Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1 (46 page)

Everyone voiced approval and Hunnicutt nodded again. “We’ll do it, then, but I don’t know about the stations. We’re stretched on manpower at the moment, so I don’t know how long before we’ll be in a position to staff those.”

“Only need one at the moment,” Anthony offered, “at the junction of the Brunswick and the Cape Fear. That way you could bottle up any bangers coming up the Cape Fear from Wilmington, and keep the Brunswick open so we can all come and go safely to Fort Box. I’m thinkin’ two or three guys with one of them machine guns would do nicely, hidden in that nice little wooded knoll by the railroad bridge. They could see anybody comin’ round the bend from Wilmington at least three hundred yards away. Hell, we’ll even donate a pair of night-vision goggles to the effort.”

Hunnicutt smiled. “And that would also solve your immediate worries about a re-visitation from your banger friends?”

Anthony shrugged. “It’s all about back scratchin’, Major.”

Hunnicutt laughed. “That it is.” He turned to Josh Wright and Mike Butler. “How about it? Can we spare the manpower to support this?”

Both men nodded, without hesitation. “We’re stretched, but we can make it work,” Butler said, “because they’re right. Those river farms are likely to be our lifeline, at least in the long run. We need to start bringing them into the fold as soon as possible.”

Hunnicutt nodded. “Okay, folks. That’s it for this morning unless anyone has any other business. And for what it’s worth, I think we’re making real progress here. Let’s all hit the bricks and see if we can save some folks.

FEMA

Emergency Operations Center

Mount Weather

Near Bluemont, VA

Day 19, 8:00 a.m.

The Honorable J. Oliver Crawford, Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, glared at the man standing across from his desk.

“What the hell you mean you’ve got nothing? There’s at least three people out there. Maybe four since we don’t know about this ‘loose end’ those morons reported before they screwed the pooch. They can’t have just friggin’ disappeared.”

“Agreed, sir, but I don’t know what more we can do. We’ve sealed off all roads that touch the trail within a hundred miles, and I’ve put men searching the trail on foot in both directions; fifteen miles in either direction from Bear’s Den.” The officer shook his head. “We found nothing. It’s hard to believe, but they either got past us, or they’re holing up somewhere.”

“What about the choppers?”

“We’ve had two up in rotation constantly, covering the trail from Bear’s Den south for two hundred miles, just as you ordered. Every inch of that section of the trail is being scanned at least every two hours, but the foliage is too thick to see anything this time of year, and the IR isn’t infallible either. It’s possible to screen your body heat if you know what you’re doing, especially in summer, and it picks up deer, bears, wolves too, all with body temps very close to humans—”

“GODDAMN IT! I DON’T WANT A BUNCH OF MEALYMOUTHED EXCUSES! YOU BETTER START PRODUCING RESULTS OR YOU AND THIS BUNCH OF ASS CLOWNS ARE GETTING A ONE-WAY TICKET TO ‘FUGEEVILLE, ALONG WITH YOUR FAMILIES! IS THAT CLEAR?”

“Ye-yes, sir.”

Crawford took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure. “What about dogs? Why aren’t you using them?”

“Ahh … that’s a bit of a problem. We use contract handlers and … well, let’s just say the local guy isn’t being real cooperative. These are mountain folk and they’re not real fond of the federal government, less so since the power went out. His place is pretty remote and he’s forted up. Made us state our business standing in the middle of the road, then told us to leave. When we weren’t doing it fast enough, he shot the side mirror off one of the cars.”

Crawford started staring again, visibly struggling to control his rage. “And why did you let him get away with that, may I ask?”

“The rules of engagement say to bypass resistance, and I didn’t think it was worth the distraction now that—”

“I DON’T GIVE TWO SHITS WHAT YOU THINK! YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO THINK, AND I’LL BE DAMNED IF I’M GOING TO STAND BY AND LET SOME TOOTHLESS HILLBILLY THUMB HIS NOSE AT THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT. NOW YOU TAKE WHATEVER RESOURCES YOU NEED AND GET THIS REDNECK AND HIS MUTTS WORKING THAT TRAIL! IS THAT CLEAR?”

