New Year Island

by Paul Draker

  NEW YEAR

  ISLAND

  PAUL DRAKER

  Mayhem Press LLC

  PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA

  AÑO NUEVO ISLAND MAP

  PART I

  QUALIFYING ROUNDS

  CHAPTER 1

  Camilla

  October 20, 1989

  Cypress Street Viaduct, Oakland, California

  “Gordon said he saw her this time—through the gap under the crossbeam, but she crawled away again.”

  “Gordon’s wrong. It’s been three days since the last live rescue.” Dan Prescott looked down the black row of rubber body bags, lined up like dominos on the buckled asphalt. “Our window’s closed—they’re all dead.”

  “But the crew from Engine Company Eight heard her, too—yesterday, under the H span. She was singing.”

  Dan shook his head. His gaze followed the collapsed section of elevated freeway stretching a mile into the distance. The two-story spans were sandwiched together, the upper crushing the lower, resting against the crumbled concrete pylons.

  “How could anyone still be alive in there?” he asked.

  “I’m telling you, they saw her.” Manuel Garcia’s voice cracked. “They heard her.”

  “I’ve been doing this for fifteen years, and I know,” Dan said. “At this point, it’s strictly recovery. I’m sorry, Manny.”

  Black smoke billowed out of the small gaps between the roadway spans. Some of the crushed cars trapped inside were still smoldering four days after the earthquake. Two blocks away, a hook-and-ladder truck angled close to the rubble. A fireman clung to the ladder, spraying a stream of water into the narrow crack between the pancaked roadways.

  Manuel stared at the constricted, smoking gap, his face drawn with anguish.

  “They said she looked like a little angel, lost in the darkness,” he said. “She was singing to herself.”

  Dan turned to the younger paramedic and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “I went home for a couple hours last night,” he said. “Looked in on my daughters, asleep in their beds… and I cried. Something like this, you can’t really get your head around it. You don’t know what to believe in anymore. So our minds invent phantoms, showing us what we want to see. Or hear.”

  He looked at his junior partner and saw himself fifteen years ago. He spoke as gently as he could.

  “Manny, there is no girl.”

  • • •

  A column of names ran down one side of the clipboard Dan held, question marks after them. On the other side were detailed descriptions: gender, approximate age, hair, eyes, clothing, but no names. He stared at the list, pen in hand, but a deep voice snapped him out of his bleary-eyed focus.

  “We’re cutting into H section.”

  Dan squeezed the bridge of his nose and blinked at Ballard, the fire lieutenant.

  “Waste of effort,” he said.

  Ballard’s expression hardened. “You should go home, Dan.”

  Dan could see exhaustion etched into Ballard’s face, but his jaw was set. The rest of the crew from Engine Company 8 came around the side of the ambulance, carrying a Hurst tool—the Jaws of Life, used to pry open mangled vehicles. Two of them lugged a large rotary concrete saw, trailing its thick orange power cable. All wore bulky knee and elbow pads.

  Manny Garcia stood next to Ballard. He wouldn’t meet Dan’s eyes.

  Ballard pointed at Gordon, his station chief.

  “Gordy says she’s in there, Dan. We’re going in to get her.”

  • • •

  Three hours later, Dan had check marks next to most of the fifty-eight names on his clipboard. He counted down the list of missing with his pen, pausing at the name that caught his eye again: Camilla Becker, seven years old.

  Their imaginary girl?

  He circled the name with his pen and continued down the list. A yell interrupted him. He looked up.

  Shouts came from the hole in the concrete where Ballard’s crew had gone in. The yellow of a fireman’s protective greatcoat glimmered in the floodlights. They were coming out.

  “Prescott, Garcia, over here.” Ballard’s deep voice echoed across the cracked concrete. “Now.”

  Dan’s eyes widened. He turned to Manny, who was already hauling a stretcher from the back of the truck. He grabbed the other end, and they ran toward the gap.

  • • •

  “She’s alive.”

  Dan had Dispatch on the radio. It sounded strange, hearing himself say the words, but there was no joy in them.

  “Her legs—both of them,” he said. “She needs to go into surgery as soon as possible.”

