Conspiracy

Another Try

Leonard waits patiently in the control room for Chief Krandle and his team to stow their gear in the deck locker. Waiting patiently is a matter of perspective. Having his boat exposed above the security of the depths has him on edge. Loitering in the area for three days added to that edge. Those three days had him surfacing several times and he felt his blood pressure elevate each and every time. Even though the evidence shows that there may not be anyone or anything that can threaten him, old habits die hard. Right now, the sub and each other are the only things they have, and he is hesitant to put either in danger.

He knows that what they were doing is right, that it is their duty to see to the survivors, but it is also his duty to look after the crew…and that includes the one thing that can keep them alive in this new world — the Santa Fe. The sub is their lifeline, and with it, they have a better chance at surviving. One thing weighing on Leonard’s mind is that the sub won’t last. It takes a lot to keep the old nuke attack boat going; it’s only a matter of time before they’ll have to put ashore for good. That time, he hopes, is a long ways off. They’ll be able to use the depot in San Diego for parts and, if that fails, there is a depot at Bangor.

The thought stays in his mind that he’ll have to find a location that’s best for them. At the moment, the best place they’ve come across is with Captain Walker and his group, but that’s only if they don’t find anything better. There is the danger that they’ll break down at an inopportune time and become stranded. If that happens, the choice will be taken away from them. The worst possibility is that they’ll become stranded in the middle of the ocean should he endeavor beyond the western shores and strike for Hawaii or Guam. The sub has taken them wherever they desired on patrol without difficulty, but they haven’t undergone their usual in-port repairs after their last cruise. He knows the chance he’d be taking.

For now, though, they’ll continue to take observations on the way to San Diego. That’s their base, where their families are, and their best bet to find anyone still in charge. Deep down, he knows they may be the only ones left. There would have been communications if any part of the military still operated. Captain Walker and his group would have received some message and become a part of the rebuilding.

Perhaps that’s all we’re left with… all that remains to rebuild. Small groups carving out a niche for themselves in an otherwise desolate land, Leonard thinks while waiting on the all clear. It could be that’s what we have to rebuild from.

The all clear finally comes, and the watch descends. Leonard orders the boat to submerge. The sleek black lethal m an-of-war sinks below the cresting swells of the Pacific and turns toward deeper waters. Feeling more comfortable, Leonard sends a quick thought of good will towards those who are, at this very moment, making their way northward. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about their well-being when talking with the chief; he had his crew to think of and couldn’t risk an illness being brought aboard. They just don’t have the resources at their beck and call that they used to. He’s playing it by ear in this new situation, and if he is too cautious, then so be it.

Checking with the comm officer, he finds they still can’t communicate with Captain Walker and his group. They dove one evening after giving a sit-rep and when they tried again in the morning, there wasn’t any reply. Each time they surface, they try to establish communication, but the airwaves remain empty. He should have left a message with the ones they helped, but he was anxious to get underway and the thought didn’t occur to him. If they come into contact with another group, he’ll rectify that and send them off with a note. Until then, observing the coastline and getting to San Diego is his priority. He’ll base further decisions on what he finds there. However, he has to get them there first. At their present speed, it will take about three-plus days. Sometime tomorrow, they should be pulling into the approaches to San Francisco.

Northern California has the least populated areas of any shoreline. Even though Leonard has a fair picture of what the Western Seaboard presents with regards to survivors, he holds to their course and speed rather than race south. Survivors can be anywhere, and he wants to give the watch the best chance at locating any. He senses the impatience of the crew to get to their base, but feels that these lesser populated shores may actually be the most likely places to find anyone.

They slowly pass the rocky shoreline without finding any evidence of life — of any kind. Leonard feels a slight relief at this as it would be hard to put Chief Krandle’s team ashore with the high bluffs and seas pounding against them.

The day wears on until the sun casts a fiery glow against the cliffs, creating diffused colors of yellows and oranges in the spray as the waves strike the rock walls. It’s the eternal struggle of an irresistible force against an immovable object. Rainbows dance above the waves where the spray leaves a mist.

The shadows in the crevices of the cliffs deepen, and the sky darkens as the sun gives a final farewell. In moments, with no lights on land to show the delineation of sea and shore, the features fade and go black as if a veil has been pulled over the land. Leonard hears the soft rustle of people moving as one shift relieves another. He rises.

“I’ll be in my cabin. Alert me if anything happens,” he says, leaving the control room.

The next day, the Santa Fe slides between the headland leading to Chimney Rock and the Farallon Islands, nearing the approaches to San Francisco. They enter the perpetual fog bank that keeps a solid hold on the straits. Leonard slows the boat to a crawl and surfaces.

“Bring us in on radar…slow and steady. Let’s not hit anything out here in this pea soup,” he says.

On top of the tower with two others of the watch, he feels the cold moisture gather on his exposed face. Droplets gather and run down his cheeks. He listens for the familiar fog horns in this area but hears nothing except the slap of waves against the hull. Periodically, his own fog horn blows low notes outward, rolling across the gentle swells; they are absorbed by the thick veil of moisture. The bow is only a faint, wispy sight in front as they draw closer to the inlet.

Radar picks up unmoving signatures of vessels floating at anchor ahead and they maneuver between and around the ships at rest. A few times during their approach, the mist clears to the extent that they can see the dark shapes of cargo vessels. The silhouettes slide past and are lost from sight in the fog.

Slowly, the Santa Fe creeps into the inlet serving the large city. Using radar to guide them, they pass the headlands of the strait. Several other cargo ships pass slowly by like wraiths loitering on the edge of sight. Without thinning, the fog brightens, changing from a consistent light gray to white. Patches of yellow mist appear overhead.

Without warning, the Santa Fe breaks into the clear. The fog hangs just behind like a sheer wall. Leonard orders a halt and orders the crew to keep the sub on station. Hills rise steeply on the left and parts of the city can be seen to the right. A breeze carries the tangy air associated with ports. That isn’t what captures the attention of Leonard however.

The large red pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge rise high above them and make their vessel seem miniscule by comparison. What is mesmerizing though is the large span between the towers. The incredibly large center span angles downward on either side from each of the tall support structures. The middle of the span is lost beneath the cold waters of the bay. One of the two large guides holding the suspension lines still spans the towers with the wires hanging down, swinging gently in the light breeze. The other guide has broken in the middles and trails loosely from each side of the towers, the wires still attached to the broken span.

Leonard edges the sub as close as he dares without running into debris or snagging loose lines. He wants to get a better look at the city and see if there is an indication that anyone still remains.

The high rises of the downtown area slowly emerge into view from around the guarding heights that encircle the city and lead to the bridge. Sunlight glints off a myriad of windows and the shape of the well-known TransAmerica Pyramid rises above all of the rest, a testament to humankind’s engineering.

Bringing the binoculars to his eyes, Leonard spots the long bridge connecting San Francisco and Oakland. It too has spans down. It looks like someone tried to isolate the Golden City from the rest. Leonard can only hazard a guess whether that was to fend off night runners coming into the city or to keep them from leaving. From all appearances, their endeavors failed as he can’t spot any movement or other indication of anyone surviving.

He hails on differing frequencies and has the fog horn blown several times, but nothing he tries elicits a response. Like Seattle, the city appears dead. He parks his boat for a couple of hours attempting all forms of communication and waiting for any reply while keeping a close eye on the fog bank behind him. As he well knows, that fog can sweep in quickly and he’s too close to the damaged bridge to make that a comfortable proposition.

After satisfying himself that he isn’t going to receive a response, Leonard directs the crew to turn the boat around and begin making headway to the south and San Diego. He’ll check Los Angeles on the way but feels that will be a moot foray as well. Looking at the receding city, he begins to think he won’t find anyone left in San Diego either.

As he descends, his comm officer approaches holding a piece of paper, “Sir, you’re going to want to take a look at this.”

All eyes look toward the phone as its ring intrudes upon the meeting. One of the officers reaches over and picks up the receiver on the second ring. He listens a moment and hands the receiver toward Gav, “It’s for you, ma’am.”

She grasps the receiver thinking, What could possibly be wrong now?

“Yes,” she says into the handset.

“Nahmer, we’ve located the Santa Fe. You were right to keep a watch on approaches to San Francisco,” the control supervisor states.

“I’ll be right there,” she says and hangs up.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she says to the commanders leading the battalion under her supervision.

