Going Home

by A. American

  “What was the intention of your surveillance here?” The kid lifted his eyes; his jaw was clenched tight.

  “Dd . . . d-don’t . . . ss . . . say anything,” Mr. Confidence on the end managed to get out. Without looking up, Linus sprayed him in the face with the hose, never letting his eyes drift from the young man trussed up before him. The freshly wetted victim let out a howl and struggled weakly against his bonds. The young kid stared back at Sarge who raised the hose up to his chest.

  Before he could squeeze the lever on the nozzle, the kid started to stutter. “W . . . we were t . . . to watch an ss . . . s-see what they w . . . w-were doin’ an’ w . . . who they were w-with.”

  “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? And I’m a man of my word.” Linus laid the hose down and walked over to a set of shelves on the side of the garage. He picked up a wool army blanket and a clothespin. Returning to the young man, he draped the blanket over his shoulders and pinned the top together under his chin. The kid rolled his shoulders against the coarse wool.

  “Go on, what was the intention?” Sarge asked.

  “If i-it was det . . . termined they were colluding w-with hostiles, a . . . a strike tt . . . team would be inserted to e-eliminate them. If a strike team couldn’t get in, th-th . . . then a UAV strike would be used.” The kid lowered his eyes.

  “Which UAV?” Sarge asked.

  “Reaper,” the young black kid answered.

  Sarge looked over at him. “Well, I’m glad you smartened up.” He wrapped him in a blanket and pulled the sack off his head, and then he looked over at the third man. “Well, Mr. C, would you like to warm up?” Linus asked as he snatched the sack off his head.

  Mr. C attempted to glare back at him; however, he was shivering so hard he had little muscle control. “F . . . ff-fuck you,” he managed.

  “Well, you are one tough bastard. I’ll give you that.”

  Looking back to his cooperative captives, he asked, “Is the Reaper on station now?”

  “I-it wasn . . . n. . . . nt when w-we last called. I . . . it’s a con . . . t . . . tingency,” the young black kid said.

  “Where did you guys deploy from?” Sarge asked.

  “Eglin. We moved t . . . to Camp Rudder,” the Spanish kid replied.

  That made sense; it wasn’t far and was in a very uninhabited area. Aircraft could launch from there and head out over the gulf and not be detected by civilians.

  “All right boys, I’m going to ask one more very important question.” He made eye contact with both of them. “And you better answer this question very carefully. If you lie to me, I’ll have to hurt you, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” To emphasize his point Sarge went over to the workbench and picked up a can of barbecue lighter fluid. Walking back over to them, he pulled his 101st Zippo out of his pocket. The two that had been answering his questions were struck with terror; their eyes got huge, and their mouths hung open.

  “Anything, I’ll tell you anything!!” the young black kid screamed with surprising clarity.

  “When are you to call in next? I want your call sign and the frequency to be used.” Sarge lifted the top on the lighter fluid and flipped the Zippo open. Before the Zippo even clinked open, the kid was spitting the words out.

  “Dogtown, call sign is Dogtown. We are supposed to call in at oh two hundred!”

  “Codes,” Sarge said flatly.

  “In the binder, it’s all in the binder,” the Spanish kid replied.

  Sarge flipped the Zippo closed and put the fluid back on the workbench. “Very good. I’ll be back to get you guys down in a minute.” He looked over at Mr. C. He was not doing well, only semiconscious. Sarge headed back to the cave to get the guys.

  • • •

  After topping off the tank with the ten gallons and tossing the cans back into the bed, Thad was ready to go. He just couldn’t wait any longer. Climbing into the truck, he started it up and headed for the interstate. It was dark, but the new moon provided enough light to see the road, so he drove blacked out. The group of men standing around a burn barrel at the top of the overpass didn’t hear the old truck until Thad was already heading down the exit ramp on 27. They jumped and began to shout and run to the edge of the overpass, looking down as the truck sped down the ramp. Others came running out from under the overpass as the truck careened through the intersection, heading west. Thad heard a couple of pops and one thunk as he pressed the old truck harder.