The man nodded, fearful any other response might provoke another tirade.

“All right,” Crawford said, “now get out. And you better not screw this up!”

Bear’s Den Hostel

Appalachian Trail

Mile 999.1 Northbound

Near Bluemont, Virginia

Day 19, 8:00 a.m.

George Anderson stood in the kitchen of the hostel, gulping water in an attempt to fill an empty stomach and assuage his hunger. It had been two full days since his former FEMA colleagues descended on Bear’s Den in force. From the sounds he overheard from his dark hiding place, he figured they’d used the grounds as a staging area for searching the closest section of the trail. That activity seemed to last forever, but he steeled himself to wait and didn’t emerge from hiding, hungry and thirsty, until things had been quiet a full twenty-four hours.

He set the empty water bottle down on the counter and contemplated his next move as he heard the chopper blades thump by overhead and then move away to the south. The chopper was routine now, crossing over Bear’s Den at intervals varying from ninety minutes to two hours, from sunrise to sunset. The repetition told him they were doing scans, and the fact Bear’s Den seemed to now be the northern terminus of the search pattern told him his hope of Tremble becoming a decoy was a dead issue. For whatever reason, the search was to the south, and directly in his path. He’d just have to live with it.

No longer pressed for time, Anderson began a detailed search of the hostel. A kitchen drawer produced a double handful of condiment packets as well as small packets of salt and pepper and some plastic picnic cutlery. He tore open packet after packet of ketchup, mayonnaise, and mustard to suck them down greedily, then washed them down with yet another bottle of water. Enough to dull the ache in his gut for now at least, and he continued his search.

The kitchen trash yielded empty water bottles, and in a nearby storage closet he found a discarded nylon backpack with a broken strap. Another closet produced a small quilt like those used for padding furniture when moving. Frayed at the edges, it smelled of mold and mildew. Perhaps best of all, the guest laundry trash produced a discarded jug of chlorine bleach, with a bit left in the bottom—enough to purify several gallons of water. He drained the jug into one of the empty water bottles and capped it tight.

The shelves of the small hikers’ store on the main floor were empty, but he hit pay dirt in one of the cabinets—a small paperback booklet titled “The AT Guide” and bearing a publication date of several years before—probably the reason it was still there—he smiled as he flipped through it. Far back in a dust-covered cabinet he found another treasure, a full carton of a dozen protein bars. The faded ink on the carton was a testament to its age, and a gnawed corner and liberal sprinkling of mouse droppings bore evidence as to why it had been abandoned.

Anderson shook the mouse turds off and opened the box, extracting a bar and ripping the wrapper off. The bar was dry and hard, the embedded chocolate chips grayish white with age. He bit off a piece with difficulty and chewed half a dozen times before swallowing and taking another bite. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He finished the bar and, dry-mouthed, hauled his booty downstairs to the kitchen, where he ate two more mice-gnawed bars, washing them down with more water.

Hunger appeased, he glanced at his watch. He had well over an hour before the chopper returned. He grabbed the damaged backpack and was out the door, heading for the spot Tremble’s group had cached their surplus gear. The path was all downhill, and he made it to the cache in less than fifteen minutes. He was disappointed but not surprised to find it contained no food—or little else. It looked like they’d only dumped nonfood items for which they had duplicates: a large Victor rat trap, several heavy-duty black plastic contractor trash bags tightly rolled, another small hank of paracord, a half-roll of duct tape, and a ziplock bag full of fire starters. Slim pickings perhaps, but better than he expected.

Anderson had piled the stuff into his ragged backpack and slung it over his shoulder by the one good strap when he noticed another pile of leaves. He brushed them away to find a pair of well-worn leather work boots, and he recalled the guy stripping the boots off his dead partner. After a moment’s hesitation, he knotted the laces together and hung the boots around his neck, then took off for the hostel.

