by Chris Pike
Dillon wiped his hand on his pants.
A loud whistle akin to a locomotive reaching a busy crossing interrupted the tense moment. In a thick Russian accent, a voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention. Attention. All prisoners are required to be in their rooms. Anyone caught outside the building will be shot on sight. There will be no second chances.”
Moments later, the Russian anthem blared over the loudspeaker, and Dillon listened to it in amused detachment. If the Russians had pride in their anthem, well so did the Americans. In defiance, Dillon stood, placed his left hand over his heart, and began singing the Star-Spangled Banner. By the second stanza, others in the room joined in, and they sang loud and at times extremely off tune. Their vocal ability didn’t matter. What mattered was their ability to group together and stay true to their homeland.
After the singing died down, someone said, “Hell, yeah! ‘Merica!”
Another prisoner yelled, “That’s right! ‘Merica!”
The compound lights flickered off, plunging the building in darkness. The men fumbled around searching for their cots.
Without any lights, and nothing else to do, Dillon shook out the blanket on his cot and stretched out. He clasped his hands together and put them behind his head. Too wound up to sleep, he kept his eyes open until they grew accustomed to the dark while he listened to the noises of the complex.
Someone snored, followed by a cough, and more snoring.
A guard dog barked.
The air in the closed room became warm and thick with the musty smells of men who had been imprisoned too long without the benefit of bathing.
Dillon tried to gauge the time. It was possibly midnight, a guess he confirmed when he heard footsteps outside, followed by the guards talking. The change of guards happened at midnight, a fact he squirreled away in his memory for future use.
Dillon’s eyelids became heavy and he had difficulty keeping his eyes open. His thoughts went to Holly and Cassie and he wondered what had happened to them. The last he remembered, was a soldier entering the house to search it. Tortuous minutes passed while Dillon waited for the soldier to emerge, and when he did, Dillon studied his face for any hint of what had transpired, but found none in his blank expression. If the soldier had discovered the women, they would have been executed as Burkov had ordered. Was Dillon’s lie about the women having run an errand in town convincing enough so the soldier would have not thoroughly searched the house? But where could the women and a child hide in the house undetected?
The house was old, and had been remodeled by building around a water well. Could they have hidden in the well? It was feasible, yet unlikely, for if the water table was high enough, they could all drown. Dillon dismissed the idea.
His mind went over possible escape routes by windows or the back door, but the fact the soldier emerged without finding them was a good sign. Somewhere, somehow, they were safe.
“Pssst.”
Dillon jerked open his eyes, listening.
“Pssst. You awake?” Jeremy asked in a low whisper.
“Yeah.” Dillon answered in an equally low voice.
“Was anybody hurt when you were captured?”
“An elderly couple was executed in front of us.”
Jeremy shook his head in disgust. “Burkov?”
“How’d you know?”
“He’s a psychotic killer. Thinks he’s John Wayne and this is the Old West.”
“That explains why he took my horse.”
“Hopefully to ride instead of eating him,” Jeremy said without much thought or consequence.
“What?” Dillon propped himself up using his elbow. His disgust of thinking Cowboy could be slaughtered was evident. “Eat Cowboy? That’s barbaric.”
“Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
Dillon didn’t hear Jeremy’s apology, all he could think about was Cowboy being shot and butchered. “I’ll kill that son of a bitch before he does that to Holly’s horse.” Dillon shook his head. “Disgusting.”
“As long as your horse…” Jeremy paused, “Cowboy’s his name, right?”
Dillon nodded.
“As long as Cowboy lets Burkov ride him then nothing will happen.”
“That might be a problem.”
“How so?”
Dillon hung his head. “It would be impossible for Burkov to ride him. He’s been trained to respond to certain commands, and I’m guessing a Russian dialect is horse proof.”
“Let’s hope if he does try to ride Cowboy, the horse will throw him. I’d like to see him break his neck.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Dillon said.
“Shoot.”
“How long have you been here?” Dillon asked.
“A week,” Jeremy replied.
“Doing what?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They haven’t told us a thing.”
In the dark room, Dillon noticed Jeremy prop himself up to check if anyone was awake.
“One more thing,” Jeremy said. “Remember what I told you, and be extra careful who you talk to. I’m pretty sure someone snitched on you.”
* * *
Dillon tossed and turned during the night, worrying about Cassie and Holly. During the early morning hour he fell into a restless sleep full of vivid dreams. A particularly intense dream of his deceased wife jostled him out of his sleep. He woke to a throbbing head, his chest covered in a cold sweat, and he waited for the pounding headache to subside. He shivered and pulled the thin gray blanket over him.
Larry was in the cot next to him, mumbling about his wife and how sorry he was for what he had done. Dillon rolled on his side and faced Larry, watching his head thrash back and forth. Larry obviously was struggling with his actions, and Dillon wondered what he needed to apologize to his wife for.
Since his wife was with Cassie and Holly, she would probably be okay. In fact, she was probably back at home waiting for Larry.
