Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 4 and 5)

by Jay J. Falconer

  General Zhukov’s head was down, buried in a stack of paperwork. His right hand was busy scribbling across the paper with a pen, while his left worked a grip training device, squeezing the spring-loaded handles in rapid-fire succession.

  Despite the squeaks of metal, the time between compressions held steady at about one every half second. Zhukov’s short-cropped hair may have been laced with peppered gray, but he was obviously in terrific shape—at least his hands and forearms.

  Buckley wasn’t sure if he should speak, so he kept quiet and took the opportunity to look around his former office. All of his belongings were missing, including plaques, awards, certificates, artwork, knickknacks, and family pictures.

  The bookshelves were empty, with only a smattering of dust remaining. The credenza was now to the right and turned around against the adjacent wall, its sliding doors facing the drywall.

  Both visitor chairs were gone, probably to intimidate anyone who entered, forcing them to stand with nervous legs like Buckley. Nothing looked the same except for the placement of the desk and the brand-new chair he’d ordered from Amazon two weeks prior.

  Two armed soldiers stood behind Zhukov, their eyes facing the picture window. The rumble and hum of activity outside told Buckley another convoy of supply trucks had rolled into town. He figured the two soldiers were keeping an eye on the truck deployment below.

  Two equipment towers rose up into view beyond the glass, each recently erected by the occupying force.

  Razor sharp concertina wire and other barricades were now encircling the town, with armed checkpoints established at every entry point. Sandbags, heavy trucks, machine guns, scanning equipment, spotters, snipers, and a slew of support troops kept watch on everything. Nobody was getting in or out, not without the Russians knowing about it.

  Tri-color flags hung on buildings all over town, one dangling from the arms of the mammoth bronze statue commemorating Cyrus Clearwater, the town founder.

  The flag’s equal-sized horizontal white, blue, and red stripes may have looked plain and non-threatening, but that was not how they felt. Sure, the former Soviet Union’s golden hammer and sickle was gone. So was the red star on top, but this version of Russia’s flag still carried fear for anyone unfortunate enough to be trapped under its rule.

  To the left of Zhukov was another man in a drab-green military uniform, only he wasn’t carrying an assault rifle like the others. His lone weapon was on his hip: a black pistol in a holster. Some kind of satchel hung across his chest, its leather strap running from upper left to lower right.

  Buckley could feel the weight of the man’s eyes wash over him. He checked for a nametag on the observer’s shirt. However, as expected, it wasn’t there. None of the Russians he’d come across had displayed any form of ID, stenciled or otherwise.

  He found that odd, given the number of troops in town. They couldn’t have all known each other by face, could they? He didn’t think that was possible and certainly not while in full tactical gear, including helmets and sunglasses. If he was right, then they had another method of identification. Something less obvious, but reliable.

  The Mayor’s desk contained at least a dozen stacks of folders and three rolls of white paper—each about three feet long. Buckley assumed they were maps, with Russian lettering on the outside. He could also see a bleed-through of various colors. Some were irregularly shaped, while others were blocky. Typical of a topographical map.

  Zhukov looked up, his face stiff and focused as he continued the grip training. He motioned to the man on the left to move forward, which he did, snapping to attention once he arrived.

  The General gave him a command in Russian, the syllables quick and to the point. The guard gave a single head nod in response before leaving the room with a hurried step.

  There was no doubt who was in charge of this occupation. Likewise, there was no doubt about the precision and planning that went into this event. Nothing seemed to be happenstance or an afterthought.

  Zhukov moved the hand squeezer to his other palm, never taking a second off. He sifted through one of the stacks before pulling out several files, each one with a streak of red ink running across the tab. Other folders carried different colors: yellow, green, and blue.

  Zhukov opened the first of the red-labeled folders and spun it around to face the Mayor. He cranked out a dozen more grip compressions, before he pointed and said, “Missing.”

