Standing Before Hell's Gate

by William Alan Webb

  “I know. I won’t order it unless it’s an emergency. This is where not having rail flatcars inhibits our projection of force.” He turned back to the radio mike. “Tell Sully it’s his call, Rip, and I’ll back him up on whatever decision he makes.”

  #

  2055 hours

  Hawthorne, Nevada

  Thirteen hours in a Humvee with only three ten-minute rest and refueling breaks left Angriff’s lower back feeling like several knives had been inserted into his spine. Tight neck muscles caused spasms that ran down his right shoulder blade and left him closing his eyes against the pain. As he opened the door and stepped into the last of the twilight near an elaborate brick sign that read HAWTHORNE ARMY DEPOT, WORLD’S LARGEST AMMO DEPOT, he was nearly overwhelmed with déjà vu. A visit in early 2012 flooded his mind with memories of pyramidal bunkers lined up like some giant cemetery of forgotten Egyptian pharaohs.

  The scraper Jingle Bob and his companion, the socially awkward young man named Nuff, had both said they’d seen Rednecks pillaging the base a few weeks earlier. Bob was missing along with Randall and Carlos, but he’d met Nuff the night before, as well as the man named Joshua Dalton. They’d told him all about the Rednecks at Hawthorne, and Dalton had related the horrific story about the massacre of a father and three boys, plus the gang rape of the mother. Angriff believed their story. For that reason, Colonel Young had decided not to take any chances on moving into the depot itself until morning. That allowed patrols to clear the space before the regiment itself moved in, while maintaining a strong defensive position outside the main gate. They all hoped the Rednecks would be stupid enough to engage them.

  But from all appearances, Hawthorne the town had been hastily evacuated. A large fire pit right outside the gate still had glowing embers, so there seemed little chance of the riders coming back until they’d left. After a brief conference with Young and his staff, they ate dinner and Angriff turned in. Tired as he was, he looked forward to starting the book he’d gotten at Creech, Integration. Few things took his mind off immediate worries like a good sci-fi story.

  #

  Chapter 39

  Good cheer is no hindrance to a good life.

  Aristippus

  Sierra Army Depot

  1959 hours, April 27

  Norm Fleming felt himself falling sideways and woke in a panic. When he jerked himself upright, the bolt of pain through his chest pushed a low “ahhhh…” from his lungs. He tilted back in the rusty office chair and took several shallow breaths until the ache faded. Only then did he realize somebody stood in the doorway of his makeshift office.

  “How do you do that?” he said.

  “Do what?” answered Green Ghost.

  “Appear like that, out of nowhere. It’s not natural.”

  “I’ve been here for a few minutes, but you were asleep.”

  “Weren’t you due back three days ago?”

  “Four.”

  “Have it your way. Weren’t you due back four days ago?”

  “Long story.”

  “Fortunately I wasn’t worried. Where’s Jane?”

  “She went home. Lights out early tonight.”

  “I’ve been up late every night worrying,” Fleming said. “I needed a nap.”

  “I thought you weren’t worried.”

  “I don’t know how I never noticed the similarities between you and your father.”

  Since it wasn’t a question, Green Ghost had no response. “I’ve got intel.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “The Chinese have named their government the People’s Republic of California.”

  Fleming couldn’t help laughing, and it hurt. “I never expected that from you.”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “Oh, come on, you can’t be serious.”

  “I don’t make this stuff up. There’s something else.”

  “It can’t top that.”

  “Adder is with them.”

  Fleming’s good-natured grin faded into his more familiar stone face. “Do you mean our Adder?”

  “I doubt there’re two of them.”

  “Assuming it’s the same man—”

  “It is.”

  “Why would a Zombie squad leader be in league with the Chinese? For that matter, how did he get here? Meaning sixty years later?”

  “It’s sixty for you and Saint. For some of us, it’s only fifty-one years. A lot happened in those nine years. Adder took all of Third Squad with him into the Venezuelan jungle and came out as the sole survivor. No one could ever prove anything, but we had intel that he’d been paid off.”

  “Paid off by whom?”

  “We never found out. But it seems like a safe bet that whoever it was also had access to CHILSS.”

  “We’ve already had plenty of traitors, so I suppose one more won’t make any difference.”

  “Yeah… and one more thing.”

  “Good grief, something else?”

  “There might still be a U.S. Navy.”

  #

  Chapter 40

  It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere.

  Voltaire

  0149 hours. April 28

  Prescott Regional Airport

  Norris McComb glanced at the illuminated hands on his old-style wristwatch for the fifth time in the last two minutes. The Gulfstream could show up any time now and they really needed to get the flame pots lit, but the damned Marine sentry from Prescott wouldn’t leave. He’d tried everything he could think of to get the man to dope off, just this once, but he wouldn’t do it. Damned jarhead, he thought.

  “Son, there’s no reason for you to be out here tonight,” he said, trying yet again. “It’s getting chilly, you should get on to bed… we’ll keep an eye on things. Hell, we’re gonna be here anyway.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. McComb, but like I told you before, I was given this duty and I’m going to carry it out. Those are my orders.”

