by Schow, Ryan
“Damn right,” he countered.
His sat phone buzzed; Harper picked it up and put it on speakerphone. “This is Logan,” he said over the rumble of the engine.
Harper put the phone closer to his face, hoping the noise canceling tech would silence the noise of the Fickface Rattlebox, which is what Harper was now calling the vehicle.
“I just got word from Tong Lim,” Quan said.
“Who?”
“My contact in Yale.”
“And?”
“He said we need to double time it to the 432 interchange. The Chicoms have two large convoys with weapons and equipment headed for Yale right now.”
“How far out are they?” Logan asked, already stepping on the gas.
“We’re running about fifteen minutes ahead of them, so if we put on the speed, and if we have no interruptions in traffic—which has been looking good so far—we might be able to stop them.”
“With what?” Harper asked.
“Whatever means necessary,” Quan said. “Tong Lim said there’s enough weapons and ammo in those trucks to fortify a small army.”
“Did you ask how they are doing in Yale?” Logan asked.
“Regarding?”
“The SAA headed their way,” Harper said.
“He’s not saying anything to the higher ups, obviously,” Quan said. “Then again, Yale is positioned in a valley, so there’s one way in and it’s right through the center of two ridges. Once they get in, there are open fields they’ve cleared out for massive ground forces. And when I say massive, I mean massive. The mile long procession of SAA will have a tough time getting through them, but the Chicoms will have equally as tough a time defeating the SAA, which will be good.”
“So after we take the Chicom supply trucks, then we head back and do what exactly?” Logan asked Quan, who sounded like he had plans for them.
“Up ahead in Woodland, the 503 will lead directly into Yale. You’ll pass that for now. After your ambush at the 432 interchange, if you can stop the convoy and confiscate their armaments, you’ll double back and take the 503 all the way in. You won’t miss the war, but if you can run a surgical ground force, sneak up on the SAA when they’re occupied, that’s going to be key to our survival, and to an overall victory.”
“What are you doing?” Harper asked. “Because you sound like you’re not coming with us.”
“I’m not,” Quan said. “Steve and I are about to switch vehicles with Zeke at the 503. There’s a bridge at the same exit, the E CC Street. bridge. It’s short and Tong arranged to get explosives into the Happy Camper Garage nearby. We’re going to cross the bridge, then blow it. From there, we’ll head up NW Hayes Road, which will eventually take us to the backside of the 503, and up on the ridge just above Chicom HQ. The roads are clear, according to Tong Lim, and though it’s the long way around, our timing has to be right.”
They all knew why. What Tong Lim had suggested to Quan was crazy, and Steve Daily was even crazier to volunteer for what amounted to a suicide mission.
“Bayswater Road is that ridge, and from there we’ll drop down on the roof of their HQ. Tong says the Chicoms built it into the side of the mountain.”
“Like the Nazis,” Harper said.
“Yes,” Quan replied.
“The good news is it’s not huge, as they are expanding, but what the Chicoms had planned here was a monumental undertaking they could only roll out in stages.”
“Where are they in the rollout now?” Logan asked.
“They’ve got phase one of the ridge-side HQ built. Down below, in the valley, they’ve turned a bunch of farmhouses into Chicom strongholds protecting their HQ. We’re expecting the SAA to hit those buildings first, which is the Chicoms’ first line of defense. The response won’t be measured or fierce, because they don’t have the ground forces fully trained yet, so hopefully they’ll tear each other apart in the valley, then you guys can come in behind them.”
“I have a question,” Harper said, interrupting. “I know it’s just a touch off point, but it bears me asking.”
“Go ahead,” Quan said.
“The Port of Seattle and all the other ports there. We have a significant military presence there—”
“You had a significant military presence there,” Quan corrected her. “When the President deployed the bulk of the military overseas, to all those wars he championed, that left the ports vulnerable to the Chicoms. Like Long Beach and LA, the Chicoms eliminated any and all opposition. And with their massive presence in the media, they were able to black out much of the real news while relegating the rest of it to the ranks of propaganda.”
