“Pulled you out of retirement, huh?”
“Not by choice. Some extenuating circumstances brought me here.”
“Sir, Captain Duffy was reassigned so we could take you on. An unusual request. It’s not my place to question, but why are they assigning a retired Air Force colonel to this mission?” Hunter said.
He is testing the waters to see what kind of commander you are. “Unique circumstances,” Kinnick said.
Master Sergeant Hunter’s eyes were flat.
“Were you briefed on the operation?” Kinnick asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I am the one with the most knowledge on this doctor. That, and there is no one left that’s expendable.”
“I’m thinking that makes us lucky to have a full bird in charge.”
“I’m not sure I would call it lucky,” Kinnick said. I haven’t led men in the field for years. Nor have I on solid ground.
The operator spit brown juice in affirmation. “Was hoping you would help us out in the luck department. Luck hasn’t been on the menu of late.”
Kinnick wasn’t excited about discussing the privileges of still being alive. “Where’d you fly you in from?” Kinnick asked.
“Got dropped in all the way from Eglin Air Force Base, Florida.”
“Long way from home,” he said.
“That’s correct, sir, but when aren’t we,” Hunter said. He rolled a can of chewing tobacco out of his pocket and inserted another impressive chew.
“How close are we to being ready?” Kinnick asked.
Hunter turned back, surveying the helos. He nodded and wiped some chew from his upper lip.
“The birds are fueled and loaded up. I have only half of my Operational Detachment here.” That meant Kinnick only had six SF “Snake Eaters” at his disposal. “Where is the other half of the Detachment?” Kinnick asked. Is it too much to ask for a full unit of these unconventional bastards?
Master Sergeant Hunter’s voice went on auto-pilot. “We lost Byrnes to a legless Zulu near Eglin. Dallas Jr. and Lee were eaten alive while reestablishing a forward operating base outside of Raleigh. Jimenez, our 18 Delta Medic, suck-started his Sig. Malone, another medic, and Ward burned alive when an A-10 hit us danger close with a Hydra 70 rocket.”
Kinnick held up his hand, indicating he had heard enough. Tough losses. Here I am asking where his men are and I should have assumed that they were dead.
“I am sorry for your losses, Master Sergeant Hunter. This is a tough time.”
The muscles on Master Sergeant Hunter’s face twitched. “We are too.”
“Who do we have then? General Travis said my birds would be full.”
Master Sergeant Hunter gave the men behind him a sideways look. He didn’t say anything for a moment, as if he was deciphering what was the best way to put something.
Kinnick stared at him. “Be frank, Master Sergeant. I need to know what we are working with.”
Hunter spit some chew on the ground, rubbing it in with his foot. “Yes, sir. Follow me.”
Master Sergeant Hunter brought him closer to the helicopters. The men formed a loose line in front of him for inspection.
“We have the remaining Skins. Turmelle is the curly black-haired goon over there; he is a weapons sergeant. He prefers a blade, but he is just as adept with any firearm.”
Turmelle twirled a Gurkha-styled hook blade in his hand. “Sins and Skins, sir,” he said with a cruel smile. He may be enjoying the apocalypse a bit too much.
“The grizzly bear pretending to be a man is Lewis; he’s another 18 Bravo. He uses his SAW like an MP5 so we keep him around.”
Lewis gave Kinnick a wide grin, throwing a M249 light machine gun onto his shoulders like it was a toy.
Hunter continued, “The short stocky bastard is Gibson; he’s our communications sergeant. He doesn’t look like it, but he can beat any man here in a footrace. The half-Asian dude there is Hawkins, our intelligence sergeant who doubles as our combat medic now that our others are gone. How’s it looking for us, Hawk?”
“Not good,” the part Asian man said, his mouth flat, features emotionless.
“Our engineer is Esparza.” The Latino man pursed his lips at Kinnick as he loosely held a breaching shotgun in his hands. On his back, he had a pack and a short barrel M4; a heavy satchel rested on his hip.
“The rest are a smattering of our Armed Forces. Fannin and Bowman are Devil Dogs, and the rest are staff from every branch.”
