Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  “Hooyah, Master Chief,” barked the blond-haired giant next to the disintegrating door.

  A face appeared in the ragged hole, contorted with anger. “Open this fuckin’ door! That’s an order!” shrieked the acting base CO from the other side of the ax hole. “If you don’t, I’ll have you all shot as traitors! The President himself told me—”

  The other SEALs switched on their laser sights. The handful of red beams lanced out across the empty space in the room and came to rest on the man’s nose. The look of surprise and sudden horror on the man’s face nearly caused Brenda to burst out laughing, despite all the sadness that swirled around her.

  Master Chief Braaten glanced at the body of his Commander in Chief and nodded. “I did not come all the way out here, lose half my team and rescue the President, only to let these fuckers desecrate his body.” He stood there a moment, perfectly still, aiming at the door.

  Brenda imagined he was trying to sort out what exactly to do next. If the SEALs went charging out there, they were likely to die, and take a lot of the airmen out there with them. If they let the base security in…what then? Would they all be arrested and tried for treason? Or just the SEALs? Brenda hoped it would be hard for a court martial to convict a doctor for trying to save a man’s life…

  “Jax, open the door.”

  Brenda held her breath. She gripped the edge of the President’s gurney and prepared to duck when the shooting started. Her training kicked in as warning bells screamed in her mind: Take cover! Incoming!

  “Say what?” asked the tall SEAL.

  Master Chief Braaten grinned. Brenda heard the soft click of the safety on his rifle being disengaged.

  “Let’s rise.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Salmon Falls, Idaho.

  U.P. Lake Ranger Station.

  THE DOOR OPENED AND Tuck entered, followed by Zuka, who limped on his left leg. “Recon’s done. They got that place locked down pretty good, but it ain’t watertight.”

  Zuka grimaced as he collapsed onto a crate and sighed. “Ivan’s got lots of toys, sir.”

  “Well, we’ve got some toys too, but we’re running low on ammo,” grumbled Deuce as he looked up from his hastily-made weapons cleaning station. He was sitting on a crate of candles, with what looked to Chad like the parts for a dozen weapons spread out on the floor in front of him. He meticulously rubbed down each part with a cloth and some oil.

  “Ivan’s got a lot of that down in town, too,” said Tuck. His face betrayed no emotion. “Spotted at least three ammo-supply dumps.”

  “Show me, sergeant,” Captain Alston said. He joined Tuck and Zuka at a table with a map of Salmon Falls.

  “Okay, here we are,” said the sniper as he pointed toward the mountain just west of town.

  Chad’s view was blocked as the Rangers crowded around the map. He turned away and saw the Indian sitting alone in the shadows on the far wall. He took a step around the Rangers and walked over to his fellow civilian.

  “Ivan’s got checkpoints here, here and here,” Tuck was saying.

  “Here’s the ammo dump—right next to City Hall,” added Zuka.

  “Or what’s left of it. They got their BTRs here, and here to block the main access points…”

  “Howdy,” said Chad as he approached the man that’d killed the four Russians. “In all the excitement we weren’t introduced. I’m Chad Huntley.” He offered his right hand.

  The Indian looked up. His high-cheeked face was covered in a grisly camo pattern of brown and green. The effect gave him a leering smile or a skeletal look, depending on the angle. His coal-dark eyes bored into Chad’s. The man didn’t say anything, but looked back down at his tomahawk and continued to rub it across a whetstone. The tomahawk made a softly grinding shriiiick, shriiiiick noise that sounded eerily menacing.

  “Okaaaay…” Chad said, dropping his hand. “I just figured, you know, since we were the only two civilians at this party…”

  “I’m not taking a long walk with you on the beach, if that’s what you’re going to ask,” the man muttered. “So go ask one of them,” he nodded toward the Rangers, still discussing the Russian positions.

  Chad frowned. So that’s how it is, eh?

  “Well, you got a name, or do I just call you Chief?”

  “Lot of guts to say that, Paleface,” the Indian said. He looked up, anger flashing in his narrowed eyes. Abruptly, he smiled and displayed the white of his teeth in stark contrast to the dark colors on his face. The Indian stuck out his hand, yet that smile still sent a shiver down Chad’s spine.

