The man screamed in agony and beat at the dog’s head in the dark, having no earthly idea what sort of beast was killing him. Was it a bear? No! It was a fucking wolf! Holy hell! Where the fuck did a wolf come from? And why was it eating him instead of the child?
Forrest stumbled onto the well-traveled path and raced along it, following the sound of Beyonce’s continued screams. Marty hurled himself over a backyard fence and fell in behind him, flashlight in hand to light the way.
“There!” he shouted, spotting the screaming child ahead of them on the far side of the manhole.
Laddie was sitting beside her, licking her face in a desperate effort to give her comfort while she continued to shriek.
In a fury, Forrest leapt past the girl to land on the raggedy man’s body, caving in his skull with the butt of his carbine. Marty snatched the child up, asking her if she was hurt, but all she did was scream.
“I think she’s okay. Can’t tell for sure.”
“Get back!” Forrest ordered, directing Marty and the dog away from the open sewer, slinging his weapon. He stuffed the man’s fetid carcass into the hole and dropped a phosphorus grenade in after it.
“Fire in the hole!” he shouted as Kane and Sullivan arrived on the scene, all of them ducking as a white flash of light erupted from the chasm with a muffled bang.
“Is she okay?” Sullivan asked, his chest heaving.
“I think she’s fine,” Marty said over her cries. “She’s just terrified.”
“What about you?” Kane asked, shining his own light on Forrest, seeing the dead man’s blood on his uniform.
Forrest nodded. “Get that child back to the truck before she draws more of these animals.”
“Let’s go, John,” Marty said. “This kid needs her mama.”
Forrest watched them go. “See how fucking close it was?” he shouted at Kane, pointing at the hole, shaking with rage. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ! What the fuck were they doing, Marcus? Playing grab-ass?”
“Man, I don’t know. They’re just doctors.”
“I told ’em, watch the fuckin’ kids!” Forrest howled, remembering the blasted bodies of the children in the Afghan desert, the missing arms and legs, the endless pleading for their mothers who had almost always preceded them in death.
“It’s cool!” Kane shouted. “The dog saved the fuckin’ day, man. That’s all that matters.”
Forrest dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around his dog, burying his face in its fur and thanking the animal for doing what he and his men had failed to do.
West met them on the way back, nearly in tears with shame. “Jack, I—”
Forrest threw his arms around the doctor and clutched him tight, kissing him on the cheek and speaking into his ear. “Let it go. It’s not a mistake you’ll ever make again.”
When they got back to the truck, Joann jumped down from the back to hug the dog, bawling with gratitude in the light of the Hummer’s headlamps.
Forrest pretended not to notice that Veronica was watching him teary-eyed from the back of the truck. He gave orders for the battered Price to lay down and rest and for the vehicles to be moved around back while the snowcats were prepped.
“That guy’s still alive over there,” Marty said quietly. “The one you shot.”
“Is he, now?” Forrest turned and walked through the snow to where the man lay on his back, with West kneeling alongside him examining the exit wound to his belly. Emory knelt opposite, holding a green cyalume stick to provide light enough for him see. “That’s enough, Sean.”
“I’m just—”
“That’ll be all, Doctor.”
“Sir!” West replied, got to his feet and moved off.
“Make sure Price is okay. Go with him, Shannon.”
“What are you gonna do?” she asked, rising.
He grinned and took a pack of smokes from his breast pocket. “You know? For a soldier, you don’t take orders for shit.”
She smiled in the green light. “Orders my ass. What are you gonna do?”
He shook another cigarette from the pack, lit it off of the first and knelt in the snow to put it between the dying man’s chapped lips. “How’s that, partner?”
“It’s good,” the man croaked, holding the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and feeling the nicotine hit him quickly. “Been a long time.” He was bearded and his skin was covered in open sores. The eyes were hard and there was no fear in them.
“How many more of you pricks I gotta worry about?”
“We’re the last of the—” The man shook with a tremor of pain and held his exploded belly. “—of the holdouts.”
“No military types about?”
“Not anymore. Moriarty’s animals pulled out last year . . . with all the food.”
Forrest took a long drag. “You’ll be happy to hear I shot Moriarty in the face.”
Smiling crookedly now, the man said, “Then this was a good day to die.” His eyes glassed over and he was gone.
Forrest stood and turned to Emory. “You and Marty join Sullivan up on the roof, keep watch through the infrared in case this prick was lying.”
“Sir!”
“Anything moves out there, anything at all . . . kill it.”
An hour later both of the used Bombardiers were running like a pair of tops, but the Tucker didn’t want to fire up, and it took another hour of tinkering with the engine to get it running. After they had all three snowcats running, the food, fuel, and equipment were transferred into the larger, four-track orange Tucker vehicle, then the women and children were moved into the heated cabins of the red Bombardiers. It was still a snug fit, but far preferable to sitting scrunched and cold in the back of the canvas-covered Army trucks.
The Tucker was twice as tall as the Bombardiers, so it would bring up the rear, with a pair of lookouts to keep watch over the small convoy as it slipped through the outskirts of Denver to the south, and headed up into the mountains along Interstate 70.
