by Chuck Rogers
Yet she waited for me to give the command.
That was how well Cecilia had trained her.
That was how smart my dog was.
Face was the best dog in the world.
"Face . . ."
She whimpered and peed a bit on the floor in excitement.
I didn't care.
Face was still technically a puppy.
And I was in love.
So was she.
"Come."
Face came S-curving towards me with her head and tail wagging in counter-tempo like a four-legged snake of devotion. She didn't lunge. Face collapsed whimpering and shaking in my arms.
"Who's my girl? Who's my good girl?"
You would almost have thought she was in distress save for her tail rapidly thumping the floor.
"It's you." I scratched Face in all the right places. "You're my girl."
I looked up.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house.
I told the Malibu city council my story. I decided not to leave anything out. I sat cross-legged on the floor, gave my dog good lovin' and told them everything. It took a while. Face fell asleep in my lap.
Mar-J was the first to speak. "Jesus. I mighta left some of that out."
"You need to know what you'll be facing, and what will happen if we lose."
That was good for some more silence.
Alice broke it. "So you're going back."
"I think I have to."
"What do you hope to accomplish?"
"I'm going to tell Ged our team met massive resistance, and that the park is being patrolled. I'm going to tell him I saw soldiers in uniform. With any luck that will delay the push on Malibu and give you time to prepare defenses. Meantime, I propose we send ambassadors. If Keith is willing I'd like him to take a boat up the coast to Oxnard. See if there is any civilization visible."
Keith nodded. "All right."
"Colin, I hate to take you off park detail but besides me you're the closest thing to a scout we have. I want you to go with Keith. If there's nothing visible on the coast, the survivors of Oxnard may have pulled inland. Go with him and do a recon. If it looks like they're farming and community building contact them. They must've had refugees fleeing the SOG out of Thousand Oaks. Tell them Malibu is going to war and if we fall they're next. At least get some lines of communication going. If it looks like they've gone Mad Max get out."
Alice wasn't happy. "I'd rather have you here helping set up the defenses."
"I'd rather be doing that, too."
"But?"
I put forth my shitty plan that Lalli was not going to like. "The SOG are making homemade rockets and bombs."
Alice knew where this was going. "Jesus fucking Christ."
"Valhalla is where most the true sons and daughters live at any given moment. If I can blow that up, kill Ged and Marrs, then that might turn the tide. Not many of the SOG are military. With any luck there is a battle for the succession, a slave revolt, maybe they break up into roving gangs. No matter what, without their charismatic leader, no Mount Olympus, and with their main armories destroyed and massive casualties among the members, the SOG becomes a lot more manageable."
Ted gave me a leery look. "Sounds a bit like suicide."
"No, I know a thing or two about blowing things up and I'm the SOG's golden boy. When I do it no one will know a thing until the fireworks go off. I give it a good 90% chance they never even know it was me. I can probably milk them for several disasters before they start getting wise."
"And if they get wise?"
"Not to be a dick, but I'm Recon. If I can get ten steps into the woods I am gone."
"Are you sure about that?"
"I give it another 90% they never catch me."
"When do you leave?"
I was pretty bold with my 90 percentiles. I pet my dog for what might be the last time.
"Now."
* * *
SOMETHING HAD CHANGED.
Something was wrong.
I watched from cover atop Agoura's aptly named Lookout Drive. Alice made me a map and I took the route she'd used to take her horses out of Agoura. Given the big fat lie I was coming back to the SOG with, I wanted to pick my route back and hopefully pick who I ran into first. It took me two days.
I took my time. I had two horses and did not want to be spotted.
I didn't like what I saw.
4 x 4's, dirt bikes and ATVs filled the Malibou Club parking lot and surrounding area. Trucks loaded with supplies came and went. A pair of gasoline tankers connected to a pair of military field pumps fueled it all. Men, horses and tents were everywhere.
I had no clue what route they were taking but there were boats on trailers.
I didn't see technicals, narco tanks or the heavy weapons.
I'm Force Recon. My job is to sneak up on shit like this and diagnose it directly.
The SOG was preparing to launch raids across the Dickie Bell horse and infantry route, and if they hadn't found my 4 x 4 route they'd found another.
"By the itching of my thumbs something wicked this way comes . . ."
They were going to go Viking and raid by sea to hit Malibu through the back door.
I watched a truck off-load a dozen goddamn canoes.
It looked like the SOG were going to attempt Malibu Creek and hit us Last of the Mohicans style. They were preparing to launch raids even though my recon team and I had not come back and reported.
We weren't expected back for a week.
Something was very, very wrong.
Wrong beyond the troops massing for attack below, and I couldn't put my finger on it.
I am not a patient man.
But my Uncle Mankiller taught me to hunt.
The United States Marine Corps taught me to sneak up on assholes and watch them. I spent an hour watching. I scanned the encampment again and again. My instincts spoke to me.
One of these things did not belong.
Where was Waldo . . .?
And then I saw it.
I felt like throwing up.
Waldo's name was Brock Guftason.