  The left flap contained a photo of Daisy Clark, its edges held in place by a series of staples. She was in uniform and talking with a pair of elderly women on the street, both of whom carried shopping bags. Charmer’s Market and Feed Store was the backdrop in the photo.

  The right side of the folder held a light stack of papers. They’d been attached with twin hole-punches at the top and a metal fastener. If Buckley had to guess, he’d say there were about ten sheets of paper in total.

  On top of the stack was a pre-printed form that featured various black-lined boxes of differing size and placement across the white. The words inside the rectangles were Russian, the strange symbols evident. So were the interspersed occurrences of the letter R, written in reverse.

  Even though he couldn’t read the foreign text, it was obvious the paperwork was some kind of dossier on the Sheriff’s deputy. The snapshot was an action photo taken at a distance, not a still portrait as expected. Someone had been taking undercover shots.

  Zhukov put the second folder next to the first and opened it, once again saying the word “missing.” Like the first file, it was red-inked with a photo to the left and a writeup to the right.

  Buckley recognized the full-color portrait of Gus Apollo. It was the same image of the Sheriff from the town’s website. The Russians must have been trolling the Internet for information, where they grabbed the photo online.

  The General continued, laying out folder after folder. Each was related to citizens he recognized: Dick Dickens, Stephanie King, Jeffrey King, Martha Rainey, Burt Lowenstein, Franklin Atwater, Megan, and the Mayor’s grandson, Rusty.

  Most of the images were action photos, again taken covertly at a distance. Dicky’s and Burt’s folders were redlined in ink, as were Daisy’s and Apollo’s, but the rest were color-coded in green. Buckley assumed the colors represented each person’s threat level, with red being the highest.

  Zhukov presented another series of files featuring residents who lived beyond the city limits, most in the surrounding forest. One was a redlined file, but the remainder were marked in green or yellow.

  Another row of paperwork was put before the Mayor, this time with faces he didn’t recognize. He assumed these were some of the remote families living off the grid, their photos taken in the forest.

  After Zhukov stopped his presentation, he put the hand grip device down and leaned back in the office chair and said, “Need location.”

  Buckley hesitated. He needed to think this through. Every word he said from here on out might put people at risk.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Some of them are probably on vacation. People come and go all the time around here. It’s not like we have checkpoints to log people in and out. This is the United States of America, or at least it used to be.”

  Zhukov brought his elbows up and put them on the armrests. He sat up with his back straight, then put his hands together and cracked his knuckles, his stare even more intimidating than before. “Location, Mayor. Now.”

  Buckley took a moment to study the open files once again. He noticed a few people were missing: Allison Rainey and her son Victor, plus the odd pair of temporary deputies, Albert and Dustin. They were not accounted for in the open files, either. Neither was Jack Bunker, but that wasn’t a surprise since he’d just arrived after the EMP.

  The incomplete set of files meant the Russian intel wasn’t up to date or accurate, especially since they didn’t have a folder dedicated to longtime resident and legendary fruitcake, Frank Tuttle.

  Buckley wasn’t sure if the Russian information gaps
were a good thing or not, but it meant there was hope. They still needed him. Perhaps he could leverage their deficiencies to his advantage. To do that, he needed to play it cool and not show fear.

  Zhukov snapped his finger in the air with a quick flip of his wrist.

  An instant later, Buckley felt something hard press against the back of his head. He assumed the guard behind him was holding his rifle in a firing position, its sights trained on the back of his skull.

  Buckley gulped, then took in a full draw of air. “As I said before, I don’t know where these people are. Hell, I don’t even know half of them.”

  Zhukov nodded at his guard, who promptly pressed the barrel of the rifle harder against Buckley’s scalp.

  Buckley knew that the longer he stood there in silence, the harder it was going to be to keep his panic in check. His lungs wanted to pump out oxygen at full tilt, but he managed to regain control of his breathing. “Look, General, if you shoot me, then I can’t help you. And trust me, from the looks of it, you’re gonna need my help.”

