Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 4)

by Jay J. Falconer

  Her eyes went round. “What about the pocket torch Dallas found?”

  “Good idea,” Albert responded in a flash. “But we still need sulfur and some barium nitrate to complete the TH3.”

  Daisy cleared her throat, looking proud of herself. “I know where the sulfur is, gentlemen.”

  Albert sent a suspicious look her way, but didn’t speak.

  She didn’t seem to care. “It’s under the chicken coop. Bunker and I found a bunch of explosives and chemicals down there.”

  Albert’s expression remained unchanged.

  Daisy shot Albert a sidelong glance, her eyes scanning his midsection. “But you’ll never fit down the hatch.”

  “Yeah, well, being a gopher really isn’t my thing.”

  “I’ll go,” Dustin said.

  “Me too,” Rusty added.

  Daisy continued, with one eyebrow raised, “I think there’s aluminum power, too. And maybe the barium nitrate.”

  Albert’s face scrunched like he’d just sucked on a lemon.

  Daisy let out a short chuckle. “Tuttle has all kinds of chemicals and explosives down there.”

  “What about iron oxide?” Albert asked, his tone indicating he didn’t want to know the answer.

  “Is it a red powder?”

  “Yep.”

  “Saw that, too.”

  Albert’s tone turned harsh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  She shrugged. “Like I was trying to tell you before, I don’t think you guys had to make all this stuff from scratch.”

  Albert exhaled, shaking his head. He looked at Dustin. “Why didn’t Bunker tell us?”

  Dustin paused, sifting through his memory of the conversation with Bunker about the list. Then it hit him. “Well, technically he did. He said to ask Daisy if we needed help finding anything.”

  “I guess I missed that part,” Albert said, sounding defeated.

  She put her hand out, palm up. “Maybe I should take a look at that list.”

  Albert gave her the paper.

  She scanned it for a short minute and then nodded as if she had reached a conclusion. “Follow me, boys.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Bunker crawled forward on the hilltop rise outside of town, keeping his profile low to avoid detection. He’d left Tango behind after tying him to a tree two hundred yards to the rear.

  The storm clouds had doubled in size, painting a section of the distant horizon black. He wasn’t sure if the build-up meant the storm was heading his way, or only building in size. Either way, the inclement weather might come into play soon.

  Storms look closer than they truly are when you’re in an elevated area with sparkling clean air and tremendous visibility. The rain might arrive in minutes, or hours, or not at all. There was no way to be sure, not without active radar.

  He brought the binoculars up and began his surveillance. To the right was the main road leading into Clearwater. It was the same swatch of pavement he’d used to lead the kids into town after their rescue from the bus accident.

  A Russian checkpoint sat on the pavement, blocking access to town.

  It featured all the usual trimmings: Russian flags, razor wire security fence, sawhorse-style barricades with white and black stripes, sandbags protecting a machine gunner’s nest, single-man guard shack, squad of heavily armed soldiers milling about, two armored vehicles sitting at intersecting angles behind the barricades, and a red and white colored pedestal sign that he assumed said STOP.

  There were also guards walking a pair of German Shepherds on a leash.

  He watched a convoy depart in a slow crawl after approaching the checkpoint from somewhere in town. The two lead vehicles were military issue: all-terrain Russian GAZ Tigrs. As were the pair of chase vehicles holding up the rear.

  Three American-made flatbed trucks were sandwiched between the infantry carriers, ferrying a load of civilians wearing bright orange coveralls. He could see the grille on the lead truck—its emblem said GMC and it appeared to be an older model.

  Wooden boards surrounded the truck beds, reminding Bunker of three-rail cattle fencing. Each civilian had their wrist attached to the plank closest to them. All looked to be adults, their heads hanging and bobbing with the movement of the transport.

  A few minutes after they drove off, another convoy came into view—this one arriving at the checkpoint. Like the first, it featured two lead vehicles and two chase vehicles. However, this procession only carried a single truck of civilians. They, too, had their wrists secured to the rails.

  When the middle truck stopped, he was able to get a better view of the prisoners. Their coveralls were dirty, noticeably so, the orange color covered in black splotches and not as bright.

  Some of the captives looked young and fit, mid-twenties if he had to guess. Both male and female. Others were heavyset with gray hair, looking as though they should have been enjoying retirement in an assisted living facility somewhere.

  “Slave labor for the mine. Or the fields. Maybe both,” Bunker said in a mumble, working through the facts as the vehicles drove inside and disappeared. The Russians weren’t concerned about age, but at least he didn’t see any children.

  Bunker brought the glasses down and let his eyes take in a view of the city below. He figured razor wire had been installed around the access points of the perimeter. It also seemed likely that other checkpoints had been erected, somewhere beyond his vision.

  He was even more confident that the insurgents were watching everything with the helium-filled Aerostat balloon floating fifteen hundred feet above the center of town. He’d seen that type of surveillance blimp in Afghanistan many times. In fact, almost every base he visited back then had one deployed.

