by Chuck Rogers
Some of the SOG had noticed that guns were going off around the fuel tanker.
"THE FUEL! THE FUEL! OH SHIT! OH SHIT!"
I dropped the spent weapon and put both tankers between me and the SOG clustering around the lakeshore. I burned the other AR into the second tanker. I took a deep drag on my cigarette. The cherry glowed. I admired the sky show above reflected in spreading pools of Premium below.
I flicked my cigarette and ran for my life.
I had no idea what was going to happen. I mean I had blown shit up before, and I had seen secondary explosions but two 9,000-gallon gas tankers?
I ran back for the pool house.
I heard the 'whoosh!"
And the world went glowy behind me.
I heard the 'Tumpf!'
Some weapons went off. I heard a few near misses but then I had the pool house for cover.
I jumped into the deep end.
Even in a pool with my eyes squeezed shut the world went Halloween orange and chimney red behind my eyelids. I heard the muffled roar and felt the vibration. I opened my eyes, held my breath and waited. The sky above the surface shifted and pulsed in yellow and red. I waited a few more seconds while bits of debris hit the water and drew sizzling lines I limbo'ed and contorted to avoid.
I had sprinted hard to get to my chlorinated cocoon and now I really needed oxygen.
The sound of screaming and crackling and roaring and the smell of fire and brimstone filled the night as I emerged. The top of the pool house was burning. I tilted the barrel of my MP7, ejected the magazine, ran the action several times and reloaded. I didn't know of any modern weapons that couldn't take a dunking at this point but old habits died hard.
I pulled my night-vision goggles and that was good for a couple of heartbeats of panic but they powered up just fine,
I retrieved my Chad hat and defied the NO RUNNING sign and ran across the pool area into the night. Like the last time, my next objective was the lodge back access road. Horses charged down the road towards the inferno.
The sentries had abandoned their posts.
I took five steps left into the trees and they clattered right past me.
And they'd left their spare horses.
I didn't need the sun or my night-vision to see that one was a beautiful, palomino Spanish mustang mare.
She was skittish.
Explosions and the smell of burning fuel will do that to a horse.
She twitched as I put my hands on her crest and stroked her neck like her mother had done when she was a foal. I whispered to her in the language of my people.
"Look at the puppy say pup-pup-pup, look at the puppy say pup . . ."
She rubbed her nose against mine.
I still had magical power over dogs, cats, horses and biker bitches.
"I shall name you Emmy Lou."
I gave Emmy Lou the other apple.
I climbed into the saddle and we ambled away from the glow of the fire and the sound of secondary explosions. We crossed the Mulholland Highway and just about immediately found a trail. On a bright starry night a horse sees about as well as you and I do during the day. Every night was a bright, starry acid-trip these days so I just pointed Emmy north and let her lead. It was a shaping up to be a beautiful, late spring night in Southern California. I was in the strangely glorious situation of being on a suicide mission and being in no hurry at all. The warm breeze dried my clothes. The people up in these parts are serious equestrians and Emmy was about the most beautiful and most well trained horse I had ever ridden.
I was pretty sure she would love Simi Valley.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"The highway's jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive . . ."
THE ROAD TO SIMI VALLEY was long, hard, cold, fraught with danger and lay across the Ventura Freeway. I ate Campbell's Chunky Classic Chicken Noodle soup out of the can. It was cold, slimy and salty but it was what I found in Emmy Lou's saddlebag and I found myself enjoying it. Accepting your immanent death can make you appreciate all sorts of things.
Death was all over the freeway.
The SOG was on the warpath.
I heard the SOG chopper in the distance. They knew I was north of Malibou Lake. They were probably starting to wonder just how stupid I was.
How stupid was I?