  Buckley pointed at the files on the desk to reinforce his words. “Not only with finding the missing people, but with maintaining order. People around here don’t like being told what to do or where they can go. They will resist and I’m sure neither of us wants that. So let me help you, General. Give me some time to check around. Maybe someone knows where these people are.”

  Zhukov didn’t answer but kept his eyes on Buckley, his face locked in a scowl. He picked up the grip trainer and went to work again with his fingers.

  Buckley got the sense that these soldiers practiced their facial expressions for hours on end, all in an attempt to maximize their intimidation level without ever having to say a word. It was working, the tingle across Buckley’s spine intense and growing. So was the tremble in his hands.

  He brought his fingers together and began a rub—hand over hand—pretending to lather up with soap. He had no idea if Zhukov could sense his anxiety, but Buckley decided to continue his ruse.

  Zhukov twitched his eyes, then sent his free hand into another stack of folders, this time pulling out a file with a streak of black ink along the tab. He stood up, his height rising several inches above Buckley’s.

  The General opened the file and put it on the front of the desk. The folder held two photographs, one attached to the left and one to the right. Buckley didn’t see any paperwork associated with either image—just the snapshots.

  Zhukov jammed his index finger into the photo on the left. As usual, the general kept his words to a minimum. “Identify.”

  Buckley studied the image. It was an overhead shot of some kind of forest camp. He counted six small buildings spread out across the landscape. Shacks possibly, he couldn’t be sure.

  He also thought a broken-down windmill was present, not far from two people near the entrance to one of the structures. The pair were standing apart, on either side of what he assumed was the door. Both of them had dark hair and clothing, and looked to be carrying rifles in their hands.

  Buckley moved his eyes to the photo on the right. It was a snapshot of the same scene, only this time the camera’s focal point was much tighter and held in a zoom, yielding a grainy portrayal of the two unidentified individuals. Their faces were blurry from the resulting pixilation, but the shadows told him one of them was shorter than the other.

  A man and woman, he surmised, noticing the longer hair on the smaller figure. The man had dark splotches on his forearms. He thought the duo might be Bunker and Daisy.

  Behind them was another figure several yards away, only this person wasn’t standing. Buckley could see an outline of legs and arms surrounded by a brown and green fuzz. Someone must have been lying in the grass.

  Buckley flipped the image up to see if another photo might be stacked underneath. There was. Again, it showed the same camp from altitude, only this time there were five people in front of the shack. One of them might have been a kid based on the much shorter length of the shadow. Wait, check that, two of them were children.

  The person lying in the grass hadn’t moved despite all the activity. Must have been a corpse. Or a very patient sniper.

  Buckley brought his eyes to the Russian commander. “What am I looking at here? Where is this?”

  “Camp. Identify,” Zhukov said, sounding impatient.

  Buckley shrugged. “Can’t see their faces. Could be anyone.”

  Zhukov grunted, but didn’t respond.

  Buckley decided to continue, wanting to show confidence and strength. “You’re going to need better satellite photos than this, General. Otherwise, I can’t help you.” He wanted to take a shot at the Russians for their inferior technology, but decided against it.

  He knew US satellites could zoom in on a squirrel’s penis from a hundred miles up, a fact he assumed the General knew all too well. Rubbing it in would accomplish nothing, other than getting him shot.

  “From drone. Not satellite,” Zhukov said, tossing the grip tensioner onto the desk again.

  “Still, I can’t see anything.”

  After a two-count, the General looked at his guard and motioned to the right with his head. The metal against Buckley’s head pulled away, but the guard didn’t, his boots still visible behind Buckley’s polished dress shoes.

  The door to the office swung open and in walked the observer from before. He wasn’t alone. A female soldier was following close behind—a slender blonde with soft eyes and a petite, sculpted nose.

