Into the Guns (4 page)

After that, the column crept through the maze of stalled cars, RVs, and trucks that littered the highway—until it arrived at the junction with I-90 northbound. Even though the communities on the east side of Lake Washington could lay claim to businesses of their own, Microsoft's campus in Redmond being a good example, the suburbs north and south of the freeway owed their existence to Seattle. And prior to the impact, many of the people who lived on the east side had been forced to make the difficult commute across one of two floating bridges each day. How many of them had been trapped downtown? Or been killed in the aftermath? Thousands at the very least.

The population began to thin as they passed through the town of North Bend and entered the foothills beyond. And, because there were fewer wrecks to deal with, there was less work for the ESV's driver to do. So as Mac's platoon began to pick up speed, they were able to get out in front of the column, where they were supposed to be.

Vehicles passed going in the opposite direction every now and then. Traffic consisted of motorcycles for the most part, but there were cars and RVs, too. People who were trying to hook up with their families—or folks who'd been caught on the east side of the mountains when the poop hit the fan. Maybe they'd be happy to return home, and maybe they wouldn't. Some waved, and Mac waved back. Thickly treed slopes began to press in from the right and left, and snowcapped peaks appeared in the distance. They were tall and stood shoulder to shoulder, as if to bar all further progress, and their flanks were bare where rockslides kept the native evergreens from growing. Mac had been taught to fear such places because of
the possibility that enemies could fire down on her Strykers. That seemed highly unlikely in this case—but even the remote possibility of such a thing made her feel uncomfortable.

The road curved back and forth as it crisscrossed the Snoqualmie River and continued to gain altitude. And they were about ten miles east of North Bend when they came to a line of cars and the bridge beyond. Or what
had
been a bridge before the earthquakes dumped 70 percent of it into the river below. The ESV came to a stop, as did one-two, and Mac was happy to exit the Stryker and stretch her legs.

Motorists who had been stalled there hurried over to see what the soldiers were going to do, and Mac sent Evans to explain. A short walk took her to the point where she could see white water breaking around the crumpled remains of a sixteen-wheeler and a fully submerged SUV. There was no way in hell that the Strykers or the buses would be able to cross what remained of the span.

The westbound lanes of I-90 were another matter, however. They rested on their own bridge, which, for reasons unknown, remained intact. So Mac sent soldiers over to force westbound traffic into the right-hand lane. That freed the ESV's driver to doze a path across the median. Once that task was complete, it was a relatively simple matter for him to drive the ESV across the bridge, angle over, and reconnect with I-90 eastbound.

The buses would have to proceed slowly, as would the civilian cars that were waiting to follow, but they would make it. The convoy caught up with the recon platoon just as the second crossover was completed. Hollister thanked the first platoon for doing a great job—and Mac couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

Had it been possible, Hollister would have ordered the column to drive all the way across Snoqualmie Pass without stopping to rest. But it was well past 1400 by then, and his civilian charges
were not only hungry but in dire need of a bio break. Not to mention the fact that three of the buses were experiencing mechanical problems. So like it or not, Hollister had to call a stop and chose the Bandera State Airport as the place to do so.

Bandera wasn't much as airstrips go, even emergency airports, which it was. The two parallel runways were convenient, however, since they were close to I-90 and would allow the column to park in a tidy line. Not a good idea in a combat environment—but okay for the situation they found themselves in. Mac was appalled by what she saw as one-two followed the ESV onto the airstrip. Wreckage was strewn the entire length of the southern runway—and the remains of a two-engine plane could be seen at its far end. A commuter flight perhaps? On its way to or from Spokane? Something like that. Perhaps it was in the air when the meteor exploded. And maybe the shock wave or the airborne dust forced the pilots to attempt an emergency landing.

Whatever the reason, the landing hadn't gone well—and Mac could see bodies scattered around as Evans drove east. “Sergeant Kallas, take your people out and cover those bodies,” Mac instructed. “The kids on our buses have seen enough bad things today. Let's use the ESV to scoop out a grave.”

Meanwhile, MREs were unloaded from the trailers, and people fanned out to find places where they could sit and eat. A few complained about the food but not many. Food was scarce, and the evacuees knew it. Some could be seen stashing meal components in pockets.

