by W. J. Lundy
Turner pulled down his goggles in anticipation of the storm and spit dust onto the roof. “Looks like it’s going to be a good one, Cole,” he said.
A young soldier stood beside him, watching the sandstorm through binoculars. He lifted a hand, pointing to a distant intersection. “Don’t seem to bother the Primals much. Look at the dumb bastards; they don’t even run for cover.”
Turner chuckled as he looked in the direction Cole pointed. A small pack of Primals moved along a street, the wind battering their clothing, knocking them left and right as they moved into the thick mass, probably drawn out by the sounds of the storm. Turner watched the massive cloud grow; they would need to take shelter if it did not change direction. He looked down at the satellite phone resting on a small bench. The signal strength was still spotty, fading in and out. That was the only reason he was up on the roof to begin with. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since it was recovered from the capsule. They kept it powered on and used the vehicles to charge it; still, with the fading signal, Turner was skeptical it would ring at all.
He took the phone in his hand and looked at the display. Even on the roof, with a clear view of the sky, he was having trouble getting two small bars and now the battery was down to twenty percent. “Might be time to call it a day and button up for this storm,” he said. “Hard enough to stay clean without these damn sandstorms pushing grit into every crack on my body.”
Cole looked away from the binoculars. “We got some time; they might call, and we don’t want to miss it.”
Turner picked up the phone and turned it in his hand, considering powering it off and storing it. Suddenly the phone began to buzz. Turner looked up at Cole, flashing his tobacco-stained teeth. The receiver showed an encrypted number on the display. Turner carefully held it in his hand and pushed the green “answer” button before holding the phone to his ear. Turner had spent the last twenty-four hours rehearsing what he would say; he memorized a series of questions that he would ask. This was, after all, their first contact with the outside world since it all went to hell.
Now, with the phone to his ear, Turner’s mind drew blank and he stuttered, “H-hello?”
“This is Lieutenant Colonel James Cloud of the Coordinated National Response Team. What is the status of your party?” a formal voice responded.
“Wha—huh?” Turner mumbled.
“Are you in command?” Cloud asked.
“Uhh… yeah—yes… yes, sir.”
“And what is your status?” Cloud asked, his voice softening.
“We’re alive, I guess; I don’t understand what you are asking.”
“Who am I speaking with?” Cloud said.
“Oh right—this is Sergeant First Class Turner, Echo Company, Second Brigade, well, what’s left of it.”
“And how many are with you, Sergeant Turner?”
“Ahh… there’s ten of us—soldiers, I mean, but I also got lots of local nationals under our care.”
“Listen up, Sergeant Turner; I don’t have a lot of time before we lose the signal. We are en route and will be arriving south of your position in less than twenty-four hours. We will be landing on the Hairatan road on the south approach to the city; satellite and drone surveillance shows a clear stretch large enough for our aircraft. Do you understand?”
“Wait… you’re coming for us?”
“Sergeant, at twelve hundred hours tomorrow, your men must be standing by; we can only remain on the ground for a short time. Refueling has to be spot on for this to work and we only have so much fuel; we have to stay on schedule. If you are not ready to board after we roll to a stop, we will not be able to stay on the ground and wait for you. Have your men ready; pack only yourselves, your personal weapons systems, and one three-day bag.”
“But, sir, I got more people here—”
“I will have seats open and a weight allowance for twenty-five personnel—you figure it out, Sergeant. Twelve hundred hours, tomorrow, do you understand?”
“Uhh, yes, sir,” Turner said.
“Good, activate this phone again when you are on location south of the city. Cloud out.” The phone clicked dead.
Turner lowered the phone from his ear then used his thumb to press the button, ending the call. Cole pushed in close to him excitedly.
“Well, what did he say?” Cole asked.
“I think we’re going home,” Turner said, a smile slowly spreading across his face.
Chapter 7
“You know you can stay here, Shane; there’s plenty of room,” Chelsea said. She watched as Shane knelt down to Ella’s level, kissing her forehead. His usual ritual before returning to his own quarters.