With anticipation, she leaves the meeting and marches down a wide hall. The plan to take out their command failed. With her shooter being taken captive, she can only assume that her group is known — if not now, then it’s only a matter of time. They took their shot — literally — in an attempt to assimilate the group with hers, but that idea now lies in ruins. She has no choice now save for eliminating the group identified as A-US-1 as a whole, or at least to a point where the remaining ones won’t be a threat. Gaining command of her emotions, she slows as she nears the control room. With a deep breath to calm and center herself, she swipes her card and enters.

The large central screen shows sunlight glimmering off a strait between two bodies of land. Just ahead of a large fog bank, a dark cylindrical object lies in the middle of the channel. Notations to the bottom right of the screen denote the satellite and that the video is coming to them in real time.

The supervisor looks up from where he is conversing with one of the operators and acknowledges her arrival before bending back down and pointing at the monitor. Finishing with his instructions, he hurries over to Gav.

“How long have they been there?” Gav asks.

“They just emerged from the fog bank,” the supervisor answers.

He speaks with one of the operators and the image on the large screen blurs. It then sharpens as it settles on a closer image. Gav can see three people on the conning tower. She watches as the sub creeps forward, drawing closer to the collapsed Golden Gate bridge.

Gazing at the sleek outline of the Santa Fe, she is amazed that so much firepower is contained in such a small vessel.

“Were we able to obtain their current loadout?” Gav asks, indicating the vessel on the screen.

“Unfortunately no. We weren’t able to affect a complete download of the DoD files, Nahmer. However, we can make some fairly accurate guesses based on their last mission to the Persian Gulf. Given their patrol location, it would seem likely that they had a full complement of twenty-five Tomahawk cruise missiles. Out best guess is a mix of the D version with submunitions and the block IV version of the C variant.”

Gav nods at the information given as she continues to watch the sub on the screen slowly maneuver and come to a halt. For nearly thirty minutes, all eyes watch the Santa Fe as it maintains a position near the broken bridge.

“What do you think they are doing for so long?” the supervisor asks.

“Looking for survivors,” Gav says as if there isn’t any other answer.

“Do you think they know about the infected?”

“I would have to assume so. I seriously doubt the group from Camp One would have withheld something like that,” Gav replies.

“What would you like to do, Nahmer?”

Taking her eyes off the screen, she begins writing quickly. Handing the paper to the supervisor, she says, “Format this appropriately and send it when they depart. Contact me the moment they head out.”

“Yes, Nahmer. What makes you think they’ll leave?”

“They don’t have a choice. No sub captain is going to risk his boat heading across that wreckage,” Gav says, rising to depart. “And, unless I miss my guess, they’re heading to San Diego.”

Settled within the confines of the communications room, Leonard stares at the message in his hand. Studying the printed words for the fourth time, he still can’t believe what he is reading.

Turning to his communications officer, he asks, “Are you sure the codes are correct?”

“They’re old ones but they check out,” the officer answers.

“Have you sent a receipt verification?” Leonard asks.

“Not at this time, sir.”

“Okay. Send a verification that we’ve received the message. Make sure our return message indicates we are verifying receipt and not validating the contents. I need to think this one over before we proceed farther. And let’s keep this between us for the moment. We’ll brief the officers later,” Leonard states.

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer replies, starting to format the reply.

Leonard looks through the message once again. In and of itself, it doesn’t say much. It is merely a message stating that the Unites States government has begun to rebuild and that a chain of command has been instituted. It goes on to say that a safe zone has been created, but the reestablishment of the government has taken time due to various factors. Satellite control has been established and all units are to report in and wait for further instructions. The message itself seems legitimate, but Leonard isn’t entirely convinced of its authenticity considering the old codes. Someone could have found and hacked the old system and be trying to bring units still remaining under their control. He will hold off on a final consideration until he has met with his officers.

Making their way past the floating ghost ships, the sub readies to submerge when Leonard is handed another message. This one is in the same format as the others with the exception that this one is a mission order as opposed to a general bulletin. Leonard notes it is addressed specifically to them rather than a general broadcast.

“Was this sent with the same set of codes?” Leonard asks the officer.

“Aye, sir.”

Leonard rises and walks to the nav station with the message in hand. Tracing the location given, he receives his second shock of the day. Looking from the message to the map to verify the coordinates, he stares at the map with grim concentration.

The officer, looking over his shoulder, asks, “Would you like for us to send an acknowledgement of receipt?”

“What do you say we hold off on that for now. Gather the officers and let’s meet in the officer’s mess,” Leonard answers.

Clearing the approaches to San Francisco, the Santa Fe slinks quietly below the surface. Once assured that they are again on the southbound course and hidden from sight below the Pacific swell, Leonard makes his way to where his officers patiently wait.

Sitting in the enclosed space, he glances around the room. All eyes return his gaze and he can see the tension in them. He has both messages gripped tightly between his fingers. For one of the first times in command, he isn’t honestly sure what to do. The boundaries and guidelines he spent his career with aren’t valid any longer. Or at least he assumed so until receiving the first message. He has maintained that the United States is still an operating entity as long as there was a command in place to do so. And that command, to the best of his knowledge so far, rested with him and his crew. And now this. Another entity stating they have restored the government and are proceeding with rebuilding the country. He is relieved, believing deep down that this had to be the case, but that relief is tinged with skepticism.

The code itself gives rise to suspicion. It’s a valid code, but an old one. That in and of itself isn’t enough to deny the validity of the message. From what he’s seen, Leonard doesn’t see how there could be any remnant of government left, but it could have been holed up and needed time to consolidate — having to rely on old data stored on backups. It’s the second message that triggers the biggest doubt. The order to launch a Tomahawk strike against Captain Walker’s compound just doesn’t make any sense. If anything, that group would be included in an attempt to gather resources and rebuild. The order just seems downright contradictory.

“Okay, gentlemen, it’s time to bring you up to speed. Today we received…” Leonard begins and informs them of the messages, reading them verbatim.

He notes more than one raised eyebrow when he informs them of the coordinate location given in the second message. He isn’t surprised by the blank stares as each officer takes the information in and folds into their thoughts. The room is silent.

“Well that just doesn’t make any sense,” the XO states, finally breaking the silence.

“I should also tell you that we haven’t acknowledged receipt of the second message,” Leonard says.

“I take it, sir, judging from our continued southern course, that we aren’t going to accept the mission and initiate action,” the XO comments.

“I have concerns regarding the legitimacy of the orders but want to get the opinion of everyone here,” Leonard responds.

Most of the officers give their concurrence with their captain’s concern, either nodding or vocalizing their thoughts.

“Can we message back asking for verification?” one of the officers asks.

“It’s my thought, that if we decide as a group to disregard the orders, we will act as if we didn’t receive the message and continue with our current mission. In my opinion, given what we’ve seen so far, we owe it to the crew to see about their families. If we don’t, we may have to deal with…other difficulties in the near future,” Leonard says.

A silent pause follows Leonard’s words.

“I think this needs to be said, and it doesn’t indicate my position on the matter, but if we decide to ignore the order and it turns out to be a legitimate one, we are, in effect, conducting a mutiny or, at the very least, disobeying a direct order,” the XO states.

“That’s an important point. Thank you, XO,” Leonard says.

The officers glance around the room at each other, trying to gauge the other’s reactions.

“It’s important that each and every one of us votes according to their own thoughts and beliefs. Don’t fold in with the rest if you believe otherwise deep down. Because of its importance and possible ramifications, this matter is open for free discussion,” Leonard says, looking at each officer.

More glances around the room but no one says anything.

“Okay, gentlemen, let’s take it around the table and vote. Aye for disregarding the message and continuing on to San Diego and nay for accepting the orders and proceeding north.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“I would like to see the message validated but understand the reason why we can’t. Aye,” the engineering officer states.

“Captain, what if the messages prove valid?” the XO asks.

“Then we’ll apologize,” Leonard answers.

“What will we do once we reach San Diego…with regards to the messages?”

“If we decide to proceed in that direction, we’ll have to base that on what we see,” Leonard replies.

“We’ve never disregarded an order before. This could cause some concern with the crew. They may see the reinstituted government as their best chance to see their families again,” the XO continues.

“I realize that. Do you believe the messages to be valid ones?”

“No. I think they’re bullshit, but I have to bring up how the others may see it and how we’re going to deal with it.”

“Agreed. And I’ll be briefing the crew on our decision regardless of what that happens to be,” Leonard says.

“Well, sir, you know how I feel. Aye.”

The vote continues around the room resulting in a unanimous ‘aye’ vote.

