Siege Line

by Myke Cole

  “Thanks, Sheriff,” Schweitzer croaked. The effort made his chest contract painfully. “Joe’s grateful.”

  “Shut up.” Mankiller smiled. A tear slipped off the side of her nose and pattered on Schweitzer’s cheek. “Grampy told me, you fuckin’ liar. Jus’ let me indulge my fantasy for a minute.”

  “He’s alive?”

  Mankiller nodded. “Yeah. And I’m glad you are too, both of you in there.”

  “Thanks.” Schweitzer began to sit up, but Mankiller’s hand on his shoulder pushed him back down.

  “Don’t. It’s pretty bad.”

  Schweitzer pushed against her hand. “Don’t feel that—”

  Mankiller pushed harder. “I got the hole plugged, but there was a lot of air comin’ out ’fore I sealed it. As it stands, you’ll get sepsis unless we pump you full of antibiotics.”

  “Lung’s flattened?”

  “Probably. How’s your chest feel?”

  “Like it’s full of water.”

  “Well, there ya go. If you die after I froze my fuckin’ ass off gettin’ you out of the drink, I’m gonna be pissed.”

  “What about the bad guy?”

  “He didn’t come up,” Mankiller said. “I’m guessing he’s a frozen brick at the bottom by now.”

  “Are you sure? He could still—”

  “Relax, Jim.” Mankiller patted his shoulder. “If he was comin’ up, he’d done it by now. You were free-floatin’. He had a whole pack a wolves on ’im. You sit tight. Medevac’s on the way.”

  Schweitzer could already hear the distant patter of rotors penetrating the tree cover. “Cavalry came.”

  “Finally,” Mankiller said. “Wasn’t a lot left of the enemy, but they’re runnin’ the rest down.”

  “We did that much damage?”

  “Yeah.” Mankiller smiled. “I guess we did. Not bad for a town fulla fishermen and trappers. They fucked with the wrong Indians, I guess.”

  “I’m not an Indian,” Schweitzer said.

  Mankiller smiled down at him. “Well, you sure look like one, so I guess I’ll make an exception.”

  “Holy shit,” Schweitzer said. “We won.”

  “Yeah.” Mankiller looked up as the rotors grew louder. “I guess we did.”

  • • •

  Schweitzer sat on the edge of his bed, stared at the broad instep of Joe Yakecan’s foot.

  “Well?” Desmarais asked, stirring in his chair.

  “What a fucking production.” Ghaznavi shook her head.

  “Look, this is a new body, and it’s pretty banged up,” Schweitzer said. “After all I’ve done for you ungrateful punks, I think I’m entitled to an extra five minutes.”

  “Take your time.” Desmarais smiled.

  “No,” Ghaznavi said. “Do not take your time. I’ve already lost fifteen minutes of my life that I will never get back.”

  Schweitzer took his time, but in the end, his shaking legs supported him. He grinned, taking a deep breath, feeling the wounded lung expand painfully and hold. His broken hand didn’t hurt at all, but he knew better than to try and wiggle his fingers.

  “Well?” Desmarais said again.

  “Everything seems to be in order,” Schweitzer said. “At least, I’m not going to fall over and die.”

  “That’s a relief.” Ghaznavi didn’t sound relieved at all.

  “Outstanding,” Desmarais said, grinning. “Glad you pulled through, Deputy Yakecan.” They’d taken to calling him Joe Yakecan even in private now, to get them all used to it. Far better to say that Mankiller’s deputy had never been killed than admit what lived under his skin now. Schweitzer was still getting used to answering to it.

  “Thanks.” Schweitzer seated himself back on the infirmary bed, blinked at the sunshine streaming in through the window. “That’s where you’ve got him?” He stared at the JTF2 building across the flight line, the low Quonset hut where the team had loaded out squatted alongside.

  Desmarais nodded. “We’re building a better facility. For now, we’ve got him in the kitchen freezer.”

  “Seriously?”

  Desmarais nodded. “We filled it with water and put it on its coldest setting. It’s keeping him frozen solid. Like I said, it’s not ideal, but it’ll do until we get something purpose-built.”

