by James Cook
There was a distinct crack of hand meeting face at high speed. “The blond motherfucker with the gun, dumbass! Where did he go?”
“Fuck, man.” The voice was alarmed now. “He went that way.”
More pounding footsteps. I slid to the edge of the container and peeked over the edge. Four of the eight street toughs I had spotted earlier were coming uphill toward me, all carrying handguns. Not the lean, tactical kind like I had, but rather gaudy, nickel-plated abominations only useful to someone trying to keep up an image. The gangbangers were young, maybe early twenties at most. I had a brief pang of conscience and wondered if there might be a way out of this without bloodshed.
The tattooed thugs stopped and interrogated an elderly man and his wife. The leader asked the old lady a question she could not quite hear. When she asked the thug to repeat himself, he pistol whipped her in the face. Then he turned and did the same to her husband.
Okay. Bloodshed it is.
They were less than twenty yards away. I had the high ground. The shipping container would not provide any cover; the metal was too thin. However, being uphill from the gangbangers gave me a tactical advantage. It is almost always easier to shoot downhill than up, and requires the shooter to expose less of a target profile.
I stayed in the prone position, took aim, and fired once. The leader’s head snapped back with a neat hole in his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. A spray of brain matter and blood splashed the young men behind him, causing them to stop and shout in dismay. The elderly couple scrambled for cover.
Before the other thugs could regain their wits, I fired four shots. Double-tap, shift, double-tap. Two more gunmen went down, each hit center of mass. The last one, finding himself without backup, tried to run. I led him a little with the sights and fired three times. The first two missed, but the third caught him in the lower torso. From the way he fell and screamed, I surmised the bullet had gone through him sideways, probably tearing a swath through his guts. Hollow points are dangerous like that.
Four to go. Maybe more.
The slide on the Sig had locked to the rear on an empty mag. I removed it, stashed it in a pocket, slapped home eight more rounds of 9mm, and released the slide. A round went into the chamber, the hammer still back. I eased down the hammer so I would not accidentally shoot myself and slid off the container.
As I hit the ground, another tattooed figure came around the corner to my right and raised a weapon. I fell over backwards as he opened fire. His bullets shot past where my head had been a fraction of a second before. I flattened my legs so I wouldn’t shoot myself and pulled the trigger twice, both rounds taking him in the chest. He dropped his gun, staggered a few steps away, clutched his chest, and hit the pavement.
I got up and headed around the corner. Stopped. Looked around. No more gangbangers. Plenty of screaming. The suppressed fire from my Sig had probably gone unnoticed, but the shots aimed at me had been full volume. The whole damn district probably heard them. Which meant any friends the dead gangbangers had were on their way, and quickly.
I ran west another block and then cut south again. Stopped at a corner. Listened. People had left their homes in this area, and, rather stupidly I thought, gone in the direction of the gunfire. Unexpected, but it worked in my favor. No more witnesses.
There was another shipping container across from me and several more on either side of it, facing the opposite street. Which meant I was in the back yard of everyone who lived on this block. If I moved fast and kept quiet, I might be able to escape unnoticed.
A quick peek around the corner showed I was alone. I sprinted to the next container. Another look around. Still no one. Another sprint. The process repeated three more times. I was beginning to think I might get out of this without killing anyone else.
Finally, I reached the street where the gangbangers had originally been waiting. Unfortunately, they had left one guy behind to keep an eye out for me. I spotted him before he spotted me, leveled my weapon, and fired. The bullet took him in the side of the head. He fell, and someone screamed.
I ran as fast as I could and didn’t stop for five blocks. People saw me go by, but showed no more interest than if I were an errant squirrel. I skidded to a halt, put my back against the side of a container, and looked behind me. No one was following me.
Deep breaths. Calm down. Put the damn gun away.
