Devastation

by Paul Kirk

  “Yeah, I know major, I've poked around…it’s almost like the locals took little interest.”

  “Coatesville proper is no longer a viable city based on our flyby. Nothing organized, anyway. No obvious massing of people. In fact, none visualized. No food production. Overgrowth everywhere.”

  “True. I saw that. This whole area’s been left to the dogs—or wolves for that matter.”

  “Definitely. And don’t forget the rats.”

  Already safely inside, they approached the main gates to the Sikorsky plant. Pre-Sickness, this facility was a top-secret and a highly guarded location spread across 3000 acres. The ten-foot high perimeter fence surrounding the main grounds had remained intact with brutal razor wire shiny on top. Though the main gate entry lock was cut open by prior scavengers, the sturdy fence remained unbroken around the main buildings, outbuilding and huge warehouse and helicopter storage facility. Granted, the entire Coatesville plant was in the middle of nowhere and, with the gates wide open, there was little reason to break through any fencing.

  “Dogs will take care of those rats, given enough time, ma’am.”

  “I dunno. Rats are everywhere, even in my dreams sometimes,” said the colonel. She shivered despite her efforts to avoid the reaction.

  “You don’t like rats?”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t like what they represent, major. The United States will not become a rat-infested sinkhole if I can help it. And no roaming wild dog packs, either.”

  “I hear that.”

  As if on cue, a large pack of wild dogs, thirty or more, roamed the area outside the fence, perhaps one hundred yards away. Major O'Malley reached for the main gate to ensure that the rope they used to close it remained in place. He glanced through the fence to see the core of the pack running near a thick stand of woods that covered several acres before opening into a large open meadow. The dogs, with at least five or six clearly identifiable wolves mingling, were well nourished and quite wild.

  “Glad we got those gates closed, major. That pack is huge.”

  “I know. I think that gray wolf’s definitely alpha—”

  “Oh yeah, big bastard to boot.”

  “I bet he goes 180 pounds easy.”

  Earlier, the wild pack had taken an interest in the arrival of the helicopter. In between snatching up the numerous rats around a large culvert pipe, the pack did hesitate to determine the potential threat of Colonel Starkes and her team. As the two stared through the gate, the pack became focused on the massive deer herd cresting the edge of the meadow in the distance. As one, the pack turned and sprinted toward the meadow.

  “Hope those deer can haul ass, ma’am.”

  “Yeah.” Colonel Starkes turned to ensure his full attention. “What do we have here at this place? Anything usable? Give me your update.”

  “Area’s secure. Secondary perimeter’s set at the fencing with a primary around the main warehouse. Of the eight remaining men with us, I got Daniels and Timmy sittin’ on the bird. Both Ren and Stimpy are with Amanda, Nicole and CJ. They’re all scrounging around for supplies. Of course, the trio’s already in the warehouse trying to locate the bearing. That leaves me and you to roam.

  “Nice use of resources, major.”

  “Thank you, ma'am. We found some stored water, high quality.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It's in that half-filled 500 gallon tank to the left.”

  “Excellent find.”

  “I know. We did discover some human remains, probably about thirty people holed up in the main office building. Based on my initial assessment, they died fairly quick. Years ago.”

  “Supplies?”

  “Some. Not much. No real food. No weapons or ammo. Scavengers were at it.”

  Colonel Starkes scanned the meadow in the distance through her binoculars. The deer herd had not yet detected the presence of the pack fast approaching.

  “Where’s the trio, again? The warehouse, you say?”

  “Yes, ma'am. Shamus, GT and Scott secured the warehouse with Ren and Stimpy before those two took over sniffing for supplies. I’m heading over that way for a sitrep.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Those guys are somethin’ else ma’am. Glad we have ‘em on our side.”

  “There is that, major. Let me know when they find what we need.”

  “If they find it.”

  “They will. Go check it out.”

