“I see that,” he said, sticking his wide cheeks through the open window, peering down at her feet.
“It’s a little slippery around back. Just take it slow.”
Albert didn’t say anything.
“Or you could try sliding across the seats. Either way, I need you to get the boys back to camp.”
“Nah, I’ll walk around,” he said, using the handle on the inside of the door.
Stephanie took a step back as the door swung open.
Albert stepped out, locking eyes with her. This was the first time he looked at her and didn’t make her skin crawl.
“Are you sure about this, Steph?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. If I don’t make it back to Tuttle’s, tell my son I love him. And I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Albert said in a tentative, condescending tone. “If that’s what you need me to do, I’ll do it. But I gotta ask, Steph. If this is that dangerous, why the hell are you going back?”
“Because I have to. I’ve got this feeling in my stomach that the guys need me. Like their lives depend on it or something. It’s hard to explain, but I’m sure of it. In fact, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” she said, planting a kiss on the Albert’s overly round cheek. She wasn’t planning to ever touch the man, but her heart made the decision and her lips obliged.
Albert froze for a second, looking stunned. When his expression cleared, he said, “You can’t do this. He’s not worth it.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not. I knew Bunker back in LA. He’s not who you think he is. He’s a stone-cold liar.”
“I know he has a past, Albert. We all do. But sometimes, all someone needs is a second chance. Or someone to believe in them.”
With that, she turned and headed down the hill, hoping to make it back to the meadow in time.
* * *
Bunker leaned the sword Dallas had given him against a tree at the entrance of the trench. He took off the backpack Albert had prepared for him and put it next to the sword. A lot was riding on Albert’s skills, not just inside the pack, but across the trees and in the grass.
If Bunker had the time, he would have tested everything first. Since that wasn’t an option, he needed to have faith in the brilliant man who was known for pushing his own agenda—even at the expense of others. Tin Man was a wild card to be sure, but Bunker didn’t have a choice.
He picked up the pair of 1911s sitting to the right, ejecting their magazines for inspection. They were fully loaded with .45 ACP rounds. He shoved the mags back in and racked the slides before stuffing the semi-auto handguns inside the back of his pants. They needed to stay hidden. So did the reserve mags he’d already loaded into his pockets.
Tango neighed, snapping Bunker’s attention to the saddle. Bunker made sure his gas mask was secure around the saddle horn before mounting the steed. The leather welcomed his underside as he nestled in for the short ride. Two clicks of his heels sent the animal forward, taking a direct path along the freshly exposed dirt of the trench.
Tango appeared to be ready, not showing any signs of fear. Of course, the four-legged freight train didn’t know what was actually coming. But then again, maybe Tango could sense it. It wouldn’t be the first time the two of them had connected on a psychological basis. Or maybe it was telepathy. He wasn’t sure which term to use, not that it mattered.
There were other horses Bunker could have chosen to avoid putting Tango in mortal danger. On paper, it would have been the logical choice, one he figured most would make. But this wasn’t about logic.
This was about friendship and, more importantly, trust. Specifically, trust in combat, something he never thought would happen with a horse. They’d come a long way together, forming a bond that only warriors know.
If this was to be their collective end, it seemed fitting they go out together. As a team. There’s honor in a hero’s death. Whether that hero walks with two legs or four, the sacrifice is just as profound. A warrior’s death certainly beats the alternative—living until you’re so old that nothing works anymore.
Just then, a vision flashed in his brain. Bunker saw himself lying on a semi-clean gurney in some run-down, government-sponsored nursing home in Florida, long after his tattoos had faded into one extended blob of history. His muscles were nothing more than a mush of skin, keeping him a prisoner on the soiled sheet below his spine.
He could almost feel the dryness of the plastic feeding tube that someone had crammed down this throat. He imagined his mind was a muddy blur, desperately trying to hold onto a single thought—don’t shit yourself today.
