by Justin Bell
“They have family in Mexico,” he said. “When these things… when they started happening, they went there. I don’t think we’ll ever see them again.”
“What’s your name, sir?” Marilyn asked, pulling herself away from the door and crossing the lawn, holding out a pleading hand. “Please, tell us your name.”
The man’s eyes were nervous ticks, jerking back and forth between the group of six of them. Four soldiers and two civilians. She could see the hesitation in his eyes.
“We’re not here to hurt anyone or arrest anyone or anything,” Drake said softly, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. “Our aircraft crashed. Out in the desert,” she pointed west in the general direction of the rocky mesa and the Osprey crash beyond. “There are injured. We haven’t been able to communicate to anyone. We need some help.” Part of her felt bad lying to the man. Where that wreckage had fallen, the slamming cloud of smoke and desert debris. There was no way the people at the Osprey had survived that. Whether any of them admitted it to themselves or not, the people at the Osprey were all dead. They just had to consider themselves lucky that they weren’t.
He still didn’t look especially trusting, though he visibly relaxed somewhat. The cast iron frying pan that he held in his left hand dropped slightly to rest at his hip.
“I don’t know how much help I can be,” he said in a quiet, accented voice. “My name is Ricardo, I live here fifteen years. I like the quiet, don’t like any attention. That is why I move here, that is why most of us move here.”
Drake and Percy exchanged knowing glances. They were close to the border and immediately she suspected the town mostly to be made up of illegal immigrants, men and women who wanted to make a new home for themselves in America, not realizing what that truly meant.
“Okay,” Drake replied. “Please understand, we are here as friends. There is something big happening, I think you know that.”
“The sky is on fire,” Ricardo replied softly, leaning out to glance up above.
“It sure seems that way,” Percy interjected.
“You are soldiers?” Ricardo asked. He was still framing his entire doorway and showed no signs of being willing to let them enter.
“We are Marines,” Drake replied. “Well, four of us are. These other two are normal people just like you. Just trying to help find their family. And help rescue other injured people.”
Ricardo looked at each of them individually, his gaze still ridged with the sharp edge of mistrust.
“My daughter,” Marilyn said suddenly, speaking through a choked sob. “My other son. They’re lost in the mesa.” She pointed toward the steep, solid growth of rock that seemed to encompass the entire western horizon. “There was an earthquake and they fell. We couldn’t find them.”
Ricardo leaned out further and looked to the sky. “It will be dark soon,” he said softly. “You must not look for them in the dark. You’ll never find them.”
Marilyn sobbed again, even harder. “I can’t leave them out there,” she said desperately. “They won’t survive a night out in the desert. My daughter is just a child! A young child.”
The outburst did little to convince Ricardo, it actually made him seem a bit more reluctant to help and he took a small, cautious step back into his house.
“She’s desperate,” Scott said quietly, putting an arm around his mother’s shaking shoulders. “I’m sorry. We’re all a little desperate.”
“Desperate or no,” Ricardo replied. “The sun is setting. You all look very, very tired. You need to rest, then in the morning, we will help you.”
“Rest?” Marilyn barked. “Sleep? When my children are out there?”
Drake stepped in between Marilyn and Ricardo, smiling softly.
“Thank you, Ricardo,” she said. “Your advice is sound. We will try and get some rest, but we may look for your help tomorrow, is that something we can count on?”
Ricardo nodded. “Of course.” His eyes darted left, looking toward a few of the other scattered homes around. “We do not like outsiders,” he said quietly. “Many of us do not trust. But if it comes to finding children, we will be there to help.”
“Thank you,” Drake replied.
“That house you were knocking at,” Ricardo continued. “As I said, they left for Mexico and probably will not be back. You should go in. They gave me a spare key to watch over it while they were gone.” He disappeared back into his house for a moment, shutting the door behind him.
“This is insane,” Marilyn said. “Leaving Vera out there in the desert all night?”