The sixteen men looked at him expectantly. Aside from his Green Berets, bald or gray-haired men stood next to their gear. Men not far from Kinnick’s age. Men who hadn’t seen the field in a decade like himself. Men who had been fortunate enough to be in desk assignments inside the Pentagon when the virus struck, but warriors nonetheless.
“No offense, sir.” Here comes the hurt. “Many of these men have seen their finest hour. I mean they were probably in their prime during Persian Gulf,” Hunter said, followed with a spit. “Persian Gulf One.”
Kinnick waved a hand. I do not need to be reminded of my age. My knees, back, and neck do that enough. “None taken, Master Sergeant. Lucky for you, we won’t need to teach these old war dogs any new tricks. Just make sure everyone is on the same page. We have to work with what we got. Make sure we are ready to go in thirty mikes,” Kinnick said, using a bit of military lingo that rolled nicely off his tongue. Been too long.
“Operation Runaway will be a go in thirty,” Master Sergeant Hunter said, taking his leave. Kinnick cringed. The last thing he needed was the men already feeling like they were being defeated.
General Travis had pieced together the last of his gunslingers. It was his way of saying he had full faith in this mission. Operation Runaway Scrape. Usually operational names were catered to make military operations sound politically correct and just. Operation Enduring Freedom or Operation Uphold Democracy. Nothing like Operation “We are Going to Bomb You into the Stone Age” or “Operation Bullet to Your Brain.”
Ever the full-blooded Texan, General Travis had named the operation after his home state’s revolt against Mexico, where the Texans had evacuated their homeland on the run from the superior Mexican Army. Although the Texans suffered a series of massacres at the hands of the Mexicans, in the end the Texans won. A bit of hope after tough times. I wonder where I fall into that series of battles. Hopefully not Goliad.
Master Sergeant Hunter waved over the bear man, Lewis, who grinned at Kinnick with a meaty-pawed salute and picked up Kinnick’s pack.
“Sir, let me grab that for you.” He slung Kinnick’s hundred-pound pack on his back as easily as if it were a child’s knapsack and spun, walking quickly to the helo.
“Sergeant Lewis, no need.”
“Can’t hear you sir, but which bird you riding in, Crockett or Bowie?”
“I’m in Bowie with you and Hunter. Do not take my pack, soldier.”
“What’s that?” Lewis cupped a free hand to his ear. The soldier marched away ignoring Kinnick’s protests.
The gunslingers could be a handful, but it was their way. The pilots had followed Travis’s suit, naming their helicopters after Texan Independence war heroes. Kinnick laughed to himself. At least these guys still had a sense of humor. They would need it because General Travis had tasked them with an impossible mission. Find the needle in the haystack. More like find a needle at the bottom of the ocean with hundred-pound weights attached to your feet, blindfolded while you bleed out in a feeding frenzy of tiger sharks. At least they would reach the bottom quicker.
The two helicopters lifted off the Pentagon courtyard twenty-nine minutes and thirty seconds later. Kinnick slapped on his headset so he wouldn’t be deafened by the UH-60 rotor blades cutting through the air. The men took their seats around him dressed in full kit. Extended mags, frag grenades, blades, sidearms, and zip-ties decorated their torsos and legs.
The helicopters spun around in the air, giving the men a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the destructio
n of Northern Virginia. My family is out there, and I am leaving.
Arlington’s glass-and steel-clad office buildings sat dormant. Apartment towers smoldered. No traffic inched along Virginia Interstate 66. The PGC defense firm sign, normally glowing blue, settled in a blacked-out gray. White-painted letters spelled out HELP across their rooftop. The destruction of the capital he had lived in, worked in, and defended gave him a surreal feeling as the helicopter floated upward. It was as if he watched a movie, rather than looked down upon the epicenter of the most powerful nation in the world.
I will most likely die on the mission. If my family yet lives, I most certainly will never see them again. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Worst father.
Across the Potomac River, Washington, D.C. crumbled like old photos of a bombed-out St. Paul’s Cathedral in World War Two. Fires burned whole blocks of the capital, with no end in sight, and thick black smoke polluted the air. No firefighters responded. They were all infected, dead, or hiding.
