by Summer Lane
I don’t see Em Davis or Mauve Bacardi anywhere.
The fun never stops, I think.
“…We demand justice!” someone is yelling.
I step into open space between my men and the civilians – maybe fifty at the most. A man with a curly beard and beady black eyes is holding a large rock in his hand. He is flushed and red. The people behind him are fuming.
“THERE SHE IS!” he yells. “THAT’S THE WOMAN WHO SHOT CLAUDIA!”
Angry shouts. Yelling. I keep my face calm and expressionless.
“ENOUGH!” I shout.
“Your people killed our people!” the man with the curly beard exclaims, eyes flashing. “You think that we’re going to let you get away with that?”
“Your people were trying to kill my men,” I reply, leveling my gaze. “Soldiers. Militiamen. Fighters. They were defending themselves.”
“You killed my daughter!” he hisses. Tears glimmer in his eyes.
I feel a stab of guilt, but I remember how the girl was holding a gun, intending to kill my men – she could have killed Elle, or Manny. Or Uriah.
And then the guilt is gone, replaced by white-hot anger.
“We’re fighting for you,” I tell him. “Don’t get in our way or we will move you out of the way.”
“We don’t want your help, you bloody murderers,” the man hisses. “Yukon City was better off before your bloodthirsty lot came along.”
Uriah tenses beside me, his finger hovering over the trigger of his rifle.
Elle takes a step forward, standing beside me.
“This isn’t worth it,” she says. “All of this fighting. I’m the one who started the fight in the chow hall. I was threatened, so I took action. I’m sorry about what happened, but you guys are too sheltered. We’ve been out there, being killed by Omega. We’re not going to take bullying or threats from anyone. Understand that and respect that and we’ll be fine.”
She locks eyes with me.
This is her apology for starting the fight – for losing control.
I nod. It’s okay.
The man with the curly beard glares at me.
“You cannot atone for the death of my daughter – or the death of our people,” he growls. “You must stand trial before the senate.”
I lick my lips and turn my gaze to Uriah. He gives me a look.
“Get out of our way,” I say. “We’re going inside.”
I think about how late it is – and how little time we have to sleep before we rendezvous at 0400 for Operation Glacier. I don’t have time for this crap.
But this could get messy.
As if to validate my thoughts, I hear the slide and lock of guns, rounds sliding into chambers and I see knives slipping out of their sheaths. I can feel the crackling tension and the rising adrenaline in my men behind me. And I know, without a doubt, that if a fight starts, there will be no stopping it, and these people will die. It will be a bloodbath, and that is not something I am interested in starting.
“We’re not going to fight you,” I say, holding my hand up, stilling my men.
The man with the beard raises his right hand, his fingers curled around the rock. He pulls back, as if to hurl it straight at my head. Uriah raises his rifle into his shoulder, ready to take the shot – protecting me, as always.
“No!”
A young boy steps forward, out of the crowd of civilians. He places his hand on the arm of the man ready to throw the rock.
“You can’t do it, papa,” he says. “She’s right. No more killing…please.”
The boy looks around twelve years old. His hair is shaved to the scalp. He is dirty, his face smudged with grease. The bearded man slowly lowers the rock, taking several deep breaths and then placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
He glares at me, his lip quivering.
One second. Five seconds. Fifteen seconds.
He looks up at me. He drops the rock.
“This isn’t over,” he says, teeth grinding together.
I don’t reply.
We slowly work our way to the door of the Begich Towers, as the civilians part around us, the tension fizzling out like a dead breeze. My men move inside, but I stand there, watching, waiting for something to happen. But the man eventually moves on, taking the small, wise boy with him. And pretty soon we are left alone, and it is just Elle, Bravo and me in the parking lot.
“I’m sorry about this,” she says, quietly. “It’s my fault.”
“It is what it is,” I reply. “Don’t be sorry.”
“I don’t know why they hate us so much.”
“They’re threatened by us.”