Old age might be the goal of some, but not him. An honorable death was what he preferred. Today, or in the future, it was the only path he could see for himself. It’s how his firefighter of an old man left this world—doing the right thing for others.
Bunker knew his death would never come close to balancing out all the wrong he’d done. Nor would it bring back the innocents who died tragically because of his decisions.
Even so, it might be enough to erase some of the evil deeds he’d done. Even if it only wiped out one of those horrendous acts, he could live with it. Or die with, if he chose to be technically correct.
He pulled back on the reins when they made it to the middle of the trench. The Land Rover was parked above his left shoulder, waiting for him to climb aboard.
“You ready, buddy? I know it’s a big ask, but I need you to cover my six,” he said, running his hand over Tango’s neck, paying close attention to the time spent. He didn’t want to waste a second, but some preemptive goodbyes must take place. It’s never easy preparing for a worst-case scenario, but only a fool doesn’t take advantage when the opportunity is there.
Tango didn’t respond like he’d done many times before. Bunker was okay with it. He dismounted, then tied the leather reins to a stake he’d driven into the ground a few hours before.
He took a step forward and stood at attention. For some reason, he felt like a Drill Instructor addressing the platoon one last time before graduation. All that was missing was the form-fitting uniform and the brown campaign hat—a flat, broad-brimmed cover known as a Smokey.
Bunker found his deepest, most sincere voice before addressing Tango. “Listen up, Marine. No Houdini acts this time. Once we deploy, I need you to stand fast until the time comes.”
Tango flipped his head to the side, nudging Bunker in the ribs. When the horse did it a second time, a warm sensation washed over Bunker, sending the nerve endings across his skin into a tingle.
Before his next breath, a deluge of new thoughts entered his brain, igniting a wave of clarity he’d never felt before. It brought tranquility to his heart. “Right back at ya, pal. It’s been a pleasure.”
Bunker turned and latched onto the knotted paracord he’d tied to the rear bumper of the Land Rover earlier. After a few arm pulls, he was out of the ditch and standing next to the truck.
He opened the door and grabbed the encrypted field radio and the white towel Dustin had left for him. He ambled to the front bumper, then used it to climb aboard the hood, then the cab, where he ripped off his shirt to get into character.
Bunker was sure the Russians were monitoring radio signals, trying to gather intel about Valentina’s tattooed assassin. He’d purposely left the radio behind, with its frequency and encryption code already primed. All part of spoon-feeding the enemy.
Zero Hour had arrived. Time to make the call.
He found the power switch on the handheld and turned it on. Normally, he’d follow proper radio procedure while in the field, but he needed to toss protocol away and sound like an untrained civilian answering a distress call from a friend.
After a deep, cleansing breath, he was ready to season the appetizer with just the right amount of spice. He pressed the transmit button, hesitating a full second before speaking with urgency in his voice. “Bulldog, I hear you but you’re breaking up. It must be that damn backup radio
. I told you to take the other one.”
Bunker let static-filled silence fill the airwaves before continuing the fake conversation. There are times when only one side of a communication is heard by the monitoring team. When it happens, they usually assume the unheard signal is too weak to pick up on their end.
Bunker continued his deception, planning to keep his follow-up transmissions short to avoid triangulation.
Direction is easy.
Distance takes time.
The first broadcast caught them by surprise, sending them into scramble mode. He wouldn’t have that luxury again, not now that he had their full attention. He engaged the talk button. “Did you say Patterson’s Meadow?”
He waited a few more seconds, then pressed transmit one last time. “Okay. Patterson’s Meadow. Got it. Keep pressure on that wound until—” he said, releasing the button in mid-sentence. He shut off the radio a second later, hoping his unfinished communiqué would linger in their minds. If it did, then their imaginations would complete the sentence.
Whoever was listening should now report the details to the General, who in turn, would deploy his men. If dropping the interpreter from the church tower didn’t get their attention, then leading them to the dead-end trail at the base of the mountain did.
