by Mark Rounds
“Have the recon drone get down in the dirt and find them,” said Andy. “We’re so close!”
“The Navy is pulling the recon RPV sir. We will lose capability to monitor them as the armed drone’s sensor pack isn’t as good.”
“Fuck the Navy!” said Andy. “Get a drone close enough to see the target. Do it now!”
Sergeant Rausch spoke urgently into his radio for a few seconds and then looked up.
“Sir,” said Sergeant Rausch, “the Navy recon pilot says she is sorry but she hit bingo fuel ten minutes ago and must break off or risk losing the RPV.”
“Tell her to stay on station and put down by the Chinook after the fight is over,” said Andy. “We can carry the drone back with us.”
“She said that the orders come directly from CAPT Lassiter sir. She is not to risk the RPV.”
“Well, damn it then,” said Andy forcefully, “get that other RPV down from 15,000 feet and find those targets!”
There was more quiet discussion on Sergeant Rausch’s radio.
“Sir,” said Sergeant Rausch, “the pilot says his rules of engagement prohibit him from descending below 15,000 while armed sir. He also says his sensor array is reduced to carry missiles.”
“Damn and blast!” shouted Andy in frustration, “I bet it’s that damn Lassiter again. Rausch, get Capt Wallace, the Chinook pilot, on the horn and tell him to get airborne now. Have him come in low over the target area to dissipate the smoke. Tell him that his door gunners may not fire but they are to keep an eagle eye out for our targets. We want these guys alive!”
Seconds later the big helicopter took off and roared overhead, the smoke and gas dissipating quickly in the rotor wash. Major Eveleth’s people moved forward quickly but carefully, looking for hostiles and anything resembling the targets who exited the van.
Meanwhile, Col Antonopoulos’s team secured Heather’s location and returned Ginger to her grateful mother. Two PJ’s and Col Antonopoulos raced forward over the intervening sagebrush flats and got to the rise by the road where Chad and the rest of the party had held off the rush of Infected. Col Antonopoulos saw Mary and Amy trying to tend Connor’s wounds and with a nod sent the two PJ’s over to help. The Air Force Para Rescue men are the best trained medics in the United States armed forces. Their specific job is to be able to jump into hostile territory, aid and succor downed airmen, and then get them out. Connor was in the best hands possible, short of a trauma hospital.
Mary, who had run over to where Connor had been wounded at first resisted their attempts to care for her son, but their professionalism, gentleness, and competence had convinced her to let them help.
Col Antonopoulos dropped down next to Chad and offered him a drink out of his canteen. Chad was suddenly very thirsty and gratefully gulped down several mouthfuls before he spoke.
“Andy,” said Chad looking around, “I am glad to see you here and all but my son …”
“Stand easy, Chad,” said Col Antonopoulos, “those are PJ’s over helping him. They’ll get him stable and then we will transport him to whereever you like.”
“I thought you guys had a POL problem?” said Chad accusingly.
“I lied, but you knew that, didn’t you?” said Andy. “I bet, if you think for a minute, you know what’s going on here, don’t you?”
Chad forcibly calmed and focused his mind and thought for a minute.
“Part of me wants to punch you,” said Chad, giving Andy the stink eye. “The other part wants to know if you got them.”
“Sort of,” said Andy. “One is dead in a hole less than fifty yards away. He cut his own throat.”
“That wouldn’t be Macklin, would it?”
“No, more is the pity,” said Andy, as he nodded over to where one of the PJ’s was securing a large Native American. “Your son’s girlfriend seems to have bagged one though. Macklin and we believe one other have not yet been recovered. I have two Special Forces A teams combing the area looking for them and dispersing the rest of the Infected.”
“So let me put this in perspective. A Chinook and at least one RPV,” said Chad, ticking them off on his fingers, “two Special Forces A teams, what looks to be a PJ Special Tactics team, and an air party. That means you know something. You have a source or they have a leak.”