  “How old are you, son?”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “Nothing, just curious, that’s all.” Even in the moonlight, McComb could see tension in face of the young Marine. He also saw firmness and irritation, and decided to try the last idea he had. “You said your name was Rothena?”

  “Yes, sir, PFC Dantarius Rothena.”

  “All right, Private Rothena—”

  “PFC Rothena, Mr. McComb.” There was an edge to the young man’s voice.

  McComb held up his hand, and thanked God the moonlight was so bright that the Marine could see it. “I am very sorry, PFC Rothena. As you can see, I’m not a military man. I’m an engineer and a construction foreman. But I do have a high security clearance, which is why I’m standing here right now. Do you have a high security clearance, PFC Rothena?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at… sir.”

  “Did your commanding officer not tell you anything about what’s going to happen here tonight?”

  Despite Rothena’s dark features McComb could see that confused the man.

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “Weren’t you told anything?”

  “Just to guard the airfield in case any Rednecks were around.”

  “Damn!” McComb paced in a circle and rubbed his chin. He checked his watch again: 0155 hours. “Why does everything get fucked up? Okay, here’s the deal, Rothena. In about five minutes, an airplane is going to land at this field carrying some very high level VIPs, people you shouldn’t even know exist, and you can’t breathe a word of it to anybody, got that? Not… one… word. If you do, you’ll be brought up on charges.”

  “An airplane?” Rothena said.

  “Didn’t I just say that, PFC? Yes, a small jet, and before that happens we’ve got to light oil pots so the pilot can see the runway. Now, you’ve cost us so much time that you’re going to have to help.”

  “But—”

  “What but? When General Angriff chews my ass for not having those pots l
it, do you really want me to tell him it’s because some tight-assed PFC got in the way? Well, do you?”

  As they spoke, McComb heard the third man on the field, a welder named Nalfon, running toward them. Puffing and heaving, he came to a stop and began waving his arms. “What are you doing, Norris? We’ve gotta get this done.”

  “PFC Rothena here has refused to vacate the field as General Angriff ordered—”

  “You never said the general ordered it!”

  “—and delayed lighting the pots,” he continued, ignoring the suddenly frantic Marine. “But to make up for it, he’s now gonna help us get the pots lit, right?”

  “I…”

  “Right?”

  Rothena hesitated another few seconds, and then nodded once.

  McComb held out a hand to Nalfon and wiggled his fingers. “Gimme your box of matches.” He pressed the cardboard square into Rothena’s right hand and held up his index finger the way a parent does to make a point. “There’s two pots halfway down and two more at the other end of the field, and you’re gonna need to run, got it? You can use five matches to light those four pots, no more. Give me your rifle.”

  He held out his left hand but Rothena pulled it back. “I will not surrender my weapon.”

  “Listen, dumbass, you’re gonna have to sprint and you can do it faster without that gun.”

  “A Marine does not surrender his weapon unless ordered to do so.”

  “Fine, keep it, but if that plane gets here—” As if that was a cue, they all heard a distant, high-pitched whine.

  “Go!” McComb yelled.

  Ten minutes later Rothena was back, breathing heavily but not panting. The Gulfstream displayed no running lights, so they only caught occasional glimpses of the white aircraft as it lined up for landing.

  “I’ve never seen an airplane flying before,” Rothena said, sounding much younger than twenty as wonder filled his voice. “I know there used to be lots of them…”

  “Yes, there did,” McComb said, patting him on the back. The foreman wore a pistol in a holster around his shoulder, as all construction workers did in an area infested with rattlesnakes. He realized now that he might have to use it on Rothena and hoped it didn’t come to that; he’d never killed anybody before.

  #

  PFC Rothena bounced on his heels with excitement. The Gulfstream touched down and bounced a few times before taxiing to the old terminal where McComb, Nalfon, and Rothena stood waiting for them. Once the pilot engaged the parking brake, McComb excused himself and went to await the stairs folding down. The instant they touched down, he disappeared into the fuselage and came back accompanied by a very large man in a nondescript but unfamiliar uniform.

  In the darkness, Rothena couldn’t be sure if that was General Angriff or not. He’d seen the general a few times from afar, and knew he was not small, but this man appeared much bigger. Whoever he was, he made a direct line for Rothena, eating up the distance in long strides. He wore a boonie hat that, even at close range, cast shadows over his face. Since he wore no insignia and Rothena was unable to see the details of his face, Rothena didn’t know how to react. Taking no chances, he came to attention and saluted; the man acted like an officer, so saluting was to cover his ass.

  “Private First Class Rothena?” the man said.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, holding the salute.

  “You’re a good Marine, Rothena,” he said. “Your country is proud of you.”

  Rothena didn’t smile outwardly, but his chest inflated the slightest bit before a long knife slid between his ribs and into his heart.

  #

  Chapter 41

  I never ask a man what his business is, for it never interests me. What I ask about are his thoughts and dreams.

  H.P. Lovecraft

  Overtime Prime, Middle Western Gate

  0354 hours, April 28

  Although the airport was only a few miles from the center of town, nobody came to investigate the first landing in more than fifty years. Prescott slept right through it. Adder deployed a dozen of the Chinese in a semi-circle around the truck as the rest dug a shallow pit and buried Rothena a hundred yards out in the desert. Then they piled into the truck and headed north.

