by David Wayne
“Time to pull another of your famous James Bond tricks, or should I say Maximum Max the Mega-Man moves?”
I looked at her flatly. “If you’re done with your Comedy Central routine, perhaps we could get back to the task at hand.” She was looking over my shoulder, eyes the size of half dollars.
“I’ll thank you in advance for raising your arms high in the air, sir,” a male voice said from behind me. “You, too, ma’am.”
I did what I was told. So did she.
“Now turn around, real slow like. I’m a bit jumpy, just to give you fair warning,” the voice advised.
I turned around very slowly. “Take it easy, fella, Sister Susan and I are harmless. Don’t get jumpy.” I hoped the sister reference might calm him some.
“My name is Sergeant Vince Lamar. You can call me Sarge. I’ll be your escort to the brig.” At least he was polite, but going to jail wasn’t in my Day-Timer.
He was a beefy dude, maybe five eight, but thick-chested with humongous body-builder arms. Looked like God forgot to give him a neck though, because he didn’t have one, just a noggin sitting on a pair of shoulders. His hair was cut in a perfect flattop, matching his immaculately pressed uniform and spit-shined black shoes. For a guy living out in the middle of nowhere, in an empty world, he looked damned spiffy.
“Why you taking us to the brig, Sarge?” I asked, acting confused.
“Caught you stealing from the US government, son. That there’s a crime.” He seemed to feel sorry about it.
“Well, Sarge, the problem is, we didn’t steal anything—we were just looking. We would never steal from the US government, sir. That’d be a crime.” I’d purposely spit his lingo back at him.
That gave him pause. “You’re right, you haven’t stolen, but,” he said, shaking his head, “you did break and enter, and that there is a crime against the US government.”
The sister jumped in. “No, Sarge, the gate was left open,” she said, pointing over her shoulder at the entryway. “We thought maybe the US government was welcoming citizens in, maybe to feed them. We’re starved.” Pretty slick, Sister, I said to myself.
He gave us a slow once-over. “You really a sister, Sister?”
“I am, Sarge.”
“Then what does cloistered mean?” he asked, leaning forward, face taut. She answered without hesitation. He nodded and lowered his gun.
“Will you take my confession later, Sister? I mean, I know you’re not a father, but under the circumstances…”
“Sure, Sarge, under the circumstances, I’d be happy to.” She walked over, patting him gently on his oversized bicep. I was all for it. Let’s become friends with Sarge, absolutely.
“Good, let’s go have some breakfast. I make a mean omelet,” he said.
We walked toward a small white building containing large block letters—Mess Hall. Sounded great to this kid. I was over peas for breakfast.
“Eating kinda late, aren’t you, Sarge? I’d figure you for a guy who’s up before sunrise, doing the routine—shit, shower, shave, and out the door by six.”
He stopped, his face becoming dark and serious. “I’ll ask you to kindly watch your mouth in front of the sister.” He gave me a stern look and then moved on. “Normally I would be—but I’ve been watching you play squirrel up in that tree since daybreak. You ain’t no 007, that’s for sure,” he said with a laugh. The sister was nodding in agreement.
When it came to omelets, the Sarge didn’t embellish; he made a mean egg dish. He filled mine with bacon, sausage, ham, and extra cheese. The sister had fresh tomatoes, with big slices of mushrooms and light cheese. We both had what he called flapjacks. We drank cold orange juice and steaming hot coffee with cream. We were in heaven. I was hoping to get some information on what was going on in this crazy world. He had electricity from a mega generator and was sure to have outside communications. The depot was clearly self-contained, and I hoped the sergeant was connected to the greater world. We moved out to the porch with fresh coffee and full stomachs. After we settled in, I decided the direct approach would be best.
“So, what can you tell me about the Event, Sarge?” I asked.
He frowned. “Nothing, son. It’s classified.”
I had about eight different IDs. All government-issued—what covert ops called official fakes. The tell wasn’t in the ID itself, it was contained in the serial number.
