were bare where rockslides kept the native evergreens from growing. Mac had been taught to fear such places because of the possibility that enemies could fire down on her Strykers. That seemed highly unlikely in this case—but even the remote possibility of such a thing made her feel uncomfortable.
The road curved back and forth as it crisscrossed the Snoqualmie River and continued to gain altitude. And they were about ten miles east of North Bend when they came to a line of cars and the bridge beyond. Or what had been a bridge before the earthquakes dumped 70 percent of it into the river below. The ESV came to a stop, as did one-two, and Mac was happy to exit the Stryker and stretch her legs.
Motorists who had been stalled there hurried over to see what the soldiers were going to do, and Mac sent Evans to explain. A short walk took her to the point where she could see white water breaking around the crumpled remains of a sixteen-wheeler and a fully submerged SUV. There was no way in hell that the Strykers or the buses would be able to cross what remained of the span.
The westbound lanes of I-90 were another matter, however. They rested on their own bridge, which, for reasons unknown, remained intact. So Mac sent soldiers over to force westbound traffic into the right-hand lane. That freed the ESV’s driver to doze a path across the median. Once that task was complete, it was a relatively simple matter for him to drive the ESV across the bridge, angle over, and reconnect with I-90 eastbound.
The buses would have to proceed slowly, as would the civilian cars that were waiting to follow, but they would make it. The convoy caught up with the recon platoon just as the second crossover was completed. Hollister thanked the first platoon for doing a great job—and Mac couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction.
Had it been possible, Hollister would have ordered the column to drive all the way across Snoqualmie Pass without stopping to rest. But it was well past 1400 by then, and his civilian charges were not only hungry but in dire need of a bio break. Not to mention the fact that three of the buses were experiencing mechanical problems. So like it or not, Hollister had to call a stop and chose the Bandera State Airport as the place to do so.
Bandera wasn’t much as airstrips go, even emergency airports, which it was. The two parallel runways were convenient, however, since they were close to I-90 and would allow the column to park in a tidy line. Not a good idea in a combat environment—but okay for the situation they found themselves in. Mac was appalled by what she saw as one-two followed the ESV onto the airstrip. Wreckage was strewn the entire length of the southern runway—and the remains of a two-engine plane could be seen at its far end. A commuter flight perhaps? On its way to or from Spokane? Something like that. Perhaps it was in the air when the meteor exploded. And maybe the shock wave or the airborne dust forced the pilots to attempt an emergency landing.
Whatever the reason, the landing hadn’t gone well—and Mac could see bodies scattered around as Evans drove east. “Sergeant Kallas, take your people out and cover those bodies,” Mac instructed. “The kids on our buses have seen enough bad things today. Let’s use the ESV to scoop out a grave.”
Meanwhile, MREs were unloaded from the trailers, and people fanned out to find places where they could sit and eat. A few complained about the food but not many. Food was scarce, and the evacuees knew it. Some could be seen stashing meal components in pockets.
The mechanics attached to Archer Company were able to fix a couple of buses. But the process consumed twice the amount of time that Hollister had allotted—and it was 16:35 by the time the convoy got under way again. A bus that the mechanics hadn’t been able to repair was left behind.
After that, it was a matter of following the steep road up through a succession of curves toward the ski area located at the top of Snoqualmie Pass. Some of the heavily loaded buses, especially those on loan from the Tacoma School District, had a difficult time of it. That reduced the convoy’s progress to little more than a crawl.
The air was getting colder, and it had started to snow. Not just a little, but a lot, as they passed the skeletal ski lifts and began the trip down the east side. Getting that far was a major accomplishment. And as the waters of Lake Keechelus came into view on the right, Mac was beginning to think that they’d make it to Cle Elum by nightfall. Steep cliffs rose to the left of one-two as the road rounded the north end of the lake and turned south.
Boulders, loosened by the succession of tremors, lay scattered on the surface of the road. The ESV could push the smaller ones out of the way—but heavy equipment would be required to move the big boys. Fortunately, there was sufficient room to drive around or between them. Mac felt someone tap her on the leg and looked down to see Private Adams’s boyish countenance looking up at her. “Coffee, ma’am,” he said. “Just the way you like it.”
Mac said, “Thank you,” and was reaching for the metal mug when the Stryker began to pitch and roll. Adams fell sideways, and Mac was forced to grab both sides of the hatch for support. That was when she realized that she was feeling the effects of an earthquake. Mac was still in the process of absorbing this when Hollister shouted over the radio. “Rockslide! Coming down on us! Gun your engines!” Mac looked straight up and waited to die.
