Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  “The Raven will be easy,” Esco predicted. “They come in a couple of cases—and I could probably do it by myself. As for the Shadows, I’ve flown them but never been required to assemble one. The Apache’s ground crew said they’d be willing to pitch in, though—and we have the necessary manuals.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Two days,” Smith replied. “Assembly’s only half of it. We’ve got to test the drones and train up.”

  Mac felt a rising sense of frustration. She wanted to get on the road as soon as possible but knew how valuable the UAVs would be. “Okay, go for it. But two days max . . . We need to amscray before something big and ugly comes this way.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Esco said as he stood. “We’ll be ready.”

  The sergeants left Mac to stare at the opposite wall. A picture of the president was mounted there. He looked confident as he stared into the camera. One nation under God, Mac thought to herself. Not anymore.

  CHAPTER 6

  The American people abhor a vacuum.

  —THEODORE ROOSEVELT

  SOUTHEAST TEXAS

  Swamp water churned, and arms thrashed as the men fought. Sloan’s handcuffed hands were positioned in front of Short Guy’s throat, and as he pulled them back, the connecting chain bit into the security officer’s throat. Die, son of a bitch, die! Sloan thought to himself.

  But Sloan’s lungs were on fire . . . And as he began to lose consciousness, he had no choice but to give up and kick with his feet. Their heads broke the surface together. And, as Sloan struggled to suck air into his oxygen-starved lungs, he found himself in the powerful downdraft caused by the Huey’s whirling rotors.

  The downward pressure flattened the water around him but started to ease as the helicopter drifted sideways. That was when Flattop appeared in the open doorway above. Geysers of water jumped up in front of Sloan as the man opened fire. Sloan felt Short Guy jerk as a 9mm round struck his body. Holy shit! Flattop didn’t care who he hit.

  Sloan tried to take Short Guy with him as he ducked below the surface. It didn’t work. All Sloan could do was slide in under the other man and use the security officer’s body as a shield while he kicked his feet and struggled to breathe. Fortunately, they were close to shore, which meant Sloan was able to tow Short Guy in under the thick foliage that hung out over the water.

  The chopper vanished from sight as Sloan felt mud under his shoes and attempted to stand. But that wasn’t possible without lifting his arms up off Short Guy first. Once on his feet, Sloan saw that the other man’s face was blue. Had he been dead before Flattop shot him? That’s the way it looked because the bullet hole was in Short Guy’s left shoulder. Sloan looked up through a tangle of branches as the helicopter passed overhead. Then it was gone. Would Godbee send people to find him? Hell yes, he would.

  After securing a firm grip on Short Guy’s collar, Sloan dragged the dead man up onto the muddy bank. His hands shook as he searched the security officer’s pockets. The key, he needed the key, and was thrilled to find it in a pants pocket.

  It took three tries to get the key into the lock and turn it. Then, as the cuffs fell away, Sloan felt a profound sense of relief. He could use his hands freely now . . . And that felt wonderful.

  Sloan set about the task of recovering everything else the corpse had to offer. That included Short Guy’s Glock, an extra magazine, and a pocketknife. There was a wallet, too . . . With 118 bucks in it! Plus a photo of a little girl. She was smiling. Sloan swore. Short Guy was a father—and his daughter was never going to see him again.

  That was the moment when Sloan realized he was a killer. Not a pathological killer, he assured himself, but a killer nonetheless. He felt a terrible sense of guilt. But there was fear, too . . . Fear of being caught. And that was enough to get him moving.

  It would have been nice to take the other man’s clothes and rid himself of the jumpsuit, but there was no way that Short Guy’s duds were going to fit. So Sloan pushed the body out into the water, where it soon sank below the surface.

  Did the Huey pilot have an exact fix on the spot where the two of them hit the water? That seemed unlikely. So by getting rid of the body, Sloan hoped to make it that much more difficult for searchers to find the starting point.