“Didn’t we have huge Naval fleets there?” Harper asked.
“Once, yes,” Quan said.
“So we take out Yale, but they have the ports…” Logan said.
“The Northwest Resistance is larger than we thought,” Quan reassured them. “We’re currently in communication with them through our Chinese channels, according to Tong.”
“Did you know about them?” Harper asked, her voice high, her breath coming a little faster. Logan knew this was Harper’s world—all of the West Coast communications.
“No,” Quan said. “Apparently there’s a big chapter in Montana and we’re getting record levels of patriots coming in from Idaho. They’ve already begun an assault on the ports.”
“So it’s just this convoy coming that we have to stop,” Logan said.
“Yes,” Quan said.
“Well then, Roger that,” he said.
They were not that far from the 503 and they were going eighty-five miles an hour. He didn’t want to push the Fickface Rattlebox too hard, lest something go wrong. Problems were, after all, inevitable with these old muscle cars. Logan was praying they didn’t encounter the tail of the SAA convoy before they passed the 503.
Harper pulled out the map, looked it over. “The 432 is the only substantial interchange between there and the 503,” Harper said.
Quan heard her and said, “Then that means you only have one chance.”
“So do you,” Logan said.
“Good luck.”
“See you on the other side, brother,” Logan said, hanging up.
Logan took a deep breath, then said, “If any of you believe in the power of prayer, now would be a good time to start praying.”
Fortunately they didn’t see the SAA snake as they passed the 503, and they were moving fast enough that they didn’t see Quan and Steve change cars, head to NW Hayes and blow the bridge. So far, so good, he thought.
“You’re running a little hot,” Harper said, eyes on the temperature gauge.
“We’re not in the red yet,” he said.
“You’re flirting with it pretty hard,” she replied.
“How far out are we?” Logan asked as they passed through Kalama.
“Almost there,” she said.
He slowed to around ten miles an hour, put his hand out the window, palm flat, pumping it up and down as a way of telling the others to slow down.
“What are you doing?” Harper asked.
“Crossing over the freeway. Most of the way here, there’s been a concrete divide. We need to be in the other lane when we reach the interchange because we can’t take down one of those divides in the vehicles we have. We need every one of them for the return trip.”
When they reached a relatively flat grassy divide, he slowed to a crawl, then drove over the divide, popping out on the other side. The others followed his lead without incident. Within a few minutes they were back up to eighty-five miles an hour. For the longest time, on the divide, there was a concrete barrier. Logan didn’t want to say he was right, but he was glad that he’d followed his instincts.
“Smart,” Harper finally said.
He grinned, then nodded, and then he said, “Mamma didn’t raise no fool.”
“Apparently not,” Harper laughed.
Looking in the rearview mirror, Logan said, “You two still okay back there?”
Felicity nodded, but Orbey was asleep. How anyone could sleep in this death trap is beyond me, he thought.
“When I ask,” Logan said to Felicity, “will you wake Orbey?”
She nodded, but didn’t say anything.
We’re close, he thought. Close to the start of this thing…
“There,” Harper said, pointing to the interchange ahead.
Up ahead was the proposed scene of the ambush. He got on the phone, told Longwei and the driver of the Ford truck—he wasn’t sure who was driving that—to turn around, back into the underpass, and stage a wreck, leaving only one and a half lanes open.
The men moved quickly, and Orbey woke up.
The underpass wasn’t tall, so there would be no massive loads coming through. The road was further framed in by endless concrete barriers and five to six rounded concrete pillars holding up the overpass. Each of the pillars were about three, three and a half feet wide, allowing one guy to stand on either side, hidden from the approaching vehicles.
Stealth would be critical to the plan.
When the troop transport was in place, the vehicle cut an angle across the far left one and a half lanes. The Ford was cinched right into it, so close its bumper was kissing the transport’s skin. They pulled two more cars behind the staged wreck, making it look like a pile up. Then they moved a Chicom Jeep in front of the transports, doing the best they could to create a funnel that would guide the Chicom convoy into a single lane.