“Okay, gentlemen. We’ll continue to San Diego. I still want to check out the LA basin area, but we’ll remain submerged unless there is an absolute positive indication that survivors exist onshore. And we’ll maintain radio silence. No further morning and evening calls on the sat phones or messages directed inland. I’ll make a general announcement when we’re finished here. Is there anything else we need to talk about?”

“Repairs, sir. We could use some time. I realize we may not be able to use the dry dock, but we will need parts,” the engineering officer states.

“And resupply,” the XO says. “We are doing okay at the moment, but we’ll need to take on supplies…mainly food stores.”

Several faces pale at the thought of going ashore and perhaps needing to enter into a supply facility again. The memory surfaces of those they lost — and how they lost them — at Bangor.

“How far can we go if we can’t get ashore for whatever reason?” Leonard asks the engineering officer.

He’s met with a shrug. “It depends, sir. We could break down in a day or go for months. It’s hard to say. At a minimum, I suggest we replace our scrub filters.”

“And the food?” Leonard asks the XO.

“We have a few weeks if we ration. We can send Chief Krandle ashore and find some stores that don’t put them at too great a risk. That would stretch our supplies some,” the XO answers.

“Okay. Make a provision list and we’ll see what we can do once we arrive. I’ll speak with Chief Krandle. Right now, let’s check on the LA basin and proceed to San Diego. Let’s begin rationing, but without the crew having to go hungry. I don’t think we’re at that point yet and there’s no use putting them in any greater discomfort than they already are. This news is going to put a measure of stress on them, however, I think our decision to check on our home port and families will be seen by most to be the correct one.”

“Sir, if I may?” an officer utters.

“Go ahead.”

“What about those with families elsewhere? I mean, they’ll want us to check on their families. As the XO mentioned, some will see these orders as a way to check on their loved ones farther inland. What I’m saying is that we need to give them something as to what we’re thinking in this regard.”

Several officers nod their heads at the logic. It’s a question Leonard has thought about more than a few times. It’s the one thing that could break the crew apart…or it could unite them together — their new mission to search for loved ones. Of course, they are restricted as to where they could search. Thoughts of Captain Walker’s group and their capabilities surface regularly. Deep down, Leonard knew there would be a time when the two joined together, but now this message has the potential to change that.

“Meet with your departments and gather a list of where their families are located. For the moment, let them know we will look into the feasibility following our arrival at home. Inform them of our limitations to check beyond the coastal areas, but that we’ll look into ways to search farther inland. Make sure that each knows that this is something we are only looking into, but that we can’t make any promises,” Leonard says.

No other issues are brought forth so Leonard adjourns their meeting. With a nod, each officer rises and departs. Leonard then makes a general announcement giving a synopsis of messages and detailing their plans.

Although anxious to get to their homeport, Leonard takes his time maneuvering the Santa Fe down the coast from San Francisco to Los Angeles. The coastline is more populous than that of the Oregon and Northern California shores. They explore Monterey Bay and the various inlets without finding any sign of surviving remnants of humankind. Leonard expected further communications; reissuing the orders and asking for confirmation of receipt, but the comm center remains silent since receiving their last message. The lack of communications only increases Leonard’s uneasiness about the validity of the message and, although still nervous about ignoring the order, he feels better about the decision he and his officers made.

The distance between the two big cities isn’t far but, with the slow speed Leonard dictated and taking time to investigate, it takes two days before they reach the Channel Islands to the northwest of the Los Angeles area. His plan is to swing wide of the Channel Islands and approach Long Beach directly from the west.

“Captain to the comm room,” the loudspeaker blares.

And there’s the message asking for confirmation, Leonard thinks, rising from his chair. I wondered when that was going to come in.

The Santa Fe picked up speed to circumvent the islands and is approximately midway across the Santa Barbara Basin when Leonard pokes his head in the small room.

“What is it, chief?”

“Sir, I’m picking up a very faint signal coming in on UHF guard. I believe I heard our name a couple of times, but it’s hard to identify clearly. Whoever is transmitting is either pretty far away or the signal is weak on their end.”

“Our end is good?” Leonard asks.

“Aye, sir. I’ve checked our equipment and it’s good.”

“How often are they transmitting?”

“That’s hard to say, sir. I’ve only picked up a couple of the transmissions and this last one is the clearest I’ve heard. However, it seems to be about every five minutes. Would you like for me to respond?”

“Let’s wait for the next one. If it’s getting clearer, then they are moving and getting closer. I doubt our speed makes much difference in five minutes. Put it on speaker but keep the volume low, please,” Leonard says.

A few minutes pass before the speaker crackles to life. “Santa F…alker on… guard…”

The message repeats but with the same clarity. However, it is enough to hear the sub mentioned and the chief verifies they are receiving the signal on UHF guard.

The basin over which they are sailing is relatively shallow and it will be another thirty minutes before they reach the deeper water on the other side of the islands. Although he has an idea who it may be considering the frequency used, he isn’t comfortable about coming into contact with an unknown entity without the safety of deep water below him. The thought of turning west and going to flank speed crosses his mind. However, they may miss contact should they do that.

With a sigh, Leonard calls his XO in the control room. “Slow to ten knots and be ready to take her to the bottom.”

Several minutes pass without the message being repeated. The five minute intervals they were coming through at passes. Nothing is in view visually and he orders the radar turned on with the crew ready to shut it down and conduct an emergency dive.

Radar reports back that they have negative contact. Tension mounts in the boat. They may have firepower and the ability to hide, but if they’re found, they become very vulnerable. Leonard is aware that they are very vulnerable this close to the surface with an unknown entity closing in. With the clear waters, it will be easy to identify the dark sub just beneath the waves. And if there is any magnetic anomaly gear being used, well, they might as well light up blinking neon signs.

The speaker crackles to life once again. “Santa Fe, this is Captain Walker on UHF Guard. Santa Fe, Captain Walker calling on UHF Guard. How do you copy? Over.”

Well, this is going to be downright interesting, Leonard thinks, reaching for the mic.

“Captain Walker, this is the Santa Fe. Read you loud and clear. This is not a secure channel. Over,” Leonard says.

“Copy that, standby,” Walker states.

“Santa Fe, it’s imperative that we have a conversation. Understand the unsecure channel. There’s an airfield next to a beach,” Walker says moments later, giving coordinates. “Can you meet us on the beach?”

This time it’s Leonard who has Walker standby while he walks to the nav station to look at the given coordinates. He feels like a flag tied to the rope in a tug-of-war; both teams wanting to pull the flag to their side. He calls the XO over and relates the radio call.

“What do you think, sir?” the XO asks.

“Well, frankly, I don’t like being in the middle of some game. We may not have hit it off right away, and this Walker did come across as being a little arrogant, but he didn’t seem like a bad guy. I find myself interested in what he has to say… but not at a risk to ourselves,” Leonard answers.

“Park the boat offshore and let Chief Krandle handle the discussion. He can relay the conversation,” the XO states.

“That will still be over the open airwaves. I’ll go in with the chief and his team. You’ll remain in charge and take the boat out deep if anything untoward occurs. If anything happens, continue the mission to home port.”

“Are you sure that your going in is a good idea? You’re needed here. I’ll go in your stead,” the XO says.

“I feel that there are some hard decisions that may arise and I need to be there to make them. Besides, how can I miss a chance to ride ashore with a SEAL team?” Leonard says with a smile.

“And that’s the real reason I wanted to go. It’s getting a little cramped in here.”

“I hear that, XO. Call the chief up and point us to the beach. Let’s not waste any time getting there.”

“Aye, sir,” the XO says.

Back in the comm center, Leonard takes the mic. “Captain Walker, this is the Santa Fe. We’ll be there in two hours.”

“Copy two hours. See you there.”

Leonard briefs Chief Krandle when he arrives, informing him of the radio contact and mission.

Two hours later, Leonard finds himself riding through choppy swells. The team around him is lying low over the gunwales as the rubber craft bounces across the wind-driven waves. He feels like he’s in the back end of a pickup traveling over a washboard road. They negotiate around several stands of rocks which absorb the inbound waves with surf splashing against their wet surfaces. The beach-lined cove which they’ve entered curves to their left and stretches away into the distance to the right.

As the breakers pass underneath, they lift the craft from the stern and toss it about. Leonard, while enjoying any time spent on or below the water, begins to regret taking this trip. The waves propel the team onward, and soon, the raft kisses the sand. As Chief Krandle and his team deploy to the sides, Leonard notes the top of a Stryker poking above a small rise across the beach. Near an adjacent parking lot, several figures are crouched in a small perimeter similar to the one the chief and his team have. One of the figures rises and separates from the rest, heading across the sand toward him. Leonard begins walking and they meet in the middle.

