“You have been spending way too much time around your uncle,” Michelle said as she shifted her grip on the rescue pole and gave it a yank, pulling me away from the water and into her arms.
“Hey, I just call it as I see it.”
In response, she lowered the shepherd’s hook and embraced me with both hands. “Eric, I feel like I’m in a world of translucent shadows, and you’re the only solid anchor that I have left.”
I returned her embrace as she buried her face against my neck. I wasn’t really sure what to say, and one of the few, accurate lessons that has ever been beaten into my male ego jumped at the chance to remind me, “if you’re ever holding a girl and don’t know what to say, the best choice is to just keep holding her and say nothing.”
We stood, locked together in a hug as the boat rolled slightly under our feet. After too short of the time, she released me and edged back toward the bench. “What do you think Eric,” she asked, “can you stomach a rehydrated enchilada before we get moving?”
“I’ll do you one better,” I said, moving to the storage compartment under the pilot’s seat and returning a few seconds later with four packs of ramen noodles. “There’s two more where these came from. All of the patrol boats have been unofficially ‘stocked’ with several packs of soup and,” I revealed my second surprise, “a number of instant coffee tea bags. It’s not your battery acid cowboy coffee, but maybe it will do.”
“You’re almost forgiven for the fast food apocalypse story.”
“Did I mention that I have one remaining bottle of somebody’s favor root beer?”
Michelle’s white teeth were visible in the starlight as she smiled. “If you cook the soup, I’ll see about moving you back into the good graces of the queen.”
“I accept your offer, ma’am, with one caveat.”
“Which is?”
“This boat ain’t moving until dawn.”
“Why?” Her tone had dropped a notch with her reply.
I sat opposite her on the facing bench and nodded my head. “I know time is of the essence, but here’s the thing, or rather ‘things.’ We have no working GPS navigation system on the patrol boat, or rather, it’s so inaccurate for whatever reason that it’s practically worthless. From where we are right now, we’ve got a pretty long haul ahead of us. Could I do it at night using a starlight scope and my knowledge of the lake? Probably. But it would take all night and we’d have to be pretty close to the shoreline, which would in turn increase the overall distance we’d have to travel, not to mention costing us a lot of fuel. There’s also the distinct possibility that moving us that close to shore will draw some unwanted attention, especially if we use the spotlight to help with navigation.” I stood and shifted to the bench Michelle was sitting on, taking a moment to drop a single blanket around our shoulders.
“Thank you,” Michelle breathed.
“Now, if we wait until morning, we’ll both be able to get some much needed rest, or at least some downtime. And then, once the sun’s up, we can kick this puppy in gear and stay out in the deep water far away from shore. We can be in the area where you think your dad’s cabin is in about an hour. It would also be a lot easier to find it in the daylight.”
“How far are we from this point?” Michelle asked.
“If we wait ‘till morning and stay in the deep water, or at least far enough away from shore to avoid any incidents, I can navigate us there with the compass and some landmarks. Rough guess, but from here, we need to head about five or so miles southeast, and then about ten or twelve miles northeast. That little two-leg plot will take as around Grahams Island State Park and put us into the central section of Devils Lake. Then we’ve got another, oh, about seven miles before we cross underneath Highway 57 and into Mission Bay. We head straight across that and pass under the bridge on Highway 20. Once we’re through that, we get into the eastern section of Devils Lake. We follow that a little bit northeast—maybe four miles or so—and then the lake turns and we head southeast. Rough guess again, but from that point it’s probably another ten miles until we pass underneath the bridge on county road 0353 and into East Devils Lake. And using your recollection as a guide, we’re figuring that your dad’s cabin is about a mile or two away from that last bridge, so our total trip length is going to be about twenty-eight or thirty miles.”
“How fast is this boat?”
“It will easily cruise at fifty, but with the patrol enhancements, its top end is closer to seventy if we had to.”
“Using your figures, that could put us there in only about thirty minutes.”
“I’m adding a buffer so we have time to stash the bass boat for our return trip, and also to switch the reflex sight back onto the .22.”
Michelle was silent as she contemplated the options on the table. Finally, she turned to me and arched her eyebrows. “Why,” she said, “do I get the feeling that you already know what my answer will be?”
“Because both of us know that you’re intelligent, and that you’d choose the only realistic alternative that we have.”
“I see. Well I guess you’d better start cooking the soup while I make the bed . . . and Eric . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Give me my root beer.”
