When Totems Fall

by Wayne C. Stewart

  As homeport of Carrier Group Three of the U.S. Navy and with the Trident Sub Missile Command housed at Bangor only seventeen miles to the north, the area provided exactly the assets Dalton needed to finish the job they'd all come to do. Commissioned originally in 1891 as Puget Sound Naval Station, the renamed Naval Base Kitsap had infused power and purpose into the families, community, and neighborhoods of Bremerton for over a century. Currently, she didn't look the part.

  13,000 highly trained enlisted men and officers had been forcefully relieved of duty in the same manner as their compatriots at JBLM in Tacoma. Remaining now? Skeleton crews representing only the barest skill sets. Maintain equipment and ship's facilities. Keep the subs' nuclear cores healthy. That was all. Long hours, under ever-watchful eyes. These pressures would have been enough on their own but these left-behind warriors labored as well under the ever burdensome load of shame and guilt. Shame at watching brothers and sisters in arms forced at gunpoint onto transports and ushered down the west coast to San Diego—Kitsap's closest companion base. And guilt. They couldn't do a thing about it. They were military orphans. Isolated, controlled, powerless. Everything a fighter loathes. Their war vessels had fared no better.

  Three Nimitz Class Carriers sat dockside as two Destroyers lay quieted beside four Guided Missile Cruisers. These massive, imposing feats of seagoing architecture and engineering still held formidable capacities for warring yet existed in such a depleted state as to appear nothing more than silent sentinels, a mere shadow of their former selves. It all seemed very eerie; too still, too vacant. Not unlike the Japanese attack at Pearl some seventy years ago, everyone had been "home" at Bremerton when the Chinese made their move. The picture was becoming ever clearer: American naval vitality was diminishing and China was filling the void, powerfully so. The visual proof could not be any more poignant.

  As the American ships lay dormant the Liaoning, a 60,000-ton aircraft carrier and first ship of this class for the Chinese ever, stood at station, asserting full authority over the naval base and its broader environs. In the calms of Sinclair Inlet, alongside these emasculated U.S. assets, this newest, most celebrated acquisition of the PLA-Navy now proudly took her place. The warship, along with two more scheduled for duty in 2015, were one part junkyard opportunism and two parts radical reverse-engineering. The late-eighties collapse of the Russian Military Complex had flooded the world stage with equipment and technology not usually available to second and third tier players. In short order three aging Soviet carriers had been picked up at bargain basement prices and the regime spent the next twenty-five years studying, planning, and building. Liaoning, the fruit of these labors, now called Bremerton home. It was a profound image for the whole world to consider.

  The captured U.S. Carriers and auxiliary craft would be repurposed as well. They were the spoils of victory. Seeing the red field and gold stars breaking in the breeze from their forecastle decks would be quite satisfying in time. Make no mistake, with the American boats in near mothballs, the shiny new Chinese carrier proclaimed boldly that the long era of U.S. seagoing military dominance had come and gone. And in its place a new and greater player ushered forth. Not from Washington D.C. Instead, from some thousands of miles to the east. Like it or not the ancient dragon was now a modern sailor, and not one merely satisfied with close-border defense. No, China's maritime war machine intended to project fast and far from her mainland, clearing a path of international chaos in its wake.

  Once again the team processed through the formalities of credentialing and ID without incident. Following a brief inspection but no delays they stepped onto the shoreline of the Peninsula, that much closer now to their ultimate objective. Zeb stayed out front by a few yards as Sanchez kept eight feet to the left and behind. Loch pulled along at a short distance as well as they made their way down the street, just like everyone else. No briefing, not even a quick one, had been allowed after boarding the Klickitat. So for the time being, both sniper and sergeant operated in the dark, looking to Zeb for subtle and "indirect" directions.

  After two more blocks of walking parallel to the base and its fortified gates, Dalton kept going, right on past. Oddly, Zeb's pace actually increased as he hiked up the hill, leaving the guard posts and wire-capped walls of the naval complex behind. Still going.

