Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  “Sir…”

  Chad held up his hand and shook his head. “Captain Alston, you said it yourself, it’s not going to be easy to get us out of here, let alone into town and steal a car—armored or otherwise. You can use every man you can get. Am I right?”

  “Well…” More chin scratching.

  “Sir,” said Zuka, limping up to the group. “We have the supplies—between our med kits and what’s here…” he gestured at the park ranger station. “We could draw enough blood from Mr. Huntley and ship it out to the hospital—hell, more than one hospital, actually. And he could still fight with us. After he recovered. Sir.”

  Chad clapped his hands. “That’s a great idea! And then you wouldn’t have all your eggs in one basket. The doctors can make a vaccine at a bunch of different hospitals and get it out into the public that much faster.”

  “But how would we get the samples delivered? Split our forces even more? Send men out alone?” Captain Alston shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. And what happens if Mr. Huntley here takes a fatal round?”

  “If he dies, then we’re no worse off than we are right now. He’s here and not at a hospital, and there’s still no vaccine,” replied Tuck thoughtfully, arms folded.

  “It’s risky,” muttered Denny. He looked at Chad and nodded. “You’re the last hope we have of stopping this flu, aren’t you? That makes you priceless to the government. But also priceless to our enemies. If they get you or take you out, we lose and they win.”

  Chad nodded. “War is risky business,” he said, watching Captain Alston. “But I’ll take the risk of getting shot over being pulled off the side of a mountain by a damn airplane.”

  Captain Alston looked Chad up and down. “You sure you never served? ‘Cause that sounded like a soldier’s answer.” He folded his arms. He looked at the other Rangers and got nods all around. He shrugged. “All right, we’ll run it by Watchtower.” He picked up the radio.

  “Watchtower, Hammer 2, Actual, over.”

  Chad watched the Rangers break up their little group and move off to other tasks: Deuce went back to cleaning weapons, Zuka began digging through their medical supplies, as Tuck picked up his rifle and headed out the door to go on another patrol. Chad felt completely useless. Even Denny went back to sharpening that damn tomahawk.

  Shrriiiiick. Shriiiiiick. Shriiiiick.

  After a few heartbeats of static, the radio broke squelch. “Hammer 2, this is Watchtower, wait one for Actual, over.”

  Another interminable pause. Chad imagined the General saying ‘no’. He felt his pulse quicken at the thought of being yanked up into the air by a passing C-130, with its big engines roaring overhead.

  “Hey…hey!” called Tuck’s voice from the door. Everyone in the cave turned to look. “Ivan’s on the move.”

  “Go!” said Captain Alston, ear to the radio. Garza nodded and lead the way out the door.

  Chad followed Garza and the others to the edge of the tree line where they all raised their binoculars and scanned the town below. He tried not to think about the precipice just a few feet from where he stood. One slip-up or stumble and it would be a long flight to oblivion at the base of the mountain.

  “Ivan’s rounding up the civvies…” muttered Zuka.

  “Something more than that. Notice any women or children?” asked Tuck.

  “Malcontents, dissenters…” said Garza.

  “Patriots,” said Chad quietly.

  “Anyone showing any hint that they are ready to fight back,” agreed Denny. “I see a lot of kids down there, from the high school. See the letter jackets? Look,” he said, pointing. “There’s even a few standing around watching the parade. That one’s Jeb Townsen.” He frowned.

  “I don’t know Jeb Townsen, but I don’t like where this is heading,” muttered Garza.

  Chad watched as the gaggle of thirty or so men and boys were poked and prodded by a ring of Russian soldiers down Mulbray Street toward the school’s football field.

  Once on the field, it happened quickly. When the first bodies started to fall and the echoes of the automatic weapons fire began to reach them, he felt sick. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and throw up, but a harder, sterner part of himself forced his eyes to stay open and watch. To witness. To remember.

  The Rangers watched the massacre in a tense silence. Chad could almost feel the anger boiling off them in waves. The only sound other than the distant popping of guns was Denny. He had dropped to his knees, spread his arms, right on the edge of the cliff, and was chanting a low, mournful litany. He rocked back and forth a little as he spoke, eyes screwed shut, face taut in pain or anger. Or both. Chad watched in silence, captivated by the display. Denny was speaking some sort of Indian language because it sure wasn’t English.