Chapter 51
“You got him?”
“Yeah.”
“How are you positioned?”
Sam’s whispered voice came back across the Fish and Wildlife radio, “I’m looking right at him from about 120 yards to his four o’clock.”
Andy’s steady voice crept into the headphones over Sam’s ears. “You’re sure he’s a single—not paired with a spotter?”
“I’ve got one person only, but he’s a hoss . . . reminds me of that guy in the warehouse only bulkier—almost round. He’s wearing full camo and lying prone behind some sort of netting or screen . . . one rifle on a bipod, and strictly amateur hour.”
“Explain.”
Sam spoke in a hushed voice as he watched the target through the 4-12 power Nikon rifle scope that sat atop Michelle’s 30-06. The scope was cranked all the way up to maximum magnification, and he knew from personal experience that the deer rifle was dead on accurate. “Well first off, he’s got a pile of bright silver bowls—foil maybe—that are scattered behind the netting. I can see some of them wavering when a strong breeze kicks up, so he doesn’t have the sense to remove possible giveaways. Secondly, when he’s not looking through his scope, he’s lying on his back staring up at the sky or cooking something on a little burner. He has yet to even look in any other direction. And finally, he really hasn’t stopped fidgeting since I’ve been watching him. Trust me Andy, this guy is a clown.”
“Roger that. Maintain and observe while we figure out our next move. Marina out.”
Andy sat the radio down on the battle scarred end table that leaned precariously against the threadbare couch arm in Walters’s office. “What do you think?” The question was offered to the small assembly gathered there. Crowbar Mike, Preacher Dave, Callie, Amy, Bucky, and of course, Walter.
“Are we sure it’s only one guy?” Bucky asked as he sipped from a bottle of generic soda. “I mean, this is the first time we’ve actually got good eyes on him, so how do we know he isn’t being switched out every night?”
“We don’t, but as a general rule, when a force commits a sniper, they leave him there and he’s on his own until the mission ends.”
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us back to the all important question of who ‘they’ are,” Andy stated.
Amy raised her hand and spoke. “I’m not really up to speed on covert tactics and black ops ever since I let my subscription to Soldier of Fortune expire . . .,” a barely suppressed grin crept onto her lips, “and Woman’s Home Journal doesn’t include many tips on effective sniping at holiday get-togethers.” The faces staring back at her split and began chuckling as she continued. “But how do we know it’s a ‘they’ and not a ‘he’?”
“Why would a single p
erson just lay out there and watch us? I mean, there’s got to be a reason,” Callie said.
“He hasn’t shot at us yet, but I’ve got to tell you, I’m getting real nervous just driving the tractor around to draw his attention,” Walter stated dryly.
“Callie, to answer your question, militarily speaking, there are several things to consider.” Andy stood and began pacing. “Among other things, you observe to collect intelligence for a strike, or to search for a weak spot in the enemy’s perimeter. You also pre-position assets, such as snipers, for an upcoming assault.” He stopped pacing and picked up the radio. “Sam, keep your eyes on the target . . . I want to try something.”
“10-4.”
Andy keyed the radio again. “Mr. Lee, give us another look around, but this time, keep Thompson’s face visible for a good five seconds.”
Lying on his back on the rooftop of the store, Choon Lee lifted the woodchip stuffed dummy into a sitting position. The camouflage BDU jacket was practically bursting at the seams, but it was light enough to move without difficulty, and with the addition of a few wire coat hangers, it easily supported the balaclava-covered mockup of Thompson’s face. The right arm of the phony guard had a pair of lightweight kid’s binoculars hot glued into the glove that was also—thanks to coat hangers—attached. A thin, stiff wire allowed Choon to move the binocular hand like a giant puppeteer.
“Son of a bitch.” The state trooper’s irate tone came over the speaker.
“What did you see?”
“This clown just took a shot—a dry fire—at the dummy. Then he racked the bolt and lined up for another.” The crosshairs on the Nikon settled on the prone sniper. “Do you want me to take him out permanently?”
“Actually,” Andy’s eyebrows furrowed, “I think we should invite him in for a little chat. Thompson, are you still bedded down and good to go?”
“Snug as a bug and covering Sam.”
“All right then, everybody hold position and we’ll wait until dark for plan B.”
