by Rounds, Mark
“But the rules have changed,” said Ngengi. “For the duration of this 'business trip', training is suspended. Whatever your little mind trick is, Nergüi wants it. We will be your security detail and your arms and legs. You need us to do something related to the mission, tell us, we will make it happen. You'll also need this.”
Ngengi tossed Macklin a Remington Model 870 Express Tactical shotgun. Macklin reflexively caught the weapon and checked to see if the weapon was loaded. His trainers had fooled him more than once with an empty weapon in a tactical exercise. This time it was loaded with seven rounds and an empty chamber; things had just gotten serious.
“Number four buckshot, and there is more on the plane,” said Ngengi answering Macklin's unspoken questions. “Let's get one thing clear. On this trip we work for you … unless we think you are trying to pull a fast one, then you best be able to talk fast or I will personally cut your throat. Clear?”
Macklin nodded and they left their quarters and headed for the runway. The same Beach aircraft was waiting for them, engines running. Macklin boarded the plan with Ngengi, Carlos, and Ölnirsen. They stowed their gear, placed their long arms in a specialized container that was bolted to the floor in the middle of the plane’s passenger area, and buckled in. The plane took off from the rough strip, bouncing over the mounds of bunchgrass as it gained enough speed to take off.
Macklin looked out over the low rolling prairie that was sparsely dotted with ranches and dry land wheat fields for a while, and then he began to get curious and wondered about what he was expected to do once they got to Spokane.
“Do we have any information on the situation in Spokane?” asked Macklin, trying to start a conversation.
“No,” said Ngengi.
“Well, while I was training, did you get any news reports from the area? Any newspapers?” asked Macklin.
“I don't read,” said Carlos, “at least not in English.”
“Well, what do you guys do when you are not torturing me?” asked Macklin with more than a little frustration.
“Look, Fresh Meat,” said Ngengi, “It's nothing personal, but we don't really want to get to know you. You are likely pretty smart and the Masters have need of your talent so we will do our best to keep you alive and support whatever it is you are tasked to do, but Little Bear knows you now, and will likely get to you in spite of our best efforts. If that doesn't get you killed, whatever it is we are going to do will likely get you killed. We don't want to get … attached.”
“But aren't you the least bit worried about what is coming?” asked Macklin skeptically.
“They don't call on us to serve party favors,” said Ngengi sarcastically. “It will be violent and there will be killing. That's what we do. If we are lucky, we will come back alive. If we are even luckier, there will be women to rape and there will be plunder.”
“That's barbaric!” said Macklin. He was inured to killing and had accepted the carnage of a world on fire, but he had yet to descend to killing the helpless and raping the innocent.
“I fought the Romans when they came to Iberia,” said Carlos with a sneer. “They said I was the barbarian but they made us look like ladies at tea when it came to rape and pillage.”
“I was a Viking!” said the normally taciturn Ölnirsen. “We fought the Christians of Charlemagne’s army who killed all the men who resisted conversion to their foul religion and sold into slavery their women and children, and they called me 'barbarian'.”
“And I was a Kikuyu warrior,” said Ngengi. “I don't know how old I am, but I fought the Arab slave traders, and then the Portuguese slave traders. Then the British came and tried to take the land we had farmed for generations. I joined the Mau Mau, and we fought them too. Show me the difference between a 'civilized man' and a barbarian, Fresh Meat?
“We do what we are good at,” said Ngengi, settling back into his seat. “When the Masters say kill, we kill. The longer we kill, the longer we live. It's a simple life but one we have grown used to.”
Macklin nodded but his mind raced silently.
“What have I gotten myself into?” thought Macklin. “Is there any way out?”
June 13th, Wednesday, 9:02 am PDT
Joint Base Lewis-McChord
“Sir, I think you should see this,” said Capt Whipkey. “It is a summary of the latest cell phone intercepts from on-base.”
“Thanks, Captain,” Gen Antonopoulos as he took the summary sheet. “Do we have anything on their cypher?”
