Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

Esco shook his head. “No, ma’am. Even though I’m a drone pilot, I had never flown a real plane until I took off from JBLM.”

Mac allowed her eyebrows to rise. “That’s amazing… And you flew over the mountains?”

“I followed Highway 410 most of the way… People shot at me as I flew over Chinook Pass.”

“Yeah,” Mac said. “We heard that a warlord controls it. I hear that travelers have to pay him in order to travel back and forth. So why come here? You could have gone anywhere.”

“Sergeant Poole is my cousin… Maybe the only family I have left. So, given the way things are going, I’d like to join your outfit.”

Poole was in charge of squad two—and a good man. Mac nodded. “Welcome to the platoon. Tell me, what’s going on at JBLM? Why can’t we reach anyone?”

Esco stared at her. “You haven’t heard?”

Hoskins spoke for the first time since making the introductions. “No,” he said, “she hasn’t.”

There was a hollow feeling in Mac’s stomach as Esco looked at her. What was that in his eyes? Sympathy? Pity? She wasn’t sure. “JBLM was overrun,” Esco said. “They call themselves ‘the People’s Army,’ but that’s bullshit. All they are is a consortium of gangs that came together to loot the base. We fought them for more than a month, but they grew stronger, and we had to fall back. Hundreds of our people were killed. Eventually, it came down to a choice between bombing most of Tacoma or pulling out. And we were about to do that when a mob broke through the perimeter. We fought, but not for long… All of us had been ready to go for days, so all I had to do was grab my AWOL bag and run. The Mescalero was parked near the building where I worked, so I took it. End of story.”

Mac turned so that the men couldn’t see the tears, wiped them away, and knew that Esco was wrong. The loss of JBLM and all that it stood for wasn’t the end of the story. It was the beginning.

OFF THE EAST COAST OF MEXICO

After twenty days spent paddling up Mexico’s east coast, Sloan knew that if he wasn’t in American waters, he’d arrive there soon. The moon was playing hide-and-seek behind broken clouds, and there were moments when it looked as if he were dipping his paddle into molten silver.

But the otherworldly moments came to an end when Sloan heard the sound of powerful engines and felt the first stirrings of fear. He didn’t want to have contact with anyone … Especially drug runners. Fortunately, the kayak was so low in the water, it would be difficult to see. When the speedboat passed him, Sloan had to turn into its wake or run the risk of being capsized. As he completed the maneuver, a powerful spot came on, swept the surface of the water, and nailed him. The voice was amplified. “Levante sus manos—y mantenerlos allí!” (“Raise your hands—and keep them there!”)

Shit! Shit! Shit! Sloan dug his paddle into the water in a frantic attempt to escape. The light followed, and Sloan heard a burst of gunfire. Geysers of water shot up all around the kayak. Then there was a thump as a bullet passed through the hull. That left Sloan with no choice but to roll out as cold seawater flooded the kayak. Suddenly, the boat was there, looming above Sloan, as a black silhouette peered down. “Tirar los peces en. Vamos a ver lo que tenemos.” (“Pull the fish in. Let’s see what we have.”)

Sloan had no choice but to cooperate as strong hands reached down to pull him up. Sloan heard one of the men address the helmsman in English. “Hey, Bob… Turn the bow into the waves. She’s rolling like a pig.”

Sloan grabbed onto a seat as his feet hit the deck and the boat lurched. “Are you Americans?”

There was barely enough moonlight to see by. A man looked at him and grinned. “Hell no,” he said. “We’re Texans! Who are you?”

“My name is Sloan… Samuel T. Sloan, the United States Secretary of Energy.”

“Do you have ID to prove that?” the man inquired.

“No,” Sloan admitted. “It was in the kayak.”

“That’s one possibility,” the man agreed. “Or, and this seems more likely, you belong to a drug cartel. Cuff him, Hank.”

Sloan could see their uniforms by that time along with their disk-shaped badges. Texas Rangers perhaps? It didn’t matter. All he could do was allow himself to be chained to an eyebolt and wait for the nightmare to end.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, night surrendered to day—and Sloan spotted a smudge of land. The United States? Yes, he thought so, and felt a renewed sense of hope. After going ashore, the authorities would free him. With that out of the way, he’d contact his staff. Would the president want to speak with him? Probably… Then he’d call the assisted-care facility to check on his mother.

That’s what Sloan was thinking as the gunboat rounded the south end of Padre Island. Sloan had been there numerous times and knew the area well. The boat slowed as they neared the Coast Guard station.

Once the gunboat was moored, Sloan was escorted up a ramp to a one-story building. A woman with two children stared at him. That was when Sloan remembered his bushy beard, ripped clothes, and bare feet. None of which would add to his credibility.

After being led through the scrupulously clean lobby, and past a reception desk, Sloan was escorted down a hallway to the holding cells located in the back of the building. The civilian clerk laughed when Sloan said he was the Secretary of Energy but wrote it down anyway. Then it was time to answer questions pertaining to his criminal record, health, and identifying marks if any.

Once the booking process was complete, and mug shots had been taken, an officer placed Sloan in cell 002. The six-foot-by-six-foot enclosure was equipped with metal bunk beds, a freestanding toilet, and a small sink. What light there was came from the single fixture located over his head—and a narrow gun-slit-style window. He heard a clang as the door closed. “Hey, dude,” the man in the next cell called out. “You got a smoke?”

“No,” Sloan replied. “I don’t.”

“Then fuck you,” the man said. “I hope you die.” Sloan was home.

After a day of questioning by a variety of people, Sloan was given an airline-style personal-hygiene kit and allowed to shower and shave. Then he was required to don orange overalls that had the word PRISONER printed across the back. A pair of canvas slip-ons completed the outfit. After that, he was left in his cell to think and worry. Eventually, Sloan went to sleep. There were dreams… Lots of dreams. And all of them were bad.

When morning came, he received a breakfast that consisted of a cup of coffee, an orange, and some sort of egg McMuffin thing. He couldn’t get it down.

Shortly after breakfast, Sloan was removed from his cell and taken out through the front door. The Coast Guard station had a small helipad. And as Sloan was escorted along a walkway, he saw that the civilian version of a Huey was sitting on the concrete slab, with its rotors turning. Two men were waiting for him. Both wore Glocks, blue polo shirts, and khaki pants. Who were they? There was no way to know, as the man with the flattop and aviator-style shades pointed at the open door. “Get in!” He had to shout in order to be heard over the helo’s engine.