  Think, Sloan told himself, as he used a piece of driftwood to erase his footprints. What should you do next? The answer was obvious. Put a lot of distance between himself and the spot where he was standing. But how? He couldn’t swim from place to place. Not without winding up inside an alligator. I need a log, Sloan concluded. Anything that will keep me up out of the water.

  That realization began a search that took him halfway around what turned out to be an island. People had been using the swamp for a long time, so plenty of plastic bottles and chunks of styrofoam were washed up along the shoreline. But it wasn’t until twenty minutes into the search that he located a section of what had been a dock. It consisted of three planks nailed to crosspieces. A raft!

  But when Sloan pulled it down into the water, he soon discovered that the planks weren’t enough to support his weight, which meant that they were partially submerged. Not only that, but his feet were hanging off one end and might look good to a hungry gator.

  That couldn’t be helped, however. Sloan had to get going and do so quickly. Darkness was still hours away—and Godbee would send boats to find him. Sloan chose the tallest tree on the far shore as his target and began to paddle. It was easy at first. But then, as the adrenaline started to fade, his arms began to tire. All Sloan could do was grit his teeth and keep on.

  Eventually, the trees grew taller, details became clear, and the tall marsh grass took him in. As the bottom came up, Sloan stood, pushed the raft in farther, and made his way onto the shore. And not a moment too soon. Sloan heard the airboat before he saw it . . . He hurried to find a place to hide, remembered the footprints he’d left behind, and went back to smooth them over. He was barely out of sight when the propeller-driven boat appeared.

  There were three men in the boat. One sat on a raised seat with the rudder stick in one hand and his foot on the gas. The others were up front, rifles at the ready. Water surged away from the squared-off bow as the driver cut power, and the riflemen used their scopes to search the shoreline.

  All Sloan could do was hunker down and wait. According to Short Guy’s Rolex, only ten minutes passed before the engine noise increased, and the airboat departed. But it seemed like an eternity. Sloan felt a sense of relief as he watched it go. But that emotion was short-lived. He needed to do something, but what?

  It was tempting to choose a direction and start walking or wading. But that would consume valuable calories, and for what? Chances were that he’d find himself standing in a similar spot two hours later, and with darkness closing in.

  No, Sloan decided, it made sense to stay where he was for the night. He’d been a Boy Scout. So he was familiar with the bow-and-drill method of starting a fire, and he knew how difficult the process could be, even in the backyard.

  That’s why he decided to build a debris shelter before tackling anything else. There were plenty of fallen branches to choose from, and while going out to gather them, Sloan discovered that he was on a narrow finger of land that jutted out into a lake.

  After half an hour or so, Sloan had a large pile of construction materials. The next hour was spent turning them into a small but serviceable hut.

  The light was starting to fade as he went to work on a fire. The raw materials had been set aside during the hut construction process—and included a green branch, a stick, fireboard, drill, and socket. With dry tinder at the ready, Sloan turned the branch into a bow by adding one of his shoelaces. The drill consisted of a stick, a concave rock that would serve as a socket, and a piece of dry driftwood for the fireboard.

  A legion of mosquitoes began to feast on Sloan as he went to work. And when darkness fell, h
e was still working, with only a single wisp of smoke to show for his efforts. Eventually, after what might have been an hour, he gave up in disgust.

  When it started to rain, Sloan left the hut to tilt his head back and drink as much as he could. Then it was time to go back inside and watch the lightning zigzag across the sky. It lit up the point the way a flashbulb would . . . But that was comforting in a way because it allowed him to see his surroundings for a moment.

  As the thunder died away, Sloan was left to sit in complete darkness as the swamp dwellers came out to eat and be eaten. Sloan heard a cacophony of grunts, what sounded like human screams, and the occasional splash out in the pond. There were hoots as well and, way off in the distance, the intermittent barking of a dog. And that was interesting because dogs usually live with people. Those sounds, combined with the constant whine of the mosquitoes, meant that Sloan didn’t get a wink of sleep.

