While Schriever and Peterson were similarly appointed, the latter had residential neighborhoods, fast food restaurants, a bowling alley, and many more luxuries within its rambling perimeter.
Peterson was crisscrossed by tree-lined streets and featured a large dining hall near the building in which the TOC was housed.
Cade removed the tape and examined the key. NSN was the only marking on it. He recognized this brand from his days on the teams. It was pretty much standard Army-issue.
Looking around he saw that the team room was much larger than he first thought it to be. The table and chairs were surrounded on four sides by chain-link floor-to-ceiling fencing. The fencing was shiny and new and had been apportioned into seven similar-sized cages. Each cage was roughly forty feet on each side and accessed by a single man-sized gate. Each gate bore the name of a different team operating under the USSOCOM umbrella and fitted with a smaller version of the biometric scanners found on the outside doors.
Internally, each team cage housed eight smaller cages. Each identical enclosure had its own man-sized gate emblazoned with a team member’s name and secured by a boxy brass padlock. Inside the individual cages was a single waist-high workbench, racks for weapons, and multiple shelves bursting with all manner of gear.
The Pale Riders’ cage was right of the door. A locker with his name on a plate was dead ahead from him. Even from a distance, he could see it was stocked to the gills.
Cade returned to the Tahoe and retrieved his kit bags and Pelican gear box.
Moment of truth.
With his belongings on the floor at his feet, Cade placed his thumb on the small biometric pad. A beat later, there was a click and he was in.
Once inside the Pale Riders’ cage, he faced a final test, which he hoped wasn’t a cruel joke being perpetrated on him by Lopez or Ari, or maybe even the entire team.
The lock was indeed an NSN model stamped with U.S. on one side and Master Lock on the other. The plug accepted the key straight away and the key worked the pins and counter pins, unlocking the NSN with a solid snik.
Standing there on the threshold to his locker and smelling the sweet odor of Hoppe’s Number 9 gun oil brought the past screaming back at him. Starting with his first day as an Army Ranger, on to being hand-picked and promoted to Delta by the concerted efforts of Mike Desantos and Greg Beeson, he relived it all.
In Mike Desantos’ voice he heard the oft uttered phrase: Back in the saddle again.
In his late wife Brook’s voice he again heard her give him her blessing. For she knew better than anyone that he wasn’t truly alive unless he was downrange and in harm’s way, doing the difficult things normal men were no longer raised or expected to do.
Chapter 48
Raven selected a beach-cruiser-style bicycle from the Antlers’ subterranean storeroom and walked it past a long row of trucks and SUVs nosed against the building’s cement foundation.
Instead of riding the bike up the ramp and then going through the time-consuming process of running the gate up manually, she angled the Schwinn into the waiting elevator and wedged herself in after.
Elevator doors opening, Raven wheeled the bike out and across the lobby, being careful to keep the tires from squeaking on the floor, lest Eve look up from her book and start in on the chit-chat that much sooner.
Raven was a dozen feet from the entry when Eve’s head panned in her direction. As the woman slowly lowered the Grisham novel her face had been buried in, the inquisition began.
Skipping the pleasantries, Eve said, “Where are you going today?”
“Out,” Raven said.
“Did you see your park got hit again?”
Raven sighed. “I’m going to get some pictures and then go downtown and show them to whoever will look at them.”
The woman shifted in her seat. Casting a glance out the double doors, she said, “You better hurry. Last time I was out for a smoke break, looked like the brothers were getting ready to roll fresh paint over the graffiti. Heaven forbid the President is forced to see that crap. You think the brats are doing that in south Springs?”
Though Raven wanted to disengage from the motor mouth, she said, “They hit the fuel depot in January. Just last week the BERR building got sprayed up with stencils of the Chinese President’s face.” The SBR was biting into her shoulder, so she paused to adjust the sling.
“I didn’t hear about the BERR building. Then again, since I don’t trust walls to keep the hissers out, I tend to stay close to home. I actually prefer to stay in my room and watch the world slowly die.”
