Standing Before Hell's Gate

by William Alan Webb

  A newly erected farmhouse near the road on his left caused him to sit up. Two people on a covered porch waved as they drove by, an old man with his arm around a woman of the same approximate age.

  “I know those people!” he said. “That’s Joshua!”

  Major Iskold looked up and took a pencil out of her mouth. “I’m sorry, sir, what did you say?”

  The farmhouse had slipped behind them, so Angriff pointed backwards with his thumb. “Those people back there, we rescued them last year. I remember Captain Sully’s Marine company saved them from some of Patton’s men.”

  “Oh, yes, General, that’s correct,” she said. “I thought you knew. We’re settling refugees on the west side because it’s a shorter distance for the irrigation pipes.”

  “I did, but it didn’t sink in until right now. What are they growing?”

  Iskold’s eyes widened in fear. His voice had that commanding quality his usual staff knew better than to take seriously, but Iskold hadn’t been around him all that much. “I don’t know, General… Ummm, if that was put under Operations, I didn’t know it.”

  Angriff realized what he’d done and patted the air. Norm Fleming wouldn’t have been intimidated by his gruff manner, but his young deputy didn’t know him that well yet. “My fault, Major. I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s not a job for the S-3; it’s under civilian relations. Don’t be afraid to tell me something I need to hear.” He smiled what he thought was his most charming smile, the one that caused his daughters to roll their eyes.

  Iskold stared at him for a moment, blinked, and then nodded. “Yes, sir. No fear.”

  “Anything I need to attend to right this minute?”

  “You’ve got orders to approve for the construction crews working on those small refineries, but they aren’t drawn up yet.”

  “Good. I’m gonna take a nap. Wake me in two hours.”

  #

  Chapter 5

  Let me remember the touch of my love as I remember the touch of the wind on my face.

  Lepidus Manius Sulla

  Overtime Prime

  0825 hours, April 23

  “You didn’t want to see your dad off?” Joe Ootoi asked.

  Nikki Bauer snuggled her head further onto his shoulder and pressed against his right thigh and hip. “He’ll be back. Besides, how often will you be here with a day off to sleep late? I don’t plan to let you out of this bed until you’re due back on duty.”

  “That’s two days from now.”

  “Yeah.” She licked his cheek and kissed him. “I know.”

  “I don’t know if I can keep up with you for two more days.”

  She propped up on one elbow and lifted a stray hair away from his forehead. “Well, if you die, just think of what a great way it will be to go.”

  “Can I at least get up to pee?”

  She pretended to think about it. “I guess that’s better than the alternative.”

  He nodded. “It is to me.”

  #

  0827 hours

  Bumps in the road woke Angriff before the two hours had elapsed. Blinking, he looked around, but it took a moment for him to recognize his surroundings. Corporal Santos turned in the front seat and handed him a half-full cup of coffee that nevertheless sloshed from the rough road. High overhead, caught in the light of the morning sun, a prairie falcon spiraled in search of prey.

  “Where are we?” he said.

  “Arizona Highway 89, sir,” Iskold said. “Ten klicks north of the Prescott airport.”

  Despite the Humvee’s upgraded suspension, they all bounced when it ran over a deep pothole. Coffee spilled straight up in the air, but without thinking Angriff caught most of it in the cup.

  “Sorry!” Imboden called from the driver’s seat. “This road’s pretty rough.”

  “I thought—” Crump! They’d hit another hole. “I thought the engineers got this road fixed.”

  Distracted by trying to keep her paperwork from flying over the back seat, Iskold shook her head without looking at Angriff. “You prioritized the city’s infrastructure first, General, then the airport. The runway’s patched up and ready for aircraft, but Prescott’s taking everything they’ve got right now. You ordered the engineers just to get this road passable. They’ll get back to the road once they’re done in Prescott… should I change that priority?”

  “Negative,” Angriff said. “It’s just annoying. What about Colonel Young’s engineer company?”