“Mom,” Scott said quietly. “Think about it, okay? She’s got Keeler with her. They’re together. He’ll take good care of her. We have a few flashlights, but who knows about the batteries. There are miles and miles of desert out there, we won’t be doing them any good if we wander around aimlessly in the dark. More likely we’ll end up falling ourselves and we’ll all be stuck out there.”
Marilyn’s face fell. But it wasn’t a face of devastation or hopelessness. It was a face of realization. Scott’s words were getting to her. They were making sense. Her motherly voice was thrashing about, but her well-reasoned, Marine voice was starting to take hold. To settle the other. Once a Marine, always a Marine, and her training was coming back to her when she needed it the most. As much as Marilyn wanted to give in to the frantic, crazed motherly instinct and go charging back out into the sand to find her children, deep down she knew that wasn’t the right move and would only result in further injury.
It also would almost certainly eliminate any possibility of finding her children.
“You’re right,” she breathed. “Dammit, you’re right. Both of you are right.” She slumped, leaning back against the house, pressing her chin to her chest and pinching her eyes tightly closed.
The door opened again and Ricardo appeared. He pressed a key into Drake’s palm and smiled at her.
“Be safe, please,” he whispered. “Do what you need to do, find the children. I will help.”
Drake started to turn away.
“Before you go,” Ricardo said. “If you need help, come to me. Don’t…” he hesitated for a moment, his eyes once again shifting to look at the houses around him. “Don’t approach the others. There are many here who do not wish to be found, and if they saw soldiers knocking on their doors… they would not respond as I have.”
Drake looked around at the houses, most of them with curtains closed and darkened rooms inside. There were no signs of life or movement, no signs that anyone lived there at all besides the various vehicles parked in driveways. Ricardo didn’t have a car, at least not by the looks of things, but others did.
“What about their vehicles?” she asked. “Can we take some of those cars? It might make searching easier.”
“We’re not going to be searching the mesa in a pickup truck,” Percy said. “They might help us get out there, but we’d be saving maybe thirty minutes at the most.”
Ricardo shook his head. “Those houses,” he said, “the ones with the trucks. Do not approach them. They will not trust you. They will consider you an enemy. If you try to borrow their trucks it will not end well for anyone, including the children.”
Drake narrowed her eyes at him, but relented and nodded softly.
“Whatever you say, Ricardo.”
“Go now,” he said insistently. “Go get some sleep. Come see me in the morning and we will go out together. We will find your children.”
Scott put his arm back around Marilyn and helped her from the wall of the house, guiding her across the yard and back toward the first structure they’d visited. Drake made her way past them and used the key to unlock the door. She pushed it open, but then turned and looked at Marilyn, their eyes locking.
“Get some sleep, okay? We will find your children. I promise you that. None of us are leaving this town until they are safe and sound.”
Marilyn held her gaze and nodded, hearing the words, but not fully believing them, the translation
lost somewhere inside the fog of her current state of mind. She let Scott lead her into the house, down a hall and toward a bedroom, where in spite of her relentless concern for her children’s safety she laid down and was swiftly consumed by a deep, dark, aggressive sleep.
***
Now.
Tuesday, June 30th.
In the desert just outside Tehran.
Sergeant Marcus Gregory took a long, careful walk around the three LAV-25s, a clipboard in his hand, marking down every piece of their inspection. He was being meticulous, probably overly so, but knowing they would likely never be returning to the K-North Forward Operating Base, he wanted to be sure they were in as good a position as possible.
They’d spent the previous afternoon and evening after the pitched battle with the mysterious Iranian insurgents packing for their departure, getting ready to leave for Tehran. Sleep had been short and fitful, but they’d gotten at least a few hours of rest, which was better than nothing. The sun was barely in the air now and Marcus was the only one awake, but he wanted to be sure they were ready to go as early as possible.
