Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 4 and 5)

by Jay J. Falconer

  “What about that Area 51 jet? The one Bunker and Stephanie saw crash. Could that have been the reason?”

  “Sure, anything’s possible. Word might have leaked out about the sellout of our country, and someone on our side decided to take action with some kind of new tech to stop it. That could be why the Russians launched their plan now, before Area 51 got everything in place.”

  “Or someone on that plane was headed to NORAD to spill the beans.”

  “That, too. I’m afraid we’ll never know. This might have been scheduled to happen this week, or it was a last-second thing.”

  Allison paused to search her memory. “Misty did mention she had a meeting planned with an old friend in NORAD. Maybe that’s how word leaked out?”

  “Or at least raised the question in someone’s mind. The truth has a habit of working itself free, no matter how much money has been used to bury it.”

  “You know, something just occurred to me. Back when Angus spent that first summer here when he met Misty, Angus and Tuttle might have started talking about conspiracy theories. What if that’s when Tuttle got the idea about the sellout?”

  “Sure, that’s as good a starting place as any. Something had to trigger all this research.”

  Allison pointed at the article with China in the headline. “What about China? Why haven’t we seen anything from them yet? They’re part of this, right?”

  “I was thinking about that very thing before you walked in. Assuming this is happening elsewhere, then some of the other cities might be under Chinese control. Not Russian.”

  “It’s like they’re carving up a pie.”

  He sucked in a lip and nodded. “A red, white, and blue pie, and we’re the cream filling.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Bunker tossed his pack to the side, then sat on the embankment with his eyes glued to the road. The Russian guards protecting access to the town’s main entrance couldn’t see him from this position, but his paranoia wouldn’t let him accept that proposition blindly.

  He took off the sneaker on his right foot, then pried the sock away from his ankle so he could tuck the small rock he’d brought along inside. Bunker worked it to the bottom, positioning it under his arch, before putting his shoe back on.

  If he had to do it over, he would have come prepared with all-black attire—assuming, of course, he had access to it. The charcoal-colored, flat panel pants would have to do. So, too, would the long-sleeved turquoise dress shirt he’d squeezed his frame into before smearing on the blood.

  Both were snug, but he figured he looked like your everyday undercover Russian operator trying to blend in as an American civilian.

  He finished his outfit with a baseball cap, the brim facing forward and curved with a firm cup of his hand. He pulled it down tight around his ears to keep it in place against the breeze in his face.

  With any luck, the guards on duty would see him as a casual thirty-year-old having a bad day—a very bad, very bloody day. If he’d applied the blood properly across his shirt, neck, and face, they should buy his act.

  Bunker stood and took a few strides to test the limp maker in his shoe. The pain registered as a level five injury. Not completely debilitating, he decided, but certainly enough of a reminder to keep his injury consistent and believable.

  “That should work,” he muttered, knowing the line between believability and mobility requires a delicate balance. Too much believability would destroy mobility.

  After a quick double-check to make sure the Pokémon card from Jeffrey was in his right front pocket, he pushed the covert ID to the left as far as it would go. He thought the scanner should read it and confirm his identity, as long as the chip embedded within the card hadn’t been damaged.

  He grabbed his pack, walked to the bend in the road ahead and continued, bringing his eyes to the spread of armed guards two hundred feet away. They must have seen him too, snapping to attention with their rifles at the ready.

  It’s never easy to keep your shit wired tight when you’re walking into overlapping fields of fire, but the sting in his arch helped keep him focused and in character. Selling his ruse was the only goal at the moment. Well, that and not getting himself killed during his unscheduled arrival.

  His Marine Corps training had taught him a great many things, one of which is that it’s always best to act like you belong when you’re approaching any form of challenging post. Especially if it’s manned by a team of itchy trigger-fingers from a hostile country. Anything else will get you carved up with a chest-full of lead.

