Into the Guns
Page 5
After stuffing his gear into the watertight compartment located aft of the kayak’s cockpit, Sloan replaced the lid and checked to make sure that it was on tight. Then it was time to drag the fiberglass hull down a muddy bank and into the ship channel that led out into the Gulf of Mexico. After laying one of the paddles across the hull, Sloan stood astride the kayak and walked it out into the ship channel. As soon as the tiny boat was afloat, he sat down while bringing his feet up and in.
Then it was time to start paddling. A breeze was blowing in from the east, which forced Sloan to paddle harder than he would have preferred. But after a sustained effort, he managed to propel the kayak past a half-sunken ship and into the open sea.
He was paddling into the waves at first, but the moment he turned north, water slapped the side of the low-lying craft and threatened to swamp it. In order to prevent that, Sloan had to cut the waves at an angle and tack back and forth.
As hours passed, the beach was his constant companion. Any huts that had been on it were gone now . . . And the only people Sloan saw were occasional fishermen in small boats. Most waved, and he waved back.
Finally, as the light began to fade, Sloan knew it was time to go ashore on a deserted stretch of beach. Once on dry land, he could see where the high water had swept up and inland. Pieces of plastic had been left hanging in the scrub that lined the shore, but the hardy bushes seemed none the worse for wear. After locating a clearing about a hundred feet inland, Sloan went back for the kayak and dragged it up and out of sight. Then he cut a branch and returned to the water, where he backed up the beach and erased his footprints.
Overkill? Maybe, and maybe not. The cartels had been running drugs up that coast for a long time. Would the current set of circumstances bring drug traffic to a stop or cause it to grow? Sloan didn’t know and wasn’t about to run any unnecessary risks.
Once it was dark, Sloan built a small fire, which he used to prepare a simple dinner. Plain though the meal was, it tasted good and served to remind him of the fact that he’d have to find more food and ways to replenish his water supply. The beaches were littered with plastic bottles, but how to fill them? That would require some planning.
After gathering driftwood and constructing a rudimentary shelter, Sloan curled up and managed to sleep in spite of the insects that continually bit him. When morning came, he rose, enjoyed a cup of instant coffee, and wondered why he hadn’t been smart enough to buy toothpaste. The day passed slowly, and he gave thanks for the ever-present clouds. The heat would have been unbearable without them. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, evening came and it was time for his much-anticipated dinner. Once his stomach was full, Sloan put the fire out and dragged the kayak down to the water.
Thus began what would be a pattern for days to come. Paddle at night and sleep during the day. During that time, Sloan mastered the art of stealing food from fishing camps, looting crab pots, and night fishing. And so it went for nineteen days. During that time, Sloan became stronger and leaner. He still had a couple of pellets in his back. But the wounds had healed, and there were no signs of infection. And that was all he could ask for.
As the twentieth night began, Sloan felt a rising sense of anticipation, knowing that if he hadn’t entered US waters, he would soon. Moonlight filtered down through broken clouds to frost the surface of the gently heaving sea. He was enjoying the beauty of that when he heard a distant rumble and felt a stab of fear.
It wasn’t the first engine he’d heard. Two days earlier, the steady thump, thump, thump of a diesel engine had announced the presence of a dimly lit fishing boat that passed within a hundred feet of the kayak. But this sound was different. The throaty roar belonged to a cigarette boat or something similar. Not the sort of craft a fisherman would use.
So Sloan had reason to be afraid as the noise passed him on the right and sent a succession of waves his way. That made it necessary for him to turn into the other boat’s wake or risk being swamped. But the danger had passed, or so it seemed, until a powerful spotlight split the night. Had someone seen something as the boat passed him? That’s the way it seemed as the blob of light swung left, right, and nailed him. The voice was amplified. “Levante sus manos—y mantenerlos allí!” (“Raise your hands—and keep them there!”)