“I guess.”
We move inside the building. At the far end of the hall, standing in the shadows with her guards, is President Bacardi, her arms crossed over her chest, and her face arranged into a cold glare.
Most of my men have dispersed into the upper levels of the building, exhausted and eager to sleep. Only Uriah remains below, along with Elle and Bravo. The door clangs shut behind me and we are trapped inside with the guards and Mauve.
“Commander Hart,” Mauve says. “We need to talk.”
“Negative,” I reply. “I have a busy day tomorrow, and I need to rest. It can wait.”
“It cannot. This needs to be discussed now.”
Will this night ever end? I think.
“Okay,” I say. And then I look at Uriah, silently telling him with my eyes to come with me. So he does. He follows me into Mauve’s large, spacious office on the bottom level, while Elle and Bravo hang back in the hall. The office doors shut behind us, and Mauve keeps her back to us for a long moment, staring at the wall. At last, after a heavy silence, she turns to me, her forehead wrinkled in thought.
“Your presence here has upset the refugees,” she says, simply. “And honestly, Commander Hart, I am willing to overlook that, because I understand that these things just happen sometimes.” Her eyes narrow. “But I am not willing to overlook your alliance with the Roamers.”
“Does our alliance bother you?” I ask.
“That’s a nice way of saying it.” She stalks to her desk, throws a map down and glares at me. “The Roamers are the best protection we have outside of Yukon City. They guard the Maynard Tunnel, and keep our location secret.”
“The Roamers are independent,” I reply. “They do what they want, when they want. They’re dangerous, and we’re going to help them strike back at Omega.”
“And in turn, take them away from protecting this city,” she hisses.
“You have the National Guard and the militias here!” I exclaims. “You don’t need the Roamers.”
“The Roamers are deadly,” she says. “We are safer with them here.”
“Don’t get greedy,” I answer, calm. “This is a war, and you and your people in Yukon City are living in a bubble. Everywhere else, Omega has unleashed hell. We need every available fighting man and woman now. This is the final stand.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like up here,” Mauve goes on, almost as if I didn’t say anything. “It’s isolated, freezing, dark…nobody cares about us up here. It’s barren and cold. I hate it here, Commander. And so does everybody else.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say, simply. “You and your people are living in luxury compared to the rest of the world – you should be grateful.” I pause. “We’re deploying tomorrow at 0400. Accept it.” I hold up one finger. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”
But I’m not really sorry. I may be a senator for the Pacific Northwest Alliance – which, by the way, may or may not still exist – but I am not going to play a game of politics with a stubborn, paranoid president.
Not today.
I turn on my heel and exit the room, Uriah ghosting along beside me.
“You will be sorry you did this to us,” Mauve says, her eyes wild.
I ignore her. We leave the room and enter the hallway, keeping quiet until we are past the guards and climbing the
stairwell.
“I’ve had enough drama for one day, haven’t you?” Uriah whispers.
I release a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Yeah,” I say. “Plenty.”
***
Operation Glacier
0400
In the forest, I am home. Even in the dark twilight of the Alaskan winter, with the snow crunching beneath my boots, I feel calm. The cloak of nature is my refuge, and I know how to use it to my advantage. It is one of few upper hands I have against the enemy.
The trees are tall, sinister shadows around us as we ghost through the woods. Father Kareem and the Mad Monks move ahead of us, their dark cloaks twisting into the shadows. Tiny flurries of snow pelt my uniform. The air is numbingly cold, different than the cold of the Kings Canyon or the Central Valley in winter. This is an ancient, deep freeze. It’s as awe-inspiring as it is annoying.
My rifle is strapped across my back, and the rest of my gear is fairly light. I don’t want to be burdened down with heavy equipment when we reach the base – I will need to move quickly and silently. Nothing bulky can be allowed to slow me down.
We keep a steady pace through the woods, the radio piece in my ear silent. The terrain of the mountains begins to slope downhill, and I know that we are getting closer to our destination – but, since we are buried within thick trees, I can’t see the lake yet.
