by Ilsa J. Bick
She knew what she hoped. In a secret part of her heart, she had this fantasy: Hank would radio then turn around and march straight back. A selfish wish. That man could be stubborn, and he was determined, but he wasn’t an idiot. First rule of search and rescue: don’t get into a situation where you need rescue yourself.
Face it. You are stuck up here, honey. You are on your own.
A tiny little bit of her brain yammered at the unfairness. It was as if the universe conspired against her: first Pete’s death, then the angst with Soldier—yes, largely self-imposed because she didn’t have to take the dog—and then her discovery Hank was covering for his brother while both had lied about Afghanistan and things Pete clearly left unresolved.
Which, again, made her wonder if letting Hank take Soldier really was for the best.
Daisy’s happy yap drew her from her thoughts, and she turned in time to see Soldier blast into the light like some black meteor as he bulleted full tilt into a pile of snow two hours in the making. Obliterating the mound, the big shepherd hurtled through in a halo of powder as Daisy, her determined little beagle-mutt-Heinz 57, pogoed after, nipping at the shepherd’s legs and tail.
“Guys.” Her tone was that of a weary mom whose kids have just trampled muddy footprints onto her clean kitchen floor. Still, her mouth tugged into a smile as Soldier flipped Daisy onto her back and nuzzled the smaller mutt into a squiggling, paw-pedaling frenzy of delight.
She could do worse than take her cue from the dogs and lighten up. Besides, she knew what drove her doubts: that damn picture she was clearly never meant to see, squirreled in Hank’s wallet. She had always known Pete would have experiences in war and battle he would not share. She’d thought she had accepted that. Clearly, there was a difference between imagination and actual knowledge of an entirely separate life. Now that she knew, what should she do about it? In so many ways, she hoped there was nothing to do, but she couldn’t know for certain unless she asked. If she did, Hank would know she’d snooped, even though she hadn’t meant for everything to fall out of his wallet. Once the pictures had, leafing through them was only human. No one could blame her for that, could they? Total Catch-22.
“Oh, will you cut it out? Just deal, you crybaby.” She was wasting time and starting to get chilled. Tucking her crackers back into a pocket, she took up her shovel again.
A half later, when she paused to rest, little Daisy, who’d retreated with Soldier to the front porch, yapped. A signal Sarah should stop, let the dogs in, take a break, and warm up. Check the girl. The odds were excellent nothing had changed on that score, too. God, what if the kid never woke up? What if she died during the night?
One disaster at a time. Shouldering her shovel, she grabbed her portable spotlight and was just turning aside when Daisy barked again. “I’m coming, girl, I’m coming.” Her shoulders ached. The beginning of a headache muttered in her temples. She was startled when Soldier let loose with a full-throated volley of barks and Daisy went into full-throated beagle-mode: baROWRRRrowrowrowrowr!
Surprised, she saw both dogs stiff-legged, their attention direction downslope. Oh. Her heart gave a small leap. Hoisting her spotlight high, she snapped a look across the plateau. The beam was powerful, but the thick snow diffused the light. She couldn’t tell who or what was out there. A rescuer? No, probably not. Had Hank decided to retrace his steps after all? Except the dogs knew Hank. They wouldn’t bark. More than likely, they’d hurtle down the mountain to meet him. But maybe not; if he was still distant, they might not recognize him or his smell. For that matter, the dogs might be making a fuss because of an animal, though the likelihood was small. No self-respecting bear, mountain lion, or wolf would be out in weather like this. No game up this high, anyway. Well, except her and the dogs.
God. Freak yourself out, why don’t you? She stepped onto the porch, telling herself this would give her a better view but wanting to be close enough to restrain Soldier and Daisy if she had to—or maybe just because the dogs made her feel safer. She thought of the Remington shotgun propped just inside the front door. Hank had wanted her to keep that close. Should she get it? No, bad idea. Nervous people and weapons were a really bad combination.
“Hello?” She blinked as the wind flung both snow and her voice back into her face. “Anyone there?” She waved her spot back and forth. “Hello?”
Her ears pricked to a sudden sound. Had there been a shout?