He turned and looked up toward Chelsea, catching her concerned look. He sighed, taking a long pause and using the time to sweep his eyes over the small housing unit. It was a quaint space with an open floor plan, wood floors, and white painted walls. From his position, Shane could see through the small house into the kitchen, where he was just able to catch a glimpse of the back door.
Chelsea and Ella were assigned to one of the many vacant houses located inside the safety of the camp’s perimeter. Ella was willingly placed in Chelsea’s care. Shane had his own place just down the street. Because of his injuries, he wasn’t given a job assignment on the camp, and technically being a civilian, was kept out of the barracks and instead placed into a private housing unit far away from the enlisted soldiers. “No, it’s okay; they gave me a nice spot. I like it there, it’s close and quiet,” he said. “And besides, I don’t think your friend would appreciate me staying here.” Shane stood and turned to the door, gripping the handle. He stopped at the sound of her voice.
“What? Why would you even say that?” Chelsea asked. “Don’t even try using him as an excuse.”
Shane shrugged his shoulders and looked away. “Just saying it wouldn’t be appropriate, is all.”
“You can’t hide your worry, Shane. It’s okay—just stay with us,” she said. “We would both feel safer with you in the house.”
Ella reached out and grabbed his free hand. “Stay, Shane.”
He looked down at the girl and smiled. As he began to speak, the sounds of automatic weapons fire erupted from far away. He easily recognized the sounds. Shane’s muscles flexed and he turned back to the door, opening it and stepping out into the front yard, using his body to prevent Ella and Chelsea from following him outside.
To the west, high in the clouds, he could see plumes of smoke. Shane knew a fire was burning west of the camp. More gunfire focused his attention—heavy weapons, fifty caliber, and the distinctive report of a 30mm cannon. He felt the door push up behind him as Chelsea forced her way into the yard.
“Primals?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not sure; those are heavy weapons… fifty cal, and the other sounds like the main gun on a Bradley. If it’s Primals, there must be a lot of them,” Shane said, his voice changing to all business.
“Think the fire brought them in?” Chelsea asked.
“No, it’s from too far out… way beyond the walls.”
The sound of motors buzzing moved Shane’s attention to the main road in front of the small house. Vehicles turned a corner and raced by just in front of them. As they passed, Shane could see the trucks were filled with armed soldiers. More gunfire filled the air, followed quickly by the sounds of the camp’s artillery battery.
Shane swiveled his head and focused his eyes on the dark clouds of smoke, his ears focusing on the distant sounds of combat. “Something bad is happening out there,” Shane said.
“Maybe we should find Brad; he’ll know,” Chelsea said.
Shane’s hand dropped to his hip; he felt the standard-issue Berretta M9 pistol. He took a step further into the yard, the tension in his body rising as the artillery fire increased.
“No,” he said. “I want you to stay put for now.” Shane turned back, looking at Chelsea seriously. “Get your rifle, and keep Ella inside. You’re right—I’ll stay here
tonight. I just need to grab some things.”
“What is it, Shane? What do you think it is?” she asked.
He turned, headed toward his house, and yelled over his shoulder, “Just stay inside!”
Shane ran to the street, slowing to avoid another column of fast-moving trucks. He hit the sidewalk on the far side and moved briskly, wanting to run, but not wanting to aggravate his healing injuries. He turned onto a sidewalk that led to the old officers’ quarters—a small stack of what would more closely resemble college dorms or an old-style motor lodge. Shane’s unit was located on the end of a row of five units. As Shane passed the fourth door, it swung open and a young soldier in full uniform with captain’s bars on his hat rushed out. The soldier shut his door and, after nearly colliding with Shane, lost his balance and tumbled forward.
Shane reached out his arm, helping to steady the man. “Sir, do you know what’s going on?”
The officer took a pack he was carrying in his left arm and shouldered it as he spoke. “There is a unit in contact a couple miles out. They are in trouble, calling in everything we got to support them.”
“Primals?” Shane asked.