At last, Father Kareem’s voice crackles into the earpiece: “Hold.”
I slide to a halt and place my hand on the trunk of a tree, catching my breath. Uriah is directly behind me, and Vera and Andrew are on my left. Elle is up ahead with Manny and the Mad Monks, using Bravo to clear the path before us in case of booby traps or landmines.
“Yankee Leader,” Manny says. “This is Sundog. We have visual on the target.”
I close my eyes, inhaling. Exhaling.
“Copy that, Sundog. Team Leaders, assume your strike positions.”
My platoon gathers around me, and the rest of the Angels of Death do the same, divided into three small platoons – each one with a designated leader. The first platoon is mine, the second is Vera’s and the third is Manny’s. Uriah is the best shooter in the entire detachment, so he stays with me. Father Kareem and his men are separate from our detachments and are commanded by him.
“Let’s rock and roll,” Uriah whispers.
I nod, and then we are moving through the woods again, coming to the bottom of the hill, to a small clearing of trees. Father Kareem and the monks are gathered here in a crouch, behind a berm of earth, staring directly ahead.
Before us lies the Mendenhall Lake, flat and delicate amidst the snowy mountains. Sheets of sharp, papery ice skid across the surface of the water. Occasional glaciers poke out of the lake, too, blue and cobalt, dusted with snow. To our right, a frozen waterfall stretches into the lake, crystalline and impressive. And in the far corner of the lake, I see the Mendenhall Glacier. It’s massive, rising out of the ground and curving away between the mountains, a solid, mountainous river of blue ice. It is a massive, icy kingdom, looming and unconquerable. Its sheer size is staggering – over thirteen miles long and hundreds of feet high. It looks like a mammoth river that suddenly froze solid, leaving a stretched, ebbing trail of ice in its wake.
Now that I think about it, that’s probably exactly what happened.
“Unbe-freaking-lievable,” Uriah mutters. “Ever see anything like it?”
“No,” I reply. “Not even close.”
“It makes Kings Canyon look small.”
My eyes are drawn to a clearing across the lake, near our position. There is an open area marked “photo point.” And beyond that, a trail that leads back to a small collection of buildings.
“That’s the Visitor Center,” Father Kareem tells me, his voice quiet. “Omega has brought in more temporary buildings around the area.”
I see a parking lot packed with Omega vehicles, once reserved for tourists who were visiting the mighty Alaskan frontier. Everywhere, there are makeshift barracks comprised of temporary buildings – similar to mobile homes, only all of them are painted gray, and stamped with a black O, signifying Omega’s domain. Erected on the edge of the mainland, there is a huge building, clearly meant to be an impenetrable compound. It towers four stories into the air, guarded by Omega soldiers. The Omega flag flutters in the cold breeze, hanging from a pole in front of the compound: a black square with an insidious white O in the center, an all-seeing eye.
I scan the entire base quickly – the compound, a tall, dangerous fortress on the edge of the lake, and the rest of the encampment…little more than a collection of barracks, vehicles and a chow hall, which was previously a tourist visitor center.
It is almost 0600, and I can see very dim lights coming from within the chow hall. The main compound, however, is as dark as a tomb – as is the rest of the entire camp.
We stay silent and still for a moment, overlooking everything, making sure we’re not walking into some kind of obvious trap. But there is nothing I can see that is out of place – it is exactly as we thought it would be.
“This is Yankee Leader,” I say into the radio. “We have a green light.”
And we move out in formation, slipping down the side of the mountain, toward the backside of the Nugget Falls Trail.
The trail that winds through the rocky soil, away from the trees, is elevated on a berm of earth. Below it, there are three large, iron grates. Behind those grates are the drainage pipes that lead to the far side of the Omega compound.