“Captain,” Captain Walker says, extending his hand.

“Walker,” Leonard replies, replying in kind.

“Sorry to stall your journey, but we’ve come across some information that you should be aware of,” Walker begins.

He then tells a story of being targeted by a sniper and their subsequent discovery of information relating to a group that may be responsible for the downfall of civilization. The tale goes into some detail with Walker handing him several pages with their findings on them. As the account goes on, Leonard feels a cold chill ride up his spine.

“We don’t have a hard tie-in that it’s the group who sent the shooter, but there’s enough to convince me that they are involved. It’s become obvious that we’re being targeted by a group with advanced capabilities, and I’m sure they’re the ones who are interfering with our communications,” Walker says, drawing his narrative to a close.

Leonard pauses, considering Walker’s story and his own recent experiences. He’s not sure what or how much to tell Walker and once again feels caught in the middle of two groups vying for his control. Every side has its story and, to each party, their reasons seem right. He didn’t hear anything that would cause Walker’s group to be targeted, but he may not be telling the whole story either. He lengthens his pause waiting for what Walker’s plan for him is.

He notes Walker watching him, waiting for him to reply. When nothing is forthcoming, Walker shrugs.

“If they know the details about us that they apparently do, then there’s a good chance that they might know about you. I just thought you should know as it could increase your danger as well. How is your expedition faring?” Walker asks.

This isn’t exactly where he thought Walker was heading with this conversation. There isn’t a talk to take sides, or really much mention of ‘sides’. So far, it’s just been imparting information without any leading statements or trying to guide the conversation in a certain direction. Leonard relaxes his stance slightly and tells of their travels down the seaboard.

“We sent a group your way two days ago,” Leonard says, relating to the small group they rescued.

“I hope they made it. I’ll check on them when I return,” Walker responds.

“What are your plans upon leaving here?” Leonard asks.

“We still have a group out. They should be somewhere between Peterson AFB and Luke AFB. We’re going to locate them and bring them home. The plan is to then conduct a flyby of the facility I mentioned to get a closer look. We’ll plan based on what we see. Are you still thinking of Hawaii after San Diego?”

“I’m not sure what we’re planning after that. Like you, we’ll base our decision on what we find,” Leonard answers.

“We won’t have the sat comms, but we’ll make periodic forays out your way if possible and try to stay in touch that way. Is there anything you need?” Walker asks.

“Thanks, but I think we’re good for now,” Leonard replies, still cautious, waiting for Walker’s appeal for the sub to join his side.

“Okay, we’ll come down as much as possible and give you a jingle. That’s until Spring rolls around. Then we’ll be grounded. If there’s anything you need prior to then, let us know and we’ll assist if we can. Good luck to you, Leonard,” Walker says, reaching to shake his hand.

Leonard returns the shake and watches as Walker turns and begins heading back up the beach toward his team.

“Walker…Jack, wait,” Leonard calls out, having reached a decision.

Walker looks over his shoulder. Upon his return, Leonard tells him of the messages they received and the target they were given.

Walker pauses, staring intensely at Leonard. “Well, I can’t say that I like that news much. I’m glad you didn’t turn north.”

“It didn’t seem right. I concur that we’re dealing with a rogue group and it’s apparent they have DoD file access. We’re still heading to our home port and not sure where we’re going from there but, I’ll make the same offer to you. If you need anything, give us a call. If we have to go deep, we’ll make sure and come to periscope depth at dawn, noon, and sundown if possible,” Leonard states; the two groups are now working together.

He knows that there will still need to be a conversation about leadership but sees that Walker seems to understand this as well. Leonard is content with that for the moment.

“Thank you, Captain. That’s very much appreciated. And thanks for not lobbing missiles at us.”

“Jack, keep in mind that we won’t be able to arrive at a moment’s notice, nor do we carry armament capable of taking out a bunker of the magnitude you mentioned,” Leonard states.

“Duly noted. You and your crew are welcome north anytime. I know you mentioned that we need to have further conversations, and I welcome it. To be honest, between you and me, I’m tired and ready to throw a hammock up between two palm trees and call it good.”

“I’ll be fighting you for those palm trees. Good luck with picking up your team,” Leonard says.

“And you with your search,” Walker says.

Walker looks over Leonard’s shoulder in the direction of the chief’s team and nods. He then turns and begins marching through the sand towards his team. Leonard watches for a moment longer and then does the same.

Gav watches the video replay the control room sent to her laptop. She had directed the personnel there to continue watching for the Santa Fe. She read their reply verifying receipt of their first message but nothing upon sending the second one…the one targeting Walker and his group. She knows they received it but chose not to reply. She had focused the satellite surveillance on both the northern coastlines of Oregon and Washington and the southern shores of California. She ordered both to be covered as she needed to know which avenue the Santa Fe would take regarding the target mission.

Looking at the screen, she has her answer. They chose to disregard the instructions sent. There is a small chance they never received the communication, but she doubts it. On the monitor, she watches as a C-130 from the camp A-US-1 flies down the coastline and lands. Fast forwarding to the location of the video given by the control room, she witnesses the Santa Fe surfacing near where the Hercules landed. Watching the events unfold, she is not happy. She knows that her game is up in that arena. She played her hand there and lost again.

A lifetime of successes and now this. This is the worst possible time for things to start going wrong, she thinks, reaching over to stop the video.

She isn’t used to failure and is doubly frustrated by the timing of having to deal with it.

Returning to the sub, Leonard opts to travel inside of the Channel Islands. He is satisfied with his decision regarding Walker and that the two groups help each other. He is nervous over the technological advantage of the rogue group. The anxiety is alleviated to an extent considering the limited force Walker says they have. It doesn’t appear they can strike back quickly without traveling great distances and then all Leonard has to do is put out to sea.

That’s assuming Walker has told him everything. He’ll still operate on the cautious side just in case. He offered help to the northern group, but that doesn’t mean he wants to get caught up in a battle between the groups. It’s funny how quick humankind returns to that form of conduct when dealing with each other — might makes right.

Perhaps there’s only a small remnant of those types that made it through the downfall.

Leonard hopes this isn’t going to be the norm for the last traces of humanity. He doesn’t agree with the use of force as an initial tool, but has no hesitation whatsoever about using it to protect his crew. And, if it really came down to it, humankind. The story Walker told, if true, is a chilling one. Contingencies and theories are one thing, but actually putting something into practice like that… purposely bringing about the downfall of humanity… is downright evil. Leonard briefs his officers on the meeting and the decision he reached.

Oil derricks dot the open water as the Santa Fe makes its way south. Rugged hills hugging the shoreline give way to towns where the hills open up. Strands of pristine beach, miles long, front the large cities with beachfront houses and businesses running right up to the edge. Between the large settlements, bluffs rise abruptly out of the water with rough hills and deep valleys beyond.

Rounding the Malibu point, the metropolis of Los Angeles opens up — twenty miles of beach and waterfront property. The buildings of the past civilization stretching over twice that far inland and farther south past the cliffs of Palos Verdes. Most of that is lost from sight due to the curvature of the earth as Leonard looks through the periscope. He notes the lack of the brown haze that usually sits over the megalopolis.

Turning his view south, he can barely make out the bluffs of Palos Verdes and catches a glint from the vast residential areas that lie on top. Much farther to the south, he spies a barely visible dark smudge lying on the horizon.

Pulling as close to the shore as he dares, Leonard surfaces the Santa Fe. With Walker’s information, he isn’t feeling as exposed as he did previously. He’s cast his trust with that group and, if he’s been led astray, then so be it. If information surfaces that Walker has been less than honest with him, he’ll deal with it at that time. The northern group had several chances to take them out if they wanted to, and Leonard hasn’t seen any indication that they’re being led on. He’s rolled the dice and, for now, he’ll let them roll.

Water streams from the sleek hull as the dark shape rises from the depths, parking about midway and just offshore from the large waterway leading to Marina Del Rey. Standing atop the tower, Leonard isn’t able to see into the channel itself due to a tall, rocky breakwater shielding the entrance. The low, resonating sound of their foghorn rolls across the water and into the outskirts of city.

Sunlight sparkles off the rolling swells and bathes the land beyond, the calm broken only by occasional blasts of the horn. Leonard wants to give anyone who can hear the sound time to respond. In a city this large, there certainly has to be survivors. Although, it could be the just the opposite — that a place of this size would have an exorbitant number of night runners making survival next to impossible.

