Compound Fracture

by Franklin Horton

  He slipped from the roof, carefully planting his feet on the unstable surface of the fish-cleaning table. He lifted his gear and gently set it down onto the table. With each movement, the table swayed through a greater range of motion, the joints weakening, a sure sign that collapse was imminent. Afraid to hesitate any longer lest the table crack loudly under him, he jumped to the ground. When he hit, he paused to make sure the sound hadn’t brought unwanted attention. When he was certain no one had heard him, he pulled his pack on and took up the shotgun.

  His first order of business was to bolt for the woods and get some concealment from the men still moving around. Once shielded in the woods, he crept toward the campers and attempted to eavesdrop on their conversations. With one of the men talking loudly, as if volume alone lent credibility and authority to his words, Robert was able to hear parts of his conversation with the terrified campers.

  It sounded like a typical story pasted together when someone official screwed something up. The security detail couldn’t exactly come out and admit they’d used the campers for bait, but Robert was fairly certain that’s what they’d done. He’d had plenty of time to think that out while he was laying on the roof. They were spinning a tale about dangerous fugitives active in the area who were part of a terrorist operation, perhaps even part of the same group who’d attacked the United States and caused this whole disaster. They’d simply been caught in the crossfire as the security detail, who described themselves to the campers with the generic term “government agents,” intercepted the dangerous man.

  The security detail was painting a horrible picture of him to cover for the danger they’d put the family in. Robert was practically painted as being evil incarnate, so he realized he’d better hope he didn’t cross paths with any of those campers tonight. If he did, it was likely they’d shoot him on sight. After what they’d been through, he would be public enemy number one.

  When things began to wrap up, Robert retreated from the campers. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He wanted to run back up the trail and see if Sonyea and Jeff were where he left them but couldn’t imagine they were. If that was the case, Sonyea would have let him know somehow. She certainly would have given him the cover fire he needed. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry they could have set up a radio protocol before they split up and kept in touch. He hadn’t bothered, thinking there was no point. Little details like that were what separated the amateurs from the professionals. What separated those who survived from those did not. Right now, he was among that group not likely to survive, and it was not a comforting feeling.

  He needed to find where the families and the security detail had set up their camp. If they’d captured Sonyea, that was probably where they’d taken her. Jeff was likely there now, gloating over turning the tables on them. Wherever these armed men were going when they left, wherever the other trucks had already gone, was where he needed to be. While the men from the security detail finished with the unfortunate campers, Robert made a beeline for the spot where they’d parked their trucks.

  He thought of jumping into the back of one of them. That was how folks always did it in the movies. They jumped in the back and there just happened to be a stray tarp in there to pull over them. Everything worked out perfectly. His luck was different. Things never worked out that well. What if some of this group had ridden out here in the back of one of these trucks? What if he hid in there only to be discovered by boarding passengers? He’d probably end up dead and would be no good to anyone—not Sonyea, not the folks back at the compound, and not his family in Damascus.

  In the distance, the remaining security detail was backing away from the folks at the campers, guns still on them. They had traded in their night vision for glaring headlamps now, the need for stealth unnecessary now that the trap was sprung. They played bright flashlights around the hillside as they walked, hoping for some last break that would reveal their quarry. Fortunately for Robert, luck was not on their side tonight.

  Six men returned to the two trucks. There was a brief argument over who was riding in the back and no one gave in. All insisted on riding up front despite the bulky tactical gear. No one gave in and the grumbling men piled into the trucks with lots of cursing and complaining. Robert was trying to plan how to most effectively hitch a ride aboard the nearest truck bed when he noticed that the distant truck had a mesh cargo carrier extending from the trailer hitch. He’d seen those before on the highway, often on an SUV, usually holding a big cooler that the driver didn’t want to haul inside. This one only held a red metal jerry can strapped down with bungee cords.

  When the trucks started he had little time to think about this. All efforts to get his courage up were failing. He needed the mental equivalent of giving a rebel yell and smashing a beer can on his head, something to spur him into action. The truck nearest him pulled forward and headed down the road. The second, nosed up against a fence, had to back away before turning. When it backed in his direction, he acted without thinking because that was only slowing him down. Thinking was telling him that this was a stupid idea and it was going to get him killed, not what he needed to hear right now.

  He waited for the back-up lights to go off, afraid they’d illuminate him in the rearview mirror. When the backup lights, then the brake lights, went off, he sprang into motion, lunging from behind the laurel bush and running in a crouch directly toward the bed of the truck. A thousand dissenting voices erupted in his head, telling him this was a stupid thing to do, the wrong thing to do, and he was only going to get himself killed. He blocked all of them, running on pure adrenaline.

  The truck was easing forward under idle, the driver not yet applying the gas pedal. Robert hooked his right hand over the tailgate and put one foot on the mesh platform. It was nearly as wide as the tailgate and gave him plenty of room to climb on. It was hard to perform this action and not rock the truck but that was exactly what he tried to do. Had it been a light-duty truck, the suspension might have responded to the additional load of his weight. This was a heavy-duty truck, a three-quarter or one-ton pickup, and the stiff suspension didn’t react to his presence at all.

