Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

Short Guy hit the release on his seat belt and stood. The reason for that wasn’t clear, but it gave Sloan an idea. What happened next was more the result of an impulse than careful planning. Short Guy was framed in the door as Sloan hit his release and charged forward. The maneuver wouldn’t have been possible with Flattop. He was too tall. But Short Guy was short… And that made it possible for Sloan to bring his handcuffed hands down over the security officer’s head. Then, with Shorty trapped in his arms, Sloan threw himself out through the open door.

A multitude of thoughts flashed through his mind. Hang on to him! He has the key to the cuffs! Pray for water… I don’t have time to pray… Then they hit, and hit hard. The force of the fall drove both men deep under the surface of the water.

Sloan’s eyes were open, but the swamp water was so thick with vegetable matter that he couldn’t see. Short Guy was struggling by then, and no wonder… While Sloan had known what was coming and taken a deep breath, the other man hadn’t. That’s why he was flailing around.

Of course, Sloan needed air, too… How long could he hold out? Long enough to kill the security officer? Sloan pulled the handcuffs tight under Shorty’s chin and pulled back. A sharp elbow connected with Sloan’s gut, and a large gulp of precious air was lost. A man was going to die. But which one?

SOUTH OF YAKIMA, WASHINGTON

It was a cold, wintry day in August as the convoy rolled onto Highway 82 and the soldiers began the thousand-mile journey to Arizona. The Humvee was out on point, about half a mile forward of the other vehicles, and Garcia was behind the wheel. Mac sat next to him, with Sparks and Kho in the back.

Mac had no way to know what they were feeling—but her emotions were evenly divided between excitement and fear. On the one hand, it felt good to do something, anything , after such a long period of relative inactivity. The decision to leave Vagabond hadn’t been made lightly.

After giving the matter a lot of thought, Mac had concluded that it didn’t make sense to remain at the airfield while their supplies dwindled away to nothing. So she’d called a meeting. It was held in a hangar and, with the exception of those on guard duty, the entire unit was present. “Here’s the deal,” she told them. “Gangs are in charge of JBLM, we’re still cut off, and the locals are likely to take another run at us pretty soon.

“Rather than sit here and wait for that to happen, I think we should go south where, according to what the ham radio operators have to say, the weather is a little warmer. Plus there’s a pretty good chance that we’ll be able to acquire additional supplies along the way.

“Will such a trip be easy? Hell no. Will we make it to Arizona? I think so… But there aren’t any guarantees. Do you have to go? No. Anyone who would like to leave the unit and go their own way is free to do so. I will provide you with written orders that might or might not shield you from charges if you happen to encounter the real army somewhere.

“But be advised that the officer in command could charge you with desertion… And that goes for those who follow me—since we’ll be acting without orders.

“Finally,” Mac said, “I want to make it clear that if you remain with the unit, military discipline will continue to apply. Because without it, we will lose unit cohesion and the ability to fight effectively. And make no mistake, we will have to fight. Do you have any questions?”

There were questions. Lots of them. And when the three-hour session came to a close, four people decided to go looking for loved ones while the rest chose to stay. And they, plus a handful of dependents, like Dr. Hoskins’s wife, were aboard the column of vehicles that was following the Humvee.

Mac’s thoughts were interrupted as the Apache roared overhead. Peters and Omata were under orders to scout ahead—and provide air support if necessary. But only for short periods of time. Evans had been able to “requisition” three tankers… But only one of them was carrying JP8 for the helicopter. So the pilots had orders to conserve fuel by landing short of Kennewick, Washington, and the National Guard armory located there. Had it been looted? There was only one way to find out.

Meanwhile, the situation on Highway 82 was what Mac expected it to be. There wasn’t a whole lot of car traffic. But motorcycles whizzed by from time to time, bicyclists weaved in and out between the wrecks, and heavily laden pedestrians were a common sight. A man on a John Deere lawn mower passed them half an hour into the journey. He waved, and Mac waved back. Most people were less friendly. They needed help and weren’t getting any.

Columns of gray smoke wafted up from modest homes to merge with low-hanging clouds as they passed the town of Union Gap. The smoke was a sure sign that the power was out, and the locals were burning wood to stay warm.

But that wasn’t all… Many houses had been fortified, or were in the process of being fortified, which suggested that crime was on the rise.

What would society be like in six months? Mac wondered. And how would her unit survive? “Flyby-One to Archer-Six,” Peters said. “Over.”

“This is Six,” Mac replied. “Go. Over.”

“We just flew over Sunnyside. The highway is clear for the most part although there are a lot of wrecks, and an IED could be hidden in any one of them. Over.”

“Roger that Flyby… Anything else? Over.”

“There’s one thing,” Peters replied. “A lot of pedestrians are walking south on 82… And more people join them at each ramp. Oh, and most are wearing white.”

Mac thought about that before pressing the TRANSMIT button. “How many constitutes ‘a lot’? Over.”

“Hundreds,” Peters answered. “Maybe a thousand in all. Over.”

“Keep me informed,” Mac said. “Over.”

Peters delivered a double click by way of a reply.

It wasn’t long before Mac began to see the people Peters had mentioned. That was when she realized that they’d been there all along, hiking down the highway in small groups and wearing white. Not from head to toe… But by way of a headband, a scarf, or a waist sash. And most of them were armed.

So what was she looking at? A pilgrimage of some sort? And did it represent a threat? The obvious answer was “yes,” as more people poured onto 82, and the Humvee became an island in a river of humanity. “What do you think?” Kho demanded. “Should I go upstairs and get on the fifty?”

“No,” Mac replied. “Not yet anyway. We’ll go with the flow for the moment.”

Mac examined her map. The Columbia River ran east to west up ahead. If they stayed on the freeway, they could cross it south of Kennewick near Umatilla, Oregon. But where were the pilgrims headed? The city of Kennewick seemed like the most likely answer, but it was never a good idea to assume anything.

Mac turned to Kho. “When I tell Garcia to stop, I want you to get out and gather some intel. Chat with some pilgrims. Find out where they’re headed and why. Go with her, Sparks… And stay within a hundred feet of the Humvee.”

Both of them nodded, and Kho said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Mac ordered Garcia to stop so the soldiers could get out. Then she went topside where she could keep an eye on them and fire the fifty should it come to that. Fortunately, it didn’t. The soldiers returned ten minutes later, and Mac left the gunner’s position to hear Kho’s report. “They belong to what sounds like a cult,” the observer reported. “A woman called the Lady of Light is in charge and gets her orders from a group of so-called space masters.