Divided We Fall (Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Book 6)

by W. J. Lundy

  The airman looked at Cloud suspiciously. “Sir, we will not be able to receive inbound calls,” he said.

  “Cut the line,” Cloud answered. He turned his head and looked to the back of the fuselage. The recovery team was stretched out on pallets and bundles of luggage in the open cargo hold, weapons still strapped to their chests. The Hairatan soldiers and civilians were all disarmed as they boarded the aircraft, their rifles lay neatly piled and strapped to a pallet under the watchful eye of the recovery team. Many of the black-clad contractors were asleep; others sat looking ahead or playing cards. Cloud slowly got to his feet and walked among the packed rows of seats. At the second to last row, he found the man he was looking for.

  Cloud reached out and squeezed Sergeant Turner’s shoulder. Startled awake, Turner jumped then looked up at Cloud and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, sir; first time I’ve been able to sleep without having to watch my back. Guess I went under a bit harder than I’m used to.”

  “No worries, Sergeant,” Cloud said, smiling. He pointed to a soldier sitting next to Turner. “Sorry, I haven’t been able to meet the rest of your unit yet.”

  Turner looked in the seat to his right, and then threw an elbow to wake the man next to him. “Oh, this guy? Yeah, my right hand man; meet Corporal Mendez.”

  Mendez let out a loud snort, and then looked over at Cloud; he prepared to stand before realizing he was strapped to the seat. Cloud put out a hand to relax Mendez. “At ease, Corporal. Would you two mind following me to the front? We have things to discuss with the flight crew,” Cloud said.

  The sergeant nodded. “Is this about the court-martial? I meant what I said back there, Colonel; there will be no disagreement from me. We can leave the corporal and the other men out of this.”

  Cloud frowned, knowing that Turner and these men really had no idea the condition the world was in. To them, they were just returning home. He’d intentionally misled them and kept them in the dark. “Yes, Sergeant, that’s what we need to discuss. Could you both follow me, please?” Cloud stepped back away from the seats and allowed both men to join him in the aisle. He casually glanced over his shoulder and saw that one of the recovery men was watching him. Cloud wondered if the recovery team had already been made aware of the change in plans. With the sat line cut, he doubted the recovery men had their own means of communications.

  Cloud moved forward with the two soldiers trailing close behind him. The airman stepped out, blocking the colonel’s path. “Sir, can I assist you with something?”

  Cloud put his hand on the airman’s elbow. “Nothing to worry about. I just need to have a word with the pilots; we have a change of plans.”

  The airman looked back at the two gruff, bearded soldiers then back at Cloud. Cloud’s face was stone. He gave the airman a glare that showed he was losing patience. The airman nodded apologetically and turned to lead the men into a narrow space near the lavatory. He waited for them to catch up before he put his hands on the ladder leading up to the flight deck. Cloud moved in directly behind the airman; he allowed him to take a few steps before turning back to look Turner in the face.

  “Stick with me if you want to see your people home safely.” Cloud turned back to the front, not waiting for a response. He’d already made his decision and would do what he had to. He moved quickly up the stairs. A small platform at the top led directly into the cockpit. Cloud could see both pilots seated at the controls; two more empty seats were located just behind the pilots’ seats. To his left was another member of the flight crew. Leaning over an instrument panel, the man seemed uninterested in the visitors to the flight deck. The pilots themselves either didn’t notice the men entering behind them or were unconcerned. The airman stood at the top with his back turned to the pilots while he waited for Cloud and the rest to climb to the top. They were soon all crammed into the tight space.

  With the airman’s back to the pilot and the crewmember to the left, Cloud used the awkward confines to draw his own pistol. He forced the barrel tightly into the airman’s abdomen. When the man looked down and saw the blue-steeled barrel, his body went rigid as his eyes went wide. Cloud let his free hand slide up to the airman’s left armpit and withdrew an M9 Berretta from the man’s shoulder holster. Cloud kept the barrel tight in the man’s gut as he took the M9 and handed it over to a shocked Turner.

  After Cloud handed off the weapon to the sergeant, he pointed at the crewmember to the left. Turner looked confused. Cloud used the hand that previously held the M9 and grabbed Turner by the shirt collar, pulling him in. “Disarm that man.”