For that moment, the Fick Family Funhouse had come to their rescue. In the back of the Rattlebox was the bundle of automatic weapons and the box of extra large grenades. These were the tools the Fick boys apparently planned on using when they assaulted them back in Roseburg. Either that or they were just stupid enough to carry a small arsenal with them everywhere they went.
Logan grabbed the grenades.
Next, every single body with an automatic weapon lined up tight outside the concrete barriers. This was critical to the funnel. Just inside the underpass, Logan and Ryker climbed on top of the roof of their transport, both of them getting into a prone firing position. Harper and Felicity ran up the road a half mile, out of the danger zone, but ready for mop up should they need a rear assault. Skylar was with Orbey at the head of the line, i.e. the farthest point from the assault zone. Orbey had her rifle and Skylar had hers. They didn’t expect to have to shoot, but they were there if they were needed.
At first, Skylar protested, because she wanted in on the immediate action, but then she got it. With Orbey’s death wish, Logan didn’t want her out of the game early, or at all.
To Orbey, Logan had said, “You’re my sharp shooter, so if any of these guys miss, and one of the trucks gets through, I expect you to clean up their mess, okay?”
Orbey had nodded, firm.
Logan wasn’t pacifying her—which Skylar saw when he said this—he just didn’t know how good Zeke’s or Brandon’s guys were, or if the Fick’s weapons would even work right. They hadn’t been battle tested and they didn’t want to waste what precious ammo they had on random targets.
Skylar had mouthed the words, “Thank you,” to him as they headed up the line.
At the pillars, Clay and Boone stood on either side, both with four grenades between them. According to Quan’s contact, there were two large transports with two Jeeps in front of them and two in back. Both sets of Jeeps were heavily fortified. Clay and Boone were responsible for the four Jeeps.
“They just passed us,” Harper said through the Unidens. “Two escorts in the front, both Jeeps, then the two transports, and two more escorts in the rear. It’s just like Tong said. We’re on the move now.”
“Copy that,” Logan said, now seeing the convoy. Keying in the general channel, from his position on the top of the troop transport, he said, “Everyone get ready, the fox is in the henhouse.”
“You ever feel like you see the war coming,” Ryker said to him, cheek tucked down, eyes lining up the metal sights on the weapon with his targets, “and in that moment, your gut does something to you and you feel like you might shit yourself?”
“Yeah,” Logan said, lining up the sights as well.
“I don’t,” Ryker replied. “I just wanted to know what guys who get scared feel right before all hell breaks loose.”
Logan looked at him sideways.
Ryker winked.
“Good to be in battle with you, Ryker,” Logan said.
“You and Skylar were together once, weren’t you?” he asked, the convoy fast approaching.
Logan’s stomach dropped. “This isn’t the time,” he said.
“Sure it is.”
“Are you talking sex or dating?” Logan asked.
“Both.”
“What does she say?”
“Nothing,” Ryker said, focused. “She’s good at that.”
“There’s your answer,” Logan said as the convoy moved into a single file line for the “wreck” inside the underpass. He turned and shouted to Boone and Clay, “Get ready!”
The second the convoy entered the underpass, both Clay and Boone stepped out and overhanded the grenades into the lead Jeeps’ windshields. Seconds later, both cabins exploded and the Jeeps swerved wildly out of control, hitting the concrete barriers. One of them flipped, the other smashed the front bumper into the barrier and spun around, coming to a stop in the middle of the three lane interstate.
The lead transport came roaring through the underpass, right into Logan’s and Ryker’s line of fire. Logan barely saw flashes of red, that’s how fast they were moving. The second transport was traveling in tight formation with first transport; neither Ryker nor Logan gave a second’s pause before hitting the other vehicle.
“Dammit, I missed!” Ryker roared.
“Me, too,” Logan said.
The last of the escorts came through, both trying to slow down. The last Jeep actually locked its brakes, skidding to a tire-smoking stop.
