Siege Line

by Myke Cole

  Each member of the team nodded, and Ghaznavi stripped off her glove and wiggled her fingers. Her skin was unnaturally white, but she would be okay. “Gonna start to burn once you warm up,” Schweitzer said. “Get ready.”

  “Yes, thanks,” Reeves said. “We remember cold-weather training.”

  Mankiller had her hand on the big man’s forehead. She was breathing evenly, but the emotion in her face pulled on Schweitzer’s heartstrings.

  “Was he . . .”

  “He was my deputy . . . is my deputy, damn it; he’s alive, praise God. His name’s Joe Yakecan.”

  Ollie shouted, “Clear,” and the small machine administered its shock. The dead woman’s muscles clenched slightly, her head lolling to one side, but it made no difference, as Schweitzer had known. Ollie cursed and set the defibrillator to charge again.

  Schweitzer’s heart went out to the old man, but there was nothing he could do. Ollie would have to find out on his own that she was gone, decide for himself that he had done everything he could.

  Schweitzer turned back to the big man on the folding table. He could see that the man was alive, but he could also see that his heart had been stopped for a very long time. “How long was he down?”

  “Jesus,” the man Mankiller called Ollie whispered after the second electric shock failed to revive the dead woman. He cursed, threw the paddles down. Then looked up at Schweitzer. “Didn’t think you could talk.”

  “Looks like you can talk too,” Schweitzer said. “Except maybe when it comes to answering questions.” Among operators, rough gibes were the best way to get a man past grief and shock.

  It didn’t work with Ollie; his face darkened, and Schweitzer leaned in before he could retort. “You did everything you could for her, Ollie. Not your fault. Now we need to focus on the guy who’s alive. Just tell me how long you were doing CPR on him.”

  “I dunno,” the older man said. “A few minutes. Maybe ten? Fifteen?”

  Schweitzer could see the dark bruising that indicated Yakecan’s ribs had been broken. On the one hand, it meant the CPR had been done right; on the other hand, it meant it had been done for too long. The brain damage had to be severe.

  Mankiller seemed to have the same idea; she bent over Yakecan, pried open his eyelids.

  “Now, Sheriff, you don’t have to go . . .” Ollie began.

  Mankiller looked up, and her eyes stopped him mid-sentence.

  She looked back down at Yakecan, pulled a small taclight from her pocket. She thumbed the base, shined the beam directly into his eye.

  Nothing. His body remained completely still, the pupils precisely the same size. Mankiller cursed, stripped off a glove, revealing thick fingers, the nails a little long. “Sorry, Joe,” she said, reached out with a pinky, and tapped the white of his eye.

  Yakecan showed no reaction at all. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his eyes stared as sightlessly as if he were dead. Mankiller took a long, shuddering breath and stood. “He’s gone.”

  “He ain’t gone,” Ollie said. “He’s breathin’, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Still gone,” Mankiller said. “His body just ain’t figured it out yet. It will in a couple of weeks. I’ve seen it before. Went too long without oxygen to his brain. He’s a vegetable.”

  “He’ll get better,” Ollie said.

  “No, Ollie. He won’t,” Mankiller said, her eyes flashing, “and talkin’ that kinda shit isn’t going to make anyone feel better ’cept maybe yourself. If we’re gonna have hope here, it’s going to be the real kind and not Hallmark-card bullshit, you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Sheriff,” Ollie said, straightening.

  Schweitzer put a hand on Mankiller’s shoulder. “Sorry about your man, Sheriff. How’d it happen?”

  Mankiller looked at Schweitzer’s hand but made no move to remove it. “They got our VHF jammed. Joe figured he could squirt, get far enough outside the range that he could make a call and get us help. They chased him, and I guess he didn’ get far enough. Came back frozen half to death. Musta fallen through ice somewhere.”

  “Sounds like he went down fighting,” Schweitzer said.

  “Yeah,” Mankiller said. “Guess so.”

  “Help came.” Desmarais gestured to the huddled team members just beginning to test their thawing fingers.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Mankiller said, “I don’ think you’re gonna be all that much help.”

