by S. M. Nolan
“Sounds familiar,” Russell muttered.
“It is. Miramoto's association made me a target.”
Maggie scoffed sarcastically, “They need to find an in-house artist.”
She-La agreed with an eye, “I offered, but I never expected Ryusaki to go to someone, with all due respect, random.”
“Was it this bad?” Russell asked, curious how she'd established herself otherwise.
She-La shook her head, “No. Miramoto was being watched by Omega, and they did attack me, but I joined and hid away to train. After a few months, I was able to defend myself and eventually halve their numbers. After that, the attacks stopped. I presume that they thought of me as an annoyance—a part of the problem they sought to eradicate from the top down.”
“So what's different here then? Ryusaki?” Maggie asked, sliding a box of ammunition over.
“In part. Ryusaki was an unknown until recently. It was my father's association that brought him into the fold, but his recent ascension to Keeper made Omega aware of his importance. Though Omega does not know of their knowledge of the language, we're certain they know the Keepers' significance. Moreover, Ryusaki and Miramoto's information might have prevented the Protectorate's systematic elimination. That is an unknown now. Since they believe you to hold some part of that information, they will stop at nothing to keep you from handing it off to the greater Order.”
“So, the Keepers' meeting was ultimately the catalyst to an escalation,” Russell deduced.
She-La affirmed with a nod, “Yes. Apart from eliminating the Protectorate, Omega's doubled their search efforts for the weapon. If they believed the Keepers' information had any relation to their search, they would have wanted anyone who had intercepted the message eliminated.”
Maggie found strangeness in speaking her next words, “So, Omega believes we're carrying information to save the Order and hide the weapon?”
“Possibly. They may attempt to capture you, but their prime directive will be to keep Ryusaki's information out of greater Protectorate hands.” She placed a final round into a magazine, stacked it with others in front of her. “Finish these and I will bring the other vehicle around. It will be faster than walking.”
Maggie threw Russell a casual glance, then eyed the plane, “You think we'll make it through this?”
Russell's voice was distant but hopeful, “We have to believe we will, or we won't. It's dependent on each situation and our actions therein.”
“You're really inspiring confidence, you know that?” Maggie said with a sarcastic eye-roll.
Russell shot her a look, finished loading the magazine in his hands, and slid it into his vest with the others. Maggie mirrored the move. Russell helped test the Lash-radio at her throat. The microphone was constricting, the bullet-sized speaker lodged in her ear didn't help matters.
Russell double-checked the strap on Maggie's neck as she spoke stiffly against his hands, “This is really uncomfortable.”
“You'll forget it's there soon enough,” He assured her. He loosened the strap, “Better?”
She swallowed hard against it, “Not really, but I'll deal.
A distant engine rumbled over. Russell shouldered his duffel bag. Maggie watched him pass; he vaguely resembled the strike-force in the alley. She wondered if she gave the same appearance of a modern warrior, clad in black with a rifle and ready for a fight.
She muttered under her breath,“This is mental.”
She shouldered her pack. The headlights from She-La's Humvee lit dirt as it rolled forward. The vehicle was a clone of the one beside it minus the canvas top. It had been stripped to its skeletal roll-bars.
Maggie hesitated to climb in. An explosion rocked the night. The ground shook. A shock-wave rolled outward. Dirt pelted Maggie's face. She squinted toward the shooting range, ears ringing; flames licked through its missing roof. A rising plume of smoke billowed upward.
Russell shouldered his rifle, “Son of a bitch!”
She-La pulled Maggie in by her vest. Russell crouched and took aim in the Humvee's rear. The vehicle lurched forward, tore past the shacks, whipped around their far-side. They galloped for the awaiting plane. A dust-cloud formed in their wake, obscuring all but the red-orange glow of fire. The Humvee weaved and slalomed to dodge rocks, gained air over dips in terrain.
“Omega?” Russell shouted over the gurgling engine.
She-La focused ahead, “Just hope they haven't gotten to the transport!”
