Into the Guns (6 page)

So Sloan had reason to be afraid as the noise passed him on the right and sent a succession of waves his way. That made it necessary for him to turn into the other boat's wake or risk being swamped. But the danger had passed, or so it seemed, until a powerful spotlight split the night. Had someone seen something as the boat passed him? That's the way it seemed as the blob of light swung left, right, and nailed him. The voice was amplified.
“Levante sus manos—y mantenerlos allí!”
(“Raise your hands—and keep them there!”)

Shit! Shit! Shit!
Sloan dug his paddle into the water in an attempt to escape the light. But it followed him, and Sloan heard a burst of gunfire. White geysers shot up all around him, and there was a thump as one of the bullets punched a hole in the hull. Cold liquid squirted into the cockpit and Sloan struggled to get out. Then the boat was there, looming above him, as a silhouette leaned over to look down at him.
“Tirar los peces en. Vamos a ver lo que tenemos.”
(“Pull the fish in. Let's see what we have.”) The journey was over.

And the platoon is the truly characteristic component of an army; it is the lowest unit habitually commanded by a commissioned officer; it is the real and essential fighting unit, whose action conditions that of the other arms and formations; it is a little world in which the relations between the led and the leader, the men and their commander, are immediate, actual, continuous, and entirely real.

—MAJOR M. K. WARDLE

NEAR YAKIMA, WASHINGTON

Mac was familiar with the dream by then and knew she was dreaming it but couldn't escape. For what might have been the twentieth time, she stood in the hatch and stared upwards as hundreds of tons of rock slid down the side of the mountain to obliterate the second platoon and half of the buses. One moment, they were there, and the next moment, they weren't. At least a thousand lives had been lost in the blink of an eye. But Lieutenant Robin Macintyre and her platoon were spared.
Why?
Because, that's why.

Mac awoke as she always did, with a scream trapped in her throat and her heart pounding. How long would the dreams go on?
Until they stop,
the voice answered.
Deal with it.

Mac eyed her wristwatch. The time was 0436, and the alarm was set for 0500. But she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, so why try? Mac turned on the bedside light, pushed the sleeping bag down, and swung her feet over onto the cold floor. The baseboard heater was working but couldn't counter the chill.

Mac swore, grabbed her robe, and made the trip to the bathroom. The platoon and a collection of other lost souls were headquartered at the Vagabond Army Airfield just outside the city of Yakima. It was a small facility that was normally part of the Yakima Training Center. However, most of that command's personnel, munitions, and fuel had been loaded onto vehicles and sent east to reinforce Fairchild AFB in Spokane.

Captain Hollister had been killed in the rockslide. His death left Mac in charge and made her responsible for the orders Hollister had been given. That meant Mac was supposed to establish a refugee camp adjacent to Vagabond and prepare to receive more convoys of people even though the east–west highway was blocked, and she lacked the resources necessary to do so. A problem she had repeatedly emphasized via radio but to no avail. JBLM's answer was always the same: “We've got a lot of irons in the fire right now . . . We'll get back to you.”

So all Mac could do was secure the base and wait for something to happen. In her capacity as interim CO, Mac had ordered a specialist to fire up Vagabond's emergency generator each day between 0400 and 0600. That gave everyone a chance to shower before they went on duty or after they came off it, as well as being an opportunity to charge batteries and run power tools.

After taking a hot shower and completing her morning rituals Mac put on her winter uniform and stepped out into the driving sleet. With her head down, she hurried over to the Flight Control Center. The lights were on as Mac entered the office and stamped
her feet on a mat. After the generator went off, the headquarters staff would fire up the woodstove that Platoon Sergeant Evans had “borrowed” somewhere. That, plus some lanterns filled with helicopter fuel, would get them through the rest of the day. “Good morning,” Evans said as he raised a mug by way of a salute.

“What's good about it?” Mac demanded as she shed her coat and made her way over to the coffeepot. They still had coffee, but for how long?

“Cinnamon rolls,” Evans said smugly, pointing to a tray. “Private Brisby made them. Who knew he could cook?”

“I'm in,” Mac said as she went to help herself. “Have we heard anything from JBLM?”

Evans made a face. Mac asked the same question every morning. “Yes, ma'am. But nothing good. The gangs launched another attack—and our people had to pull back again.”