Clay hurled a grenade into the windshield of the third Jeep. It didn’t bounce off, so Logan knew the grenade broke through the glass, but the vehicle didn’t explode either. Automatic weapons fire opened up along the line, hopefully eliminating the targets. The soldiers in the last Jeep hopped out and opened up, cutting twin lines up the side of the troop transport Logan and Ryker were perched upon.
A moment later, both Chicoms shook and danced as blood spray shot out of the fronts of their bodies and faces. Harper and Felicity had fired on them from behind.
Logan gave them a thumbs up as they ran forward to assess the damage and lend a hand, or a bullet as it were, to the takedown.
Zeke and his guys were already pulling dead guys out of the trucks. The first two Jeeps were engulfed in flames, fully incapacitated. The third Jeep had been hit fast, both men inside having choked on a face full of redneck lead, as Zeke called it. Seeing the giant hole the grenade made in the windshield piqued Logan’s curiosity. He poked his head in the Jeep and saw a perfect grenade sitting on the seat, the pin pulled. On the other side, one of Zeke’s guys opened the door, saw the explosive and said, “This is some bush league BS right here.”
“We didn’t make them,” Ryker said.
“Who did?”
“You ever heard of the Ficks?” Felicity asked.
One of Zeke’s guys, a big-bellied American wearing a Semper Fi ball cap, started laughing and said, “Those inbreeders?”
Now everyone started laughing. This chubby tub of fun, this former Marine who called the Ficks inbreeders, said, “You know their momma was their daddy’s sister, right?”
“That’s just a rumor,” Felicity said.
“No it ain’t,” the Marine said with rosy cheeks. “I knew them in Medford, went to school with both of them. She changed her last name to hide it. Not through the courts. Just enough to not draw suspicion.”
“The kids made the grenades, and that heap of crap we’re driving, aside from the engine, which is strong I’ll admit, is theirs,” Logan said. “So are th
e modified ARs and AKs you’re firing.”
The marine looked at the weapon and said, “Well they ain’t half bad.”
“Let’s go see about the grand prize,” Logan said.
They opened the backs of both transports, and true to Tong Lim’s word, there was enough equipment in there to arm half a dozen militias.
“Well hot damn,” Zeke said, thrilled. “Looks like the sun’s shining on a frog’s ass today.”
Chapter Twenty
When Quan and Steve switched cars, they’d taken Zeke’s Camaro at the 503. The others bid them a quick farewell, then he and Steve peeled off from the group. Behind an old AM/PM gas station, just off the 5, were the remnants of the Happy Camper Garage. He and Steve hopped the chain link fence, moved through the carcasses of old and abandoned cars, then kicked in the back door of a nondescript brown building and found the stash of TNT someone left there on Tong Lim’s orders. They grabbed the contraband and returned to the Camaro.
When they crossed the E CC Street bridge, Quan said, “Pull over there.”
The two men got out of the Camaro, then scaled down the hillside with the TNT and fuse rolls in hand. Together, under the bridge, they set the explosives in crucial points previously marked with a red can of spray paint. They then ran the separate fuse lines up the hillside, lit them both and ducked behind the Camaro for cover. A moment later the TNT blew and twin explosions shook the earth beneath them.
The front of the bridge immediately dropped in a puff of eviscerated concrete dust and smoke. When the ugly TNT cloud cleared, they walked over to the bridge, saw that the blown out sections made the road unpassable.
“We’re good to go,” Steve said.
Quan fired up the car and they headed left on NW Hayes Road, driving down one of the most beautiful roads either man had ever seen.
“I know we’re supposed to be going to war,” Steve said, “but I’m seriously in awe of what I’m seeing here. You just never really feel this kind of peace.”
Quan could only nod in stunned silence. The shoulders of the road were lined with impossibly green trees and endless shrubbery. When there weren’t canopies of leaves and pockets of cool air, there were infinite fields of green, complete with homes and farms, and with farming equipment and horse stalls. A few people here and there were outside working, unsuspecting of the war about to go down not twenty miles away.