  He listened to the dispatcher while he watched the girl. She sat upright atop a stretcher near the fire truck fifty feet away. A blanket covered her from the waist down. He was sure her legs would heal, given time. The problem was the damage that didn’t show.

  He held the radio handset loosely. The dispatcher asked a question.

  “Seven years old, I think,” Dan said. “I’m not sure. She can’t speak.”

  The girl’s face was expressionless under a layer of soot. She looked like a life-size doll. Manny stood next to her, speaking to her, stroking her hair gently. Her eyes were dark glass marbles. Unresponsive. Empty.

  Whoever the girl had been was gone forever, lost in the darkness behind those eyes. She was catatonic.

  “No media,” Dan said. “It’s not a feel-good story.”

  The girl—Camilla?—sat like a mannequin, unaware of her surroundings. She was nearly the same age as his oldest daughter. He looked away, down at the cracks in the concrete, and tried to focus on what Dispatch was saying.

  “Channel Four?” He swore under his breath. “Who called them?”

  He could hear sirens in the distance now, getting louder.

  “Look, Ballard’s crew went back in to try and locate the vehicle,” he said. “To establish her identity… to find the rest of her family.”

  He looked up at the hole the fire crew had cut in the concrete. They were coming out now, climbing down from between the spans. He watched them as he listened to Dispatch coordinating with the hospital. There was something odd about the way the crew was moving. Slowly. Like they all had been hurt somehow, where it didn’t show.

  Ballard walked toward him. Dan couldn’t read his expression, but his cheeks and forehead looked pale under the dust and soot.

  “Media?” Ballard asked. His voice was hesitant, not the usual commanding baritone.

  Dan nodded. “Television.”

  “Shit.”

  Ballard turned away, walking faster now, and waved his crew into a huddle. Dan couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they all turned to stare at the girl. Gordon and Ballard appeared to be arguing. Gordon shook his head and left the huddle to join Manny next to the girl. Dan watched Gordon lean toward Manny, speaking with quiet urgency. What was he telling him?

  Ballard and the rest of the crew broke the huddle, moving with resolve. They picked up the concrete saw and the Hurst tool again.

  Ballard raced over to the fire truck and opened a side compartment. He reached inside and pulled out a chainsaw.

  Dan covered the radio handset with his hand. “What the hell…?”

  “Not now.” Sorrow and shock warred on Ballard’s face. “Oh Christ, Dan, she…” He swallowed and wiped a hand across his cheeks. “Don’t say a word to the media when they get here.”

  “But—”

  “Not a goddamn word.” Ballard pointed toward the girl on the stretcher. “For her sake.”

  He hustled away, carrying the chainsaw, and scooped up two empty body bags with his free hand. Then he hesitated, dropped them, and grabbed four smaller bags instead. Ballard followed his crew, disappearing into the hole in t
he concrete.

  Confused, Dan looked at Gordon and Manny, standing over the girl’s stretcher. Manny was still smoothing the girl’s hair with one hand. As Gordon spoke to him, his hand slowed. Then it stopped moving, frozen in mid-air.

  Manny slowly pulled his hand back, tucked it under his arm, and took a step away from the stretcher. Then he turned and stumbled after Gordon, who stalked away with angry strides.

  Baffled by Manny’s withdrawal, Dan walked toward the girl. She looked so lost, so alone now. He put his hands in his pockets and stared at her blank, doll-like face.

  Are you still trapped under there, Camilla Becker?

  Inside her mind, was she still crawling through wreckage and flames, surrounded by the dead and the dying? He couldn’t imagine what she’d been through these last four days, or what kind of damage it had done to her. Had she given up, or was she still trying to find her way out of the darkness?

  Her parents had been in the car with her, according to his clipboard. An only child. No next of kin listed. He didn’t know what Ballard and the others had seen when they found her family, but in fifteen years he had never seen those guys shaken like that.

  Dan tilted his head, watching her. Maybe it’s a mercy if you never come back.

  Then he frowned. Singing to herself yesterday, Manny said…

  The girl was alive for a reason. She was a fighter.

  Dan’s throat tightened. I gave up on you. I shouldn’t have. Manny’s right about me—I’ve been doing this so long, I’d lost hope. But you…

  His vision blurred.

