Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

Sloan had no choice but to get in. The interior was set up to transport cargo—but fold-down seats were bolted to the bulkheads. Once he was seated, the second guard was there to secure his seat belt. The helicopter took off two minutes later. There weren’t any doors. That meant that the slipstream could enter the cabin and pummel Sloan’s face. He turned to the man with the flattop. “Where are we going?”

When the man smiled, his lips pulled away from a set of teeth that were shaped like white tombstones. Then he held a finger up to his lips as if to shush a child. That was that.

Time crawled by. Sloan could see out through the starboard door, but there wasn’t much to look at. Just the dull gray water of the gulf, a few fishing boats, and an occasional glimpse of an oil rig in the hazy distance. The monotony combined with the drone of the engine put Sloan to sleep. And when he awoke, it was to see verdant vegetation below. Trees mostly, but marsh grass, too, and lots of water. Freshwater from the looks of it—that filled lakes, ponds, and hundreds of serpentine channels. A swamp! They were flying over a swamp… But where ? The southeast corner of Texas seemed most likely since it was only a few hours from Padre Island, and the sun was behind them.

A flock of birds took to the air as the helicopter lost altitude and skimmed the treetops. Sloan couldn’t see what lay directly ahead. But as the helo entered into a wide turn, an oil rig appeared. The blocky superstructure was three stories high and sitting on a steel barge. Though barely legible, the name HUXTON OIL could be read on the side of the rig, and that was interesting—since the Texas-based company was one of the largest in the world. Or had been anyway. Judging from how rusty all the running gear was, the derrick mounted on the bow hadn’t been used in a long time.

Such were Sloan’s thoughts as the Huey settled onto the circular pad affixed to the barge’s stern. “Get out,” Flattop shouted, as he pointed at the door.

Sloan pressed the release on his seat belt and stood. Two women stood waiting on the cluttered deck. Both had black hair, dark skin, and were dressed in blue overalls. One held a Taser barrel up, with her index finger resting on the trigger guard. “Welcome aboard, Secretary Sloan,” she said. “Please follow Molly… Mr. Godbee wants to meet you.”

Sloan took note. They knew his name! Finally… But why was he being held against his will? Out in the middle of a swamp? Hopefully, Godbee would tell him.

Sloan had no choice but to follow Molly under a platform, past a blowout preventer, and up a set of steel stairs to the deck above. A walkway gave access to a large office, which was surprisingly clean and tidy.

A man rose from his desk and came forward to meet Sloan. He had a limp, which forced him to use a tree-root-style cane. His clothing consisted of a tasteful Hawaiian shirt and white slacks. “Welcome to the Belle Marie , Secretary Sloan… It’s a strange name, don’t you think? This rig was never pretty. My name is Walter Godbee, and I’m in charge here. You can remove Mr. Sloan’s cuffs, Molly. Please don’t do anything unpleasant, Mr. Sloan… Lucy doesn’t like troublemakers.” Sloan looked at Lucy. The Taser was still in her hand.

“Understood,” Sloan said, as the cuffs came off. “So why am I here?”

Godbee smiled. “This is a repository of sorts. A place where individuals like yourself can be stored.”

“By Huxton Oil?”

Godbee shrugged. “What difference does it make? You’re here, and you’re going to remain here, and that’s what matters. My staff and I will do what we can to make your stay tolerable. As for you ? Well, I suggest that you consider the serenity prayer by Reinhold Niebuhr: ‘God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’ And this, Mr. Sloan, is something that you cannot change. Take Mr. Sloan to his cabin, ladies. I’m sure he’d like to shower after his journey. Oh, and Mr. Sloan… Don’t waste your time trying to seduce Molly or Lucy. They play for the other team.”

Sloan followed Molly out of the office and up another flight of stairs, to the third deck. From there, it was a short trip to the hatch labeled CABIN 3.

The mechanism on the outside surface of the hatch was common to larger vessels that had watertight doors. It consisted of a wheel and four spoke-like “dogs” or rods that could extend to hold the slab of steel firmly in place. The chances of breaking out? Zero.

Molly turned the wheel, waited for the dogs to clear, and pulled the door open. Then she stood to one side, so Sloan could enter. The cabin was nicer than he had expected. The bulkheads were covered with light green paint. The full-sized bed was nicely made and topped with two large pillows. There was an easy chair, too… And a side table. A small bathroom could be seen through an open door.

“Your dinner will arrive at six,” Lucy told him. “I hope you like fish.” And with that, the women withdrew. Sloan heard a series of clanking sounds, followed by near silence.

The cabin boasted a single curtain-covered window. Sloan went over to peer out. He could see bars and mangrove trees beyond. Okay, he thought to himself. I’ll find another way to escape. The next fifteen minutes were spent exploring the nooks and crannies of his cabin. There were two orange jumpsuits in the dresser, both of which had the word PRISONER on the back and would make it that much more difficult to evade capture should he manage to escape. No, when he escaped.

A radio was sitting on the table next to the chair, and it worked! That meant he could listen to the news once he managed to find some. The only station he could get was playing country-western music at the moment. Where were the rest? Off the air as a result of the meteor impacts? Maybe.

A closer inspection of the bathroom turned up a set of toiletries, and that led him into the shower, where he spent ten glorious minutes under a powerful stream of hot water. Sloan felt clean and reinvigorated as he put a fresh jumpsuit on. He was about to fiddle with the radio when the hatch opened.

Molly entered first. She was carrying a linen-covered tray. Lucy came next with the Taser at the ready. She was about five-eight or so, and in good shape. But Sloan had four inches on her and was in tip-top condition after weeks of paddling. So, if he could get behind Lucy, Sloan felt sure that he could take her down. Will take her down, he told himself. And soon, too.

After placing the meal on the table, Molly withdrew. That was Lucy’s cue to back out through the door. There was a metallic clang as the hatch closed.

The catfish dinner was excellent, but it went largely unappreciated because of the newspapers that had been delivered with it. There was a week-old copy of the New York Times , complete with coffee stains, and a two-day-old copy of the Dallas Morning News . Sloan read both of them from front to back as he hoovered up every scrap of information he could get. And that included the ads because the kinds of goods and services being offered made their own statement about postimpact America. Cold-weather clothing was popular… As were Mason jars, tools, and backup generators.

Tears ran down Sloan’s cheeks as he read the latest assessment of what it would take to rebuild Washington, D.C. Had his mother been killed? Probably. And his staffers? Yes… Unless they’d been on vacation or something. And the president! He was dead, along with thousands of other government officials. The vice president had survived though… and, according to the New York Times , was hard at work trying to get the nation back on its feet.