  To that end, he angled the brim of the cap down slightly to conceal his eyes, then gave the men a friendly hand wave—the kind you’d send to your neighbor as you drive by so you don’t have to stop and have a chat with the nosy bastard.

  “Halt and identify yourself,” the center guard said when Bunker drew closer. As expected, the words were in English, with a heavy underpinning of a Russian accent.

  Bunker stopped his feet, put his pack down, and raised his hands. If his theory about the Pokémon cards was wrong, the situation would spin sideways in the next ten seconds.

  He took a deep, relaxing breath, then let the words out with conviction, using the character’s name on the card as his ID. “Charmeleon, requesting entry.”

  “Raise your shirt and turn around,” the guard commanded.

  Bunker lifted his shirt, pulling it up to his chest. He spun slowly, having seen this same security exercise performed at US checkpoints in Afghanistan, where suicide bombers are a constant threat.

  Those threats would arrive on foot with explosives strapped to their chests, hoping to get close enough for the detonation to kill scores of troops. The Russians were obviously wary of the same tactic.

  “Approach and be recognized,” the Russian responded.

  One of the guard dogs took action next, trotting to Bunker’s backpack under the control of his handler. The German Shepherd kept its snout in active search and detect mode, sniffing the air particles for the hint of explosives or weapons.

  Once cleared, the dog and his partner disengaged, while a tall man from the guard shack arrived, clipboard in hand. Three guards came with him, covering Bunker with a trio of guns, each man about ten feet apart.

  The tall man checked his list, scanning to page three before he spoke again. “You’re late.”

  Bunker paused for effect. “Would have been here sooner, but my Land Rover hit an elk and rolled off the highway. Was starting to think I’d never find this place.”

  “The rest of your team?”

  “Dead. I was lucky to crawl out of that wreck alive.”

  Tall man’s face held its suspicious look for a few beats, then he brought the device up from his belt. He flipped a switch along the side, then aimed the unit at Bunker’s crotch.

  After a distinctive ping, the scanner’s red LED display changed to show a new set of words in Russian.

  Tall man locked eyes with Bunker for a moment, then he spoke to his men without taking his eyes away. Unfortunately, the words were in Russian.

  Bunker held his tongue, while time seemed to tick by in super-slo-mo, as he wondered what was being said. The troops closed in on his position, making his heart skip a beat. Clear or detain? That was the only question on his mind.

  When one of the guards removed the barricade and waved him clear for entry, Bunker didn’t hesitate. He limped back to his pack, grabbed it, and slung it over his shoulder before turning and taking a direct line for the center of town. It only took seconds to pass the tall man and his team.

  “Medical, two streets down on right, report to command after,” tall man said in his version of English.

  Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, he told himself, modifying the meaning behind one of his fire team leader’s favorite sayings. He raised a hand and sent a blind acknowledgement signal to the guard station, never looking back or stopping his feet.

  Fifty yards ahead was a Honda Pilot SUV. Most likely abandoned, he surmised. Its sky-bl
ue paint made it look new. Its perfectly aligned position next to the sidewalk told him it had already been parked there when the EMP hit. He figured it belonged to one of the employees who worked in the two-story museum across the street.

  The museum’s front porch held signs for the tourists, inviting them inside for a look-see. The three old-style water barrels were a nice touch, evenly spaced apart to make room for a wooden rocker and a bronze spittoon between each of them.

  The roofline featured the top half of a wagon wheel built into the facade, completing the obvious western theme. He guessed the red color along its spokes was for emphasis, offsetting the tan-colored paint used on everything else.

  The windows on the first floor provided a clear view of the antique items stored within, making the establishment look more like a secondhand store than a historical repository. “Tourists love that shit,” he murmured, convincing himself he was reading the situation correctly.

  A half a mile away, at the far end of the main street, was another guard station, this one beyond the overhead sign for the Ye Old Bike Shop. He remembered that corner well, having led the kids he’d rescued from the bus accident past it a few days prior. To the right of the interior checkpoint was the town square, where he hoped to find Mayor Buckley in his office.