“Nothing definite,” said Whipkey. “It's definitely old school but it's pretty cleverly done. We have figured out another code group. It's the one we think is for Spokane.”
“I am considering arresting a General Officer,” said Andy wearily. “I can't go on an 'I think'. Is it or isn't it, and frankly, given the political climate on base, would it stand up in a Court Martial?”
“No sir,” said Whipkey sadly. “They change the code groups often. There seems to be a pattern, but we aren't solid on it yet. But if it were me, sir, I wouldn't go on the mission to Spokane. I'd call it off. If they send a message about the cancellation, we could perhaps get more data ...”
“No good,” said Andy. “If I pull the mission and if it is Gen Johnson, he will go silent, or at least I would in his shoes. No, I have to keep him believing the mission is real. The best way to do that is to go.”
“But if they try to hit you?” said Whipkey. “You will be surrounded by Army troops.”
“I don't believe that this rot has spread that far,” said Andy. “I think most of our soldiers on this base are trying to do their jobs to the best of their ability. I think the mole is a single person, or at most, a very small group. It’s my sense that any significant organization at the level it would take to plant assassins into existing units would likely have given itself away by now.”
“That's a lot of 'I thinks,' sir,” said Whipkey diffidently.
“Don't I know it,” said Andy, who then was quiet for a minute. “Go quietly to the CO of the 21st Special Tactics Squadron. Get me a Special Tactics team to go along with our forward air controller team. On the Frag Order, they will be for security for the forward air controllers. Make sure he knows that two of them need to stick to me like glue.”
“Those guys are spread pretty thin,” said Whipkey.
“I know, but we are using them mainly as medics and trainers,” said Andy. “Don't cancel any taskings, just take one each from the teams that are deployed. Hopefully they won't be missed for a few days.
“Then I want you to get that sneak and peek platoon you have been hiding in your MRAP company and have them deploy some bugs around Gen Johnson's quarters and his office. While you’re at it, cover his aide too. He could be a go between.”
“What happens if we get caught, General,” asked Whipkey. “This is their first real mission.”
“Don't get caught and we won't have to worry about it, will we, Captain?” asked Andy.
“No, sir,” said Whipkey.
June 13th, Wednesday, 2:16 pm PDT
Spokane, WA
The plane Macklin and his entourage had been traveling in touched down at Spokane International Airport. Once a bustling regional terminus for flights to many west coast and Pacific Rim destinations, it was now a ghost town. There were a few infected scavengers wandering the area around the terminal. Several large airliners and many more small, regional commuter planes were parked neatly at this, their last destination.
Before Macklin’s plane came to a stop, they were met by a now familiar black Suburban. There was another Suburban behind that, forest green and not in nearly as of good shape, obviously a local acquisition. Nergüi waited by the door of the Suburban.
“Get in,” said Nergüi with no preamble. “I’ll brief you en route.”
He nodded to the men who had come with Macklin and they piled into the second Suburban with all of the gear.
“I have engaged a man named Arthur Wallace,” said Nergüi, “to raise an infan
try battalion. He is unequal to the task. I need you to oversee his operation. Supplies for such a force will be coming in by air over the next week. Your concern will be raising the troops. Wallace is still useful for training but we had an ‘incident’ with him.”
“What kind of incident?” asked Macklin. He was beginning to realize that Nergüi was capable of nearly anything and likely not quite sane. His suspicions were confirmed as Nergüi retold his version of recent events, even laughing at Wallace’s horror over the mutilation of his second in command.
“We have very little time,” said Nergüi in conclusion. “Our superiors want this force operational in two weeks. We will likely have more time to train them after that deadline, but don’t count on it. You will find that Wallace has some skills in the area of training and dirty tricks. Do not trust him though.
“One other matter,” said Nergüi. “How was your training, or more specifically how were your trainers?”
“They are competent,” said Macklin neutrally.
“Let’s stop this dance,” said Nergüi, with some heat. “How would you rate them as colleagues or peers?”