  “I will be.” Schweitzer remembered the words he’d said to Patrick back in the Virginia woods. There are different kinds of monsters, sweetheart. Some are good monsters, and some are bad monsters. Daddy is one of the good ones. “You’ve got your own monster now. But all the same”—he turned to Desmarais—“I think it’s time to make that call we talked about earlier. They got the jump on us. We’re cut off out here and clearly outgunned and half-frozen. I understand the need for secrecy, but I suggest you put a call into Yellowknife and let the QRF know you’re in need of their services.”

  Desmarais looked to Ghaznavi, and the SAD Director opened her mouth to reply.

  “You ain’t makin’ no calls,” Mankiller said.

  “What?” Desmarais asked.

  “Go ahead, check out your comms gear.”

  Desmarais pulled a satellite phone from his cargo pocket and punched buttons on its face, cursing. He then switched to his personal cell phone, shook his head. “Damn it.”

  “Got us jammed. No calls in or out. Guess we’ll just have to make do.”

  “Well, there’s more of the good guys now, at least,” Schweitzer said, “and we’re trained. That’s something.”

  “Thanks,” Mankiller said. “Mind if we chat in my office for a sec?”

  “Certainly,” Desmarais said. “Is it back here—”

  “Wasn’ talkin’ to you, sir.” Mankiller kept her eyes on Schweitzer.

  “Sheriff. This is my expedition—”

  “Good for you. This is my town.” She waved a hand toward a lopsided doorway, one of the two leading out of the room, looked at Schweitzer, inclining her head.

  “It’s all right, Colonel,” Schweitzer said. “I promise to say good things about you.”

  “You too, Ollie,” Mankiller said, walking into her office.

  Schweitzer and Ollie followed, the old man closing the door behind him. Mankiller’s office was tiny, the space dominated by an old steel desk piled high with papers. Schweitzer noted the absence of a computer. The walls were hung with plaques and pictures, including a framed discharge certificate from the Canadian Army. There were a couple of law enforcement awards, but the vast majority were native community honors. Best Volunteer, second place in a tournament of a game called “snow snake,” and another for “hand games.” There was a picture of a much younger Mankiller in a group of people playing shallow, tambourine-shaped drums on a small stage.

  “Close the door, Ollie,” she said without turning.

  “Already done, boss,” he said.

  Mankiller slumped into a creaking wooden swivel chair. “Jim, this here’s Ollie Calmut. He’s been my other deputy after Joe.”

  “I don’t do much deputyin’, honestly,” Calmut said. “Mostly, I dispatch and talk to folks. You may have noticed that Boss can be a little short.”

  “She’s okay,” Schweitzer said.

  “Anyway”—Mankiller slapped her palm on the desk—“Ollie here can absolutely be trusted. So, you should speak freely in front of either one of us.”

  “What did you want me to speak freely about?”

  “Why you’re here.”

  “The Colonel said. We’re here to—”

  “Christ as my witness, do not screw with me, Jim.” Mankiller slapped the desk again. “The Army didn’ just show up without Joe gettin’ through to get a message to ’em. And I can tell from the accents that half of you are Ame
ricans. And there’s you, the good monster. They jus’ thought they oughta bring you along? I think I know why you’re here, but I wanna hear it from you.”

  “Why me? Ask the Colonel.”

  “Hell, no. You think the ní ghâ k’áldher gives a fuck about any dene dédliné? I don’ trust those fuckers any farther’n I can throw ’em.”

  “But you trust me?”

  “You’re Bescho Dené. Also, you’re dead.”

  “Not sure that makes a difference.”

  “Tell me why you’re here, Jim. I don’ know when the enemy is goin’ ta come again, but I doubt it’ll be long. Can’t sit here wastin’ time.”

  Schweitzer sighed. She was right, of course, and as little as he knew of her, he had to admit he liked her. In her gruff directness he saw the same kind of fearlessness he’d known in the teams. In Perretto. In Chang. He felt a stab of grief at the thought of his best friend, pushed it aside.