  He didn’t stop until the last echo of gunfire drifted away on the wind. He slumped forward so far that Chad reached out to grab his shoulder, fearing that he would simply tumbled over the edge and vanish into the void below.

  “They were just kids…” Denny muttered through choked sobs.

  “Cowards…” Chad said through gritted teeth. His vision was starting to blur with tears of his own.

  “I have watched my town burn, my house burn, my neighbors buried. I have seen the children I used to teach turn into monsters and people drop dead from the mystery illness.” Denny sighed, a body shaking, empty-your-soul kind of sound.

  “Now, I have seen the face of the invader, I have met his steel and I have tasted his blood.” Denny slowly pulled his tomahawk from his belt and held it up in front of him, as if making an offering to God.

  Or some Indian version, Chad thought.

  “Mishe Moneto, bless this weapon of my ancestors.” He sucked a breath through clenched teeth. “Give me the strength to use it well and the skill to kill as many of our enemies as there are stars in heaven. For the sake of my town, my people, grant me vengeance.”

  “Amen,” said Chad. Denny turned and looked at him, then smiled. Chad suppressed a shiver. Denny, in his tear-streaked warpaint looked like a gruesome, grinning devil. Chad almost pitied the Russians. Almost.

  They watched in silence as the Russians left the bodies of the men and boys where they fell on the football field and marched away. It was one of the most awful things Chad had ever seen.

  “That settles it. I’m fighting with you.” Chad looked at Sgt. Garza and dared him to say no.

  Captain Alston spoke from behind them. “Mind if we tag along?”

  Chad turned and looked expectantly at the Captain. “Well?”

  “Watchtower agreed to the plan. We’ll send up your blood on the Skyhook, nothing more.”

  AFTER SUNSET AND WHEN guards had been posted in the trees, the mood inside the park ranger station became even more grim. No one had much of an appetite—which was fine with Chad, as what little food they had left was in the form of MREs. Chad decided he’d rather go hungry.

  At last, Captain Alston broke the silence. “We’re low on ammo, fuel, and food.” A few of the close-shaved heads nodded. The pilots looked at each other. More than a few of them glared over at Chad. When they had found out that the HD-GPS tracker in his shoulder had been guiding the North Koreans to their position all along, they were even more upset that he was still breathing.

  Chad stared right back. He was done worrying about what anyone else thought. He was ready to fight. Something had stirred inside him when he saw the Russians murder those people in town, something angry.

  “Well,” sighed one of the Apache pilots. “We got enough fuel to give you one or two sorties, at least. Then we fly back up here and scuttle the birds.”

  Captain Alston nodded. “That could work. We need a distraction to get our assault team into town.”

  “Our last three Apaches unloading on their asses would be a pretty damn good distraction,” said the female pilot. She high-fived the man next to her.

  Captain Alston looked at Garza and Tuck. They nodded. He turned back to the pilot
s. “Good. You come in from the north and west, we’ll make our way to the southern end of town.” He scratched a crude map of the town on the dirt floor of the cave. “Once you start tearing into them, we’ll make our move, here,” he said, pointing to the main north-south road through town, Chalmers Avenue.

  “Tuck,” he said, pointing his stick at the sniper, “You provide overwatch. Find a suitable hill outside town to the west and bring the pain.”

  The sniper grinned. Chad felt cold. The man didn’t say much. That smile, though. It wasn’t natural. Chad watched as he picked up his huge sniper rifle and patted it affectionately. The menacing black gun looked more like a shoulder-fired canon than a rifle.

  “I got plenty of ammo for Clarice here, sir. We’ll make ‘em squeal.”

  Captain Alston nodded. “Good. Get your BFG barking and provide cover for us as we work through town. I’m betting their HQ is in city hall. That’s where the majority of their foot-mobiles seem concentrated.”

  Denny raised a hand. “BFG?”

