Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  “A backhoe would be one more machine to maintain,” Mac cautioned. “And it would make the column that much longer.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Evans acknowledged. “But it would save time and improve morale.”

  Mac nodded. “That makes sense. Let’s be on the lookout for one.”

  Evans broke the ensuing moment of silence. “Permission to speak freely?”

  “Always.”

  “The house is clear. Go in and take a look around. I’ll handle things out here.”

  Mac looked away and back again. “Thanks, Emilio. I will.”

  Evans nodded, executed a perfect about-face, and walked away.

  It felt strange to pull the back door open and hear the usual screech of protest. Where was Mom? She should have been in the kitchen watching CNN as she fixed dinner. Traces of Margaret were still there, however. The walls were a cheerful yellow—and her apron was hanging from a peg. Not even Bo Macintyre had been willing to take it down.

  The rest wasn’t pretty. Dishes had been smashed, a swearword was spray-painted on a wall, and the sink was full of trash. Where was Mr. Larson? Mac wondered. Was the part-time caretaker okay? So many people had been displaced. Perhaps he was among them.

  When Mac left the kitchen, she entered her father’s part of the house. A Confederate battle flag occupied most of one wall. Pictures of Cadet Bo Macintyre, Lieutenant Bo Macintyre, and Captain Bo Macintyre were everywhere. Sometimes he stood all by himself. But more often than not he was with a group of soldiers. All of the images had one thing in common though—and that was an implacable stare directed at the camera. Or at a little girl should she be so foolish as to make a mistake.

  Judging from the mess, it appeared that a number of people had camped in the living room. The mantel over the fireplace was scorched, drug paraphernalia lay scattered about, and Mac saw a photo of herself lying on the floor. She bent to pick it up. The girl in the picture was three or four. And there, kneeling beside her, was a young version of her father. He was smiling! Because of something her mother had said? Or because he was having a good time? Perhaps their relationship had been different then—back before the disappointment took over.

  The second floor was very much like the first in terms of the vandalism that had been done. And Victoria’s room was a mess. But the trophies were still there, along with her collection of ribbons, and a graduation photo. The uniform fit Victoria perfectly. Mac could remember the way the hats had flown up into the air, and hung there for a moment, before falling back to Earth.

  But things were quite different down the hall in her room. It, too, was littered with trash. But her mementoes were gone. All of the books, wall posters, and knickknacks had disappeared. Why? Because he gave up on you, the voice in her head said. Because you’re the failure that he wants to forget.

  A tear trickled down Mac’s cheek as she turned away. What was it her father told her as a child? Soldiers don’t cry? Well, some soldiers did cry . . . But not in front of the troops. Mac used a sleeve to wipe the moisture away. Then she returned to work.

  As the light started to fade, Mac went out to walk the perimeter. Evans and his squad leaders had done well. Fighting positions had been dug as necessary, they were linked to each other, and the machine guns were well sited.

  The Strykers were positioned farther back, where they could provide fire support if necessary. The rest of the vehicles were parked at the center of the compound but with enough space between them to prevent collateral damage should one of them take a hit.

  As for the civilians, they were safely ensconced in the barn that Mac and Vic played in as little girls. A time so long ago that it no longer seemed real.

  Mac gave the go-ahead for off-duty personnel to sleep in the house but chose to put her own bag in the Stryker designated as Roller-Seven, referred to as IRON MIKE by its crew. Forward Observer Lin Kho had chosen to spend the night inside the vic as well—and was already asleep when Mac lay down on the bench across from her.

  Mac slept well until 0200, when she went on watch. Distant shots were heard shortly thereafter. But other than that, the next two hours were uneventful, and Mac was able to go back to bed for two additional hours.

  After getting up at 0600 and taking a sponge bath in the female section of the barn, Mac went to work. All were up by then, civilians included. Breakfast was a haphazard affair in which everyone had to fend for themselves. Except for Mac that is, who would have settled for coffee if Doc Obbie hadn’t shown up with one of her favorite MREs.

