A ten-count ticked by before Albert brought his attention back. His face was calm, almost serene, as if he’d flushed all of his humiliation and done a hard reboot. “Sure, I’ll help, Steph. Someone has to babysit the boys.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” she said, firing her eyes at Bunker. “They’re not coming along, are they?”
“No. They’ll be heading back to camp. Just have to work out a few more details in my head, first.”
“Good, because there’s no chance that was happening. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“What about the Land Rover? I parked it just over the ridge,” Albert said.
“Okay, genius. Who’s gonna drive?” Stephanie asked.
“I was thinking Victor could. He kept asking to take the wheel. Maybe we should let him?”
“I don’t know. Those roads are pretty rough,” Stephanie said.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Bunker said, putting two fingers into his mouth. He let loose with a series of sharp whistles, sending the hail toward the rise beyond the trench.
A short minute later, Tango appeared atop the hill, standing proudly like a general overseeing his troops.
Bunker whistled again, sending Tango into a trot, his hooves working against the steep angle of the slope.
“Hey Dallas?” Bunker yelled.
The eager kid stopped near the entrance to the trench and turned.
Bunker added volume to his request, pointing at the horse. “Bring Tango with you.”
“Okay!” Dallas responded, changing course.
Stephanie cleared her throat. “Before the boys get back, there’s something I should probably tell you, Jack.”
“The Sheriff?”
She nodded, forcing down a gulp. “I think he’s dead. I found his severed arm by the gun and there’s a lot of blood. It’s everywhere. He crawled off, but I couldn’t see him.”
Bunker exhaled, his chest growing heavy. “I figured as much. There’s no chance he would have failed to detonate all of the charges.”
“I’m pretty sure I know who killed him,” Albert said. “There’s a totally messed-up Russian by the entrance to the trench. Half his head is missing.”
Bunker nodded. “I saw him, too. Must have come out of the gas cloud and fired on the Sheriff before Dicky or Burt could take him out.”
“We should go find him,” Stephanie said.
“Normally, I’d agree, but there isn’t time. We need to stay on mission and finish this. The clock’s ticking, Steph. We’ll deal with the casualties later. They’re not going anywhere.”
“What if he isn’t dead?” she asked. “Shouldn’t we be sure?”
“If he’s not, he will be soon. A wound like that requires immediate medical attention. Without a trauma doc, he’ll bleed out in minutes. There’s really nothing we can do for him way out here. We’d need a helo to medivac him somewhere in time.”
“How can you be so unfeeling about all of this?”
“Because people die in war, Steph. Just look around. It’s inevitable. The Sheriff was a brave man and we’ll have time to mourn him later. Right now, we need to make sure his sacrifice counts for something.”
She didn’t answer, only blinking.
“You knew him a lot better than I did, but I’m betting he would have wanted us to continue and finish this.”
She nodded.
* * *
Bunker tied off the bloody artwork he’d just created with the glistening edge of the sword, dangling the severed head from the barrel of the 125mm cannon of the Russian tank. It was front and center, positioned for maximum visibility.
Stephanie had made him wait to do the deed until after Victor and Dallas were on Tango and out of sight. Then she crawled through the hatch and into the driver’s seat of the T-72, refusing to witness Bunker’s decapitation of the General.
Albert wasn’t present either, stuffing his waistline behind the steering wheel of the Gaz Tigr, with his head turned away. At least the fat man had found the stones to shoot a murderous Burt, but Bunker figured that act of heroism was a one-off event. Albert’s true self was back in the driver’s seat, so to speak.
Bunker wasn’t surprised by either of their reactions. A cold, ruthless heart takes years to develop. Even then, emotions are hard to bury, bubbling to the surface at the most inopportune time.
However, a true warrior must do what’s needed. A warrior doesn’t have time to second-guess, nor does a warrior have time to heal. The wrap around his middle was snug, but he figured it would do the job until he could complete the final phase of his plan.
Severed heads had been used throughout history for mostly the same reason—fear and intimidation, none done more perfectly than the ancient Vikings. They would hang severed heads from the hulls of their ships when they cruised into a new harbor.
That’s what Bunker was doing, selling the legend. Only his transport of choice was a main battle tank, not a wooden ship full of bloodthirsty killers.
Either way, displaying the head of your enemy is an effective tool, more so when your reputation precedes you, reinforcing the notion that you are a ruthless adversary who will stop at nothing to achieve victory.
Bunker hoped the remaining Russians in Clearwater were of the same mindset, fearing the man who’d escaped after dropping the female officer from the bell tower. And now, that same man had brutally killed their commanding officer.
It was more than likely that someone in uniform had made contact with the troops in town before they died from the toxic gas, or were taken out by a member of the Clearwater Resistance Movement.
Bunker liked that term and its abbreviation: CRM. He couldn’t hold back a grin, knowing how the military loves its acronyms. It’s a religion for the brass, always going out of their way to find something that fit. Much like he just did.
Bottom line, it didn’t matter whether the Russian situation report had been initiated by the General or by one of his tank crews, as long as word of the massacre had found its way to those Russians still on their feet.