  “You better hope he doesn’t thaw out.”

  “We’re not too worried.” Desmarais smiled. “After all, you’re back on your feet now.”

  Schweitzer snorted. “Fat lot of good that’ll do you. I’m just a regular Joe now.”

  He chuckled at his own joke.

  “Well, we’re going to need your help anyway,” Desmarais said. “You’re the closest thing we’ve got to an expert on the topic.”

  “You’ve got Grandpa Plante.”

  “He’s the Summoner. You’re the . . . Summoned, I guess.”

  “My team’s en route as we speak,” Ghaznavi said. “It’ll be a joint op, right here. Welcome to the Aquila Cell.”

  “I’m not sure calling anything a ‘cell’ is the best plan after what we’ve just been through.”

  Ghaznavi rolled her eyes. “Inside joke, between us.”

  “Uh-huh,” Schweitzer said. “And what’s the government calling it?”

  “They’re not calling it anything, because they don’t know about it. Unfortunately, the cat is sort of out of the bag as far as magic goes.”

  “The Gemini Cell facility in Colchester . . .”

  “It went down,” Ghaznavi said, “but it went down hard. Some folks got hurt. Some things made the press. The President isn’t pleased.”

  “That can’t be good for Hodges.”

  “He’s a trooper,” Ghaznavi said. “For now, he’s acting as liaison to an Army outfit they’re calling the Supernatural Operations Corps. They’re running it out of MacDill. Supposed to be in charge of all things magic.”

  “Are there enough . . . things to merit that kind of a public stance?”

  Ghaznavi shrugged. “President seems to think there are. Anyway, we’re only concerned with one magic thing, and that’s you, and we’ve got work to do.”

  “You’re moving awful quick, aren’t you? Making a lot of assumptions?”

  “Joe,” Ghaznavi said. “You wanted in on the op. You’re in on it. Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Hell, no,” Schweitzer said. “I’m in with bells on. I want to see where all this goes more ’n anyone. It’s just that I have certain demands.”

  Desmarais blinked. “Demands?”

  “That’s right. You want my help? Fine. I want yours.”

  “Patrick,” Ghaznavi said. “We’re already on that. We’ve been on it since before you even admitted he was alive.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t know what I know.”

  “Jesus Christ, Joe,” Ghaznavi said. “What the hell do you know?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you.” Schweitzer smiled. “On the condition that I be put in charge of the team that acts on the information.”

  Desmarais and Ghaznavi exchanged looks. “I could just have it tortured out of him,” she said.

  “That shit never works,” Schweitzer said.

  “Fine,” Ghaznavi sighed. “The hunt for your son is all yours. Supervised, of course. Now, what do you know?”

  Schweitzer nodded. “You fuck me on this, and I will never cooperate with you again. You’ll have to kill me.”

  “What do you know?” she asked again.

  “Patrick is in the care of the Cell’s old lead scientist. I gave them instructions to make for the West Coast. They should be there now.”

  “They should, but they’re not.” Ghaznavi said.

  Schweitzer’s stomach turned over. “You knew?”

  “Your government’s not totally incompetent,” Ghaznavi said.
“Eldredge made contact with one of your shipmates, trying to set up a place for Patrick. Fortunately for everyone involved, that shipmate is a loyal citizen of the United States.”

  “He told you.”

  “He told his chain of command, which is what he’s supposed to do.”

  “And you bungled it.”

  “Eldredge had help. Major help.”

  “Who?”

  “We’re not sure. All we know is that Eldredge is in the wind and likely with Patrick. We’ve been searching since before we came north. No joy so far.”

  “You just told me the government wasn’t completely incompetent.”

  “Well, no doubt things will go much better once you’re on the scene.”

  “They might.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’re really going to let him go?” Desmarais asked. “He’s needed here.”

  “You shouldn’t deny your people when you need them,” Schweitzer said. “It’s kind of Officer 101.”

  “Officer 101 is getting the job done,” Desmarais said. “And I’d be in a better position to know, since I’m actually an officer.”