You’re the one who’s slowly dying, Raven thought. After casting a quick glance at the drive that she imagined at this time of day would be choked with valet drivers delivering vehicles to hotel guests raring to get out to lunch or, perhaps, take a tour of Garden of the Gods, she said, “Did you see anything last night? Like when you went out to … smoke?” The word “smoke” was accompanied by a sour expression as she imagined how a cigarette might taste.
Eve shook her head so vigorously a tightly braided strand of hair sprung from underneath her watchman’s cap. “Oh, hell no,” she said. “I don’t go out there at night. I do all my smoking right here when it’s dark out.”
Raven thought about trying to reassure Eve the walls were pretty formidable. Instead, not wanting to get into a back and forth, she simply asked Eve to help with the door.
The bike ride to the BERR building was short in comparison to the time Raven would have wasted had she not escaped Eve’s chitchat tractor beam. Five minutes after mounting the mint green, seven-speed cruiser outside of the Antlers, she was parking the Schwinn in a bike rack under cover of the building’s front façade.
Down the street at the Pioneers Museum block, business was booming, with long lines snaking from the trailers and onto the white cement sidewalks.
Skirting the line of people waiting to get into the BERR building, Raven slipped through the open doors and went straight for the middle-aged CSPD officer standing sentinel near the bank of elevators. He was barely taller than her and stood a little slouched over.
As she drew near, the officer stopped worrying his neatly trimmed mustache and raised a hand to slow her approach. Seeing his other hand drifting surreptitiously to the semiautomatic on his hip, she raised her hands to show him she wasn’t a threat.
“Relax,” she said. “I need to speak with Chief Riggleman.”
He pointed to the elderly woman at the head of the line Raven had just circumvented. “See her?”
Though the officer’s reedy voice made Raven want to smile, instead she kept a straight face and nodded.
“She’s ahead of you.”
Raven said nothing.
He cocked his head and swept one arm right to left. “See that? It’s a line. How it works is you get in back of it and wait your turn.”
She craned to read the plastic nametag pinned to his uniform.
“C’mon, Upton,” she said. “I have some information the chief needs to hear.”
“Don’t you all.”
“It might have something to do with President Clay’s ceremony on Sunday. How would it look if something was withheld that might help the Secret Service keep her safe? I can hear the Town Crier now.” Deepening her voice and speaking loudly enough for all to hear, she said, “Constable Upton could have prevented—”
Interrupting her, the officer said, “It’s Sergeant Upton. I’ll let you upstairs if you agree to disarm.”
Raven shrugged off the SBR and handed it over. “Safety’s on.”
Doing the gimme, gimme motion with one hand, Upton said, “Pistol and the blade.”
Reluctantly, Raven handed over her Tennessee Toothpick. She paused before dragging the Glock from its holster. Instead of handing it over, she dumped the magazine, racked the slide, and let it stay locked back. Flashing the sergeant a wan smile, she made a show of proving it was empty by poking a finger into the chamber. As she picked up the ejected round and dropped i
t and the magazine into the sergeant’s awaiting palm, she thumbed the slide catch and holstered the weapon.
Again Upton did the gimme motion with his free hand.
Raven shook her head. “I feel naked without it. So I’d like to keep it.”
Upton thought about it for a second. While his first instinct was to pat her down for another weapon or spare magazine for the Glock, the thought of it gave him pause. Not to mention if he did so, he might have to answer to the girl’s dad. And Lord knows, Cade Grayson was not a person whose bad side he wanted to be on.
So he took the high ground, telling himself, She’s just a kid.
Pocketing the single round and magazine, he said, “Promise me this is all you’re carrying.”
Fingers on one hand crossed, Raven nodded.
“Make it quick, then,” Upton said. “Second floor, northeast—”
Interrupting, Raven said, “Northeast corner. I know. I’ve been there before. And Dena knows me.”