Government-issued credentials have an archaic coding system that provides information about the carrier. The higher one lives in the food chain, the more the code reveals. Only a handful of people could decipher the entirety of my serial number. Sarge wouldn’t follow anything other than the most crucial part—I had the third highest security clearance available. For context, a sergeant would sit at around twenty levels lower. I handed him my Homeland Security card and watched his eyeballs widen to the size of the pancakes he’d just served.
“Ma’am, if you’d give us the porch, please?” he said to the sister.
Chapter 35
“I don’t have much to tell, sir,” he said. His tone now indicated deference. Obviously, the balance of power had shifted, tilting my way.
I nodded with a serious look. “Just tell me what we’ve got, soldier,” I said. Over the years, I’d dealt with dozens of military situations as a fake superior. It’s surprisingly easy to pull off. If you’re perceived as the ranking officer, you’re the de facto boss man, no questions asked.
“Before the Event, we had over eighty personnel, both civilian and military, here at the installation. I was on two-week leave, staying in Birmingham. I returned immediately and found only two privates alive. They’d been on R and R as well.” He said this matter-of-factly. When I didn’t respond, he continued.
“We buried the DOAs in a big hole over yonder,” he said, pointing his head toward an area I didn’t bother looking at.
“So, the Event didn’t affect the equipment? It all still works?” I said.
“Not exactly. Anything with a computer board is fried. Backhoes work just fine,” he said, pointing once again toward the mass grave.
“Go on, what are your communication abilities?” I said, frowning. Lower-level military personal respond best to semi-angry gestures. Talking too much might make him suspicious.
“Nothing works except a low-level teletype, used as emergency comms. Right now, we can only receive. The feds have blocked anything above level five from transmitting out.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“We’re a level fifteen,” he offered. “We guard what amounts to an equipment graveyard.”
“Received communications?” I said, keeping it stern and clipped.
He hurried over to a desk and handed me two printouts. I quickly scanned the papers, hungry for information. The first was the written form of the government broadcast we’d picked up on the ham radio. The second was directed to Anniston.
There has been an international INCIDENT causing a catastrophic disaster in the form of an atmospheric EVENT. Level ten and above installations shall follow homeland wartime protocols until further notice. #DRT-403-EWP-XO
“That’s it?” I asked. It didn’t provide anything new of value, except for one thing.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s dated a week after the Event. Nothing since?”
He became sheepish.
I became angry. “Soldier?”
“Our second-in-command showed up a couple days after I arrived. There was another communication I wasn’t privy to.”
“His assessment?” I said.
“Captain Mauk is a she, sir.”
“Her assessment?” I said, patting the side of my leg impatiently. I kept my eyes on the document but was watching him intently with my peripheral vision.
“She didn’t share. Just said conditions were very bad and would get worse.”
“Where is the captain?”
“AWOL, sir,” he said, not hiding his contempt. “That’s probably why the gate was left unlocked.”<
br />
“I see.” I made sure my expression matched his own.
He was looking at me funny, and I didn’t know why. Was he expecting a certain type of question or what? I had no clue, so I reacted militarily—angry and impatient.
“Well, for Christ’s sake, solider, continue on.”
“I sent the privates on a ten-mile perimeter scan. There’s a large commercial farm six miles north-northeast. I thought we might secure it for future use. It’s been overrun with what the civilians are calling Hogwogs.” For some reason, he was standing at fuller attention, but I didn’t know why and didn’t ask. Part of the military commander act was perfecting arrogance, and the expectation of deference.
“And?” was all I could think of to say.
He started shuffling his feet, looking down. “They appeared to have men in a forced labor camp, working the fields. The women…they appeared to be sex slaves,” he said, and then quickly added, “We couldn’t do anything about it. They had at least twenty armed men.” He looked concerned, like he was in trouble.
“Where are these privates? I want a full report of what they saw.”
He shuffled his feet.
“Am I a fucking dentist pulling teeth? Speak.”
“My privates deserted shortly thereafter. I’ve been following level-fifteen protocols on my own.”
