Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  She straightened up suddenly and smoothed out her skirt. “Yes, sir. Of course. I—well, you know… Yes. I’m telling you, he’s in the downward spiral.” She looked at the ceiling and sighed. “No, don’t do that. I have no traction with her at all. She hates me, thanks to him. That last display during the cabinet meeting pushed her over the edge. Yes. Yes. No, I’m telling you, if you do this, you’ll be on your own. That’s right, she’ll remove me from the bunker faster than you can blink. That dried-up cow has a stick up her ass, for sure.”

  The President tried to chuckle, he knew she was talking about Vice President Hillsen. She was the only person in the Bunker that he figured could get such a rise out of his normally sweet, submissive, suggestive, Jayne.

  She recoiled her head, causing her hair to rustle about her shoulders. It was as if she had been slapped. “Don’t you dare. That woman is ugly as sin. If you’re going to make me do that at least let me pick someone I can play with.” She looked at the phone and chuckled. Fingers twirling her hair, she grinned and said, “God, Reginald, you are such a prude. You need to loosen up.”

  She laughed again, casting a glance over her shoulder at the form of the President of the United States, crumpled on the floor like a rag doll. He was looking at her through eyes that were just barely open and she didn’t notice. She watched him, with a wistful look on her face.

  “I’ll give him one thing, he certainly knows how to show a girl a good time.”

  He tried to smile, but his face was slack and unresponsive, like the rest of his body. He tried to calm himself, to not think about being incapacitated like that—conscious but unable to move—for the rest of his life. He poured all his remaining willpower into moving his tongue, his toes, his fingers, anything. Nothing moved. Just his heart and lungs, on auto-pilot.

  Jayne. And Reginald. His mind plowed through the fog of her perfume at a slow pace. They drugged me. The damn ring. His heart broke with the realization that Jayne had played him expertly to the very end. I just can’t believe it…

  Jayne continued to chat with Reginald, pacing the room and picking up random objects to examine while she talked. She was bored, listening to instructions, giving reports, offering suggestions.

  She used me. Used me up completely and now he’s telling her to throw me away like a piece of trash. Somewhere, deep down inside his tortured body, a tiny spark appeared in the darkness. Anger began to grow inside him, competing with the frustration he felt at being denied access Jayne’s body.

  He was angry for being used, angry for being propped-up as President before his time, angry that Reginald and his employers were tearing America apart piece-meal. The spark grew into an ember and his helplessness blew the ember into a furnace of rage.

  They think I’m all used up, an empty husk. Useless. He seethed with raw, white-hot anger.

  His fingers twitched.

  Yesssss. His eyes moved slowly to follow Jayne’s progress around the room, like he was pushing his vision through jelly. But, at least his eyes were under his control again. He let his rage burn away the effects of whatever toxin Jayne had been using on him, and he kept still. Slowly, he could feel control over his extremities return. First a finger, then two, then four, then a wrist. Slowly, his feet twitched on command.

  It’s working… he told himself. Just stay still…

  Jayne returned to the desk and stood right in front of him. If he dared to move his head, he could have looked straight up…

  Stop that. Get a hold of yourself. She’s been playing you like a fiddle. It’s time to show this bitch what you’re really made of. You are the goddamn President of the United States of America. Time to start acting like it.

  He summoned all the remaining shreds of his battered willpower to fight off the lust that was building in his loins. She was so close. He could smell her shampoo, her perfume—that lovely, fragrant bouquet—the very essence of her. A whimsical, naughty thought flitted through his mind: I wonder if she’s wearing panties?

  It was the same old, intoxicating wave of euphoria that threatened to drown him again. He gritted his teeth and could feel the sweat bead on his forehead. At least you’re feeling something…

  “All—all right, if you say so,” Jayne said, sounding unconvinced. She glanced down at the President. “I—I have to go. Now.” The phone clicked shut and then she was on her knees, cradling his head in her soft, gentle hands.