  “Big Fucking Gun,” replied Zuka with a knowing wink. The others chuckled. He said in a poor imitation of Chad’s Texas drawl, “Tuck’s got him a real popgun.”

  “Fifty-cal EXACTO sniper rifle. Self-guided rounds,” said Tuck. He pulled the biggest bullet Chad had ever seen from a pouch on his combat vest and held it up. It was nearly five and a half inches long. “There’s a little camera in there, and some tiny little fins. I fire it, then move to the next target. This little baby acts like a smart-bomb, cutting through wind and staying on target. If someone ducks, it sees that and moves to intercept. And she can shave a flea’s ass from a mile and a half away.”

  “He ain’t lying,” added Garza. “These Russian puntos have no idea what’s about to drop on their heads.”

  “There’s only a handful of us…” Denny said. He shook his head. “And so many of them…”

  “Seems like fair odds to me,” said Captain Alston. He racked the slide of his pistol, checked the chamber, then reholstered with authority.

  “Hooah!” bellowed the Rangers.

  Chad grinned at a confused looking Denny. “I know, I know. Crazy, right?” Chad laughed with the Rangers. “Trust me,” he said, slapping his fellow civilian on the shoulder. “Be glad they’re on our side!”

  CHAPTER 25

  El Segundo, California.

  Los Angeles Air Force Base.

  NO ONE FIRES UNTIL I do. Am I CFB?”

  “Hooyah, Master Chief,” said a chorus of rough voices.

  “I want leg shots if you got ‘em, otherwise, take ‘em down any way possible. On three…” Cooper said, his right fist held up in the air. “One…” He scanned the area in front of him and saw that his team was indeed watching him count, grim-faced and ready.

  “Two…” He spoke louder now, sure that the airmen on the other side of the battered door knew what was coming. He wanted them to think about what was about to happen.

  “Three!” His fist came down and gripped his rifle. He saw Jax nod and swing the big door to their little sanctuary open. As the door continued past him, he dropped to a knee and swung his rifle up.

  Cooper took a step forward and his laser sight lit up a man standing in the middle of the doorway with a confused look on his face, a service pistol in his hand. He was short and plump—something Cooper never agreed with in a military man—and had a pinched face that immediately led Cooper to think he was a rat.

  “You men, drop your weapons and surrender!” the rat barked.

  Cooper took another step forward without hesitation and moved the laser dot from the man’s chest up his body to rest on the center of his head. He saw three other dots appear and light up the bulbous nose that roosted on the pompous man’s face. Cooper shot a glance at the man’s uniform and quickly noticed the rat was wearing an officer’s uniform—a colonel, no less.

  “Colonel, I don’t know who the hell you are but if you don't drop your weapon, I’m going to drop you.”

  The man smiled, despite the perspiration on his dome-like forehead, more of a leer than anything. He spoke over his shoulder down the hallway: “Captain, bring your men up and take these traitors into custody. If any of them resist, shoot them.”

  “Sir,” answered an uncertain voice from the hallway. “I don’t think—”

  “That’s right, you don’t think! Now carry out my orders or I’ll have you arrested for aiding and abetting known terrorists and traitors!”

  “This is ridiculous, sir! The UCMJ doesn’t give you blanket authority…”

  Good. Someone out there has half a brain… Cooper told himself in relief.

  Cooper saw his moment to avoid bloodshed. “The last thing in the world I want to do is shoot Americans. We got more than enough NKors to shoot topside.” He spoke louder now: “But I swear to you by all things good and holy, any man that raises a rifle at me or my team or anyone in the room behind me is a dead man. Colonel, before you open your mouth to argue, save yourself the breath—I don’t care what you have to say if it’s not ‘affirmative’.”

  The Colonel put on his constipation-smile again. He half turned his head and spoke over his shoulder, eyes never leaving Cooper’s. “Ignore his threat, men, he’s a coward and he’s bluffing. Captain, do your duty!”

  “Sir…” said the man behind the Colonel, with a pained expression on his face. Cooper noted his hands were nowhere near his service pistol.

  More hesitation. That’s good. Come on, man, see through this guy.