Secondary explosions erupted amid the blaze. Fountains of sparks and flames arced outward from the main stem of fire into a hellish fern.
“They hit the ammo cache!” Russell shouted.
The fire spewed heated ammunition that barked and whizzed outward as super-hot projectiles.
She-La jerked the wheel to avoid a boulder. Russell tumbled to one side. “They're destroying our stores, eliminating our resources.”
He grappled a roll-bar, “Two birds with one stone—it and us.”
Maggie glanced in a side-mirror. Another large explosion leveled the shack. Distant gunfire accompanied it. The C-130 drew nearer, loomed with prop-engines idling in dusty gusts.
Maggie righted herself, shouted, “What d'we do?”
“You are going to get the hell out of here,” She-La commanded.
“What about you?”
“You have to survive. Destroy the weapon.”
“Bullshit, we had a deal,” she yelled. “You help me, we help you.”
She-La skidded to a sideways stop near the transport's rear. “I can leave when you're on that plane!”
She shoved Maggie sideways and out of the truck. The trio scrambled for cover on its passenger side. She-La pulled a large, chrome revolver, from beneath her coat.
She touched her ear, “Flight; we have resistance on the field.”
“Copy that. Load the package. Flight is a go,” a pilot replied.
“You heard him,” she bellowed. “Get on the goddamn plane!”
Sporadic weapons-fire grew louder. Russell chanced a look over a fender, then sprinted for the plane's lowered cargo-door. He took cover behind an out-cropping of the fuselage and urged Maggie over with a hand. She hesitated. Bursts crackled nearby. She gave a concerned looked to She-La.
“Go!” She yelled over the Quartermaster's screams.
“Maggie, now!”
“Be careful,” Maggie pled.
She-La shoved her sideways. Maggie sprinted toward Russell. A rifle cracked. Her legs pumped. Dirt and debris pelted her from all angles. She scaled the ramp, threw herself inside. Russell shielded her from view as the door groaned to close.
She-La's revolver hammered at a figure across the strip. The last view Maggie had was of She-La reloading in a crouch beside the Humvee.
“Flight, package is aboard,” She-La shouted in their ears.
“Copy that.”
The engines revved. The plane rolled forward with the ramp partially open. The bird jogged to a run. Gunfire shifted toward them. Metal ammunition sparked off the closing ramp, forced Russell and Maggie deeper inside the plane's massive belly.
Light clinks of metal-on-metal sounded but failed to penetrate the fuselage. Russell pulled Maggie further in as the door latched with a hydraulic hiss.
The sensation of flight overtook them and the pilot radioed in, “Everyone alright back there?”
Russell panted, heart pounding, “Yeah. We're fine.”
“Good to hear. We'll be at a steady cruising altitude soon. Then it's about twenty-hours before our first stop. Sleep as much as you can, it'll be a while before we land.”
“Copy that,” Russell said.
“Bunks are up stairs,” the pilot said. “Enjoy your stay.”
Maggie looked to Russell with lingering fear and incredible exhaustion. With food and sleep now the only thing on his mind, he walked the length of the massive cargo bay to a set of stairs. Maggie slogged after him, up to a small area beneath the cockpit with two sets of bunk-beds on ei
ther wall.
She slid into a bottom bunk on the room's right side, Russell across from her. The incessant droning of the engines beyond the wall became a dull, hypnotizing roar of white-noise. Russell removed his earpiece, unzipped his duffel bag.
“Forty hours from here to there.”
“How do you figure?” She asked, hoping to defuse her fears.
“We'll stop to refuel mid-way.”
He tossed her a bag marked “M.R.E.” She caught it, removed her ear-piece, and loosened the Lash at her throat. She closed her eyes for a moment.
She reopened her eyes to direct a question at him, “Russell?”
“Yeah?”
“Think she'll be okay?”
He tore open an airy bag of rations, “She will.”
She sighed, “I guess that'll have to do.”
“Eat.”