  “Eat it, ma’am,” Obbie said with a smile, “or I’ll report you to Dr. Hoskins.”

  “Anything but that,” Mac replied as she sat on a tailgate. Sparks was nearby, and she waved him over. “Find Esco,” she said. “Tell him to launch the Shadow, and check the highway between here and Mountain Home.”

  Sparks nodded and left. Mac could see patches of blue sky through the cloud cover for once. Would the weather be better in Arizona? She hoped so. “I spoke to Esco,” Sparks said, as he returned. “He’s on it.”

  “Good,” Mac replied. “I have a job for you. Mountain Home Air Force Base is located about twelve miles from the town itself. Get on the radio and try to make contact.”

  Sparks stared at her. “What if I succeed? What then?”

  Mac frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “They will tell you to come in, and we’ll have to take orders from the person in charge. Regardless of what they’re up to.”

  Mac swallowed some coffee. “I have news for you, Soldier . . . That’s how it works in the army. We don’t get to choose our superiors.”

  “I know that, ma’am,” Sparks replied. “But that’s the regular army. And they left us to fend for ourselves.”

  “I read you,” Mac said, “but what if the ‘regular’ army is back online? And there’s something else to consider . . . The base is home to the 366th Fight Wing of the Air Combat Command known as ‘The Gunfighters.’ They fly F-15E Strike Eagles. Guess what will happen if we tell them to fuck off?”

  Sparks was silent for a moment. “They’ll grease us.”

  “Bingo . . . So quit exercising your jaw and get to work. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

  Mac watched Sparks begin to put out calls. The conversation was interesting in a couple of ways. First, she knew that Sparks was plugged into what the unit’s enlisted people were thinking. And, because he spent every day at her side, he was in an excellent position to feed them tidbits of information. So her comments, or a version of them, would make the rounds during the next hour. A fact of life in the army, and an important reason to keep her guard up.

  Second, Sparks wasn’t the only person who was worried about being absorbed into a larger command. She was as well. If the “real” army was out there, then good. The unit should rejoin. But what if it wasn’t? What if her outfit was absorbed by a group of do-nothings? Or a bunch of crazies like the whack jobs in Yakima? Mac felt the need to protect the Marauders from everything, and that included rogue units like her own.

  In spite of his best efforts, Sparks hadn’t been able to make contact with the air force by the time the column left half an hour later. Mac was riding in Roller-One. The house seemed to shrink as she looked back. Then it was gone. Along with her childhood.

  It took fifteen minutes to reach Interstate 84 and turn south. Most of the traffic consisted of pedestrians, people on bicycles, and motorcycles. Some overloaded farm trucks passed the column as well. Mac figured that enterprising farmers were growing vegetables in hothouses and selling them to folks in Boise. Good for them. People had to eat. “Roller-Two-One to Roller-Six. Over.”

  “This is Six actual. Go.”

  “The Shadow is fifty miles downrange and circling what was Mountain Home Air Force Base. Over.”

  Mac felt something cold trickle into her bloodstream
. “Was? Over.”

  Esco’s voice was tight. Mac could tell that the UAV operator was battling to control his emotions. “There isn’t much left . . . Just a crater and a huge field of debris.”

  Mac remembered the briefing at JBLM shortly after the meteors struck. What had Wilson told them? Something about Chinese missiles and a subsequent apology. Had Mountain Home been targeted? That was the way it appeared. It took a conscious effort to swallow the lump in her throat. “Roger that. What about the town? Over.”

  “It’s still there,” Esco replied. “But it seems to be deserted. A pack of dogs is nosing around. But that’s all. Over.”

  Mac remembered Scheemer. The mayor knew, had to know about the air force base, but had chosen to hold that piece of information back. Why?

  Why not? The voice in Mac’s head countered. Information is valuable, and Scheemer saw no reason to share. Welcome to postapocalyptic America.