The Land Rover Defender in the Malibou Club parking lot had been painted over in black with SOG horror camouflage and the broken world logo on the hood. I had only seen it for a moment as it raced away, but the last time I had seen that Land Rover it had been a beautiful, British racing-green. Whoever had given the Defender its makeover hadn't bothered to remove the BROCK 1 vanity plate.
The jig was up.
My cover was blown and given the build up it had been blown days ago.
Malibu was fucked.
I should have killed Brock.
No good deed ever goes unpunished.
Brock had already handed Malibu to the SOG on a platter.
They were going to soften us up with raids from all directions while the main army marched.
If I had gone back the Dickie way I would've walked into an ambush.
For one second I considered sneaking past these bastards. Sneaking all the way up to the freeway, through Agoura, through Thousand Oaks and into Simi Valley and up to Valhalla and blowing the bomb factory.
That would take at least a week.
Take desperation out and do it right, realistically two.
Malibu was out of time.
For a sick second I considered going into camp, confessing all and throwing myself upon the mercy of Ged and help orchestrate the fall of Malibu.
No.
I'd murdered the reconnaissance party. It was too late for that. It was too late for anything. There was only one thing to do. Get back. Grab Lalli and Face and run. Up the coast to Oxnard, or maybe pull a Jeremiah Johnson, go way deep in the woods, build a log cabin.
What if I contacted the Men-In-Black?
Was there a world where they would want the SOG around?
Fuck them. They kill anyone in their way and collect rocks.
My shit kept getting more desperate.
I felt shit clos
ing in.
I wished in vain for a little plastic cup with two Xanax in it or a pitcher of ice-cold beer.
I centered myself.
I could have an attack later.
All that mattered was Lalli, and that meant getting home one step ahead of the SOG.
I turned just in time to see the little white-tailed meteor arcing up into the sky behind me. Someone at the top of the hill had fired a flare. I turned back to see a flare arcing up from the Agoura encampment in answer.
The SOG was in the park already.
They'd only missed me because I took the Alice route.
They'd found my trail and followed it over the hill and now they knew that route too.
This was bad.
Then I heard it.
The 'THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!'of rotor noise.
Thank you Men-In-Black.
Rockets, napalm, hell, maybe a thermobaric weapon or two and then strafing runs. My heart surged like a kid on the Fourth of July.
It was time to light things up.
Then I saw it.
It was a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter. It still had the ball turret camera under the chin from when it had been an LA news helicopter. Only now it was painted black and had the Broken Earth painted on the sides.
The turret was turning, using its high-resolution camera to scan the countryside. Both of the bird's doors were open and SOG members hung from chicken straps behind machine guns. They leaned out of the cabin scanning the land.
I was safe in my hide.
My horses reared and bucked in the little clearing as the helicopter thundered over.
Two saddled horses loaded with gear in a clearing.
Oh, that wasn't a tell.
For one second I thought they had missed it.
The helicopter thundered out over the Agoura hills.
Then it banked hard.
Fuck me running with a pitchfork.
I started edging away. It pained me to lose my appaloosas and it was going to be no fun sneaking back to Malibu on foot. My mind started ramping up, looking for angles. Scenario A, scenario B, scenario C, scenario . . .
There was no winning scenario.
The bird thundered over.
The starboard door-gunner leaned out. He was behind an M-60 general-purpose machine gun. Definitely California National Guard issue. Go ahead. Do it. Drop some guys down. Take the horses while I creep away.
Fair trade.
He squeezed his trigger and US military red tracers drew laser lines through my appaloosa and chopped her apart. She screamed and went down.
It was on.
I stepped out into the sunshine, put my red dot on him and burned twenty rounds into that son of a bitch. My heart surged as he went limp in his straps and his machine gun drooped like a spent dick. I put the remaining ten rounds into the copilot window. I reloaded as fast as I could. The Jet Ranger turned and I burned thirty rounds into the engine cowling. The bird jinked, rocked on her rotors and did a crazy maneuver or two but my weapon shot tiny bullets at high speed for short distances. I hadn't done any real damage.
The traffic reporter pilot just wasn't used to taking enemy fire.
He banked away.
Someone in the cabin tossed me a love letter by way of a grenade.
The grenade popped halfway down.
Purple smoke streamed away as it fell and then blossomed for real when it hit the dirt.
My position was marked.
I was on foot.
The funny thing?
I'd done a tour in the sandbox. I'd done tour in Afghanistan.
Even when we were outnumbered we always had air superiority, and we always had superior firepower, but this? Outnumbered a thousand to one behind enemy lines, running and gunning?
This was exactly what I was trained for.
Oh, they had a helicopter, all terrain vehicles and horses and were already behind me. There was no way to get past them. No way to get to Malibu before they did. There was no way to save my girl, my dog or my adopted people.
I was going to lose.
There was only one thing to do, what the Corps had taught me, what prison had taught me, what life had taught me.
When the situation was hopeless?
Savagely counter-attack.
The SOG were post-apocalyptic yahoos barely operating above their baser instincts.
They were about to meet the United States Marines.
PTSD?
Panic fell away.
