Apocalypse Austin

by David VanDyke

  Bunny sobbed once, wiping away tears. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  Reaper stomped on her grief. “All right. Strip his body and sanitize it. Bunny, trank all the INS people. Hulk and Tarzan, cover her in case any of them get froggy. We’re leaving in five minutes. Move.”

  ***

  Dawn was breaking above the desert hills as Reaper lay on the crest of one of them, scanning the terrain ahead. Behind her, in a steep arroyo, the team waited.

  They’d run out of road several miles ago, and she’d made the decision to ditch the van and proceed on foot toward the border rather than backtrack. She’d also ordered them to dump the Air Force uniforms rather than get caught wearing them. By now, the military would have worked out how they infiltrated Holloman, and issued alerts to all the government agencies looking for them.

  Of course, a bunch of heavily armed civilians might be almost as noticeable, but that couldn’t be helped, unless they were to dump their weapons. She thought about doing so, but decided against it for now.

  The next question was whether to travel in the heat of the day, or wait until nightfall. Each had its advantages, but eventually she decided to wait. They’d be far harder to spot at night, and it would be much cooler.

  Sliding down to the bottom of the dry, sandy stream bed, she told her team to break out their camouflage ponchos and set up shade to wait out the day.

  Around three in the afternoon, the noise of helicopters roused Reaper from a doze. Moving carefully to the lip of the arroyo, she watched as a dozen birds spread out to the south and vanished over the horizon. She waited for half an hour, looking through her binoculars for any indication of what the aircraft might be doing, but saw nothing. Eventually, she went back to her shade.

  “I counted twelve Black Hawks,” she said to Hawkeye. The others were near enough to hear her easily.

  “Lots of activity along the border. They’re stirred up. Going to be tricky to cross,” he replied.

  “Maybe we should have tried for Texas.”

  “No way. The whole area’s militarized. We’d have been caught right away.”

  “If we had water, I’d say hole up for a week, let them get tired of looking.”

  “But we don’t.” Hawkeye shook his half-filled canteen. “We go tonight or we have to find more.”

  “I know. I’m trying to decide if we should sanitize. Ditch the weapons, go as civilians trying to flee to Mexico. If they identify us as the ones who blew that bunker, we’ll be lucky to be merely executed as saboteurs.”

  Hawkeye’s eyes lost their focus as he thought. “I see what you mean. If we get picked up as fleeing Edens, they’ll probably just put us in a camp. With our skill sets, we should be able to break out and try again.”

  “Exactly.”

  “On the other hand, if we keep everything, we might be able to fight through.”

  Reaper shook her head. “Not on foot, in this terrain, with helicopters looking for us.”

  Hawkeye shrugged. “Your call, boss.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  An hour later Reaper said, “Okay, we’re sanitizing. Ditch everything incriminating, especially any notes, maps or papers. Keep your fake identities and go over them again. Think like Edens fleeing from oppression. Me, Hawkeye and Bunny will keep our pistols with standard ammo, not SAM rounds. Civilians wouldn’t have those.”

  The team meticulously divested itself of everything that might mark them as anything other than refugees. Reaper had Hawkeye go over everyone’s gear, and then she did it herself while others searched hers for any items out of place. All of the excess equipment went into a hole in the sand. She especially hated to lose the night vision devices, but there was nothing to be done.

  At sundown they moved out, hurrying southward, keeping the North Star at their backs. The twenty or so miles to the border had seemed close when they’d looked at the distance on the map they’d buried, but without a clear path, they found themselves ascending and descending an endless series of ridges, washes, arroyos and canyons formed by intermittent flash flooding.

  When they finally reached Highway 9, the last paved road that ran east and west just inside the U.S. border, they were exhausted. The last of their water had been consumed, and most of the food. Extraction had always been the weakest part of the plan; there were simply too many variables to juggle. Reaper counted herself lucky to have made it this far without losing more than one soul.

  “All right,” she said as her team gathered in a depression just short of the highway. “The border’s one or two miles beyond the road. The good news is, there’s a lot of ground for the Border Patrol to cover. The bad news is, there’s a lot of Border Patrol, and they’re used to looking for people trying to cross at night. They have NVGs, infrared, and dogs.”

  “So what’s our protocol if we get spotted?” Hulk asked.

  “First, run. If we can get across, one of Spooky’s cartel contacts will be waiting for us in Los Trios. Second, if there’s only a couple of agents in our way, try to take them down quietly – and then run some more. Third, if you get captured, do everything you can to stick together with other team members. I’ve been in a detention camp; the last thing we want is to be alone. Got it?”

  Quiet acknowledgements reassured her. They were good people, steady and solid.

  “Okay, I don’t see any vehicles. Move out.”

  Reaper led the way, pistol in hand. It was a compromise between having no firearm at all and having one that would mark her as military. It could also be easily discarded.

  The team crossed the road. The terrain on the other side flattened out, and within five minutes they could see an artificial structure looming ahead of them: the border fence. Twelve feet high, it should have been an effective barrier if not for neglect and the constant damage to it by drug smugglers and human traffickers.

  Reaper had ensured they kept a set of bolt cutters, something well-prepared refugees might possess. They might be useful in cutting through.