Fear of an unstoppable opponent is a powerful tool for those who oppose. You can kill a man, but you can’t kill an idea. That’s what the severed head was for, to sell the myth he’d been forging ever since he’d dropped Valentina in front of everyone.
CHAPTER 28
Colonel Orlov finished his sprint to the main gate at the entrance to town. His communications officer and security detail were right on his heels when he stopped, each soldier’s chest pumping hard from the run.
The sentry in charge pointed, leading the Colonel’s eyes to the pavement beyond the gate. Two vehicles approached—about half a mile out and closing. One was a tank and the other a truck.
Two of the other station guards had binoculars glued to their eyes, keeping watch on the road. One of them reported in Russian, “They’re ours, Colonel.”
“What happened to our infantry?” the second guard asked.
A pause hung in the air until the first guard spoke again. “Do you see that? Hanging from the barrel.”
“Looks like a . . . head,” the second guard responded, his voice tentative.
“Must have gotten the son of a bitch,” Orlov said, the tension in his chest disappearing in a flash of relief.
“Wait a minute,” the first guard said with urgency. “That looks like it belongs to—”
“General Zhukov!” the second guard snapped.
Orlov grabbed the binoculars from the guard and took a look. Sure enough, the report was accurate. The General’s severed head was hanging from the main cannon, cut off at the base of the neck. He checked the left side of the tank, where he saw a man with slicked back hair and tattoos sticking out of the open hatch—his upper chest, shoulders, and face visible. “There he is! In the commander’s seat.”
“Who the hell is this man?” the first guard asked.
“His name is Jack Bunker,” someone said in perfect English—the voice originating directly behind them.
> Orlov spun, his eyes landing on the muzzle of a rifle pointed at his face. It was in the hands of a man wearing a Russian uniform. Even though the person’s face was badly swollen, Orlov recognized the would-be shooter.
It was the American, Stan Fielding. The prisoner who’d escaped from the execution stage with his twin daughters during the chaos with Valentina. Fielding wasn’t alone, either. There were three others, each dressed and armed like him.
A heartbeat later, all four men pulled their triggers, shooting Orlov and the guards in the face.
* * *
“Zeke, get out there quick, before Bunker fires that thing!” Rico said, pointing at the tank rolling toward them.
Zeke stepped over the body of the Colonel and ran, waving his arms over his head. “Bunker! It’s us! Don’t shoot!”
Rico turned to the third member of their assault team. “Russell, get on that machine gun and watch the street in case we missed any.”
Russell sprinted to the sandbag fortress. He stood behind the automatic weapon, with his hands on the stock.
“I’m surprised they got that gunner’s nest rebuilt so quickly,” Rico said to Stan Fielding, who stood with a mangled face next to him.
“I wish I could have seen that,” Fielding said, one of his eyes barely open beyond a thin horizontal slit.
Rico could have made light of the comment, given its dual meaning, but he chose not to. Fielding deserved his respect for facing death like a man, with his little girls watching. “Oh yeah. Shit flew everywhere, Stan, just like Bunker wanted. I’ll tell you what, that man had this all figured out, which is pretty damn amazing when you think about it. Kudos to the Marine Corps.”
“Our tax dollars at work.”
“Thank God for that,” Rico added, the pride in his heart swelling.
The tank continued in a slow crawl, its tracks plowing forward, sending a thunderous vibration into the blacktop. Rico was sure the roadway was failing under the immense weight. He imagined deep, irregular cracks forming in its wake, with random chunks of asphalt working themselves free.
He didn’t think there were many civil engineers who would have had the presence of mind to plan ahead and design a roadway for a vehicle such as this. Certainly not in Clearwater County, or anywhere else for that matter.
The severed head swung from left to right as the crosswinds rocked the remains of General Zhukov. Rico wasn’t sure how Bunker had managed that all-important kill, but he was grateful the former Marine was on Clearwater’s side, not the other way around.
He didn’t know Bunker very well, but one thing was clear: some men are born to fight. Men like Bunker. They eat it. They breathe it. It’s who they are at the core.
* * *
When Rico drew a finger across his throat, Bunker bent his knees to peer into the open hatch below him as he spoke into the communications headset. “Go ahead and shut it down, Steph.”
She gave him a quick hand flash in response, then the great metal beast came to a full stop in front of the main gate, the engine roar turning silent. Bunker removed his headset and exhaled, his body weak from exhaustion.
In truth, there wasn’t much remaining of the Russian checkpoint after his escape earlier, but main gate was still the correct term. Russell was on the machine gun, apparently watching their six with an eye on the street heading into the center of town.
Bunker’s elevated position gave him a decent view of the secondary checkpoint at the far end of the road. He couldn’t see any activity, not like before when he snuck into town after posing as an injured collaborator. In fact, the checkpoint looked abandoned.
Zeke and Rico stood in wait, just beyond the tracks to Bunker’s right, their smiles evident. A third man with a twisted face was next to Rico.
Bunker assumed it was Stan Fielding, the condemned man he’d saved with the fake execution of the Russian interpreter.
Stan nodded in respect, his lips quiet. No words were needed. Bunker understood and returned the gesture with a half-smile that said, “You’re welcome.”