“Guys,” she said to the still-clamoring dogs, “quiet. Sit.” The better-trained of the two, Soldier instantly obeyed while Daisy, that little pip, continued her beagle’s ROWRRRrowrowr.
“Hello?” She kept waving her spot. Between the two—her light and Daisy’s canine equivalent of a foghorn—whoever was out there had to know they’d been spotted. “Over here!”
This time, the wind carried a formless shout. In a few seconds, she saw the white bob of a headlamp as a figure pushed resolutely up the slope through the snowy dark.
From the size and shape, her visitor was a man. A second later, she knew he wasn’t Hank.
This man was dressed in winter camo. A high-neck gaiter and a pair of bug-eyed goggles obscured his features. He wore a large overnight pack snugged to his back and she could just make out the thin barrel of a rifle jutting above his left shoulder.
There was only one explanation. Hank made it. He radioed for help. A helicopter wouldn’t chance it in the snow, but a person just might.
“Hello?” she called again. Spot still in hand, she stepped off the porch. “Where’s the rest of your team?” Surely, there were others. They wouldn’t send up one person. “How far behind are they?
Pointing to an ear, the man only waved. Now that he was closer, she noticed he had no stretcher, although that didn’t necessarily mean anything. From Pete, she knew the military frequently used a contraption called an individual personnel carrier, a fancy name for a bunch of straps and a harness-like device that enabled a soldier to carry a wounded comrade and still leave his hands free. Besides, no one was going to try and get this girl down tonight.
Just count your blessings, all right? At least she wouldn’t have to deal with the girl on her own. She jogged out to meet him. “Thank God, you made it. I didn’t think anyone would come. Did you talk to Hank? Has he briefed you?” She realized she was firing questions. “Sorry. I’m just anxious, but we really need to get her to a hospital as soon as we can.” She ran a cursory eye over his gear. In addition to his pack and the rifle, he wore a large pouch strapped to his left thigh and some kind of fixed blade in a sheath at his right hip. A military-looking olive-green satchel rode on his left hip, and he also wore a vest laden with more equipment: long Maglite, a zippered pouch for small tools—and a radio. Now we’re cooking with gas. “Where’s the rest of your team?” Peering past the man’s shoulders, she aimed a look downslope. “Who has the stretcher? Are you a doctor or an EMT?”
“Whoa, one question at a time,” the guy said. “Can we move onto the porch? Get out of the snow? Your dogs good with that?”
“What? Oh sure. Back up, guys.” Daisy had finally subsided as soon as she saw Sarah didn’t view the man as a threat. “Good dogs. So ...where’s everyone else?”
“Sorry to disappoint.” The man pulled his goggles down and let them hang around his chin. His eyes were storm-cloud gray. A layer of snow spackled his body and fell off in sheets. Brushing tiny icicles from his moustache and beard, he said, “’Fraid I’m it.”
She blinked, her relief fizzling. “You’re kidding. Why?”
“The weather’s for shit.” He shrugged. “No one in good conscience could order a call-out. Once your guy—Hank?— told us what was going on, I figured it was better one of us make it up than nobody. Hey, there, pooch.” Pulling off his left mitten, he offered his knuckles to Soldier, who took a polite sniff. “Nice-looking dog. See he’s got a tattoo in his left ear there. He ex-military?”
Interesting. “Yeah. His name’s Soldier.”
“Appropriate. Buddy o
f mine named his after some character in a television show. Yours is way better.”
“Thanks. I didn’t name him just adopted him.” She saw no need to go into the whole sob story. Interesting, though, the guy knew about the tattoos. All MWDs had one identifying their whelp series. “You a reservist? Or National Guard?”
“Ex-special forces, combat medic ... Hey, little girl,” he said, dropping to a knee as Daisy wormed between him and Soldier and flopped onto her back. Grinning, he scrubbed her belly, sending the little dog into paroxysms of delight. “You worried you’re going to miss out, baby?”
“Her name’s Daisy. Did you bring medical gear?” She couldn’t help but feel a squirt of disappointment. A combat medic? Well, considering the girl had been plugged with a rifle, maybe this was a good thing. Gunshot wounds would be nothing new to this guy.