  “It’s my understanding they’re ahead of us, checking on the structural integrity of any bridges we’ve got to cross.”

  “As they should be. All right. Imboden, do your best, son.”

  “Yes, sir, I always do.”

  The brief nap refreshed him, but the warm sunshine pouring through his open window made him drowse again. Angriff hated the feeling. Once upon a time, he’d been able to stay awake for three days straight, but lack of sleep in the preceding week had taken its toll, making him painfully aware that he was no longer a young man.

  They passed the wreckage of the Chinese convoy, destroyed the previous summer. He’d seen it before, right after the Battle of Prescott, and was gratified to see that the smashed trucks and vehicles had been stripped of anything that could be reused — tires, doors, seats, batteries, wiring, and tools. The remaining shells reminded him of the empty cicada exoskeletons he’d seen every summer while growing up in Virginia.

  The town of Chino Valley had been abandoned when last he saw it, but now people roamed the decrepit houses and stores and appeared to be clearing the streets. And if he didn’t know better, he’d swear that a bar and grill had people inside cooking. At the next town, Paulden, both roads over the highway had collapsed, with the debris moved to either side to allow two lanes of traffic to pass. He saw no signs of humanity there. On the north edge of town, a large sign declared the local water company was right down a road off to the right.

  “Alexis, make a note to see where they got their water,” he said, pointing at the sign.

  “The Big Chino aquifer, sir,” she said without hesitation. When he lifted an eyebrow at her, Iskold said, “I anticipated your question and did some research, General.”

  “Good job. Make a note to see if we could get that machinery pumping again. If so, this could be just what the doctor ordered for resettlement of refugees.”

  Empty desert passed on both sides until they came to a causeway marked Hell’s Canyon Tank on the digital map on Iskold’s tablet. A dry river bed showed signs of having flooded the roadway in times past, cracking the pavement and leaving one slab of asphalt canted at a twenty-degree angle. The column slowed to avoid it until weakened asphalt showed spiderwebs at the sudden influx of weight. Iskold made a note for the engineers to repair it.

  Thirty-five miles north of Chino Valley, the column stopped at a tiny place called Ash Fork, at the juncture of Highway 89 with Interstate 40. The four tanker trucks began topping off vehicles according to a detailed schedule, with one starting at the front, another at the back, and two in the middle, working their way toward each other.

  Angriff got out and stretched his back, then followed a knot of other men behind a collapsed billboard, including Colonel Young. Once finished, they had a chance to inspect the ruins of the little community.

  Angriff pointed to a building with a caved-in roof, where a sign on top was still partially visible and he could read the words Best Barbeque. “I could use a pulled pork sandwich right about now,” he said.

  Young smiled and nodded. “With slaw?”

  “Hell, yes, and extra sauce.”

  #

  Chapter 6

  The truth always gets out, but sometimes it takes a few millennia.

  Archaeologist Jacques L’jeune

  Groom Lake Air Force Facility

  0832 hours, April 23

  Major Jonathan Cole used both middle fingers to rub his eyes, leading Joe Randall to wonder if there was something more subliminal at work than merely massaging fatigue.
Randall had drained the one dented metal cup full of water Cole had given them and wanted more, but the major explained that would only come with more honest answers.

  “I’ve told you everything there is to tell,” Randall said.

  “If there was anything else, I’d spill it just to get out of here,” Bunny Carlos threw in.

  As if expecting all of them to say something, Cole turned to Jingle Bob.

  “I ain’t got no idea,” he said. “All I did was lead ’em to where all those people jumped outta that airplane. The rest of it I don’t know.”

  Cole’s sigh wasn’t theatrical. Instead, it was that of a tired man who wanted only to go to sleep. “So let me see if I’ve got this straight. In the years before the Collapse, America’s armed forces dug a huge base out of a mountain and filled it with surplus weapons and people it froze for later use. The commander of this force is none other than General Nick the A Angriff, and you two,” he pointed at Carlos and Randall, “fly helicopters—”

  “Helicopter,” Randall said. “Singular. We fly one helicopter, an AH-72 Comanche gunship to be specific.”

