Lay down, give up.
Best-case scenario? Zeb would be dead by the time winter-starved scavengers sniffed out his carcass. Probably. Then again, maybe not.
Let's think this through. Fall asleep on the semi-frozen ground for one last, eternal nap. Body stays intact until it decays, leaving a skeleton behind for some intrepid hiker to find, years from now.
Not so bad. The less-desirable outcome?
Various predators tugging at his not-yet-dead flesh and organs as he lay immobilized; conscious and helpless through it all.
The thought gave him a shiver, keeping him on task. That, and another idea as well: the slim possibility his own survival might lead to others' freedoms, making a difference for the millions of his countrymen now left behind. These thoughts fueled him, as well as the very understandable desire to not end up as an entrée in the wilderness circle of life.
So here he was. With four days of deprivation and danger behind him, Dalton gazed down toward the outskirts of the small city of Wenatchee, Washington.
Funny, all those times crossing over with his family—no big deal. A short car ride from one side of the state to another. Now, he'd just crossed an international border. What was behind was no longer his homeland.
Zeb breathed in again, taking in the fragrances of the woods and fields around him. The life-giving presence began to revive him from suffering through yet another long night of painful memories and subfreezing temperatures. The routine was the same as always. For Zeb, physical and emotional challenges seem to go hand in hand, forging some kind of link between lack of sleep and having to relive the hardest things of his past, his internal monsters lying in wait for those moments he was too weakened to mount a defense. Once started, this cruel psycho-biological reality looped endlessly, sated only by uninterrupted rest. This antidote had been in short supply as of late, so Zeb kept fighting.
Another deep breath. Fragrant evergreen. The tang of immature fruit blossoms. A soft bed of pine needles and underbrush beneath his feet. It all worked together, amounting to a needed sensory buffer for his frazzled condition. This was a good moment, one to stop and take in. On this rocky outcropping his spirit began to lift, even if only a little.
The unmistakable roar of a Blackhawk's rotor-wash cut the air above. The UH60 attack chopper, invisible on radar, was so loud it would rarely, if ever, take someone by surprise. That it had presented itself without prior warning spoke volumes as to this fugitive's real state of fatigue. Cornered, Dalton's last reserves of energy faded fast. He neither wanted to run nor could he.
The chopper's mid-ship lift bay door sat opened on its tracked hinges, her 50 cal. spun up, hot. The gleaming barrel and cold, efficient stare of the gunner coming back at him through darkened visor told him there was no play to be had. At only thirty-some yards out, he would get about a half a second before being cut down. Zeb knew what was coming next. He counted down in his head, like a floor director calling for action on a film set.
Three... two... one...
A few meters behind, from the edge of the treeline he only recently had walked out of, came the order.
"Sir, place your hands over your head and drop to the ground! Do not move to the side or back. Do not motion with your hands toward your body. To your knees, NOW!"
Zeb had been in on the planning and tactics side of takedowns like this one hundreds of times. Whether in the unpredictable spaces of Iraqi villages or the unwelcoming crags of Afghan rock shelters, overwhelming force was always the principle. Sort of the Powell Doctrine applied to patrol-level detection and detention.
A massive implement of war overhead. Six, highly trained special operators surrounding a single man.
Overwhelming force?
Check.
In blinding succession, Zeb's face met dirt and his hands were secured behind his back in flex cuffs. The rapid loss of equilibrium caused his stomach to lurch as its minimal contents—acid and not much else—tried to make a grandiose appearance. An adult male's knee knifed into the small of his back and another putrid mixture—blood from a split lip and soil—filled his mouth. This beautiful morning, initially so promising, was taking a turn for the worse. And quickly.
The leader spoke again. This time, though, not to Zeb.
"Clark Base: Unknown personnel has been detained. ETA is approx. thirty-five. Do you copy? Over."
The reply came back in a metallic timbre.
"Roger. Thirty-five to Clark. Copy. Over."
"Okay, folks let's get busy," the man ordered. "We've got trail to eat up and there are some important people who want to know what in the world our new friend here has been up to. Move it."
TWENTY THREE
Staff Sergeant William "Loch" Lochland, squad leader—Ranger Unit Bravo, raised Zeb off the ground and to a standing position... with one hand only.
The sudden change to an upright orientation caused the weary man to wretch, bile spilling across his lips. Zeb's head cleared enough to snatch a glance through drooping eyelids at the man holding him up. What he saw was quite surprising. The stocky Scotsman gripping him from the side was a mere five-six, boot heels included. Zeb had almost a full five inches on him. Be that as it may, it was obvious this wouldn't count as any kind of advantage. Whatever the soldier lacked on the vertical plane was abundantly compensated for in both upper body strength and leadership demeanor as the sergeant played the part of professional wrestler, body builder, and world's strongest man competitor to a tee. Zeb was not about to challenge him. Beside being drained from the last four days in the boonies, he wagered this guy didn't lose many altercations. He was wrong.
Loch never lost any fights.
Ever.
Lochland sized Zeb up in an initial display of dominance before checking for weapons on his person. A 360 sweep of the stranger provided a basic survey of potential threats. None registered. He stepped back, satisfied the intruder was under his command.