Shit! Shit! Shit! Sloan dug his paddle into the water in an attempt to escape the light. But it followed him, and Sloan heard a burst of gunfire. White geysers shot up all around him, and there was a thump as one of the bullets punched a hole in the hull. Cold liquid squirted into the cockpit and Sloan struggled to get out. Then the boat was there, looming above him, as a silhouette leaned over to look down at him. “Tirar los peces en. Vamos a ver lo que tenemos.” (“Pull the fish in. Let’s see what we have.”) The journey was over.
CHAPTER 3
And the platoon is the truly characteristic component of an army; it is the lowest unit habitually commanded by a commissioned officer; it is the real and essential fighting unit, whose action conditions that of the other arms and formations; it is a little world in which the relations between the led and the leader, the men and their commander, are immediate, actual, continuous, and entirely real.
—MAJOR M. K. WARDLE
NEAR YAKIMA, WASHINGTON
Mac was familiar with the dream by then and knew she was dreaming it but couldn’t escape. For what might have been the twentieth time, she stood in the hatch and stared upwards as hundreds of tons of rock slid down the side of the mountain to obliterate the second platoon and half of the buses. One moment, they were there, and the next moment, they weren’t. At least a thousand lives had been lost in the blink of an eye. But Lieutenant Robin Macintyre and her platoon were spared. Why? Because, that’s why.
Mac awoke as she always did, with a scream trapped in her throat and her heart pounding. How long would the dreams go on? Until they stop, the voice answered. Deal with it.
Mac eyed her wristwatch. The time was 0436, and the alarm was set for 0500. But she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, so why try? Mac turned on the bedside light, pushed the sleeping bag down, and swung her feet over onto the cold floor. The baseboard heater was working but couldn’t counter the chill.
Mac swore, grabbed her robe, and made the trip to the bathroom. The platoon and a collection of other lost souls were headquartered at the Vagabond Army Airfield just outside the city of Yakima. It was a small facility that was normally part of the Yakima Training Center. However, most of that command’s personnel, munitions, and fuel had been loaded onto vehicles and sent east to reinforce Fairchild AFB in Spokane.
Captain Hollister had been killed in the rockslide. His death left Mac in charge and made her responsible for the orders Hollister had been given. That meant Mac was supposed to establish a refugee camp adjacent to Vagabond and prepare to receive more convoys of people even though the east–west highway was blocked, and she lacked the resources necessary to do so. A problem she had repeatedly emphasized via radio but to no avail. JBLM’s answer was always the same: “We’ve got a lot of irons in the fire right now . . . We’ll get back to you.”
So all Mac could do was secure the base and wait for something to happen. In her capacity as interim CO, Mac had ordered a specialist to fire up Vagabond’s emergency generator each day between 0400 and 0600. That gave everyone a chance to shower before they went on duty or after they came off it, as well as being an opportunity to charge batteries and run power tools.
After taking a hot shower and completing her morning rituals Mac put on her winter uniform and stepped out into the driving sleet. With her head down, she hurried over to the Flight Control Center. The lights were on as Mac entered the office and stamped her feet on a mat. After the generator went off, the headquarters staff would fire up the woodstove that Platoon Sergeant Evans had “borrowed” somewhere. That, plus some lanterns filled with helicopter fuel, would get them through the rest of the day. “Good morning,” Eva
ns said as he raised a mug by way of a salute.
“What’s good about it?” Mac demanded as she shed her coat and made her way over to the coffeepot. They still had coffee, but for how long?
“Cinnamon rolls,” Evans said smugly, pointing to a tray. “Private Brisby made them. Who knew he could cook?”
“I’m in,” Mac said as she went to help herself. “Have we heard anything from JBLM?”
Evans made a face. Mac asked the same question every morning. “Yes, ma’am. But nothing good. The gangs launched another attack—and our people had to pull back again.”
Mac felt her spirits fall. That was what? The third pullback? JBLM was getting smaller each day. And since I-90 had been closed by the rockslide, and a self-proclaimed warlord had taken control of east–west Highway 410, there was no way for JBLM to reinforce her. Meanwhile, the chickenshit CO of Fairchild AFB refused to intervene without permission from above. That made Mac angry, but she couldn’t say so without harming morale. So she didn’t. “Okay, what’s on the agenda?”