  “Oh my goodness…what’s happened to you? My love, my poor sweet, love… You’re working yourself too hard…”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the deft movement of her right hand, as she adjusted the ring to face toward her palm. Here it comes, he thought. Knowing what was coming, he reached out with all his senses to try and feel the pin-prick of the ring. Her hand brushed his cheek and caressed his neck. He could feel the cold metal work its way under his jaw.

  Still nothing….

  Then, complete joy and relaxation washed over him from head to toes. He felt himself relax in her grip. He imagined her strong, gentle hands were cradling his head—holding it above a fragrant pool of swirling water. He wanted to giggle at the absurdity of that image as he lay on the carpet in the bunker under the White House.

  “Sssssh,” Jayne whispered, brushing a lock of hair off his sweaty forehead. “Hush, my love. You need your rest…you have a lot of work to do…”

  You bitch… The last vestige of who he was, of Harold James Barron, Esquire, defied her in a whisper from the dark recesses of his mind.

  She moved her hand just so and another wave of joy crashed over him. He could resist no more. His last, feeble thought was one single word.

  Revenge.

  He vowed to himself he would attain that word, he would become that word, if it took a week, a month, a year, a decade. He would beat the odds, he would fight back, he would regain control over himself, and he would punish Reginald. He would punish her. The word danced in and out of his consciousness. He closed his eyes, a false smile on his lips. The last thing seared into his memory was the equally-false concern for him, plastered on Jayne’s perfect face as he passed into oblivion.

  I will have my revenge, Jayne…

  CHAPTER 31

  Salmon Falls, Idaho.

  DENNY PEEKED AROUND THE corner of what was left of the smoldering house. He glanced at his watch: 7:22pm. Any second now, men from the town were going to start shooting on the other side of the Russian encampment. He gripped the M4 in his cold hands and tried to wiggle his equally-frozen toes to make sure they were still there.

  Last night’s cold rain had given way to even colder winds and clouds throughout the day. They had spent the day resting and making plans with the group of citizens that were going to play a key role in the liberation of Salmon Falls. There had been a steady stream of men and women sneaking into and out of the McDonnell house throughout the day. They were under constant threat of discovery by the Russian patrols, but the citizens had understood all too well the danger and had disguised their activities well. The Russians, after all, had only locked down the town’s center. The outlying streets and subdivisions had been looted for supplies, dissidents, and attractive women, then left by the invaders to rot.

  He looked at the dark sky and frowned. Every bone in his cold, wet body told him that the clouds that were still hanging low over the town, were pregnant with snow.

  Corporal Donovan peered around a charred beam and then looked back at Denny. He pointed at his eyes, then held up three fingers and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Denny nodded. He had been given a crash course in silent communication throughout the day while he and the Rangers had been holed up in George McDonnell’s house.

  I see three Russians over there.

  Deuce pointed at Denny, pointed at his own eyes and made a shoo-ing gesture toward the other side of the rubble. You go take a look on that side. Denny gave him the thumbs-up and took three slow, cautious steps to the corner. He stole a glance over his shoulder at Deuce. The Ranger nodded and j
utted his chin out: Go on.

  Denny took a deep breath and closed his eyes, asking Mishe Moneto for a calm spirit and quick reflexes. He opened his eyes and slowly leaned around the corner, just exposing enough of the side of his head to see with one eye.

  He could see four Russians milling around a missile launcher. That’s a lot bigger than I expected, he thought in surprise. The portable missile platform looked to be the size of a tank and had what looked like a rotating radar dish on the front. The rumble of the big launcher’s engine at idle was a constant noise in the background.

  There were four, fog-gray missiles, each about ten feet long, cradled on a large arm that had been hoisted into the air. The big steel pillars that extended from the corners of the launch platform had been driven into the earth for stability and gave the impression that the thing had been grafted into place. Denny frowned.

  No, it’s more like a cancer that needs to be removed for the patient to survive. They desecrate this land with their presence.