  Sanchez sized up the anomaly. One more block and the thinning crowd would be peeling off toward the main street district. Another minute and they would all become dangerously exposed.

  What is he doing?

  In another unexpected move, Dalton ducked into an alley, between two nondescript, low-profile storefronts. Sanchez followed as casually as she could. Loch was not far behind. They had to take the chance. Losing Zeb now meant they might not find him again in a timely manner.

  Where in the world is he going?

  The base was back there... down the hill.

  Once in the alleyway Sanchez and Loch both stopped and turned, looking around in vain. No one. Zeb was nowhere to be found. They surveyed the small space again; still nothing. Then, just as they were ready to move on, a hushed voice came from the front passenger seat of a mid-sized four-door parked on the other side of a commercial dumpster.

  "So, I got us the upgrade this time around."

  Dalton waved them forward, even as he pulled the restraining belt across his chest, clicking it into place. Apparently, the others didn't move as sprightly as he wanted them to.

  "C'mon, you two. We're on a schedule, you know."

  Loch slid into the driver's seat, working his magic and bringing the engine to life without the use of a key, once again. Sanchez laid low in the back as they pulled out into light midday traffic. The sudden exit of so many workers, consumers, and taxpayers made for easier driving. It had also wrought a devastating effect on the city. For a town relying on an active military presence to bolster its economy, these were not the best of times. The only upside to this downturn? The Chinese considered this a secondary, maybe even tertiary, threat. Places like Seattle, Tacoma, and the borders north and south ranked much higher on the priority listing and therefore received the bulk of attention and resources the regime could provide. This meant the team could move about more freely, playing their deadly game of hide and seek against slightly better odds.

  "Where to, LT?" Loch asked.

  "Out of town," he replied. "State Route 310, to the northwest."

  "Anything more specific than that?" the sergeant chimed in again.

  "Sure."

  Zeb shifted his weight, addressing both Loch and Sanchez.

  "About seven miles and we'll wind around Kitsap Lake. Take Northlake Highway to the junction with Seabeck. Follow it west for another three and a half... "

  Zeb's recitation of map points, roads, and distances stopped rather rudely, abruptly.

  "And...?" Sanchez lobbed one out there for Dalton to grab onto.

  "And... then we leave the car at the end of the service road leading to Wildcat Creek."

  "How in the world do you know this, Zeb?" she said. "I mean, you didn't grow up in this neighborhood, did you?"

  She knew the answer. Still, the sergeant couldn't keep the words from crossing her lips. Meanwhile, Dalton pointed to his head, smiling, assuring them the plan had been seared into his memory during their extensive mission prep back at Ft. Clark. Sanchez jumped in again, frustrated it took this much effort to get basic, necessary info out of the retired soldier.

  "Zeb," she said. "Last time, buddy. What's the goal? By your assessment, we have a little over thirty-five minutes before arriving on site. This is not the time to be obscure."

  "Yeah," Loch added, playing into the conversation as well. "I sure hooope this plan of yours is a little more than an afternoon of fishing alongside a gentle stream."

  "You're right, guys." Zeb confessed, realizing he needed to be more direct with his partners. "Set deep in the Wildcat Watershed is a 1950's era off-base naval installation. The place is small—about a thousand square feet—housing what us
ed to be an emergency communications outpost. In the event of a full base evac it provided a secret location to scramble to, keeping lines of information going to the outside world. It's built well. The physical trunks are old-school cable six inches around, running deep underground from here to the Sound. From there they multiply in different trajectories along the bottom, in some places at depths of a few hundred feet or more. One of the primaries heads out across the Strait of Juan de Fuca, terminating at a Canadian military base on Vancouver Island."

  He had them hooked now. Completely.

  "So, this place has been in operation sometime lately, I'm hoping?" Sanchez pressed.

  "Well," Zeb said. "Would you consider 1992 to be recent?"

  Loch groaned, out loud this time.

  "You've got to be kidding me, LT. What kind of gear are we going to find? Something from when the internet was still a whee tiny one?"