  Bunker continued, passing two roving patrols who didn’t seem interested in him. They must have been on the lookout for someone else, he decided, counting his blessings. They didn’t seem alarmed by the blood, or his limp.

  He took out the photo of Dallas’ family and studied the faces as a handful of residents came his way. The ten-year-old had told Bunker the photo was recent, except his mom’s hair color was now black instead of blonde.

  The snapshot showed her in the middle of the back row, with her arms wrapped around her husband and her son. Her daughters were in the front, crouched down like an umpire behind home plate, their smiles big and bright. A happy day, to be sure.

  Some of residents stopped to stare as he and his bloody clothing passed them on the sidewalk. Others ignored him, keeping their eyes low, no doubt due to the heavy presence of soldiers watching their every move. None of the locals matched the kid’s mom or sisters. He put the photo away.

  A faint hum purred in the background. It sounded like a machine running. Possibly an engine or generator, but he couldn’t determine its position. The noise seemed to change direction as he traveled, no doubt due to the buildings acting as an ever-changing echo chamber.

  He made a right at the second street and began a slow walk toward the Russian medical tent thirty yards ahead. This wasn’t the course he had in mind, but it was necessary. He could feel the weight of the tall man’s eyes monitoring his activity from the main entrance he’d just cleared.

  The soldiers standing in front of the tent were busy chatting to each other in a makeshift circle. He didn’t think any of the four had noticed his arrival, so he took the opportunity to slip into a nearby alleyway.

  He ran a quick calculation and determined that the close proximity and height of the buildings would provide effective cover from the hovering Aerostat. His eyes went up to confirm with a crane of his neck. He couldn’t see the mini-blimp and its surveillance array. Just like in Afghanistan, Aerostats are an effective tool, but not foolproof.

  The dumpster behind the first establishment was full of trash, so much so, the mound of refuse had crested several feet above its sides. Some of the garbage had spilled onto the ground, leaving it to bake in the morning sun.

  Despite the incredible stench, Bunker ducked behind the far end of the trash bin to use it as a shield. If anyone walked past the entrance to the alley, he needed to remain hidden. His arrival sent a scurry of rats heading for cover, their tiny squadron of feet churning a trail of trash into the air.

  He leaned his backside against the wall and brought up his right shoe. The sneaker came off first, then the sock, giving him access to the pebble hiding inside. He grabbed the rock and tossed it aside before unleashing his fingers on his arch. Ten seconds into the rubdown, he discovered a bruise that had formed, making him wince.

  Next up on the to-do list, the water spigot on the wall. He put his sock and shoe on, then spun and bent down to reach the handle. After a quarter turn, the faucet sent an unexpected spray of water shooting out. It splashed into his pant leg like a torpedo hitting its mark. He slid to the side to avoid any more fluid, then adjusted the stream to a trickle.

  The background hum he’d heard must have been a generator, he decided. Otherwise, the pipes wouldn’t have pressure. He didn’t know if the Russians had brought along their own power station, or if the citizens had made other arrangements.

  Either way, he was thankful, taking a few minutes to clean off the blood on his face, neck, and bandaged arm. He needed it, not only to remove the evidence of his ruse, but to invigorate his body.

  He gulped down a few swigs, its coolness quenching his thirst. Yet replenishing his fluids wasn’t the only benefit—it also made quick work of the sweat covering his skin.

  There’s something stimulating about cleaning up after a long trip. It restores not only your mood, but your energy levels. Unfortunately, the blood on his shirt wasn’t going anywhere. He needed to score a new shirt.

  Bunker planned to avoid the secondary checkpoint he’d seen at the end of the main street. Getting through one challenge post with false credentials was difficult enough. Pressing his luck with a second was not worth the risk, unless he acquired additional intel first. To so do, he would need to study the procedure of the interior station, then devise a plan that wouldn’t get him arrested. Or killed.