  She was devastatingly pretty, despite the lack of makeup. Her cheekbones were her most noticeable feature, defined and alluring. So were her shapely lips and bronze skin. If he didn’t know she was Russian, he would have taken her to be a Brazilian goddess. Someone you’d see dancing half-naked on a street during Carnival.

  The blonde came forward with a field radio in her hand and put it on Zhukov’s desk. The General had a short conversation with her in Russian, after which she turned to face Buckley. “General Zhukov would like me to translate for him. He finds English to be torture for his tongue.” Her words were crisp and easy to understand.

  Zhukov immediately snapped at her, his eyes fierce.

  Her face tensed as she stammered to get the words out. “I misspoke, Mayor. The General finds English distasteful and inefficient.”

  “Okay, sure. I get it. Whatever the General needs,” Buckley answered. “I have to say, your English is excellent.”

  “I studied English for three years at the university in Kiev.”

  “They taught you well.”

  “Thank you. The General arranged it for me. I owe him my career.”

  “I’m Mayor Seth Buckley. Pleased to meet you,” he said in a friendly tone. Despite his trepidation, he thought it best to stay cordial and establish a possible friendship. Yet it didn’t seem appropriate to offer his hand for a shake, so he kept it at his side.

  She gave him a single head nod and a slight smile. “Valentina Zakharova, Communications Officer.”

  Zhukov interrupted the pleasantries with a two-minute diatribe filled with hand gestures, obviously frustrated about something. His eyes dropped to her small but shapely chest, lingering for a full second before they focused on something else.

  Valentina nodded at her boss before speaking to Buckley. “General Zhukov has sent out patrols to locate the missing residents. It would be helpful if you could assist in the search by providing coordinates of each person’s current location. Your assistance would help keep the situation calm.”

  Buckley shook his head. “Good thing you’re here to translate because the General must not have understood me earlier when I said I don’t know where they are. People come and go all the time around here. This is Colorado, not Russia. We don’t keep tabs on everyone.”

  Zhukov responded in Russian.

  Valentina translated. “The General says he understood you perfectly. However, he doesn’t believe you. You are the Mayor and in command of this town.”

  Buckley couldn’t hold
back an involuntary snort. “In command? Me? Hell, half the people didn’t even vote for me. If it weren’t for a few extra votes in the runoff election three years ago, Billy Jack would have been elected Mayor, not me. So no. I’m not in command. Not like the General thinks. I wish I could help, but I can’t.”

  “I understand. I will relay to the General that you refuse to cooperate.”

  His chest tightened before he threw up his hands. “Wait! Wait! That’s not what I said. I’d like to cooperate, I just don’t have the information he’s looking for.”

  She paused, blinking her pleasant eyes as she stared with intensity at something over his left shoulder.

  Right then, the hairs on the back of Buckley’s neck sent a shiver down his shine when he realized she was looking at the guard behind him.

  He sucked in a short gulp of air and held it as he followed her gaze to check the location and status of the guard behind him.

  The slender man hadn’t moved, still holding the same position as before. Buckley wasn’t sure why she was looking at the guard in that manner. Must be her concentration look, he figured, letting out the breath from his lungs.

  The observer in the corner walked to Valentina. He leaned forward to whisper something into her ear in Russian. She nodded a few seconds later, then spoke to Zhukov, though the length of her communication seemed to be twice as long as what Buckley had just told her about his desire to cooperate.

  Perhaps she was adlibbing. Hopefully for the better, trying to get his point across to the short-tempered General. Then again, the observer had just intervened with the murmur in her ear. Who knew what he told her?

  When she finished relaying her message, Zhukov scoffed before he shot out from behind the desk. He began to pace the room, his hands locked together behind his back. At the end of each run, he’d look at Valentina and hold her eyes, like a father deciding on a punishment.

  Buckley kept an eye on the deliberate steps of the commander, waiting for the man to say something. Buckley thought he’d been believable and had laid out a good case for his continued involvement. However, with legendary Russian arrogance filling the room, there was no way to know how the General might react.