Master Sergeant Hunter, in Oakley shades to block the rising sun, tapped his shoulder and pointed out at the city. The dome of the Capitol building sunk inward, dark smoke emitting forth from a gaping hole in the iconic white building. The building itself was stained black with soot. Small shapes of people slowly moving across the white steps were no doubt infected.
Master Sergeant Hunter smiled. “Do you think Congress will have the budget done for the new fiscal year?”
The Bear smiled. “Probably will furlough us again. Give me a nice IOU letter for my credit card,” Lewis remarked.
“Yeah,” Kinnick whispered into his headset. Despite his men’s attempt at levity, the scene hammered away at his soul with a jackhammer.
Was there no hope? His heart hurt in his chest. The nation he loved so dearly was dying before their eyes. Gut check time. Time to suck it up and hit the ground running.
“Crockett, take the lead west; Bowie will follow,” he said. The pilot nodded and flicked a switch above his head, moving his feet on the yaws.
The helicopters tilted on their sides, turning further west into the countryside of Northern Virginia. The noose tightened around them. But at least, it was a fight.
STEELE
Hills of West Virginia
The mobile lounge’s engine emitted a low chug-chug-chug-chug. The windshield was gone and air flowed freely through the vehicle. The cool wind bit at them, cutting through blankets and clothes alike. Bullet holes had riddled the vehicle and the wind whistled through them.
Steele’s head throbbed in time with the grind of the engine. In fact, he wondered if the engine’s perpetual grinding was intentional: a slow pounding to his skull until it killed him. His headaches were long and fierce and seemed to come on with a fervor and retreat with no rhyme or reason. He rubbed his brow and caught Gwen staring at him from her seat across the aisle.
Concern etched the outline of her face. Clear eyes judged his well-being with the knowingness of a mother although she had yet to have that privilege. He gave her a faint smile; more of a grimace.
“I’m fine,” he said, soft as a breeze. Anything louder would cause his skull to explode. Her features were soft, but her high cheekbones were more prominent now. She withheld her wide smile that dimpled twice on her right side. Even as worry creased her forehead, she turned his mood better. I don’t know why she ever thought she had to wear makeup. Her ’90s prom dress made him want to laugh, but he couldn’t get away from the headache bouncing in his head like a pinball machine.
“You don’t look fine,” she rebuked. “In fact, you look like death.”
He closed his eyes. His lids felt like iron curtains. “I promise, I am fine.” His stomach roiled with the snare drum in his skull.
“You’re lying.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“Of course I’m lying, but I’m getting better,” he lied again.
“You okay, buddy?” Mauser called from the front driving compartment. His eyes met Steele’s in the rearview mirror, his hands rotating the Lunchbox’s large steering wheel.
Steele would never know why, but Mauser loved to drive the giant transportation vehicle. He took the vehicle up and over the West Virginia hills with the skill of a veteran driver.
“Geeze, you two. I’m fine. And you yelling back and forth isn’t helping.”
“Got it,” Mauser yelled back.
Steele massaged his temple in defeat. Kevin sat near Gwen and across from him. The tall man sat with his head low. Kevin’s hands were shoved in the front pocket of his WVU sweatshirt. The only person who looks more burnt out than me is Kevin.
Steele switched sides on the mover using the teardrop handrails to steady himself across the aisle. He plopped down next to Kevin. Kevin fidgeted uncomfortably at the close proximity.
“What?” Kevin said.
Better to be out with it. “I didn’t know they were your family.”
Kevin looked up at him like a beaten dog. His beard was faint, mostly only sprouting from the tip of his chin. Steele could see it in his eyes now. Puck and him shared the same eyes. They were dark brown, almost black, as if they were made from a slightly earthier piece of coal. The same mean eyes that had howled for Steele’s death while they fought. Almost the same eyes that pled for mercy as infected had torn him apart. Kevin blinked and averted them forward.
“College was my way out. It was my escape from that kind of life. Then when college was over, four years later, I found myself going back to the same town I grew up in. Guess you never get too far away from the tree.” Kevin sniffled a bit. He wiped his nose with a sleeve.
