Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga (47 page)

“Come with me, Mr. Huntley,” the Captain said through clenched teeth as he walked past, reaching for his rifle.

Chad grabbed his lever action Henry from where it was leaning against the helicopter and followed Captain Alston.
 
He avoided the dangerous looks from the pilots and skirted their little group.
 
He saw the Captain making a bee-line for the rather small-looking control tower on the other side of the runway.
 
There were two other white-clad Rangers making their way along the sides of storage hangers, all converging on the tower.

By the time he caught up with the others, the confrontation had already started: “
Hands in the air!
 
Now!
” roared Deuce’s tinny voice.

Chad heard Captain Alston’s voice as next man on the scene.
 
“
Sir, drop that weapon unless you want to be buried with it
.”

As he approached the corner of the control tower, Sergeant Fryer, the one the Rangers called “Tuck”, motioned for Chad to stay next to him. The two of them then cautiously moved around the opposite side of the tower in order to approach from behind the individual the Captain was confronting.
 
Chad could hear a faint, mostly inaudible though heated conversation over his headset—but the man Captain Alston was addressing was just too far away for Chad to understand what he was saying.
           

“Be that as it may, sir, you don’t have much of a choice here.
 
Drop that weapon or we
will
drop
you,” was Captain Alston’s reply. “
Sir, we’re both Americans, and I have no wish to do you harm—believe me, I have bigger fish to fry
.”

“
Moving into position,” whispered Tuck.
 
He nodded at Chad to stay put.
 
Tuck then trotted across a walkway to a corner of a nearby supply building.
 
Chad, now in sole possession of the control tower, risked a quick look around the corner saw Deuce with his rifle aimed squarely at the chest of an old man holding a shotgun.
 
The old man was aiming at Captain Alston’s stomach and appeared to have no fear at all.

“Look here, son, you ain’t proved one damn thing to me.
 
For all I know you could be some damn Russian sent in with them Gooks.
 
I was in Grenada, ’83—the Commies threw a lot of shit at us, but did I run?
 
Hell no.
 
Some kids with their little pop-guns don’t scare me, Jack.”

Chad acted before the rational part of his mind could scream ‘what the hell are you doing?’, a sentiment that matched the look on Tuck’s grimy face when he saw Chad step around the corner.
 
He racked the lever on his Henry.
 
The sound was loud as it echoed between the tower and the supply building.

The bearded old man turned and spotted Chad approaching with his Henry held casually at hip-level.
 
“How about
this
one, old timer?”

The gray-beard grinned, showing a few missing teeth.
 
“Well I’ll be.
 
A Henry lever-action.
 
Ain’t seen one of them in a coon’s age.
 
Octagonal barrel.”
 
He nodded toward Chad.
 
“That in .308?”

Over the old man’s shoulder, Chad could see Captain Alston signal his Rangers to stand down and lower rifles.
 
He grinned and nodded at Chad to keep going.

“No sir, it’s .45-70,” replied Chad.
 

“Ah…” the old man said wistfully.
 
“My daddy had one when I was growin’ up.”
 
He reached a hand out.
 
“May I?”

When he noticed the older man begin to drop the barrel on the shotgun, he lowered his as well.
 
He turned the rifle away and offered it forward.
 
The old man held the Henry reverently and examined the bluing on the barrel, the walnut stock and polished brass lever, the corners worn smooth with use.

“This here’s a real man’s gun, son.
 
Not them rapid fire pop-guns your soldier friends got.
 
Ain’t no Commie-bastard I heard of would carry one of these.”
 
He nodded to himself and handed the rifle back.
 
“Mmmhmmm, that’s a fine gun you got there, Jack.
 
Damn
fine.
 
Does me good to see one again.”
 
He turned around to face the Captain and Deuce, who had swung their rifles behind them now on tactical slings.
 

“All right, hey, I suppose you fellers can land.”

Captain Alston nodded gravely.
 
“Thank you, sir,” he said with a smile.

“Still, I think I could’ve taken you young-pups down a notch—or at least slowed you down some,” the old man continued, as if he hadn’t heard the Captain’s reply.
 
“You got some real pretty choppers out there, Jack.
 
I woulda given my left nut for a few of those back in the jungle.
 
Damn Commies woulda shit their pants if they’d a seen one
them
bad boys let loose on ‘em, yes sir!” the old man whooped, pointing at one of the Apaches.

Captain Alston smiled broadly.
 
“Hammer 2, stand down.
 
Secure the perimeter and make sure the pilots are ready...”
 
He stepped forward and shook hands with the old man.
 

“I’m Captain Derek Alston—”

“Army?”

“Yes, sir, Rangers.”

The old man nodded again as he shook Captain Alston’s hand.
 
“Name’s Greg Dixon.
 
I was lance corporal in the 8th MEU back in the day.”

“Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, what the hell are you doing out here, by yourself?”

The old man sighed. “Well, Jack, money’s tight now,” he shook his head and scratched behind one ear.
 
“Look here, with all the flu scare comin’ back, I offered my services to guard the airport for a while.
 
I had the damn Blue Flu, see?
 
So I figure I’m safe now.
 
Anyway…most folks are scared to travel now but someone needs to watch over their expensive toys.
 
So here I am.
 
Now that I heard the damn Koreans are pushing east−”

“How did you hear that?” asked Captain Alston quickly.

“Oh, soon as I figured I’d be out here by myself a while, I rigged up my HAM gear,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the control tower.
 
“Free power and a hulluva antenna setup, yes-sir-ee,” he said with a chuckle.
 