  Putting full faith in Turner, he spun the airman around and directed him forward into the cockpit. He stood behind him for a moment before looking back. He could see that Mendez was now also armed and holding the third crewmember at gunpoint. Turner moved up beside him. “Now what? You going to tell me what’s going on?” Turner asked.

  The airman suddenly bolted ahead, trying to give a warning to the pilots. Cloud was ready for the motion and swung hard at the base of the man’s neck with the heel of the pistol. The airman went slack as both pilots turned to look back, and Cloud let the body collapse between the seats. He leveled the pistol at the back of the pilot’s head while Turner stepped forward and did the same to the co-pilot. Cloud reached for a hook, pulled on a set of headphones, and watched as Turner mirrored his actions.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the pilot yelled.

  Cloud looked at both men then sat in the seat behind the pilot, keeping his weapon pointed at the pilot’s head. “What’s our current destination?” Cloud asked.

  “Sir, you know damn well our orders have been changed; you know where we’re headed,” the pilot answered.

  Turner’s attention moved to the pilot, suddenly gaining clarity over Cloud’s bold move. “Changed how?” he asked.

  “Go ahead… tell him,” Cloud said. “Tell him the plan to dump these people on a remote airstrip—leave them all for dead.”

  The pilot laughed. “I’m just a fucking bus driver; what do you want from me?”

  “That’s exactly what you are, and this is my bus now,” Cloud said. He reached over the pilot’s shoulder and dropped a small scrap of paper. “Here—this is your new destination.”

  The pilot held up the paper and shook his head. “Savannah? Colonel, you’ve lost your damn mind; he’s going to kill you for this.”

  Chapter 13

  The clacking of a swift wind rattling and scraping leafless limbs together woke Joe-Mac from his deep sleep. Joe didn’t mind being alone out on mountain roads. He slept the best when he was locked away tight in the cab of the truck. Dan’s farm was nice, but there were always people coming and going, slamming doors, and stomping feet. His tiny space in the barn was far from luxurious, but in the truck, he had privacy, and the Detroit steel made him feel safe.

  He pulled the edge of heavy quilt down from over his head and looked through the trees into the early dawn sky. Joe pushed the button on his dashboard radio; the blue light of the digital display came to life showing the time as 05:57. The folks at the cabin would be waking up about now and switching out the guards; it would be a bad time to drive up on the gates. Another thirty minutes would be perfect.

  He stretched and yawned before reaching across and popping open the glove box; a small thermos and wire contraption dropped onto the floor. Joe gathered up the items and searched the surroundings through the cab windows. It was rare for the infected to move this high up the mountain, but he still needed to be careful. When Joe was sure he was alone, he pulled the door release and let it swing open.

  The truck sat in an elevated position just above the mountain road, hidden against an old deteriorating blockhouse. The building was rotting and collapsing in on itself. Empty for decades and concealed by tall trees with drooping limbs, the spot had been long forgotten except by the occasional hiker and weary tourist who may have stopped for a break. As Joe exited the truck, he could see signs of travelers—discarded aluminum cans, the occa
sional candy bar wrapper, and cigarette butts littered the area. Joe lifted a tin can and examined it in his hands before tossing it to the side.

  “Ancient travelers once roamed this place,” he said in his best History Channel voice. “Now nature reclaims this bit of the mountain.” Joe laughed, entertaining himself as he walked around to the rear of his truck. He passed to the back and opened a steel box that ran the length of the truck bed then opened a small compartment door and retrieved a canvas bag.

  He stopped and checked his surroundings again, listening to the sounds of swishing grass in an adjacent field. Other than the trees gently swaying in the breeze, there were no signs of movement—animal, human, or something worse. He took a deep breath and moved away from the truck to an old wooden picnic table. He spotted a small brass plate embedded on the tabletop, the surface engraved with a man’s name and the dates he lived. Joe used his thumb to wipe dirt off the plate and read the inscription. “Well, Mr. Tucker, would you mind if I sat at your table?” Joe said. “Guess I’ll be taking your silence as a no, and I thank you much, sir.”