  When daylight returned, it did so gradually as if reluctant to chase the night away. Sloan was hungry by then, his skin was raw from scratching bites, and he was shivering. Not a good start to the day. Get up, Sloan told himself, and move around. You’ll feel warmer then.

  That’s what Sloan was thinking about when he heard the distant but unmistakable sound of a chain saw. It was coming from what he thought of as the east, so he dashed across the point to try to get a fix. He was facing a body of water, and the sound seemed to be coming from a point beyond an extremely tall tree, which would give him something to aim at.

  Thus began a long, torturous day. It was difficult to steer a straight course as he traveled through a maze of channels. On two occasions, it was necessary to slide off the raft and duck under the surface of the water as the Huey passed overhead. And Sloan saw numerous boats but always in the distance. Were they searching for him? Or did the speedy outboards belong to swampers, who were out doing whatever swampers did? There was no way to know.

  All Sloan could do was head from one reference point to another and try to keep the sun behind him. At one point, he tried to will the person with the chain saw to start the machine up but with no success. Finally, hungry and exhausted, Sloan was forced to stop. As the light began to fade, he went ashore and set about the business of gathering materials and building a second hut. A water moccasin slithered away at one point, but the process went more quickly than it had the day before, and Sloan was grateful for that.

  There were two potential sources of water, the stuff straight out of the swamp and what could be found in puddles. Sloan was desperately thirsty by that time and decided to take a chance on a pool of rainwater. He took care to filter it through the fabric of his undershirt and into a plastic Coke bottle that had washed up onto the beach. Of course, that was something of a joke because thousands of evil microorganisms might be living in the bottle—or could pass through the weave of his shirt. But it was the best he could do.

  After slaking his thirst, Sloan sat down in front of the hut determined to start a fire. But after assembling another bow-and-drill set, and working for what must have been half an hour, he was forced to give up again. The long, cold night began, complete with the usual symphony of nerve-wracking noises.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Sloan woke to the realization that he had fallen asleep at some point, the sun was up, and he could hear a chain saw! He burst out of the hut, launched the raft, and began to paddle. The noise stopped after ten minutes—but the sound was enough to restore his morale.

  Splash, pull, splash, pull . . . The work went on and on. There were times when Sloan had to veer off course and circle an island before homing in on whatever tree he was using as a target. He saw alligators from time to time . . . But none were close.

  As the hours passed, Sloan fell into something akin to a trance. His chest was raw by that time, and his shoulders were on fire, but he was only dimly aware of the pain as the battle continued. Finally, as Sloan rounded a point of land, he saw something that caused his heart to leap. A long pole was sticking up out of the water—and a length of bright pink surveyor tape was tied to the top of it! And another marker could be seen farther on! It didn’t take a genius to realize that the carefully placed poles would lead him somewhere. To the person with the chain saw? That seemed like a good bet.

  But Sloan knew how vulnerable he was. Maybe the person at the other end of those markers would help him. But it seemed more likely that they’d take one look at the orange jumpsuit and turn him in. And, in the wake of Short Guy’s death, that would be the equivalent of a death sentence.

  As Sloan passed the first marker, and closed in on the second, he prayed that no one would happen along in a boat. Because if they did, he’d be at their mercy. Yes, there was the Glock to turn to, but he wanted to avoid that.

  To improve his chances of escaping detection, Sloan propelled his raft in under the bank of thick foliage that hung out over the water. It was dark under the greenery, and he would be hard to see there. The next half hour or so was spent working his way into a well-marked side channel. That led him into the lagoon, where a shabby houseboat was moored. It was positioned up against a muddy bank, with a plank to serve as a footbridge.

  Sloan stopped paddling at that point and was careful to stay under the foliage. He could see the flat-bottomed skiff that was secured to the houseboat and the motor on the stern. That was his way out if he could steal it. And what other choice did he have? He couldn’t throw himself on the mercy of a complete stranger who, assuming he had a gun, might take one look at the orange jumpsuit and open fire. Where was the swamper anyway? Inside? Or out in the mangroves?