The mechanics attached to Archer Company were able to fix a couple of buses. But the process consumed twice the amount of time that Hollister had allotted—and it was 16:35 by the time the convoy got under way again. A bus that the mechanics hadn't been able to repair was left behind.

After that, it was a matter of following the steep road up through a succession of curves toward the ski area located at the top of Snoqualmie Pass. Some of the heavily loaded buses, especially those on loan from the Tacoma School District, had a difficult time of it. That reduced the convoy's progress to little more than a crawl.

The air was getting colder, and it had started to snow. Not just a little, but a lot, as they passed the skeletal ski lifts and began the trip down the east side. Getting that far was a major accomplishment. And as the waters of Lake Keechelus came into view on the right, Mac was beginning to think that they'd make it to Cle Elum by nightfall. Steep cliffs rose to the left of one-two as the road rounded the north end of the lake and turned south.

Boulders, loosened by the succession of tremors, lay scattered on the surface of the road. The ESV could push the smaller ones out of the way—but heavy equipment would be required to move the big boys. Fortunately, there was sufficient room to drive around or between them. Mac felt someone tap her on the leg and looked down to see Private Adams's boyish countenance looking up at her. “Coffee, ma'am,” he said. “Just the way you like it.”

Mac said, “Thank you,” and was reaching for the metal mug when the Stryker began to pitch and roll. Adams fell sideways, and Mac was forced to grab both sides of the hatch for support. That was when she realized that she was feeling the effects of an earthquake. Mac was still in the process of absorbing this when Hollister shouted over the radio. “Rockslide! Coming down on us! Gun your engines!” Mac looked straight up and waited to die.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

—CHINESE PHILOSOPHER LAOZI

TAMPICO, MEXICO

United States Secretary of Energy Samuel T. Sloan was standing on the uncertain surface of a floating solar farm as the meteor shower fell. Sloan, along with a delegation of Mexican officials, was on the raft to symbolically throw the switch that would send a surge of solar-generated electricity to the east coast city of Tampico a couple of miles away.

The purpose of the project was to provide the town with a source of renewable energy, help revitalize the crime-ridden community, and strengthen the often testy relationship between the United States and Mexico. And the fact that most of the equipment involved had been manufactured in California didn't hurt. So that's what Sloan was doing when the meteor flashed overhead. It was brighter than the sun and traveling so fast that it broke the sound barrier. The resulting boom was loud enough to be heard from miles away.

The object was visible for only a few seconds before it disappeared over the eastern horizon. Then the officials saw a flash and heard what sounded like a
second
clap of thunder. That was followed by an upwelling of
what
? Steam? Sloan wasn't sure. But one thing was for sure . . . One helluva big wave could be coming their way, and Sloan didn't plan to be standing on the solar farm when it arrived. And judging from the speed with which the Mexicans were boarding their patrol boat, they shared his concern. Sloan turned to his sole bodyguard, an ex–special ops type named Brody. “Let's haul ass.” A blast of hot air hit the farm, causing the rafts to rock back and forth. Sloan struggled to remain upright.

Brody had a full face and was one size too large for his tan suit. “Roger that . . . Follow me.” Brody was out of shape, but he knew his stuff, and rather than allow Sloan to travel on the navy patrol boat with the Mexican officials, the contractor had insisted that they have transportation of their own. The fiberglass fishing boat wasn't fancy, but it was equipped with a
huge
outboard, the kind that could be used to run drugs when its owner needed some extra cash.

The Mexicans were casting off when the fisherman started his engine and, under orders from Brody, opened the throttle all the way. Sloan was forced to hang on as the narrow hull cut a straight line through the water and left the larger craft behind.

As Sloan looked back, he saw that an ominous-looking cloud was spreading across the eastern sky even though it was still sunny in Tampico. Sloan was starting to question his own judgment. What would Mexico's Secretary of Energy think about the haste with which the
norteamericano
had fled? A Televisa news crew had been present to tape the ceremony. Would they play footage of Sloan speeding away? And would CNN get ahold of it? Should that happen, Sloan would be held up to ridicule, and that would reflect on the president.

That was what Sloan was thinking as the fisherman reduced power, the boat slid in through light surf, and Brody fished a wad of money out of his pocket. “Here,” he said, as he gave the fisherman a fifty.
“Muchas gracias.”