  Additional intel would take time—time he didn’t have. Hopefully, there was an alternative access point to the square. Otherwise, he’d have to abandon his search for the Mayor in his office.

  He took a left at the end of the alley, where it dumped onto a sidewalk that ran parallel to a city street lined with greenery. The street sign said Caribe Avenue, but the name meant nothing to him. Direction was all that mattered; he figured the town square was another two blocks ahead.

  The tethered Aerostat was in full view, its nose pointed in the same direction he was traveling. Like everyone else in town, he needed to assume his actions were being monitored on one of its many cameras.

  Speaking of actions, he had no way of knowing if his shooting spree in the miner’s camp had been caught on video by the hovering drone. If it had, he was glad he’d decided to wear the baseball cap. They might have his face on file and could be actively looking for him. Then again, maybe they’d already scoured the city and come up empty.

  His side of the street was free of people, but the two cars ahead of him would require a change of course, not because they were mangled together in a crumpled heap but rather, because they were blocking his path on the sidewalk.

  The broken glass near the center stripe of the asphalt indicated where the two sedans had collided, but there were no skid marks to the sidewalk. It didn’t make sense, unless someone moved the wreck out of the way. Someone like the Russians, he figured. They would want the streets free of obstacles to move their infantry and equipment. It would also keep the sightlines clear during convoy travel, avoiding a blockade that could lead to an ambush.

  Shortly after Bunker made his way around the crash, two soldiers on foot patrol turned onto the same street. Their path would intersect his on the sidewalk in mere seconds.

  He thought about crossing the street to avoid the encounter, but a sudden redirect might appear suspicious after the car wreck didn’t chase him to the opposing sidewalk. There were several manicured hedges and bushes along the street. Some of them would have made effective cover, if he’d seen the patrol sooner.

  He kept his eyes low and marched ahead. The clatter of boots and equipment went past him without incident, bringing the air back to his lungs. He took the next right and found himself in another alley—this one much narrower than the last.

  Dead ahead, maybe three hundr
ed feet away, was a group of five men wearing civilian clothes. They were approaching in a triangle formation. The man in the center led the pack in a business suit and tie. The others were dressed in casual attire, though one of them did have a pair of jean shorts covering his thighs.

  Bunker slowed his pace when two of the men pulled out what looked like baseball bats from under their shirts. One of the others brandished a knife with an imposing blade.

  At first, Bunker thought they might be after him, but he soon realized their attention was on the sky above. Probably to keep an eye on the location of the surveillance blimp.

  He ducked behind an electrical service box to see what would happen next. The men continued their advance for another hundred feet or so before stopping at a white service door on the alley’s left. They huddled for a short minute, then the door flung open and they went inside, with weapons raised.

  CHAPTER 30

  Mayor Buckley led the charge through the back door of Charmer’s Market. The throbbing sting across the back of his hand was getting worse, dripping blood from the handkerchief wrapped around the wound.

  If only he’d been more careful a few minutes earlier, the bent piece of sheet metal never would have sliced open his skin. He’d been around long enough to know that most accidents happen when you’re distracted. Even more so when you’re tired, or in this case, when you’re in a rush to have a chat with a pair of brothers like Bill and Kenny King.

  The four men he’d commandeered as reinforcements kept pace as they scrambled through the stock room and into the employee break room. Buckley released the latch under the wall cabinet, allowing him to pull the fridge open on its hidden mount.

  Buckley entered the secret hallway behind the refrigerator. The others joined him a few seconds later. Buckley turned to the last man. “Close it. We don’t want anyone wandering in here uninvited.”

  The man in the jean shorts did as he told.

  The door ahead wasn’t open, giving Buckley time to rally his men. He was sure Kenny King had framed Stan Fielding for the disappearance of the Russian interpreter, Valentina. Stan’s execution was scheduled in a little over an hour. Buckley and company were here to confront Kenny about what he’d done.