Raising the high-powered binoculars, Leonard traces the shoreline. Several dark figures stand out against the light-colored sand. At this distance, he can’t make out much definition but they haven’t moved from the time he first spotted them. He can definitely see that they are bodies and they are either sunbathing in the middle of an apocalypse or dead. A closer inspection reveals the beach is strewn with dead bodies.

“Sir. We have activity around the breakwater,” one of the lookouts states.

Leonard looks to the area and focuses on the movement. The white hulls of several boats appear from behind the rocky breakwater. More follow and they all turn toward the Santa Fe.

“I count nine of them, sir,” the lookout reports.

“I see them,” Leonard says.

White sprays out from each of the boats as they plow through the swells — they are approaching quickly having sped up after clearing the seawall. The vessels themselves are large, sea-going pleasure boats. Not quite yachts, but not far from it. Focusing on the boats in front, Leonard sees several figures atop the decks and in the steering houses.

Contacting the control room, he has the sub turned toward the open water and preparations for an emergency dive initiated. Although they are adequately protected, he doesn’t know the intentions of the people rapidly closing in on their position. He doesn’t want to risk the chance of a stray round damaging his boat.

“Have Chief Krandle and his team standing ready,” he says, finishing.

As the boats approach, they spread out so that they are approaching line abreast. This configuration and the fact that they haven’t slowed doesn’t make Leonard feel any kinder toward their intentions. They have no outside armament with which to engage surface vessels, or anything else for that matter. He’ll let them approach to within hailing distance and tell them to halt. If they keep coming on, he’ll order full speed and slip beneath the waves, leaving the ones advancing to themselves.

The outlines of the vessels become distinct without the aid of binoculars. Bow waves splash out from the oncoming boats as their hulls pound into the face of the swells. Leonard feels the sub heel as it begins its turn to face the ocean and deeper water. He shifts positions to keep the approaching boats in sight.

Raising the bullhorn, his voice is amplified across the intervening space. “That’s close enough.”

The vessels continue without altering their speed. Repeating the message, he notes the decrease in spray as the boats slow and then come to stop a short distance away, running their engines only to maintain their relative position. The Santa Fe continues its turn and halts with its long stern pointing to the line of boats.

“Sir, the men I can see are armed,” one of the lookouts says.

“What are they armed with?” Leonard asks, not taking his eyes from the boats.

“It looks to be a mix of rifles… hunting rifles mostly, but I see three shotguns.”

“Are they acting in a hostile manner?”

“No, sir. Not that I can see. They are carrying them, but at their sides. I can’t see any that are actively aiming at us,” the lookout reports.

“Very well. Keep an eye on them.”

“Aye, sir.”

“State your intentions.” Leonard calls out to the group facing them.

“We heard the foghorn and saw you sitting out here. We were foraging, so it took us some time to make our way here. Are you really Navy?” an amplified voice asks.

“I am Captain Leonard of the USS Santa Fe. Who am I addressing?”

Leonard raises the binoculars again and the figures on the lead boat zoom into greater clarity. The validation of being a member of the Navy, or armed forces in general causes a reaction as the five people he can see all look to one another and seem to be talking animatedly with each other.

“I am…Christopher…Christopher Malkin,” the voice responds.

“And how many are with you?” Leonard asks.

“We have thirty-seven men and women here with us, Captain.”

“Is that all in your group?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are there others in the city that you know of?” Leonard asks.

“We heard gunshots far to the south a few nights ago, but we haven’t met anyone else,” the man answers. “Captain, is there any way you can come aboard or us come there. It’s easier than shouting at each other across the water. Or we can meet ashore if you’d prefer.”

Leonard ponders the situation and knows that if they are to have any meaningful dialogue, the man is correct, they will have to conduct it personally.

“Do you have a means to come to us?” Leonard calls.

“We have an attached skiff. We can make it to you.”

“Two of you may approach and come aboard. Make sure you are unarmed.”

“Give us about fifteen minutes,” the man replies.

Leonard informs the control room and has a crew readied on the deck to receive the two. He quickly briefs Chief Krandle and his team that they are to provide security.

“If you see anything amiss, and I mean the smallest thing, you’re clear to engage as you see fit. The boat and crew are to be protected at all costs,” Leonard states, finishing his brief.

A small boat emerges from aft of the lead boat and approaches through the choppy waters. Leonard halts the boat a short distance away while the lookout crew carefully searches the open boat with their binoculars. Finding nothing awry or some haphazard box which may go boom, Leonard directs the boat to continue its approach.

Boat hooks grab the skiff and bring it close aboard. The crew ties the vessel off and two men climb up rope ladders thrown down the side. One of Krandle’s team thoroughly searches each of the men and gives the okay.

“Have them brought to the crew’s mess,” Leonard says and disappears below decks.

Leonard rises from his seat as the two men are brought in. They appear well-kempt and clean. After handshakes and introductions are made, the men seat themselves. Krandle and another of his team stand by the near wall with their weapons lowered but ready.

The men tell a story of the mayhem that took hold of the city seemingly overnight. The fires, screams, and gunshots that filled the night streets at first. It seemed like similar riots that have taken hold of the city from time to time so they initially thought this was just another one and stayed indoors to wait it out. They heard throngs of people screaming as they passed in the night and thought they were looters out to steal what they could in the resulting mayhem. They knew of the sickness that gripped the populace and thought the riot was caused by the lack of available law enforcement.

The next morning, it seemed to be over. There weren’t many people to be seen out and about. The few that were out walked aimlessly down debris-ridden streets, stopping to sift through some of the rubble from time to time. They appeared dazed. Smoke poured from many of the buildings and many of the vehicles lay smoldering in the thoroughfares. It was the next night that showed that it wasn’t over by a longshot.

As the darkness fell, screams again filled the avenues. Those that were out were attacked by gangs and mercilessly torn apart. Neighbor’s houses were invaded and their screams of terror and pain echoed throughout the community. The horror of that night passed and the man speaking, Chris, gathered the survivors in his neighborhood and made for the marina in the light of the day. They took to boats and made for the seeming safer waters. Over time, they came to realize what they were dealing with. Since then, they scrounge for supplies during the day, never venturing far into buildings, and bring the boats out into the bay where they tie together and anchor for the night.

“There used to be more of us,” Chris says. “Over the past few months, we’ve lost a few when we ventured too far into darkened spaces and once, we lost eight when they didn’t make it back to the marina in time.”

Leonard remains quiet, running the images presented by Chris through his mind. He feels thankful he and the crew came into this the way they did and hates to think of having to survive an ordeal such as Chris and his group went through. Leonard glances over to Chief Krandle and thinks of what the chief and his team went through on his mission. A feeling of remorse courses through him when thinking of the way he treated the chief upon his return.

How could I know?

He thinks back to the ordeal Walker told of and shudders again at what these people went through. The mere fact that they survived is miraculous, and to have achieved what they did, even more so. It lends faith that humankind can survive this. What form that survival may take is yet to be seen. The sheer number of night runners is overwhelming. However, here they are, still plugging away, and that gives an air of confidence. Finding the group barely holding on farther north dimmed that hope. Discovering Chris and his group in as good as shape as they are brings hope that they will find their families in San Diego safe and sound. The base will have resources beyond what this group has. Perhaps they loaded the survivors onto the docked naval vessels and put to sea.

But, if that’s the case, why hasn’t there been any communication?

The thought only makes Leonard more anxious to get home.

“So, Captain,” Chris says, breaking through Leonard’s moment of reverie, “where does that leave us? Are you able to take us with you?”

“Are there any injured in your party?” Leonard asks.

“No, sir. We are all fit to travel.”

“We don’t have the facilities to take any of your group on, but we can direct you to a location where a safe haven has been established,” Leonard answers.

With a nod from Leonard, Chief Krandle pulls out an atlas and pinpoints Walker’s location.

“It’s two full days of travel if you choose to drive, providing you don’t run into any problems and have to divert. If that’s the route you decide, I’d recommend finding a place far away from any populated areas to spend the night. I’ve traveled some of the route in northern California and Southern Oregon. Finding unpopulated areas shouldn’t be a problem. I think you’ll be safer if you can find vehicles and stay in them in the unpopulated areas rather than a fortified building in any area that used to be populated. There may be roving marauders as well.

“Now, the safer way that I’d recommend is to use the boats you have. Put ashore at the various inlets along the coast during the day to take on fuel and supplies. The most difficult portion will be along the northern California coast where the rocky shores will make it hard to go ashore and there aren’t any ports. I’d recommend taking along as much fuel as you can carry. The risk factors depend on how comfortable you are with the vessels at your disposal. The sea route will take you considerably longer, and that carries its own risk,” Krandle says.