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Major O’Malley left the Colonel alone to continue her surveillance. She turned back to the gate to see the setting sun bathe the meadow ahead of her with a golden sheen. A slight wind caressed the thick grass of the meadow in soft, pulsating waves. Raising the binoculars, she watched several deer succumb to the ferocious pack that came fast upon them. In the heat of the evening, she shivered once more.

  CHAPTER 8.16-Crushed Love

  “Major? Come on over here, sir.”

  Entering the huge open hanger doors, the major stood for a few seconds, adjusting to the much weaker light within the cavernous building. The seven huge helicopters, in various stages of assembly, demanded first attention. While none was fully assembled or had rotor blades attached, they were an impressive sight. Though, they did appear sad, like de-winged bugs waiting to die. Dusty with numerous dents and broken windshield glass made by marauders or scavengers, the helicopters were still quite serviceable and they might rise and be reborn, given time. Major O’Malley walked passed the final assembly point to the back of the hanger, waved forward by Scott. Near the chest-high shelving units, he paused.

  “What’s up?”

  “We got us an update to the nav motherboard.” Scott held a small box in his hands. The box trailed a bright array of wires dangling out of plastic wrap. He held it closer for the major’s inspection.

  “Good deal. What’s that mean?”

  “It means we got better GPS mapping, at least while those satellites last, and better stick control.”

  “I see. How bout that driveshaft bearing?”

  “Shamus and GT are in the warehouse still looking. We’ll find it.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s enough parts and equipment here to keep our bird and several others runnin’ for years.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Don’t worry. I bet they find the bearing in less than three hours.”

  “That long?”

  “That long! Are you serious? Major, there’s thousands and thousands of parts inside. All the shit’s catalogued by a computer using scan codes. The place is huge, mega huge, check it out. I bet its three acres if it’s a foot.”

  “I plan on it.”

  “And here's the issue—what we gotta go through now is a manual and visual scanning process based on targeted size, weight, and general storage arrangement within this facility.”

  “And?”

  “GT’s laying out the search grid based on my projected mapping along with Shamus’ contributions on inventory volume probabilities. You know, based on bird maintenance and new build requirements.”

  “What? Speak English, man.”

  “Okay. Hold on. I’ll put it simply.”

  “Yeah, do that.”

  “Let’s say there’s lots and lots of little parts to these machines. Alright? Each part is needed at different times and for different reasons. Hence, a projected inventory flow.”

  “Got it.”

  “But, don’t worry. We’ll crack the inventory storage process that these Coatesville guys used. We'll find the damn bearing.”

  “Well, if that’s true, what’re you doing out here?”

  “GT got pissed at me, sir.”

  “Pissed?”

  “For tellin’ him we’re completely screwed and that we’ll need at least a week to find that tailshaft bearing.” Scott smiled a bright and beaming smile, punctuated with a sharp laugh.

  “A week? I don’t understand? Why you laughing?”

 
“Because if anyone can find it, GT can. As long as he has Shamus and my projections in hand.”

  The major stood perplexed. “Okay—Scott, start talkin’ sense. I don’t understand.”

  “Sir, GT does his best work when he’s pissed. He knows it and I know it. My job right now was to genuinely piss ‘im off and get kicked out.”

  “I see. And Shamus let this happen?”

  “Shit, sir, Shamus winked as I was leaving.” Scott laughed once more.

  “Um, okay—should I update the colonel that we’ll be here for a week?”

  “Hell no! Wait a few hours, probably less. We’ll be ready with the part for the rebuild. If it’s here.”

  “Ah, well, I guess—not sure I see the logic.” Major O’Malley turned to leave, wondering about the strange relationship between Shamus, GT and Scott.

  “Major?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask you somethin’ not mission related?”

  “Ah, sure. I’ll keep it to myself, what’s the question?”

  “It’s about Amanda.” Scott's voice became softer.

  Keeping a grin from crossing his face, Major O’Malley waited. When Scott kept quiet, he cleared his throat. “Go on?”