There’s nothing quite like a frustrated, frothing-at-the-mouth General, when you’re baiting a trap for a ruthless warmonger.
CHAPTER 21
When a faint rumble landed on Apollo’s ears, his pulse rate shot up to DEFCON ONE. His senses went on full alert, honing in on the sound, attempting to use the differences in timing, volume, and frequency to determine its direction.
The soundwaves carried an echo while they traveled across the expanse, confusing his brain for a moment. However, the answer found him a moment later—the low-pitched rumble was coming from the entrance to the clearing.
Bunker must not have heard it yet. He was still lounging on the hood of the Land Rover with his back against the windshield—the same position he’d been in ever since the phantom radio call.
Apollo put two fingers into his mouth and sent a shrieking whistle blast at the Land Rover below.
Bunker sat up in a hurry.
Apollo pointed at the entrance, jutting his arm forward several times to show urgency.
Bunker scrambled to his feet and stood on the cab, with the white towel in his hand.
The rookie snipers on the hill to the right must have gotten the message, too. Each of the four was busy with their rifles, disengaging the safety switches. They were elevated slightly from Apollo’s position, with Rusty at the far end, but he could see them well enough to know each was ready.
Apollo brought the TrackingPoint scope to his eye and reviewed the targets on his side of the meadow. The Tannerite charges hadn’t moved from the bases of their assigned trees. He didn’t expect them to, but he needed to verify, nonetheless. He wasn’t sure if the compulsion to check was some sort of deep-rooted anxiety response, but he felt better knowing that everything was where it was supposed to be, including him.
The long run of detonation cord had already been attached to the BART-2 blasting machine. It connected to the line of TNT charges mounted on the trees bordering the far side of the expanse. It also ran to the set of trees acting as sentry guards on both sides of the entrance. Dicky had prepped them to fall across the opening. If all went according to plan, they’d pin the Russians inside the kill zone.
Apollo cranked the handle on the BART-2 until the unit was fully charged, then settled in behind his cover and waited for the Russians to show themselves.
Now it was up to Bunker—the quarterback of this mission. Apollo’s job was to wait for the former Marine to give him the signal, then detonate the charges. Until then, everyone needed to show patience.
“Stay hidden and stay frosty” were Bunker’s exact words. Words from a man whose past was a jumbled mess of honor and criminality. Apollo wasn’t sure what he was going to do about Bunker’s unexpected confession, but it needed to wait until this operation was over.
A handful of troops were the first to appear at the mouth of the clearing, moving into view. They looked like a swarm of determined ants descending on discarded food. They spread into small fire teams, each taking successive positions along the trees lining the entrance.
Bunker began to wave the towel, indicating he would surrender to them. The sun was low and at his back, but Apollo figured the enemy could still see the white flag.
“This better work,” Apollo mumbled, wondering if the advance teams would fire on Bunker or move forward. Bunker was betting his life on the latter, continuing to wave the flag as the rumble of man and machine grew progressively louder.
More and more Russians scrambled into view, leapfrogging their comrades in front of them.
“So far, so good,” Apollo muttered, checking for activity on the hillside to his right. He didn’t see anyone, which meant his friends were following orders until it was time to strike.
A handful of seconds later, Apollo identified the source of the rumble: tanks—three of them, their tracks tearing up the soil lining the entrance. They approached in a staggered diamond formation, each surrounded by a wall of well-armed infantry.
Apollo estimated at least five hundred troops were flooding the area. If it weren’t for the tank engines, he figured he’d hear the clatter of the tactical gear and boots from a thousand legs pounding the dirt.
The visual was both impressive and frightening. Bunker never gave Apollo a force estimate, but the man did say to be prepared—a significant number would be arriving. In fact, Bunker was counting on it.
Bunker slid two steps back on the Land Rover’s cab, while continuing the white flag signal. His subtle retreat meant that it was almost time.