  Robert greatly overestimated his physical prowess most days. He’d visualized performing this task with much more fluidity and grace than he was actually able to bring to the task. Once he had both feet on the platform, he was immediately forced to latch his other hand onto the tailgate because maintaining his balance was proving more of a challenge than expected. It was like doing a squat on top of a big exercise ball and expecting a single hand touching the wall was going to stop you from rolling off onto your head. Add to it the fact that his knees were protesting since he had to remain in a squatting position to keep low. His plate carrier was compressing his torso and restricting his breathing. They weren’t even out of this section of the campground before Robert was struggling. It occurred to him that the most comfortable position for riding on this platform might be to approach it as if he were in fact riding on the tailgate of a pickup. The only question was how to change to that position now that the vehicle was in motion. The gravel road was fairly smooth and the truck wasn’t going fast. Perhaps he could pull it off.

  He was unable to arrive at an efficient way to make the transition. He decided to release his left hand from the tailgate and try to turn in a circle until he was facing rearward. Then, hopefully, he could hold on to the platform with both hands and sit down, letting his legs dangle off the back. He didn’t have a lot of time to plan for it. His legs were going numb from his current stance and he could imagine them going out at any time with no warning.

  Desperate, he released his left hand and began turning while in his squat position. It was going well until the driver hit the brake for a speedbump. Robert lost his balance. His free hand waved in the air, trying to find something to hold onto. All he could reach was the platform at his feet and he latched onto the edge of the steel frame. That threw his balance too far to the rear. He was beyond his tipping point and, worst of all,
he could feel his strong hand slipping from the tailgate.

  There wasn’t even time to look for a new handhold. One moment his brain registered the slipping hand, the next it registered the impact with the gravel. While the face plant from a moving vehicle stunned him, he was aware that he needed to make sure the truck didn’t stop. Maybe the driver had seen his graceful dismount? He rolled to a position where he could see the departing truck but the driver made no sign of stopping, continuing on down the road without a care in the world.

  Feeling safer now, Robert slumped flat on his back. What the hell was he doing? He should be home with his family, looking after them, not here in the middle of nowhere doing whatever the heck it was he was doing now. He wrote this stuff, he didn’t live it.

  He took a deep breath and sat up. The truck had been going slow and he hadn’t fallen far. He was also wearing thick clothes and a plate carrier that absorbed part of the blow. For the second time that night, he wished he’d been wearing tactical gloves. His palms, knuckles, and elbows stung with road rash. The pants he was wearing had built-in pockets for knee pads but he’d left them out because they felt awkward when he walked. He touched his knees, finding holes in the pants there and burning, raw flesh beneath it. Once he started walking and sweating again, those skinned knees would feel a lot more awkward than the kneepads ever felt. While his injuries were not life threatening, the nagging pain would do nothing to improve his already dark state of mind.

  He got up and took a look around. There was no sign of people anywhere so he risked using a flashlight to check the ground around him to make sure he hadn’t lost anything. He checked the Kel-Tec KSG. No clogs in the barrel, no deformations, and no broken parts. That was good. He checked his Glock 19 and found it to be in good shape, mostly protected by the holster.

  He clicked the light off and shoved it back in the pouch. He went to drop his night vision back into place and found that the bracket didn’t want to swing back into position. He applied more pressure and it snapped off into his hand. He got his light back out and examined the mount. It was broken and the PVS14 was dinged up a little.

  He had an immediate old world reaction, thinking about how much money the thing cost. His second, more appropriate, reaction was along the lines of how much he needed the device, how he couldn’t get the device repaired, and how it better work because he darn sure couldn’t just go out and buy another. He turned the flashlight off, turned the knob on the night vision, and it glowed to life.

  “Thank God for small blessings,” he mumbled.

  He might not be able to wear it but he could at least look through it. After a moment’s consideration Robert decided to dig out the weapon mount for the night vision and mount it to the shotgun. It wasn’t ideal but it was a far sight better than having to shoot with one hand while holding the device in front of his eye with the other.

  When he had everything situated, he took a drink of water, not sure when he’d taken his last sip. He dug a protein bar out of a pouch and ate that while he started off in the direction the trucks had gone. His knees and elbows hurt. He had a bit of a headache, which he attributed to dehydration. He was tired and he missed his family. Worst of all, he was certain this night was a long way from being over.

  Robert walked for about twenty minutes before he spotted a bonfire and several illuminated houses in the distance. He crouched by the road and examined the scene through binoculars. The families and their security detail had apparently opted to stay around the cluster of ranger cabins rather than at a campsite. The reason why was obvious. The houses were all lit, not by lanterns, but by electricity. At this remote location, with government money paying for it, these ranger houses probably had propane-powered generators.

  Some of these houses would have been full-time residences for campground staff. If these families were occupying those houses now it made Robert wonder what had happened to the rangers and their families. They’d probably been evicted by the security detail, just as the congressman hoped to do with Arthur and his compound. Robert hoped they’d been ordered out rather than killed and their bodies dragged out.

