John O'Brien - Reckoning

“Sir, we’re approaching a large city. It’s nearly dawn,” the soldier responds.

“How’s our fuel?” Greg asks, rubbing his hand across his face in an attempt to banish the fatigue.

“We’re getting low, just under a third of a tank.”

“Anything on our pursuit?”

“They’re still behind us, sir. We haven’t gained or lost any distance from them.”

“Okay, good job. Get some rest,” Greg says, rising.

He wakes the driver and has him replace the soldier currently manning the position. Clambering over and around a tangle of legs, Greg resumes his position in the commander’s station. Looking at the map, he orients himself to their location and what they are facing ahead.

Sunlight illuminates the very tops of the mountaintops to the west as the team enters the beginnings of a once-inhabited town. It may still be populated, but whether that is by any remnants of humankind, night runners, or a combination thereof is unknown. The map shows several towns built next to each other. They surround the confluence of several streams, the waters having originated from the surrounding elevations.

Pursuit isn’t too far behind. Greg has few choices. They’ll need fuel within the next one hundred miles, and this may be the last chance prior to Santa Fe. If they don’t refuel now, they’ll be running on fumes by the time they reach the large metropolis, at which point, any choices will be taken away from them.

They are on the outskirts of a city large enough that they could possibly lose their pursuers within the myriad of streets. The last time didn’t work out very well, but there’s a better chance within the larger urban sprawl. If the armor behind passes them by, Greg can wait until they’re out of sight and flee to the north. To do that, he’ll have to make sure they all pass and aren’t operating in a leap-frog fashion as they refuel…and that they don’t have airborne surveillance.

The third option is to continue driving south in the hopes that they outrun those behind. He’s not comfortable continuing a chase of this manner in addition to running low on fuel.

Pondering the choices, Greg knows that the immediate priority is fuel. If they are to make a run back to the compound and safety, they will have to stay on top of the fuel situation.

The trick is how to accomplish that feat. It will have to be out from sight from the main thoroughfare with ready access to an escape route. They can’t use a gas station; that will take too long to set up. That leaves siphoning fuel from a semi-tractor or other large, diesel-driven piece of equipment.

Turning to the group, most of whom are now awake, he tells them, “Okay, folks. We’re going to need to fuel up here. Hopefully we still have some fuel canisters. If so, then we’re going to do it the same way we did it last time, three pouring fuel and the rest siphoning.”

Previously, on entering or approaching any town, they exhibited a tremendous amount of caution. Now, with the danger on their back trail, they can’t afford that luxury. Driving through the city, Greg looks down streets shadowed in the early morning light. Observing one such street, he sees a flash of yellow sticking out from the edge of a building.

“Driver, take the next right,” Greg orders.

A block past a major intersection, the Stryker turns into a dusty lot, entering a back street on the other side. Greg knows their tracks through the lot may be found but hopes that the group behind will turn down the highway rather than drive onward.

A few turns later, just as he hoped, Greg sees a school. The buildings surround a central courtyard with entrances to the middle at each corner. The Stryker, barely fitting between two of the buildings, enters the enclosure. Near one of the encircling wooden buildings sit four school buses. Classroom windows look out over the square which is filled with swirls of dirt mixed with debris. Grime covers the panes of the classrooms and buses alike, rendering them opaque.

Greg has the Stryker pulled up next to the main building, effectively hiding the armored vehicle from view. It’s really the perfect setup and he can’t think of anything he would improve, other than the diesel instantaneously moving itself from the bus tanks to his own.

Chill air rushes in as the ramp lowers, the metallic clang echoing off the buildings enclosing the courtyard. Through the dust swirls, there are faint lines showing where small feet once played hopscotch and others where mighty games of four square reigned. To the side, a lone metal pole stands with an ochre ball still attached to a thin cord.

The inside empties quickly as everyone rushes out, their warm exhalations producing small clouds of vapor in the motionless, cold air. The exhaust from the idling Stryker emits the same, dissipating quickly as the fumes reach the same temperature as the surrounding atmosphere.

Soldiers scramble to remove a couple of fuel canisters that survived the near misses. With the exception of a tattered tarp and a few tools, the rest of the top has been swept clear of their supplies. Luckily, they still have a few cartons of MREs and bottled water inside.

Greg stations two soldiers at either end of the main building looking out toward the road. He warns everyone to stay out of sight of the highway. While the refueling operation begins, he walks around the Stryker looking for damage. Bright metal shows where shrapnel impacted and dented the sides. The large tires have some of the rubber missing but they are, for the most part, intact. The damage that worries Greg the most is that the antennas have been severed. Should Jack fly into the area, there is no way they will be able to communicate. Jack could fly mere miles away and not even know Greg’s team is in the area. If he sees the 130, he’ll try using a signal mirror to contact them.

Noting the exhaust plumes of the Stryker, he looks to make sure that their heat signature is kept within the confines of the square and doesn’t rise above the single-story school. Satisfied that they are in as good of a position as they possibly can be, Greg helps carry full fuel canisters from the buses.

As the seconds tick by, Greg keeps expecting to hear from the scouts that they’ve been spotted and that armored units are closing in. Each minute means more fuel. Tension fills him knowing their vulnerability, mixed with the hope that the others will pass them by. He notes the same anxiety with the others. They are carrying out their tasks quickly and quietly. Plumes of breath follow each person as they lug the heavy canisters to the Stryker. The only sound is the idling engine and occasional ringing as the metal cans contact the ground or vehicle.

Ten minutes… fifteen minutes. The first rays of sunlight begin penetrating the valley floor. Greg begins to relax in the hope that they might have given the other units the slip. If that’s the case, they’ll wait a while and slip back out to the main road and strike north, retracing their route and continuing toward the northwest, hoping to eventually arrive back at Cabela’s. Any thought of continuing their mission is long gone.

“Sir, two Humvees are heading in our direction. Four Strykers and a lot of other Humvees just passed on the main highway heading south,” the northernmost lookout calls.

“Fuck. Everyone inside, now!” Greg calls.

As he runs for the ramp, Greg again wonders how they were found. They didn’t travel down the road on which the two Humvees are approaching so there’s no way the others saw their tracks, yet they are making a beeline right at them. The only way that could be is if they have some form of airborne surveillance. And that makes anything they do a straight out fight for survival. In a way, it makes decisions about what they have to do easier. There’s no second-guessing about how to lose their tail, they won’t. They just have to finish this race in first place. First though, they have to extricate themselves.