by Bobby Akart
The location of the massive impact at Boundary Peak might not have been quite as devastating in terms of damage or loss of life as it could’ve been had it hit a major population center like Los Angeles or New York City, but the effect it had upon the fragile geologic conditions of the region would be felt for years to come.
“Mr. President!” shouted Maggie Fielding as she entered the room, followed closely by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Sir, we received intelligence indicating increased Russian submarine activity along the Atlantic Seaboard. We have reports of electronic interference with our military communication and navigation systems.”
The president turned to his top military advisor. “What measures are you taking in response?”
“Sir, we’re repositioning all of our naval assets to the Eastern Seaboard. We’ve ordered Carrier Strike Group 8 to be redeployed from the Caribbean Sea, and NATO has been advised that we’re recalling the Second Fleet from the North Atlantic as well.”
“Are these subs only?” asked the president.
“So far, sir, although they’ve turned their Kirov-class battlecruisers and several Gorshkov frigates in our direction. They’re moving slowly, but that could change.”
The president turned his attention back to his chief of staff. “Have we reached out to Moscow through diplomatic channels?”
He began pacing the floor again as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He made his way to the small kitchen bar and nervously opened a bottle of water. His mind raced as he tried to consider which was the bigger threat to America, the remains of the asteroid or the Russians.
“They’re making attempts now, sir, but thus far, our ambassador is getting the runaround,” replied Fielding.
President Watson finished the water and closed his eyes. Anger built up inside him and he unconsciously crushed the plastic bottle until it was the size of a paper wad. He spun around and looked into the eyes of his advisors.
“Dammit to hell, what’s wrong with Putin? I’m sick of this shit! And screw diplomatic channels. I want to talk to that bastard myself!”
Chapter 28
Unknown Jungle Compound
Colombia, South America
Gunner lay shivering on the wet, muddy floor. Wave after wave of chills had overcome his body throughout the night as he was repeatedly doused with cold water, coupled with several jolts of electricity courtesy of his captor’s cattle prod.
He was becoming dehydrated and resorted to lapping up water that pooled in the dirt. He’d consume anything to help quench his thirst, even his own urine, if he produced any.
Surprisingly, the interrogations had ceased after the session in the barn the day before. Gunner was puzzled by this because, generally, the purpose of torture was to elicit information. Perhaps the barbarous leader of the cartel believed Gunner’s claim of being an astronaut. Maybe they’d finally had the boy lead them to the wreckage where he’d found Gunner’s duffle bag. They might have searched his name on Google and confirmed he was telling the truth.
Or maybe they just wanted to continue their merciless and inhuman game of inflicting pain upon the American gringo.
Gunner had dealt with drug cartels before. For the most part, their criminal dealings focused on maintaining their territory, evading arrest, and making money. To be sure, stories of kidnappings, torture, and human trafficking accompanied any broad-range discussion of cartel activities.
He tried to keep in touch with his surroundings and especially sounds making their way into the holding cells. During his trip into the center of the compound, and even during his torture session in the barn, Gunner had stayed alert, cataloging what he’d observed.
One of the things he noticed as the night wore on, in between the constant attacks by the high-pressure water hose, was the fact that the frequency of meteorite activity had subsided considerably. And with the respite in the asteroid’s attack, the drug business apparently picked up in the cartel’s compound.
Convoys of trucks, their diesel engines creating a steady rumble, came and went throughout the night. At times, the guards entered the holding cells and dragged some of the women out, never to return. Hours later, they were replaced with other captives, who were admonished the same as Gunner with a stern rebuke when they attempted to speak to their fellow prisoners.
Gunner believed that he was deep in the mountainous region of the jungle based upon the overgrown foliage and the fact that he hadn’t stumbled across any coca fields nearby. The large stream he’d encountered most likely flowed into a nearby river, which ultimately found its way into the Caribbean Sea or, depending on the crash site’s location, the Pacific Ocean.
His failure to encounter locals cultivating the coca plants didn’t surprise him, and the cartels rarely grew their own product. Their job was strictly packaging and distribution. All the coca was grown in either Bolivia, Peru, or Colombia, where, he assumed, he was being held, based upon the young boy’s clothing.
In reality, cartels had become like supermarket chains. They bought coca and marijuana from local farmers, processed the drugs themselves, and then transported the drugs to America, the world’s largest marketplace for illegal substances.
Human trafficking had become a byproduct of Latin America’s intense desire to make a better life for themselves in the United States, regardless of their method or cost of entry. Young girls gave themselves up into a form of sex slavery as payment for their families to be transported into the land of opportunity. Others voluntarily became mules, carrying drugs through Mexico and across the border with the aid of the Mexican drug cartels.
It was a sickening business overall, and it stemmed from cartel compounds like the one where Gunner was being held. The drug trade was so lucrative that the prospects of being crushed by an incoming meteorite didn’t concern these criminals one iota. Business was business, and America would always be open to consumption of their product, notwithstanding a temporary disruption courtesy of IM86.
Gunner was not asleep, nor was he fully awake. His mind was forcing itself to stay alert so that his body wouldn’t suffer the wrath of his sadistic captors without warning. However, as he’d been trained to do, he was ever-vigilant, waiting for an opening to escape.