  “If you labor under the delusion that officers actually do anything, then you haven’t had very good noncommissioned officers guiding you.”

  “I’ve had just about enough—”

  “So have I,” Ghaznavi cut him off. “Joe, step outside and let me talk to the Colonel for a minute. Someone’s here to see you.”

  Schweitzer took a shaking step toward the door, slowly easing his weight onto the leg, ensuring it was steady before lifting his foot to take another step.

  “Any day now, Mr. Yakecan,” Ghaznavi said.

  Schweitzer moved more quickly and was overjoyed to find he could do it. He threw the door wide and let the fresh air of the waiting room wash over him. He hadn’t realized how musty his sickbed had smelled until he stepped outside.

  “’Lo, Joe.” Mankiller was leaning her chair against the wall, balanced precariously on its back legs. “How’s the lung?”

  “Reinflated.” Schweitzer smiled at the sight of her. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her worn, easygoing style. “Hurts when I breathe.”

  “Pain means you’re alive. Count your blessin’s.”

  “Trying to, boss.”

  “Aw, hell.” Mankiller rocked her chair forward, letting it thunk onto all four legs, stood. “I ain’t your boss no more, Joe. Not now.”

  “How’s Grampy?”

  “He’s not real happy to be here. Don’ like small towns, let alone a city like Yellowknife, but he’s no fool. He knows what he’s into.”

  “Yeah. I guess he does. Once I get cleaned up and dressed, maybe I can go see him?”

  “I think he’d like that. He’s jus’ been readin’ and cookin’ to pass the time, so maybe he’d scare us up a meal.”

  “Sure. What’s your plan?”

  “Once they let Grampy go? Guess I’ll head back to town and work. Rebuildin’s gonna take some time.”

  “They’re not going to let Grampy go, Sheriff. Probably not you, either. Not sure they’ll ever rebuild the town.”

  Mankiller smiled. “White folks spend a lot of time tellin’ me how it’s gonna be. They’re pretty much always wrong.”

  Schweitzer smiled. “Seems like it.”

  “So, you’re gonna keep me company ’til I convince ’em?”

  “Actually, I need to be getting on, Sheriff.”

  “Your boy,” Mankiller said.

  Schweitzer nodded. “They tried to tell me how it was going to be, too. They were wrong.”

  Mankiller laughed. “Good luck, Joe. I’d go with you if I didn’t have Grampy to tend to.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Heck, why would I mind?”

  “Because”—Schweitzer gestured at his chest—“because of who I am.”

  “People die,” Mankiller said. “That’s the way of things. At least I got to pull you out of the drink and breathe life into you. At least I get to see Joe’s face and remember. You’re all right, you know? I suppose if someone else had ta be Joe, I’m glad it’s you.”

  “Thanks,” Schweitzer said. The word caught in his throat.

  “Don’ mention it. Why don’ you get scrubbed up and we’ll see what Grampy’s got on the stove?”

  Schweitzer turned away and moved down the hallway toward the showers. It took him a long time, and he had to stop more than once, leaning against the wall and pausing to catch his breath. A doorway stood opposite him, opening onto a nurse’s station. An empty desk stood beyond with a computer atop it, bright screen still not yet gone into sleep mode.

  Schweitzer looked over his shoulder, limped the few steps to the chair, and slumped into it. Bringing up a browser using only his left hand took some doing, but he managed. The machine was online, the Internet at his fingertips. He realized with a start that he hadn’t so much as accessed the Internet since this all had started. It was one of an ocean of things, from eating to sleeping, that had simply faded into the background. He hadn’t known how much he’d missed them until Joe Yakecan’s body had made it possible for him to experience them again.

  But as much as he wanted to indulge in the simple pleasure of surfing the web, catching up on the news he had missed while he’d been . . . gone, there was only one thing he urgently needed to see.

  He punched in the address for Craigslist and began to search the personals. He tried a few cities over a few dates before giving up. There was simply too much noise to find what he was after. What was it Eldredge had said he would post? I’m more Mark Twain than Bettie Page.