CHAPTER 2
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
—CHINESE PHILOSOPHER LAOZI
TAMPICO, MEXICO
United States Secretary of Energy Samuel T. Sloan was standing on the uncertain surface of a floating solar farm as the meteor shower fell. Sloan, along with a delegation of Mexican officials, was on the raft to symbolically throw the switch that would send a surge of solar-generated electricity to the east coast city of Tampico a couple of miles away.
The purpose of the project was to provide the town with a source of renewable energy, help revitalize the crime-ridden community, and strengthen the often testy relationship between the United States and Mexico. And the fact that most of the equipment involved had been manufactured in California didn’t hurt. So that’s what Sloan was doing when the meteor flashed overhead. It was brighter than the sun and traveling so fast that it broke the sound barrier. The resulting boom was loud enough to be heard from miles away.
The object was visible for only a few seconds before it disappeared over the eastern horizon. Then the officials saw a flash and heard what sounded like a second clap of thunder. That was followed by an upwelling of what? Steam? Sloan wasn’t sure. But one thing was for sure . . . One helluva big wave could be coming their way, and Sloan didn’t plan to be standing on the solar farm when it arrived. And judging from the speed with which the Mexicans were boarding their patrol boat, they shared his concern. Sloan turned to his sole bodyguard, an ex–special ops type named Brody. “Let’s haul ass.” A blast of hot air hit the farm, causing the rafts to rock back and forth. Sloan struggled to remain upright.
Brody had a full face and was one size too large for his tan suit. “Roger that . . . Follow me.” Brody was out of shape, but he knew his stuff, and rather than allow Sloan to travel on the navy patrol boat with the Mexican officials, the contractor had insisted that they have transportation of their own. The fiberglass fishing boat wasn’t fancy, but it was equipped with a huge outboard, the kind that could be used to run drugs when its owner needed some extra cash.
The Mexicans were casting off when the fisherman started his engine and, under orders from Brody, opened the throttle all the way. Sloan was forced to hang on as the narrow hull cut a straight line through the water and left the larger craft behind.
As Sloan looked back, he saw that an ominous-looking cloud was spreading across the eastern sky even though it was still sunny in Tampico. Sloan was starting to question his own judgment. What would Mexico
’s Secretary of Energy think about the haste with which the norteamericano had fled? A Televisa news crew had been present to tape the ceremony. Would they play footage of Sloan speeding away? And would CNN get ahold of it? Should that happen, Sloan would be held up to ridicule, and that would reflect on the president.
That was what Sloan was thinking as the fisherman reduced power, the boat slid in through light surf, and Brody fished a wad of money out of his pocket. “Here,” he said, as he gave the fisherman a fifty. “Muchas gracias.”
If the fisherman was grateful, there was no sign of it on his sun-darkened face as he killed the engine. Sloan heard a whining noise as the prop left the water and the bow slid up onto the wet sand. A gang of boys ran out to steady it. “Let’s haul ass!” Brody said as he vaulted over the side. “If a wave comes, there’s no telling how far inland it will go.”
Sloan jumped over the side and followed Brady up the mostly empty beach. The big man was nearly out of breath by the time they made it to the street. A black SUV was waiting for them twenty feet away from a dilapidated taco stand.
Had Sloan been the Secretary of State, the vehicle would have been guarded by a team of people from the Diplomatic Security Service. But the Secretary of Energy didn’t rate that kind of protection—so Brody had been forced to hire a vehicle and driver from the local limo company. It had tinted windows and was extremely shiny. “Stay back,” Brody instructed, as he slipped a hand into his jacket.
As Brody went to inspect the vehicle, Sloan took a moment to scan his surroundings. Tampico had been a burgeoning tourist town a few years earlier. But that was before two drug cartels began to fight over it. Citizens were assassinated in broad daylight, grenades were thrown into crowded bars, and the population of three hundred thousand lived in fear
Sloan turned just as Brody pulled the SUV’s back door open and was thrown backwards by a blast from a shotgun. Brody’s body hit the street with a thump, and he lay there staring sightlessly into the sun. Sloan stood frozen in place as a man with long black hair got out of the SUV. He was dressed in a neon-pink shirt, black trousers, and silver-toed cowboy boots. A pair of empty shell casings popped out of the double-barreled weapon and fell to the ground as he broke the shotgun open. “Buenos días, Señor Sloan,” the man said conversationally. “Get in the truck.”
Into the Guns Page 3