  He had changed his mind at the last moment, taking the ramp on a whim. The thought of going down the long straight interstate scared him. It was a gamble either way, really. Trying to get over to 200 and then to 41 would put him in a fairly populated area; more people meant more chances of trouble. He would have to go through or around several small towns but decided this old bypass to get home would be the best choice in the current situation.

  Speeding down 27, Thad passed a few people out on the side of the road. All of them jumped off the road and looked on in a kind of awe as the truck raced by them. Only a couple of minutes after turning off the interstate, he came to the intersection of W CO 225. This would take him to 200. Thad had many little sneak-arounds like this for times when I-75 was backed up, as it was all too often. Anything on the side of the road would cause people to slow down and gawk. God forbid there be an accident in the travel lanes; you would be stuck for hours.

  Turning onto the county road, Thad gunned the engine again. The road soon turned into a four-lane divided highway, with a large grassy median. It was bordered on the left by cookie cutter residential neighborhoods. Passing them, he noticed many fires, and folks cooking in the backyards; he assumed they were cooking over grills. The glimpses of the streets he caught between the houses showed there were many people out; that struck him as odd, figuring most people would be inside after dark. His luck ran out at the intersection with Highway 40. Approaching the intersection that had convenience stores on two corners, he found it had a crude barricade in the form of disabled cars and trucks that had been pushed or pulled out into the road. All four sides of the intersection were thusly blocked, forming a box of cars.

  Slowing a bit to find a way around all of it, he saw what he needed. On the northwest corner was a vacant lot with a lime rock drive running through it, and it wasn’t blocked. Thad gunned the engine as people started to come out from the gas station across the street from the lot. Just as he entered the lot, kicking up a cloud of white dust, a four-wheel ATV came screaming out of the station’s parking lot. Looking over his left shoulder, he saw it had two figures on it. Suddenly memories of what happened the last time a four-wheeler gave chase came flooding into his mind. The sight of that poor kid lying there on the road and his life slipping away from him filled his head.

  More people came out from the station on the other side of 40. They were running out into the road, and then another ATV appeared, heading for him. Thad hit the asphalt on the other side of the lot and dropped the hammer on the old truck. The ATVs were gaining on him, and he rocked back and forth in his seat, willing the truck to go faster. “Damn, they fast,” he muttered, watching the rearview mirror as the two narrow sets of headlights gained on him. Realizing they would catch up to him before he could outpace them, he decided to take the offensive. He hadn’t done anything to them and took heart in that fact.

  As the two ATVs got within ten feet or so, Thad slammed on the brakes, locking the tires up. The closer of the two slammed square into the bed of the truck with a loud “wham.” The other tried to steer around the truck, the left front wheel connecting with the bumper and catapulting the two riders over the handlebars. Thad immediately floored the truck; this time he never even looked back.

  • • •

  If I had my current position right, Fort McCoy would be just south of due east from my current location. Using the compass, I oriented myself to an almost due east track and started off. This was th
e ideal terrain to walk through—many open pasture areas, planted pine with no underbrush, and the occasional bay head. There were zero houses out here, so the walking was almost carefree. Not seeing anyone or anything that hinted of people, I let my guard down and was whistling, though softly. The area was crisscrossed with roads, most of them going north/south; never did find one going east.

  After walking for a couple of hours, the batteries in the goggles started to go out. I dropped the pack and dug fresh ones out of the little bag on my waist. Since I was stopped, I decided to have a bite to eat and dug an MRE out. I ended up with Southwest beef and black beans, a pouch of tortillas, and some Mexican rice. Retrieving a heater and adding water to the pouch, I set it aside to warm up. A cup of coffee would be good right now, so I pulled the Esbit stove out and a tab. With a cup of water on over the tab, I sat back and listened to the night sounds. Crickets for sure, but somewhere off in the distance was the call of an owl. Everyone says an owl goes whoo, whoo, whoo, but that isn’t it; it’s a deeper call carried across the night like a base drum beating in the jungle. Once, for a moment, I heard a whip-poor-will, but it didn’t last long.