The elevator dinged to announce its arrival.
A man and woman with a small child in tow exited the elevator and brushed past her without saying a word. As they continued across the wide-open lobby, an argument erupted between the adults.
“Be respectful,” was Upton’s parting advice as Raven boarded the elevator.
Finding herself all alone in the elevator, Raven retrieved a spare mag from a pocket, drew her Glock, inserted the mag, and racked a round into the chamber. She was just holstering the pistol when the doors opened at the second floor.
Riggleman’s office was down a corridor and to the right. On the walls were framed photos of high-desert scenery. She stopped where the gray carpet met the oak door bearing the chief’s name.
Taking a deep breath, Raven pulled the iPhone from a pocket. Hearing no movement or voices through the door, she delivered a couple of sharp raps.
From within came a woman’s voice. It was kind of smoky and carried a hint of a Southern drawl. “Who is it?”
“Raven Grayson.”
There was a brief pause. Then, “Come in.”
As Raven entered, she noticed nothing had changed. The walls were still bare. Boxes stuffed to overflowing with papers took up one corner. Standing in the opposite corner was a wooden coat rack. The pair of spare uniforms, desert-tan plate carrier and tactical helmet with Chief Dena Riggleman stenciled on it was causing the coat rack to list slightly to one side.
With the former police station currently a soot-blackened pile of rubble in No-Man’s-Land just outside the east wall, it was clear that Chief Riggleman was just occupying this part of the BERR building until new accommodations were found.
“You again,” said Chief Riggleman. “What now? Kids use too much chalk on the sidewalk outside the Antlers?”
Still standing, Raven simply smiled. Waiting for the chief to give her the respect a taxpaying citizen deserves, she crossed her arms and hitched her brows.
Riggleman kicked her boot-clad feet off the desk and leaned forward. Fingers steepled, she said, “That magazine in your Glock, is it empty?”
“Nope,” Raven said. “Locked and loaded is the new gold standard.”
“Who taught you that? Your dad?”
Raven nodded.
“You know there’s no way to fully put that pistol on safe.”
Raven lifted her left hand where the chief could see it. Making a trigger-pulling motion, she said, “This is my safety.”
The chief dropped her gaze and exhaled sharply. Then, one hand doing the same gimme motion as Upton, she said, “Lay it on me. Whatcha got?”
***
Five minutes after her presentation in Riggleman’s office, Raven entered the elevator feeling as if no headway had been made in rectifying her problem. Sure the chief had oohed and aahed as she examined the photos on Raven’s phone. But it was all for show. At least that was Raven’s gut feeling at the time.
The door slid open on the main floor. First thing Raven saw was the angry expression on Upton’s narrow face.
“Chief called down ahead of you. She’s blown away. Says you carry yourself like an adult.”
“I’ve seen things.”
Upton looked at the line of people. It seemed stalled out, the citizens at the front clearly agitated.
“You made me look like a fool. Next time you come here you get in line like everyone else. And leave your guns at home. Grayson or not, you pull that crap on me again, I’ll personally take you on a tour of our Spring Creek Juvenile Detention Center.”
Raven struggled to keep from smirking. You made yourself look like a fool.
“Truth is, being scolded by the chief is better than the alternative,” she finally said.
Officer Upton was still processing the cryptic insinuation as Raven picked up her knife and spare magazine. In the next beat his jaw dropped, and it appeared as if he might proffer a question—or at the very least, start yammering like an imbecile.
Nothing came out of his mouth.
Pleased with the way she had derailed Upton’s train of thought, Raven shouldered the SBR and made her way to the exit.
Chapter 49
Peterson Air Force Base
Cade drove straight from the Bunker to the Aragon Dining Hall, Building 1160 on the map provided by Lopez. Along the way he spotted McDonalds’ ubiquitous golden arches. Though they weren’t lit up, just the sight of them had him pining for simpler times. While not a huge fan of fast food, he would never turn down one of their delicious French fries. The apple pies weren’t bad, either.