By the time the chopper thumped over again, he was ready. He’d used some of the paracord to repair the broken pack strap, then filled the pack with his meager supplies. He’d then cut the boots to pieces with the knife Tremble left him, bundling the soles and leather together, wrapped with one of the boot laces before it went into the pack. You never knew when leather might come in handy. He kept out one soft leather boot tongue and combined it with the other boot lace to fashion a sling, which he tested just outside the hostel door, using pebbles as projectiles. It was awkward, but with practice, he might take a rabbit or squirrel. The packing quilt was rolled tight and secured to the pack with more paracord, and four plastic water bottles were full and stowed in side pockets on the pack, where he could get to them. As an afterthought, he flushed the plastic bleach jug well and filled it with water. It just fit in the main compartment of the pack, adding eight pounds, but you could never have enough water.

He drank his fill from the kitchen faucet one last time, then rechecked the guidebook. He had an hour and a half to two hours before the chopper returned and almost four miles to cover over up-and-down terrain to reach a good-size stream. He could make that standing on his head.

An hour and twenty minutes later, struggling up a steep slope and still over a mile from his destination, Anderson heard the chopper approaching from the south and realized his error. He’d timed the chopper at the extreme northern end of its run, but once in the search area, it would fly over twice on each circuit, north and south bound, likely scanning on each run. Knowing he’d never reach the stream in time to soak the quilt as he’d intended, he slipped off his pack and fumbled with the knots holding the quilt, the sound of the chopper growing louder. Panicked at the unyielding knots, he slashed the paracord with his knife and threw the quilt on the ground in a heap before soaking it with the water from the bleach jug.

The chopper was almost on him now and he tossed the empty jug to one side and collapsed on the ground beside his backpack, pulling the sodden quilt over both himself and his gear. The chopper thumped overhead, hidden by foliage and without slowing. When it returned a few minutes later, he feared it had picked him up, but it passed again with no hesitation, now on the southbound leg. He gave a relieved sigh and rolled from under the quilt, then squeezed it as dry as possible before rerolling it. He tied it up with a carrying handle this time, so the wet quilt wasn’t in constant contact with his pack.

It was a learning experience—the weight of the pack and steepness of the terrain slowed him more than he’d figured, and the extra water provided an unexpected benefit. He no longer had to adjust his speed to be near streams during flyovers as long as water sources afforded an opportunity to top up his big jug. The little AT guidebook showed multiple water sources along his route.

More confident now, he endured three more round-trip flyovers and made another eight miles before he started looking for a place to stop for the night. Three hundred yards off the trail he found a steep bluff and walked along the bottom of the near vertical rock face until he found what he was looking for. An undercut formed a shallow cave perhaps four feet tall and twenty feet deep, his bedroom for the night. He stowed his gear at the back and took the knife to cut some evergreen boughs to make a bed. He had two protein bars and a bottle of water for supper, then spent the remaining daylight hours practicing with his sling.

The final overflight of the day drove him into his hiding place, where the sun-heated rocks and substantial overhang masked all trace of his presence. With his pack as a pillow and exhausted by the unfamiliar exertion, sleep came with the fading sun.

***

George awoke stiff and sore at first light. He counted his dwindling supply of protein bars and restricted his breakfast to half a bar, washed down with a full bottle of water. He decided to try to make the highway crossing before the first chopper flight.

He was roughly two miles from crossing US 50 at Ashby Gap, a four-lane highway with a wide grassy median strip and a right of way cleared on either side. It was a logical place to intercept travelers on the Appalachian Trail, and his first major challenge. He’d driven the road countless times during his daily commute, back before everyone moved onto the base at Mount Weather. However, he’d never looked at it from the perspective of someone attempting to sneak across it in ‘stealth’ mode.

A half mile from the crossing, the first chopper flight of the day forced him under the wet quilt and he lay there until the return southbound flight a few minutes later. He was up and on his way again before the sound of the chopper faded. The trees thinned and he slowed, moving from trunk to trunk until he had a good view of the highway crossing in front of him left to right, fifty feet down a gradual slope. It looked clear, but he’d be totally exposed for a distance of at least two hundred feet. He was weighing the risk when a black SUV turned on to US 50 from Blue Ridge Mountain Road. He watched the car move in front of him and go west a few hundred yards before pulling to the shoulder in the shadow of some trees, right next to another black SUV he’d missed. Anderson looked at his watch—six a.m. straight up—shift change.