  The comment and the insight it revealed surprised the other two, as both looked back with raised eyebrows.

  "Whaaaaat? Ya think grunts like me don't read books, too?"

  "You're right, Loch. Things will be somewhat, shall we say, primitive," Zeb continued. "The good news is we don't need anything fancy. Something stable and basic is all. You know, web and line-command kind of stuff. Lots of digits to enter, sure. Still, just line commands. And if Program Eleven has done its job, we'll be into the deeper code levels before you know it. No guarantees we'll be able to regain control from there but it's the first step."

  Sanchez, listening in, was also thinking operationally now that she had a better picture of where they were heading, what they were about to do. She went into well-rehearsed field-mode. Time for an inventory, she figured, as she laid the take from the guards at Microsoft across the backseat of the car.

  "Okay," she said. "Three handguns. Six extra magazines of 9mil. A touch more of the combustible. We expect any company immediately?"

  Zeb thought a moment before answering, slipping into Beautiful Mind mode again.

  "Hmm. Hard to tell, Sanchez. No less than seven distinct scenarios from this point on, multiple combinations of each branching out from there. It's been super smooth since we ditched the big happy party at the stadium. Still, I wouldn't depend on the fact that so far no one..."

  Zeb's head snapped around, focused up and forward as the intensity in the car rose a thousand percent. In the rearview mirror about a mile back, navigating the long curve in the road behind them: a single Jeep, clearly marked.

  PRC Army personnel.

  FIFTY ONE

  Though the tail appeared suddenly, seeming all business, they weren't closing as rapidly as expected.

  Were they being pursued, or not?

  A few curves later the pattern emerged. It all made sense now. Zeb could see the driver purposefully, calmly, staying back. Taking their time. No rush, no immediate pressure. Riding shotgun, soldier number two sat expressionless and with cellphone to ear. Their superiors had figured it out. The suspicious vehicle ahead carried whomever had infiltrated and fled Building 25 at Microsoft earlier this morning. Dalton's team was still an unknown. They were at minimum understood to be a valuable catch and a potentially dangerous threat. So directives from the other side of the line came into soldier two's ears, crystal-clear. Wait. Follow, but do not engage. The intruders that created havoc back in Redmond would not be underestimated again. They'd made fools of the guards and officers once already. This would not be a repeated occurrence. No, they would be treated more judiciously, maybe even more respectfully. The end result would still be lethal. For now they would only watch and stay in range.

  The teammates reasoned this out at the same time.

  "Well, we all knew the chances of getting here undetected were slim," Sanchez sighed. "Why the slow look, though, if they know who we are now?"

  "They don't," Zeb countered. "This is a surveil first, shoot later, patrol. I bet they have a couple grainy, off angle photos of the three of us from our morning at Microsoft and are right now receiving transportation department shots of us from the ferry, too. Makes sense. They're trying to establish positive ID before committing any more troops. Well, Sanchez, your quality work with the guards at 25 must've left a major impression on 'em. That's good but their cautiousness won't last forever. Once they feel they've sized us up, they'll charge."

  Loch gripped the wheel tighter, looking in the rear view mirror for any changes.

  "How much longer, LT? Where's the turnoff for that bloody road?"

  "Around the bend, Loch."

  Zeb pointed. "There. There she is."

  The evergreen-laden curtain indeed spread where Zeb was indicating but just barely; a car's width, if even that. The cover of straggling ferns and blackberry vines hid the opening nicely, making it seem nothing more than a dent in the tree line. Though obvious to Zeb, most others traveling down the isolated road would've missed it. In fact, hundreds each day did just that, zooming by unaware of the old path and what awaited at its end.

  "Okay. Keep your speed, Loch," Zeb said. "Now, a little more. We'll get some extra distance when they go blind for a second at the next curve."

  Dalton knew the timing of this move had no margin for error. None. Just as planned, the trailing Jeep hit that spot in the road, disappearing briefly in their rear-view mirrors.

  Now.

