by Rounds, Mark
“Damn, that hurts,” said Ngengi as he attempted to staunch the bleeding from his leg wounds. “It would have been a great deal easier just to kill him.”
“Macklin said to get him alive if we could,” said Carlos while he performed first aid on Ngengi. “Our master will find this useful I think.”
July 10th, Friday, 10:41 pm PDT
US Highway 195 1.5 miles north of Steptoe WA
Connor heard gunfire coming from the hiding place they had just left. He turned and tried to head back, but JD restrained him.
“Don’t,” said JD. “He will either kill them all, and then join us, or they will get Sayla. By the time we get back there, whatever happened will be done and they will likely be waiting. We have important information to get back to Major Tippet.”
Connor shook off JD’s hand and then started back, only to stop on his own.
“Sayla said I had warrior in me,” said Connor almost to himself. “Would a warrior go defend a comrade at the risk of the whole battle, or carry out his mission … God I hate being an adult sometimes!”
“Sayla was pretty damned scary,” said JD guiding Connor towards the south. “If anyone could get out of a jam, it would be him. Let’s hustle and maybe we can put some hurt on the bad guys to get even.”
July 10th, Friday, 11:21 pm PDT
US Highway 195 just south of Steptoe WA
“Yes sir,” said JD. “We took them under fire from two locations. I estimate that there were between four and eight casualties. ”
”Where is Sayla?” asked Dave.
“He stayed behind,” said Connor, his voice catching a bit, then he carried on. “He said he would slow down anyone who followed us. We heard gunfire immediately after we left. He never caught up with us.”
“If anyone can get out of a tight situation, it would be Sayla,” said Dave with more confidence than he felt. “What did you find out?”
“They’re on the move,” said JD. “They were headed south when we fired them up a second time. They locked the casualties and a bunch of their troops in a grain warehouse and padlocked the door. I wonder how they got them to agree to that.”
“Slash,” said Dave with a nasty edge to his voice. “We will mark that location and if we can get there before the bad guys, we can deal with them as they wake up. But you said they were headed south under cover of darkness? That could be significant. I better get on the horn to higher.”
July 10th, Friday, 11:38 pm PDT
Command center in the Commons building at the University of Idaho, Moscow ID
“OK, hit me with it again,” said Captain Lassiter. They were having yet another conference over the sat phone trying to coordinate disparate assets. “They seem to be pulling out?”
“Yes sir,” said Chad. “Maybe we haven’t fooled them.”
“I have some information you may not,” said Lassiter. “Our drones show another bus headed in from Thornton. I’m not sure of the final destination as we hit bingo fuel. They are perhaps consolidating?”
“Where are the BACA riders? asked Lassiter suddenly.
“Captain Nixon had them bivouacking outside of St. John,” said Chad. “They are maybe six or seven miles from where the Apache’s shot up the MRAPs.”
“There are a bunch of little dirt roads they could use to transit between Thornton and where Nergüi is,” said Lassiter musingly. “If they could find them and hit them, we might keep them away from where the General actually is a little while longer.”
“The BACA riders are short of ammo,” said Chad, “and they lost one of their riders. Morale is low.”
“Do they have enough ammo to shoot up a bus?” asked Lassiter. “Maybe not take it out but scare them some? If we can get them to go to ground for the rest of the night, that would be a win.”
“I’ll make the call,” said Chad.
July 11th, Saturday, 12:21 am PDT
St. John’s Mini Storage, St. John WA.
“Slider,” said Sparky as he put down the sat phone receiver in the mini-storage unit where that had found to shelter for the night. “They want us to go hunting a bus.”
“Don’t they know we are nearly out of ammo?” said Slider more harshly than he intended. He continued in a calmer voice. “Don’t they know about Viking Dan?”
“Then call came from Strickland,” said Sparky, “not Nixon. He knows about our ammo and what happened to VD, he says this might allow us to grab their leader.”
“I wish I had something better to go on than ‘might’,” said Slider harshly. “How are we fixed for ammo?”
“All the shotguns and pistols are loaded,” said Sparky, “but there is squat all for reloads. You have a full magazine for the MP-5 and another that is about half empty. Not much for a straight up fight.”
“Well damn it,” said Slider, “Let’s not get into a shooting match with them. They have a lot more fire power than we do. How are we fixed for gas?”
“Tanks are about half full. We can get home easy enough,” said Sparky.
“I’m not talking about heading home,” said Slider. “How much gas is left in VD’s tank?”
“A couple of gallons,” said Sparky.
“Find some jars and some dish soap,” said Slider suddenly, “we’re going to make some napalm Molotovs! We are not going to get in a shooting match with them. We’ll lose for sure. We will just cover the three most likely roads and when we see the bus, we huck a Molotov or two at them and beat feet.”
“No shooting?” asked Sparky.
“Not unless you get caught,” said Slider. “Just toss the jar and dash.”
“I’ll wake the guys,” said Sparky.