  You’ve given me a reason to believe again, Camilla. I do think you’re going to find your way out of the darkness.

  Something flickered in her expression.

  Dan leaned closer, but it was only the red flashes from the arriving emergency vehicles reflected in her unseeing eyes. A long and difficult road lay ahead for her.

  Despite himself, he reached out and touched her forearm in awe.

  CHAPTER 2

  JT

  September 11, 2007

  FOB Salerno, Northeastern Afghanistan

  “The Valley of Death.”

  Sanchez dropped his cigarette and ground it into the tarmac. “I should have guessed. The goddamn Korengal Valley.”

  JT ignored him and squinted against the dust. He liked the kid, but Sanchez hadn’t been with 1st Force Recon in Iraq. He hadn’t been there for Fallujah.

  Without turning around, JT raised his voice to be heard over the rotors. “DiMarco, what are we looking for out there?”

  “Hell if I know. One-three brass wouldn’t say. Routine patrol, they told me.”

  Predawn glow outlined the row of black AH-64 Apache helicopters that stretched into the distance. The 173rd would ferry them in-country in one of the larger Chinooks, though. Its dark bulk loomed behind him, dotted with pinpoints of red—running lights.

  JT would have preferred the Apache’s firepower. Bringing in 1st Force Recon Marines for this operation meant something. This wasn’t a routine patrol.

  The cool, dry desert air chilled his skin, but in a few hours it would be scorching. Six years today, he thought. Six years since the planes hit the towers and the world changed forever. He had joined the Corps that same afternoon, walking away from a full engineering scholarship at U.C. Berkeley, and had never regretted his decision.

  Their pilot walked across the tarmac toward them. Alone. He climbed into the cockpit.

  “Saddle up, gents.”

  “Where’s your buddy?” JT asked.

  “He’s in no shape to fly, Corporal. Birthday last night. I don’t want him puking in my cockpit.”

  JT stared at him hard. “Regs say we don’t fly without a copilot. You better get on that radio.”

  “I’ve got him logged as flight crew anyway, so we’re good.” The pilot looked flustered. JT had that effect on most people. “Cut him some slack. Brass doesn’t need to know he isn’t aboard, or he’s looking at a disciplinary.”

  DiMarco’s voice cut the air. “Let it go, Corporal. Let it go.”

  • • •

  “They stand there looking at you…” Sanchez leaned forward, a hand on his helmet. The beat of the rotors made him hard to hear. “You’re there helping ‘em, right? Fixing the village’s water, treating the sick, talking to the elders, and whatnot. Winning hearts and minds—all that shit. And you know. You just know.”

  JT watched the dark tree line of the Abas Ghar ridge slide by outside in the dim gray half-light. The kid was right, but so what? This was the new face of war. Get used to it.

  Across from him, Collins nodded. “You see it in their eyes,” he said. “The ones hanging in back of the crowd. But you can’t do a goddamn thing about it. And then you’re heading back to base, you’re thinking, sniper? IED? Or full-on ambush this time?”

  The deck of the copter bounced under their feet.

  “Stop your bitching,” JT said. “This is a holiday, after Iraq.”

  DiMarco laughed. “At least these Taliban run away when you return fire. And they fall down when you hit ‘em.”

  JT leaned forward to slap Sanchez on the knee. “Fucking Fallujah was different. It was like Dawn of the Dead. Muj there were true believers, not like these sorry-asses. You’d blow their arms and legs off, they’d keep coming at you.”

  “An IED took out a U.S. medical convoy,” DiMarco said. “The mujahideen got a huge stockpile of drugs off it. That’s what we were up against.”

  JT nodded. “Muj were jacked on amphetamines, shooting up epinephrine—pure medical adrenaline. Word came down: head shots only. Waste of time shooting them anywhere else. I saw a guy get hosed by a SAW, musta’ been hit fifteen, twenty times. Didn’t even slow him down. I shot him five or six times myself. Nothing. Fucker was just laughing at us, shooting back. DiMarco had to take him out with an RPG.”

  DiMarco leaned forward and bumped his own fist against JT’s dark knuckles. “Listen to the man. You guys are on vacation here. Relax.”