“Sir,” said Macklin, grasping for words. “They are incredibly fit, deadly with all sorts of weapons, and very situationally aware tactically.”
“And?” said Nergüi.
“They seem to lack any concept of the big picture,” said Macklin, who couldn’t think of a more diplomatic way of stating what he had discovered on the flight out. “They are all very old, at least by the way the calendar measures,. Perhaps if you brought in some younger … employees they might have a better mind set?”
“You now see our problem,” said Nergüi. “We haven’t been able to … recruit very much in many years. There have been few outbreaks of the Plague as it usually strikes a population weakened by starvation or war. That tends to be in what you call the third world. They are all primitive villagers in their hearts. They use the modern tools and weapons, but deep down, they are peasants.
“And there has been attrition. They are, as you pointed out, extremely fit and dangerous, but blind luck sometimes affects even prime specimens such as these. Recruiting more modern soldiers has usually failed. They think too much, run schemes to gain control or make money on the side. Eventually they have to be exposed.”
“Exposed?” asked Macklin, who didn’t really want to know, but couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“We withdraw our support,” said Nergüi. “Usually they sicken with the Plague and die within days. However some build up a resistance and can linger on longer, sometimes much longer.”
“OK, what about me?” asked Macklin, dreading the answer.
“You are an experiment,” said Nergüi. “You can imagine that someone as proud and strong as Carlos or Ngengi would resist. We have to … condition them, using the same object lesson I showed you in the wheat field. With Ngengi, it took several days.”
Macklin recoiled at the thought of days under his boss’s mental lash in spite of his resolution to remain calm.
“I have brought you into our little tribe with a minimum of conditioning,” continued Nergüi. “I need your brain. I need your management skills, and as such, I can’t go mucking about in your mind to ensure loyalty. It destroys too much, as you have already seen.”
“You have done this before, haven’t you?” asked Macklin.
“That is perceptive of you,” replied Nergüi. “I have, though none survived. That is why for the duration of this project, I will remain with you, to guide your efforts and if necessary, shape your thoughts.”
What that meant, Macklin did not want to know.
June 13th, Wednesday, 3:41 pm PDT
South Hill, Spokane, WA
Nergüi had briefed Macklin thoroughly before bringing Wallace into his presence so he was aware of the mission and who Wallace really was. He was brought to a fashionable house that had apparently been abandoned but was now being used as a headquarters. He was seated in what had been someone’s study. There were many books and the desk he sat at was solid mahogany. So he was prepared when Ngengi and Ölnirsen brought Wallace in and tossed him on the floor.
“I know you,” said Macklin, “only the last time we met, you weren't going by the name Wallace. It was Smythe, I think, and you were using a Yorkshire accent and you were an informant on that IRA terrorist cell. Was it four or five years ago? You damned near went to jail and the Provo’s have a pretty large bounty on your head. What is your real name, anyway?”
“Wallace will do for now,” the man said, getting up. He looked around but there was intentionally no place for him to sit. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Build me an infantry battalion ... yesterday,” said Macklin. “And that's not all; I know you have a core group you brought over from the 'stans. I want say five of them equipped for special missions. Specifically, I need a sniper team and a close in team.”
“Can't you get them to cut me some slack?” whined Wallace, looking at his captors. His hand was bandaged crudely and sent shooting pains up his arm when he moved it wrong. It also still bled from time to time. The confident smart ass that Macklin remembered was gone. Wallace was really scared.
“You aren't an idiot,” said Macklin, “but for old times’ sake, I'll spell it out for you. If you don't get me an infantry battalion in training by the end of the week; you will lose your dick. Given the way these guys work, they'll probably put it in a vise and saw it off with a rusty steak knife. Then I'll make the same demand of your successor and I'll punctuate that discussion with your bleeding member.”
Wallace recoiled as Macklin knew he would. The macabre smile on Ngengi's face as he towered over the both of them only acted to accelerate the motion.