If the fisherman was grateful, there was no sign of it on his sun-darkened face as he killed the engine. Sloan heard a whining noise as the prop left the water and the bow slid up onto the wet sand. A gang of boys ran out to steady it. “Let's haul ass!” Brody said as he vaulted over the side. “If a wave comes, there's no telling how far inland it will go.”

Sloan jumped over the side and followed Brady up the mostly empty beach. The big man was nearly out of breath by the time they made it to the street. A black SUV was waiting for them twenty feet away from a dilapidated taco stand.

Had Sloan been the Secretary of State, the vehicle would have been guarded by a team of people from the Diplomatic Security Service. But the Secretary of Energy didn't rate that kind of protection—so Brody had been forced to hire a vehicle and driver from the local limo company. It had tinted windows and was extremely shiny. “Stay back,” Brody instructed, as he slipped a hand into his jacket.

As Brody went to inspect the vehicle, Sloan took a moment to scan his surroundings. Tampico had been a burgeoning tourist town a few years earlier. But that was before two drug cartels began to fight over it. Citizens were assassinated in broad daylight, grenades were thrown into crowded bars, and the population of three hundred thousand lived in fear

Sloan turned just as Brody pulled the SUV's back door open and was thrown backwards by a blast from a shotgun. Brody's body hit the street with a thump, and he lay there staring sightlessly into the sun. Sloan stood frozen in place as a man with long black
hair got out of the SUV. He was dressed in a neon-pink shirt, black trousers, and silver-toed cowboy boots. A pair of empty shell casings popped out of the double-barreled weapon and fell to the ground as he broke the shotgun open.
“Buenos días, Señor Sloan,”
the man said conversationally. “Get in the truck.”

The bastard knew his name! It was a kidnapping then . . . What would a high-ranking American official be worth? Nothing really, since the government wouldn't pay, but maybe the Tampico cowboy wasn't aware of that. Or maybe he knew and didn't believe it.

All of that flashed through Sloan's mind, followed by the impulse to run. He circled the SUV in an attempt to use it for cover. Then he took off. Thanks to the adrenaline in Sloan's bloodstream, plus the fact that he was a competitive runner, he got off to a fast start. His goal was to put as much distance between himself and the man with the shotgun as he could. Maybe the Tampico cowboy would hold his fire. After all, what good is a dead hostage? Unless . . .

Sloan felt the pellets strike his back a fraction of a second before he heard the BOOM. He stumbled, caught his balance, and continued to run. Sloan had grown up on a farm in Nebraska and, like all farm boys, knew a thing or two about shotguns. The fact that the man in the pink shirt was firing birdshot, rather than buckshot, meant he had a chance. Especially after sixty feet or so, when the spread produced by the short-barreled weapon would grow even wider.

As if to prove that point, the cowboy fired again—and if any of the shotgun pellets struck Sloan, he didn't feel them. He was running west on the Avenida Álvaro Obregón. The thoroughfare consisted of two lanes divided by a median. Shabby stores lined both sides of the street where they waited for tourists who were unlikely to appear. But where
were
the shop owners? Gone. And no wonder . . . A man with a shotgun was chasing a gringo . . . Why hang around?

Sloan spotted some taller buildings up ahead and forced himself
to run faster. He didn't dare look back over his shoulder because that might cause him to break stride. He could hear the roar of an engine though—and knew his pursuers were about to catch up.

Sloan was desperate to get off the street, so he made a sharp left and ran toward an open doorway. Then, as he slipped into the shadowy interior, Sloan realized he was inside what had been a shopping arcade back before the gangs seized control of the city. A dry fountain marked the center of the inner courtyard, and a frozen escalator led to the floors above. Sloan took the trash-covered stairs two at a time.

He stepped onto the walkway that circled the second floor, and when sunlight touched his face, Sloan looked up to see blue sky through a hole in the roof. Then, worried about what the Tampico cowboy was up to, Sloan hurried over to a shop on the north side of the building.

The inside walls were covered with graffiti, drug paraphernalia lay scattered about, and the single window was open. As Sloan looked down, he saw that the SUV was parked out front. The cowboy was standing next to the vehicle, staring east.
Why?

Sloan turned his head to the right, where he saw the oncoming wave. It was at least fifty feet high and coming fast! Sloan could see that dark shadowy objects were trapped inside the wall of water and realized that some of them were boats.