“Yup. All right here.” Pushing to a stand, the man patted his satchel then offered his hand. “I’m Mark Mitchell, by the way. You’re ... ?”
“Sarah.” She tried her best to ignore a nasty little spurt of annoyance. Hank hadn’t said? Well, he might have and then Mark had forgotten. Or Hank flat-out forgot. She didn’t know why she was so pissed. It wasn’t as if Hank hadn’t spent hours slogging through snow to get help. Not everything is about you. “Well, if you’re it ...”
“I’m it.” Mark swept a hand at the cabin. “Let’s see what’s up with your girl.”
3
“What are you doing, Kate?” Jack asked. “This won’t change anything. Everything that went down in Cham Bacha will still have happened.”
“I know that.” The words rose on smoke the wind swept away, shrieking as it hurtled past. Kate wasn’t happy about coming in upwind, though she supposed the only saving grace was she would know PDQ if Gabriel decided to follow because the wind would carry his scent.
“And?”
“And nothing.” Still, riding the wind was a problem. For one thing, that dog would detect her long before she arrived. Worse, the shepherd would likely alert to the gray and his two lieutenants keeping pace with her. She wondered where the other five wolves had gone. Did they have, well, orders to hang back, shadow Gabriel? She had no idea. She couldn’t parse the alpha well enough, yet, and might never fully understand wolf, but she did think the big gray had moved beyond simple curiosity to a species of possessiveness not unlike a pet bonded to its human: She’s mine. God, what about when she finally left the Black Wolf? Would the gray tag along? What then? She couldn’t stay in the mountains, running wild, forever. Well, she might. People did. Build herself a cabin, live off the land ...
“Find yourself a helpful prosthetist who also has a beyond-top-secret clearance.”
“Very funny.” If also true. Shit. Leaving civilization behind only sounded good until you ran out of toothpaste and toilet paper.
“Stop trying to change the subject,” Jack said.
“Jesus, I’m not.” After days of being so careful not to speak out loud to Jack, doing so now was a relief—though she did wish he’d shut up about this. “I’m just thinking here.”
“Fine, then think about this. You’ve enough on your plate, including how you’re going to explain being here. Vance won’t buy you walking all the way from Yellowstone on a whim.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Irritation prickled her skin. “You’re presupposing I’m calling anybody.”
“Kate, you have to check in. If you don’t, Vance will scramble a team, and then they’ll fly off to a place you’re not.”
“Yeah, but I hear Old Faithful’s pretty cool.”
“Don’t joke. They’ll catch up with you eventually.”
Probably. Then she’d have a lot of ’splaining to do, Lucy.
“I’m glad you see the humor in this.”
“Humor? Me?” She wrestled the grin from her lips. “There, grim enough?”
“There is no talking to you.”
“I just don’t see how checking in is an option.” Any signal she sent could be triangulated. Her plan had been to be where she said she would. Maybe. Actually, she wasn’t sure. With that no longer a possibility, she didn’t know what her next move should be.
“I think I’ve already told you. Signal already.”
No flipping way. She could disappear.
“Oh, riiight.” She could practically see Jack’s eye roll. “Toilet paper aside, that only works for Jason Bourne.”
“There was Julia Stiles.”
“She got shot.”
“Yeah, but not until the fourth movie. Jack, people drop out of sight, go off the grid, work for cash, move around, get new identities. It could work.”
“Most people aren’t you, and I know there’s no one like me.”
That was an understatement. “I didn’t ask for this, Jack, but now it’s here. Those kids are here. So is that woman. Someone has to step up.”
“First of all, you don’t know precisely what this is. Second, I’m not suggesting you take a pass. What I’m saying is call for backup. Don’t be stupid.”
“And you already know that’s a non-starter.”
“Which part, the backup part or the being stupid part?”
“Goddamn it, Jack.” Wind gusted past. Dervishes swirled, probing for small crevices and gaps in her clothing through which they might insinuate chilled fingers. “Even if I did signal, it’s like I told Gabriel. They won’t arrive before I get there.”