July 11th, Saturday, 1:04 am PDT
Somewhere in Trunkey Road, Eastern WA
Steve Tucker was driving his bus forward at about ten miles an hour. The reason was that he did not want to drive off the road for the third time. The night was moonless and the lack of electricity meant that there were no lights from the outlying farms. Steve had just graduated from high school two years ago. Before the Plague, he had driven a delivery van for a furniture store. Some of the guys were into the drug scene and since Steve had dabbled in that in high school, he fit right in. He went from experimenting with Slash to being an addict in a matter of months.
The Plague struck and he had hustled to stay alive and keep his addiction in check. After a while, he discovered that he was also Infected and had to keep using to stay alive. He started working for Joe Appel, a high roller in the finance world who, with the coming of the Plague, had made a living acquiring things for food, gas, and later drugs, as all of his staff was infected.
That all came to a screeching halt when their pusher gave them, for free, a huge load of Slash. One day they were partying like rock stars and the next, they were dumped out on a playing field with the beginnings of Slash withdrawal. Then came a nightmare of military training. Discipline was enforced brutally and so Steve sucked it up and became a soldier. When they began looking for drivers, Steve volunteered as he figured driving was safer than carrying a rifle in this legion of drug slaves.
“Can’t you drive this crate any faster?” shouted Appel who, incredibly, had lived through their brutal training and by the fact that he had served a hitch in the Canadian Armed Forces as a rifleman had landed him the role of squad leader.
Steve had thought to be rid of his old boss, but luck and perhaps fate had drawn them together again.
“I can walk faster than this,” said Appel sarcastically.
“Be my guest,” said Steve who knew that he was going faster than most people could run. Of course it didn’t help that every time his eyes got accustomed to the low level of light, some idiot in the back of the bus turned on a flashlight, either to do some weapons maintenance, untangle gear, or just because they were scared.
“Hey!” said a voice from the back which cut off any snappy rejoinder Appel may have had. “What’s that light out there?”
A flame flashed in the da
rkness near the edge of the road. Eerily, due to the shallow angle, it appeared to float toward the bus, only as it got close did its true nature reveal itself.
“Holy Shit!” thought Tucker as he jammed on the brakes. “It’s a Molotov!”
The bus shuttered to a stop on old poorly maintained brakes but its inertia carried it forward into the path of the fire bomb.
“That’s no good!” thought Steve as he rolled away from the windshield which was now engulfed in flames. The liquid inside spattered instead of splashed and Steve now understood why Appel was made squad leader.
“Everybody out!” shouted Appel. “You’ll roast in here!
Just then, four quick shotgun blasts rang out and two of the windows just behind where Steve had been seated exploded in a shower of glass and flame. Steve grabbed his much-used AK-47 clone and tumbled out the door. Just has he hit the dirt on the ground by the doors, two more Molotovs in quick succession crashed into the bus. The first hit the window frame and rained burning home-made napalm on the occupants of the two seats next to the broken windows. The second cleared the window and smashed on the frame of the bench across the aisle, showering more flaming jelly across more of the occupants of the bus. The emergency door alarm on the back of the bus went off and more mercenaries tumbled out, the last two still burning; one of them was Appel.
Steve meanwhile had trained his AK in the general direction of the thrown Molotovs and was firing short bursts. He had no target and hence had little chance of hitting anything. It was more to keep their heads down and to make him feel better. Then he heard several Harleys start up close by. Steve directed his fire at the sound but heard them roar off into the night.
July 11th, Saturday, 3:01 am PDT
St. John’s Mini Storage, St. John WA.
The last of the teams Slider had sent out to block the roads had just returned. Two had come up empty but the third, with Sparky and two new guys, just rolled into the location at the mini-storage and reported the good news.
“Nixon or Strickland,” said Slider into the sat phone. “Are you guys listening?”
“Haven Control is monitoring,” said Captain Nixon’s voice.
“Lentil Control is up,” said Chad Strickland who, like Captain Nixon, had been awake all night trying to coordinate the many disparate actions that were making up this evening’s combat.
“Sparky and his two outriders hit the bus,” said Slider. “They firebombed it real good with homemade napalm. It probably won’t move again. But we need clearance to get out of Dodge. We have just enough fuel to get home and we have squat for ammunition. If we run into them again, we will have to throw rocks.”
“Where did your team hit the bus?” asked Chad who was focused on the intel.
“A ways down Trunkey Road,” said Slider. “Sparky isn’t too sure exactly where, as things got pretty exciting right after that.”
“When did it happen?” asked Chad.
“About two hours ago,” said Slider.
“You’ve done an outstanding job,” said Chad. “I am sorry about VD, but you have put some hurt on the enemy and more importantly given us good information about our adversary’s movements. You have also kept him from moving or being reinforced. Captain Nixon, do you concur with extraction?”
“I do,” said Nixon, “Slider, you and your supporters are too valuable to risk in further attacks. Head home. We will try and get a resupply bird your way in the next couple of weeks. Take it home.”