  He went back to night vision and scanned the area surrounding the house. He was paranoid about sentries but saw no one outside of the group sitting around a campfire in the yard. There were no women and children. Robert checked his watch and saw that it was late enough they’d probably retired for the night. The men were winding down by the fire in the way men typically did, with a strong drink. There were several bottles passing around. He saw a few cans of beer, too, and wondered if the families had brought them or if they’d been confiscated from the residents of the cabins. Robert thought he might kill for one of those cold beers right now, or at least lay down some serious threats.

  He looked for an avenue of approach. The men were armed, but their long guns were propped against trees, vehicles, and odd pieces of outdoor furniture. There were still sidearms in holsters for sure, but he hoped to not give anyone a reason to draw on him. He was so vastly outnumbered that stealth was the name of the game. He was one guy and there were over a dozen of them. Some looked older, with gear and skills. Some were younger and a little green, perhaps younger men from the families or sons of the men among the security detail.

  Robert eased in closer, going structure to structure and trying to stay on the mowed lawn, which was more likely to be free of noisy sticks and leaves. The closer he got, the clearer the voices became. He flattened himself against one of the dark campers and eased along its length. When he peered between it and the truck towing it, he had a decent view of the campfire.

  “I’d say he’s dead,” one of the men said. He was overweight, dressed in expensive tactical clothing, and had a beer cooling on his thigh.

  “Not so loud,” another man, wearing a camo t-shirt and jeans, warned. “You want his mom to hear you?”

  “The facts is the facts,” the overweight man said.

  “Then I’ll let your fat ass explain to the congressman that facts is facts. I’m sure he’ll be completely understanding,” camo guy replied.

  “All I’m saying is Jeff said he’d take the woman as soon as the guy left. The guy must have left because we saw him in the field near the campers. Either the woman killed Jeff when he tried to overpower her or the guy we saw in the field caught up with Jeff and killed him. Either way, I don’t think we’re going to find him. And speaking of the congressman, I’m starting to worry about him a little too. We were supposed to hear from him today. You ever think he might be dead also? Are we just supposed to wait here and hope he calls? I’m starting to wonder if we might need another plan.”

  Camo t-shirt guy shook his head, exasperated. He apparently didn’t have much luck with getting the overweight guy to shut up.

  “I didn’t hear any shots,” said another man, older, with a gray buzz cut. “Just the rounds we exchanged. I don’t think anyone shot Jeff.”

  “They could have used a silencer. These guys are pros,” camo guy replied. “Jeff said so when we talked to him. He said the whole camp was nothing but mercenaries. They’d be too smart to do something that would give their location away. They could have even knifed the poor kid.”

  Robert couldn’t help but smile at that. Mercenary? Pro? He was anything but. While there were certain areas where he felt proficient, this was not one of them. He felt like he was in over his head, always a single move from utter disaster.

  Beyond that entertaining tidbit, what was the rest of their conversation about? Jeff had played a role in setting this up? He obviously had more time on the radio and said more than Robert thought. The whole bit about being a better person, about helping save lives by leading Robert and Sonyea to the families, was a lie. He was leading them into a trap the whole time. A trap devised by him and the security detail.

  Clearly, though, these people had been expecting to find Jeff and hadn’t. Part of the plan seemed to be that he was going to overpower Sonyea and deliver her to this camp while the family’s sec
urity detail took down Robert. What had happened? Jeff hadn’t shown up here, yet Sonyea hadn’t laid down cover fire either. Was she laying up there mortally wounded? Had she and Jeff wounded each other? There was only one way he was going to find out. He was going to have to get back up the trail, then get the hell out of here.

  He slipped back into the night, hoping the popping of the fire and the animated conversation covered any accidental sounds he made. He ran on night vision, retracing his steps, walking as quickly as he could while still watching his foot placement. At the end of the driveway, he got on the main campground road and headed back the way he came.

  Shortly after getting on the road, Robert saw a sign he’d missed on the way in. Probably because he’d spotted lights and was focused in on them. The sign was brown with white lettering, like all the other signs in the place. It said Maintenance: Authorized Personnel Only.

  The sign stopped Robert in his tracks. He wasn’t even sure why at first. Something about the sign was tickling the back of his brain but he didn’t get it. Whatever thought was being stirred never floated to the forefront. He started to continue on past it but stopped again. He’d always told his daughter Grace that intuition was a valid sense and should not be ignored. Whether intuition was real or valid in scientific circles was completely irrelevant. When you were in a situation where your senses were keeping you alive—where you were on alert—it should not be ignored.

  Was he going to take his own advice?

  He turned around and headed down the gravel lane. Leaves formed a tunnel that glowed pale white in the perpetual green of his night vision. He moved slowly, not knowing what was at the end of the road. He emerged in a wide gravel lot with several structures. There was a tractor in an open shed, a grading blade attached to the rear. A D3 dozer was parked beside it, looking much cleaner than any bulldozer Robert had ever seen before.