“I’d feel more comfortable in the boats,” Chris states. “I’m not very fond of going too far inland, and they’ve provided a haven of safety for us so far.”

“Be careful of the currents at the mouth of those inlets. They can be tricky and I’d recommend staying away from them with the tide receding. Make sure to take a tide book along,” Leonard offers. “When you do arrive, make for the port of Olympia and work your way to the haven. Ask for Captain Walker and let them know I sent you. You’ll be welcomed there.”

“Thank you, Captain and…”

“Krandle… Vance Krandle,”

“Thank you. May I take this?” Chris asks, holding the atlas.

Krandle nods. “Feel free. We have others.”

With nothing more to be said, Leonard and the two men say their goodbyes, wishing each other luck. Before long, the two descend the rope ladder and push away, making their way in the choppy seas. The skiff vanishes behind the lead boat and several minutes later, the boats turn and proceed toward shore with a hail of friendly waves directed the sub’s way.

“What now, sir?” The XO asks after everything is secured.

“As much as I’d like to speed home, XO, I want to take a look at the port around Long Beach. We’ll continue sounding the foghorn as we make our way around. Afterwards, we’ll submerge and wait for night. The man said they heard gunshots, so I’d like to see if we find anything. Tomorrow morning, if we don’t discover anything, we’ll turn up the screw and set a course for home. We can check on the remaining coastline afterwards. It’s past time we were there. I’d like to arrive prior to evening, but we need to approach cautiously. If anyone is still around and still active, they won’t be expecting us. Let’s just be cautious,” Leonard answers.

“It’ll be good to be home, sir…regardless of what we find.”

“That it will, XO…that it will.”

Rounding the rocky point, the large port slowly comes into view with the long strand of Huntington Beach stretching out of sight to the south. Ships of all sizes and types anchor inside the immensely long breakwaters. The docks are partially filled with container ships in various stages of loading. It’s like a snapshot was taken and time stopped. Nothing moves except for the slow creep of the shadows from the tall cranes as the sun works its way toward the horizon.

Parking the sub in the middle of the bay, Leonard continues sending their signal hoping for a response. There’s nothing except a periodic glint off an occasional window from the declining sun. With the sun hitting the horizon, Leonard turns the boat around, wanting to start at the northern end of the basin as night falls, and work his way south. If they don’t find anything during the night, they’ll be that much closer for the sprint home come morning.

Maneuvering under a twilight sky, the first points of light begin to show against a darkening background above. Leonard sees the white outlines of Chris’ boats bobbing gently between him and the shore. The wind dies down with the fading daylight leaving gentle coasters rolling toward the shore.

Leonard opts to stay on the surface during their night observation. It may be that the gunshots Chris mentioned hearing a few nights ago could have been someone signaling; although that seems unlikely with the number of night runners that must be prevalent. Noise, light, and smell will attract them and would amount to ringing the dinner bell.

Like a switch was thrown, the soft slap of waves rolling down the length of the sub is replaced by a chorus of faint shrieks reaching out across the water. Going below deck, Leonard looks in the periscope and catches periodic glimpses of night runners as they lope along cross streets near the shore. Details become clearer as he zooms in.

Passing the entrance to the marina, he spies a large group of them standing opposite where Chris and his group are moored offshore. They appear agitated, running up and down the beach. Some take runs at the water, splashing into the small rollers. Several have waded in up to their waist and have their heads tilted upward with their mouths wide open — looking for the world like they are howling at the night sky. Some of the ones in the water punch at the incoming surf as if angry with the waves.

Leonard watches one wade farther in. It starts swimming madly, flailing its arms and legs in the water, but it makes progress. After several seconds, the contortions calm and it starts swimming in a much more deliberate movement. Fascinated, Leonard observes. Several others start after it in a similar fashion. Small waves roll over the night runners. Leonard watches as they surface behind the breakers and continue after thrashing about some. The lead night runner reaches an area where larger waves are breaking. He loses sight of it after one large wave rushes over it. Leonard looks past the wave expecting the night runner to surface and sputter before continuing its foray into the bay. He sees nothing. Looking everywhere, he finally catches sight of the night runner as it rises out of the water much closer to the beach. It stands with water pouring from it and tilts its head upward. Its arms are rigid by its side and it opens its mouth wide. The anger and frustration its form presents is readily apparent. Leonard notices the others that attempted to swim have been swept ashore as well.

Good to know. They can swim, but they’re defeated by moderate surf, he thinks, continuing to watch the gathering as the sub slowly transits the area.

He observes as others attempt to swim out to the group anchored off the marina, but they all meet with the same result.

As they patrol south, sandy beaches begin to give way to the steep cliffs of the Palos Verdes headland. Leonard doesn’t expect to find much as they can’t see over the tall bluffs. About to pull his eyes away, he catches a quick flash. Looking back, the area is dark.

“Ask the top deck if they observed a flash of light,” Leonard directs.

“Topside reports negative, sir,” a crew member reports moments later.

A faint flash from the same location is followed quickly by a second one. As Leonard is about to ask if the lookouts saw anything, they report the two flashes.

“Mark the location,” Leonard orders.

Staring intently toward the spot, his eyes feel dry and gritty. Blinking to bring moisture to his eyes, he looks again. He has a difficult time bringing the view into focus. It’s been a long day and he feels weariness descend. Realizing he won’t be doing any good, he tells the Officer of the Deck to call him if anything happens. With a mix of eagerness at possibly pulling into their homeport tomorrow and weariness that makes his every step feel like his shoes are made of lead, he retires to his cabin.

Morning finds the Santa Fe on the surface offshore from where they witnessed the three flashes of light. Patrolling the length of the LA basin area didn’t reveal anything further during the night. With two other lookouts, Leonard and Krandle stand topside looking over the escarpment, shielding their eyes from the glare of the freshly risen sun. A faint breeze carries the blare from the foghorn toward shore where it echoes off the cliffs.

“I don’t know about this one, sir. I’m not so big on urban environments to begin with and that’s a large sprawl of one. I wouldn’t mind so much if we didn’t have to travel far, but the only way I see to get on top is to put ashore to the north and hike in,” Krandle says, describing the only way he sees to get to the top to investigate the source of the lights.

“It’s your call, Chief,” Leonard replies.

Krandle stands, staring at the bluff rising sharply out of the water. White shows along the waterline where waves splash against the rocky shore. They are slowly navigating around the headland so that Krandle can have a better look at the environment. Bringing the binoculars up, he doesn’t see anywhere they could come ashore without having to go the long way around. There are a couple of steep paths leading upward, but the team would be vulnerable ascending those. If it were night, it would be different, but scaling those paths during the day if someone unfriendly was up there would lead to their quick annihilation. It’s the long way or none at all.

He feels torn. If there is actually someone who needs their help, then he feels he owes it to them to provide it; but it’s risky. So far, they’ve only ventured into small towns where they could extract easily enough. Going into a large complex such as this creates additional hazards, especially where the route out is a long one. He hasn’t run into any unsavory types as of yet, but he remembers some of the stories Captain Walker told. Even if he didn’t hear those, he knows human nature and is sure there are those who wouldn’t welcome their presence…or would be openly hostile.

“You know, sir, those flashes could have been from gunfire,” Krandle says, still not sure what the right answer is.

“I understand. There isn’t a right or wrong answer here. Do only what you feel comfortable with,” Leonard replies.

Leonard’s words help, but he still isn’t sure what to do. Their mission, as he sees it, is to help those that need it but not to the point that he overly exposes his team. Before, it was much easier. Those decisions were made for him. He received his mission, briefed his team, and away they went. There wasn’t the choice to go or not, they just did. He isn’t used to this situation.

“Okay, sir. We’ll go ashore. But no farther than where the flashes were. We’ll do a quick check and then we’re out of there. I figure we’ll put ashore on the beach at the northern end and make our way to the top. We’ll exfil at the same location,” Krandle says, reaching a decision.

“Go only as far as you deem safe. I know our duty to see to survivors, but keep in mind you are the only security force we have,” Leonard states.

“I will, sir.”

“We’ll be here when you return,” Leonard says, looking directly into Krandle’s eyes.

“Thank you, sir. Well, I suppose we should get ready,” Krandle says and departs.

A splash catches Krandle across the face as the rubber craft races down the front of the wave and hits the trough before climbing the back of the next one. He wipes the water from his goggles and eyes the beach ahead as they crest a wave. Looking to the side along the bluff on top of which sits their destination, Krandle makes out a trail angling along its side.