In truth, Marcus had been awake for several hours, preparing and cleaning his weapon, going through the base making sure all ammunition was accounted for, every single spare MRE, anything that they might need to survive. While most of his crew was considering the trip to Tehran as a straight up surveillance mission, he was expecting something different. He was expecting it to be the first step on their migration back to the United States, a trek that could very well take an exceptionally long time. They were going to be prepared for the long haul, whether they liked it or not.
Once the sun was elevated enough in the sky to start drowning out the streaks and tails of orbital debris and high enough to allow him some visibility, he’d made his way to the three Light Armored Vehicles so he could start checking off the checkboxes.
When the rest of the team awoke, he’d have them start siphoning fuel from any other possible source in the camp, and to drain it from the generators, because wherever they might end up in the next little while, he wanted them all to be well-prepared.
The LAV’s weren’t huge, but between three of them, he expected to have room for all his Marines, the three intel geeks and a wealth of supplies.
“Up bright and early, I see,” Agent Ashland said, striding toward Marcus, his narrow frame barely illuminated by the passive light.
“I could say the same,” Marcus replied, not looking at him, simply continuing to do his walk around of the third LAV. He bent at the knees and looked closely at the wheel well of the third vehicle, inspecting some marks there before making some scribble on the clipboard.
“So, what are you expecting to find in Tehran? If I may speak frankly, what’s the point?”
Marcus looked up at him from his crouching position and rested the clipboard against the rear tire.
“Point is,” he replied, “giving my troops something to do. We need to get back home, that is our primary responsibility in my mind, but I also believe we need to set specific objectives and work to achieve them. Keep our minds occupied and busy. If we sit around in boredom and stew on what’s going on in the world right now, we risk losing our perspective.”
Ashland nodded as Marcus stood up.
“Are you speaking from your troops’ perspective or your own, Sergeant?”
Marcus met his gaze. “Are they so different?”
“Not necessarily. I’m sure everyone here has people at home they’re concerned about, but I just need to make sure you truly have the best interest of the United States Marines under your care at heart.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “What concern is that of yours? Last I knew you and your intel boys were just here to make sure we didn’t dig too deep on Launch Pad 4. Since when do you give a rat’s ass about my troops?”
“Since the end of life as we know it smashes about in orbit, and we’ll need all the healthy soldiers we can get?”
Marcus looked at him for a moment, then nodded softly.
“At least you’re honest.”
“I am,” Ashland replied. “That’s a rare trait in my line of work.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Marcus moved back toward the LAV, followed closely by Agent Ashland, and he finished his walk around, taking a few extra moments to check the armor and the Bushmaster automatic weapons mounted to the top. Before he’d even gotten this far he’d rummaged through every single supply shed in the F.O.B. and scavenged all possible ammunition for both the M24s and their own M4s. LAV-2 was fully loaded with ammunition stockpile along with some of the rations and other supplies. They were fully decked out and ready to move.
“This looks like trouble,” a voice said and Marcus looked over. Private Bragg approached from the direction of the barracks, flanked by Deming and Francesco. All three of them were dressed in full combat gear, including their camouflage uniform, tactical vests, and contoured battle helmets. Two of the Marines had weapons with them, and Marcus looked closely as they drew nearer. The silhouettes of the weapons did not look like the typical M4A1 that they had been carrying for so many years.
“What do you have there?” he asked, nodding toward the weapons.
Bragg smirked, lifting up a long, sleek rifle with an extended barrel. Marcus recognized the overall shape of it as the familiar silhouette of a Barrett sniper rifle.
“One of the benefits of being in charge of the armory,” Private Bragg said. “Check this baby out. Barrett M110, their brand new fifty-cal. Effective range of 1800 meters, thermal imaging scope. Can shoot clear through a stone wall.”
“And what exactly makes you qualified to shoot that beast?” Marcus asked.
Bragg drew back. “I’m offended, Sarge. You didn’t read my jacket? Top of my class in marksmanship. Already have me a full recommendation to Marine Sniper School. Sorry, boss man, but you’re not going to have me to order around for much longer.”
Marcus nodded, not bothering to point out that with the way the world was going, this time next month there may not even be a Marine Sniper School anymore.