  The tethered, 117-foot dirigible resembled a giant all-white fish, except this floater came complete with infrared and high definition cameras. During his tour in Afghanistan, they were part of the Pentagon’s Persistent Threat Detection System, though it looked like the Russians had adopted a similar program.

  The locals hated them, but the commanders loved them. So did the bean counters in Washington—saving the cost of multi-million dollar drones flying overhead 24x7.

  Bunker still remembered his shock when a maintenance team brought one of the blimps down to repair the bullet holes in its skin. He counted twenty-two, but there may have been more. Apparently, the Aerostats were almost impervious to target practice, able to withstand several hundred hits before they could no longer fly. They were also safe against incendiary rounds since Helium is a noble gas and noncombustible.

  Weather was usually the flight technician’s biggest headache. Most notably, the frequent sand storms. Climate concerns weren’t the only drawback. Blind spots were also an issue, depending on how the cameras were mounted and deployed.

  Bunker brought the binoculars back into position when a black Land Rover approached the roadblock from his right. He couldn’t get a count of its occupants, not with its windows tinted dark.

  The truck slowed to a stop about twenty feet from the barricades as the guards spread out to cover it with their rifles held high.

  He imagined one of the guards yelling something along the lines of “Halt and be recognized.”

  The driver’s door swung open. A man stepped out with his hands up. He was dressed in dark-colored attire, including long pants, long-sleeved shirt, and shoes.

  “The men in black,” Bunker muttered, remembering his painful encounters with the Pokémon men in the miner’s camp.

  The driver pulled up his shirt and spun around, showing the guards he had nothing strapped to his torso. Nothing that might go boom.

  Three additional men slid out of the vehicle in a controlled manner, one from behind the driver and two on the passenger side—all of them with their hands over their heads.

  They too, completed the bomb vest security spin before three guards escorted them to the driver’s position, herding the group together like cattle.

  Finally, the fourth soldie
r checked the inside of the Land Rover, starting with the open door on the driver’s side. His rifle went in, then his head, looking for threats.

  A few moments later, he swung around to the other side of the truck and completed the same maneuver through the rear passenger door. As Bunker expected, he climbed out and signaled for the canine units to approach.

  The dogs began to sniff the exterior, following the finger pointing commands of their handlers.

  The search for weapons and explosives was a slow and dangerous process, for both man and beast, but these units showed little fear.

  Once the outside of the truck was secure, the handlers led their dogs inside with a tug on the leash. One handler cleared the front seat, while the other focused on the back.

  When the search was over, one of the guards retrieved two duffle bags, one suitcase, and a black backpack from the vehicle. He stood them together, leaning their weight into each other like a rudimentary teepee.

  A tall, slender man appeared in the doorway of the guard shack, then made his way to the SUV with a clipboard in hand. He looked to be unarmed, though his beltline did feature some kind of device attached to the leather. The tall man stood in front of the driver, checking the paperwork with a flip of his hand.

  Russians love their lists, Bunker thought to himself.

  The tall man took a step back and brought the device up from his belt. He aimed it at the man’s crotch for a ten-count before motioning to the driver to step forward.

  The driver did as he was told, bringing his arms down in the process. Tall man turned his attention to the second visitor and went through the same scenario with the clipboard and scanner, before moving onto detainee number three.

  Right then, a new idea hatched in Bunker’s thoughts. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the Pokémon card Jeffrey had given him, holding it in front of his eyes.

  “Holy shit. That’s what these are for,” he said in a whisper, more facts lining up in his brain. “A covert ID.”

  The men in black didn’t carry identification, so the Russians would need a reliable method to clear them for entry.

  He knew from experience that checkpoint verification was a common problem at most military bases, given the sheer number of troops under command. Especially when you’re under standing orders not to wear insignias, nametags, or ID badges in a red zone, where snipers are a constant threat.

  The same would be true for those who went out on patrol. Or in this case, hauling civilians outside the wire for some kind of work duty.

  Usually the guard at the gate would need to know one or more of the troops leaving the compound. Otherwise, they could never be sure if a returning squad was a threat or not.

  In this case, though, these were unknown operatives joining their base, and probably doing so for the first time. They’d need a method to identify covert personnel.

  He smirked. It was brilliant. The cards would look harmless to the uninformed.

  Bunker took a minute to run through the Russians’ check-in protocols in his mind. He realized the visitors must have supplied a codename to the clipboard guard first, which was then confirmed with a scan of the hidden card. He nodded, appreciating the simplicity of their double-verification system.

  If his theory were correct, it would also explain something else. Something that had been nagging at him ever since he first set foot in the miner’s camp. The men in black spoke perfect English. Not a hint of Russian.

  “Wouldn’t need to speak Russian,” he muttered, thinking about the reasons behind a double-verification entry system. Especially while in-country and welcoming unknown operatives who may have only spoken English.

  Bunker held the card up to the sunlight like Jeffrey had done the day before. That was when he noticed it—a tiny dark spot in the corner—something embedded between the layers of paper. He guessed it was metallic, with micro-encoded circuits. Something a scanner could read.

  “Clever boy,” he said, thinking about Jeffrey. The inquisitive youngster wasn’t fooled, not for a second, noticing the difference immediately.