The suppressor was still warm to the touch as I unscrewed it and stashed it under my shirt. The Sig’s mag had six rounds left and one in the chamber. With a start, I realized the hammer was still back from the last shot. I cursed softly and told myself it was a damn good thing I had kept my finger off the trigger. Pretty hard to run with a bullet in your foot.
I lowered the hammer and holstered the Sig. To my right, there was some light pedestrian traffic. To my left, the street on the other side looked empty. In both directions, no one was paying me any attention.
It took me half an hour cross back over The Strip and hail a carriage. The ride back to the base cost me the remaining six rounds in the Sig’s magazine. Once there, I got a couple of sugar packets from my trade stash in my barracks room and hopped another carriage to Tyrel’s house. His maid opened the door. Unlike most of Tyrel’s female employees, she was long past the age when she might have been considered attractive. Her clothes were made from practical homespun material and she wore a white apron around her ample waist. A pair of dark brown eyes regarded me suspiciously.
“Can I help you?” She had a trace of a Mexican accent.
“Name’s Caleb Hicks,” I said. “Mr. Jennings here?”
“One moment.” She closed the door and locked it.
A minute or two later, Tyrel appeared. Night had fallen, and I realized I must have looked a mess standing there covered in sweat, my clothes rumpled and dirty.
“Jesus, Caleb,” he said. “The hell happened to you?”
I handed him a small bag with the Sig in it. “Could you hold on to this for me, hide it someplace?”
He stared at the bag a few seconds before taking it. “You smell like cordite. Who you been shooting at?”
“No one important.”
The black eyes narrowed. “Caleb, what kind of trouble are you in?”
I opened my mouth to tell him not to worry about it, but stopped myself. Of course he would worry about it. I show up in the dark of night and ask him to hide a gun for me, and he’s not supposed to ask questions? Stupid.
“Some guys made a run at me in the refugee district,” I said.
He blinked at me. “The refugee district? What the flying fuck were you doing there?”
I let out a breath. “Went to see my old place. Don’t know why, just wanted to see it. Some gangbangers were there, hanging out, drinking. Didn’t care much for that. Long story short, I had to shoot some people. Might come back on me, might not. Either way, probably best if I don’t have the murder weapon in my possession.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Tyrel said. “Just give it to me, make me an accessory. No trouble at all.”
I looked him in the eye. “I’d do it for you.”
Tyrel started to say something, then closed his mouth. “Yeah. You would.”
“Thanks, Tyrel.” I turned to leave.
“Hey.”
I stopped. “Yeah?’’
“Come on in and get cleaned up. I’ll have Roberta wash your clothes. You can go back to base in the morning.”
A part of me wanted to refuse, but logic won out. Tyrel was right. Probably best if I stayed off the street for a while, and staying with him would make it harder for the police to find me.
“Don’t worry about the cops,” Tyrel said, as if reading my mind. “Gangs won’t tell ‘em shit. But whoever you pissed off will probably come looking for you sooner or later.”
That gave me pause. “If they do, I don’t want you getting caught up in it.”
Tyrel shook his head. “Not your call. If you’re in it, so am I. If the situation were reversed, what would you do?”
I knew exactly what I would do. So I said, “You really think they’ll come looking?”
“Probably. If they do, we’ll deal with it. There’s a solution for that kind of thing.”
I stayed still a few seconds. People passed me on the sidewalk. I looked down the street and saw maelstroms of insects swirling in the light of streetlamps. The merchant district was calm and hushed, most of its residents having turned in for the night. I blended in here about as well as a scorpion on clean sheets.
“Okay.”
I went inside.
TWELVE
I got back to my barracks room at 0800.
The loudspeaker outside my window announced a ninety-percent chance of rain and advised all base personnel to prepare accordingly. At 0945, while on my way to General Jacob’s office, the dark gray clouds lurking overhead opened up and began pouring down rain. I was in uniform, my pancho rolled up in my right hand. Most of the troops and civilian contractors scurrying around me obviously had not heeded the warning.