“After making the rounds, you’re supposed to meet with Mr. Wylie,” Evans told her.
“Oh goody,” Mac replied. “That will be fun.”
Evans laughed. “Better you than me.”
Mac sipped her coffee. Yakima had a city council, and one of the council members was called the “mayor at large.” But City Manager Fred Wylie actually ran things, and he was a huge pain in the ass. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll leave after my rounds.”
After consuming the rest of her roll, and a second cup of coffee, Mac went out to check in with what? Could it be called a platoon? Or was it a company now? Not that it mattered. The ritual began with a visit to the small building that housed the ready room. That’s where the pilots and their crew people met each morning.
Mac thought of them as orphans, meaning people who had been at Vagabond when the poop hit the fan, or drifted in since, looking for a unit to belong to. Tim Peters and copilot/gunner Jan Omata were excellent examples. Their Apache AH-64 had been grounded due to mechanical problems when their platoon flew out on April 30. And were still there on May 1, when the meteors fell. So for the moment, at least, the warrant officers belonged to her.
The sleet was cold and wet as it hit Mac’s face. She hurried past a couple of sheds to what everyone called “the Shack.” It was toasty inside thanks to the huge heater that had been “reallocated” from one of the hangars. The walls were covered with photos of helicopters, old and new, a detailed map of the training center, and a tidy bulletin board. The newest item on it was over a month old. Five people were seated around the Formica-covered table and all of them stood as Mac walked in. It was an honor generally reserved for high-ranking officers, but Mac was all they had. She said, “At ease,” and waved them back into their chairs.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Peters said. “Have you got any news for us?”
Peters was a lanky six-two and liked to wear his hair high and tight. He had piercing blue eyes, a firm jaw, and an easygoing personality. He also had a strong desire to fly rather than sit around playing soldier. “I’m sorry,” Mac replied. “Just the same old, same old. The people at JBLM were forced to fall back again. And we don’t have anything new from Fairchild.”
The news produced groans of disappointment. “That sucks,” Omata said. Mac liked the pilot and felt sorry for her at the same time. Her family was in San Francisco . . . And, like so many people, Omata had no idea what had become of them.
“Yeah, it does,” Mac agreed. “But hang in there . . . Something will break soon.”
“Really? You think so?” Grimes inquired. He was a mechanic and a member of the Apache’s ground crew.
“Yes, I do,” Mac lied. “In the meantime, I really appreciate the way you folks have pitched in. Speaking of which, I have to be in town at 0930. So Mr. Peters will be in charge.”
“I plan to give everyone a raise, a strawberry ice-cream cone, and their own unicorn,” Peters announced.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mac replied. “I don’t need a unicorn, but some ice cream would taste good.”
The sleet found her skin as Mac left the Shack and caused her to swear. Each Stryker was housed in its own storage building, all separated by a fire lane. Two trucks were on guard duty at any given time—and the rest could roll on five minutes’ notice. After checking in with the Stryker crews, Mac made her way to the tiny dispensary, where a navy doctor named Pete Hoskins and medic “Doc” Obbie were waiting.
Hoskins and his wife had been in Yakima visiting her parents when the meteors struck. And, since he couldn’t reach his duty station in San Diego, Hoskins reported to the heliport. Obbie stood as Mac entered, but Hoskins outranked her and didn’t.
Hoskins was a serious-looking man with graying hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the precise movements of a bird. His report was as predictable as the morning sleet. It seemed there had been a few minor injuries in the last twenty-four hours, two soldiers had colds, and 80 percent of the base’s personnel were clinically depressed. “Including you,” Hoskins said pointedly, “even if you won’t admit it.”
“Thanks,” Mac said. “I feel so much better now . . . Please keep up the good work.” Hoskins crossed his arms, and Obbie grinned.