  Sloan learned the answer about fifteen minutes later when a man and a hound dog emerged from the trees adjacent to the houseboat. The swamper’s head was bald, but he had a bushy beard to make up for it and was naked except for khaki shorts and rubber boots. He’d been fishing, judging from the pole that he carried in one hand and the bucket that dangled from the other.

  The dog was dashing to and fro, sniffing the ground, and pausing to pee every now and then. The plank bounced as the pair made their way aboard the houseboat and disappeared inside. The dog is a problem, Sloan decided, but darkness will fall in a few hours. Maybe I can steal the boat without making any noise.

  It wasn’t much of a plan. But it was all he had. So with at least four hours of daylight left, Sloan had no choice but to lie on the raft, let the mosquitoes have their way with him, and drift in and out of consciousness.

  Eventually, he woke to discover that it was dark. Sloan eyed the Rolex. It was five to ten, and he could see a square of buttery light through a window, which suggested that the owner was up and about. With that in mind, Sloan resolved to paddle in closer, but not too close, and wait for the light to go out. Once the man was asleep, he’d make his move.

  Water gurgled as it swept along both sides of the raft, and Sloan gave thanks for the chorus of swamp sounds. Taken together, they were more than enough to cover his approach.

  When Sloan was about fifty feet away from his objective, he brought the raft to a halt with some stealthy back-paddling. At that point, he could hear country-western music emanating from what he assumed to be a battery-powered radio.

  Sloan felt a stab of fear as a door opened, and the man emerged. Because the swamper was backlit, all Sloan could see was a silhouette. There was the distinctive rasp of a zipper followed by the unmistakable sound of water hitting water as the man emptied his bladder into the lagoon. That was followed by a throaty growl as the dog emerged to test the night air. “Whatcha smell, boy?” the animal’s owner inquired. “You got a coon?”

  The dog yawned and went inside. Sloan released a long, shallow breath and was surprised to learn that he’d been holding it.

  The door slammed, the light went out shortly thereafter, and Sloan had the darkness to himself. After counting to five thousand, Sloan paddled in next to the skiff. It would have been impossible to enter the boat from the wa
ter without making a commotion. But with the raft for support, he managed to enter the boat with a minimum of fuss.

  The next step was to free the skiff from the houseboat and, thanks to Short Guy’s knife, Sloan had the means to cut the painter. The houseboat was so close that he could reach out and touch it. So Sloan put both hands on the hull and gave a push. The boat slid out into the lagoon stern first and coasted to a stop.

  At that point Sloan had a fresh set of problems to deal with. Which way to go? And how to proceed? Would the motor start easily? And, even if it did, would he run aground in the darkness? Sloan feared that he would, and set about the process of deploying the oars. The oarlocks rattled but couldn’t be heard over the racket being made by the creatures of the night.

  Sloan had the oars out and was pulling away when the dog began to bark. Because of him? Or in response to something else? There was no way to know. A light appeared inside the houseboat, the door opened, and a powerful beam shot out to probe the lagoon. It missed the skiff at first but soon came back to pin the boat in its glare!

  Sloan was momentarily grateful for the light because it told him which way to go. The man shouted at him and waved a fist before ducking into the cabin. Then he was back with a rifle. But, because the swamper had to hold the weapon and the big flashlight, his aim was off. Geysers of water jumped up around the skiff as Sloan pulled with all his might.

  Then the houseboat was gone as the skiff entered the main channel. Sloan permitted himself a whoop of joy. The rifle shots, plus his celebratory shout, were enough to silence the denizens of the darkness for a moment. But they were in full cry seconds later. Sloan laughed out loud. He was alive . . . And he was free!

  As Sloan pulled on the oars, darkness ruled the swamp, and ominous noises could be heard from all around. He couldn’t see. So it wasn’t long before the skiff ran into what proved to be a tangle of mangrove roots—and Sloan decided that it would be foolish to continue on. After securing the boat to a branch, he searched it for food. That was difficult in the dark, but the cooler produced two cans of beer, one of which went down straightaway.