Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Hey, Dad…” she whispered to herself.

Though trained mostly to be a military lab rat with a specialization in epidemiology, she had insisted on obtaining true combat experience. And it was one of the best decisions she’d ever made for several reasons. Nothing else would’ve satisfied her Master Chief father, a decorated Vietnam vet. Not her advanced degrees, not her impressive understanding of the blossoming field of genetics. Nothing. Nothing, but down-on-the-ground-in-your-face-combat would command such respect.

“I took a nap on a bird,” she thought.

The grin on her face disappeared, thinking of the men she’d lost under her command during a particular raid of a terrorist bunker in Iraq, courtesy of Desert Storm. Often, this particular mission came back to brutally remind her of the weight she carried when in charge of an operation. On that assignment, the bunker was supposed to be lightly guarded while scientists inside tinkered with their biological weapons-grade concoctions. Intel was scant on the activities inside the bunker, and afterwards, grossly inadequate. She’d lost two men that day, though the mission objective was completed with much success. Post-conflict briefings showed a kill ratio of fifteen to one. She remembered—

“Colonel?”

“Yes, major?”

“Ma’am, infrared has located a group of people on a farm about a mile back. Estimates are thirty-five to forty individuals, but there may be more. Their evasive maneuvers suggest a highly coordinated action and an elevated defensive preparation.”

“Anything else, major?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’d suggest that such a well coordinated defensive response implies a broadened military assessment of the tactical environment.”

“Why is that important to us right now, major?”

“Topographical study of terrain southwest of Fort Wayne, overlaid with a roads and rivers map of 2010 shows the tactical response is based on defensive measures in reference to SR 14 and CR 68.”

“Nice move applying the overlay.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Major, switch to private channel. Our ears only.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve been napping.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’ve conducted only one flyby?”

“Correct.”

Chomping at the bit, Major O’Malley was ready for some action. Perhaps, the colonel thought, he was antsy for something to do after the recon and acquisition of Nicole and CJ and the boring time spent since the success of the mission. Idly, she wondered if his testosterone levels were running high after exposure to Nicole. It was easy to see the beautiful woman had made quite an impression on the major, as well as the rest of the unit. On the other hand, maybe, he was just searching for a way to let off some steam.

“Is this another fishing expedition, major?”

“Ma’am?”

“Why the sudden interest? We’ve received nothing from the twenty-five men and women in Boulder, nothing from the dozen people in Lincoln, Nebraska, and nothing from the twenty in Springfield.”

“Well—”

“Are these fishing expeditions your proposed solution for locating Colonel MacMillen?”

Colonel Starkes was frustrated. She considered the daunting task of locating one man who had a twelve-month head start in an area as large as the continental United States. While it was true that Nicole had provided important guidance on habits, general direction, and possible goals, her knowledge did nothing more than downgrade the task from impossible to improbable. When she thought out her options, the colonel began to consider posting a large net of men west and south of Pittsburgh. It might be her only chance of finding him.

She needed to research why Connor MacMillen found it necessary to return to the Pittsburgh area. What was so damn interesting there? He had somehow crossed an expansive ocean from Australia to return to his homeland and he had undertaken the equally difficult task of crossing the country. She decided to assign Jimmy the task of finding out more about what tied Connor MacMillen to that part of the United States.

Major O’Malley had wrongfully perceived Colonel Starkes’ silence as disapproval and had racked his brain to clarify his thoughts to his commanding officer. “Shamus pointed out that the maximum window of travel based on the parameters you set forth places Connor MacMillen within a seventy-five mile radius of this general area, ma’am. Like you suggested, colonel, he developed his estimated location by assuming limited weather aberrations, avoidance of nuclear hotspots, preference for travel near highways and large bodies of water, and walking as the only form of travel.”

“I guess if Shamus said it, it must be true,” replied Colonel Starkes in a teasing fashion. She knew that the major’s relationship with Shamus was fast becoming one of an older brother mentoring a younger one.

Sensing the mild taunt, Major O’Malley squared his shoulders. “I trust his judgment, colonel. He’s thinking of nothing else since you first presented this scenario. That, and flying this bird, I guess. He says it reminds him of when he taught at MIT—he and some of his students completed an important probabilities study during his tenure there. He’s applied the results of that study to this specific problem.”

“Right. I forgot. Shamus was a professor at MIT. What hasn’t that man done?” said Colonel Starkes.

She glanced at their pilot with newfound respect, making a mental note to better explore this aspect of his career in the future. The dossier had glossed over these facts when she viewed them back at Mt. Storm.

“So, lemme get this straight. You and Shamus think another fishing expedition is in order? Even though these fishing expeditions have resulted in nothing that we can use in finding Connor MacMillen?”

“And the possible military presence may indicate a number of potential recruits.”

“I’m not sure that I’m as optimistic as you, major, but proceed with your plans to contact the local leaders. Major?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Don’t lose sight of our primary objective. We’ve located Nicole and her child. Our primary objective at this point remains CJ’s safety. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am. Of course.”

“Okay, major. Instruct Shamus to set this bird down away from hostile infiltration. You and five men of your choosing can contact the leader of this small community—the rest of the men will remain with the helicopter. You have six hours to complete your mission. If you’re not back by that time, we’ll leave without you.”

“Yes, ma’am. Understood.”

Nicole stared out the window, enjoying the helicopter ride immensely. She had always wanted to do this, but gave up hope after the Sickness had effectively grounded all air traffic. She glanced at Major O’Malley who was trying his best not to stare at her. She covered her mouth to hide her smile—she was pleased with his attention. He was easy on the eyes and it was clear to her that he felt an attraction. She wondered if he had someone back at Camp David.

“Which one?” asked Amanda.

“The brown two-story with the green trim. See that ‘tot finder’ sticker in the upper left window?”

“Okay, I see it.”

“I thought I heard something. Maybe a voice.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” said Amanda.

They were well hidden near a batch of weeds and rock that used to be rear-wall landscaping before returning to nature.

“It’s your sub-hunting trip. Your mission. You call it from here, Snuff.”

She scanned the surroundings carefully with her binoculars for a few moments and made a decision. “We go, but we avoid that house. There’s a white house with red trim at the end of that road. That one is promising. Let’s keep that as our target. We’ll move another fifty yards and determine if it’s still a good target.”