Corporal Garcia and the Humvee were waiting as Mac left the dispensary. The vehicle came with the base and allowed Mac to travel without using one of the trucks. The heater was running full blast—and it felt good to get in out of the cold. Sparks Munroe was seated in the back, along with Private Atkins, who would man the fifty should that be necessary. “We’re headed downtown,” Mac announced. “But let’s pull a 360 first.”
Garcia nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” It took less than ten minutes to circle the tiny base. They paused occasionally to check in with the truck commanders and the soldiers who were guarding the perimeter. They were cold, but in reasonably good spirits, and looking forward to a hot meal. Once the tour was complete, Garcia drove the Humvee west on Firing Center Road to I-82. The pavement was wet, and slightly slushy, but no challenge for the all-wheel-drive vehicle. Visibility was limited, and there wasn’t much to see other than a few widely separated homes.
Once on the freeway, and headed south, Mac was struck by how light the traffic was. They passed horse-drawn wagons on two occasions, and Mac wondered what that implied. Were people running out of fuel? Or were they hoarding it? Both, most likely; and things were bound to get worse. And, according to what Sparks had been able to pull in from ham-radio operators, conditions were similar elsewhere in the country.
Garcia turned onto 823 a few minutes later and followed it into Yakima. It had been a pleasant city, but the clouds were so low that it felt like they might smother the city, and very few people were out on the streets.
Like the Vagabond Army Heliport, the city had been forced to limit power to a couple of hours per day, and the electricity wasn’t scheduled to come on until 1800 hours. That was devastating for the business community, which had been forced to lay people off. And if people couldn’t buy things, they would eventually try to take them. Then what?
The question went unanswered as Garcia turned off North Second. Wylie’s office was located in a complex that was surrounded by parking lots and deciduous trees. Mac noticed that in spite of the fact that it was summer, all of them had shed their leaves.
The Humvee came to a stop, and they got out. Mac turned to Atkins. His job was to guard the vehicle. “Keep your eyes peeled,” Mac cautioned. “And holler if you see anything suspicious.”
Atkins’s face was nearly invisible thanks to cold-weather gear and a pair of goggles. She saw him nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mac led the tiny detachment into the building’s lobby, where two bored-looking cops were waiting to receive her. That was new and a sure sign of trouble. “I’m Lieutenant Macintyre,” she told them. “I have an appointment to see Mr. Wylie.”
“That isn’t acceptable,” Mac responded. “Please inform Mr. Wylie that I attempted to see him. Have a nice day.”
“Whoa,” the second man said. “There’s no need to get your panties in a knot . . . I’ll check with Mr. Wylie’s assistant.”
Mac waited while the policeman mumbled into a radio and wasn’t surprised when the verdict came in. “Sorry,” the cop said stiffly. “But we have to be careful these days . . . And just because someone’s wearing a uniform doesn’t mean much. You can go up.”
Mac thanked him and followed a series of hand-printed signs past the elevators to a door marked EXIT. A flight of stairs led up to the second floor and another fire door. It opened into a hall that led past the restrooms to an open area and a dozen cubicles. The room was lit with jury-rigged work lights. And while the air wasn’t warm, it wasn’t cold either, thanks to a pair of space heaters.
Wylie’s assistant was there to receive the visitors. Her name was Martha Cobb. She was a pleasant-looking woman with nicely styled hair, chiseled features, and a confident manner. “Lieutenant Macintyre! It’s nice to see you again. Mr. Wylie is in his office. Would you care for tea or coffee?”
“It’s good to see you as well,” Mac replied. “I’d love a cup of coffee—and I’m sure my men would appreciate some as well.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Cobb promised. “Please follow me.”
Mac removed her jacket as Cobb led her past the cubicles to the corner office where Wylie was waiting. He was a big man with thinning hair, beady eyes, and a pugnacious jaw. He circled the desk in order to shake hands. Mac felt his hand swallow hers and felt lucky to retrieve it. “Good morning, Lieutenant,” Wylie said, “and thanks for coming. Please, have a seat.”