  Hope welled up in her as they approached, only to be dashed as lights suddenly blazed along the barrier. It must have been some kind of automatic system activated by motion detectors, because no one was in sight.

  “Run!” she yelled, and they raced across the two hundred meters to the fence. When she reached it first by virtue of her exceptional athleticism, she almost despaired. Instead of one fence, the border now sported two. The new, second one turned out to consist of a line of T-walls, concrete barriers twelve feet high, emplaced in interlocking sections and topped by razor wire. She’d seen plenty of them in Iraq, used to shield buildings from snipers and suicide bombers.

  There was simply no way to cross.

  “Back!” she yelled, and the team ran to retrace its steps, but it was too late. Border patrol vehicles raced in from the sides, and a helicopter rose from less than a mile away to hover above them, pinning them in its sun-bright spotlight.

  “That’s it! We’re done!” she yelled. Tossing her pistol to the ground, she kicked dirt over it before the agents closed in. Hawkeye and Bunny did the same. Then they sat on the sand, arms laced behind their heads, and waited to be taken.

  The only thing that surprised her about the process was the sting of a dart that struck her in the back. She felt a brief burning sensation. Trank, she thought as the darkness took her.

  Chapter 20

  Gideon Stanovsky gazed nervously out over the waves from his position at the rail of the oceangoing barge. His wife often chided him for being too much of a worrywart, but he thought that was because she didn’t worry nearly enough. She believed everything would always work out.

  He looked over at her now. She sat on the deck of the barge, near a cut-down trough being used as a baby pool, laughing and talking with other mothers. The makeshift pool was filled to capacity with small children, including their two girls.

  He glanced over at the Texas soldier in uniform leaning against the railing, a Stinger missile launcher beside him. This man s
eemed relaxed, but Gideon could tell different; he was as tightly wound as Gideon was.

  And why not? One of his fellow soldiers had already shot down a U.S. Coast Guard helicopter that tried to land on a companion barge’s deck as they passed near the coast of Central America.

  Gideon knew about persecution. His grandfather had survived the secret anti-Semitism of the Russian gulags before escaping to the West, reminding him of how terrible life could become. The man had spoken little about the Siberian work until he was in a Boston cancer hospice, filled with painkillers and near death.

  Gideon sat day after day listening to the man, fascinated with the stories, writing down as much as he could. He’d used all of his vacation days, but he didn’t care. For some reason, at the end of his grandfather’s life, this narrative became the most precious thing in the world to him.

  His grandfather had told him of the disbelief of it all. How even when the Soviet government started rounding them up, no one could believe their neighbors and friends could stand by and watch this done to them. After all, the Soviet Union had outlawed anti-Semitism as a Nazi doctrine. All races and creeds were supposed to be equal under the Hammer and Sickle.

  Yet Stalin had rounded up hundreds of thousands of Jews, the intelligentsia especially, confiscating their property and gutting their subculture of its leaders.

  Gideon did not intend to be sent away to be brutalized, as his grandfather had been. He and his family had fled Massachusetts for Texas early after becoming Edens. They’d seen the writing on the wall.

  Texas had been much better, even in the refugee camps, but the discrimination and shame was still there. When the blockade was shattered by the surprising Texas naval victory, the Battle of the Gulf of Mexico, as they were calling it now, the Free Communities had offered to take in any Edens who wanted to immigrate.

  Gideon hadn’t hesitated to volunteer.

  His wife had taken some convincing; despite the hardships of the refugee camp, she’d settled in, making the tiny living-trailer a comfortable home for the four of them. “It’s like camping,” she’d said to him and the girls. “You’ll find a job, and we’ll get an apartment. Eventually we’ll have our own house again.”

  That seemed optimistic to him. Other than joining the Texas military, he didn’t see a lot of jobs available for a jeweler without any stock. Nobody but the wealthy owned fine mechanical watches anymore either, so that skill seemed useless. No, the best thing he could do was insist his family become refugees again in hopes of settling far, far away from the Unionists.

  Gideon resolved to rebuild, like a million Jews before him.

  He’d been told their first stop would be the bustling port of Baranquilla, Colombia, and who knew where they would end up after that? Word was that most of them were being shipped to the hot interior of Australia, or to the frigid south island of New Zealand. Gideon didn’t care. His people had flourished in every country and in every culture known to man. The most important thing was that they would be allowed to live at all. It was all in the hands of Adonai, of course, but the LORD was a shepherd, and made his people to be alert and wary. The wolf was always out there, even if you could not see it.

  He felt a subtle change in the barge’s movement. A few others noticed it as well, but most kept on about their business.

  Not all Adonai’s flock are as wary as they should be, Gideon thought.

  He looked toward the soldier, seeing him toss a half-finished cigarette into the ocean and pick up his missile before hurriedly walking toward the front of the ship. Gideon followed, interested.

  Despite the fact that they were off the coast of Nicaragua, Gideon wasn’t surprised to see a large U.S. Coast Guard ship approaching.

  You didn’t really think they would let you go? the voice of Gideon’s grandfather asked in his head. They don’t need you, but it is in their nature to destroy the Chosen People. The Evil One whispers in their ears and they too readily listen, believing they think only their own thoughts.