The captain shook his head and stepped back. “No, it’s contact with an enemy force. They got ambushed on the road—some of the other patrols are taking fire too. Sorry, I gotta go.”
Shane watched the officer run down the sidewalk in the direction the soldier-laden trucks had traveled. Enemy contact? Shane said to himself. Why… who would attack an Army base?
He moved back to his apartment’s door and entered the space. Shane’s room was small and arranged like a hotel suite: a small bed on a long wall, a bathroom at the end, a small kitchenette in a corner, and the opposite wall filled with a dresser and wardrobe.
Shane always kept his bag packed; he found it at the end of the bed and lifted it with his right arm, feeling the scar tissue protest under the weight. He pushed an arm through a single strap then opened a top drawer on the dresser and removed his M4 rifle. He then took several full magazines, which he dropped into the cargo pockets on his pants before he grabbed the last magazine, loaded, and charged his weapon. With his gear, he turned and left the room, moving back to the sidewalk.
More men loaded with gear were leaving the units and running in the direction of the trucks; Shane, growing more concerned, picked up the pace back to Chelsea’s house. More gunfire erupted, this time closer, near the gates—small arms and explosions, possibly grenades. Shane began jogging across the street; he saw movement in a far tree line and paused. Silhouettes cut through the thin trees, the fading sun creating deep outlines of their forms. Not the hasty or primitive movement of Primals, but something else. He identified two distinct figures. Shane ran forward and pressed against the corner of a neighboring home one away from Chelsea’s house. He peered around the edge of the home, still listening to the truck traffic moving behind him and the steady echo of small arms fire.
Shane focused on the figures and watched them step along, stalking their way through the trees. He saw more file in just behind the first two. “Maybe a roving patrol,” he whispered. Shane quickly sprinted to the next building; he passed the door, hoping Ella and Chelsea were locked in as he’d asked. Shane dropped on his belly, low crawled to the corner, and peeked through the tall grass.
Who are they? Shane thought as he watched the man at the front of the column approach the edge of the field that formed the backyards of the homes. The man stepped a few feet into the tall grass and dropped to a knee. Shane saw the man raise a fist, halting the rest of the patrol, then lift a small rifle to his eye—presumably using the optics to scout ahead. Shane’s heart skipped a beat when he recognized the black uniform.
It can’t be… not here. His stomach filled with fear.
The sound of vehicle wheels screeched as it skidded to a stop behind him, and Shane turned to see a Humvee; a soldier stood in the turret looking directly at him. The front door of the Humvee opened and a soldier stepped out, pointing a flat hand.
“Hey buddy! What the hell you think you’re doing?” the driver yelled.
Shane opened his mouth to speak, to tell them about the men in black, but not before a suppressed round hit the standing soldier square in the chest. The driver looked back at Shane with surprise on his face. Shane looked back at the trees in time to see a second muzzle flash. The Humvee’s turret gunner came alive, firing high, his rounds ripping up a trail of dirt. Shane turned back and saw that the machine gunner was hit but still trying to operate his gun.
The turret gun went silent as the gunner succumbed to his wounds. The men in black seemed to have not noticed Shane; they must have been attracted to the Humvee’s sudden stop.
Probably thought the soldier’s yells were directed at them. Shane backed away from the corner, still on his belly. He slowly rose to his knees as the house front door swung open. Chelsea rushed out, carrying her rifle and pulling Ella along close behind. Shane stood quickly and grabbed her arm.
“Shane, there are men back there! Same as be—”
He held a hand to his lips, silencing her.
“Quickly, follow me,” he whispered.
Chapter 8
The aircraft banked hard, creaking as it turned. Cloud felt his stomach drop and his ears pop; he looked to the left and could see the tan of the desert and gray of the mountains through his small portside window. The drab gray passenger compartment sat empty, rows of seats ran down the center, and more webbed jump seats lined the outer walls of the fuselage. Cloud looked up, stretching his neck and staring at the exposed ceiling filled with twisting conduits and mechanical tubing.
