Plague Years (Book 3): This Thing of Darkness I Acknowledge Mine

by Rounds, Mark

  “You knew this was coming,” said Dave. It wasn’t a question.

  “I knew he could do it,” said Little Bear looking down the barrel of a .44 magnum. “But he only did it one other time and it screwed him up for weeks and nearly killed him. I didn’t think he would risk it.”

  “Damn it,” said Dave. “Did you see which way he went?”

  “To the north,” said Little Bear. “On foot. He was moving slow. Right now, it’s all he can do to keep standing.”

  “Then we still have a chance!” said Dave who picked up his radio and spoke into the mic. “Raines, can you copy?”

  “I have you five by five,” said the disembodied voice over the radio. “Did something … weird … just happen?”

  “No time for that now,” said Dave glancing at his watch. “Our target is on foot, headed roughly north. He has about two minutes head start on us. Get airborne and track him with IR and low light TV. Track him but do not engage.”

  “Roger,” said Raines, then seconds later, “We’re airborne and we have the target. Moving slowly north perhaps one hundred yards due north of your heat signature.”

  “We’re moving,” said Dave.

  “Be advised there are two other signatures just a few yards behind your target, closing rapidly.”

  “Shit,” said Dave vehemently. “Now what?”

  July 11th, Saturday, 7:50 pm PDT

  On the outskirts of Viola ID

  Sergeant JD Brock and his reduced squad were now hunkered down in a couple of outbuildings near the highway. Perhaps fifty yards to the rear, Noah, who had rejoined them with fresh ammo after the attack on Moscow, had tied up their horses in a convenient livestock pen and was with them keeping them quiet and calm. That left just five riflemen and himself to try and ambush a bus full of well-armed mercenaries. He had just enough time to get everyone positioned when he heard the engine of a bus under a heavy load. Then he saw the bus, with lights blazing barreling down the road and right behind him, with its lights on high beam was a little truck, taking up the whole road and driving erratically.

  “Open fire!” shouted JD and the squad began firing as fast as they could. Several hits were observed on the bus and at least one target fell away from the window while one of the tires took a round, causing the bus to swerve to the left. The driver was able to gather it up and then the bus was past them. The troops shifted fire to the truck, hitting the engine compartment and stitching the passenger door with bullets. One of the rounds hit the front wheel which causing a catastrophic blowout. The driver had no chance as the front wheel hit the rim and pulled the vehicle hard to the left. The truck rolled four times before it came to a rest.

  JD was one of the first to get the crumpled truck. The opened the door with his shot gun leveled at the occupant. Then his heart sank.

  “You’re Sayla?” said JD making it more of a statement than a question. The truck was crumpled around him and he could see at least one bullet wound.

  “Yes,” said Sayla. “I know you, horse soldier. Get on your radio and tell Strickland what happened.”

  “But you’re hurt,” said JD.

  “This will heal,” said Sayla slapping his legs. “But I know where Macklin is headed and he has Strickland’s brother with him. Call him NOW!”

  Chapter 9

  July 11th, Saturday, 7:51 pm PDT

  Just North of Rosalia Airport, Rosalia WA.

  “Keep up!” shouted Amber at Chris as she plunged through the sage brush. He was very close. She could feel it. It was almost as if the air was electric.

  Chris struggled to keep up. Even though he had been engulfed in Nergüi’s attack, Amber had shielded him from the worst of it so all he had was a headache and a significant dose of fear. But he was also packing his shotgun, pistol, ammo, and Taser while Amber only had her Walther pistol and she had been a distance runner before the plague.

  Then a Blackhawk helicopter thundered closely overhead. Chris instinctively ducked even though the rotor blades cleared his head by a good fifty feet. The spotlight from the helicopter flashed on and in the center of the glare, not more than twenty yards ahead, was a fit man who appeared to be past his middle years. He was stumbling forward like he was drugged, falling often. He was slow to regain his feet. Chris sprinted past Amber and tackled the old man. However, the man, old or not, was more than he bargained for. Even in his debilitated state, he eeled out of Chris’s hands and then struck back with the force of a hammer. Chris rolled with the punches and drew his Taser which he activated. The man stopped for a split second and then wiped the wires away as if they were a mere annoyance.