  Chad took the proffered hand and said, “Glad to see you got a sense of humor…?”

  “Denoya. Denoya Tecumseh. You can call me Denny.” Shriiiick, shriiiick, shriiiick.

  Chad looked at the tomahawk and admired the impressive looking weapon. “That what you used to…ah…?”

  He looked up again. “Yes.” Shriiiick, shriiiick, shriiiick.

  “Hey, you two wanna get a room?” asked Zuka. His face split into a grin.

  Captain Alston walked over to the civilians, not before flicking the back side of Zuka’s head as he passed. The tall Ranger knelt beside Denny and admired the man’s sharpening skills for a moment. Neither man acknowledged the other or said anything. Chad stood there and watched.

  “What are your intentions, Mr. Tecumseh?”

  “Denny.” Shriiiick, shriiiick, shriiiick.

  “Pardon?”

  “Call me Denny.” Shriiiick, shriiiick, shriiiick.

  “What are your intentions, Denny?” inquired Captain Alston again.

  Denny paused his sharpening and looked up. “You heard the President’s speech—the real President, Denton—that was broadcast last night.” Denny held the tomahawk up and admired his work. “I didn’t vote for him, but I’m going to do what he asked me to do. I’m going to fight the invaders.”

  “I’d say you’ve already started,” said Captain Alston.

  Denny shrugged. “I guess so. It’s funny,” he said, his voice emotionless. “I’ve never killed anyone before. Just deer and turkey…” his voice trailed off.

  Chad could sympathize with the man. He had shot his first man a few days back during his flight from the North Koreans. Then at the emergency landing zone he had shot a man trying to kill Captain Alston… Since then, he’d felt that something inside him had changed. Tempered. Grown stronger.

  “Tonight, I’m going to go down into town and kill as many Russians as I can find,” Denny said, looking absently at the tomahawk. “I’m going to protect my neighbors. I’m going to honor my ancestors. I’m going to defend this land.”

  Shhhriiiiick, shhhriiiiiiick, shhhriiiiiiick.

  Captain Alston nodded. He looked up at Chad. “Mr. Huntley here, is my top priority. I’m supposed to get him to a tier-one medical facility so the mad scientists can make his blood into a vaccine to fight the super-flu…”

  Denny paused in his sharpening and regarded Chad. “Was your blood used ten years ago during the Blue Flu?”

  “Yeah,” said Chad. He thought back to his first days during The Great Pandemic, spent in the medical checkpoint in Fort Worth. He had just left his home and some doctor on the bus had been hassling him about why he hadn’t been sick and why he hadn’t told anyone. Then the needles started coming at him and they didn’t stop for what seemed like weeks. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of going through that blood-letting ceremony again. But it had to be done.

  Now it was Denny’s turn to nod. “Well, that’s good.”

  “Only problem,” Captain Alston said, frowning, “Is that we’re almost out of fuel for our helicopters. And now, there’s at least a battalion of Russians downslope in Salmon Falls, between us and safety.”

  “Why don’t you just go around Salmon Falls?”

  Captain Alston looked at Denny with something along the lines of indignation on his face. “Because we’re Rangers. We go through the enemy, not around them. We’re not in the damned Navy. Besides,
we don’t have the fuel. They’ll pick us off as we try to get past them.”

  Chad snorted, then coughed to cover himself when Captain Alston and Denny both looked at him. He cleared his throat. “So, what are you going to do about me?”

  “Cap, we got a signal, here!” called out Deuce. He pointed with a soiled cleaning cloth at the radio sitting on the map table.

  Captain Alston held up a finger to Chad: hold on. He raced over and grabbed the radio, listening to the sound of broken static before he keyed the mic: “Come in, any unit this net, this is Hammer 2, Actual, over.”

  More static. He tried again. Still more static. Chad’s hopes fell along with the faces of everyone in the little sanctuary.

  Then: “—again, please. Hammer—” more static. “—come in!”

  Captain Alston regarded his troops with a grin. “I say again, this is Hammer 2, Actual, over!”

  The static cleared and a strong voice powered through across countless miles of airspace. “Damn glad to hear your voice, son. This is Watchtower, Actual. How copy?”