  Either one of those names alone might have yielded quite a few responses, but not both together. Schweitzer searched on those terms. Nothing. He went back a week, then two. Still nothing. He was considering standing up, moving on to the showers before the nurse came back, but he figured he may as well be exhaustive. He didn’t know when he’d get the chance to look again. Eldredge might have been captured or killed for all he knew, and his son with him. Eldredge had said he’d post weekly, after all.

  Schweitzer opened the parameters to a month and searched again.

  And gasped.

  And now he did stand up but only after he closed the browser window. There was no reason to let the nurse know where the Cell’s lead scientist had fled to, where he had taken Patrick.

  Schweitzer no longer wanted a shower. He no longer wanted food. All he wanted now was to return to his room where Ghaznavi and Desmarais still stood, to give them the news, to get the mission started.

  The hallway seemed to stretch on for miles, and as he inched his way down it, he thought of how much farther it would be to Mexico and the search for his son.

  It would be a long road, to be sure. He was used to long roads and the hardship of moving down them.

  But it would be worth it.

  Because when he found his boy, he could fold his child’s head into his warm arms, hold it to his chest, against his beating heart.

  GLOSSARY OF MILITARY ACRONYMS AND SLANG

  ABC’S—Airway, breathing, circulation. First responders check these vital signs to ensure a patient’s vitality. Direct-action teams check them to ensure that a target has been neutralized.

  BIRD—Aviation asset such as a helicopter or fixed-wing aircraft.

  BLEED OUT—Death via blood loss.

  BMF—Boat maintenance facility.

  BSD—Berkley Systems Distribution. A variant of the UNIX computer operating system.

  BUD/S—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training. The six-month training course that all sailors must graduate to become US Navy SEALs. BUD/S alone does not make one a SEAL, and additional training is required. BUD/S is intensely grueling, with an 80 percent attrition rate.

  CARBINE—A long gun with a s
horter barrel than a rifle. Carbines are better suited to combat in close quarters than their longer cousins.

  CAS—Close air support. Action taken by fixed- or rotary-wing platforms to assist ground troops.

  CDC—Centers for Disease Control.

  CGIS—Coast Guard Investigative Service. A unit of the United States Coast Guard that investigates crimes in which the Coast Guard may have an interest.

  CHEMLIGHT—Also known as “glow sticks.” A short plastic tube filled with chemical compounds in separate compartments. When the stick is bent, the barrier between the compartments breaks, allowing the compounds to mix. The resultant chemical reaction causes the tube to emit a strong colored glow.

  CIA—Central Intelligence Agency.

  CLEARED HOT—Authorized to open fire.

  CO—Commanding officer.

  CONDITION BLACK—A state of paralysis brought on by sudden, unanticipated violence.

  CONDITION YELLOW—A state of hypervigilance where a person is constantly anticipating sudden violence.

  CONEX—A type of intermodal shipping container.

  “COORDS”—Coordinates.

  COP—Combat outpost.

  CORPSMAN—Job title for United States Navy personnel assigned to field medical duties.

  CQB—Close-quarters battle. Refers to the tactics of breaching and clearing confined spaces such as a building or ship.

  CSIS—Canadian Security Intelligence Service. Comparable to the CIA in the United States.

  DANGER CLOSE—Indicates a friendly force in close proximity to a target of fire, usually from artillery or close air support.

  DFAC—Dining facility.

  DUST OFF—Evacuation via helicopter.

  DYNAMIC—An operational state wherein the enemy is aware of the assault team’s presence, rendering stealth unnecessary.

  EMBED—Embedded or one who is embedded.

  EMT—Emergency Medical Technician.

  “EYES ON”—Indicates the speaker is observing the subject of the sentence. “I have eyes on the door.”

  FIRE TEAM—The smallest operational military unit, usually composed of four to five members.

  FLIR—Forward-looking infrared.

  FNG—Fucking new guy/girl. A person who is newly assigned to a military unit. This friendly pejorative is meant to indicate the likelihood that the described will make mistakes.