I saw Chuck, Gatekeeper and Key Master of the Ventura Corridor. Hell, you didn't need binoculars to see him. Chocolate pudding, pyramids-of-Egypt sized son of a bitch was still walking with a general-purpose machine crooked in his elbow like it was his daddy's shotgun. I had no desire to tangle with him. I had no idea whether an MP7 could even penetrate that much muscle and fat. Give him credit. Chuck ran a tight ship. Everyone was raising their hands and declaring themselves so everyone knew they weren't yours truly. By night it would be weapons hot "What's the password!" The gate had been further fortified with a container box wall topped with sandbags and razor wire with the bridge above providing top cover. The SOG had set up a vehicle park behind the overpass including a fuel tanker. Dozens of motorcycles stood lined up ready for quick deployment and there was a steel covered semi-truck turned narco-tank with a bulldozer blade up front and pipe-organ rocket launchers welded to the back bed. It was a small city. The whole set up was tight. I can't imagine the SOG had left any back doors open.
Of course Charlie was already inside the wire, and Charlie's name was Frame.
The fuel tanker tempted me.
I was tempted to ghost Chuck and cut his throat in his sleep. I couldn't imagine he moved fast when he was horizontal and big people tend to sleep heavy. It would be a beautiful strike.
But all that mattered was Valhalla and blowing up the armory. I'd made a deliberate decision to take my time. This was suicide, but not a suicide run. I would cross tonight. I would sneak up on Valhalla. Even if it took weeks. Why fight all nine of the Hydra's heads just so it can grow back more?
Too much work.
Sneak up on the Hydra, lift the Hydra's tail, and shove your weapon up the Hydra's ass, preferably with the bayonet mounted, and hold the trigger down.
The Recon way.
I'd always planned to take you from behind, Ged.
Emmy Lou made an unhappy noise and took a skittish side step.
Someone was behind me.
I whirled and snapped the MP7 to my shoulder.
It was a large, white and liver colored dog.
It was an English Pointer.
It was pointing at me.
God damn it.
The shouting started.
"He's there!" "We got him!" "Over here!"
A flare arced up above the tree canopy.
My hunters came crashing through the underbrush.
I pulled a flash-bang grenade and pulled the pin. "Hope you're not a retriever, boy."
The dog watched the grenade arc over its head and dutifully returned to narcing on me. He started as I charged him. Pointers aren't used to armed, 6'7" pheasants rounding on them. The flash-bang detonated. The dog staggered like it had taken a blow and Emmy Lou reared. The flash of a flash-bang isn't all that blinding in daylight and the bang is a lot more exciting in an enclosed space but my hunters all started screaming. "Grenade! Grenade!"
I came out of my hide and all four of them had thrown themselves down like they were being bombarded by artillery.
They died like assholes.
I gave two of them bursts in the back of the head before they knew what was happening. The other two never got past the push-up position before I popped their skulls. Emmy Lou broke the branch she was tethered to and I watched as she bolted off into the trees. I was going to miss that horse. Down below the SOG was going into full kicked-over-anthill mode. I took the tattletale asshole's flare gun and his remaining three rounds.
I looked at the dog.
The pointer stared up at me shaking and malfunctioning. Gun dogs are bred to serve. This had been the worst pheasant hunt ever and I was the last human standing. He looked at m
e plaintively as the wheels in my tiny Force Recon mind turned. One of the hunters had a retractable tape leash. He also had a wide-brimmed camo bucket hat with a few very recent holes in the top. I jammed the hat on my head and snapped the lead onto the dog. It looked at me quizzically as I rubbed a big swathe of blood and brain on its shoulder and then some on mine. I grabbed my pack. "C'mon, Pointy! Let's get out of here!"
Pointy thought this was the best idea ever. I gave Pointy six feet of leash and we started loping down the hill towards the freeway. Dim shouting grew audible behind me as other hunting teams closed on my last position. Armed SOG ran up the hill from camp. One group had dogs, and if they had my stink I was dead. I let myself be seen and I shouted and pointed east. "That way! That way! That way! Cut him off!"
Soldiers, much less Marines wouldn't have fallen for it, but the SOG were bikers thirsting for blood and revenge. The group charged through the trees where I had pointed. More SOG boiled up the hillside. I picked up Pointy. He'd had a rough day and he was more than happy to loll in my arms. I stopped using cover and walked down the hill.