Once more she closed her eyes, listened to the engines outside. She opened them only to pull open a bag of dried, stale food, and eat her fill while her mind slid inexorably toward sleep. Across from her, Russell watched, his mind playing-out battle scenarios, until at last, sleep overtook them both.
13.
Protectorate Airspace
October 2nd
06:00 AM
Guam approach.
Russell was jostled awake from a dreamless slumber by a bout of turbulence. He sat up with a start and his surroundings returned. With an exhale of tension over the droning prop-engines, he edged to the side of the bed, shoved his earpiece in, and re-secured the Lash at his throat.
“Sit-Rep.”
“Closing in on refit and refuel sir,” one of the crew said.
“Where at?” Russell yawned.
“Just outside Guam.”
“Maggie?” He asked, noting her absence.
“I'm up here. You've gotta' see this Russell, it's beautiful.”
Russell followed the short staircase to the cockpit, emerged inside it. Maggie stood behind the two pilots at their large instrument panels. Beside them, the nav-officer charted across a map before a panel of switches and monitors.
Maggie motioned out the windscreen at Russell. A rising sun reflected off sapphire waters while Pacific white-caps curled around a massive island. Fishing boats of all sizes and colors dotted its surface.
The island rose and fell in a mix of verdant hills and pasteurized civilization, splitting two ports across a large bay far ahead. A thin stream surrounded the coasts, blended teal with gray, Naval Destroyers standing sentinel around an Aircraft Carrier.
The Pilot pointed to a break of grays ahead of the coast, “That's Apra Harbor. The port's beside it. The carriers stay anchored to allow the freighters through.”
A voice emitted from the instrument panel, “Unidentified C-130 out of Nevada, not sure how you did it, but Admiral Aarons has cleared you for landing. Refuel is a go.”
“Thank you, Control,” the co-pilot responded. “Tell Aarons drinks are on me.”
“Understood Flight. Control out.”
The co-pilot looked to them, “Aarons is an old friend. He'll be on top of things once we land. If you need anything, don't hesitate.”
“Real food,” Maggie said.
The pilot chuckled, “As soon as we land, Ma'am.”
“Thank you.” She turned away as the plane broke into a wide bank. Russell followed her out. She was suddenly enthusiastic, “I never thought I'd get to see Guam. This is wild!”
Russell watched her skeptically, “Are you alright?”
“Hungry, but yeah. Why?”
He stopped her at the bottom of the stairs, “You seem… happy.”
Her brow furrowed, “I dunno', maybe. I'm hungry, and a little tired, but so long as we aren't attacked at breakfast, maybe we'll get to enjoy Guam for a while.”
He considered the proposition of being forced onto a tropical-island before responding, “How can you be tired?”
“I didn't sleep the whole flight.” She moved to a bed, sat, and motioned Russell to her side.
He explained through his confusion, “It's military training; you sleep when you can for as long as you can. You never know when you're going to get it again.”
Maggie thought it over, “I don't know if I can do that, but you were out cold.”
“Force of habit,” he shrugged.
She gave a sore stretch, “These beds are uncomfortable as hell.”
He laid back, “Military grade stuff's only good when it's weapons or munitions.”
Maggie looked down at him, suddenly thoughtful, “Speaking of which, why'd they attack the airstrip? Doesn't it seem like bad strategy? If they were there and we didn't know it, all they managed to do was get us out in time.”
“If their overall goal's to eliminate the Protectorate, removing the airfield as an asset would be first priority.”
“But if they wanted us dead, why wouldn't they kill us first?” Maggie asked. “They blew up a building and alerted the whole strip, knowing we could easily escape. Why not just blow up the plane?”
“The plane was in open land. Not an easy target given the risks.”
“Seems counter-intuitive to me.”
Russell thought it over, felt the plane begin its descent, “It doesn't matter. We got out alive and we're headed for Nepal. Whatever their next move, we'll deal with it when it comes.”
When the plane landed, the pilot, co-pilot, and nav-officer led them from the cargo bay, introduced themselves as Brown, Matthews, and Davis respectively.