  The tab burned out, so I added the coffee pack, creamer, and two sugar packs. It’s funny how fast your opinion of what’s good can degrade; this elixir was wonderful, almost magical. Sitting out here in a stand of planted pine, the biting aroma of the pine wrapping around me, the light smell of the coffee mixing with it, brought back memories of a Christmas spent in Maggie Valley. We rented a little cabin on the side of a creek. I will never forget trying to sneak presents into that little place without the kids seeing. Mountain air, tonight it almost smells like mountain air.

  With the heater done, I pulled the entrée and rice out and opened the tortillas. I spooned rice and beef ’n’ beans into them, eating them folded over taco style. It was actually pretty good. Well, after getting the bottle of hot sauce it was. With dinner done, I licked my spoon clean, rinsed out the canteen cup, and stowed everything. The pile of empty pouches was lying on the ground, and I looked at them. I have always been a conscientious camper—never leave trash and usually carry out more than I carried in. However, at the moment, things were a little different. It’s not like the trash man was coming around on Wednesday. I couldn’t just leave the pouches where they were, so I carried them off into the pines, kicked away some of the needles and covered them. With my trash somewhat concealed, I shouldered the pack and set off east.

  The first houses of Fort McCoy came into view about ten after two in the morning. Not wanting to go through town, I skirted the edge of the houses, staying just out of the line of sight. This track eventually brought me to the Oklawaha, or, I should say, the swamp. Edging my way around the border of it was slow-going, trying to stay on high ground. I never saw anyone, save the occasional candle or lantern coming from a window. Continuing to move slowly, it took another couple of hours to make my way to the bridge. Now I had to decide if I was going to cross that bridge or stay on this side for the day.

  Seeing the bridge made the decision for me; I actually heard it before I saw it. All the bridges over the river are elevated; they rise probably fifty feet above the river. The top of the bridge was lit up like a Christmas tree. Two diesel-powered light towers were set up on top of the bridge, and several armed, uniformed men were manning it. Staying back in the swamp, I surveyed the situation. Observing the bridge from end to end, sitting in the middle of the road at the end of the bridge was a rubber-tired fighting vehicle, a Stryker, and I bet there had to be one at the other end.

  On this end was a barbed-wire barricade and sandbag emplacements with crew-served weapons. This was a no-shit for-real military blockade. If they were blocking this little bridge, then they were certainly blocking the others on the river. Seeing the extent of the operation here, I was suddenly struck with fear. There could be, certainly would be, roving patrols. There could be seismic sensors out here. I had no idea how extensive this blockade was. Turning around, I walked back out, trying to stay in the exact tracks I walked in on. I was still a couple of hundred yards from the bridge, and I damn sure didn’t want to get any closer.

  Finally getting out of sight and sound of the bridge, I stopped in a thick place on the edge of the swamp. Shit! I have got to get across this damn river. If I can make it across this, I’ll be in the forest and shouldn’t have too much more trouble. After all, my place backs up to it. A shot rang out in the distance; there were muffled shouts, followed immediately by automatic weapons fire. From the sounds of it, everyone on the bridge was firing at what was probably some redneck in the woods with a .30-30. At least their attention was focused elsewhere for the moment.

  Just up river from the bridge was a power-line crossing; a little dead-end road led up to it. But that was still too close; I could see the bridge from the edge of the river, so I continued upstream. Rounding a small curve in the river, the bank opened up. There was a boat ramp and a dock with an open parking area. Staying in the bush, I watched the parking lot for a while; after all, I had the time. It wasn’t fifteen minutes before an up-armored Humvee drove slowly through the parking area, blacked out. I dropped flat in the bush and didn’t move. The truck made a loop through the parking lot and headed back out. The urgency to cross this damn thing just got worse. As soon as the truck was out of sight, I opened my bag and pulled out the last two drum liners I had. I put the pack in one, and stripped down to my skivvies, stuffing my clothes and the small bag into the other. The only thing I kept out was the carbine. I tied both of the bags off with tie wraps and headed for the river. It was cold out, but I really didn’t notice. Well, my nuts did, but the rest of me was too hyped up to care.