“Something like that,” said Andy non-committedly.
“And you put me and my family out there as bait,” said Chad accusingly.
“Guilty,” said Andy, rather sheepishly.
“But this is a big op. It must have cost you,” said Chad.
“Well, the Navy is royally pissed for one,” said Andy with a smile, “and our mutual friend, Gen Buckley, is demanding results because it cost him a lot of professional capital as well.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Depends on how the interrogation goes,” said Andy, indicating their live captive. “If his buddy was willing to cut his own throat, I have my doubts.”
“So are we going to Ft. Lewis after all?” asked Chad.
“Well, any cover you had is well and truly blown,” said Andy with a smile. “But we are penetrated at Ft. Lewis and I don’t know to what extent. You would be a target that would have to be guarded constantly. Where were you headed?”
“My brother taught at the University of Idaho in Moscow before the Plague,” said Chad. “We figure to hide out there for a while. There are some faculty and students who have organized things. But now if we go there, it would be the same as putting a bull’s eye on the map.”
“Moscow is an intriguing proposition,’ said Andy thoughtfully. “Not only have some of the students organized, the ROTC detachments and the National Guard have gotten together along with the civilian population. Since they were off the main roads, they didn’t start seeing cases of the Plague until after your broadcast. They were ready and both Moscow and Pullman are fairly intact.
“They have requested support. Maybe it’s time we sent some. I was thinking we send you and Major Tippet as an intel team along with Captain Whipkey’s newly formed mech company.”
“So no POL shortage?” said Chad
“We own a refinery and the harbor has a number of tankers in it filled with crude oil inbound and a bunch of refined products outbound,” said Andy. “No shortage.”
“Why Whipkey?” asked Chad.
“He knows everything, basically because he was in the right place at the right time,” said Andy. “The fewer folks that know where and who our intel assets are, the better.”
While they were talking, Amber had gone to check on Chris. His wound had not torn open even with the rough handling he had given it, but he was still recovering and so was completely exhausted from the fight.
“Hey, pretty lady,” said Chris when Amber knelt down beside where he was still lying on the ground, “how about we try to find another hobby?”
“This one isn’t borin, though,” said Amber when she saw he was OK. “I don’t like to be bored.”
“I could do with some boring for a while,” said Chris. “Don’t say this too loud, but I could even look forward to some nice, repetitious paperwork, in triplicate of course.”
“Now I know you are sick,” said Amber smiling. Suddenly, she looked up. She could sense something. It was similar to what she felt with the little girl’s mom back in Royal City. Someone was struggling with the Plague and was also trying to overcome something.
“I have to go,” said Amber. “Stay put or I’ll tie you up and put you on the trailer.”
“Promises, promises,” said Chris with an impish grin. “I am pretty tired so I’ll hang here a while.”
But Amber had already left. She was drawn toward where Mary and Connor were. It was stronger here and then suddenly she knew. The big man in black tactical gear was infected.
“Get away from that one,” said Amber, running over to where everyone was clustered around Connor and Nergüi’s henchmen. “He is infected!”
“Yes ma’am,” said the older of the t
wo PJ’s, Staff Sergeant Klinger. “We treat all patients as if they are infected these days.”
Amber looked down and saw that they had blue vitriol gloves and face masks. As she stood there, momentarily dumb struck, two more PJ’s arrived and began removing the Native American.
“Wait one,” said Amber. “Can I talk to him?”
The PJ’s looked over at Col Antonopoulos who saw Amber and nodded.
“You’re hurting, aren’t you?” said Amber to the Native American who nodded in response. “It’s not just your wounds; someone is in … your head, isn’t he?”
The Karankawan nodded again. There was fear in his eyes now.Col Antonopoulos and Chad had moved next to Amber and were watching the interrogation with interest.
“I have seen him twist minds before,” said Amber. “Do not fear me. I will never do that.”
“I know,” he said. His voice had a lilting accent that was hard to place. “He is evil. I only stayed with him because he kept me alive.”