  After more consideration, Bunker decided the men in black must have been either Russian sleeper agents who’d just been activated, or Americans conspiring with the enemy. Nothing else fit what he’d learned thus far.

  “Guess this is useless,” he said, putting the card in his pocket. If he had the codename, he could have used it to gain entry to Clearwater and gather valuable onsite intel regarding troop placement and strength.

  Part of him was tempted to tear the paper apart to expose the technology, but he’d made a promise to keep the card safe. The tech was useless anyway, so no need to break a kid’s heart.

  Bunker opened his rucksack and fished out the baggie of red crystals. “I guess this is all that’s left.” He sifted through a number of approach scenarios, trying to find one that wouldn’t get him shot before he could deliver the drugs to a corruptible addict.

  Albert’s idea had merit, but he decided it was too dangerous. The plan would work better if he were traveling with a non-threatening visitor. Someone distracting in all ways. Someone like Stephanie. Her curves would be far more effective than a missing codename. Assuming, of course, she was wearing the proper outfit.

  He flushed the idea, chastising himself in the process. She’d never go for it. She had Jeffrey to think about, not to mention her own wellbeing. If he put her in that situation and she got hurt, how could he live with himself?

  No. If he was going inside, it needed to be his risk and his alone. Codename or not.

  Out of nowhere, an image of the demon-looking squirrel creature on the Pokémon card danced in his mind. The vision called to him, begging him to refocus and dissect. He yanked the card out of his pocket and stared at it.

  Jeffrey’s voice rose up from his memories in an echo. “His name is Charmeleon.”

  Bunker’s jaw dropped open, thinking about the other odd but unique names the kid had mentioned: Metapod, Arcanine, and Parasect.

  “Could it be that simple?”

  His logic dug through the cloud of clutter surrounding the cards and their origin, the facts lining up one at a time.

  Each card a different character.

  Each card sewn inside the pants.

  Each card scanned for verification.

  Just then, the data points coalesced like the perfect storm, leading him to a new conclusion: each undercover operative carried a unique Pokémon card and knew the name of the character.

  “That has to be it,” he stated. “Simple and efficient.”

  Bunker dug into his pack, pulling the microscope out first. He gently put it aside, standing it upright on its base. When he found it in Albert’s house, it was bigger than he expected but located exactly where Albert had indicated.

  A red-colored pet collar came out next. Unfortunately, Daisy’s cat was a stiff lump of fur when he’d arrived at her trailer. He buried the lifeless feline near Daisy’s withering flower garden out back, but kept the collar as a memento. He wasn’t looking forward to delivering the news to her when he got back to camp.

  He found his civilian clothes near the bottom and began to change his attire, his mind churning with more theories.

  Jeffrey had told him there were over eight hundred characters in the Pokémon world. Bunker wasn’t sure if they all had their own card or not, but it seemed likely. The organization behind the game never would have invented all those characters if they weren’t going to take advantage with trading cards and other collectibles.

  Regardless of the count, he figured it was more than enough to cover a few dozen operatives. Possibly a lot more. In fact, the higher the number, the better his chances of getting past the checkpoint unscathed.

  The Russians had their choice of codes and could have chosen anything. Hell, old baseball cards would have worked. Yet they went with Pokémon. He figured it was due to the sheer number of characters and their unique names. They needed both.

  It saved them from having to d
evise a system of codenames and do so on a large scale. Especially if the number needed was in the hundreds, as he suspected. Plus, the cards were available everywhere in society and easy to obtain. Both in the US and elsewhere.

  Sure, he was guessing at this point, but the odds favored his conclusions. Even more so if the Russian invasion had been launched in a rush, like his gut was telling him. He couldn’t explain why, but the feeling of Russian urgency was clear and consistent, ever since he’d witnessed the Area 51 jet crash site.

  If he was correct about the high number of cards needed, it also meant the soldiers on guard duty had their hands full. Operators would arrive at all hours and in different modes of transportation. Some might even be walking, if their rides broke down.

  “Or crashed,” he mumbled, looking at the bandage around his left arm. Then he remembered the scars on his neck.

  A new idea came unbidden to his mind—one that might increase his chance of success. He couldn’t do much about his missing all-black attire, or the fact that he was arriving alone. However, if he could distract the guards long enough to get close, he might be able to provide the codename and be scanned.

  Bunker took out his knife and drew it across the palm of his hand. The blade opened a gash about a half-inch long. He held the wound over the bandage, letting the blood drip onto the cloth and down his arm. A quick smear of the blood hastened the process, then he painted his neck and shirt collar red, making it appear he’d been injured in a car wreck. His forehead and cheeks were next, taking only seconds to help conceal his face from any cameras that might be active at the checkpoint.

  The final item needed was a limp—something that would be noticeable from a distance. The guards would be curious and let him approach for inspection, where the blood prep would take over to complete the backstory.

  The problem with a fake limp is remembering it when you’re under duress. Consistency is critical; otherwise, you’ll find yourself under arrest, or worse.

  The best way to sell a limp is to actually give yourself one. Pain is an effective reminder.