It wasn’t his first time on a military transport. Back before he received orders to ride a desk, Cloud had done his share of rotations to the sandbox both as a battalion and company commander. The desk life was easier on the family but harder on his ego. The field kept him young, the desk made him feel old. He looked around the plane and shook his head. In those days, this aircraft would have been packed shoulder to shoulder with men armed to the teeth and bulked up with armor and equipment. A real can of whoop–ass they joked, crammed into seats so tight it was hard to breathe. Cloud looked down at his feet and closed his eyes; he knew those days would never come back.
His headset squelched to life. Cloud shifted his focus and looked to the front; an airman waved to catch his attention and spoke into a microphone. “Sir, we are thirty mikes out, on approach.”
Cloud pressed a switch on the cord of his headset; he acknowledged the call and unbuckled his lap belt before walking to the front of the aircraft. An enlisted man in a baggy green flight suit stood near a bulkhead; he approached Cloud when he saw him then handed off a yellow headset connected to a long coiled cord. Cloud took it in his hand as the man leaned in close and shouted over the drone of the engines, “Sir, the satellite phone is all linked up, ready to dial on your order.”
Cloud nodded and put on the headset. He pulled on a wire frame and set the microphone just in front of his lips. Cloud closed his eyes and took a deep breath before signaling the airman with exaggerated thumbs up, the indication for him to place the call. Cloud heard a series of clicks as the call bounced through satellite relays, searching for a viable connection. It took far longer than usual but Cloud knew the network was degraded; some of the analysts even predicted the entire system could be down in less than thirty days.
With no one left to steer and align the birds, the orbits would degrade and eventually they would fall to the ground. A loud, steady tone and the simulated dialing noise focused him. Cloud rehearsed his lines in his head and waited for the call to connect. A solid click and static buzz filled his headset.
“Sergeant Turner here,” a metallic voice said.
“Sergeant, we will be landing soon; are you in position?” Cloud said.
Turning his back, Cloud moved away from the airman to make his way across the center of the aircraft. Finding the cabin wall, he placed his arm against it for balance th
en leaned forward to a window where he could see the fast-moving terrain below. He felt the pilot starting the plane’s descent.
“Ah… yes, sir. We are on the north end of the Hairatan road, just past where the roadway opens up.”
“Understood. We are on approach; the aircraft will land in your direction, and we will spin one eighty and drop the ramp. Do not approach the aircraft until the flight crew directs you onboard. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. But, sir, I have a—”
Cloud interrupted, speaking over the man. “As long as you understand; any other questions can wait. See you on the ground, Sergeant.” Cloud removed the headset and made a slashing movement with his hand. The airman disconnected the call and quickly crossed the aisle to retrieve the yellow headphones.
“Sir, you will want to strap in; we’ll be landing soon,” the man said.
Cloud looked at him apprehensively; he let his eyes drift over the rows of seats to the open cargo bay of the aircraft. Along the back wall near the ramp sat a group of eight men dressed in all black, armed with submachine guns and M4s, pulling on hockey helmets, and dropping tinted goggles over their eyes. Not military men; government contractors originally brought on for a paycheck, now working for whatever it was the general promised them. It was no secret that the contractors had the best food, best housing, and most freedom of movement within the facility. It caused envy among the military technicians living within the walls of the bunker, but that usually went quiet when it was time for them to go out on a mission.
“Are they ready?” Cloud asked, looking back at the recovery team.
The airman nodded his head. “Yes; as soon as the pilot gives the all clear, I’ll drop the ramp and they’ll make the recovery.”
The overhead cabin lights went from green to red.
The airman looked at Cloud. “Sir, you really need to get strapped in.”
Cloud shook his head and moved to the cabin wall, dropping into a webbed jump seat. He was eager to be on the ground, to recover the Hairatan group, and make the exchange. The sooner he could get the general’s mind off the girl, the sooner he could focus on getting support for his family. So far, any attempt or effort he made to discuss their recovery was thwarted. Cloud was beginning to think that his family was nothing more than a pawn to the general, a carrot dangled in front of him to keep him under control. Everyone had a weakness and the general knew his.