  “Obviously, Amanda’s totally devoted to Connor MacMillen and this Marty guy.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “But what if…” Bashful, Scott stared at the electronic box in his hands.

  “Scott?”

  “What if those two, Mac and Marty are dead or lost or something?”

  “So?”

  “It could happen.”

  “Maybe. What’re you asking?”

  “Would you…do you…do you think she might—”

  “Scott, are you askin’ if you’re her type?"

  “I dunno…”

  “You're wondering if she’d entertain the notion of you and her becoming a pair?”

  “Ah, yeah, I guess that pretty much sums it up.”

  Major O'Malley interrupted him. “Scott, she’s pregnant with his child, man.”

  “Sure, I know that. I’m thinkin’ long range...you know—”

  “Scott?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I'd like to point out a few key factors, right now.”

  “Okay.”

  “First, the likelihood of Connor MacMillen being dead is just not in the cards. If he’s dead, we got some serious worrying to do about this country. Second, Amanda’s one hundred percent fully committed to finding him and Marty.”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  “So your plans better be real long range. I’m talkin’ years. See what I'm saying?”

  “Yeah. I do—guess I needed to hear it from somebody else besides GT and Shamus.”

  “I’m sorry, Scott.”

  “No, you’re right. I needed someone else’s opinion—before I got too caught up in this insane fantasy.”

  “No problem. She’s a wonderful young woman…and tough as nails.”

  “I know. Okay. Thanks. I’ll close that door before it opens.”

  “Sorry, Scott.”

  “No, thanks, Major.” Scott checked his watch and grinned, mischievously.

  “A half hour is up.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Gotta make my grand entrance—up the ante.”

  Sensing a devious plan unfolding, Major O’Malley laughed. “You guys always work like this?”

  “We get the job done, sir. No matter what it takes.”

  “Yeah, I heard that about you guys.”

  “Wanna come watch the fireworks? GT’s quite the site when he’s on his game.”

  “Huh," laughed the major, "Ah, yeah, don’t mind if I do.”

  Scott and Major O’Malley walked through the rear hangar door, after strolling the 200 feet toward the parts warehouse. At the door, Scott gave clear instructions.

  “Hang back, sir. GT sees you, the nuanced dynamics of our interaction will change.”

  “Ah, okay.”

  “I'm serious. He sees you, you’re gonna cost us hours, maybe even days.”

  “I get it, Scott.”

  “Here we go. Hang back by the door and keep hidden. Watch me rev up GT’s mental search engine," said Scott. He laughed enthusiastically and entered the door. He left it open for the major to listen and watch.

  CHAPTER 8.17-A Change is Made

  Connor leaned against the dusty Caprice outside the KFC, assuming a position of calm detachment. McLeod stood next to Connor—less calm, but trusting in Connor’s judgment. They both stared south along Brownsville Road where their eyes followed two men walking at a leisurely pace in the middle of the wide street. Connor struggled to read the insignia on the men’s uniforms and, as they neared, he spoke in the calm, but firm, tone he often used when commanding men in battle. “That’s far enough, captain.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Captain Daubney. He and Top stopped twenty feet from the Chevy, presumably waiting for further orders. While the captain was content to wait, the sergeant’s eyes never quit moving, first assessing Connor and McLeod for an immediate threat before focusing his gaze on the KFC to see if there was any threat from that direction.

  Connor, meanwhile, did his own assessment of the two men. Years of experience had allowed him to develop an intuitive gauge that measured confidence, inherent ability, physical attributes, and possible military combat experience. Connor had led enough teams over the years to recognize well-seasoned competence. The larger man had the rank of First Sergeant and he appeared to be unarmed. His attitude suggested that he wasn’t very happy to be separated from his weapon. Having trained such men, Connor realized that this man took serious his role in providing for the safety of his commanding officer. This fact is what caused his apparent unease.

  “You’re safe, Top,” he said, trying to put the soldier at ease. “We’re standing down.”