  The car lurched and skidded, crossing the oncoming lane and entering the old service access, launched into the woods haphazardly. Though breaking some taller weeds, it was as clean an entry as they could've hoped for. After they passed through, the rigid tension stored up in the berry bushes and evergreen limbs would release reflexively, covering over the gap and concealing them once more. At least this was the hope.

  Facing forward and absolutely committed now, the ride became much less comfortable. Zeb was right, the pathway hadn't been used in quite some time. While not actually blazing a trail with their small sedan, neither were they gliding effortlessly along the narrow, only somewhat-level corridor. Branches and brambles scraped and lashed out furiously, stretched to their limits, protesting this gross violation of the wooded sanctum. The intruder would win the battle, yes, but not without a valiant defense from these longtime denizens of the forest.

  "Stop."

  The directive from Zeb came out of the blue. Unexpected, it made no sense, so Loch hesitated.

  Zeb barked again.

  "Right here!" he commanded. "Put it into as much of a slide turn as you can."

  "Zeb, there's no room," Sanchez shouted.

  "I know, that's the point. Do it. Do it now, Loch!"

  The Scot pulled the wheel hard over to the left while mashing the brakes. The laws of physics fought back against the sudden, brash attempt at overriding their authority. The outcome was swift and violent. With the sedan's wheels no longer gripping anything they just kept sliding sideways as grass and mud rose up over the sidepanels and windows. Like a landslide in reverse, the trio's field of vision soon diminished to almost nothing. The mass of balled energy demanded two tons of steel and glass to keep moving in the direction it was already going and the car began to flip, rising on edge with rusted underside showing as Loch, Sanchez, and Dalton hovered at a precarious angle. A third of the way up. Half. At the last moment this very same energy depleted, stopping them mid-air and then reversing itself, yielding to the greater force of gravity. Down. They bounced twice, signaling an uneasy truce between the competing forces and settling them finally onto all four wheels.

  "Perfect," Zeb said, falling back into place.

  Sanchez, having been thrown to the floorboards, sat up, flopping her arms across the seatback.

  "Perfect? How in any sane universe was that flawless, Dalton?"

  With lips zippered, Zeb slid out the driver's side and onto the overgrown path. Still silent, he led them all forward, through the bush and around the car. A few paces more and he arched his shoulders, pointing back to where they'd come from. The pathway behind?

  Completely blocked.
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  "Okay. Geez," Sanchez relented. "Why do I ever doubt you, Dalton? Really, I mean it."

  Though indirect, the compliment still registered nicely.

  "Okay, let's hustle," Zeb ordered. "The comm bunker is about three hundred yards ahead. We may have slipped them for a second but by now they've doubled back, finding the spot we went in. We need to go. Now."

  The trio kicked it up to a decent jog-run within seconds. Zeb, the most out of shape of the team, gutted it out, thankful for the bit of work forced on him back at Clark. Loch had proved a stern yet good coach and, just like before, could've kept up fine in reverse. It was a moment begging for sarcasm. Then again, why pour salt into an open wound? Loch needed Zeb alert and confident. As such his role would change from agitator to encourager.

  A stand of hundred foot maples towered overhead, framing their passage and bidding their progress forward. The creek—you could hear it now—trickled in the distance, water meandering through its shallows as the cool of the day morphed into early evening. Even given the dire nature of these moments, it was a serene and wonderful place to be. Two more minutes and they came upon it.

  The heavy moss cover gave some hint as to how long it had been since anyone inhabited the place. Nondescript and sealed tight, it was one of those odd concrete structures you'd find now and then on a hike in the woods; a vision both curious and so out of place in the forested sanctuary. Most people would climb around some, jumping off a few of its higher points, down into the unending pine needle and undergrowth beds and then move on, calling it good. Zeb's goal here was different altogether.

  They moved another seventy-five yards beyond the bunker's exposed form and then traversed a steep bank along the half-buried sides of the low-profile structure, down to the creek itself. Sliding over soil and root, their feet landed in the shallow water rippling around glittering rocks and felled logs. Backtracking downstream now, they returned to the point of interest.