Уильям Дитц - Seek and Destroy

NORTHEAST OF CASPER, WYOMING

The Cessna JT-A produced a mind-numbing drone as it winged its way north. It was flying low, no more than three hundred feet off the ground, in order to stay off enemy radar. That was necessary but scary since visibility was iffy, and left the single-engine plane with no margin for error. Victoria turned to the pilot. “How much longer?”

The man was sixtysomething. What hair he had was pulled back into a gray ponytail. “It’s like I told you ten minutes ago,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

Victoria opened her mouth to put the man in his place, thought better of it, and forced herself to remain silent. The minutes crawled by. And then, just when it seemed as if the flight would go on forever, the plane began to turn.

Victoria looked down. What she saw was anything but promising. The airstrip consisted of a patch of flat ground surrounded by rocks. “We’re going to land on that ?” she demanded.

“Hell no,” the old man replied. “We’re gonna land at Kennedy, take the shuttle to the terminal, and have a latte.”

Victoria thought she heard him say, “Dumb shit,” under his breath as he brought the plane into alignment with the runway and pushed the yoke forward. Two red highway flares marked the end of the strip. They lost altitude quickly, hit hard, and came to a stop a few yards short of the flares. Victoria had been holding her breath. She let it out. “Welcome to Wyoming,” the pilot said. “And thanks for keeping your breakfast down.”

“Glad I could help,” Victoria said as she pushed the door open. It was cold, but she was dressed for it. A small pack was stashed behind her seat, and the man made no effort to help her with it.

“Forty-eight hours,” he said. “That’s when I’ll come for you… If I fail to show, it will be due to bad weather or because I’m on a binge. Wait twelve hours. Then, if I’m still MIA, start walking. Got it?”

Victoria put her right arm through a pack strap. “Got it.”

“Good. Close the fucking door… It’s getting cold in here.”

Victoria closed the door and stepped back. The engine roared as the plane turned to face the other way. Then, after opening the throttle all the way, the pilot released the brakes. The Cessna took off like a jackrabbit and cleared the pile of rocks at the other end of the runway with ten feet to spare.

That was when Victoria heard a crunching sound—and turned to find a man wearing a tasseled stocking cap and sheepskin coat approaching her. A rifle was slung over his left shoulder. He stopped six feet away. His skin was brown, and there was a wispy goatee on his chin. “Where did they bury the great Khan?”

“In an unmarked grave.”

“Where does he live?”

“In our hearts.”

The man bowed. “My parents named me Thomas Styles. But my warrior name is Jebe, which means ‘the Arrow.’”

“You killed Kuchlug.”

Snow fell like a veil. The man bowed again. “The Confederacy chose its messenger with great care. Can you ride?”

“Yes.”

“All will be well then. Follow me.”

Two men and four horses were waiting just off the airstrip. Jebe’s companions wore balaclava-style white-on-black skull masks. To look scary? Or to stay warm? Both, most likely, and Victoria wished she had one. The army-issue knit cap left her face unprotected.

Victoria’s horse was a big brute named Montana. Victoria could feel the stares as she placed her left boot in the stirrup and swung her right leg out and over the horse’s hindquarters. Victoria felt Montana stir uneasily as she landed on the Western-style saddle. She stroked his neck, and two streams of vapor appeared when he snorted. Victoria had learned to ride during summer vacations in Idaho, and Jebe nodded as if satisfied with her performance.

Jebe and his horse led the way, followed by Victoria and the two skull faces. The trail wound around a snowcapped rock formation, down into a ravine, and up the other side. The landscape was turning white, and that forced Victoria to don her sunglasses.

The first hour was enjoyable in a weird, otherworldly sort of way. But by the time they were fifteen minutes into the second hour of riding, Victoria’s knees had started to ache. Had it been that way when she was sixteen? No, she didn’t think so.

Thirty long, painful minutes passed before they followed a switchbacking trail down the side of a hill to the point where two trucks and a large horse trailer were waiting. Jebe aimed a remote at the blue pickup, and Victoria saw the lights flash. “Throw your pack in the cab,” Jebe told her. “I’ll take care of Montana.”

Jebe led the horses over to the horse trailer, tied them up, and returned to the pickup. “We aren’t likely to be stopped,” Jebe said as he slipped behind the wheel. “But should that occur, we’re ranchers headed up to Kaycee for supplies. Are you armed?”

“With a handgun, yes.”

“Good. If the poop hits the fan, shoot everyone on your side of the truck. And don’t hesitate to use the sawed-off if you need to.”

Victoria followed Jebe’s glance to the shotgun clamped above the windshield. “Got it.”

The truck was in motion by then. It bounced through a series of potholes. “We’re going to take back roads west to I-25,” Jebe told her. “We’ll follow it north to Buffalo. High Fort is a half hour beyond that.”

“High Fort?”

“Yes. That’s the name Subutai gave to the Huntington Lodge after he captured it,” Jebe replied. “It was the site of a gold mine before that.”

Captured? That was one word for it… Although Victoria was willing to bet that the people who owned the lodge would call the theft something else.

The next thirty minutes were spent winding their way through a maze of snow-covered backcountry roads. They turned onto a two-lane highway that provided access to I-25 ten minutes later. There was some traffic, but less and less as they traveled north. Because of the horde? That made sense. Some people would have to enter the horde’s territory and pay Howard’s road tax. But anyone who could avoid doing so would.

Interestingly enough, there were no signs of military activity. “I thought the Union had a battalion of troops stationed here,” Victoria said. “Where are they?”

“They spend most of their time at Fort Carney,” Jebe replied. “Although they did attack one of our strongholds two days ago. And believe me… They’re going to pay for that.”

There was no mistaking the anger in Jebe’s voice. Victoria was reminded of what her father had told her. Robin was stationed at Fort Carney. Had she taken part in the attack? And how would she fare when Howard took his revenge?

It was something Victoria should care about. Then why didn’t she? Was there something wrong with her? Possibly. Or maybe there was something right with her. “Each of us makes choices—and each of us has to live with the consequences.” That’s what Bo Macintyre liked to say. And it applied to Robin, along with everyone else.

The horde had established a checkpoint and toll booth adjacent to the small town of Kaycee. It was a flimsy affair that consisted of a motor home, lanes that were defined by traffic cones, and six well-armed rat rods. “Anyone can blow through it,” Jebe admitted, as they entered the VIP lane. “But the rat rods will chase them down if they do… And the rat riders don’t take prisoners.”

When a man wearing a pullover skull mask appeared in the window, Jebe raised his right hand palm out. Skull face bowed deeply and waved Jebe through. Victoria was curious. “Did you show him some sort of ID?”

“Yes,” Jebe replied, as he held his right hand up for her to look at. An intricate tracery of tattoos covered his palm. Could it be copied? Yes, of course. But Victoria’s ID card could be duplicated as well.