They stepped out into a full-blown morning. Distant waves crashed against a coast obscured beyond the island's rise. The tarmac stretched out along rows of large hangars and various roads. Hot, island sun kissed Maggie's face, welcomed after Oakton's cold.
A muscular, dark-skinned man in a Naval-officer's dress blues approached. His angry look made the group tense up. Maggie gripped her rifle tighter. The man stormed past an awaiting SUV, charged Matthews. His arms wrapped locked around Matthews in fierce bear-hug. He broke into groveling laughter and Matthews strained out a groan.
“Che'lu Lahi! How you doin'?”
He struggled to breathe, “Be better if you put me down, man.”
“Ah, yes.” He set Matthews back on the ground, stepped back to dust and straighten Matthews' flight-suit sarcastically. “Who're your friends, Don?”
He introduced them one at a time, the man ecstatic to receive them; his tone and hand-shake were overtly enthusiastic given his formal position. After Matthews had finished, he replied with open arms and a bow, “Buen, atungo-mu, to Guam. I am Admiral Inapo Aarons, commander of the U.S. Naval base Apra Harbor.”
“Means hello,” Matthews joked, hands on his hips.
Aarons removed his dress-coat to a Hawaiian shirt, “More or less.”
Russell cast him a strange glance, “Little under dressed for an Admiral, aren't you?”
He laughed with a toothy grin, “Aye, maybe—but who's going to question me?”
Russell cast his confused look to Maggie. She shrugged with a smile; so far she liked him, especially considering he hadn't tried to kill her yet. At this point, it was enough.
Aarons led them from the plane, “Maila magi guini.”
Matthews turned to his crew, “The orders for the Humvee, take them to the depot.”
“Yes, hobensitu, listen to the tatotao,” Aarons chided.
Brown and Davis exchanged a mutual confusion and headed back into the plane. Aarons marched them across the tarmac, through a wind blowing cool, salted, sea air.
“Ah, so Lahi, what can I do for you?”
“Fuel and a Humvee, if you can manage,” Matthews said simply.
“Done,” he nodded with an arm on Matthews' shoulder. “And your friends?”
“Food. We've got another twenty hours before the L-Z, and mil-rations suck.”
Aarons nodded in thought, “Nepal or Bombay?”
“Nepal.”
“Hunggan, I see.” He glanced back at the others. “Atungo-mu?”
“Yeah, they're friends.”
“Well then,” he began, distracted for a moment. “We received word of a sat-launch.”
“Today?” Maggie and Russell watched them intently. “Where?”
“PRC.”
“The Chinese?” He asked, altogether concerned and confused.
“Uh-huh.”
Russell was visibly puzzled, “What's going on?”
Matthews looked at him, “The PRC launched a satellite this morning, but as far as we know there's no Omega influence there.”
“As far as we knew,” Aarons corrected.
Matthews' tone relayed the implication's gravity, “It's not a coincidence.”
“What does it mean if they are involved?” Maggie asked.
“Other than the obvious political implications? They know our general heading.” Maggie and Russell failed to see the connection. “Seeing the C-130 probably gave them an idea of our flight time. Omega has access to U.S. and Canadian sat-networks but it's limited. They'd have lost us when the orbital systems shifted. Instead, one of their contacts launched a new system. Now, they can watch us full-time.”
Russell recalled his thoughts on the plane's traceable size, “A sat launch would've been planned a while ago. How can you be sure Omega's involved?”
Aarons nodded at Russell's words, “Aye, but they've probably been sitting on the satellite. Who knows what other shit they've got in reserve. They'll calculate your last known position, trajectory, and estimated fuel.”
“So, what? We're stuck here?” Maggie asked.
“No,” Matthews said. “We refuel and take off A-SAP.”
“And breakfast?” Maggie asked, her hunger chewing her insides.
Aarons smiled, “Will be served momentarily.”
They followed him to the awaiting SUV. The climate-controlled oasis carried them to a massive warehouse. A small lobby area inside met a long hallway with a set of double doors to the left. Construction sounds rattled and clanged beyond the opposite walls.