Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Prep for entry.”

She watched Connor strip off his top shirt and fancy lightweight bulletproof vest. He slipped out of his gray T-shirt, crouching to dig in his backpack. The smooth striations of his shoulder muscles fascinated her and she again noticed the slicing white scar near his right scapula as well as the pucker marks of several old bullet wounds near his left shoulder and bicep.

“I like when your shoulder and arm muscles move, especially with no shirt on.”

“What’s that?” Distracted by the task at hand, Connor pulled a clean T-shirt from his pack, sealing the smelly one in a plastic bag for later washing. Once again, Amanda found that white scar exceptionally sexy. It was like a beacon of pain, not quite fully healed and, before she realized it, she’d come to stand directly behind him.

“Umm, Connor Mac, I’d like to get something out of the way first, if you don’t mind.”

Crouching, Connor did a spin turn in the soft, grassy soil, looking into her eyes.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

Amanda gently rested her rifle on the ground, sliding her backpack off her shoulders. Quickly, she removed her bulletproof vest, standing before him. Urgent, she began unbuckling her belt.

“I need you to do me one very big favor.”

“Yeah?”

Unbuttoned, Amanda slowly started to wiggle, in an attempt to slide off her jeans.

“I want you to do what you did last night. You know? But, umm, maybe harder and quicker right now, if that’s okay.”

Grinning broadly, Connor stood, slipping his hands to her hips. She continued her attempts to slide off her jeans. Softly, he spoke.

“Hey, keep your pants on, Snuff. Please. Much as I want to, this area’s not fully secured. Let’s save it for later tonight.”

“Umm.”

“I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Hmm, you sure? Not now? Really?”

“Yeah… not now, but, please ,… hold onto that thought.”

“Oh… okay.”

“That Connor MacMillen is one bad fuckin’ dude,” whispered Major O’Malley. Colonel Starkes was reasonably certain that he hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud into his microphone.

“What’s that, major?”

“Nothing, ma’am.”

“Shamus, take us east—follow the interstate,” ordered Colonel Starkes. Her voice came over the intercom clearly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. The men onboard tried to settle into comfortable positions.

“Take the most probable path for an able-bodied man who’s extensively survival-trained and can easily sustain himself living off the land. Connor Mac’s competency in achieving this is not in question. In fact, I’d be safe to say he’s probably better at it than any man here.” She ignored Scott’s challenging grin and his raised eyebrow. Turning back to their pilot, she ignored his smirk as well and laid out her orders. “Make a best assessment, Shamus. I might suggest you keep large bodies of water, streams, lakes and major highways as focal points during travel. Nicole confirmed he favors the woods near highways, but he avoids large groups of people, so avoid any evident population centers. He’ll likely avoid most of them anyway unless he needs particular supplies. Let’s also assume he has some working knowledge in avoiding nuclear plants and their potential windfall exposure.”

“Okay,” said Shamus.

“I’d project a conservative amount of distance covered per day—say five to seven miles. There will likely be occasions when he stops for more than a day. The way I figure it, Connor MacMillen travels carefully—he wouldn’t use anything motorized and he’d avoid any unnecessary exposure. He might have used a horse or a bicycle, but I have my doubts about that—there’s too much exposure there. He’d want to remain out of sight and that’s better guaranteed on foot. Keep in mind that his military background confirms stealth is his primary factor during any mission. But, and this is critical, he’s had about twelve months head start. Can anyone give me any ideas of his present whereabouts?”

“I’ll check the maps, ma’am,” answered Major O’Malley. No one else ventured an opinion.

“Shamus, coordinate with Jimmy for feasible refueling stops along the way. Gather input from Scott and GT. Let Jimmy know of our current scenario—since he’s so good at logistics, he should have some valid input.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Major, I’m gonna take a nap. Don’t wake me unless this bird is falling outta the sky.”

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Major O’Malley. He removed a Hershey bar from his breast pocket and offered it shyly to Nicole.

“Thanks,” said Nicole, blushing. She opened the wrapper, broke a piece from the bar, and offered it to Major O’Malley.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the offered piece of chocolate.

Colonel Starkes fell asleep with the image of their awkward romance blossoming in her mind.

Marty sensed a human presence, recently gone. He was sure he was in range of Connor Mac and Snuff after the past three days of intense, but cautious tracking. He was confident he’d narrowed the gap. Unfortunately, the trail was not obvious very often—Connor Mac and Snuff were damn good at covering their tracks. He figured both were military trained in evasion tactics.

“Dammit!” The question burdening him at the moment was whether his quarry had gravitated northeast or southeast. In studying the ground nearby, Marty admitted to some frustration.

“Who the hell is this guy?”

Frustrated, he’d caught no obvious or distinct signs of them after locating the farmhouse they’d stayed in two days ago. Though not certain the farm was used by Connor Mac, he was pretty sure it was their most recent encampment for several reasons. One, he’d found a fresh Marlboro cigarette butt half-burned in the fire, and being that smokes were very hard to come by and that Buzzy had just been separated from his hoard, he was pretty sure the farm was where they’d hidden out. Two, he found a well-hidden latrine suggesting two people had spent one day in residence. He smiled when he considered this tidbit of knowledge. Only a fully combat-trained veteran would bother to make, and carefully hide, a latrine after only one day’s use.

When he skirted the interstate, Marty discovered from the road signs that he was within a few miles of Fort Wayne, Indiana. Never having set foot in this part of the country before, he found it distastefully flat. He missed the snow-topped mountains of his home state of Washington. He flicked his blonde hair away from his eyes. The August sun was beginning to weigh heavily on his mind.

He had followed a secondary road for the last few hours. That was where the faint trail had led him, but he had lost the last thread a little while ago and was no longer confident his quarry had passed this way.

To complicate matters, he approached a “Y” in the road, both branches heading in an easterly direction, but neither showing any clue of what path may have been taken. Deciding to take a break, he sat down in the shade of a tree near the road, opened his pack, and removed a Slim Jim. He opened it and took a bite, savoring the burst of flavor and chuckling with the knowledge that the processed food was more than half a decade old. The fork in the road made him think of his dad who had loved the old Yankee’s catcher Yogi Berra. His dad was fond of quoting Yogi who had once said, “when you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

Laughing at the quote, Marty finished the last bites from his Slim Jim and took a long pull of water from his camelpak. He considered backtracking to see if there was something he’d missed before, but he’d yet to fully explore the potential clues the intersection might offer. There were three cars near the intersection. One was parked in the emergency lane as if it may have had engine trouble or simply ran out of gas and was pushed to the side. The other two were involved in a traffic accident—a head-on collision specifically. The violent collision had deployed the airbags on both vehicles, but there were no bodies in the cars, so it may not have been fatal.