  Cole turned his head and squinted in thought. “You said that before and I thought it sounded familiar, so I looked it up. The AH-72 was called the Golden Eagle, not the Comanche. That was a different program, the RAH-66 it was called, a stealth attack helicopter the Army spent seven billion dollars developing but subsequently cancelled. How do you explain that?”

  “Technically, you’re right. It’s the Golden Eagle. But that name sucks and nobody who flew or maintained them ever called them anything except Comanches.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  “Are you a professional asshole or something?” Carlos said. “One little cup of water and no food and you with this whole bad cop act…”

  Instead of reacting with anger, Cole pursed his lips and waited. “Are you finished?”

  Carlos nodded toward the two men holding rifles, who stood behind Cole’s chair. “As long as Larry and Moe over there are pointing guns at me, I guess I am.”

  “That’s music to my ears. Now, you,” he pointed at Carlos, “flew the C-5 because you once had fifty hours training on it, even though it’s an Air Force aircraft and you’re an Army helicopter pilot.”

  “Like I said—” Carlos started.

  Cole interrupted him. “Right, it was punishment by a base commander in Kuwait. I heard you the first time. So let’s say I believe you on that. As part of a task force, you reached Creech to our south only to discover that another force you didn’t know existed was under attack by the Chinese at the weapons depot northwest of Reno.”

  “Sierra Army Depot,” Randall corrected.

  “Of course. And the only way to help Sierra was to drop a battalion of paratroops, which is where the C-5 came in.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh… you do realize how ridiculous all of that sounds, right?”

  “I can’t help how it sounds. It’s the truth.”

  “Sure, sure…” Cole turned to the third man seated on that side of the table, Jingle Bob. “You I’ve heard of.” He pointed at the scraper. “What’s your part in all of this?”

  “I just met these boys, but the part about the army is real. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “You saw this base… what was it you called it? Overtime? You saw that?”

  “Well, no, but I was at Creech and I saw a lot of big machines in perfect condition and people in uniforms. I was only on that airplane as a guide, to show ’em where they could land up near Sierra.”

  “Did you see these alleged Chinese?”

  Bob shrugged. “They looked like ants to me.”

  Without warning, Cole stood and turned for the door. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”

  “Hey, what the hell?” Randall stood up and leaned over the table. The two guards aimed at his chest. Cole didn’t stop.

  Carlos shouted at his back. “At least answer one question!”

  Cole stopped and turned around. “What?”

  “Roswell, the UFO, that whole thing,” Carlos said. “Was all that real?”

  Cole’s expression changed from that of a man in control to one of fear. “Don’t ever bring that up again.” His voice was half an octave higher than it had been. “Never. I command this facility, but there are places even I don’t go. If you say that where they can hear, there’s nothing I can do to protect you.”

  “They? Who is ‘they’?”

  Cole left without saying another word.

  #

  Overtime Prime

  1408 hours, April 23

  When the door to his cell rattled, Tom Steeple sat up on his bunk and said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t be Nick Angriff. Then Norris McComb’s voice alerted Steeple as to the identity of his visitor.

  “Did you get it?” he asked when McComb was in the room.

  “It wasn’t easy, but yeah, I got it. Twisted my ankle a little.”

  “I’m sure you’ll live,” Steeple said, then shook his head. His escape stood on a knife’s edge, McComb was the key, and here he was being arrogant to the man. “I’m sorry, McComb. Your first name is Norris, right? I’m sorry, Norris. Incarceration doesn’t suit me.”

  “Don’t worry about me, General. I’ve got a thick skin.”

  “Is Angriff gone?”

  “Pulled out first thing this morning.”

  “Excellent. Did you get the phone?”

  “I did.” He patted the left breast of his jacket. “But you’ll never get a signal this deep underground.”