They drove all that night without lights at roughly thirty miles per hour, and by first light it was time to recharge the NVDs. They had crossed over the mountains by then, through spots where the snow was ten feet deep or more on the highway, and had to drive around the big green highway signs. They did not encounter a single living creature. Much of the forest had burned away, and all that remained for mile upon mile were the blackened trunks of charred trees.
By the time they crossed into Utah the depth of the snow was back down to three feet and it was time to stop and refuel.
“That’s the last of the fuel,” Kane said, wiping his hands with a rag as the seven fighting personnel gathered into a loose group. “But it’s more than enough to get us to the coast.”
“Who besides me expects trouble once we start getting close to the ocean?” Forrest asked.
Everyone lifted a hand.
“Good,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Then there shouldn’t be any surprises.”
Price came dragging himself through the snow.
“Something wrong?” Forrest asked.
“Lynette needs to go number two,” Price said. “Do we have time for her to use that Porta-John over there?”
“Sure,” Forrest said. “Might not be a bad idea for everyone to go again before we get moving.”
They continued talking as Lynette wrestled her way through the now thigh-deep snow to the Porta-John in the center median near an earthmover. She kicked the snow away from the door with her legs then went inside.
A second later she came back out screaming hysterically. The screams seemed to carry for miles across the barren snowscape.
“Somebody shut that bitch up!” Ulrich hissed.
“Easy,” Forrest said, watching Price running toward her through the snow.
Lynette threw herself into his arms and stood blubbe
ring into his shoulder. After he calmed her down, he took a look inside the Porta-John, then walked her back to the snowcat. He came over to tell Forrest and the others that there was a woman’s head in the frozen slop at the bottom of the toilet.
“How’s your head?” Forrest asked, taking a drag from the cigarette and pointing at the goose egg on Price’s forehead.
“I’ll live,” he said. “I’m sorry Lynette’s been such a pain.”
“She hasn’t been a pain for any of us,” Forrest said. “She keeps it interesting.”
Price let out a sardonic chuckle and made his way through the snow back to the snowcat where his wife sat trembling in Taylor’s arms.
Forrest got the map out and took a bearing with a compass. From this point they would no longer be following the interstate. The snow was deep enough for them to drive straight overland toward San Diego, which would save them a great deal of time and mileage as they crossed southern Utah. Forrest also hoped it would decrease their chances of being ambushed by the type of people who chopped off women’s heads and dumped them into Porta-Johns.
It had grown dark again when they reached the Nevada border, where it was time to make a decision: Cross the Hoover Dam or keep heading south to skirt around it?
“I don’t think we want any part of that pass,” Marty warned. “Suppose the dam’s still operationa—”
“The crews would have split ages ago,” Ulrich said, almost dismissing him.
“Yeah, but suppose somebody’s figured out how to run the place? We’re talking about an endless source of heat for that facility, a good place for an army of cannibals to make their home. Tell ’em, Shannon.”
“He’s got a point,” Emory said. “It’s a safe bet that some military unit took it over early on.”
“And what do you suppose they’re doing for food two years into a global famine?” Ulrich asked.
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Maybe they’re getting fat off the people who are too fuckin’ stupid to stay away!”
Forrest laughed, holding his red light over the map where he crouched in the snow at their feet, tracing his finger southward. “I don’t know what they’d be eating, and I’ve got no interest in finding out. We’ll take your advice and cross the river farther down . . . closer to Needles.”
By first light they were crossing into California, and the Tucker began to have engine trouble again, finally stalling completely and refusing to restart.
“I don’t know what the hell it is,” Kane said after trying for half an hour to get the engine running. “Damn thing’s brand new. If I had to guess, I’d say there’s ice in the fuel line. It can’t be much over five or six degrees out here today.”
“Do you recommend we leave it?” Forrest asked in the middle of playing fetch with Laddie. “Or do you think it’s worth trying to fix?”
“If I’m wrong about it being ice in the line, we could spend another two or three hours and have nothing to show for it.”
“Then screw it,” Forrest said, wrestling the stick away from his dog. “Pack everybody into the Bombardiers and let’s get the hell outta here.”
By the time it was dark they had reached the now deserted U.S. Marine Corps training grounds north of Twenty-nine Palms, where Forrest brought them to a halt.
“Okay,” he announced. “We’re three hours from Oceanside, where the USS Boxer is supposed to be anchored just out of sight from the shore.”
“We goin’ in tonight or waitin’ for first light?” Kane asked.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Forrest said, having already made up his mind to press on.
“I think daylight only increases our chances of being spotted,” Emory said. “We should keep taking advantage of our NVDs.”
“That’s where I come out too,” Sullivan said, a glance around telling him that everyone else felt the same.
“Who needs Benzedrine?” Forrest asked.
Everyone needed it, so he dumped three capsules into everyone’s hand.
“Only one at a time,” he reminded them. “The other two are for emergencies only. If all goes well, you’ll be aboard ship long before you ever need them.”