  You wanted to be a human, he said to himself. She’s treating you like one.

  “We’re here for your grandfather. Hard to find a solitary guy out here. We were hoping you’d take us to him.”

  She nodded, unsurprised. “I figured. What do you want with him?”

  “It’s not what we want with him. It’s what the bad guys want with him.”

  Mankiller twirled her wrist. Go on.

  “They’re led by a man . . . well, not a man . . .”

  “A ?eyune,” Mankiller finished for him. “Like you.”

  “Yes. We call him ‘The Director’.”

  “I think I met him. He’s smart like you, talks. Mean as a hungry wolf, though.”

  “That’s probably him. I’m surprised you survived.”

  “I gotta tub under a tarp just outside the station. Been brewing TATP in it since we first got hit. Got a few jars with fuses stuck in ’em. Crude but enough to make him think twice ’bout comin’ in.”

  “Right on top of the station? Jesus, Sheriff, that thing so much as gets jostled and you’ll kill everyone in here.”

  “I know that. But if I don’t have it close to hand, we’re all jus’ as dead. Anyway, the temperature helps a bit with that.”

  “Didn’t know they taught you EOD types to make TATP.”

  “Can’t go unmakin’ bombs if you don’ know how to make ’em first. TATP is what the bad guys use.”

  “Not these bad guys. They’re better equipped than any army in the world.”

  “Well, we done okay so far. What does the ní ghâ k’áldher and the—”

  “Sheriff, English. Please.”

  Mankiller smiled. “Why is a combined mission of Canadians and Americans lookin’ for my Grampy? To protect him against what?”

  “This Director, he thinks your grandfather can put his spirit in a living body. We figure he wants to get into someone important.”

  “Why?”

  “To rule. You may have noticed he’s not particularly charismatic right now.”

  “Well, he’s outta luck. Grampy can only do it with animals.”

  “With all due respect, Sheriff, we’re not willing to chance that. The Director is awful good at persuading people. He runs a government organization that is dedicated to plumbing the depths of what this magic can do. If anyone can figure out how to make your grandfather do it, he can.”

  “How do I know you won’ jus’ try to get him to do it for you?”

  “We absolutely will, but we’re the good guys.”

  “Not from where I’m sittin’,” Mankiller said. “We Dene believed in inkoze since long before any white folks came this far north. Now you’re jus’ getting’ caught up. White folks treat every new thing the same way.”

  “What way?”

  “Like ?así bet’á hat’î, ‘resources.’ Somethin’ you can mine and use up. My Grampy ain’t a forest to be logged or coal to be burned.”

  “I get it,” Schweitzer said, “but standing on principle here isn’t going to help, Sheriff. You can either let us protect your grandfather, or you can sit back while the Director finds him and does whatever he needs to to ensure his cooperation. We’ll be nicer than the Director. That’s the most I can promise.”

  Mankiller didn’t show the anger in her face, but Schweitzer could hear it in her voice. “I can also turn your whole team out and let you take your chances with the bad guys.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I’ve got six hardened operators with military-grade gear warming up just outside this door. That’s the kind of bump that can keep you in the fight, and that’s not even counting me.”

  “You work for your government.”

  “Wrong again. I work for me. I promised to lay down my life in the service of my country, and I’ve done that. My contract is fulfilled.”

  Mankiller looked at him and said nothing.

  “Look, I’m playing it to you straight,” Schweitzer went on. “Do you honestly think that after all of this shakes out, your grandfather will just be left in peace? That you will? This is an advance team, Sheriff. If we fail, they’ll send another, and then another, and they will never stop until they get what they’re after. I wish it were different, but it isn’t.” He thought of his own son, who had nothing to do with any of this. It had made no difference for him.

  He wasn’t sure how he expected Mankiller to react. It wouldn’t have surprised him if even one as coolheaded as she flew into a rage at the threat against her family, but she only stared, blinked once, slowly. “And if he helps, then what?”