“Sometimes I feel like I’ve gotten too far away from my home,” Steele said. Trees zipped by glassless windows. Unfamiliar land. Foreign hills. Not unlike the trees where he grew up, but not the same either. Not as foreign as the different countries he was stationed in abroad, but not home. The land reminded him of his family and his land that was so far away. Things worth fighting for.
“And I feel like I never escaped mine,” Kevin said.
“Yet here we sit on the same road,” Steele said. He sucked in air through his nose. “I don’t regret doing what I did.” I don’t. Some people need to be put down.
Kevin nodded. “I don’t expect an apology. You did right on account of your people. But what did I do to mine?”
Steele didn’t know what to say. How can I claim to understand the decision Kevin had to make in order to help me? I know I was doing the right thing, but does he? He sat in silence next to his friend, unsure how to console him.
“Puck used to beat me growing up. My dad drank and beat the tar out of him. Puck was bigger and older and he would turn around and beat the tar out of me. Even when it got bad, I still think he got the worst of it. I would hide from them and read everything I could get my hands on. Mostly my grandpa’s old books on the Civil War.” Kevin’s eyes went distant as if he relived the memory. “I would imagine myself standing on Little Round Top at Gettysburg with Colonel Chamberlain and the 20th Maine, and every single Confederate charging up that smoky tree-laden hill had Puck’s face on it, and I could never pull the trigger. Maybe that’s just who I am. I hated Puck, but could never stand up to him.” Kevin shook his head as he remembered. “He was a miserable son of a bitch. Thank you for putting him out of his misery, and mine.”
Steele placed a hand on Kevin’s knee. “I wish I hadn’t had to.”
“Believe me, I’m not. We don’t get to pick our families, but mine was rotten. There is still love even in the worst of them. Ashley is still my family as much as I wish she wasn’t. Show her some mercy.”
Steele gulped down his anger for the woman. She sat there pretending not to listen in, eyes averted out the windows, greasy blonde hair clumping together in stringy strands. Her arms were folded beneath her chest.
“You’re related to her too?”
“Yeah. Pretty messed up, huh?” Kevin turned his eyes aside in shame. “I didn’t pick them.”
“S
he ambushed us,” Steele said. He looked to Kevin for acknowledgment that Ashley was wrong. A bad person. A person who deserved worse than she got.
“And you ambushed them. And I helped you.” Kevin’s lips trembled.
Do the right thing. Do the right thing. Get over yourself and move ahead. Sometimes living with oneself is worse than death. Steele gulped his anger inside. “I’m not like them. She will be safe with us.” The words burned his tongue.
“I know she will. That’s why I’m with you and not them.”
“You may be related to Puck, but you aren’t that man. You are a man who helped people in desperate need.” Steele squeezed his leg and stood.
Kevin nodded, lips tight. “I go where you lead,” he said.
“I’m leading us to call it a day. My head is killing me and I’m hungry.”
Kevin gave him a half-smile.
Steele stood up, holding a handrail for support. “Let’s get this thing off the road to a clear area so we can hunker down for the night. We need to figure out a way to get those shackles off Eddie.”
“That’s right. Get these things off me,” Eddie called back with a nod. The older African American man held up his chains at Steele.
“Ideas? Something heavy? Or sharp?” Steele said. Everyone dug around the mover, rooting through supplies and opening bench seats. After minutes, Steele sat back down by Eddie.
“We will find something.”
Eddie’s eyes teared up. “You are a kind man, but get me out of these.” Eddie’s voice rose in conviction.
“You could shoot the chains,” Gwen said pensively. Steele took a look at his black AR-15. The lightweight carbine. The modern-day musket.
“I’d rather not waste the bullets or risk putting another hole in the Lunchbox.”
“It’s not as if it doesn’t have enough of those already,” Mauser yelled from the front.
Steele was at a loss. “We’ll find a rock or something when we stop,” he said to Eddie.
Eddie shook his head. “No.” He was tired of being pushed around and abused. “Risk the shot. I want these off. Now.” Eddie held the chains up at Steele.
The End Time Saga (Book 2): The Breaking Page 17