The ridgeline above the trail has an overhang which should give them some protection. Krandle follows the trail down to the waterline as best he can. The trailhead appears to intersect a small beach. The waves on this strand don’t seem severe and the approach seems doable. It will put them much closer to their destination without having to transit a large distance through unknown neighborhoods. The one drawback is that their approach will be more readily seen if there is someone above. As it is, they can still be seen, but their destination won’t be as easily discerned.

Krandle gets Ortiz’ attention and points toward the strand to the right. With a quick movement, Ortiz alters their path and angles toward the location indicated.

A wave lifts them up and the raft grates upon gravelly shore. They exit and scan the area, concentrating on the lip of the bluff rising high above. A sandy trail leads up to the left and they quickly cross the small strand, hiding their craft part way up the trail against the wall.

The breeze ripples against their legs as the team begins angling up the path in single file, hugging the cliff wall. They carefully check corners before continuing up the next section. The path looks undisturbed, but Krandle knows the wind can quickly erase any tracks in the loose sand. The shore slowly recedes below them as they ascend.

The pathway eventually spills out on top, coming to an end on a small plateau adjacent to a road which proceeds next to the edge of the heights. Resplendent stucco-covered and red tile-roofed manses occupy large lots across the street, each complete with a requisite swimming pool. The water in each has mostly evaporated into stagnant puddles. The once pristinely landscaped yards with pruned bushes look like they have a bad case of morning hair.

The team crouches on the plateau and takes stock of their situation. They are almost two miles from the point where the watch saw the lights. According to the map, the road near them runs along the edge of the escarpment with the cliff on one side and houses on the other. The size of the lots on which the mighty houses sit gives them a fairly open sightline. The houses themselves don’t give Krandle too much worry as he can’t fathom anyone who has survived to this point venturing into them. It’s the yards themselves that give him pause. Their overgrown nature can conceal just about anything.

“Well, gentlemen, we’re a little over three klicks from our destination. What we see here is what we’ll see along the way. What do you think?” Krandle says as a gust stirs up and eddies in the sand near them.

“We’re here so we might as well enjoy the scenery,” Franklin says.

The others in turn shrug and Speer is surprisingly silent.

“Okay. Intervals, gentlemen. We’ll stay on the cliff side of the street. If we’re engaged in force, we’ll return fire and retreat down the bluff if possible. If not, we conduct a fighting retreat. The rally point will be the raft. If we become split, we wait at the raft provided we’re not under fire until two hours prior to sunset and then cast off with who we have. Secondary rally will be the start of the beach just north of this headland. Whoever casts off with the CRCC will rendezvous with the rest of the team there. One hour prior to sunset is the hard time to head to the Santa Fe. Questions?” Krandle briefs.

There aren’t any. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

The road winds as it follows the contours of the headland. The early morning sun stretches the team’s shadows long to the west, disappearing over the edge. A very faint roar from the surf rises up the steep surface of the bluff. Birds flitter through the trees next to the houses and an occasional squirrel chitters warnings from tall branches. The team catches a brief sight of a cat as it slinks around the corner of one of the houses. In all, if it weren’t for the circumstances, it would be a peaceful stroll under a clear fall sky.

The team passes block after block. Many of the picture windows that once afforded scenic views of the Pacific reflect the blue sky. Some of the houses have their windows broken out and doors ajar. Tension mounts as they draw nearer to the area where the flashes occurred. They pause more often to take in their surroundings, taste the environment, and test their inner feelings for something amiss.

During one of their pauses, a flurry of noise erupts from their left, coming from bushes set between two houses. The team immediately drops into a posture to deliver concentrated fire. Krandle quickly verifies that the team is covering all avenues and aims at the sound — his red dot centered on the small opening between the bushes.

Uneasy about their situation in the open, he is about to open up to recon by fire when he sees the head of a large dog poke out. The animal stalks slowly out, tense and in an attack posture. Three others emerge behind it. The canine in front is a German Shepherd. Krandle isn’t able to identify what breed the others might be. Noticeable are their ribs showing through the skin and thin flanks. It’s obvious to Krandle that these dogs are underfed and live the entirety of their days searching for food. How they have kept away from the night runners during the dark hours is anyone’s guess. Krandle supposes they must sleep some during the day, perhaps chewing on the remains the night runners leave behind, and spend the evening avoiding the nocturnal predators.

Normally four wild dogs would avoid six grown men, so these must be desperate…and therefore dangerous. The Shepherd thrusts its head forward, baring its teeth and a low growl emanates from deep within it chest. Krandle stands to present his full height, knowing that it will either scare the dogs away or offer a challenge. One trick is to not look the dog in its eyes as that is definitely a challenge, but there’s no way Krandle dares look away.

The four dogs turn and back up a step before rounding on the team once again. The other three join in the growling which grows louder. Krandle feels sorry for them. They epitomize this new world — one in which it’s eat or be eaten. The leader settles back on its haunches and tenses.

Don’t, Krandle thinks, his barrel held unwavering toward the pack.

He lowers his barrel and fires a single round. The muted cough is barely heard over the growls. The round impacts the ground just in front and to the side of the leader with a ‘thwack’. The Shepherd reacts and jumps in the air with a yip. It lands and bares its teeth again, growling once before turning and vanishing quickly into the bushes, its companions follow behind.

With a nod from Krandle, the team continues their slow, cautious trek along the road. Krandle is anxious about being in the open and feels cornered. The Cliffside is both a benefit and possible liability. For one, it cuts the possible avenues of attack in half, but on the other side, it prevents an avenue of retreat.

The more Krandle thinks of the flashes, the more he becomes convinced they were from gunfire. Seeing it was at night means that whoever was here was more than likely firing at night runners. That means two things; one is that whoever it was is armed and that there are night runners in the area. The armed people worry him more. As long as they don’t go into buildings and are out of here by dark, the night runners shouldn’t offer trouble. The others…well, there are two possibilities there. They are either friendly…or not.

The team reaches a place where the road leaves the edge of the cliff and subtly curves inland to make room for houses built next to the escarpment. Krandle halts the team to carefully look over the region. They are in the vicinity of where the lights were observed. Nothing moves except the occasional swaying of branches in the breeze. Swirling patterns show in the fine covering of grit on the roadway, giving no indication that anyone passed recently. The tall grass in the yards stands straight, swaying in waves as drafts blow through. There aren’t any discernible paths.

“We’ll continue to the next intersection and call it good,” Krandle states over the radio. “Let’s move.”

The houses they encounter next to the cliff are some of the largest they’ve seen yet. Through gaps in trees and bushes, Krandle notes tennis courts in addition to the prerequisite swimming pools. Looped driveways lead in and out of each place. Small clumps of grass that would normally have been removed before they even showed themselves spring out of the cracks between the concrete partitions. The locale is completely quiet except for the swish of the passing wind.

Krandle feels the grit under his boots as he steps warily along the road with houses on both sides. All of the team members search the spaces between the structures, looking intently as if trying to peer through the bushes. Their suppressed muzzles tracking as their eyes search out different areas.

Feeling the inner tension build, Krandle calls a halt. He feels that something is wrong but can’t pinpoint exactly what — only that it’s a strong feeling. He has come to trust that feeling as it hasn’t led him astray yet. It’s telling him that his subconscious is picking out something that is not readily apparent to his other senses. Operators with time in the field know this sensation and rely on it as if it’s another sensory input. Someone or something is directing attention their way.

“I thought we were going to the next cross street,” Speer replies.

“Well, I—” Krandle begins.

He hears a shuffling of boots on the sandy surface behind him.

“Chief?” Krandle hears Miller sharply whisper.

Turning to look behind, he sees three figures dart across the road where the housing next to the cliff began. They cross toward the bluff side and vanish into one of the yards. Miller and Franklin are on their knees aiming their carbines back in the direction the team came from — Miller tracking where the three disappeared and Franklin covering where they emerged from.

“Movement ahead,” Speer calls.

Krandle looks quickly to see some bushes next to a house down the street ahead shake out of synch with the breeze. Looking across the street, he spots furtive movement in the dark shadows of the landscaped trees. His heart jumps as he recognizes the arranging of an ambush. From his initial observation, there appears to be quite a few taking positions around them. He quickly glances to the house set deep into the bluff-side lot immediately next to them. The front is more open than most of the other houses around and he doesn’t discern movement there.

“Everyone, into the house. Move!” he calls over the radio.

The team rises and begins to back quickly into the yard, covering their sectors. Once they hit the waist-high grass, they turn and sprint. Franklin catches Krandle and runs alongside of him.