  They used the smaller middle western gate instead of the larger southwestern one, which was the one Angriff’s convoy had used. It took an extra half-hour’s driving time, but that gate led into the lesser-used Motor Bay B instead of the busy Motor Bay D. It made for less chance of being challenged by an officer with the rule book up his ass.

  In the rear of the large truck, Adder and the 23 Chinese soldiers had all changed into American uniforms supplied by McComb. Most already carried some version of the M-16, a few had civilian AR-15s, but three who didn’t were given the American weapon. The idea wasn’t to pass close inspection, merely to avoid unwanted attention inside the base. But time was of the essence. Reveille was 0600 hours and by then they had to have General Steeple in his headquarters, ready to broadcast the message that he was assuming command.

  Nalfon drove while McComb rode shotgun.

  The guard waved them through without even requiring them to stop. After all, McComb came and went all the time, and so did Nalfon. Their arrivals and departures were part of the everyday functioning of the base.

  As expected, the construction motor pool was silent. The first men wouldn’t be showing up for another hour or so. The mornings still took a while to heat up, so there was no reason to be at an outdoor jobsite before dawn, like there would be June through September.

  McComb watched the Chinese troops jump out of the truck with surprise; in American uniforms they all looked very… American. Three were of Asian heritage, five were black, four appeared either Latino or maybe Indian, and the rest were white. That was when he realized the term Chinese now meant something other than merely a racial identity.

  But American soldiers they weren’t. Adder did his best to keep them organized and quiet, but for most of them it appeared to be more of a party than a covert op. They laughed and talked loud and moved as if it was a holiday, until Adder grabbed his own M-16 and leveled it at them.

  “If you fuckers don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll blow your heads off and do this by myself.”

  The Chinese were all young. Wide-eyed, McComb could tell from their stares they believed Adder would actually cut them down where they stood, and doubted they’d ever been yelled at like that. Immediately their entire demeanor changed and they all fell into line.

  After aligning them two by two for the trip through the corridors of Prime itself, McComb stood at the front to lead the way, with Nalfon bringing up the rear. Adder caught up to McComb and shook his head. “Worthless pieces of shit. Let’s go.”

  Their route led through a dizzying series of hallways and corridors, but they saw no one. McComb explained the rooms were mostly for storage or specialized workshops unlikely to have traffic so early in the day. The most remote service elevator was in the far northwestern corner of the base, which they took to the level of Steeple’s cell. After stalking through a long hallway, they rounded a corner and came to a place where the walls abruptly changed from the finished poly-foam used in much of the base to bare stone. Likewise the ceiling went from sound-absorbing tiles to granite. Only the floor had been leveled and finished with sealed concrete.

  At the far end were double doors with a lone sentry on duty. McComb recognized his fellow RSVS comrade and waved, but instead of opening the door, the man held up a hand in the universal signal for halt and put a finger to his lips.

  “We’ve got a problem,” the sentry said in a low voice. “Major Noshimura is here tending to one of the prisoners.”

  “She’s not a doctor!” McComb said.

  “She’s a shrink, but she went to med school. She’s been treating prisoners for the past few months to practice doing medicine again. I guess we need more doctors. Anyway, what’re we gonna do?”

  McComb rubbed his lips. “What about the uniforms?�
�

  “Yeah, yeah, I delivered them half an hour ago and got Colonel Claringdon up to speed. He’s all in, but what about Noshimura?”

  “We don’t have a problem,” Adder said, pushing past the sentry and through the door beyond. “She does.”

  #

  “Do not kill her!” McComb said while running to catch up the Adder. All of the Chinese followed them, as they’d been instructed to stay out of sight.

  “That’ll be up to her,” the huge man replied.

  “This isn’t some enemy base and we need all the doctors we can get. Don’t hurt her.”

  “Whatever. This place smells like mold and farts.”

  Ahead they saw a short, stocky woman standing in a puddle of light from the overhead LEDs, talking to someone through a door.

  “That Noshimura?” Adder said.

  “Yes. Remember your promise.”

  Adder quickened his pace and she turned at the thumping of boots. Instinctively she recoiled as he approached. Six feet from her, he unsheathed the Marine combat knife and flashed it at her throat, stopping inches away. Her mouth opened but he put a finger up to her lips.

  “Ssshhh,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you, but you have to be quiet. Can you do that?”

  She nodded and he edged the blade away from her skin so she didn’t inadvertently cut herself. “Good girl. Now stay right here with some of these fine gentlemen, and in a minute I’ll come back and let you know what to do next, ’kay?”

  This time she swallowed before nodding.

  #

  “General Steeple, in the flesh.”

  The door opened and a very large man entered. He stood at least six feet three inches tall and 250 pounds, and Steeple doubted any of it was fat. The black T-shirt he wore seemed stretched to its limit above the standard issue ACU pants and decidedly non-regulation black boots. A knife hung in a sheath under his right armpit and a pistol under his left. But it was the scarred face that gave away his identity; Steeple recognized the face from the Venezuela affair.