  Gideon turned toward the soldier to gauge his reaction, but the man had disappeared. Perhaps he’d gone belowdecks, or run to the bridge. Perhaps he’d jumped overboard, for all Gideon knew, but now that mental security blanket was gone.

  They would abandon you in a second to save their own skin, his grandfather insisted. Put no faith in the forces of any government. Only THE LORD is with you. All other security is false.

  Gideon could see their barge slow behind the three in front of them. The two others sternward frantically reversed engines to prevent a collision. A voice boomed out over a loudspeaker from the American ship. “This is the U.S. Coast Guard. Remain calm. You’re in no danger. Prepare to be boarded.”

  We just shot down one of their helicopters last night, thought Gideon. I don’t think they’re likely to be forgiving.

  “Assemble on the decks of your ships,” the voice boomed out again. “Prepare to show your passports for inspection. Any resistance or failure to follow instructions will be interpreted as a violation of international maritime law. Any violence may be met with deadly force.”

  Gideon watched a small craft leave the Coast Guard ship and speed toward the first barge. Armed sailors in dull blue uniforms boarded.

  After nearly half an hour, the sailors returned to their boat and proceeded to the next barge. Meanwhile, the first barge began reversing course, heading back north.

  The soldier walked back on deck, paler than before, his Stinger nowhere in sight.

  “What’s happening?” asked Gideon.

  The man was much younger than Gideon originally realized. Only a boy of eighteen or nineteen, really. “They’ve seized the first ship and ordered it to Guantanamo.”

  “What’s going to happen then?”

  The soldier looked at him with a quivering lip. “You know what’s going to happen then.” He turned and walked away as if he had nowhere to go.

  Gideon did know what was going to happen. Hadn’t it happened before?

  He sank to his knees and pressed his forehead against the deck of the ship to pray. “Adonai, Elohim, LORD of my fathers. Please do not abandon your people now. Hear our cries and come to our aid. Let not the evildoers prevail. Hear me oh LORD. Save my family and everyone on this vessel.” Gideon stayed that way for several minutes, realizing his tears had run out on the deck.

  He was about to climb to his feet when a loud explosion rocked the air.

  ***

  “Distance to target,” asked Captain Erid Jakil aboard the submarine Jackal, formerly the South African Navy’s fast attack boat Winnie Mandela.

  Now the boat was manned by crew that was a part of no nation’s military force. Some might call them mercenaries, but that was not entirely accurate. The vessel's designation was a play on its captain’s name, but it also could have described its role, and its tactics.

  “Twelve hundred meters,” replied the weapons officer.

  “Firing plot,” Jakil commanded. “Bearing: two seven three. Flood tubes two and four and open outer doors.”

  It was a dangerous game they played. If they were captured, South Africa would not claim them. The nation would say, with great apology, that their submarine had been stolen by defecting naval personnel. There was nothing to be done; the boat was abroad, far from home waters.

  The captain and crew were on their own, yet they believed in what they were doing. Every man and woman on board was a volunteer, and they understood they were warriors in a new battle: a battle to prevent genocide.

  In that cause, they would strike from the depths, killing a few to prevent the death of many. At least, that’s what they had told themselves.

  This would be their first engagement.

  “Tubes two and four ready. Bearing loaded: two seven three, range twelve hundred meters.”

  Jakil was an Eden, just like every member of his crew. South Africa was negotiating to become a full-fledged Free Communities member, and he was proud of that fact. Yet, global politics was complex, full of p
itfalls. Daniel Markis reportedly wanted desperately to help evacuate these Edens from Texas, but he also wanted to avoid a full-scale war with the United States.

  Thus, the “rogue” submarine.

  Looking through his periscope, Jakil could just see another boarding party climbing into a small craft next to the Coast Guard ship. He hesitated to speak the order he knew he must give. These men would detain thousands of innocent Edens and imprison them, maybe even kill them. He knew what he needed to do.

  Yet, these were sailors, like him, following orders, trying to do their jobs. They had family and children waiting for them back home. They didn’t deserve to die.

  Neither do these Edens, he thought as he witnessed the first barge beginning to turn around and head north.

  “What’s the bottom depth?” Jakil said.

  The navigator looked at him quizzically before referring to a chart on his table. “Between twenty-five and twenty-eight meters, sir. Rather shallow this close to shore.”

  Jakil examined the cutter again. Some sailors would certainly get trapped belowdecks, but it wouldn’t sink to the bottom. They would have time to evacuate. Most would live.

  It reminded him of a sailor’s joke he’d heard from an American. Q: Why do you have to be at least six feet tall to join the Coast Guard? A: So you can walk to shore if the boat sinks.

  “Fire one,” he ordered tonelessly.

  The boat shuddered slightly as the torpedo left the submarine.

  “Target acquired,” said the weapons officer. “Running straight and true.”

  Rather than elating Jakil, the crump as the weapon shattered the cutter’s keel sickened him. He fought off remorse by reminding himself the barges full of Edens would make it to safety because of his crew’s actions.

  “Surface. We’ll rescue as many as we can.”