My team approaches them swiftly, and as we had hoped, they are old and outdated. They easily come off, and my men lay them aside. I take a deep, shuddering breath, bump fists with Uriah, and then he and I, along with Father Kareem, dive into the first tunnel on the left. Vera’s platoon takes the middle pipe, and Manny’s takes the one of the far right. I flip on the flashlight mounted on my rifle, beaming a sharp path through the grimy tunnel. The ground is slick with slushy ice and mud, and the smell of rot is strong. I tell myself not to think about it – to keep moving.
So we do. The pipes are big enough that I can stand upright, but Uriah has to hunch over slightly. I guess I’m just fortunate to be short today. We keep going for what seems like an eternity, never daring to speak aloud or breathe too raggedly, afraid that the noise will alert Omega to our presence.
I feel a burst of cold air on my face, and I know that we have reached the end of the tunnel. I see the dim twilight of the outside, and I come to a halt at the end of the tunnel. Under normal circumstances, these pipes would be dumping water into the lake, but right now, they are empty, and we halt to gaze at the frozen water below us. I make a fist and bring two fingers to my lips, straining for sounds. I hear the distant whine and rumble of a generator, and the slamming of car doors. But other than that, I hear nothing.
Good. Here we go.
Father Kareem, Uriah and I step to the very precipice of the tunnel and remove the grappling hook guns from our belts. We aim them at the edge of the compound towering above us. The walls are made of concrete, reminding me of a compound that you might see in Afghanistan or Iraq – all flat edges and dirt-colored walls. I feel like I’m staring up at an impenetrable castle of darkness, like the knight in every fairytale, trying to rescue a damsel in distress…only there is no damsel. Just a mission. I squeeze the trigger and the cable launches out of the chamber of the gun with a thump, swish and whir of the uncoiling line. It disappears from sight, but I hear a faint thud-clang as the grappling hook grasps the side of the wall. I pull on the line. It goes taut.
I sling my rifle over my shoulder and test my weight on the line. I look at Uriah, who is little more than a dark shadow in this light. He nods, squeezes my shoulder, and then I begin to climb, my gloves giving me a good grip. It takes every ounce of muscle and upper-body strength that I have acquired over the last two years to make this climb, my boots wedged against the wall, my legs pushing me upward, my arms and shoulders burning with the strain
. The whoosh of the rest of the grappling hooks deploying distracts me – but only for a moment. I concentrate on the task at hand.
If I fall, I’m dead. So don’t look down, don’t think. Just do.
I move up, biceps straining, shoulders screaming for relief.
Just a few more feet. Please let me make it.
The terror of failure is enough of a motivation to get me to the top. I barely hook my arm over the edge of the wall and swing my body up, rolling over the ledge. I hit the ground, thanking God that I didn’t screw up the climb and plummet to my death, and then I pull myself together.
I crouch on one knee, pulling my rifle into my shoulder. We’re standing on the roof of the compound, with nothing but wires and satellite dishes to herald our arrival. I exhale, relieved, and wait for the rest of the men to make it to the top. Father Kareem lands gracefully on his feet – unlike me, the queen of face-plants – and Uriah is right behind him. I see Manny and his platoon, along with Vera. Elle has remained in the pipes with a small detachment of Mad Monks, guarding the entrance to the tunnels.
“Stage one complete,” Uriah says into the radio. “Let’s go, stage two.”
My snipers – and Father Kareem’s snipers – take positions along the rooftops of the compound, lying prone and making nests for themselves on the edge. Below, the entire camp lies below us.
I feel alive, invigorated.
We are doing good, so far. We need to keep it up.
On the roof, there is a door that leads to the interior of the compound. This is the most dangerous part – the entrance inside, the knowledge that we are walking into a building filled with dozens of Omega Special Forces.
We pause at the door, gathering around it. Vera’s steely blue eyes flash through the slit in her balaclava. “Let’s do this,” she says.
Father Kareem crosses himself, then checks his heavy rifle one last time.
“God be with us,” he says softly.
Ditto, I think.