“You aren’t used to talking,” said Amber, “are you?”
“Mostly, I don’t have much to say,” he replied, “but with him, I never spoke; I was afraid my disgust for him would show.”
“Do you have a name?” asked Amber.
“Ha,” said the Karankawan. “There are none alive who speak my language or know my people. If I were a warrior of old, I would be dead along with them. Why should I have name?”
“Well, calling you tall nameless Indian dude will get old,” said Amber. “Can you at least tell me where you are from?”
“I was born in a little village called Kouyam on what is now the Texas gulf coast. It was crushed by the Mexicans and only a few shards of pottery remain. But you are different; you may call me ‘Sayla’. It means ‘man’ in my milk tongue. It will do.”
“Amber, ‘Sayla’,” said Col Antonopoulos, with a questioning look toward Chad. “We need to get off this field. It’s exposed and there could be snipers. I have deployed my sniper team in a counter sniper role, but they can't cover everyone. Can you carry on this conversation during the flight?”
“Where are we going?” asked Amber.
“Moscow, Idaho,” said Chad. “They have the closest functional hospital and Connor needs medical attention.”
Andy winked at Chad. They were in the intel business again whether they liked it or not.
Chapter 8
June 6th, Saturday, 11:42 am PDT
Warden Lake, WA
It had been too close for Macklin. When the big Army helicopter started offloading troops, he knew there was no way they could win. While the infected thugs with him outnumbered the Army troops by more than five to one, they were no match in terms of firepower, discipline, and communications. Most of the cogent ones figured it out and attempted to escape by whatever means was available. The rest died or in a couple of cases were captured.
Macklin, after seeing the U.S. Army personnel deploy around the bus, had pulled his smoke grenade, pulled the pin and tossed it just to the west of where they were hiding, following it up with a tear gas grenade. Nergüi was speechless, as he had thought his information sources inside the U.S. Government to be unassailable. However, one does not live more than eight hundred years without being able to think quickly, so he popped his own smoke grenade.
They quickly rolled out of the depression they were in and headed east, looking for new cover as the concealment provided by the smoke would dissipate with the return of the helicopter. Harðnefr attempted to follow them but was unable to stand. Rather than endanger Nergüi, Harðnefr nodded to his master and then cut his own throat.
Macklin and Nergüi took refuge in a nearby streambed. They were nearly discovered as one of the bikers from the Strickland party roared down the road racing to get back to the ambush site. His haste is all that saved him for both Macklin and Nergüi tracked him with their weapons from hiding.
Then they followed the shallow, dry watercourse south, away from the ambush site. Several hundred yards away, they found the sparsely wooded area around Warden Lake. They followed the edge of the lake and came to the boat ramp. There was a burned-out motor home and a fifth-wheel trailer that had been looted but was more or less intact. It was there that the two of them hid and plotted their next move.
“How, how, did they find us?” asked Nergüi, almost rhetorically. While he had moved aggressively to keep away from the army, he was mentally still struggling with the fact that he had been completely surprised by the appearance of U.S. armed forces.
“I have an opinion, sir,” said Macklin, choosing his words carefully. “Perhaps you became overconfident? Is it possible that your intelligence on the military was not as good as your information on the civilian government?”
“I will admit to less than perfect success in penetrating some of the military installations around the country,” said Nergüi.
“I also think that your vision of a quick takeover was perhaps overly optimistic,” said Macklin quietly. “This struggle will be long and drawn out, I’m afraid. The forces in the Seattle area are either lucky or good and we will have to move carefully, avoiding standup confrontations like this because this is what they do, and they are experts at it.”
“There were members of our … group, “said Nergüi, “who warned that this was a distinct possibility. We have contingency plans, resources, personnel; all is not lost.”
“Well, we’d better get moving,” said Macklin a little worriedly. “They’re bound to look here.”