Mac felt her spirits fall. That was what? The
third
pullback? JBLM was getting smaller each day. And since I-90 had been closed by the rockslide, and a self-proclaimed warlord had taken control of east–west Highway 410, there was no way for JBLM to reinforce her. Meanwhile, the chickenshit CO of Fairchild AFB refused to intervene without permission from above. That made Mac angry, but she couldn't say so without harming morale. So she didn't. “Okay, what's on the agenda?”

“After making the rounds, you're supposed to meet with Mr. Wylie,” Evans told her.

“Oh goody,” Mac replied. “That will be fun.”

Evans laughed. “Better you than me.”

Mac sipped her coffee. Yakima had a city council, and one of the council members was called the “mayor at large.” But City Manager Fred Wylie actually ran things, and he was a huge pain in the ass. “Okay,” she said. “I'll leave after my rounds.”

After consuming the rest of her roll, and a second cup of coffee, Mac went out to check in with what? Could it be called a platoon? Or was it a company now? Not that it mattered. The ritual began with a visit to the small building that housed the ready room. That's where the pilots and their crew people met each morning.

Mac thought of them as orphans, meaning people who had been at Vagabond when the poop hit the fan, or drifted in since, looking for a unit to belong to. Tim Peters and copilot/gunner Jan Omata were excellent examples. Their Apache AH-64 had been grounded due to mechanical problems when their platoon flew out on April 30. And were still there on May 1, when the meteors fell. So for the moment, at least, the warrant officers belonged to her.

The sleet was cold and wet as it hit Mac's face. She hurried past a couple of sheds to what everyone called “the Shack.” It was toasty inside thanks to the huge heater that had been “reallocated” from one of the hangars. The walls were covered with photos of helicopters, old and new, a detailed map of the training center, and a tidy bulletin board. The newest item on it was over a month old. Five people were seated around the Formica-covered table and all of them stood as Mac walked in. It was an honor generally reserved for high-ranking officers, but Mac was all they had. She said, “At ease,” and waved them back into their chairs.

“Good morning, ma'am,” Peters said. “Have you got any news for us?”

Peters was a lanky six-two and liked to wear his hair high and tight. He had piercing blue eyes, a firm jaw, and an easygoing personality. He also had a strong desire to fly rather than sit around playing soldier. “I'm sorry,” Mac replied. “Just the same old, same old. The people at JBLM were forced to fall back again. And we don't have anything new from Fairchild.”

The news produced groans of disappointment. “That sucks,”
Omata said. Mac liked the pilot and felt sorry for her at the same time. Her family was in San Francisco . . . And, like so many people, Omata had no idea what had become of them.

“Yeah, it does,” Mac agreed. “But hang in there . . . Something will break soon.”

“Really? You think so?” Grimes inquired. He was a mechanic and a member of the Apache's ground crew.

“Yes, I do,” Mac lied. “In the meantime, I really appreciate the way you folks have pitched in. Speaking of which, I have to be in town at 0930. So Mr. Peters will be in charge.”

“I plan to give everyone a raise, a strawberry ice-cream cone, and their own unicorn,” Peters announced.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Mac replied. “I don't need a unicorn, but some ice cream would taste good.”

The sleet found her skin as Mac left the Shack and caused her to swear. Each Stryker was housed in its own storage building, all separated by a fire lane. Two trucks were on guard duty at any given time—and the rest could roll on five minutes' notice. After checking in with the Stryker crews, Mac made her way to the tiny dispensary, where a navy doctor named Pete Hoskins and medic “Doc” Obbie were waiting.

Hoskins and his wife had been in Yakima visiting her parents when the meteors struck. And, since he couldn't reach his duty station in San Diego, Hoskins reported to the heliport. Obbie stood as Mac entered, but Hoskins outranked her and didn't.

Hoskins was a serious-looking man with graying hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the precise movements of a bird. His report was as predictable as the morning sleet. It seemed there had been a few minor injuries in the last twenty-four hours, two soldiers had colds, and 80 percent of the base's personnel were clinically depressed. “Including
you
,” Hoskins said pointedly, “even if you won't admit it.”

“Thanks,” Mac said. “I feel so much better now . . . Please keep up the good work.” Hoskins crossed his arms, and Obbie grinned.