  Chris’s headache came back like a jackhammer. He released his grip on the shotgun and slid towards the ground, only to be propped up by Amber. Then as suddenly as it started, the pain in his head first decreased and then went away completely. Chris’s focus went to the older man who was now kneeling before Amber. His face showed a great deal of pain while Amber’s face was a mask of fierce determination.

  Into the tableau came four Special Forces soldiers, fast roping down from the helicopter. They had weapons deployed and circled the man on the ground.

  “You are strong, young one,” said the older man through gritted teeth. “But you are untrained. Soon, you will fail and then … wha …!”

  While he was talking one of the Special Forces soldiers stepped forward and deftly stabbed his shoulder with a hypodermic needle. It was clearly a fast-acting sedative as the older man quickly slid into a heap on the ground.

  Just then Little Bear and Dave showed up.

  “Is he the guy?” asked Dave glaring at Little Bear.

  “You have done something I never thought possible,” said Little Bear with wonder in his voice. “You have captured Nergüi!”

  July 11th Saturday, 8:09 pm PDT

  Lewis and Clark Picnic Area, Lolo MT

  “They have Nergüi,” said Zhao.

  “Where?” asked the older man, who despite his years had been an able travelling companion. The five of them had managed to ride part of the way here in an old dump truck they had found at a construction site that had some fuel left in the tank. When the fuel had run out, they had travelled the rest of the way on foot.

  “He is currently drugged, but still on an airfield, near Rosalia WA,” said Zhao. “200 miles and more to the west of here.”

  “Where are they taking him?” asked the old man.

  “Fort Lewis,” said Zhao.

  “I hope your contacts provide some transport soon,” said the old man. “They won’t be able to keep him in captivity long, even with their drugs.”

  “I know,” said Zhao. “That’s what’s worrying me.”

  July 11th, Saturday, 8:29 pm PDT

  Third Floor of the Commons Building at the University of Idaho Campus, Moscow ID

  The natural light was gone, but Chad felt no remorse in using some of their hoarded batteries to run some lights to keep working. He was helping LTC Amos coordinate a disparate cluster of small unit operations mopping up the Infected. He laid his head down on his desk and closed his eyes for a second. It had been a long day and his eyes felt like he had rubbed them with a handful of gravel.

  “Racetrack One, this is Racetrack Four,” said came the scratchy sound over the sat phone. It was Dave’s voice, though the level of interference made it difficult to make out all the words. “The code word is Flap Jack, I say again the code word is Flap Jack.”

  “Roger Four,” said Chad into the microphone. They had decided to use this subterfuge for the mission because they didn’t really know what part of their comm net was compromised. “RTB, we will debrief when you get home. Authenticate Alpha Xray.”

  “Roger Four, Zulu Kilo,” said Dave into the radio.

  “Colonel Amos!” shouted Chad. “They have the target and he is on his way to Fairchild!”

  “That’s great!” said Amos running into the room. “Any casualties?”

  “None of ours,” said Chad, “I suspect the
other side has quite a few though. How is the battle going up north?”

  “I wish my news was as good,” said Amos sadly, “Macklin got away with your brother. We think he is unhurt. We lost two soldiers KIA and probably four more with varying degrees of wounds.”

  “Well … did the cavalry …” began Chad.

  “I’m sorry,” said Amos, “but their firepower was limited. They fired up the bus Macklin was using to get away but failed to stop it.”

  “Any casualties?” asked Chad with a wooden voice.

  “One,” said Amos. “Your friend Sayla commandeered a pickup that Macklin’s forces had been using and was chasing the bus. There was a blue-on-blue incident. The cavalry thought it was part of Macklin’s mercenary force. They hit the tires and the truck rolled several times. Sayla is being transported back now. The medic on site thinks he has broken both of his legs.”