“You are correct as far as it goes,” said Nergüi. “But it’s time we used some of our assets. Give me five minutes, and then let’s organize transportation out of here.”
Nergüi pulled out his cell phone and began making calls.
June 6th, Saturday, 2:03 pm PDT
Joint Base Lewis-McChord, WA
“Buckley, Antonopoulos has gone too far,” said ADM Turner, pounding Gen Buckley’s desk, “You need to rein him in.”
“Admiral, I address my troops by their last name like that only when I am giving them orders,” said Gen Buckley. “Has it escaped your notice who is in charge here?”
“I’m sorry, Dan,” said Turner somewhat contritely, “it’s just that he is burning through resources, especially spare parts that I can’t easily replace, at an alarming rate. His use of my RPV’s has got to stop.”
“I believe those RPV’s are property of the US Government,” said Buckley blandly.
“Will you quit nitpicking and listen to what I am trying to say?” said Turner with exasperation.
“I know exactly what you are trying to say,” said Gen Buckley with more animation. “You are playing at the same old peace time turf war and bureaucratic bullshit that used to be part and parcel of our daily lives before the Plague. Let me remind you sir, that there is a national emergency ongoing and we have an adversary that has penetrated my staff meetings.”
“Then why hasn’t my intel staff picked up on it?” asked Turner forcefully. “All I we have is Antonopoulos’s say-so.”
“Admiral, we are penetrated. The NSA is penetrated. I have been instructed by the Chairman of the Joints Chiefs of Staff to pursue this aggressively. You are aware of that mission, are you not?”
“I am also aware of the fact,” said ADM Turner hotly, “that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is your old roommate from the Academy. That does not give you carte blanche to abuse U.S. Navy materiel.”
“I see,” said Gen Buckley. “Reflect if you will about the start of this current situation. Was it not U.S. Army personnel that secured your facilities, U.S. Army transport that helped you evacuate sites that were not defensible, Army units that secured enough POL for you fly said helicopters? God damn it! U.S. Army air assets brought you to this very meeting?”
“I am grateful, of course, for your help,” said Turner. “But we have to view the long term as well as the short term. These drones are the best ASW assets we have. We need to conserve …”
“And j
ust who is running subs right now?” asked Gen Buckley. “Most of the Plague sufferers can’t handle a pump shotgun, let alone a submarine. Is it the Chinese pray tell? Your intel staff reads the same feeds mine do. Their situation is worse than ours. How about the Russians? They have the Plague and a civil war! Maybe you’re worried about the Canadians smuggling down untaxed beer …”
“That’s enough!” said Turner hotly. “I don’t have to listen to this. Look, there are other realities you need to consider. There is potentially going to be a breakdown in the chain of command. We need to be ready to fill any power void.”
“So are we discussing a coup now?” asked Gen Buckley, “because if we are, I will have you arrested and charged before your coffee gets cold.”
“Of course not!” said Turner. “Stop twisting what I am saying. My concern is what will happen if the situation in Washington, D.C. gets worse; if certain political figures become infected. What is your contingency plan?”
“It’s pretty simple actually,” said Gen Buckley. “I will continue to obey my oath of office that I swore as a buck private, sixteen months before I attended the United States Military Academy Prep School. I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States. And, as set forth in the Constitution and further described by the Presidential Succession Act of 1947, I will follow the lawful orders given by the President or his lawful successor should he die in office. Tell me Admiral, what’s yours?”
“You are so disconnected from the reality of the Plague, General,” said ADM Turner as he stood up and began to pace, “that I will not dignify that with an answer!”
Gen Buckley also rose. He knew the signs of someone pushed to the edge by stress and fear, and he was witnessing that now. Turner had, in his whole career, only briefly commanded a destroyer as a young Commander. All the rest of his leadership experience had been in staff positions.
“Admiral, may I suggest that we table this discussion,” said Gen Buckley as he put his hand on Turner’s shoulder. “Maybe you should see your physician.”