  “No, I’m sure you’re right.” Steeple tapped his teeth while he paced. He was going to have to trust this McComb, but trusting anyone was something he tried never to do. By keeping all reins of power in his hands, he’d managed to build Overtime and Comeback, but now… was there another way? Not that he could see. “All right, Norris, I’m going to trust you with the future of Overtime. Do you understand? The future of everything, it’s all on you now. Can I trust you?”

  “I’m probably the only one in this entire mountain you can trust, General Steeple.”

  Steeple approached and laid hands on both of McComb’s shoulders, looking him directly the eye. “Here’s what I need you to do…”

  #

  Chapter 7

  A man who surrenders makes a prisoner of himself.

  Inscription in the ruins of the Palace of Knossos

  Groom Lake Air Force Facility

  1703 hours, April 23

  “This blows,” Bunny Carlos said, pacing the confines of the small room. It was cool because it was underground, and some sort of ventilation system pumped air currents through it, but the musty smell nauseated both men. “This really blows, Joe. Frame drops a baby bombshell right before I fly off into the sunset, and now these refugees from a B-movie tell me I can’t leave because I’m a security threat. If I don’t get out of here soon, somebody’s gonna get hurt.”

  “Be careful it’s not you,” Joe Randall said.

  “Maybe it will be me, but I’ll guaran-fucking-tee you I’m not the only one going down. But what’s up with you? How can you be so calm? Morgan must be out of her mind worried about you.”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  “So?”

  “So what good does both of us ranting and raving do? You do it well enough for both of us anyway.”

  “I don’t understand half o’ what you guys are sayin’,” Jingle Bob said. He stood with arms folded, leaning against a wall in the corner as far away from them as he could get. “All I know is, I’ve avoided this place all my life because people who came here never came back. Now I know why, and I gotta tell you boys, I wish’d I didn’t.”

  Carlos finally sat back down in the metal chair they’d provided, leaned forward, and stared at the wall. Randall had his own chair and put his head down on a steel table, careful to avoid a rusty patch. Despite the air flow, he felt sweat trickling down his sides.

  Not long after that, they
took Jingle Bob out of the room, leaving Carlos and Randall to sweat and grow hungrier and thirstier. Sometime later, it seemed like hours but was less than one, the door opened. Two men with rifles waved them outside. They were led down a long corridor, up two flights of stairs, and through a door into an area outside. Shadows stretched out from the building they’d exited, but the heat of the day still rose from the concrete, so Randall knew immediately it was late afternoon.

  The short figure of Major Jonathan Cole stood waiting for them, surrounded by two more armed guards and a decidedly unhappy looking Jingle Bob. Cole stood with hands clasped behind his back, bouncing on his heels. Randall thought he looked like somebody off an old TV show, but he couldn’t remember which one.

  “You boys are lucky,” Cole said. “I’ve had a chance to check your stories, your identities, and the rest of it. So far I believe you. Bob, too, although I already knew about him.”

  “Good for you. Bob, aren’t you lucky?”

  Not recognizing the sarcasm, Bob’s left eye closed in a squint. “I ain’t feelin’ lucky.”

  “So can we go now?” Randall said.

  The question startled Cole. “No! What are you talking about? You’re lucky I didn’t have you shot as spies, and I still might. Just because I have no cause yet to call you a liar doesn’t mean I won’t find one.”

  “You’ve got a funny definition for lucky,” Randall said. He felt Carlos nudge him and heard a whisper.

  “We gotta get out of here,” Carlos said.

  Randall didn’t need prodding. Despite what he’d told Carlos, he felt the anger he’d bottled up welling inside him, burning his face and causing his hands to clench and unclench. Like a shaken soda, the rage all spewed out at once. “You stuck us in a room for the last day and only let us pee twice. You fed us some stale bread and now these octogenarian assholes are pointing guns at us. I’ve got a wife worried sick that I’m dead, Lieutenant Carlos has a pregnant wife waiting for him, and Bob didn’t look too thrilled to be here, either. So forgive me if I’m not feelin’ real lucky about now!”