In heavy Highland Brogue:
"Okay, Mr. Woodsmaaaaaahn. Two questions. Fiirst, just who the craaahhpp are you? And Number Twoo: what are you doing in my forest, overlooking a United States Military installation?"
Loch underscored his personal ownership of the place with left thumb oriented toward chest as he spoke. That left hand was for communication. The other was at the ready.
Zeb surmised the Heckler & Koch MP57 sub machine gun would come off this man's shoulder seamlessly, a perfect flow of arc and aim. The right thing to do at this moment was to stay still, very still.
Lochland probed Zeb's amber eyes, awaiting a reasonable answer.
Dalton's retort was standard, yet slightly provocative at the same time.
"Lieutenant Zebulon Mordecai Dalton, US Army 2 Corps..." he said, expectorating a mouthful of brown and red swirling and mixing between his cheeks.
"... retired."
Loch arched an eyebrow.
"Well... retired... LT Dalton. You, of course, realize you are standing in a highly sensitive zone, off limits to civvies aaahhnd old school soldiers alike?"
Zeb couldn't pass up the chance to go toe to toe with the man. His face brightened, always did, when happening upon a competent verbal opponent.
"Yeah, I figured that much. From the six of you as my armed escorts. And the guy with the big smile behind the fifty."
He looked upward, straining to stand taller, red stains across front teeth and tilting his head toward the gunner above. Zeb felt more himself now.
Loch grinned, barely, certainly not enough for his men to notice. The distance between them had decreased to only a few inches now, with his voice dropping to an authoritative, lower volume.
"Well, whoever you aaare. You're up for a nice little nature walk and then some quality face time with a couple of Army uglies who're gonna want better answers than thaaaat. My job is to deliver you in one piece, in half an hour."
Mulling that last statement over:
"Two pieces will probably work fine...
... let's move it...
LT."
Loch shoved Zeb in the right direction and made the call.
"Ranger Bravo: on the move. Big Bird is free."
The blackhawk's blade action pulled her up and away. Everyone on the ground ducked, an instinctive response to the downwash. Soon enough the dust settled. In its wake, the crackle of radio transmission lay silenced and the team began its descent with quarry in tow through overgrown trails and back toward base.
__________________________________
Colonel Jacob Meers, US Army 1 Corps, made his way down dim hallways and then stopped outside his commander's office. As senior aide to General Stevens, Meers had standing orders to enter whenever necessary. With a burgeoning manila folder under his left arm and an anxious yet intrigued look across his face, he paused before knocking, considering again all that had happened in such a brief span of time. He glanced back at the array of desks in the outer office and the corridor behind. Not much to write home about, that's for sure. Then again, quite the accomplishment, given the circumstances.
The haste with which the newly christened Ft. Clark had been assembled resulted in a small city of tents and pole buildings instead of bricks and mortar. Aside from proper runways to support air and transport functions, everything else was pretty flimsy at the moment. The general had enough room to work, the space just wasn't appointed all that well. All in all, the vibe ended up more forward arena, near front lines, than stateside buildout. Her commanding officer didn't mind this distinction. Not at all.
The moniker Clark had been chosen by higher-ups back at the Pentagon as a nod to the now-lost asset Lewis, over the mountains, back in Tacoma. Historically, it seemed fitting that if one of the famed adventurers went down, his partner should come to his aid. And, consistent with the trailblazing sense of those nineteenth-century explorers, something like this had never been attempted before.
The U.S. Army was, by virtue of the current operational environment, literally flying by the seat of her pants. Evacuating a base the size of JBLM, resetting it a few hundred miles east, traversing over snow-capped peaks ranging five to fourteen thousand feet, was a remarkable achievement. The fact they were even here stood in testimony to the commitment, professionalism, and skill of both leaders and doers.
Stevens sensed Meers' presence in the doorway and looked up. Pulling his glasses off, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then, waving his hand across the scattered papers in front of him, the career warrior spoke with characteristic wit.
"Colonel. To what do I owe the honor of this visit, one which surely will rescue me from mounds of spreadsheets and transfer requests? Please, Meers, tell me you have something else for me to attend to?"
The subordinate came forward, over the threshold and into the room.
"I think I may be able to help you out, sir."
"Outstanding. What is it, then? You look like a nervous schoolboy about to ask me to the spring cotillion."
"Cotillion... sir?"
Stevens lit a cigar. It came to life, rolling around and in-between his lips.
"Never mind, Meers. Apparently high culture became extinct decades ago."
The general focused in on what his assistant held as he entered.
"What's that in your hand there, Colonel?"
A small amount of ash fell to the desktop as he motioned with the live end of the stogy.
Meers placed the aging, bulging file on the desk. Name, rank, serial number, were all listed on the tab.
Dalton, Zebulon M.
Palm went to forehead. Stevens pinched a sliver of cranial skin between his fingers.
"Please, please tell me you've not brought me another sad case looking for preferential treatment or placement. I am not feeling magnanimous today. China took my base, holding three million American citizens against their will and presuming they'll somehow want to become happy workers in the PRC. To be perfectly honest, I am a little beside myself about that, Meers. I really have no time whatsoever for whining warriors."