  Then he looked closer at the Russians. One was smoking a cigarette and watching his partner fiddle with what looked like a computer terminal built into the side of the tank-launcher. The other two were idly chatting with each other, but keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. One made a comment to the other and they chuckled softly. The second soldier gyrated his hips and made an hourglass motion with his hands. More soft laughter.

  Denny pulled himself around the corner and felt his earlier fear quickly dispel. He quickly discovered he was able to bury it under the anger burning within his soul. He turned his head and looked at Deuce. Denny held up four fingers and pointed at his own eyes.

  The Ranger was grim faced, showing no emotion. But he locked eyes with Denny and nodded slowly. He pointed at the watch on his wrist and held up his hand. Five minutes.

  Denny nodded and checked the chamber on his rifle. It was fully-loaded and ready to go. He leaned back against the charred timber and looked up at the black sky, watching the snowflakes drift down out of the darkness into his field of view.

  How did it ever come to this? A few weeks ago, I was just a teacher. Now…what am I? A freedom fighter? A terrorist? A rebel?

  Little Spear…

  Denny jerked his head down and looked around. He had sworn he heard Red Eagle’s voice. He closed his eyes tight. Get a hold of yourself. It’s just nerves.

  You are a liberator, Little Spear. You are freeing this land of the pestilence that plagues it…

  Denny glanced at Deuce. The Ranger was squatting on the ground, back to the wall, staring impassively into the darkness with his rifle across his chest. He’s preparing himself. I should be too.

  Gunfire in the distance jerked Denny out of his thoughts. He looked at Deuce, who checked his watch and with wild eyes and shook his head.

  “They’re early, they’re early! All units, Hammer 2, hold your fire…” Captain Alston’s voice announced over their radios.

  Denny gripped his rifle and tensed. He peeked around the corner of the ruined home again and could see the Russians had dropped into crouches and were scanning in all directions, looking for a threat. One of them talked urgently into a radio, looking toward the east where sporadic gunfire was now popping.

  Denny could hear the staccato tat-tat-tat of Russian AK-47s. Then there was a chorus of loud rifle shots. The hunters had joined the fight. It sounded for all the world like last year’s 4th of July celebration.

  “Get ready…they’re moving.”

  Denny held his breath as one of the Russians said something to his comrades, then ran off toward the firefight on the other side of town. He could hear a lot more AK-47s now and a new sound. It was a strange, whump-whump-whump. Lights flared to the east. Explosions, he figured. Everything sounded muffled in the snow. Like a battle was raging miles away, instead of few city blocks.

  “The BTR’s moving. That’s our cue. All units, Hammer 2, engage! Take ‘em down!”

  Denny took a breath and raised his rifle, taking aim on the Russian closest to him. Before he could pull the trigger, the man next to his target screamed and crumpled in the snow. Only then did he hear the report of Deuce’s rifle. Denny pulled his trigger and saw his man twist around violently and slam into the side of the launcher. As the man slid down into the snow, a trail of blood smeared the camouflage paint pattern.

  Deuce dispatched the remaining soldier and in seconds skirmish was over. “Nice work, sir,” the big Ranger said as he slipped around the corner of the house and patted Denny on the shoulder. “Come on.”

  Denny followed his partner in a crouch to the side of the launcher and checked the Russians for signs of life. One of them was moaning and clutching his chest, blood, dark in the dim light, smeared over his mouth and chin. Without a thought, Denny knelt next to the man and ended his suffering with a single blow of his tomahawk. He wiped the blood off his blade on the Russian’s uniform and stood, peering into the darkness for more threats.

  I’m changing…I don’t even know who I am anymore…

  “Duece, we’re secure. Whats your sit-rep?”

  “Secure. Starting demo.”

  “Roger, make it quick, I just got word we got reinforcements inbound.”