Just as quickly as the laugh came, it disappeared.
 

“Press ain’t said shit about the invasion, but HAMs been spreading the word now for anyone who’ll listen.”
 
He shook his head sadly.
 
“Them slant-eyed sonsabitches…They’ve damn near conquered L.A., burned a whole slew of towns to the ground up the coast, and marched straight into Spokane not too long ago.
 
Lot a people dying all over the place, Jack, but the worst seems to be L.A. and up here.
 
No one knows why they’d attack now, what with the super-flu killin’ people left and right.
 
Idiots.”
 
He spat into the gravel at his feet.
 
“I tell ya, North Korea: land of the cheap sliding-doors and even cheaper slant-eyed whores.”
 
The gray-bearded old man laughed at his own joke and slapped a thigh.

“Son of a bitch,” said Deuce as he shouldered his rifle.

“You can say that again, Jack,” said Dixon, pointing a craggy finger at the big Ranger.
 
“What none of them HAMs can figure is, why.
 
There ain’t no secret bases or anything in Spokane, Washington, fer cryin’ out loud.
 
The hell they want with us anyway?
 
They just had a need to get rid of an army?
 
Gotta figure all their boys’ll be dead from the flu within the week, anyway, am I right?”
 
He shook his head again.
 
“Ain’t no sense in that, Jack, none at all.”

“They took Spokane?” asked Chad, his voice a mere whisper.

“Son,” said the old man, placing a fatherly-hand on Chad’s arm.
 
“Don’t you know there’s a war on?
 
Why the hell you want to go to Spokane?”

“They took out the CDC facility,” said Captain Alston sadly.
 
He glanced from Chad to Dixon.
 
“That’s where we were trying to go…”

Chad slumped his shoulders and leaned against the control tower.
 
“Because of me.
 
They were trying to get my blood to the labs there so they could make a vaccine for the flu.
 
The CDC did that ten years ago.”

The old man shook his head, his unkempt, gray hair making a halo around his head. “Well, I don’t know nothing about that.
 
But from what I hear, Charlie’s got Spokane under wraps.
 
I don’t think you’ll be going there, son.”
 
He nodded absently toward Captain Alston, “Rangers and choppers or not.
 
There’s just too many of ‘em, boys.
 
Same story back East, only it’s Russians, Germans, and Italians.”
 
The old man spat his contempt.

Captain Alston stood still, lost in thought for a moment, looking right over the old man’s head.
 
Chad felt himself slide down the wall until he was squatting on the ground, his rifle between his legs. He leaned his head forward until his forehead rested against the cold steel of the Henry’s barrel.
 
He was so tired.
 

Days of running from the North Koreans in Glacier National park, hiding in the way station, hiking through the blizzard, the ambush at the landing site, finding out about Atlanta and the flu and now an invasion…it was all too much.
 
He just wanted to sleep and wake up to find it was all just a bad dream.

“Well, that settles it,” Captain Alston said.
 
He keyed his mic: “Zuka, tell the pilots to refuel and get ready to leave.”

“Roger that
,
” the voice was tinny, but clear.

“Now listen here, Jack—they pay me to guard this place and I don’t think I can just let you take all the gas…”

“Sir,” said Captain Alston in a deadly serious tone, “Our country is being invaded by North Korean forces.
 
And the United Nations—whether anyone in Washington or the Press want to call it that or not.
 
The President—the real one—is under siege in Los Angeles and my sister is with him.”
 
He struggled to regain his composure and when he spoke next, it was through clenched teeth.

“The Vice President has seized power and is giving away entire cities to foreign troops.
 
The Koreans have been on our ass for three days now and we have a classic, royal, cluster-fuck of a situation on our hands.
 
Without a comm-link to HQ, we are totally on our own.”
 
He turned around, looking at the airfield and rubbing the back of his head angrily.

“My last orders were to get Mr. Huntley here,” he said with a gesture toward Chad, “to the CDC, then get my ass back to my commanding officer and take the fight to the enemy.
 
The only commander I know about right now is my Commander in Chief, who’s sick with the flu and being chased by an army of North Korean soldiers.”

Captain Alston took a breath and continued in a calmer but more ominous tone.
 
“I have at my disposal one group of badass Rangers and,” the tall Ranger waved an arm toward the airfield where the Apaches were clumped together.
 
“A few of some of the most lethal aircraft ever created.
 
I am not going to sit on my thumb and cry.
 
I intend to fight back. And I will
not
be stopped in my mission, Mr. Dixon.
 
So.
 
You have two options.”

The crusty old man cocked a bushy, gray eyebrow, hooked his thumbs under his belt and rocked back on his heels, clearly unimpressed.
 
He sucked his lip thoughtfully and seemed to chew a non-existent plug of tobacco.

“One: you give me the aviation fuel I require to complete my mission and help me bring some pain to the Koreans…”

Dixon nodded sagely and puckered his lips, watching the ground at Captain Alston’s feet.

“Two: I
take
it.
 
I would rather not have to do that, one veteran to another.
 
But understand me, sir, there is nothing on God’s green earth that is going to stop me from reaching the President—the legitimate President—and my baby sister.”

Dixon rubbed his chin, seemingly lost in thought.
 
He scratched an ear and examined his fingers for earwax.
 
Finally he looked up at Captain Alston and squinted.
 
“Sounds fair enough, Jack.
 
Since you put it that way…”
 
The old man fished around in one of his pockets.
 
“Here’s the keys to the avi-fuel. Take what you need, boys.
 
Give my regards to Charlie, willya?”