  “Are you Colonel Connor MacMillen?” asked the captain.

  “Who wants to know?” asked Connor with an edge to his voice.

  “Yes, of course, colonel. I’m Captain Marcus Daubney and this is First Sergeant Mickey McGuire.”

  “Captain, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You too, Top. Now—who wants to know who I am?”

  “Sir, I’m on duty as part of the president’s Expedition and Recovery Team.”

  “Starkes?” asked Connor.

  “Yes, sir—Colonel Hannah Starkes.”

  “How about that, John?” asked Connor without taking his eyes from the two men. “The president’s Expedition and Recovery Team.”

  McLeod’s anxiety lessened considerably at this news.

  “We’ve tried to locate you for awhile, colonel,” said the captain. “May we approach?”

  Connor turned and smiled at McLeod who nodded. Connor turned back to the two men. “Yeah, sure, come on ahead. Let’s see where this goes.” He pushed away from the Chevy and walked to meet the men half way, McLeod following. When they met near the curb they shook hands warily, continuing to assess each other.

  “I never said that I was this colonel you’re trying to find,” said Connor.

  “That’s not necessary, sir. We saw your face before and I was briefed in on your full military jacket—you know, mission briefs, commendations.”

  Connor hadn’t anticipated the level of access in today’s world. “How’s it possible that you saw that, captain? Most of that data’s full of black ops and way above your pay grade.”

  “Yes, sir, but—"

  “That data can’t be easy to access.”

  The captain nodded. “Yes, sir, that’s true. But we still got some access, colonel.”

  “You hear that, John?”

  “Yeah, Mac.”

  “You’re Colonel MacMillen?” asked the sergeant. He wasn’t as easily convinced as Captain Daubney and wanted definitive proof.

  “How many men you got backing you up, captain?” asked John McLeod. He smiled at Connor, remembering their first-time meeting.

  “We got a ten man u
nit on the ground including Top and I assigned specifically to locate Colonel Connor MacMillen.”

  McLeod was impressed by the man’s honesty. First Sergeant Mickey McGuire was briefly frustrated by his commanding officer’s revelation of unit strength. Connor noticed. “You against the direct approach, Top?”

  The sergeant looked caught between a rock and a hard place, but the captain came to his rescue. “Speak your mind, first sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir. Colonel, I voted against this little waltz. I don’t like going into a situation where I don’t know who I’m dealing with. I wanna know if you’re Colonel Connor MacMillen.”

  “Yeah, Top, I’m Colonel Connor P. MacMillen, 82nd Airborne. Now, answer me this: why are you so jittery?”

  “I don’t like being out in the open, sir. Especially unarmed and with the sniper hanging around. I’ve seen what Marty can do.”

  “How’d you know Marty’s part of my team?”

  “Amanda Abbington told us about him, sir.”

  “Top, don’t fuck with me,” said Connor, searching for some sign that the first sergeant was telling the truth. “That’s music to my ears. Top, that’s the best piece of information I’ve heard in years! Alright!” Connor bear-hugged McLeod, lifting him off the ground and turning a full circle. McLeod tried to laugh, but grunted from his compressed ribs. “Captain Daubney,” said Connor, releasing McLeod, “I need a sit-rep right this instant. Please give your first sergeant orders to clear your men. I wanna hear everything.”

  “Yes, sir, colonel,” answered the captain, smiling. The colonel’s exuberance was contagious. “First sergeant, radio the men the all clear and have them come in—weapons neutral.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mickey issued the order. Briefly, he ignored the return chatter and concentrated on the current conversation.

  “I still can’t believe we found you, colonel,” said Captain Daubney.

  “Yeah, captain, it was an incredible display of logistics, intelligence-gathering, and grid searching on your end.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s too bad we missed you guys at the Hall of Fame in Cleveland.”

  “Yes, sir, I agree.”

  “But come to think of it, I did come upon a minor dustup.”