“What else did you find?” he asked, nodding toward a few other weapons that had been pulled and scattered about.
Bragg smirked, lifting up a smaller form factor weapon, but more squat and slender than the Barrett. “One of the other benefits of being the weaponsmith. I get to try out some of the fun new toys.” He held up his weapon, and upon getting a clearer look, Marcus saw that it was a Textron LSAT plastic polymer carbine rifle. The model had been stuck in development hell for more years than Marcus could count, but apparently at least a few models had made it out into the world.
“Reckard gave you that, didn’t he?” asked Ashland.
Bragg nodded. “Special 6.5-millimeter composite rounds,” he said. “Three hundred times more energy dispersal means better penetration. This thing is the bomb, yo.”
“Looks sharp,” Marcus said. “How many 6.5-millimeter rounds you got?”
Bragg’s eyes shifted.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. We’ve got crates of 5.56, that thing looks nice and fancy, but once you’re out of ammo, you’ll come crawling back to the M4A1. Maybe if you’re real nice we’ll keep one for you.”
“Funny guy,” Bragg snorted.
“Mine’s just a 416,” Deming said, showing off her Heckler and Koch automatic. “Still uses 5.56 just like the others.”
“Here in the Marines we call it the M27, Private,” Marcus said. “But it’s a nice piece. Gas piston runs a lot cleaner than the M4, but the bullet’s the same size. Nice enough gun, though with the same caliber ammo, not really worth replacing the M4 with.” Sergeant Gregory walked around to the front of the LAV and slapped the clipboard down on the armored, metal hood. “Passed inspection with flying colors. These beauties are ready for travel.”
Marcus looked back toward Bragg and Deming and saw that the entire area behind them was scattered with other members of the Highlanders, everyone walking steadil
y toward him.
“We ready for this, boys and girls?” Marcus said in a low shout. “We’re going to head northwest to Tehran, take a peek, then move on west toward home. Is that okay with everyone?”
A raucous cheer greeted him, arms and fists pumping into the air. Marcus nodded.
“Then let’s load up and get ready!”
All throughout the K-North Forward Operating Base, the Marines scattered, loading up the remnants of their supplies on the LAV’s and preparing to move north toward the shattered remains of Iran’s capital city.
***
Now.
Monday, June 29th.
The deserts of Arizona.
Keeler still couldn’t believe it, but somehow they’d slept. Both of them. Even as he stretched and opened his eyes, glaring up at the pre-dawn skies, Vera remained asleep, curled tight to him, laying on her side, a jacket wrapped over the both of them. He’d been fortunate to have his backpack on when he’d toppled over the edge, and had been able to get some spare clothes from it as the temperatures started to plunge downward during the night. It had gotten very cold in the arid desert of Arizona, but they’d managed to stay covered and at least relatively warm. Vera had cried herself to sleep the night before, and even thinking about it now put a tough stone of guilt and sadness deep within Keeler’s stomach, like an impossible-to-digest food that sat there churning in stomach acid.
He wasn’t sure what time it was when she finally nodded off, but the sun had been down for hours and he had been dozing off and on for several minutes before she was finally silent.
Peeling himself away from her, he let her stay where she was lying, curled up in a ball, wrapped in the thick jacket, on the sandy floor of the Arizona desert. Leaning back against the sparse trunk of a narrow tree, he looked up the rocky trail, a thin and uneven trail that walked along the edge of the rock face. He couldn’t believe that they’d made it all the way down the previous evening, managing to get to the desert floor before it had settled to dusk. They were still surrounded by thrusts of jagged rock rising up out of the ground, mixed with a scattering of trees, and even thicker-looking clutches of forest to the north, a dramatic confluence of wilderness that left him feeling somewhat lost and uncertain of which way was up and which way was down. Same for east or west. He knew the town had been east of their current position, and east was where they should continue, but the relative sameness of the surrounding nature didn’t help him at all in discerning the appropriate direction.