  “I don’t know,” Schweitzer said. “I don’t exactly run things. Maybe they’ll let him be, reach out to him when they need his help. Keep watch from a distance. It would make sense to do that with a cooperative asset.”

  “But not with a noncooperative one.”

  “You were in the Army, Sheriff. You know how these things go.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I guess I do.”

  In the awkward silence that followed, Schweitzer caught Calmut staring at him. “Can I help you?”

  The old man swallowed, looked down at his feet, back up again from the cover of his brow. The glance was so childlike that Schweitzer almost laughed.

  “So, you’re dead, huh?” Calmut asked.

  “Yeah,” Schweitzer answered. “Last time I checked.”

  “It hurt?” Calmut asked.

  “Getting killed? I honestly don’t remember. It happened kind of fast.”

  “What about being dead all the time?”

  “Nah,” Schweitzer said. “I mean, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Calmut smiled, and Schweitzer could hear his heart rate slow. “So, you’re a spirit in there?”

  “I have no idea what I am,” Schweitzer answered. “I’ve got a lot to do, and so far, I’m able to keep doing it.”

  Calmut looked pensive as he nodded. “Well, if you’re a spirit, and this Director is looking to have boss’s Grampy put him in a living body . . . might be he could do the same for you.”

  Schweitzer felt his spiritual stomach turn over. It was a thought he’d avoided facing, because it was so enormous he couldn’t wrap his head around it. What if he could be alive again? Would he even want to, now that everything he loved in the world had been taken away? What kind of life would he have? Would the government give him a job? Would he meet another woman? Raise his son? The questions swirled, as loud and confused as the soul storm itself. Each one led to another hundred. At last, Schweitzer threw up his mental hands. “I try not to get my hopes up with stuff like that. I’ll see what happens.”

  Mankiller read his thoughts. “Would you want to be alive? If you could? If you can do what those other things can, that’s not a thing you give up easy.”

  “I don’t know,” Schweitzer answered honestly. “I really don’t.”

  Mankiller grunted, accepting the answer. “Okay, Ollie,
you can open the door now.”

  “What are we doin’, Sheriff?” Calmut paused with his hand on the knob.

  “We’re gonna take Jim to see Grampy. The rest of the team’ll stay here and help us hold down the fort.”

  “The Colonel won’t like that, Sheriff.”

  “Not his call,” Mankiller said. “Open the door, Ollie. I’ll handle the talkin’.”

  Ollie sighed and turned the knob.

  The room outside was chaos. The villagers were jumping to their feet, scrambling to take up firing positions inside the ragged remains of the window frame. Reeves had Sharon with him, was making his way to the door, both of them shivering.

  “Where are you going?” Schweitzer asked.

  “We’ve got contacts inbound,” Reeves said through chattering teeth. “Someone’s got to cover our flank.”

  “You’re still hypothermic. You’re not ready to go out there.” Ghaznavi scarcely looked better, pale and shivering, her eyes shadowed. “You’re not going to do anybody any good if you get yourself diced up by one of the Gold Operators.”

  “Respectfully, ma’am,” Reeves said, “I’m amazed this place hasn’t fallen already. We can’t just turtle up here. We get flanked, we’re done.”

  “I’ve got you, ma’am,” Cort said, trying to usher Ghaznavi back into Mankiller’s office.

  “Get the hell off me.” Ghaznavi shook herself free. “I’ve got my damn self.”

  She turned back to Reeves, but he and Sharon were already out the door and jogging across the snow, carbines at the low ready. Schweitzer prayed they were as stable as they looked. Their heat signatures were already fading as they ran, and Schweitzer didn’t have time to see if it was because of the dampening effects of the cold outside the battered station.

  Because he had looked out the window and seen what was coming.

  All along the sloping ground down to the village, shapes were moving. Schweitzer counted at least three fire teams skirting the edges of the houses, fanning out, covering the approach from all angles. They weren’t taking any chances now. They knew that their ambush on the plane had failed, and they were coming to finish the job.

  “That’s a lot of firepower,” Nalren said, taking a knee. “Fitzgerald—”