"Of course, sir."
Meers let his boss's mini-tirade settle before starting again.
"This," pointing to the pile under his arm "... belongs to a retired lieutenant. Multiple tours. Both Iraq and Afghanistan. Honorable discharge."
Stevens leaned back in his chair, fully exasperated now.
"Just great. Everyone wants to be a hero."
This conversation was over before it had even started.
"Meers, you know I have no use for broken down old soldiers, not even the loyal, good ones. Tell him thank you for his valuable service to this fine nation and we have all the help we need."
The colonel pressed further. His superior would want the full story. Placing the documents on the desk, sliding them toward Stevens, he continued.
"General, this Lieutenant Dalton was found above base this morning. He claims to have made it through the checkpoints on the other side of the Cascades, surviving five days and four nights... and he has requested to talk to you personally."
He could see he was peaking the general's interest, so Meers took his best shot.
"In scanning his history, I think you may want to interview him, sir."
"Oh you do, do you, Meers?"
The general let out a pronounced, slow breath. Spying the binder on his desk, he tapped at it while flicking the burnt, white edge off his cigar and into the half-grenade shell he used as an ashtray. Dalton's entire record lay opened before him.
Thinking.
"Come back in fifteen minutes, Colonel. If I am not interested by then, I never will be. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir."
TWENTY FOUR
Zeb's hands, still flex-cuffed, dangled at his waistline in front of him. Although deemed a lesser threat, apparently he was not yet considered a welcomed guest.
Released from holding, an extremely serious MP was now escorting him through the office complex of Ft. Clark. The security guard halted outside the door marked Base Commander: Major General Mike Stevens. Knocking twice, he stood at attention, waiting.
Enter, was the simple yet authoritative instruction.
Zeb's new companion led him to the standard-issue metal desk across the room and Stevens looked over this imposition on his time and patience for a full sixty seconds. Nothing in his demeanor invited Dalton to slide casually into the unoccupied swivel chair. No, this conversation would take place with the intruder standing there.
Eyes narrowing, Steven's locked his gaze onto Zeb's, searching his soul for motive, intent.
"Lieutenant..." Stevens perused the paperwork in front of him—"... Dalton?"
He knew his name, had scanned his full history over the last few minutes.
"What in the world are you doing here? Your intentions are?"
The imposing commander raised his right hand.
"No," he stopped Zeb. "Don't answer that."
The general paced his questions, ever-present cigar wagging at the end of his outstretched hand as he spoke.
"Why? Why would an honorably discharged veteran of the United States Army, with meritorious acts in two of the ugliest wars this nation has ever embarked upon suffer cold, sleeplessness, hunger, and the wrath of the Chinese authorities… and then tempt fate yet again by entering the no-proceed zones of this fine military installation?"
"No. Don't answer that either, Lieutenant."
The general leaned in, hovering over the paper-strewn desktop.
"What I really want to know... is why this kind of man, with a clear history of sacrificial service, would put millions of his fellow Americans in harm's way, literally at the blunt edge of a nuclear bomb, blatantly disobeying the direct orders of the new Chinese government...
...this is what I want to know, Mr. Dalton."
The general, having risen out of his seat during the monologue now sat back, extending his right hand openly. The gesture came across as more challenge than invitation.
Here we go again.
"Look, General. Ah, sir. I have unique experiences and ski
ll-sets that could be useful in the attempts to recover our government's nuclear assets. I thought you might see your way through the regs in this case. Am I wrong?"
Dalton had historic difficulties with people above him who didn't want to listen; the kind of presumption he felt too often came with rank. Unfortunately, his retort came off as less honoring than protocol required, certainly less than the respect due a career officer like Stevens. Zeb immediately wanted to take that last part back.
The general waited.
"So, Dalton. If I am reading you correctly, the entire United States Military hasn't been the same since you left a few years ago. Is this it? Now that we're in deep, you're our only hope, Obi Wan? You alone will ride in to save the day? The zenith of Signal Corps prowess rises and falls with your service and actions? Am I getting this all down accurately?"
Zeb's face flushed a gentle red, equally out of frustration and anger and revealing both in the exchange.
"Okay. I can see this is an atrocious idea, sir. Please release me and I won't be any more trouble."
The commander remained motionless.
"General?" Zeb tried again.
"MP!"
The human rock re-entered, standing beside Zeb, awaiting a directive.
"Take this trespassing civvy back to holding," Stevens said. "Get him some food and something to drink. That is all."
Escorted from the general's presence, Zeb wondered what would come next. Then it struck him: just how ridiculous this whole situation had become. Only ten days ago his work week had started out frustrating yet relatively normal. Everyone has car issues from time to time. That's where any semblance of routine went fully off the rails. A sales call to a client at the market had transfigured into something so bizarre, so tragic. And then the shock of the jet crash had barely settled before the people of Seattle were accosted with the unforeseen horrors of subjugation to a foreign power. Now, each day they woke up, they arose a conquered people.
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