  “Sir,” said Chad with sudden resolution, “I can’t in good conscience recommend sending any more assets to rescue my brother. The cost has been too high and I have a conflict of interest here.”

  “Captain,” said Amos, “that is my decision, not yours, are we clear?”

  “Yes sir,” said Chad.

  “Before we spoke to Twitchell,” continued Amos, “I would have been having the chat about how we had to regroup and come up with a better plan, but Twitchell thinks, and I agree with him, that Macklin spent a huge amount of personal political power and capital, to say nothing of the lives of his mercenaries, to get your brother. We think that what Robert is working on is a game changer.”

  “How so?” asked Chad perplexedly.

  “You’re the intel guy,” said Amos with a hint of a smile. “You would be telling me if your mind was clear. Right now, the bulk of his force is tied to him because of Slash abuse. It shows. They have come off poorly each time organized forces have crossed swords with them. Being on a drug that presents like a depressant will take the combat edge off. Now imagine if your brother’s work holds the disease in check without the nasty side effects of Slash. Macklin’s forces would be better trained and disciplined. His support staff, which must be large, would be more efficient. It will make him and his stooges even more dangerous.”

  “There is also something in the after-action report from the attack on Fairchild that concerns me. Many of the long term Infected seem to be recovering their wits with massive doses of Slash. The dosage is enough to kill a horse, but they can function. At least some of them do not have the brain damage the folks over at Madigan thought they might. This might help get the US economy back on its feet if they can come back after having been infected. If Macklin and his handlers think that this stuff has value, we can’t ignore it, and the man best able to make this work might be your brother.”

  “I am going to recommend that we mount a rescue as soon as we are able and that we need to get intel assets in place as soon as we can. We will need his location and his security details. This is bigger than just rescuing a family member, this is about, maybe, bringing things back to something like normal. I have a call arranged with Captain Lassiter in about forty minutes where I will explain things to him as I see them. I will need your help to make this clear to them. Are you up to it?”

  July 12th, Saturday, 06:04 am PDT

  Headquarters Building Joint Base Lewis–McChord, Tacoma WA.

  “What have you got for me?” asked General Antonopoulos as he strode briskly into the conference room. “Good news I hope?”

  “Some good news and some not so good,” said Lassiter as he gathered up his briefing notes. “We have a senior member of the enemy’s hierarchy in custody here on base. We had to dope him up pretty good to get him in. We have only been able to do some preliminary interrogation with some intel assets from the field.”

  “Who are the assets?” asked Antonopoulos.

  “They were with the Stricklands,” said Lassiter. “That Highway Patrolman, Vaughn and his girlfriend Amber Hoskins. Apparently, she is a Plague survivor and able to mitigate to some extent the effect of The Call.”

  “And the bad news?” asked Antonopoulos.

  “Every time we try to bring the subject out of the drug induced coma,” said Lassiter, “the Infected on post, those that we have quarantined, family members, and so on, become agitated. Amber can assert some sort of calming influence but she can’t keep it up for long.”

  “Anything else?” asked Antonopoulos.

  “Yeah,” said Lassiter. “Chad Strickland’s brother Bob was working on a new palliative drug. Preliminary reports were pretty good. It was supposed to inhibit most of the symptoms of the Plague without the nasty side effects of Slash.”

  “So, what’s the bad news?” asked Antonopoulos skeptically.

  “Macklin apparently thought so too,” said Lassiter. “During the attack on Moscow that followed the Fairchild attack, he kidnapped the elder Dr. Strickland. Colonel Amos thinks the whole attack was a ruse to get to Dr. Strickland. Chad thinks it was an opportunistic grab that came about while they were trying to extract Nergüi. However, both think that, based on some data the elder Strickland sent over the net just before he was captured, that Macklin might be right.”

  “How did Macklin find out about this?” asked Antonopoulos.