Then he climbed aboard the first cat with Dr. West.
“Okay, ladies, I want you all to listen carefully and not make a sound,” Forrest said, taking one of the titanium vials from his pocket and holding it up for them all to see in the light of the cab. “I’m not going to spell out its purpose for obvious reasons, but there is one NASA approved cyanide capsule inside each one of these vials. Every mom gets one for herself and one for each of her kids. You will keep them in your pants pockets, and you will not take them out unless there’s an emergency. Is that understood?”
The mothers nodded with fearful looks in their eyes, but said nothing for fear of upsetting the children.
“What is that for, Mommy?” one the little girls asked as Dr. West was doling out the vials.
“It’s astronaut medicine, honey. In case we get exposed to some really bad germs.”
Forrest left and gave the same presentation to the mothers aboard the second snowcat, and then they were off.
No one realized that it was Christmas Eve.
Sixty-Five
“Captain to the bridge. Captain to the bridge.”
Captain Bisping trotted up the ladder and onto the bridge less than a minute later. “What do you have, Mr. O’Leary?”
“Algonquin reports a Chinese sub coming to periscope depth ten miles off the port bow, sir.”
“Jesus Christ!” Bisping said, stepping to the far window for a look. “Make sure this ship is blacked completely out. How did a sub get so goddamn close without Algonquin hearing it?”
“It’s a Song Class, sir. Diesel-electric.”
“Shit,” Bisping said in disgust.
“Bridge, Radar,” came the voice of the radar operator. “Periscope out of the water ten miles off the port bow. She’s not moving, sir.”
“Duncan, I want a pair of Sea Kings armed and in the air yesterday—and without lights.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Mr. Brooks, find out if Algonquin is disposed to destroy that submarine. I can’t see her in this ink.”
“Sir, Algonquin advises she has loaded war-shot into her tubes, but she’s not at optimum angle for launch. She’s asking if you want her to come about.”
“Negative!” Bisping said. “I don’t want anybody doing anything to tip them off. Algonquin isn’t to even flood her tubes.”
“Aye, sir . . . Algonquin advises she is standing by.”
“We’re a sitting duck,” Bisping muttered. “Be sure that Algonquin advises us the second that sub moves or opens its outer tube doors.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Duncan, quietly spread the word that I want the crew ready to abandon ship,” Bisping ordered.
“Aye, Skipper.”
“We can’t even run the engines up to full power without them hearing us,” Bisping grumbled. He took the phone from the wall and called down to the engine room.
“Chief, it’s the captain. Listen, there’s a Chinese electric resting at periscope depth ten miles off our port bow. She’s got us dead-nuts with both bow anchors on the bottom. We can’t even slip the chains without tipping them off. I want you to do everything you can down there without making any goddamn noise so you’ll be ready to get those engines up and roaring in full reverse the second I give you the word. Understood?”
“I’ll have her ready to pull a hole shot, Captain.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear, Chief.” Bisping hung up the phone and grabbed the one next to it. “Radar, I want to know if that periscope moves even an inch. Understood? . . . Good.”
He went back to the window, making doubly sure no was smoking down on the flight deck.
“Captain, both Sea Ki
ngs report ready for takeoff.”
“Get them into air.”
“Captain! Algonquin reports the submarine is blowing ballast and coming to the surface! . . . And she’s opening her outer tube doors!”
“Stay those helicopters!” Bisping ordered. “That sub captain so much as hears a rotor blade and he’ll launch.”
Bisping stood trying to figure a way out of the mess. We can kill them, he thought to himself, but not before they’ve killed us.
“Maybe they don’t want to fight,” O’Leary said. “They’ve had plenty of opportunity to fire.”
“After what we did to their destroyers? I find that very hard to believe.”
Ensign Allister Miller cleared his throat. “I don’t think she knows we’re here, sir.”
Bisping turned to him in the red dim. “Explain yourself, Mr. Miller.”
“Well, sir, we’ve been resting quietly at anchor all day,” Miller replied. “Only Algonquin’s had her boilers up to steam, so she’s the one the bastards are likely homing in on. They’re probably hoping she’ll lead them to us in the dark. And they can’t go on active sonar without tipping their hand any more than we can power up or launch our choppers without tipping ours.”
“Which is why they’ve come to the surface,” Bisping said. “To use their eyes and ears. Very good, Mr. Miller. You’re a lieutenant jg now. If we get out of this without losing the ship, I’ll promote you to first.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Duncan, get Commander Reese up here on the double.”
“Aye, sir.”
Reese was the commander of the ten-man SEAL team aboard the Boxer. He was a short, hard-bodied sailor who had been in the Navy since John Paul Jones was a baby, and he was known for getting the job done under very sticky circumstances.
He stepped onto the bridge, announcing: “Commander Reese reporting as ordered, Captain.”
“Mr. Reese, has your team ever rehearsed the taking of a Chinese submarine resting quietly on the surface?”
A grin spread across the commander’s face. “Not exactly, sir. Though similar scenarios have come up in conversation once or twice.”
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