July 11th, Saturday, 4:12 am PDT
Somewhere on Trunkey Road, Eastern WA
Nergüi was more than a little angry as he paused to look at the scene in front of him. He and his small band had waited at the Hansen Farm until it was obvious that there was no bus coming. Then they began marching toward the north. It didn’t take them long to see the dying fires of the bus in the darkness as it became a macabre beacon. When he came upon the scene, Nergüi saw the bus that was to be his transport out of the noose he was in was nothing but a burned-out hulk. Several of the troops Macklin had sent were suffering from serious burns. Only the regenerative qualities of the Plague and the care from their comrades were keeping them alive. He did note, however that there was perimeter security and some attempt at salvaging what they could from the wreck.
“Who is running this circus?” shouted Nergüi.
“I guess that would be me,” said Tucker sheepishly.
“Where is the sergeant?” asked Nergüi. “Macklin said that there was a sergeant in charge.”
“He was burned up in the fire,” said Tucker. “So were the other NCOs. We’re all that’s left.”
“What happened?” asked a more subdued Nergüi.
“We were ambushed,” said Tucker. “It was dark as the inside of a boot and they attacked with Molotovs. Then, before we could organize any resistance, they took off on their Harleys. They weren’t in contact for more than thirty seconds. It was a real slick job.”
“Gather up your followers,” said Nergüi. “We will be leaving shortly.”
“There are wounded,” said Tucker.
“Kill those that can’t march,” said Nergüi. “We don’t have time to waste.”
Nergüi turned grabbed Tucker’s cell phone and before the surprise had worn off punched in a familiar number.
“Macklin,” responded the party on the other end of the line.
“We may have made an error,” said Nergüi somberly. “All of the actions that have taken place since the attack on Fairchild have not been an effort to safeguard General Antonopoulos. It appears that they were attempting to capture me. I don’t know whether to feel annoyed or embarrassed by their attention.
“Since last night, we have lost contact with the General’s forces, yet they still keep attacking whoever is sent to relieve me. Whoever is calling the shots on the other side is capable and has significant air assets. I suspect by dawn, which is about forty-five minutes away, this area will be flooded with airborne searchers. I intend to go to ground.
“If you could create a diversion that would assist in my escape, it would be a bonus but do not come my direction. It will only draw them to me. If they capture and question me, it will only be a short span of time before I will have to withdraw my support from you and the followers with you. You will be on your own to get Slash or another patron so it will be beneficial for you to lead them astray. Am I clear?”
“Yes sir,” said Macklin, “We will move south and look for an opportunity to divert their attention. I will have to improvise.”
“Well, that’s what you are good at,” said Nergüi with rising anger in his voice as he broke the connection.
July 11th, Saturday, 4:17 am PDT
Thornton WA
Macklin set down his cell phone with a feeling of doom. It was clear that Nergüi was willing to sacrifice him and his band of followers to protect himself and the worst of it was, he could see no real alternative to what Nergüi wished. To abandon him would mean that he would likely be captured and the support he received that kept his Plague at bay would disappear. He had a stash of Slash and a hideout in Spokane, but that would reduce his effectiveness over time and make it easier for the Stricklands and their allies to finish the job. Then something clicked in Macklin’s mind.
“Ngengi,” said Macklin softly, “Nergüi is on foot and is in danger of being captured.”
“We must go to him!” said Ngengi unthinkingly.
“That was my response too,” said Macklin slyly, “but he ordered me, us, to create a diversion instead.”
Then Macklin played the recording of his last phone call. He had been doing that lately to make sure Ngengi and the others would respond if he gave an outlandish order … like this one.
“What should we do?” said Ngengi, who for all his immense size and musculature, sounded like an abandoned child. “This has happened before. If he dies or can no longer support us, we have to find another patron. These days, they are few. Finding one will not be easy.”
&n
bsp; “I think there is another way,” said Macklin who then hurriedly added, “and we can make a pretty big diversion at the same time.”
“Tell me how,” said Ngengi. It was not a request.
“Bring me that staff officer we captured at Fairchild yesterday,” said Macklin. “And the contents of his briefcase too.”
Capt. Twitchell was brought in, bound hand and foot, and dumped unceremoniously on the ground in front of Macklin.
“Listen carefully, Captain Twitchell,” said Macklin as he ripped the duct tape off Wesley’s mouth.
“Gaah!” said Wesley with more surprise than pain.
“In your briefcase,” said Macklin quietly, “is a file on some research done by a Dr. Robert Strickland. I have no time so I will ask only once. What do you know about it?”
“I’m just a briefing officer,” said Twitchell thinking fast. “Every morning I get a list of files from intel. Back when we had power I … YAARGH!”
While Wesley was talking, Macklin had casually pulled a pair of pliers out of his pocket and now he reached out and suddenly grabbed Wesley’s nose with them.
“I said I didn’t have much time,” said Macklin as he twisted the pliers that grasped his nose while holding Wesley’s hair. He was bound hand and foot, so there was little he could do to lighten the pain. “Now I could twist your nose until it came off. Then I could grab an ear or maybe a lip. This could last a very long time, and if you don’t give me what I want, there are more … sensitive body parts I could use these on, so quickly, tell me what you know about the Strickland character.”
“I just get these files from Intel,” said Wesley whose eyes were watering with pain. “Most of the time I just take them to the Colonel, I don’t even read them! OOWWW!”