  Joe dropped the canvas bag on the tabletop and set up the wire contraption. He dug through the bag, removed a small metallic disc, and set it at the base of the wire frame. He unzipped a small front pouch and retrieved a zip lock bag; inside were small white fuel cubes. Carefully, he placed one on the center of the disc and held a lighter against it until it produced a dull orange flame. Joe separated his thermos and placed the top cup over the fire, then unscrewed the cap and filled the cup with water. From the bag, he pulled two paper pouches of instant coffee that he slowly mixed into the water.

  Joe chuckled to himself. “Boy, Dan would be pissed if he saw me using up my fuel tabs on coffee,” he said. Joe laughed again while speaking in a poor impersonation of Dan’s voice. “They for emergencies only, Joe; why you gonna go wasting ’em?”

  Every vehicle at the camp was equipped with one of the canvas bags; inside every bag were fuel tabs, instant coffee, soup packets, oatmeal, matches, and bottles of water. Some had a bit more, others a bit less. Joe’s bag used to be stocked with chocolate bars and even cans of beef stew. Joe managed to eat up most of his emergency bag on an outing a week ago, and Dan refused to replenish it. Joe scowled, thinking about the lecture he’d received. He started on again mocking Dan. “Joe you need to learn—”

  A human voice carried in on the wind silenced him.

  Joe-Mac held his breath and knelt down. He lifted a handful of sand and quickly used it to smother out the fuel cube. He heard the voices again, clearer now; although he could not make out the words, he could identify them as two males. The voices seemed to be coming from down below on the road. When he heard the sounds of boots kicking at gravel, Joe dropped to his belly and crawled ahead to the edge of the narrow drive he’d driven up the night before. Through the trees, he could see the dirt road down the steep hill. A man wearing woodland camouflage cargo pants stepped into view just before another man walked up next to him.

  The men laughed, one lit a cigarette and used it to light another that he passed off to his partner. They were both armed with military-type rifles; Joe watched as one slung the rifle over his shoulder and turned to look behind him. The low rumble of an engine crept up the mountain road. The men stood together and waited as a black cargo van pulled up beside them. They moved around to the far side of the van to the driver’s window. Now out of sight, Joe used the moment to move closer down the hill. He gripped a tree trunk tightly and carefully slid over the edge and into the thicker cover. He cautiously lowered himself down the steep ledge and dropped next to a thick tree.

  Joe turned and pressed his back against the trunk so that was looking back up in the direction of the blockhouse then turned his head so that his left ear was in the direction of the van. He heard the engine suddenly die and a sliding door open, followed by the clunk of passenger doors as more men entered the road.

  “Chuck, why the hell we stopping here?” a man said.

  A raspy voice answered, “Gimme a minute, I gotta take a piss.”

  The man closed in on Joe’s position in the trees. Joe heard him step onto the roadside just yards below him on the steep hill. Joe’s heart raced, he could feel it beating in his chest so loud that he was sure the man below could hear it. The man groaned as he relieved himself into the dry leaves. He cleared his throat loudly and spit before turning and moving back to the van.

  “They ain’t shit up here. How much farther we gonna go up this road, Chuck?” a man asked.

  Chuck let out a raspy sigh. “Now last night, you all excited talking ’bout how you saw headlights moving up this road. Now you say they ain’t nothing up here. So which is it?”

  “Come on now, I’m just saying maybe what I saw is gone. Maybe it passed on through is all,” the man answered.

  “Or just maybe it’s up around the bend with a ranch full of fresh women and hot food; now would you want to pass up on an opportunity like that?” Chuck said.

  “No, no, Chuck, I guess I wouldn’t,” the man said, laughing before his voice once again turned serious. “It’s just we been walking all night, Chuck. I think we need a break, or maybe I can ride in the van with you for a spell.”

  Chuck let out a raspy and deep breathy laugh. “Oh, you want a ride in the van, huh? Cause you special, you want a break, do yah?” Joe heard the sound of a pistol’s slide retract as a round was being chambered.