  “What the hell?” The surprise in the pilot’s voice was alarming.

  JT looked down at the valley floor. Shadows moved amid the cedar trees. Men and vehicles. A lot of them.

  “That’s not right,” he said.

  He reached over to smack DiMarco’s shoulder, but DiMarco had already seen them. He stared back at JT in confusion.

  “Those aren’t—”

  The Chinook lurched, and something wet sprayed the side of JT’s face. He whipped his head around to see the pilot slump sideways. A red fan spread across the ceiling above him.

  “Shit,” Collins yelled. “We’re hit!”

  JT’s eyes narrowed. He grabbed DiMarco’s tac vest, pulled him close, and leaned into his face.

  “Let it go, DiMarco? Let it go?” He spoke very slowly, holding DiMarco’s eyes with his own. “No copilot now, motherfucker.”

  “The IFF. Get the IFF on.” DiMarco’s voice was hoarse. “That’s an order, Corporal.”

  JT shoved him away and unbuckled. The Chinook tilted sideways and nosed down, bouncing and shaking like a truck riding on cross ties. Bracing himself against the ceiling, the muscles of his arms bulging, he worked his way toward the cockpit.

  Sparks drizzled from the overhead switch panel. Black smoke filled the cabin. JT could hear Sanchez behind him, speaking rapid Spanish. Praying. The air stank of sweat and fear.

  The pilot was dead, no question about that. JT shoved him aside, and yanked back on the cyclic. The Chinook failed to respond. Through the canopy, the ridgeline slipped by beneath them, dropping away into the next valley. Enemy territory. He grabbed the radio handset.

  “Mayday. Mayday.”

  The radio was dead.

  JT scanned the control board, locating the IFF beacon that DiMarco wanted. It would signal their location to friendlies. He flipped the switch, and a red light came on, blinking with a steady rhythm. Outside the glass canopy, the tree-dotted far wall of the valley filled his view, looming larger with
every passing second.

  Mounting a rescue operation would take hours, he knew—the enemy owned this valley. But first, he had to survive the crash, and they were coming down hard. He levered himself up and scrambled out of the cockpit, dragging the dead pilot behind him. Pulling himself up into his seat one-handed, he raced to buckle his harness and tighten his straps. He looked at Sanchez. The kid was mumbling, staring at the floor, face contorted with terror.

  JT felt trickles of sweat rolling down his shaved head. He pulled the pilot up off the deck and draped the limp body over Sanchez’s lap and his own.

  Sanchez jerked his head up and stared at JT rabbit eyed. He tried to shove the dead pilot off his knees.

  JT pushed down with an elbow, holding the pilot in place.

  “Crash padding,” he said.

  He stretched his other arm past DiMarco, pulled the canvas first aid kit free, and hugged it to his chest, forcing it under his harness straps.

  The Chinook tilted the other way, the whine of the rotors rising in pitch. The airframe shuddered, and JT heard the shriek of metal rending above them.

  A rotor blade tore through the cabin, six feet from him, and DiMarco grunted. DiMarco’s lower body and legs darkened, drenched with blood. He stared at JT in shock.

  JT looked at the injury and shook his head at DiMarco. Game over.

  Disintegrating blades from the aft rotor slashed through the cabin walls, coming closer and closer. The Chinook’s tail slewed as the heavy craft autorotated on its remaining forward rotor. Liquid misted JT’s face, stinging his eyes. The smell of aviation fuel filled the air.

  Collins coughed. “We’re fucked.”

  The Chinook plunged beneath their feet.

  Sanchez’s breath was coming in gasps. JT reached out and grabbed Sanchez’s hand. Sanchez looked at him, and the fear in his eyes gave way to gratitude. He matched JT’s solid grip with his own panicky one.

  With his other hand, JT reached for Collins and held him steady.

  Wind whipped through the cabin, blowing from the widening gap next to DiMarco.

  JT’s gaze was drawn to the light of the IFF beacon. It blinked steadily, the red rhythm slow, almost lazy, as the wall of the valley grew larger and larger in the windscreen behind it. The beacon looked like a red eye winking at him.