Andy returned to the vacant space at the end of the couch and plopped down, sending a puff of dust erupting through the shafts of fading sunlight. Somebody—Callie maybe—thrust a ceramic mug of twice reheated coffee into his hands as he sat back and closed his eyes. His head still throbbed, both with the layers of heavy gauze that enshrouded him like a crown, and the stress of worrying about Eric and Michelle. Two days past, they had left for Devils Lake. If everything had gone according to plan, they should have been back long ago. But they weren’t back. He took a sip of the hot, muddy liquid and tried to focus on the task at hand.
Chapter 52
Boom . . . . . . . Boom-boom-boom . . . . . . . Boom . . .
The series of gunshots exploding in the night racked him out of the half fog of nervous sleep, and he fumbled for the .45 on his hip as their echoes reverberated over the landscape.
Crack . . .crack . . cra-boom . . .
More shots rang out, and he wormed forward, reaching for the rifle with one hand and trying to steady his gaze on the distant scene. Something was going on at the marina, and the rapid fire thunder of guns once again broke into the temporary silence. Through the scope, he could see several idling vehicles, their headlights quartering away across to scrub to the southwest. Numerous figures were darting between the cars, popping up and firing off rounds before ducking back down and out of sight. He angled the scope to the left and peered into the headlight’s illumination, searching for whatever the group was firing upon. Nothing was immediately visible, at least to his sleep deprived eyes, but judging from the continual barrage, he could make a fairly accurate guess. Walkers. Red eyes. Creeps. The words and the thoughts that accompanied them sent a cold chill down his spine, and he resisted the impulse to grab his flashlight and search the area around him. He counted to twenty, forcing his breathing to slow and biting back the tendrils of fear that reached out of the darkness. His proximity alarms hadn’t been triggered, and after another slow count to ten, he set the pistol down and firmed his grip on the laminated stock.
BA-BOOM . . . BA-BOOM.
A pair of huge caliber explosions, the sound of which were at least equivalent to the potential ferocity that could be unleashed from his own rifle, shattered into the night and eclipsed the rapid fire chatter that was still breaking loose. Another .300 Winchester magnum? Maybe even a .338? Dropping into his well practiced routine, he eased the crosshairs back to the vehicles and searched for a target.
“OK, we’re on the road about forty yards away from him,” Sam’s low whisper came through the radio. “Give me a few more rounds over the next minute to edge a bit closer, and then pour on the juice.”
“10-4 . . . and be careful Sam, I’d rather have him dead and you alive.”
“Understood.” Sam turned to the crouching form of Thompson. “Are you sure you’ll be OK here?”
“No.”
“You want me to take your hand and walk you back home to mama?”
“Would you please? ‘Cause that sounds a lot better than being stuck out here by myself just waiting for one of those zombies to run out of the dark and bite me.”
“Don’t be such a wuss. I thought you were a soldier,” Sam teased.
“I’m in the guard . . . you know, as in ‘part time-no danger-pay for college’ guard.”
“Fine then, next time I get stuck with you, I’ll make sure to bring a teddy bear to keep you safe.”
“That’s cold Sam . . . real cold . . . and so am I, so get moving.” Thompson huffed back, his low laughter barely audible over the distant gunfire.
The state trooper stood up and scanned the area through the night vision scope they had removed from the .30 caliber AR-10. For this ‘hop and bop’ as Andy called it, it would be much easier to freehand it as a monocular and approach with only a handgun . . . and the special little surprise in his jacket pocket.
“Thompson,” Sam whispered as he scanned around with a night scope, “all that I can see is clear—no bad guys.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Thompson offered as the firing at the marina picked up its pace.
Sam thumped his partner lightly on the shoulder. “We’d make too much noise. You just be ready in case I need you. Until then, no worries . . . I got this.”
Chapter 53
The lever action gave a double series of metallic clicks as the big Marlin rifle ejected a spent case and brought another one up from the tubular magazine—pausing for an infinitesimal moment before driving the straight-walled .444 cartridge into the chamber. Polished from frequent and repeated use rather than a gunsmith’s file, the loading mechanism cycled with the proverbial glass smoothness. The weapon bore little of the original factory bluing, but should it be examined by someone with a keen eye for such detail, no rust or pitting would be found either. This was a working man’s rifle, and the miniature stamped initials of “JM” on the barrel spoke of the time frame it had been assembled by craftsmen that were seldom found in today’s world. A gout of fire blasted from the muzzle as the 265 grain bullet crashed into the field on the other side of the road.
Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending Page 51