  Mac had a decision to make as Roller-One led the convoy south. Although the air force base was twelve miles from town, there could be residual radiation, and that would explain why the area was deserted. Maybe they should bypass Mountain Home. The problem with that was the Marauders needed supplies—and a National Guard armory was located nearby.

  There was an alternative, of course. She could send two Strykers to investigate while the rest of the convoy went out and around. Under that scenario, the Strykers would rejoin the unit south of Mountain Home. But dividing her force would entail considerable risk. What if a large force attacked one of the two groups?

  With those variables in mind, Mac ordered the column to pull over so she could have a private chat with Dr. Hoskins. He was waiting near the six-by-six and proceeded to clean his wire-rimmed glasses while Mac explained her dilemma. “No problem,” Hoskins told her once she was finished. “Fallout radiation fades rapidly. Given how much time has passed, and all the rain since then, the current level of radiation is probably 1 percent of what it was after the blast. So, while I wouldn’t want to live there, a one- or two-day visit won’t present much risk.”

  Mac thanked him and returned to the pickup. They arrived on the outskirts of Mountain Home forty minutes later. The Shadow was still up, and since Esco had nothing new to report, Mac took the unit straight in. The armory was located slightly southwest of Mountain Home on a dead-end road. Parched land could be seen all around, with the blast-leveled remains of buildings in the distance.

  A sheet of plywood was propped up in the middle of the road. The words, “Gov. prop. Do not enter,” had been written on the wood with white paint. Garcia braked, and that caused the other vehicles to do likewise. “Go around it,” Mac ordered, and Garcia obeyed.

  The ruins of a building could be seen up ahead. It appeared that the structure had been leveled by the blast—and the debris field was pointed north. “I see movement at two o’clock,” Brown announced, as he swiveled the fifty around to point in that direction.

  Mac looked in time to see a man emerge from the hut located adjacent to the remains of the building. He was dressed in combat gear and armed with a light machine gun. She spoke into the boom mike. “This is Six actual. I’m going to speak with him. I want everyone except Hadley to stay back. If I raise my right hand above my shoulder, shoot him. Over.”

  There was a flurry of clicks as Mac jumped down off the truck. The ground was hard, and ice crystals glittered in the momentary sunlight. The man allowed Mac to approach him. His weapon was pointed at the sky, but Mac knew the barrel could come down in a hurry. Before she could signal Hadley? Yes, quite possibly. She would die, but so would he.

  Mac stopped ten feet away. Now she was close enough to see that the man was a major, or some guy pretending to be a major. “I’m Lieutenant Macintyre, United States Army. And you are?”

  “Major Fitch, United States Air Force.”

  “How do I know that’s true?”

  Fitch’s face had a gaunt appearance, and his deep-set eyes peered out from what looked like dark caves. But he was clean-shaven . . . And even though his gear was dirty, it was squared away. “I could ask you the same question,” Fitch replied.

  Mac smiled. “Touché. Perhaps we should show each other some ID. But that can wait . . . May I ask what you’re doing here?”

  “I’m guarding the ruins of this building,” Fitch replied stolidly.

  “That’s one way to put it,” Mac agreed. “But I think there’s more to it than that. You’re standing in front of a National Guard armory. Or what used to be an armory.”

  Fitch stared at her. “That’s why you came? To loot the armory?”

  “I wouldn’t call it looting,” Mac temporized. “We’re part of the army, after all.”

  “Really?” Fitch demanded. “Who do you report to?”

  Mac shrugged. “No one at the moment. We were cut off.”

  Fitch looked her up and down. “I outrank you, Lieutenant . . . So you report to me. If you are what you say you are, that is.”

  There it was. The very thing Mac had been dreading. Here was a superior officer who was either a diehard hero, determined to do his duty no matter how steep the cost, or a mental case. Had Fitch been somewhere else when the nuke-tipped missile fell? Was he punishing himself for being alive? There was no way to be sure.

  Regardless of that, Mac faced a choice. Should she take orders from Fitch? Or refuse? Was there some middle way? “I suggest that you put the weapon down, sir. Then we’ll talk things over.”