The women in the holding cells began to chatter amongst themselves in Spanish, an indication that the guards had left them alone. Gunner took this opportunity to ask questions.
“Does anybody speak English?”
They ignored him.
“Please, I just want to know where I am. Can you tell me anything?”
One of the women with a heavy accent responded, “Colombia, senor. North of the Atrato River in the Darién Gap.”
Gunner rolled his eyes and shook his head. He looked upward to the heavens and whispered, “You couldn’t have dropped me off anywhere else?”
He knew about the Darién Gap. It was like a war zone for the drug cartels, who fought each other for territory and control of the land route from South America toward the U.S. Each compound had its drug-production operation, but they also had a small army of hired guns designed to protect themselves from their rivals. The DEA or local law enforcement was the least of their concerns.
Gunner’s cell was humid from the natural climate of the jungle, but also from the water that had mixed with the dirt floor. His body was cramped and sore in so many places that no one injury stood out amongst the others.
Out of nowhere, the young boy appeared in front of his cell. His face passed through the sunlight of the small window to the outside. Gunner had tracked the sun in his prior days of captivity and knew it was morning.
“Hey, kid,” Gunner said and waved his hand toward the boy.
The boy didn’t respond or smile. He rarely did. But in a gesture reminiscent of the young boy handing Mean Joe Greene, the famous Pittsburg Steeler football player, a Coke in a famous commercial from the seventies, the boy extended a bottle of water toward the cell door.
At first, Gunner hesitated. He had
to consider that the boy was ordered to bring the water and it might contain some type of poison. Then he laughed at himself. Poison was the tool of assassins like the Russian cosmonauts. These people preferred the more direct approach—beating someone to death or simply shooting them in the head.
He took the water and gulped it heartily. He stashed the empty bottle behind his urine bucket. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it might be some use to him later. When you had nothing to work with, a plastic water bottle became a prized treasure.
The boy kept looking nervously down the hallway toward the exit of the cartel’s prison. Gunner, with nothing left to lose, took a chance. He grabbed the lock and pointed to the keyhole. He used his index finger to make the motion of a skeleton key unlocking the mechanism.
He made eye contact with the boy, raised his eyebrows, and nodded hopefully. The boy reached his finger toward the keyhole and inserted it with a twisting motion.
Gunner got excited. “Yes! Yes! Key.” He copied the boy’s motion and then pointed at him. “You. Get the key.” He pointed toward the door with one hand and twisted his finger in an unlocking motion with the other.
The boy’s shoulders slumped and then he shrugged.
Gunner sighed. The kid understands and wants to help, he thought, but he doesn’t know how.
He tried to cheer the boy up. He waved his hands, pointed to his face, and generated an overbroad smile. He even did a little dance in his cell, followed by another big smile.
The boy responded with a smile and even shook his body like he was emulating the waddle of a duck. Then, for the first time, he laughed.
Gunner was overwhelmed with emotion. The hardened warrior, the man America called upon to do their dirty work, from assassinations to the destruction of asteroids, shed emotional tears of joy.
He hung his head, dropped to his knees, and held his left arm through the bars. The boy stepped forward, took Gunner’s hand, and squeezed.
In that moment, the physical contact, one that didn’t involve a beating, changed Gunner’s demeanor. It was as if he’d been provided a miracle cure for his wounds. He’d been given a new purpose, an inner strength that he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He had a will to live like nothing he’d ever sensed before.
After a minute, the boy, still smiling, released Gunner’s hand and stood for a moment. Gunner clasped his hands together and mouthed the words thank you. The boy formed his hands to signal okay, and then he gave Gunner a thumbs-up.
The breakthrough did more for Gunner than any hospital IV or pain medication could do. Only one other thing could make him feel rejuvenated like this, and that would’ve been Heather’s touch.
He closed his eyes and pictured her with him sitting at the water’s edge on Dog Island. He could see her, on her knees across from him, reaching out to hold his hands as they stared lovingly in each other’s eyes. His mind convinced him that it was real.
Then he opened his eyes and saw the steel bars of his jail cell. The boy was gone, and so was his vision of Heather. However, the inner strength he’d received from the encounter was swelling inside him.
“I’ve had enough of this shit,” he muttered to himself.
Chapter 29
The USS Harry S. Truman
Caribbean Sea
Cam and Bear, with the aid of two ensigns assigned to assist them, rushed through the enormous infrastructure within the bowels of the U.S. Navy’s eighth Nimitz-class aircraft carrier. They’d only arrived hours before, and within fifteen minutes of disembarking the jet that delivered them to the USS Harry S. Truman, they were advised of CSG8’s redeployment to the Atlantic Seaboard.
First, the lieutenant who greeted them upon arrival took them to a Valor AV-280 similar to the tilt-rotor aircraft they’d used during their incursion into the Far Eastern Federal District of Russia to surveil the Cosmodrome.
“I understood that we’d be assigned a Sikorsky,” began Bear. “Something like the Guard’s HH-60H.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant, not this time. This particular Valor has been modified and won’t suit our new mission’s purpose. You’ll have to make do.”