I stopped under the awning in front of the entrance, shook off as much water as I could, and entered. A young private at the front desk took my pancho and hung it up for me. I told him I had a ten-hundred meeting with General Jacobs. He told me the General was waiting for me.
Gabe was already there when I walked in. I nodded to the General and said, “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
“No, Captain, you’re not. Just in time.”
I stopped and looked behind me for a second, then back at the general. “Captain?”
Jacobs opened a desk drawer. “Guess the runner I sent didn’t find you. Your field commission went through. Congratulations.”
He handed me a sealed brown 8 ½ by 11 envelope. I opened it and scanned the contents. It was indeed a field commission promoting Sergeant Caleb T. Hicks to the rank of captain in the United States Army. I read carefully to make sure it was not contingent upon extending my service beyond my initial enlistment. It was not.
“Anything to say?” Jacobs asked.
I almost said I was expecting to be a second lieutenant, but decided not to look the gift horse in the mouth. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
“Good answer, Captain. Now have a seat.”
I put the papers back in the envelope and did as ordered.
“We were just wrapping up negotiations,” Gabriel said.
“Don’t you have to ask your boss first?” I asked.
A voice from the doorway said, “He already has.”
I turned. Tyrel walked in and offered Jacobs a hand. The general stood and shook it. “Thank you for coming Mr. Jennings.”
“Always a pleasure, General.” Tyrel took the last seat. “So what am I here for?”
“One moment.” Jacobs stood up and shut the door. There was a gray panel beside it. He opened the panel, typed something on the keypad, closed the panel, and sat back down behind his desk. I may have been imagining it, but I thought I heard a faint electric hum emanating from the walls.
“We’ll have complete privacy for the remainder of the meeting,” Jacobs said. “Needless to say, our conversation will be classified and no one is to repeat anything said in this room to anyone, ever, without my express authorization. Agreed?”
We all acknowledged.
“All right then. Here’s what we’re dealing with…”
Jacobs laid out the situation as he had explained it to me when I first agreed to work for him. Gabe and Tyrel stayed quiet, listening. Jacobs dimmed the lights, brought up a map on a projector, and aimed it at the wall to my left.
“The ROC has claimed territory as far north as Vancouver. However, based on our satellite data and intel from the ground, most of their forces are concentrated in four regions.” Jacobs activated a laser pointer. “The first and largest is here, around Humboldt Bay. This is where the Flotilla initially landed and where, over the course of a few months, they offloaded their supplies and equipment.”
“Question.” Gabe said.
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t the Navy stop them?”
Jacobs scratched the back of his head and let out a long breath. “When it became clear the East coast was a total loss, the Navy evacuated as many ships and personnel as they could to the West Coast before the Panama Canal closed. As you can imagine, this was not a smooth operation. But we managed to get most of our ships through. Those that didn’t had to sail around the horn of South America. Not all of them made it. While all this was happening, most of the West Coast Navy was assisting with humanitarian efforts and evacuating vital government personnel to Hawaii and Guam. Afterward, the Navy was ordered to port all remaining vessels in Hawaii, the Mariana Islands, and a few other classified destinations. By the time the Flotilla arrived, the Navy was short on supplies, fuel, and basically everything a modern navy needs to operate. All we could send were a few nuke submarines, and for reasons unknown, when they were halfway to California, the president ordered them to turn around and head back to Hawaii.”
“So what’s the state of the Navy at this point?” I asked.
“Not very good. We have exactly two battle groups up and running. Which means two carriers, four destroyers, four cruisers, two supply ships, two submarines, one amphibious assault ship, and a small fleet of fast-boats. MK 5s, RHIBs, LCACs, etc.”
“So,” Gabe said, “in other words, a fraction of the old fleet. What about aircraft?”
“Managed to save most of those. Sadly, in order to maintain the capabilities we have at this point, we’re cannibalizing everything not currently in service. Ever seen an aircraft carrier stripped for parts?”