“The special team is OK, I’ll have them ready for you on a moment’s notice,” said Wallace who tried to wring his hands and then winced when he twisted them wrong. “But you are gonna need something like six hundred guys; I have about sixty. I’m never going to find that many!”
“Must I spell everything out?” said Macklin. His voice seemed merely exasperated, but in truth, he was nearly as scared as Wallace, as he was risking more. He well remembered what Nergüi had done to his mind. “Go to every gang and cluster of Infected you can find in town. Give them Slash, a lot of it. Many of them are junkies from before the Plague or they'd be dead now and they have no self-control. They will shoot up with a monstrous dose when confronted with that much ‘generosity’ and then pass out. When they do, gather them up and haul them back here while they are high. When they wake up, you start training them hard while they are still groggy. Don't give them a second to think. Keep their Slash dosage as low as you can to keep them on the edge. Make sure they know where their next fix is coming from. Give it to them in the evening so they pass out hard and don’t have much time for scheming. It will work if you hit it hard, starting right now.”
“But where am I going to get all the Slash?” wailed Wallace.
“You've been building up a sizable stock on the down low,” said Macklin evenly. “I even know where it is. Start with that. As you need more, come to me and I will give you some. Ölnirsen here will be inventorying your stock so I know what you really need. I won’t give you enough for you to become independent, just enough to keep things going day-by-day.”
“But this is going to take gasoline that I don't have and vehicles and holding pens and …”
“It sucks to be you,” said Macklin, interrupting Wallace's monologue. “Just remember, your new nickname will be 'Stubby' if you don't pull this off. Now get out of my sight!”
Chapter 16
June 20th, Thursday, 8:56 pm PDT
Lapwai, ID
Little Bear sometimes thought that the myth of the Ghost Who Walks was too damn hard to maintain. He had spent nearly a week traveling to Lapwai, Idaho, from Winifred, Montana. The first sixty-odd miles had been on horseback, from just outside Winifred to Loma, Montana. There, he hitched a ride with a Native America
n ranch hand who had quit working for a rancher who had succumbed to the Plague and was driving home to Browning to be with his family on the Blackfoot Reservation. From there he finally got some luck and was able to convince a local native pilot to fly him as far as Coeur d'Alene in exchange for a twenty dollar gold piece that he kept for luck and twenty rounds of 30.06 ammunition. He had walked the rest of the way, nearly one hundred miles.
In Lapwai, Little Bear met up with Johnny Comes at Night, who had worked at the University of Idaho as a plumber until the Plague had hit and he, his wife and two sisters had left Moscow for the family home outside of Lapwai.
“You know your way around that place?” asked Little Bear as they ate. He had been traveling on short rations and was grateful for the spicy venison stew and fry bread that Johnny's wife had made.
“Yep, I know where all the pipes and toilets are,” quipped Johnny.
“Another Indian comedian,” said Little Bear with a smile. He liked Johnny, who was always boisterous and funny. Johnny was also the head of the local cell of Little Bear's radical offshoot of the American Indian Movement. He was quick with a knife and a dead shot with a rifle.
“I trade with some guys I used to work with at the U,” said Johnny seriously. “I hitch up the wagon to Big Red and Fargo and go up every Saturday to their Farmer's Market with venison and elk, or some days just with rabbits from the snares to trade. They are real hungry for meat and will trade a lot of other food for it. I’ve been getting dried peas, lentils, beans, wheat, and corn. The flour for the fry bread you're eating came from there.”
“Will they tell you where she is?” asked Little Bear.
“If they know,” said Johnny. “They are pretty isolated and real talkative if I have some news, and I can always spin them a tale.”
“When can we go?” asked Little Bear impatiently.
“I normally head up the night before and stay in the Motor Inn there,” said Johnny. “It's still open after a fashion as the owner has a real taste for game. I can stay there pretty much anytime I want. If we get you up there Friday night, you can poke around all you like. Then you can help me unload and hang around while I trade. It will be a useful cover for having you up here and it doesn't usually take too long. We will be back on the road by ten and you can be on your way, to wherever that is, the next day.”