Aragon Dining Hall was in a mostly brick building with a center-pitched, red metal roof. Large glass windows in front looked out over an expansive, partially covered outside dining area. Nobody was eating lunch outside. Which made sense. People still alive after the worldwide Omega outbreak were conditioned to enjoy indoor shelter whenever possible.
In case the need arose for a quick egress, Cade backed the Tahoe into a space in the lot behind the hall. Flanked by a pair of desert-tan Humvees, and with mostly government-issued sedans with sensible colors and trim levels filling all the nearby spots, the red Tahoe LTZ stood out like a zebra in a herd of wild mustangs.
Stepping from the Chevy, Cade shielded his eyes against the late-morning sun. With just a few feathery clouds scudding the brilliant blue sky, and the temperature hanging in the low sixties, the day was shaping up to be a good one for the walking dead. A few more like this and once again they’d be highly mobile and arriving outside the wire in numbers not seen since early autumn.
Cade brought his M4 and a couple of fully loaded magazines with him. He took the stairs to the hall’s back door and walked on in.
There were maybe a dozen people scattered about the massive room. They all looked up or panned their heads toward the door as it clattered shut.
The air inside the Aragon was heavy with the heady scent of vanilla and maple. As he passed by a counter containing silver urns and a couple dozen ceramic mugs, the earthy nose of coffee just a little past its prime stopped him in his tracks.
After drawing a mug of steaming black coffee, Cade took a tray from a tall stack of them and went through the line.
The airmen doing changeover to lunch seemed less than eager to serve him. Considering the age-old intraservice rivalries, he didn’t give it much thought. Taking a big stack of the last of the pancakes left over from breakfast service, Cade set a tack for a table occupied by an older gentleman who looked vaguely familiar.
Cade guessed the man was roughly the same height as him. Though distributed differently, it looked as if they both carried roughly the same weight.
The older man wore his silver-white beard short and kept it trimmed neatly around the edges. Wispy strands of like-colored hair worked hard at concealing the man’s male-pattern baldness. On the table in front of the man’s tray was a navy-blue ball cap. Strategic Air Command - March Air Force Base was stitched in gold across the front. The cap’s stiff brim was shaped just so. Placed prominently up f
ront above the lettering was a pin memorializing POWs of the Vietnam war. Next to the rectangular pin was another enamel and gold item showing the man’s support for the Wounded Warriors Foundation.
Stopping near the edge of the round table, directly across from the man, Cade said, “Anyone sitting here?”
“You are,” answered the man. He was wearing Wrangler jeans and a bright red tee shirt with World’s Best Grandpa on the front.
Cade set his tray down and extended a hand. “Your name’s Dan, isn’t it?”
A look of astonishment parked on the man’s lined face. “Sure is.” He tilted his head back and regarded the vaulted ceiling for a spell. Having dredged something from his memory, he met Cade’s gaze. “Your name tape says Grayson. I remember you from Schriever. First name is Cade, if my memory serves.”
“That it is,” Cade confirmed.
The man rose on shaky legs, then shook Cade’s hand.
Considering the man’s unsteadiness, Cade was surprised by the firm grip.
Retaking his seat, Dan said, “Your fingernails … looks like you tangled with the Devil.”
“More than one,” Cade conceded. “They got better than they gave.”
Dan nodded. “That’s always a good thing.” He paused for a beat. Then: “What brings you here?”
“Business.” Cade looked around the room. “Pretty slow in here considering it’s almost lunch time.”
Dan sipped from a can of Coke. Setting the can on the table, he said, “It was like a ghost town in here during breakfast. Like night and day from the norm. Most of the aviators and all of the techs have been either grabbing food to go, or not coming in at all.” He paused for a beat. “Something big is going down. A blind man could see that.”
Cade said, “Why aren’t you helping to get the birds ready?”
Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home Page 25