  Captain Alston’s eyebrows went up. “Five-by, Watchtower.” He asked for authentication codes and was rewarded with a request for his own.

  “Who’s Watchtower?” whispered Denny as Captain Alston and the mysterious voice on the radio shared their authentication codes and confirmed identifications.

  “Oh, just the commanding General of the Army. Nobody important…” replied Zuka with a casual wave of his hand.

  "Give me a sit-rep, son while we still have a secure comm-link."

  "Yessir," said Captain Alston. The pilots all stood around the map table, grinning like kids on Christmas morning.

  "Sir, we have what appears to be at least three companies of Russian foot-mobiles occupying the town below us…” he glanced at the map on the table before continuing. “Grid Charlie-Niner, One-Kilo-Bravo-two-four. They have at least two BTRs and possibly some mobile SAM sites. We are bingo fuel—repeat bingo fuel, and at present time have only enough for one vehicle to get about three hundred miles. We're at the end of our rope sir, as far as food and ammo. I've been in worse places before, but not many."

  “You’re not going anywhere.” The gruff voice sighed.

  Captain Alston looked at the assembled helicopter pilots. The Black Hawk pilot looked at the others and then nodded at the Ranger. Captain Alston spoke: “That about sums it up, sir. We fuel the ‘Hawk and two Apaches, or all the Apaches and not the Black Hawk. Or any combination you can think of, but we’re not fueling all the birds. And it doesn’t really matter, because from what we can tell, we can’t reach more than a few small airstrips from here, anyway. Odds of finding enough fuel to keep going are getting slim.”

  A long silence. Then: "Is the package secure?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. Listen, son, I may get in hot water over this—the kind that puts you before a military tribunal or firing squad....The President...he doesn't seem to have it all there anymore. Something is definitely going on but I'll be damned if I know what.”

  Captain Alston looked at his men with a confused look on his face.

  “At any rate, I pulled every favor I had trying to get you a Skyhook. You'll need to assign one man to accompany the package, if I can retask it. I hear these things can be kind of hairy."

  Captain Alston frowned and looked at Chad. "No SPIE rig, sir?"

  "Negative. There's no long-range helicopters available, and you don’t want to even try and set up a mid-air refuel right now, if you catch my drift. No, the only thing we can grab short-notice to get you out is going to be fixed wing. But I did find a Horny-Herc. It's a Coast Guard trainer, but it's the only thing I can do to extract the package on short notice. We should know within the hour. We’ve got to coordinate with the Air Force to get fighter coverage and with comms the way they are, it’s taking longer than I’d like."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Understand, this will be a one shot deal. If this fails, we may not have time for another option. Your little stunt with the Russians yesterday has them all riled up. They want to storm that mountain you’re on and wipe the whole thing off the map."

  Captain Alston looked at Denny. "Sir, that wasn't us, it was a civilian action. We arrived after..."

  "So, it's true then? There's a resistance? Good. At least there’s some red-blooded American’s left out there.” Another pause.

  Chad wondered if the signal had been lost. Then the general came back: “The President assures me that he put enough pressure on Moscow to keep you out of hot water, but local authority—meaning some Russian general—is in control and who the hell knows if Ivan will listen to the Kremlin."

  "Sir, I thought the Russians were only allowed on the coastal cities back East? At least, that’s what they’re saying on all the EAS broadcasts."

  There was a slight pause before the voice returned. "You're right. They shouldn't be here at all, son. It's a crying affront against God Himself, is what it is. But, that’s out of our hands and The Russians are denying there's any forces west South Carolina, anyway.” The general sighed. “It's a complete Charlie-Foxtrot." Static crackled again over the radio.

  “What’s a Charlie-Foxtrot?” whispered Denny.

  Chad shook his head. “No idea, but it sounds bad.” Zuka chuckled next to them.

  "Roger that, sir. What are my orders?"

  "Son, get that package delivered at all costs, then handle the situation as you see fit until we can resupply, reinforce, or exfil you and your men."

  "Roger that, sir."

  "You hear me CFB, Ranger: I will not tolerate losses to your team over this situation. Do what it takes to stay alive until we can sort things out and get your unit out of there. If everything goes as planned, the Skyhook rig will be delivered to your location at 1530 Zulu, tomorrow. The Horny-Herc will make the drop, circle once, and return for pickup when the balloon goes up. How copy?"