Stephanie climbed out of the driver’s hatch, her mouth taking in a full gasp of air when her feet hit the pavement. The hair on the back of her neck stuck to her skin as if it had been glued down. Again, not surprising. Cramped quarters and rising tensions would always bring about the most sweat, even for seasoned tank operators. She was obviously not immune.
The tank’s movement hadn’t been smooth or even in a straight line, but the first-time tank operator got them here with minimal training.
The term Monkey Simple flashed in Bunker’s mind, ridding the remaining stress from his chest. Stephanie didn’t like the term, but it fit—not as a slam against her. More as a general operations term, precisely what the Russian engineers intended when they designed the controls.
Albert pulled alongside the tank in the Ganz Tigr. He got out of the driver’s seat and walked in his customary slow stride to Stephanie’s position, his hands in his pockets.
“You coming?” Stephanie asked, waving for Bunker to join her.
“Not yet,” he said, nodding in the direction of secondary checkpoint. “Need to make sure the rest of them got the message. I might still have to unload a round or two.”
“We took care of it,” Rico said, shaking his head.
“All of them?” Bunker asked, needing confirmation.
“Zhukov only left a skeleton force when he went after you. Wasn’t hard, once we found that stash of weapons that you-know-who was bragging about.”
Bunker nodded, not wanting to reveal the subject of Rico’s comment. Stephanie didn’t know her ex was dead and he thought it best to keep it that way for a while longer. He still needed to figure out a way to tell her what happened.
Stephanie wrapped her arms around Fielding and gave him one of her patented kisses on the cheek, much like a beloved sister does when you show up late for Thanksgiving dinner at her house. “I’m so glad you’re alive, Stan. How are Barb and Beth? Are they okay?”
“They’re a little traumatized, but Doc Marino says they’ll be fine. Eventually,” he answered, his voice sour and unsteady.
None of Stan’s demeanor was a surprise given the beating he’d taken. It was a miracle he was standing, let alone joining the last segment of the operation. Most men would have been in the hospital, suffering from some level of brain damage.
Rico turned to Russell in the gunner’s nest. “Go ahead, call ‘em out. I think it’s safe.”
Russell whistled at the empty street and waved with both arms over his head.
Seconds later, citizens began to spill out onto the street from the buildings on either side. Some of them were armed with rifles, others held knives or pistols, filling the pavement with shoes and smiles.
Rico gave his rifle to Zeke, then climbed onto the track, moving to Bunker’s position. He put his hand out for a shake. “Nice work, Jack.”
Bunker took his hand in a firm grip. “You too. Thanks for covering my ass.”
“No, thank you. Otherwise, we’re all slaves forever.”
CHAPTER 29
Sometime later . . .
Bunker felt a sharp pain erupt along his right side, rousing him from a slumbering, dream-filled state.
His thoughts were slow to arrive, forming as a cloud of hazy memory shards—a speck here—a flicker there—taking more than a minute to run clear. Once it did, the pieces coalesced into something his mind could process, bringing conscious thought to the surface.
Reality swarmed his senses as he opened his eyes. He was on his back in a ten-foot by ten-foot space, lying on a bed with soreness across his body. The sun was beaming in through the window to his right, casting short, intense shadows across the floor.
The room featured mostly white, antiseptic-looking walls, which matched the chemical odor floating about. The coolness of the room felt stale, almost artificial. He searched the area under his nose, but an oxygen supply line wasn’t there, as expected.
He studied the two rollin
g carts hovering nearby. Each held a bank of equipment, but the lights were off and he didn’t hear the whirring steadiness of white noise emanating from their cooling fans. Each had a tangle of wires connecting the technology together, but they were nonfunctional, much like he felt at the moment.
Then it hit him, the facts lining up in an instant: The EMP and cyber-attack. No power or electronics. The bus rescue. The Russian invasion. Mortar shells. His carefully plotted ambush. The hand-to-hand battle with the General. Burt shooting him. Stephanie driving the tank with the severed head as decoration.
His mind finally snapped awake, assembling his memories into the proper order. He remembered what transpired after he shook Rico’s hand. It happened all at once, his knees buckling when the energy vanished from his body. The collapse sent him down the hatch in a heap.
Bunker felt the back of his head to find a bandage. It was rectangular, several inches in width. Probably stitches underneath, he figured. He must have cracked his head against the steel framework inside the tank.
A plastic IV bag hung on a pole opposite from the carts, dripping a clear liquid with the consistency of a metronome. He watched the medicine enter the clear tube hanging from it, snaking down the line and disappearing into the central vein of his arm. In some odd way, it reminded him of detonation cord feeding into a blasting cap. If that analogy fit, then he was a brick of C4. An old and tired brick of C4.
He wasn’t sure how many men would characterize themselves as a plastic explosive, but his past was filled with dozens of women who had, always complaining that he would go off without warning. When you answer to no one, even yourself, your temper tends to take over.
That’s the old me, he thought to himself, taking the time to convince himself it was the truth. Accountability is important for most men. It keeps them flying straight and in check.
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