“Goddammit. Refresh me on the protocols already, Sarge. Been a while since I’ve slummed down at your level,” I said, pretending like I’d bitten into a lemon and hoping the sour face worked.
“Homeland wartime protocols dictate we dismantle the equipment, sir,” he said, scratching his face. “Removing the easiest parts to render the equipment inoperable—firing pins from weapons, starter relay switches from motor vehicles. I’m putting them in the vault, per article 18.34.5. As you can imagine, sir, it's coming along a bit slow, being by myself and all.” He was staring over my shoulder rather than having direct eye contact. I was in full control.
“What else?” I demanded.
“I performed recon on the farm again yesterday. It’s no longer twenty armed guards. It’s grown substantially. I only performed a cursory review, but it’s at least doubled in the number of ’Wogs and slaves this past week. Also, I’ve been hearing their scouts. I haven’t seen any, but…”
I pulled out my log. “Sketch out the location, and provide the combination code to the vault where you’re storing the equipment parts.”
He squinted. “The combination code?” he asked, and then we locked eyes. Oh, shit, wrong words.
“You know what I mean, soldier. Drop the formalities; I’m exhausted. Haven’t slept in three days,” I growled, handing him the pad. “Also, add on the location of the Hogwog farm and a brief on what you saw there. Make it snappy.”
While he wrote, I reread the printed message. The code at the bottom was very disturbing. When he finished drawing the map and making notes, he handed me the pad without a word. I was trying to decide if I should share with the sergeant what it meant.
“The code at the bottom of your orders, #DRT-403-EWP-XO. Do you understand the XO suffix, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“XO means no help is coming; you are on your own. That’s probably what spooked your captain.”
He tried not to react, but his face said, Oh, shit.
“The acronym has a formal meaning, but in the field we called it the kiss off. Like a letter you sign with xoxo?” He chuckled like most people do, but I’m unsure why. My missions generally carried that code, and I never thought it was the least bit funny.
“How far along are you with the protocols, Sarge?”
“The privates stayed long enough to dismantle all the weaponry. I’ve been working alone on the trucks.”
The next part I made up—but it seemed like the right thing to do. “Since your CO isn’t here, I’ll share a bit more of what the code means. You are to complete the protocols for artillery, and if you’ve received no further orders, you are to follow civilian instructions. In this case, that means head to the Safe Zone in Atlanta.” He let out an immediate deep breath. I pretended not to notice. Then I said what he’d been tap-dancing around. “We both know the Hogwogs are going to descend upon the base, and you can’t defend it alone. So, button it up and head out. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. If words could kiss, he’d just planted a big wet one on me. I tucked the log back into my backpack. When the Hogwogs showed up, all they would find was a bunch of equipment that didn’t work. But I had the whereabouts of the missing parts and the lock code to retrieve them. That might come in handy down the road.
“I require a vehicle for the backwoods. What have you got?” I demanded.
He smiled. “Coming right up, sir. I can also supply you with some useful maps of the surrounding area, and it’s not public knowledge. But do you mind if I talk to the sister first?”
“Not at all,” I said. While the sister took his confession, I’d take myself a little nappy. My belly was so full and fat I felt like a roly-poly. I should have never indulged in that last biscuit, but it was hot and smothered in warm honey.
The XO part of the conversation was true, and I found it exceedingly disturbing. Now I understood why the captain went AWOL. If military installations were told they were on their own, that meant the government wasn’t simply overwhelmed and unable to provide disaster relief. It meant they were locked down somewhere and unable to protect or defend the country as a whole. We were truly on our own. That didn’t bode well for a fortified Safe Zone in Atlanta. I decided not to share that with Susan.
Sister shook me awake an hour later. I’d been in a deep sleep and didn’t want to get up. Through my grogginess, I noticed they were holding stacks of boxes. The sarge was smiling, looking like the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders. The sister was happy as well.
“These are Meals Ready to Eat, what they call MREs. Each box has twelve plastic dinners that can be heated or eaten cold. They’re nutritious and have a five-year shelf life,” she said.