  Going down the boat ramp, I hit the water and started across it as quietly as possible, trying not to even ripple the water. With everything in the big bags, they floated; the one with the pack was low in the water, but it didn’t sink. A sandbar ran out into the river here; it made me need to move more in a diagonal upstream to get across the river. I reckoned the route I took ended up being almost two hundred feet. It really didn’t take long, but it felt like hours in the water.

  Climbing out on the far side, there was an area of low, sparse brush. None of it was more than four feet high, but I had to get some clothes on. I was freezing in the cold air. I tore the bags open and got everything out. From the pack, I pulled the spare T-shirt and used it as a towel to sort of dry off. After getting dressed, I stuffed the empty bags and wet shirt back into the bag and put my feet in the boots. Shouldering the pack, I headed off without even tying my boots.

  • • •

  Mike and the guys were busy moving gear. All the radio equipment was stacked in the living room, along with weapons and ammo. Mike was setting down a couple of cases of MREs as Sarge came back in. “Hey, come out here and help me cut these guys down.”

  “What are you going to do with them?” Mike asked.

  “I figure we’ll leave ’em tied up in the shed. Their boys ought to be along soon enough to get ’em. We need Ronnie, too. One of ’em is in bad shape,” Sarge replied.

  “Hey, Doc! Get your bag of tricks an’ come out to the garage!” Mike called out.

  “On my way,” came a reply from somewhere in the back of the house.

  Sarge and Mike walked out to the garage. Mr. C was out. Walking up to him, Sarge pulled the Benchmade Griptillain from his pocket and flipped it open. “Grab him around the waist,” he said to Mike. Mike wrapped his arms around the limp man’s waist and took some of the weight off the rope. Sarge reached up and cut the rope. As Mike was laying him down, Ronnie came through the door.

  “Ooo, he doesn’t look good,” Ronnie said. Kneeling down beside him, he took a temporal scan thermometer out and ran it across his forehead. “Not good, 96.3. He’s got cyanosis on his face and hands.” Looking up at Sarge, he said, “We need to get him warmed up quick.”

  “What do we need to do with him?”
Sarge asked. He was placing flex cuffs on one of the other two after cutting him down.

  “Put him in a bed, wrap him in blankets, and put hot water bottles in with him would be best,” Ronnie relayed as he was cutting the man’s clothes off.

  “We ain’t got time to waste for that shit. Mike, get him down, and take them into the spare bedroom. Ronnie and I’ll bring him in.” Mike let the other two pull their pants up, their hands being secured in front of them, and pointed to the house.

  Ronnie and Sarge came into the room carrying the limp body of Mr. C. “All right, you two, strip to your skivvies,” Sarge ordered.

  The two stood there, looking at one another and then back at Sarge, not sure what the hell he had in mind now. Sarge looked over at them after depositing his load in the bed, “Either you do it, or I’ll do it for you. You won’t like it if I do it,” he said.

  “You better listen to him. Believe me, you don’t want him to strip you down,” Ted said.

  After their hands were freed, the two men reluctantly started to undress. “What the hell are you going to do now?” The black kid asked.

  “You two are going to get in the bed with him, one on either side. Then I’m gonna cuff you two together to make a dipshit sandwich. Your body heat will warm him up. Now get in there,” Sarge replied.

  With the two men now stripped to their skivvies, he ordered them into the bed. “Nut to butt, boys, nut to butt. It’s the best thing I can do for now.” With one on either side, Sarge cuffed their hands together, left to left, right to right. They were both facing the same direction, so they were cuffed front to back with their unconscious partner in the middle.

  With their captives now secured, all four of them went out to the living room. Mike crossed his arms and looked at Sarge. “Well, now what?”

  “We need to get the hell out of here, and fast. The easiest way is the river. We’ll use my boats and go toward the gulf. There is a little slough down there about twenty-five miles from here. I have a little huntin’ camp back in there that we’ll use for now. If we pack ’em right, we should be able to get everything in one trip,” Sarge replied.