Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

Sloan looked over at him. “That’s gotta hurt.”

Allston’s eyes were on the road. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sloan nodded. “Got it.”

Allston had a map, which he gave to Sloan. “X marks the spot, Mr. President. We’ll walk from there.”

Sloan looked up from the map to the rain-smeared windshield. There were forests of oak trees, the occasional glimpse of a lake, and streams that flowed under the highway. About ten minutes passed before Sloan spotted what he was looking for. “There it is,” he said. “Walker Road. That’s where we turn right.”

Allston made the turn, and Sloan eyed the map. “Watch the odometer,” he advised. “We’re supposed to drive for ten miles and turn off onto a road marked by a large boulder.”

“Got it,” Allston replied. The gravel road forced him to keep the speed down, but it wasn’t long before they hit the ten-mile mark and saw a garage-sized boulder up ahead. And there, what looked like a wide path led off into the woods.

Allston turned onto it but the BMW had very little ground clearance, and it wasn’t long before he had to pull over and park. “This is as far as we can go,” he announced. “Everyone out.”

Once the trunk was open, Sloan got into the rain gear acquired the day before. Then he shouldered a pack. Allston did likewise. “I left the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition,” he said. “Who knows what the authorities will make of that.”

The next two hours were spent following trails that frequently split into more trails, forcing Sloan to repeatedly consult the hand-drawn map. Was it accurate? He hoped so because they were wasting a lot of time and effort if it wasn’t.

In spite of the rainy weather, others were out and about as well. Because according to the calendar, it was summer and time to go camping. Something the locals were determined to do regardless of the circumstances. The men exchanged greetings with other hikers as they continued to follow a succession of well-trod paths in a generally northeasterly direction.

The terrain, which had been flat to begin with, began to slope upwards as time passed. And Sloan could see a mountaintop ahead. Unlike most ranges in the United States, the Ouachitas ran east and west instead of north and south.

At one point, the Ouachitas had been as tall as the Rockies. But erosion had taken a toll over thousands of years, and once-craggy peaks had been reduced to softly rounded summits. And that’s what Sloan could see in the distance.

As they followed the map off a well-established trail, and up through stands of red, black, and white oak trees, Sloan saw some loblolly pines to one side, flanked by native shrubs. Sloan had begun to feel the climb by then. His breath came in gasps, his shoulders ached from the weight of the pack, and his boots felt as if they were made of lead. Allston was suffering, too. “How much farther?” he inquired, as they paused to rest.

Sloan consulted the map. “See the rockslide? And the cliff beyond? The cave is located at its base. Assuming we’re in the right place.”

“I hope we are,” Allston said fervently. “Let’s get moving.”

It took a long time to negotiate the rockslide. The scree was loose and had a tendency to slide, which forced the men to scramble. So a climb that should have taken half an hour lasted twice that long. But, eventually, they arrived at the top of the slope, where a cluster of pines marked the base of the cliff. “We’re there,” Sloan announced. “Or we should be. Come on.”

As Sloan led the way to the pines, he felt as if something, or someone, was watching him. And sure enough, when he looked up, Sloan saw an eagle circling above. “Put your hands on your head,” a voice said. “And turn around.”

The sentry had been hidden behind a pile of boulders. He was a middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses and an AR-15. It was aimed at Sloan and wavered slightly. “Don’t shoot him,” Allston said as he arrived. “He’s one of us.”

As the man turned to look at Allston, the assault rifle turned with him. That gave Sloan the perfect opportunity to pull the Glock and fire. And that, he realized, was the problem with a volunteer military force. Especially if they had to fight trained soldiers like the ones who’d gone over to the New Confederacy. “Reggie!” the man said enthusiastically. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Allston replied. “Sam… This is Frank Garrison. He’s a gentleman farmer, a cutthroat bridge player, and a stamp collector. And that’s why he wants to reconstitute the government. So there will be new stamps.”

Garrison chuckled and was careful to point his weapon at the sky as he came forward to shake Sloan’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam… Any friend of Reggie’s is a friend of mine.”

“The pleasure is mutual,” Sloan assured him while he shook a callused hand.

“The entrance is up there,” Garrison said as he removed a walkie-talkie from a pocket. “I’ll let ’em know that you’re coming.”

Sloan heard the sound of Garrison’s voice as Allston took the lead. The entrance to the cave was concealed by bushes that had clearly been planted there. A vertical crevice opened onto a passageway that led into the mountain. Sloan had to bend over to make his way forward—and felt the pack scrape on the ceiling as he did so.

The passageway delivered them into a dimly lit cave. What illumination there was came in through a hole in the roof combined with the light from a small fire and two battery-powered lanterns. They threw shadows onto the wall as people gathered around.

Allston was quite popular, as evidenced by hugs and the enthusiastic manner in which the others received him. Then it was time for introductions. Cindy Howell presented herself as a marathon runner, a high school science teacher, and a future bomb maker. Sloan got the feeling she was looking forward to blowing things up.

Lester Jenkins was AWOL from his job as a deputy sheriff. The combination of brown skin and light blue eyes made his face memorable—and Sloan marked him down as a man who would be useful in a fight.

Sam McKinney was the strong, silent type, who, according to Allston, had spent eight years in the army and left it to care for his gravely ill wife. It wasn’t clear what happened thereafter—but his presence seemed to speak volumes.

Doyle Besom was fortysomething, at least twenty pounds overweight, and wore his hair Ben Franklin–style. He’d been a public-relations manager before leaving his job to join the patriots.

Finally, there was Marsha Rostov who introduced herself as Deputy Commissioner of the IRS. She was short, dumpy, and had eyes like lasers. Sloan knew the type. He figured Rostov for a professional bureaucrat who, thanks to hard work and political acumen, had risen as high as one could go without being a political appointee.

And while it was tempting to dismiss her based on appearances, Sloan knew that could be a costly mistake. It was reasonable to assume that Rostov knew everything there was to know about collecting taxes, and the government was going to need money. Where was the commissioner anyway? Dead or alive? Sloan did his best to turn on the charm. “Ms. Rostov! This is a pleasure. I know the commissioner… Did she survive the strike on D.C.?”

“It’s hard to be sure,” Rostov replied cautiously, “but there hasn’t been any word of her. Have we met? You look familiar.”

“And that brings me to Sam’s status,” Allston interjected smoothly. “I forgot to mention the fact that he was the Secretary of Energy back on May 1. And, in the wake of President Wainwright’s death, that makes him President of the United States.”

Rostov blinked. “Holy shit… Really?”