Gabe shook his head.
“Let me tell you, it’s a sad damn sight. Now, are we ready to move on?”
“Sure.”
The laser pointer came on again. “The other three areas where enemy forces are concentrated,” Jacobs said, “are here near Crescent City, California, here just east of Eugene, Oregon, and here in Castle Rock, Washington. There are dozens of outposts spread out between Humboldt Bay and Castle Rock, but those are only manned by a few hundred troops each. We’ll see to them in due course. Our primary concern is the four main bases and the internment camps.”
“So how many internment camps are there?” Tyrel asked. “And where are they?”
“There are eight of them, six in Oregon, the rest in Northern California. The biggest one by far is here in the Klamath Basin. The detainees at this camp are being used as slave labor to grow food for ROC forces. Mostly potatoes and grain, as far as we can tell.”
“And the others?” I asked.
General Jacobs pointed them out. They were located in areas with fertile farmland and grazing land available for livestock.
“So where will we be going?” Gabe asked.
“The Klamath Basin,” Jacobs said. “Nearly half of the detainees are being held there. That’s where most of our forces will be concentrated. Resistance fighters and special operations forces will coordinate to liberate the other camps as well.”
“How do we plan to do this?” Tyrel asked.
“You’ll be briefed on the particulars when you meet up with Resistance forces in Oregon. The less you know for the time being, the better for operational security.”
The three of us nodded. It was no less than we expected. If we were somehow captured between Colorado and Oregon, the less we knew, the less the enemy could torture out of us. A morbid precaution, but sensible nonetheless.
“So what happens now?” Gabe asked.
“For now, I’m going to give all of you papers to take to medical. The docs will give you a checkup and a few inoculations. God only knows what diseases those North Koreans and who-the-hell else brought over with them. After that, you’ll have five days to get your affairs in order. Then you’ll report here and wait for orders to deploy. Fair enough?”
Gabe inclined his head. “Fair enough.”
Jacobs stood up. “Well, that’s all for now gentlemen. Mr. Jennings, i
f you could let me know who you’ll be sending by tomorrow morning, I would appreciate it.”
“I’ll tell you now,” Tyrel said, getting to his feet. “I’m going.”
My head snapped around. “What?”
Tyrel held up a hand for silence. It was an old gesture, one he had been using to shut me up since I was six years old. It must have had some kind of Pavlovian effect because my mouth closed immediately.
General Jacobs regarded Tyrel, eyebrows slightly raised. He spoke with deliberate calmness. “I’m familiar with your record, Mr. Jennings. I’d be happy to have you along.”
“Good,” Tyrel said. “Then it’s settled. See you in five days.”
Tyrel and Gabriel left first. I stood immobile, staring down the hallway. After a few seconds, General Jacobs cleared his throat. The noise startled me.
“Captain, is there anything else?”
“Um, no. No sir.”
“Very well. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes sir.”
I started to shut the door on my way out.
“Oh, Captain, one more thing.”
I stuck my head back in. “Yes sir?”
“I’ll be sending someone around to see to your uniforms. Feel free to wear civilian clothes until they’re returned to you. Just make sure you keep your black card on you. And don’t forget to turn in your commission paperwork to personnel. Have them make a copy for your records.”
“Yes sir. Anything else?”
“That will be all.”
I shut the door and left.
THIRTEEN
Five days.
I did not have any regular duties at Peterson AAB, and the only person I answered to was General Jacobs. All he asked was I let his secretary know where a runner could find me. Otherwise, I had nothing to do.
I didn’t care for it.
Back at Fort McCray, they kept us busy. Training, cleaning, PT, eating, more cleaning, more training, patrols. Occasionally, we got to shoot at something. Usually it was infected, but sometimes we were called upon to clear out raiders and bandits along the trade routes. When things were peaceful, we had nights and weekends off unless we pulled watch.