The faintest hint of a summer breeze floated in through the open windows near the ceiling. Breathing in the fresh air, Dillon closed his eyes and visualized his former dream. He blocked out extraneous noises of shuffling bodies and the chirping crickets to concentrate.
A brief flash of his wife’s essence came to him…her hair, the way the light touched her face, the way she moved. Her laughter. It was like she was trying to communicate to him, and he struggled to recall her words and the meaning of the dream. It wasn’t so much what she had said, rather what she had been trying to convey. She had been his anchor in life, and it had taken him a long time to come to terms with her death. Yet life went on, and Dillon had considered himself fortunate to have been given a second chance to rebuild his family, and to possibly marry again. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what his wife had said in the dream.
You must live.
That was it. Amy was giving him the boost he needed to fight the imprisonment and any hardship he had to endure. The love and partnership he now shared with Holly was testament to his life with Amy. She was giving him permission to lead the life he had built with Holly.
You must live.
He had to live, and at that moment he channeled Amy’s sage wisdom, and he vowed to make it back to Holly and Cassie, regardless of what he had to do, or who he had to stop. Or kill if he must.
With a newfound determination, and confident he could accomplish his goal, Dillon fell into a deep and satisfying sleep, exhausted by the previous day’s events and the resulting turmoil.
Chapter 17
Colonel Mikhail Burkov was obviously in a foul mood. He sat alone in the principal’s office, dimly lit to conserve as much generator fuel as possible. He cursed the unending problems with logistics and supply chains, and his well-thought out plan was experiencing cracks in its hardened veneer.
Unleashing an EMP on the United States had been his brainchild, which he’d carefully cultivated for several years, researching the effects it would have on the breakdown of society. Nature would tak
e its course by thinning the population, leading the way for Russia to capture the spoils of war: black gold, Texas tea, ripe for the plucking in the biggest damn oil field the world had ever seen.
The plan was to cripple the United States, sneak in, secure the area in East Texas, suck dry the natural resources, and get out.
They’d strike so fast, the Americans wouldn’t have time to react.
How hard could that be?
Harder than Burkov had expected.
He had planned for every imaginable contingency, except for the incompetency of his own people and an unforeseen international crisis brewing in the Persian Gulf, offshore the United Arab Emirates, a pathetic wasteland of sand and rock, yet filthy rich in oil and gas.
After Iraq had tried to invade Kuwait and failed, decades later their neighbor Iran decided to give it a try further down the coast. Oil was just as plentiful in the UAE as it was in Kuwait. It was no secret Russia and Iran were in cahoots with each other, and while there had been a copious amount of chatter about an invasion, the details had been kept under lock and key, a monumental accomplishment all by itself.
The coordinated attack went awry from the beginning. Iran had become impatient with Russia, and acted prematurely by invading the UAE before the planned attack on America, resulting in Russia attacking the United States before they were ready.
Ships set to carry oil field equipment and engineers, geologists, geophysicists, roustabouts, mud loggers, roughnecks, and a hundred more men and women of various oil and gas professions were diverted to the Gulf of Oman. Submarines scheduled to ghost the Texas coast in the deep waters of the Gulf of Mexico to provide additional muscle if needed, were redirected to the Middle East.
The powers-that-be gave the green light for the EMP attack on the US without consulting Burkov, further souring his already foul mood. He had been understaffed from the start, and the invasion had not gone well.
Russia should have done better.
Foremost on his mind was lack of discipline, not enough personnel, and promised military backup which never materialized. It was up to Burkov to secure the East Texas oil field all on his own. Latest intel indicated the Russian troops stationed along the Texas border were being met with resistance and guerilla style tactics offered by the fiercely independent Texans.
Damn rednecks.
Burkov kicked a trashcan across the room where it clattered against a wall, scattering papers and trash.
He had already lost too many good men. Burkov was one to meet challenges head on by embracing, even welcoming, the increased brain power and strategizing needed to overcome his adversaries. It kept him from becoming complacent. Since he wouldn’t get the necessary troops to accomplish his goal, Burkov decided rounding up able-bodied men to work the oil field was his only choice. It was proving challenging, putting the Russians in unfamiliar territory by demoralizing their prisoners, then convincing them it was in their best interest to work for Russia.
The heat was becoming an issue too. The soldiers were accustomed to freezing temperatures, not the hotter ‘n hell temperatures engulfing this godforsaken land, galvanized by a high pressure system sitting fat and happy above East Texas. Unfortunately, the rain shower the previous day only added to the miserable humidity instead of cooling the land.
Burkov had pleaded and made his case for self-cooling uniforms for the soldiers, only to meet incredible resistance from the bureaucrats who had no business being in charge. They sat in a temperature controlled environment with their big screen monitors and spreadsheets, working the numbers until they got the results they wanted.
Manipulating data was one of Burkov’s specialties, so he knew when he had been beat. Questioning the decision by his superiors wouldn’t bode well for his rise to the top. He had to be careful.
So not only was the world stage and the Russian bureaucracy against him, he now had farmers and ranchers nibbling away at the mighty power of Russia, picking off soldiers at random.