  “The military doesn’t work like that, Macintyre. I’m an 04, and you’re an 02.”

  Mac was reminded of her conversation with Sparks. “That’s true, sir,” she replied. “But the military you’re referring to doesn’t exist anymore. If it did, you wouldn’t be guarding an armory all by yourself. So put the weapon down.”

  “Or?”

  “Or my sniper will kill you.”

  Fitch stared at her. At least fifteen seconds ticked by. “I will do as you say,” Fitch said finally. “But I’m going to note the date, time, and the nature of our interaction. Then, when the opportunity presents itself . . . I will bring charges against you.”

  Mac sighed. “Yes, sir. That’s your privilege. Please place the machine gun on the ground.”

  Fitch complied, and Mac thanked him. She wasn’t concerned about the threat, but a line had been crossed. After refusing a direct order, Mac could no longer claim that the Marauders were part of the United States Army. They were mercenaries.

  She allowed Fitch to keep his sidearm but assigned two soldiers to watch him as Evans threw a perimeter around the shattered building, and Esco sent the Raven up to replace the Shadow, which was running low on fuel.

  The Apache arrived, and Mac ordered Peters to land two thousand yards away from the vehicles. Maybe the dust the rotors would stir up was radioactive, and maybe it wasn’t. Why take the chance? Mac ordered the pilots to remain in their ship until the air cleared.

  Fitch refused to provide the Marauders with any information, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the supplies he’d been guarding were buried under the wreckage. The next four hours were spent removing debris. Hoskins issued surgical masks for the soldiers to wear, and the rest had orders to stay back.

  Eventually, the Marauders were able to recover two dozen assault rifles, four machine guns, and ten thousand rounds of assorted ammo. There were other goodies, too . . . Including crates of grenades, flares, and some pistol ammo. It wasn’t a large haul, but it was better than nothing and enough to put a smile on Sergeant Smith’s face.

  As darkness fell, Mac moved the perimeter over to include the helicopter, ordered the unit to dig fighting positions, and told Evans to establish OPs all around. With Strykers on three of the corners and a pickup on the fourth, she felt reasonably secure.

  Mac took the first watch, hoping to get six hours of uninterrupted sleep after that. But her pla
n went to hell in a handcart when a soldier was sent to wake her at 0512. It seemed that Private Wessel, AKA “the Weasel,” had dozed off and allowed Fitch to slip away.

  Mac was pissed at Wessel since falling asleep constituted a serious dereliction of duty but was secretly glad to rid herself of Fitch. So she told Evans to place Wessel on latrine duty for five days. And being up, she chose to stay up and prepare for the day ahead.

  Mac had been looking for a chance to pull her officers and NCOs together for a command conference. And with no immediate threat on the horizon, and relatively good weather, that morning represented a good opportunity.

  So Mac put out the word, and all of the people E-5 and above gathered at 0730. Many had mugs of coffee, and some were eating breakfast. The moving van made a good windbreak, and a fire offered some warmth.

  The participants included Evans, Company Sergeant Ralston, Supply Sergeant Smith, UAV operator Esco, Medical Officer Hoskins, and both of the Apache pilots. Mac began by saying that the conference was long overdue—and that she planned to hold one a week from that point forward. The purpose of the sessions would be to facilitate communications, identify potential problems, and devise solutions before the shit hit the fan.

  “So,” Mac began, “let’s talk about the next segment of our journey. The way I figure it, we’ll get on I-84 and follow it down to Salt Lake City.” Much to her surprise, a hand shot up. Company Sergeant Ralston had joined the unit in Pendleton, and Mac was still getting to know him. “Yes, Sergeant . . . Do you have a question?”

  Ralston was a burly man and famous for the nonreg walrus-style mustache he wore. An affectation that Mac had been careful to ignore. “Not a question so much as a comment, ma’am . . . Salt Lake City is the obvious way to go, I get that, but it might be best to circle around it.”

  Mac felt the first stirrings of annoyance—but knew better than to let her emotions show. “Okay, why would we do that?”