  “During the attack on Fairchild,” said Lassiter, “Macklin captured Captain Twitchell, the Headquarters Squadron Commander for Colonel Phillips who has been doing double duty as his intel briefer. Apparently, he got all of Twitchell’s notes and slides, which included the same brief on the elder Strickland’s work that you got yesterday. Twitchell, who recently escaped was debriefed and tried to deflect them away from the issue and apparently was tortured for his trouble.”

  “Ok, so is there a plan in place?” asked Antonopoulos.

  “Amos and Strickland both believe that this new treatment could be a game changer,” said Lassiter. “They are requesting assets to mount a rescue and maybe, if we are lucky, get a shot at Macklin too.”

  “What do they want?” asked Antonopoulos.

  “Pretty much the whole package,” said Lassiter sadly. “Their assets are stretched to the limit right now. The local National Guard has spent over half of their ammo reserve and has taken some significant casualties with little chance to replace them. The motorcycle gang they recruited is almost completely out of ammo and has also taken casualties. They have some PJ’s and a few reservists, but no transport. They burned most of their fuel during their defense moving troops around to hot spots since they don’t have a real perimeter like we do. They again have requested more fuel or some sort of electrical power resource, as they pump most of their water from subsurface wells and they are weeks away at best from being out.”

  “Anything else?” asked Antonopoulos slightly sarcastically.

  “The usual stuff,” said Lassiter. “We have had a couple of attempted perimeter breaches, all easily contained. There are some shortages of key electronic components, but the G-4 shop thinks they can strip junked cars for most of them. They are requesting an escort off post to see what they can scavenge. They will need a company at least as they are headed to one of the local malls and plan to stock up as it is apparently full of abandoned cars.

  “Oh, there is one other item. Terry Grieb, that epidemiologist? He has requested to travel to Fairchild. He wants to interview and take samples from some of those Infected that have become lucid with massive doses of Slash. This has connections to Strickland’s work. Both of them made the comment that, for the US economy to get back on its feet, we will likely need to employ the Infected.”

  “Lay on a flight to Fairchild then,” said Antonopoulos. “Fill it up with the spares, a fuel bladder, and whatever else that they need. Add to the transport manifest a platoon of Rangers, with a sniper team. We can base them out of Spokane and handle the rescue op. Give Amos the go ahead and have Strickland use his assets to find out where his brother is.

  “Also ask, carefully, how Chad is doing. It can’t be easy to work an o
p to get your brother out of a hostage situation. He wasn’t trained for this you know. He’s just a gifted amateur. It will bust him up if this op goes bad.”

  “We have a plane going to Spokane this afternoon,” said Lassiter looking at his notes. “I’ll bump some less critical supplies to get the team some space.”

  “What about the request for fuel from Moscow?” asked Antonopoulos. “Is Captain Whipkey’s run still back burnered?”

  “General Bossell is pushing it sir,” said Lassiter. “We have the vehicles and the troops. They are requesting a recon flight for the highway and continued flights throughout the duration of the op. Flight ops is complaining about that.”

  “OK the initial recon flight,” said Antonopoulos. “Then see if someone can round up a few of those hobby drone things. They could charge off the vehicles and give him real time intel.”

  “I’ll get on it sir,” said Lassiter as he headed for the door.

  July 12th, Saturday, 010:09 am PDT

  Gritman Memorial Hospital, Moscow ID.

  Sayla sat in a bed with an IV and a couple of monitors attached. Even though both of his legs were broken, he had refused both pain medication and surgery to set the bones. The doctors were amazed at how fast he was healing and that the bones were aligning naturally. Little Bear had joined him after Dave’s successful mission had returned.

  “They say you are refusing medical treatment,” said Little Bear.

  “What do these doctors know about us?” said Sayla quietly. “Six months ago, they didn’t even know we existed. I have healed from far worse before. But they got Strickland’s older brother. I failed.”

  “From what I heard,” said Little Bear, “you waged a one-man war to get him back.”

  “But Macklin got him,” said Sayla. “Macklin thinks he can use him to get even more soldiers. You owe me. Go get him.”