Burkov went to the broom closet and retrieved a rifle confiscated from one of the Texas snipers, now quite dead. He admired the .30-06 Winchester model 70 with a wooden stock, probably handed down from the previous generation. He shouldered it and peered through the 3-9x variable scope which he estimated was accurate to up to 400 yards depending on the proficiency of the shooter. He made a mental note to smuggle it home so he could keep it as a trophy.
It was humid and hot, unlike the cool summers where he was from. He longed for the green grass and clear lakes dotting the forest, and the snowcapped mountains of his homeland, a stark contrast to the mosquito and fire ant infested backwoods of East Texas.
This was God’s country? Nothing here remotely reminded him of God or Heaven. Burkov scoffed at the expression he so often read about to describe the wide open spaces of America. If it was so celebrated, then why was he sweating profusely? He slipped a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat beading on his forehead, cursing the ungodly heat and humidity. A mosquito buzzed his face and he slapped it away.
What he wanted was a five course candlelight dinner, topped off with a bottle of his favorite wine at his favorite restaurant. He’d have the company of a beautiful woman who would lavish her charms on him. He held a coveted position in the military, which didn’t go unnoticed by the fairer sex. Burkov had been ruthless regarding whose hand he planned to ask for in marriage. When he returned to Russia, he planned to seriously court the daughter of his High Commander, a General he didn’t particularly like. His daughter wasn’t all that pleasant to look at, yet she could be the mother of his children, and could keep a nice house. More importantly, she would provide a direct avenue to the General.
Sacrifices were necessary to climb the ranks, and Burkov had his eye on the top prize. He opened the bottom drawer of the desk and retrieved a bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the top, and poured himself a drink in a shot glass.
His gaze went to the portrait of former President Ronald Reagan hanging on the wall opposite him. Reagan was seated in the Oval Office with the American flag propped behind him.
Burkov studied the picture for a long moment, then tossed back the shot of whiskey. It was a big flavored whiskey and dominated his mouth. He swallowed, breathed in, and recognized a smoky flavor and others he couldn’t identify. It was a man’s drink, and if Reagan was a drinking man, he would have liked whiskey. In fact, Burkov would have liked to have shared a drink with Reagan, to learn his secrets of why he was so revered.
He toasted to the picture. “To you old man, and to the America you thought was yours.”
Burkov poured another shot, letting it fill his mouth as he felt the burn of the Kentucky bourbon. He kept staring at Reagan, and he swore the old man was staring right back at him.
“What do you want, old man?”
Another shot of whiskey later, Burkov became annoyed about why one of his subordinates hadn’t taken down the picture. He certainly couldn’t understand why Ronald Reagan was the most revered American president of modern times. The fact no one on his staff had removed the picture insinuated they had left it there for a reason. Burkov didn’t trust anyone. He hadn’t risen through the ranks on niceties. Quite the opposite.
He invented ruthlessness. Anyone who questioned him or knew his secrets met their maker under mysterious circumstances.
There had been whispers, but the more powerful he became, the less people whispered, knowing they might need a favor.
Burkov leaned back in the chair and put his boots on the desk. The office was full of display cases showcasing trophies, and Burkov mused this was how Americans educated their next generation. Football and baseball games, dance contests, pep rallies, booster club and PTA meetings, and if he knew the word hogwash, he would have used it to describe the American educational system.
Instead of promoting military superiority and pandering to whoever was offended, they should instead be grooming their leaders from an early age, like Burkov had been. He attended boarding school from the t
ime he could remember, sleeping in sparse quarters, and forming alliances with the strongest boys in the class.
Burkov had been bullied as a young boy due to his small size and asthma attacks which his parents thought were brought on by cowardice. To toughen him up and to prepare him for military school, he had been sent to boarding school. The family name descended from a long line of Russian military heroes, thus their name required protection, and his parents would do anything to keep up appearances.
Burkov discovered not all his classmates were up to the same academic prowess as he was, so to reciprocate for being accepted into a cliquish group, he provided tutoring, but only at a cost to his classmates. In some cases, when his classmates had nothing to offer, he’d require something of theirs. A memento from home, a favorite sweater, a pair of clean socks. He’d sell the treasured memento for a profit, occasionally even back to its original owner, while learning a valuable lesson about nostalgia and the driving force it had on people’s actions.
Burkov despised nostalgia. The good old times memorialized in movies of the past were gone, so progress could forge ahead, to claim its rightful place in history, and if Burkov had to destroy half of America and its citizens for Russia’s progress, he’d do it. Collateral damage was a fact of war.
A knock at the door interrupted his patriotic musings. Burkov replaced the whiskey bottle in the bottom drawer. He licked the tips of several fingers and patted down a few errant strands of hair.
“The door is open.”
Chapter 18
Petya Ruslan entered.
“Shut the door,” Burkov barked. “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?” He reached for some papers on the desk and straightened them.
Shutting the door, Ruslan walked in like he owned the place. His massive arms, barrel chest, and towering stature were more than enough to claim ownership wherever he went. He strolled over to the chair in front of the principal’s desk, kicked it back, and sat down. He propped his feet on the desk with an unusually loud thud, and crossed them at the ankles.