The tidal wave ran up the beach and broke over the row of shops that fronted the gulf. Most of the structures were obliterated, and it seemed safe to assume that the people inside were dead. The cowboy had entered the SUV by that time, and it was pulling away. But not quickly enough, as the rampaging water surged up the street and under the vehicle. The SUV rose, lost traction, and began to float. The water had traveled as far as it could by then . . . And as it flowed back to the gulf, the truck went with it.

Would the gang members be carried out to sea and killed? Sloan hoped so.

His mind raced as he followed a second escalator down to the ground floor. Now that he had time to think about it, Sloan realized that the kidnapping attempt had been planned days, if not weeks, in advance, and had nothing to do with the disaster. Was the attempt to kidnap him over? Maybe . . . But maybe not.

That meant it would be stupid to return to his hotel because that was where gang members would look first. So what to do? The obvious answer was to call for help. But first Sloan felt an urgent need to shed his power suit and attempt to blend in.

The plan wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing, and as Sloan continued west on the Avenida Álvaro Obregón, he was on the lookout for any sort of store that would sell men's clothing. After what he estimated to be a mile or so, Sloan spotted a small mom-and-pop
tienda
off to the right. The front window was filled with lots of brightly colored sports outfits and a sign that read,
“Ropa para el hombre activo.”
(“Clothes for the active man.”)

As Sloan entered, he could tell that the proprietors were surprised to see him and not sure what to expect. But after he spoke to them in Spanish, they hurried to help. Once in the changing room, Sloan made use of the mirror to examine his wounds. There were three of them—and it would have been nice to dig the pellets out. But that wouldn't be possible without help. Fortunately, the bleeding had stopped, and by wrapping the bloody dress shirt inside his jacket, he was able to conceal it.

Sloan left the
tienda
wearing a ball cap, a pair of wraparound shades, and a shirt with an enormous soccer emblem on it. The rest of his outfit consisted of Levi's and a pair of Nike knockoffs. Sloan stuffed the business suit into the first trash can he passed. Now, with the disguise in place, Sloan felt a good deal more secure. The
next thing he needed to do was to make contact with his office in D.C. Or, failing that, the embassy in Mexico City. Either one of which would send help.

For the first time since early that morning Sloan removed his cell phone from a pocket and attempted to make a call. What he got was a recorded announcement.
“Lo sentimos. El servicio telefónico no está disponible en este momento. Por favor, inténtelo de nuevo más tarde.”
(“We're sorry. Telephone service is not available at this time. Please try again later.”)

Sloan swore. It seemed safe to assume that the meteor, assuming that was what he'd seen, was responsible for the outage. So he wasn't going to get any help—not in the short term anyway. What to do? Sloan looked around. There were a lot of people on the street, and sirens could be heard in the distance. None of the other pedestrians was paying any attention to him, and that was good.

Maybe he should find a second hotel, check in, and hole up. Once cell service was restored, he would call for help. But how sophisticated was the criminal network that ran Tampico? The clothes had been purchased with cash, so there was very little of it left. What would happen if he used a credit card? Would gang members come on the run? And even if they didn't, would a hotel accept a card they couldn't verify?

Sloan concluded that it would be stupid to use a card until he knew the answer to at least some of those questions. He needed a goal though . . . Something to do. Head for the airport? No. The General Francisco Javier Mina International Airport was located at the heart of the city, and planes could normally be seen taking off and landing around the clock, and the ominous-looking sky was empty.

So what to do? He figured the next step was to find a place to hide, stay there until nightfall, and move under the cover of
darkness. But in which direction? The obvious answer was north, to the good old US of A. Texas was only three hundred miles away! It felt good to have a plan—even if the details were a bit vague.

Sloan had passed a number of vacant buildings during his walk. Some were grouped in clusters, and leaning on each other for support, while others stood in splendid isolation. The Hotel Excelsior was one of the latter. He'd passed it earlier, and as Sloan approached the building for the second time, he knew it was the one. Not because it was inherently safer somehow—but because the Excelsior's faded glory appealed to him. The ten-story hotel had two Mission-style towers and was adorned with rows of high-arched windows, ornamental iron balconies, and peeling white paint. Down on the ground floor, there were two verandahs, one to the left of the main entrance and one to the right. What had once been carefully manicured trees were huge now and surrounded by trash. A sad sight indeed.