“At the very least, a team could be in the air.”
“Which is not the same as boots on the ground.” Her eyelids fluttered against a swirl of icy grit needling her cheeks and stinging her ears. “No one can land in this or try to speed-rope down.” Like that just worked out so well in Afghanistan.
“At the risk of pointing out the obvious, this isn’t Afghanistan, and the conditions are not the same. We’re not talking about RPGs and heavy ground fire, and you’re not the same woman you were then. This is not déjà vu all over again, Kate ... unless you wait too long.”
That put a hitch in her step. She pulled up, suddenly furious, stung by more than snow. “You know, lying on my back in an ICU step-down unit, living through twelve operations, hanging out in rehab ... I’ve had a lot of time to think, Jack. I didn’t wait too long. We had bull’s-eyes on our backs as soon as we rolled into Cham Bacha. If I’d called you before going up to the caves, it would’ve made no difference. We’d still have had to fight our way out.”
“I’m not disputing that. I think you’re right—but I also wonder if I might still be alive. Because let me tell you, sweetheart, dying kind of sucks.”
His words cut her to the bone. So much blood on her hands. Didn’t he understand she lived with this knowledge every day?
“Of course, I do. I’m inside you, remember? I’m trying to help you see history doesn’t need to repeat itself. This isn’t a do-over, Kate.” Jack’s voice ghosted by her left ear, as intimate as any caress. “I died once, Kate. That was enough. This is my second chance, and I’d really like to live if that’s okay with you.”
But Jack wasn’t really living, was he? If Jack’s consciousness could be poured into a computer ...would that be living? Could pure thought count as being alive? Stop. She pressed the heel of a hand to her forehead. You’re overthinking this. Jack could be tender, funny, the voice of reason, the prick of conscience and caution, the keeper of her memories and emotions. He might make love to her and possess her completely. Yet all that did not change this fact: Jack was only a product of her mind.
“Yes, it’s only your mind that does this.” A brush of his lips on her cheek. “Your brain manufactures that.”
Yes, it could. The brain was undiscovered country, the nanobots so many tiny explorers, mapping new routes, making new connections—and making Jack? An independent entity? Or simply an extension, something like that old Larry Niven story her dad liked about the detective with a phantom arm.
The wind suddenly paused. The air quieted. The change was so sudden, she simply stood and watched snow sal
t the forest. It was as if the world had taken a breath and she’d slipped into a small island of calm so peaceful, her heart hurt.
It reminded her of home. Christmas, actually, which really was usually white in Wisconsin’s Northwoods. Maybe it was cliché, but during Christmas week, after chores, when the animals had been taken care of for the morning, her dad or brother would build up the fire while her mom set a big pot of chili or stew or soup to bubbling. Whatever family was visiting would settle down with mugs of hot cocoa or tea and play long, leisurely board games or read. One Christmas tradition her dad loved was to break out a new thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle and spread that on their dining room table. Her brother could spend hours poring over the thing, while she liked to fit in pieces on the fly. At night, when everyone else trundled off to bed, she would sometimes creep down and curl up on a window seat and watch the way the snow slanted in the spray of light let off by the barn pole light. Times like that, she thought if the whole world disappeared, they still might be just fine tucked away on their farm.
“We never did get our Christmas,” Jack said.
“We never got a lot of things, Jack.”
“Why did you never go home, Kate? Why let Vance and his people tell them you died?”
“You know why, Jack.” A ball of mingled bitterness and guilt swelled in her chest. It really was very simple, too: Vance had insisted. Secrecy was part of the package. She knew she ought to resent this, but what Vance offered was simply too good to pass up. Besides, her parents and brother had visited while she was still in pieces. They knew how broken she was. If the 7UV9 project worked, how exactly would she explain how well off she was compared to so many other wounded? She couldn’t hide the arm; it was integrated. Her legs were only a step behind, pun intended. What, she should pretend? She couldn’t live at home anyway. What was she supposed to do with her time? Finish out college as she’d planned, go to medical school? That life was closed off to her now. She was a tool, a device. Vance’s pet project.