  “Dammit! This is insubordination! Arol, you are relieved of your command! Thompson!” the Colonel said, now looking more like a sweating pig than a rat.

  “Sir!” barked a much more confident sounding voice from down the hallway.

  “Get your ass up here. You’re in charge of the detachment now. Assign someone to escort Captain Arol to the brig.”

  “Yes, sir! You and you, get him out of here. You three, with me.”

  Cooper could hear footsteps in the hallway and a scuffle as Captain Arol struggled with his escort. “Get your hands off—” A choked off grunt signaled the end of gentle persuasion tactics. “Son of a—”

  A loud smack followed by a grunt signaled the good captain was not going quietly. Cooper grinned, never taking his eyes off the face of the colonel.

  Some solid grunts, a few more punches or kicks from the airmen and the captain gave up with a whooshing sound when what sounded like a body hit the floor. There were some more muttered curses, a few last thumps, and then the sound of people dragging something heavy across the linoleum floor down the corridor. Finally, he heard the echo of laughter.

  “The rest of you men, watch closely. I’ll show you how to handle traitors−”

  “Don’t do it,” Cooper warned. “You will lose. Sir.”

  “Fuck you,” spat the Colonel. “You’re a disgrace to this country. The President himself told me. All of you are.” He started to raise his pistol. It got six inches up before his head distorted into a mass of red and gray mist. Cooper had already swiveled to target the next-closest man before the thunder of his first shot left the hallway.

  Jax calmly entered the hallway and sighted-in on the next airman before the body of Colonel Molton hit the ground in a spray of blood. Cooper ignored the twitching porcine-like corpse and stepped right into the dark puddle at his feet.

  The big airman sporting an M-4, who was built like an All-Pro Linebacker, had to be Sergeant Thompson. He had the mean, dimwitted face of a natural-born bully and lickspittle. Lucky for him, he was also stunned by seeing the head of his CO explode right in front of his own eyes. Cooper waited for the man to regain his senses and focus on the SEAL in front of him with a rifle pointed at his face.

  His peripheral vision showed the other men crowding around Thompson in the hallway were frozen in fear or surprise. That suited Cooper just fine—he let the laser come to rest on Thompson’s chest, sure the bigger man could see the red light was now blazing directly at center mass.

>   “You in charge?” Cooper demanded in the coolest, most unemotional voice he could muster.

  “Y-yeah.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Tell your men to drop their weapons, and no one else has to die.” Cooper could hear the rest of his team moving into position behind him. More red dots were appearing on the chests and faces of the airmen nearest Thompson. To his satisfaction, Cooper could hear weapons already clattering to the floor behind the burly enforcer, Thompson. The big airman frowned and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Now it’s just you and me, bub. What’s it gonna be? Hands up or face down?”

  Sergeant Thompson lowered his weapon but held it tight. “You got the drop on me, s’all.” He shrugged. “Put your gun down and I’ll break you in half.”

  Cooper looked at Jax in complete surprise.

  “Oh, hell no,” said Jax, incredulous. He took a step forward and lowered his rifle. “C’mon Coop, let me take his ass out.”

  Cooper smiled and waved Jax off. He started to lower his own rifle. Thompson dropped his rifle and bum-rushed him with an angry shout. Cooper easily sidestepped the large fist that made a breeze against his cheek as it went past.

  The big airman turned faster than Cooper thought possible and swung with his other fist. Cooper got his free arm up to block fast enough, but the strength behind the punch was unexpected. His arm shuddered under the impact as if Thompson had swung a baseball bat. Cooper was pushed backwards and spun sideways to regain his balance. He had to drop his rifle and duck to avoid taking one in the temple.

  “Take his ass out, Coop!” Charlie yelled.

  He heard Mike laugh. “C’mon, man, we got shit to do. I could’ve dropped him by now with one arm tied behind my back…”

  Cooper grunted and backpedaled, blocking the flurry of punches thrown at his face. It was all he could do to stay on his feet. The enraged man before him was like a machine.

  The airman checked his last punch and Cooper moved to block, letting the other fist connect with his torso. Cooper ignored the pain in his ribs and focused on the odd sensation of his heels lifting off the ground.