Corporal Garcia and the Humvee were waiting as Mac left the dispensary. The vehicle came with the base and allowed Mac to travel without using one of the trucks. The heater was running full blast—and it felt good to get in out of the cold. Sparks Munroe was seated in the back, along with Private Atkins, who would man the fifty should that be necessary. “We're headed downtown,” Mac announced. “But let's pull a 360 first.”

Garcia nodded. “Yes, ma'am.” It took less than ten minutes to circle the tiny base. They paused occasionally to check in with the truck commanders and the soldiers who were guarding the perimeter. They were cold, but in reasonably good spirits, and looking forward to a hot meal. Once the tour was complete, Garcia drove the Humvee west on Firing Center Road to I-82. The pavement was wet, and slightly slushy, but no challenge for the all-wheel-drive vehicle. Visibility was limited, and there wasn't much to see other than a few widely separated homes.

Once on the freeway, and headed south, Mac was struck by how light the traffic was. They passed horse-drawn wagons on two occasions, and Mac wondered what that implied. Were people running out of fuel? Or were they hoarding it? Both, most likely; and things were bound to get worse. And, according to what Sparks had been able to pull in from ham-radio operators, conditions were similar elsewhere in the country.

Garcia turned onto 823 a few minutes later and followed it into Yakima. It had been a pleasant city, but the clouds were so low that it felt like they might smother the city, and very few people were out on the streets.

Like the Vagabond Army Heliport, the city had been forced to limit power to a couple of hours per day, and the electricity wasn't scheduled to come on until 1800 hours. That was devastating for the
business community, which had been forced to lay people off. And if people couldn't buy things, they would eventually try to take them. Then what?

The question went unanswered as Garcia turned off North Second. Wylie's office was located in a complex that was surrounded by parking lots and deciduous trees. Mac noticed that in spite of the fact that it was summer, all of them had shed their leaves.

The Humvee came to a stop, and they got out. Mac turned to Atkins. His job was to guard the vehicle. “Keep your eyes peeled,” Mac cautioned. “And holler if you see anything suspicious.”

Atkins's face was nearly invisible thanks to cold-weather gear and a pair of goggles. She saw him nod. “Yes, ma'am.”

Mac led the tiny detachment into the building's lobby, where two bored-looking cops were waiting to receive her. That was new and a sure sign of trouble. “I'm Lieutenant Macintyre,” she told them. “I have an appointment to see Mr. Wylie.”

One of the policemen consulted a clipboard. His breath fogged the air. “Right . . . You can go up. But you'll have to leave the sidearm and the soldiers here.”

“That isn't acceptable,” Mac responded. “Please inform Mr. Wylie that I attempted to see him. Have a nice day.”

“Whoa,” the second man said. “There's no need to get your panties in a knot . . . I'll check with Mr. Wylie's assistant.”

Mac waited while the policeman mumbled into a radio and wasn't surprised when the verdict came in. “Sorry,” the cop said stiffly. “But we have to be careful these days . . . And just because someone's wearing a uniform doesn't mean much. You can go up.”

Mac thanked him and followed a series of hand-printed signs past the elevators to a door marked
EXIT
. A flight of stairs led up to the second floor and another fire door. It opened into a hall that led past the restrooms to an open area and a dozen cubicles. The
room was lit with jury-rigged work lights. And while the air wasn't warm, it wasn't cold either, thanks to a pair of space heaters.

Wylie's assistant was there to receive the visitors. Her name was Martha Cobb. She was a pleasant-looking woman with nicely styled hair, chiseled features, and a confident manner. “Lieutenant Macintyre! It's nice to see you again. Mr. Wylie is in his office. Would you care for tea or coffee?”

“It's good to see you as well,” Mac replied. “I'd love a cup of coffee—and I'm sure my men would appreciate some as well.”

“I'll take care of it,” Cobb promised. “Please follow me.”

Mac removed her jacket as Cobb led her past the cubicles to the corner office where Wylie was waiting. He was a big man with thinning hair, beady eyes, and a pugnacious jaw. He circled the desk in order to shake hands. Mac felt his hand swallow hers and felt lucky to retrieve it. “Good morning, Lieutenant,” Wylie said, “and thanks for coming. Please, have a seat.”