“Fine by me,” he said with a smile and a wink directed to Cam.
Bear was thrilled at the prospect of being behind the controls of the agile aircraft with advanced landing capabilities. Like Russia, he’d have to drop the plane with a precise vertical descent, one that didn’t get the rotors caught up in the jungle’s tree canopy.
Cam liked the aircraft because of its stealth technology and the radar capabilities. Without the aid of satellites and the invaluable eyes in the skies they provide, she and Bear would have to make their own determinations as to how to approach the drug cartel’s compound where Gunner was most likely held.
They followed the two ensigns from one section of the aircraft carrier to another, picking up everything from weapons to surveillance electronics. A trauma medical kit was a must, together with a duffle bag of clothing in a variety of sizes.
The AV-280 was capable of carrying a lot of gear since this particular aircraft had been modified to reduce the passenger seating capacity from fourteen troops to six. When the lieutenant advised Cam and Bear of this fact, Cam whispered, “Good. That’s four American astronauts, one Frenchman, and Gunner. Sorry Russkis. Here’s a map. You guys can take a hike.”
Bear roared in laughter at her statement, drawing a hateful look from the lieutenant, who was in a frenzy, as the entire crew of the Truman were at battle stations already.
They stopped for a final briefing by the lieutenant, who gave them the GPS coordinates of a lily pad in Costa Rica, a U.S. intelligence installation, the existence of which was formerly denied by the Costa Rican government. Located throughout Latin America, these dark sites provided temporary shelter for operatives who worked throughout the region. For Cam and Bear, it would be a logical place to refuel before they took the long trip across the Gulf of Mexico and back to Maxwell Air Force Base.
Cam and Bear were escorted to the AV-280, loaded the last of their gear, and observed the frenzied activity on the deck of the Truman.
“We’re getting ready for war,” commented Cam. “This has nothing to do with the asteroid, directly anyway. The Russians must be making a move on us, and we’re beefing up our Atlantic defenses.”
Bear helped Cam into the aircraft and closed the door behind her. “Why would they risk it? They’re probably taking a lot of hits of their own.”
“You know, Bear, I don’t think Putin really cares anything about his people. He’s an egomaniac. After all of these years, he wants to be seen as the freakin’ king of the world. I think he’d risk it all to hit at us while we’re in disarray or in the process of helping our own.”
Bear chuckled. “Well, he’d better pack a lunch, ’cause I saw the look of determination on those sailors’ faces. You don’t kick us while we’re down. Big mistake.”
“I agree. Trust me, I wish we could join the fight somehow. That’ll have to wait for another day. We’ve got a two-hour flight to the mouth of the Atrato River. Let’s get started and I’ll start to map out the GPS coordinates of the compound. We’re gonna have to hike a considerable distance to avoid detection, and also, we need to stash this bird where the locals can’t find it.”
“Just like Russia,” added Bear as he strapped himself in and began his preflight checks. “Man, I love this thing. When I get a pay raise, I’m gonna buy one, even if it’s used.”
Cam rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Why I put my life in your hands is beyond me,” she said sarcastically.
“Yeah, yeah. Well, for now, I’m all you’ve got. Let’s ride.”
Bear got clearance from the air traffic control tower aboard the Truman and expertly took off, flying south-southwest across the Caribbean Sea toward the Darién Gap.
Two hours later, they flew over the coastal town of Villa Hermosa, and then Bear followed the Atrato River inland as it snaked its way through the jungle. Cam recorded vi
deo the entire route, and when they reached the approximate area where the satellite phone was emitting the signal, she had Bear circle several times so she could have the cameras get a good look.
“I wish it was night,” she began as frustration set in. “The trees and all the other crap growing around them blocks the view of the lens. If it was dark, at least we could take advantage of infrared.”
“I could fly lower,” offered Bear. “It would make a big difference with the altitude change.”
Cam hesitated. She was concerned that any aircraft in the midst of the meteor storm would attract attention and result in the death of the Starhopper crew, including Gunner.
“Do another sweep, but this time move in closer to the Panamanian border.”
“Roger,” said Bear.
He made a wide, sweeping turn, allowing Cam to get a visual through the small window on her side of the aircraft. Suddenly, she pushed upward in her seat and craned her neck to get a longer look during the pass over.
“What?” asked Bear.
“Back there. A break in the clouds. I saw something. It was like the jungle had been mowed down with a really big bulldozer.”
“Maybe it was a meteorite?” opined Bear.
“I don’t know, Bear, it didn’t seem burned,” she replied and then thought for a moment. She decided to take a chance. “Bear, circle back and take the same path as before. Lower your altitude. I wanna take another look.”
The plane, while stealth to radar, could be heard if it flew too low. On this day, luck was on their side, as the roar of diesel trucks coming and going in the drug cartel compound obscured the sound of the plane’s rotors.
It was both luck and dedication to finding Gunner that enabled Cam’s sharp eye to find the debris field created by the Starhopper as it crashed back to Earth. Now, they pinned their hopes on finding a place to land and, hopefully, locating the crew.