I started to ask, Wouldn’t that be stealing from the US government? but the sister sensed I was about to make a smart-aleck remark and gave me a dirty look. I bit my tongue. Once removed from the cardboard boxes, the MREs were thin and compact, fitting nicely into our backpacks. They would beat the hell out of hunting and canned corn.
As we walked back toward the gate, I had to ask the question. “Sister, what took so long? What in the world could he have to confess about for an hour? The guy’s as square as they get.”
“I can’t tell you anything. It’s confidential.” She mimed a button lip but, for some reason, seemed to relish keeping a secret from me.
“You can be childish, Sister. You and your secrets.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. It’s sacred.”
“I don’t want to know,” I said, deciding to let it drop before we were reduced to making faces and going “na-na-na-na” at each other.
“Look what Mama has,” she said slyly, dangling a pair of keys.
“What did you have to do to get those, Sister?” I asked with a smirk.
For a second she didn’t catch my meaning, but then frowned deeply. “You are so sick, a very sick man. Please, I just ate breakfast. Now, if you’re finished with the adolescent sexual innuendo, let’s look for stall CX-433, which will contain our ride. And guess what, Max?” she said, not pausing, “I didn’t have to lie or cheat to secure these keys. You need to learn that honey attracts bees faster than the stick.”
I had no idea how that analogy applied, because I’d issued a directive to the sergeant for the motor vehicles. But the sister was very pleased with herself, so I didn’t share that info. My stick worked just fine.
Chapter 36
We walked to a building marked with a giant red CX painted on the side. It must have been over two thousand feet long and held rows of small, green dune buggies. The machines were bigger than quads but smaller than a jeep.
“Sarge said these would be ideal for the route we’re taking. Small enough to fit in the forest, fast enough to ride on the open road. There’s a small can of spare gas clipped to the underside of the taillight. The tanks are already filled.”
We found stall number 433 and she handed me the keys and then walked to the adjacent buggy, pulling out another set of keys.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting my ride. This is going to be a blast,” she said.
I shook my head. “No, that’s not a good idea; you can ride on the back of mine,” I said, pointing for her to get on. “I can’t have you getting hurt. You’re my responsibility.” She was putting on her helmet, ignoring me. “Seriously, these things are dangerous. I’m going to back this puppy out, and you’re going to hop on.” I had a slight problem though. I couldn’t figure out how to fire the damn thing up. I kept turning switches and pushing buttons, but nothing happened. I heard hers crank up, and she reversed it, idling behind me. I turned to look at her.
“Hey, 007, when you’re finished being responsible for me, I’ll be outside,” she said, zooming off. She stopped at the double doors and yelled, “Oh, yeah, try turning the kill switch off and turning the gas knob on—they’re on the left side.” She gunned it hard, doing a fishtail out the doors, sending dirt and rocks flying into the air.
What was up with all the stupid 007 jokes? After I turned the knobs as instructed, the dune buggy cranked right up. We stopped and grabbed our stuff by the gate and buckled it on with bungee cords hidden under the seat. Without a hint of sarcasm, she offered me operating instructions—I waved her off.
“Don’t go into tough-guy mode here, Max. If you need help, just ask. I don’t want you getting hurt. These aren’t toys.”
“Are you kidding me? I was famous for my motocross skills in Jersey.”
She pulled off, but not before I caught her parting shot. “Yeah, I’ve heard trail riding is real popular in downtown New Jersey.”
*
After about an hour, I was getting the hang of riding trails; it wasn’t that hard. It was obvious she’d driven these kinds of machines in the woods before. Didn’t matter. Max Ryker is a quick study. Before long, I was buzzing right along, even gunning it here and there. This was met with her patting downward in the air, mime style, while mouthing, slow down, slow down. I made a face at her. No one slows down Maximum Max. We came up on a large tree that had fallen and was blocking the path—right where it narrowed at a curve. To our left, the dirt embankment fell a good thirty feet, not a straight drop but at a very steep slope. A bit scary.