  Captain Alston grinned. "Hammer 2, Actual, copies all."

  "Godspeed, Hammer 2. Watchtower, Actual, out."

  Chad watched as Captain Alston put his hands on his hips and rolled his head on his shoulders. A few cracks later, the Ranger sighed. “Well, how about that,” watching the radio. After a moment, he turned to look at his men; his gaze lingered on Chad the longest.

  "You all heard the General."

  "Hooah," was uttered from the Rangers in unison. The pilots looked on with grim faces. Chad was beginning to feel like someone who didn’t know the inside joke.

  "Any questions?"

  Chad raised his hand. "What, uh, what exactly did he mean by that Skyhook thing?"

  “And what’s a Horny-Herc?” asked Denny.

  Deuce laughed. "You're going on the roller-coaster ride of a lifetime, pal."

  "Don't worry, Mr. Huntley, one of us will be going with you," said Captain Alston. "Skyhook is a...unique...method the CIA developed for getting spooks out of bad situations in a hurry. Back in the ‘50s." He turned to the squad sniper. “Tuck, you're the only one who's actually done this before in the field. Want to fill in Mr. Huntley?"

  "Sure, sir. Basically, a C-130 Hercules cargo plane—your Horny-Herc,” he said at Denny. “Will swoop over this mountain at a hundred feet or so and drop off a box. In the box will be a harness and a long rope attached to a…well…it’s like a weather balloon, see? There’s a helium bottle too. You put on the harness, connect the rope to the balloon and you—then inflate the balloon with the helium.” He raised one hand.

  “The balloon goes up as the plane circles around.” The other hand made a circle around the first. “When it’s up a hundred feet or so, the plane flies in low. There’s this set of horns, like a giant “v” sticking off the front of the plane.”

  “Ah, Horny-Herc,” said Denny. “I get it.” His face was deadpan and Chad had to fight the urge to laugh.

  “The plane targets the balloon,” continued Tuck. He held up his hands demonstrating the maneuver. “Then hits the rope right in the horns. The rope sla
ps the belly of the aircraft, gets snagged by the crew in the back and as the plane flies off, you fly up."

  Chad's mouth opened. "Wait, like, up into the sky you go? On a rope? Dragged by an airplane?” He looked around at the grim-faced Rangers. “Are you kidding me? Isn't that thing going hundreds of miles an hour?"

  Captain Alston laughed. "This is the Army, not the Air Force, sir. We move a lot slower than them. Don't worry, it's relatively safe. You may be sore for a while−“

  "Like whiplash, or something?"

  "Or something, yeah," chuckled Tuck. "It's a real rush, man."

  "It's apparently the only way the brass can think of to get you off this mountain as fast as possible and headed toward a hospital,” said Captain Alston.

  Chad paled at the thought of being jerked up into the air by a passing plane. If these men around him were elite soldiers and only one of them had done it before....what did that say? He swallowed. His mind raced for an answer that didn't involve him flying through the air.

  "Wait—" he said, hands up in front of him. "Wait, wait, wait… What happens after this?"

  “I don't know yet,” muttered the tall Ranger. He rubbed the days-old growth of red-tinted beard on his chin. It sounded like he was rubbing sandpaper. “We see you off safely, our next task will be taking on Ivan down there in town. If we’re going to get out of here, we’ll need fuel for the helicopters. The Russians likely have plenty of fuel down there…for those BTRs, if nothing else.” He shrugged. “Guess we’ll go and take it.”

  “BTR?” asked Denny.

  “The Russian version of an armored personnel carrier. It’s got a decent gun on top, armored sides, eight big wheels and a bad attitude,” Captain Alston replied. He rubbed the stubble on his chin—it sounded like sandpaper on rough-hewn wood. “In order for us to borrow some wheels in town, we’re going to have to cut through a lot of Russians down there,” he nodded toward the cave wall and the town.

  “I want to help.”

  Captain Alston and the Indian looked at Chad. “You heard me,” Chad said. “I’m in this fight now. Ten years ago, all I could do was sit on a table and be bled dry. This time, I have a chance to do more than just that, and I aim to take it.”