A squad of SOG saw me. The leader was a black girl I didn't recognize. "You all right?"
"Fucker shot my dog!"
"Go to the med! You and the dog!"
Go to the med?
Yes, ma'am.
They charged on.
Trained hunters and trained hunting dogs were currently in short supply. More SOG ran past me as I walked onto the off-ramp. I walked right up to the checkpoint hanging my head and holding the bloody dog. I put a little sob into my voice. "Motherfucker! Goddamn motherfucker!"
"Yo man, get to the med!"
Yes, Sir.
I walked right into SOG's western fort. It was a maze of pre-fab sheds and tents. There were a lot more SOG here than the last time. At least fifty vehicles filled the motor pool. People were running and shouting in all directions. My shit would not withstand a single second of scrutiny, but all I had to do was cross the freeway and walk into the woods. Home free. Once we washed the blood off, Pointy and I could very likely walk right up to Valhalla.
As long as I kept my hat low we could probably walk right in.
"Hey!" Two members ran towards me with concerned looks on their faces.
I wasn't going to make it.
"Hey, man! Let's get you looked at!"
I turned.
I spun.
I took Pointy by the collar and tail and Pointer-tossed him at Concerned SOG Citizen number one.
Pointy yiped and the member tried to catch him.
"What the fuck!"
I brought up my weapon and put a burst through concerned SOG citizen number two. Number one dropped Pointy in time to take a burst in the face. A woman screamed. I whirled. She was already running down the tent lane. "He's here! Frame's--"
I gunned her down.
That was the second woman I had shot in the back recently and it still wasn't sitting well.
Pointy gave me a very betrayed look.
"Sit!"
Pointy sat.
"Stay!"
He didn't want any part of what was about to happen. I moved for the motor pool. Not that I needed a vehicle but there were less people there. I needed to get into the woods. Boots thundered on the pavement as a platoon of armed SOG charged towards the scene of my crimes. I took a knee beside a Thousand Oaks Fire Department water tender while they passed. I vainly wished for cyanide, a thousand gallons of Fleet's Phospho-soda or something else vile to put in the water supply. Maybe I could--
A general-purpose machine gun tore into life.
The water tender sparked and jetted water out of dozens of holes as bullets bee-swarmed next to my head. I threw myself around the bumper. Another burst tore holes just above me. Chuck's voice sounded like God as he thundered over the camp. "I see you, Frame! I see you!"
I belly crawled and put the tender between Chuck's weapon and myself. There was currently no one behind me.
That was going to change really quick.
The water tender turned into a bullet magnet. Unless they had a .50 they couldn't reach me. A fire truck full of water made a good bullet stop, but that wasn't the point. They were keeping me pinned down. Chuck's voice boomed between machine gun bursts.
"Gonna fuck you, Frame! Gonna stretch you out between two trucks and fuck you before Dez cuts you! Judas motherfucker! Gonna fuck you while Dez cuts you!"
That wasn't good.
Someone shouted. "Go! Go! Go!"
Boots rang on asphalt.
I pulled the pin on a frag and tossed it over the tender. The grenade made a sound like a whip cracking. Men and women screamed as they were shredded. I needed to break contact. I pulled the pin on my remaining white-phosphorus and sent it in the same direction.
I heard the pop-rustle-and hiss.
Streamers of molten metal shot into the sky.
Men and women screamed as they burned. I cared more about the smoke.
I needed to get across the freeway and into the trees.
Gunfire started popping and cracking in my direction from the trees across the freeway.
God damn it.
The doors were closing fast.
This was turning into 'Just don't get taken alive' territory.
I needed a way out of here.
I needed a diversion, and now I needed a vehicle.
The motor pool was a hundred meters away. It might as well have been a mile.
Then again, there was that fuel tanker. I moved to the tender's rear bumper and peeked. Burning hot smoke filled the air but the range was short and the tanker was a big target. I went semi-auto and methodically punched thirty holes all along the tanker's side. No one could hear the suppressed MP7 over all the screaming and carnage. I reloaded and took out my purloined flare pistol.