Apollo moved his hand to the side of the blasting machine, positioning his fingers a half-inch away from the recessed fire buttons. He forced down a gulp, then began to take long, slow breaths to keep his hand steady. He knew once his fingers touched the plastic, the war would start. Only God could stop it then.
A convoy of six low-profile vehicles arrived in a single file behind the throng of foot soldiers, crawling through the entrance. Apollo didn’t recognize the make or model of the four-door trucks. Each had tinted windows and looked like a personnel carrier, but they certainly weren’t Humvees.
Two of them had suites of antennas rising up from their hulls. He figured the extra technology meant they were the command vehicles—the kind of rides that ferried a soldier of significant rank. Hopefully, one with a few stars on the collar.
The tanks broke formation and began to spread out wide into a single line, just as Bunker had predicted. Apollo worried that if the tanks continued to widen their spacing, they would hit some of the toe-poppers or run into the pressure plates he’d helped bury in the dirt.
Just then, the tanks stopped churning mud with their tracks, coming to a halt just past the midpoint of the grass, where the muck was thickest. The rain-infused mud may have been why they chose to stop their advance, instead of rolling closer to Bunker.
The infantry continued their deliberate march toward the tattooed man, passing between the wide gaps in the tank formation.
Apollo checked the entrance. The flow of troops arriving had dwindled to a trickle. He brought his eyes back to the man waving the white flag from atop his perch.
“Come on, Bunker. What are you waiting for?” Apollo said to the air around him.
Before the Apollo’s next breath, Bunker tossed the flag into the air and dropped into a backwards roll as planned, disappearing from the Russians’ view.
Apollo drove his fingers into the detonator. He felt them land squarely on the twin buttons as he ducked for cover, keeping his eyes on the tallest of the trees guarding the area.
The TNT charges at the bases of the trees exploded simultaneously, both on the far side of the meadow and along the entrance. Dicky’s pre-cuts guided their height into position, felling them t
oward the middle. The trees across the front landed together in a crisscrossing heap, blocking the Russians only part-way out of the kill zone.
The other pines carried the toxic chemicals in their upper limbs, rigged in plastic bottles by the tree-climbing boys. When the tall spires hit the surface, the bottles split apart, spraying their deadly mixture of ammonia, bleach, and chlorine across the army of invaders. Bottles of the amplified Bufotoxin gas were also among the chemical delivery, something Albert had cooked up.
Two of the homemade napalm bombs went off from the tree limbs hitting their pressure pads, spraying the area with flaming dollops of diesel gas. The brown grass caught fire and quickly spread, while the patches of green grass smoldered with fury, filling the area with a thick wall of black smoke.
Apollo put on his gas mask after the first wave of screams hit his ears. The bloodcurdling yelps meant soldiers were being cooked alive by the gelatinous napalm. Others around them choked in panic, blindly stumbling along in the cloud of chemicals.
When Apollo locked eyes on the trench, he saw Tango’s long nose coming his way. The horse was at top speed, with Bunker riding low in the saddle. The combination of smoke, tall grass, and the deep trench provided the perfect escape, keeping both man and beast below the threat line.
Above the trench, Burt, Rusty, and Dicky were now visible with weapons in hand, waiting for the first targets to emerge from the gas cloud. Apollo couldn’t see Dustin behind the oversized boulder, but that wasn’t surprising. He was only a sliver of a man.
Apollo heard a multitude of toe-poppers detonate. He brought the TrackingPoint rifle to his shoulder, visualizing hundreds of soldiers in a blind panic, unwittingly running into more of the improvised anti-personnel mines Rusty had set.
The Sheriff aimed the precision-guided scope on the Tannerite charge farthest away from him. He tapped the weapon’s Tag button to paint the intended target, then pressed and held the trigger. The moment the center of the reticle found the container of Tannerite once again, the fire control system sent the round spinning down the barrel at supersonic speed.
Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 5) Page 15