  “No C-4,” Duece muttered, examining the missiles in their cradles. He looked at Denny. “This thing is locked out and it’s in Russian,” he kicked the launcher. Deuce stepped back and sighed. “Here, take this,” he said and tossed Denny his rifle.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The only thing I can,” he said as he climbed up the side of the launcher and started to fiddle with the missiles. “I’m going to stuff some grenades up the ass-end of these missile and hope when they cook off, they’ll put these things out of commission. See if you can find any on those guys down there,” he said pointing at the Russian bodies.

  Denny found five grenades on the Russians and tossed them up to Deuce. He gathered their side arms and rifles started to dig through their packs looking for any food or medical supplies. In the distance the gunfighting continued unabated.

  The Ranger jumped down into the snow and ran for cover. “Let’s move! Find some cover!” They ran for the rubble pile of the nearest house and dove down behind a collapsed brick wall. “Keep your mouth open!” Deuce said and covered his head and ears.

  Denny did likewise, just the grenades exploded. Even through tightly-closed eyes his world went white. His body was pounded by the grenade blasts—then there was an even louder explosion. He felt the breath ripped from his body and thought his lungs had been turned inside out. The bricks that shielded them rained down on top of the two men like hail.

  When at last he could claw a breath into his lungs and cough the mortar and brick dust out, Denny opened his eyes and moved some debris from his head. There was a muffled ringing sound in his ears that was so intense it threatened to steal his thoughts. He cleaned his face with the back of a hand and gradually his vision returned. He saw Deuce was rising through the rubble pile with a grin on his face, missing his helmet, blood trickling from his ears.

  The Ranger turned to him, his face lit by the glow of a fire, and said something. Denny heard a mumbled gibberish and nothing else but a constant ringing sound. He blinked and started to rise up, feeling bricks and wood chips fall off his back as he emerged from the debris of the abused house.

  Deuce picked up his helmet and put it back on, his mouth still moving. Denny could hear only a higher-pitched ringing now. He shook his head. Deuce grinned, grabbed him by both shoulders and turned him toward the source of the glowing light. What was left of the tank-like missile launcher was now on its side, blown completely in half. The launcher’s mechanical guts were spread out in the shallow crater formed when the four missiles detonated on the rails.

  Slowly, the ringing in his ears faded and he could just barely make out what Deuce was yelling and smiling about.

  “We did it!” the Ranger was screaming. Denny could see the cords in his neck standing out as he yelle
d, but the sound that reached his tortured eardrums seemed like a loud whisper through a pair of earmuffs.

  Denny fumbled with shaking hands for the headset that was hanging by a cord on his chest. His hands felt thick, but he managed to get the earbud in place. He cranked the volume and heard Captain Alston’s excited voice:

  “−hell you did, but you just lit up half the town! Regroup at the rendezvous point, we need to give the locals some cover!”

  “Roger that, Actual! We’re on our way!” yelled Deuce with a whoop. “God damn that was awesome! I love my job!” He clapped Denny on the back.

  Denny looked at the wreckage of the SAM launcher and blinked in amazement.

  Who am I?

  Denny struggled to catch up to Deuce, who was making a beeline for the old Citgo station a few blocks away. He barely had time to glance at the houses and what was left of the town he’d called home for more than a decade. The burned-out, half deserted town looked more like a war zone. Hell, he reminded himself, it is a war zone and I’m fighting the war. The sound of gunfire and that ever present whump-whump-whump just added to the madness.

  Up ahead something exploded on the other side of town, showering the sky with glowing sparks. “The hell was that?” he called out.

  “Hopefully that damn BTR!” answered Deuce, checking the street for movement. He ran full-speed for cover.

  They ran past startled citizens emerging from houses to peer into the storm, looking for the cause of the fires and explosions. Others were cowering behind opened curtains. Most houses were empty or simply ripped-open husks of what they once were.

  “Hammer 2, this is Dagger Lead—Marine strike-force closing on your location—how copy?” Denny was momentarily startled by the sudden, dynamic voice of the pilot in his ear as he ran. He nearly tripped over a section of busted sidewalk, buried in the snow. Finally, after the long sprint, he reached the rendezvous point, completely spent and out of breath.