What was the range of a flare pistol?
Who knew?
And usually you fired them upward.
I took the emergency orange plastic flare gun in both hands like it was a Beretta and fired. The flare's smoke was lost in the white-phosphorus cloud but its red star streaked in a short arc and bounced off the tanker truck.
Nothing happened.
The MP7 was supposed to cut through body armor like butter. Then again maybe the little needle bullets had just shattered against the steel tank cylinder. I popped in a fresh flare.
I needed a bigger gun.
I didn't have one.
I would have to get closer.
That was suicide.
The ground around the tanker suddenly lit up in orange flame.
The entire camp started screaming and bullets stopped hitting the water tender. I was way too close and didn't have a swimming pool to jump into.
Fire trucks are fire resistant. Aren't they?
I vaulted into the cab, slammed the door and covered my ears
It was Armageddon.
The water tender nearly tipped over as the pressure wave from 9,000 gallons of exploding gasoline slapped it. The world went orange. I saw fire roar past the windows in a solid wall. The driver's window cracked and for one second I thought I was going to roast. The orange wave winked out almost instantly and black smoke rushed in to fill the void.
Going out in that was probably suicide as well.
But I was in a fire truck.
I flipped open the glove compartment.
There was a bag of blue-green disposable facemasks and several pairs of yellow-lensed safety goggles. I strapped my face in and got out of the tender. It was like stepping into an oven. Multiple fires lit the miasma of black and white smoke. I ran towards the burning hulks in the motor pool. Smoke was my friend and it wouldn't last long. Outside of the dozens of burning trucks and 4x4's the blast wave had pushed over a line of motorcycles like dominoes.
There, at the top of the pile was a somewhat blackened Bobby McGee.
I ran to my ride and hauled her upright. The Harley started with the first kick. She was all warmed up. In fact she was slig
htly toasty. A scorched Toyota 4Runner with cracked windows limped past through the near zero visibility. I waved at the driver. All he saw was a smoky member on a smoky bike wearing a mask. He waved back and I fell in behind as he wove through the burning wrecks. A Crown Vic with some gasoline burning on the hood joined our survivors' parade.
The wind was blowing our way and we emerged out of the cloud like stepping out a door. The asphalt all around was flash-burned black. Dozens of tents had blown down and sheds blown over. A tanker sends up a lot of debris, and minor and not so minor secondary fires burned everywhere.
You know?
It's not profound or anything, but I really like blowing up enemy fuel tankers.
A prospect ran forward with a fire extinguisher and put out the fires on the Vic. Another member ran up and I shot him the thumbs up. He nodded grimly and shot it back. The 4Runner and the Vic pulled over.
I puttered right on over to the SOG's mighty gate to the west.
I heard Chuck's voice shouting in the shack. "No, Ged, I'm telling you! He's here! The motherfucker is here! Can you see the smoke?"
Ged was close.
Maybe I should stick around, and fuck Chuck while I waited.
Wait, how the hell was Chuck talking to Ged like Ged wasn't in the shack?
I got off my bike. There were guys running on the bridge and on the container wall but I did not appear to be a concern. If they'd noticed me at all they'd seen me come out of the smoke and come to the shack to report. I peeked through the shack window.
Goddamn Chuck was talking on the phone.
Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot.
I shoved up my smoky goggles. Chuck was shouting into an old-fashioned Bakelite handset with a curlicue chord that went to a portable unit. The units battery leads were attached to hand crank generator. It was a military field phone.
The SOG had established communications from Valhalla to the Ventura Freeway.
I ducked down and listened.
"Don't you get it, Ged?"
That was bold.
"Frame didn't fuckin' run for home! He blew the shit out of Agoura and now he's blown the shit out of the west gate! Motherfucker's in gunslinger mode and the motherfucker's coming for you! Straight at you my Father! Highway's jammed with broken heroes shit! Suicide run shit! Last of an ancient breed, shit!"