  “No… Chuck, don’t… I’m okay; I’s just—” A gunshot cracked and echoed over the trees. The sudden sound caused Joe’s foot to flinch. His boot kicked forward and knocked loose bits of earth and gravel that slid down the ledge, picking up other debris with them as they tumbled. The objects crashed into the dry leaves below.

  “What the hell was that?” a man said.

  Chuck let out a long wheezy laugh. “What? You need a break too?”

  “No, dammit; didn’t ya hear that?” the man said, his voice getting closer to Joe as he approached the side of the road. “It sounded like it came from up there.”

  “Huh.” Joe heard Chuck step closer with the other man, Chuck’s heavy breathing leading the way. “What? Way up there?”

  “Yeah, you didn’t hear it? How ’bout ya’ll?” the man said, speaking louder to the group that was still gathered by the van.

  Chuck cleared his throat again and spit more phlegm to the roadside. “My ears is still ringing from this damn gun… when you all gonna find me a quiet one? Know what? Hell with it. I ain’t even in the mood anymore—get in the van, we can move back up here later in the day with the trucks. I’m hungry. Needs to get me some bacon in this belly.”

  “You sure? It sounds like somebody is up there; maybe we should check it out,” the man said.

  Chuck let out an exaggerated exhale, his voice turning to frustration. “They ain’t nothing up there, probably critters is all. Hell, which of us did time in the Corps? You?”

  “No, Chuck; like you told us, you the only one here that’s served.”

  “Good, so that’s one thing we clear on. Come on; let’s get back to the camp.”

  “What about the body?” the man asked.

  “Get his gear, leave the mess.”

  Joe heard the clanking of gear being removed from the downed man. Gravel crunched and doors slammed shut then the van’s engine roared to life, the driver revving it before making a three-point maneuver to turn it back down the mountain trail. Joe-Mac sat silently until the sound of the van completely faded. He listened to the sounds of the woods, and when the birds’ chirping returned, Joe pushed away from the tree and climbed back up the hillside.

  He needed to get out of there and quick. The camp is only two miles up the trail, the guards should have heard the shot; they’d be on alert.

  Joe ran to the table and lifted the cup, gulping down the cold liquid before dumping everything into his canvas bag. He hurried to the truck, dropped the bag into its compartment, and closed the lid. He got into the cab and turned the
key; feeling it start, he put the truck into gear and eased onto the steep drive that joined back to the mountain trail. At the bottom, he stopped and placed the truck into park.

  He reached over, grabbed the homemade mace—now covered with bits of hair and sticky blood—opened the door, and exited the truck. He swept the area quickly then jogged to the abandoned body in the middle of the trail. The man lay face down in a pool of bright crimson blood circling his head. Joe reached over the body and dug through his empty pockets. Whoever they were, they stripped the body clean; there was no clue as to who they were or where they came from.

  Joe sat listening and knew he needed to get back to the cabin in a hurry. Dan was really going to be pissed that he led others up the trail. From what Joe witnessed, there was no doubt that these men were hostile. He needed to get back and warn the camp.

  Joe ran back to the truck and drove farther up the trail, checking the mirrors to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Dan wasn’t going to be happy; Joe broke the rules and entered the trail after dark with his lights on, allowing anyone for miles around to track the moving beacon traveling away from Seneca. It was stupid of him, a dumb mistake, or maybe just dumb luck; hopefully Dan would see it as the latter. Joe slowed the truck and cut the wheel. Pulling to the shoulder, he jumped out and hauled a long cut section of brush away from the road to expose a drive. He drove the truck carefully on the drive and got back out, dragging the brush back over the narrow opening.

  Joe drove up the driveway slowly, cautiously avoiding obstacles and navigating the deep muddy tire tracks in the narrow lane. At the end was a tall chain link fence. Joe exited the truck and stepped up to it, banging at the gate. “Come on, dammit; open up!” Joe said.

  An old man wearing a striped ball cap and denim coveralls appeared from around a plywood and earthen bunker. The blind was set up so that it was concealed from the gate, but allowed whoever was in it to have a wide field of fire. The old man carried a pump shotgun in his right hand and a cob pipe dangled from his lips. “What’s yer hurry, kid? Wuzin’ that you doin’ the shootin’ earlier on?” he asked with a heavy Appalachian accent.