The Battle for Malibou Lake continued, and I was already up a round on the SOG.
I was going to relax and enjoy this.
I wasn't in a hurry. I went to what was left of my horse and grabbed my pack. SOG vehicles tore towards my position, but they were they were funneling up the roads. I took ten steps to my right and I was in the woods. The rotors thumped in the distance. The pilot was skittish about getting shot at and he'd gone high. He'd also flown a bit south. They were expecting me to try and get back up over the hill. I took a walk down the hill instead. Vehicles roared up the roads towards the marking smoke.
I was a ghost in broad daylight.
Tree to tree, house to house, shed to shed, they called the town Agoura Hills for a reason. I used every bit of the terrain both natural and manmade. Force Recon Frame loping nap of the earth.
Celer, Silens, Mortalis
It was Recon's motto and mantra.
"Swift, Silent, Deadly."
I was swift and silent and sure.
Deadly?
Gimme a minute.
I went to Alice's house.
Alice's house was still untouched. The SOG hadn't stripped and burned much of the houses directly around the lake and they hadn't gotten around to the south shore yet. I think they were saving the waterfront property with the members in mind. I poured myself one big, fat glass of a very serviceable Cabernet Franc and broke out a sandwich bag of Dickie Bell mystery jerky. I even found two apples in one of Alice's sand storage drawers. I sipped wine, munched jerky and watched the sun start to set over the lake.
It wasn't a bad last meal at all.
That's when I heard the hounds.
I'd figured on that but I was surprised it had taken this long. There was a bunch of stuff with my stink on it in Dez's trailer. They'd probably airlifted the dogs back from the other side of the hill. The baying sounded like it was near the top of Lookout Drive so it seemed like the search parties were starting from the smoke marker and working their way down.
I finished my apple.
I cracked my knuckles.
Time to go to work.
As you may know the best way to throw off scent hounds is to get some water between them and you. I had a whole lake to play with, and as for the SOG I decided to go amphibious on their asses one more time.
I walked down to the lake just as the shadows were going from long to gloom and the light show was getting started. I pushed my night-vision goggles up onto my head, hiked my pack way up onto my shoulders and began breast stroking. The same roundabout route to the reeds on the other side of the burned down lodge seemed a safe bet. There were some loose boats and significant detritus. It looked like the SOG was throwing their garbage in the lake.
Assholes.
I swam along slowly without my feet or my arms breaking the surface and mentally repeated the crocodile mantra "Don't mind me. I'm not here to kill you. I am a log, I am a log, I am a log . . ."
The baying of the dogs got close to Alice's house. I made it to the reeds without incident and I pulled the same trick as before. My rampage started with a little visit to the bridge. Once again there were two sentries. They were smoking cigarettes, spooked and literally talking about how the last two guys posted on this bridge ended up in the dam.
They each got it in the back.
One of them wore a cowboy hat and had a tricked out AK. I stole both and commandeered the cigarettes.
American Spirit.
I took that as a lucky omen. I jamme
d the cowboy hat down low on my head and lit up. They were a little stale, but my ex-smoker metabolism sat up and said, "Ooh! Nicotine!"
A glass of wine, some beef jerky, my first two murders of the night under my belt and now a smoke?
The evening was shaping up.
The dogs howled and lowed on the south side of the lake.
The tracking team starting screaming across the water.
"THE LAKE!" "HE'S IN THE LAKE!"
One of them fired a flare for emphasis.
I was dripping wet but then again I was wearing a cowboy hat low, smoking and coming in from the dark in the wrong direction. The SOG rushed to the shore. I heard a couple of outboard motors spitting and firing up. The shadows around the pool house looked friendly and inviting so I took the long way around. It seemed the SOG had cleaned out the pool and filled it. Well, they'd made slaves do it. I got the impression Malibou Lake was being zoned as a SOG R n'R vacation destination.
Fuck Tent coming soon!
Fuck that.
I took the long way around the pool area.
To the fuel depot.
The SOG were shouting screaming, waving weapons, running in all directions and basically jumping up and down like castrated apes.
When in danger, when in doubt, run in circles scream and shout . . .
What remains is yours?
Fuck you.
Meet Frame, one-man army.
Oh fuck me, Army?
Frame, one man Marine Corps.
I walked right up to the fuel depot.
Two members with black rifles were pulling guard duty and a guy in a mechanic's coverall was fueling a quad runner with a mounted member on it. The fuel guy was wearing a revolver so he was at least a prospect. The guy on the quad waved at me. "Yo! Chad!"
What, you put on a cowboy hat with silver conchos and next thing you know you're Chad? Do I look like I used men's body spray and talk about CrossFit in bars?
I shot him out of the saddle.
I cut down the two guards. The technician held up his hands and screamed.
"Please!"
I would have felt bad except I was incapable of feeling bad about anything right now. I gave him the rest of the AK and tossed it. I took both members' ARs. I emptied one into one 9,000-gallon tank and fuel sprayed out in beautiful arcs from thirty holes.
This wasn't diesel.
You could tell by the smell it was high octane.