“Are we going inside?” Franklin says.

“That’s the plan,” Krandle answers.

“What about night runners?” Franklin asks.

“That’s a possibility versus a certainty. We need cover,” Krandle states, the grass parting as he rushes through.

The team plows through bushes lining the edge of the circular drive without slowing. Pounding across the concrete, they near the elegant front door. Gunfire erupts from across the street. Solid ‘thwacks’ hit the side of the house from rounds being directed at them. A window nearby crashes inward with a tinkling of glass. The team continues their mad dash amid rounds filling the air around them, intent on reaching the door.

Krandle hears the zip from rounds passing too close for comfort before they impact the wall just ahead. He and Franklin both lower their barrels as they mount concrete steps leading to the entrance. They fire into the door latch and jamb, splintering the heavy wood. Together they crash into the door shoulder first.

The door gives and the two of them stumble into the interior with the others hard on their heels. Clerestory windows set high on the walls coupled with picture windows sheds a lot of radiant light into the foyer they crashed into. A wide set of stairs, filling much of the entrance hall, leads upward, the top of them lost in darkness. Hallways along each side of the stairs lead farther into the house, the light transitioning to gloom until they also fade into an inky black. Arched entryways lead into rooms to the left and right. Rounds continue to impact the side of the house with compact thunks.

“Is anyone hit?” Krandle calls out, recovering.

The team does a quick pat over their bodies and signals that they are okay. Somehow, none of the bullets connected.

“Speer, Ortiz, take the left and cover our flanks. Franklin and Miller, take the right. Blanchard and I will take the immediate front,” Krandle says.

Speer and Ortiz dart through the archway to the left. Franklin and Miller dash into the room to the right. A loud, penetrating shriek erupts from somewhere in the darkened upstairs causing the hairs along Krandle’s arm to stand upright. They’re in the light, and as long as they keep it that way, they should be okay. That knowledge doesn’t make the fact that they are in close proximity to a night runner any easier. He kneels in broken glass by the side of the large window that was shot and looks out.

Across the street, flashes of light appear from the shaded areas under trees and from bushes. The fire is coming from more than a few locations, giving Krandle a picture that they are facing at least twenty people. The solitary twinkles of light tell him that only single shots are being directed at them from each location.

At least we don’t have to deal with auto fire, Krandle thinks.

“Okay, guys, talk to me? What do you see?” Krandle asks over the radio.

“I know what I hear,” Speer replies.

“Just stay in the light and we’ll be fine,” Krandle says.

As if to bring light to the subject, another loud scream echoes through the interior. Krandle turns sharply toward the sound but doesn’t see anything in the blackness.

“We’re taking fire from across the street. They’re at the back of the houses and in the bushes. Nothing from the sides so far,” Speer says.

“Same here,” Franklin states.

“Anything from our three friends who crossed the street?”

“Nothing as of yet,” Franklin answers.

“Okay, keep in mind that they’re there. Are you able to cover the sides from your position?”

“We have good lines of sight here,” Franklin replies.

“So do we,” Speer chimes in.

A round strikes one of the shards of glass hanging in the frame next to Krandle’s head. He instinctively ducks as the bullet streaks down one of the hallways.

“Motherfuckers,” Krandle breathes. “Okay, we need to take control of this situation. Suppressive fire.”

The sound of breaking glass comes from the other rooms causing the night runner, or night runners, upstairs to emit another piercing shriek. Muffled bursts of fire pour out of the house. Several tracer rounds streak outward and sail into the shadows between the houses across the street. Making sure to keep his barrel from poking out of the window, Krandle spins toward the opening and aims toward one of the bushes across the way. Easing back on the trigger, he feels the familiar push against his shoulder as he adds his fire to those of his team.

One of the rounds of his initial burst contains a tracer. He watches as it sails across the roadway and connects with the bush. Leaves fly up and he has the impression of something solid slumping to the ground in the dimness behind. Leaves slowly settle to the ground and are whisked away in the breeze. Seeing a flash, he moves his barrel just a touch and sends another burst downrange.

The return fire slackens but doesn’t stop. Krandle knows they can hold here for a while as long as they aren’t hit. Eventually, though, they will run low on ammo and be forced to make a break for it. They won’t be able to take down the numerous people arrayed against them. At some point, they’ll have to extricate themselves. So far as he knows, the only way out is the way they came.

With the slackened fire and the team having gained, if not the upper hand, then at least an equilibrium, Krandle has them switch to semi-automatic fire to conserve ammo. Keeping the three in mind, he wants to check out the rear of the house. The dark halls and presence of night runners will keep his immediate back side clear, but that doesn’t mean that others can’t approach from the rear outside.

To the front, five figures leave their concealment and start running across the road to the right. The lead person falls forward as if he were tripped, followed a split second later by another crashing sideways to the ground. The remaining three, seeing their comrades fall, make a mistake and slow. Tracers streak from Speer’s and Ortiz’ position to impact flesh and bone. Clothing ripples as rounds find their marks sending splashes of blood shooting outward. The remaining three are driven to the pavement under the withering fire, not having made it more than halfway across.

“Ortiz, Franklin? Do either of you have a route to the rear that’s lit?” Krandle asks.

“It looks like there’s a way to the back of the house from here that’s fully lit,” Ortiz answers.

“Franklin, while we can, join Ortiz and scout the back. Keep your eyes open and see if there is a route down the cliff from there,” Krandle says.

Krandle nods at Franklin as he passes behind on his way to Ortiz.

“Speer, Miller, keep up the fire. We need to keep their heads down.”

To his side, Blanchard is keeping up a steady stream of semi-automatic fire into the side yards. Every time a flash appears, Blanchard quickly shifts his aim and sends a few rounds at it. Sometimes the flash reappears and at others, the location remains clear of fire with the shooter either taking cover or down. Krandle delivers rounds of his own in an effort to keep their attackers at bay.

Projectiles from across the way continue to pelt the house. Krandle and the team can’t keep every head down, but they at least have a handle on the situation.

“Oww!!! Fucking dammit all the hell. You fucking bastards,” Speer yells from the side room.

“Are you hit?” Krandle shouts.

“I’ll kill every last one of you bitches,” Speer continues to rant, either ignoring or not hearing the question.

Blanchard looks back from his shooting position. Krandle nods at him in the direction of Speer and Blanchard scurries into the other room.

Krandle concentrates on keeping the front clear. He still sees the occasional tracer coming from Speer’s and Miller’s positions, but they are down to three shooters and maybe two if Speer is seriously injured.

Minutes pass slowly. Krandle sees the outside like snapshots. Flashes of light in the dark spaces across the street. Sunlight shining upon the five bodies huddled in the street to the right, dark liquid mixing with the sand. A glint of light from one of the weapons lying near them. The red-tiled roofs atop abandoned houses. Leaves drifting down from trees and bushes as rounds tear through them — some catching the wind and being whisked away. Feeling the push of the stock against his shoulder as he sends projectiles racing outward. The impacts of slugs smash into the side of the house or zip through the broken window and slam into the walls and stairs behind him. Smoke hanging in the room from the expended shells and the aroma of gunpowder filling his nostrils. The frequent screams of the night runner somewhere above.

Through the tumultuous noise, he can hear his steady breathing as it is inhaled and exhaled through his nose. He feels the curve of the trigger, its hard metal clicking under the ministrations of his finger. Sweat trickles down his temples to run down his cheeks. He is completely in the zone.

“We’re coming back in,” Franklin radios. “And we don’t have to worry anymore about those three. They were trying to come up from the rear.”

“Copy that. What about the cliff?”

“There is a cut in the bank one house over that we can shimmy down. We’ll be exposed from the top all of the way to the exfil though,” Franklin answers.

Blanchard reenters from the side room. “He took a round through his upper left arm. Hit under the bicep and passed through without hitting the bone. He’ll be sore but fine.”

“Is he still able to shoot?”

“Yeah. My parental heritage came into question as I was bandaging him, so I think he’ll be okay.”

Krandle gets in touch with the Santa Fe and informs them of the situation. They are essentially at a stalemate with their attackers. Those firing at them can’t close in, and the team can’t escape. That stalemate will end when the team runs out of ammo or nighttime arrives; whichever occurs first. Shouts carry from across the way interrupt the conversation. Krandle can’t make out the words through the sound of gunfire. He isn’t even sure it’s English. Other shouts are heard up and down the street.

Krandle hears Speer shout to be heard above the barrage. “Ortiz, what are they saying?”

“How in the fuck should I know? I don’t have super hearing powers!” Ortiz shouts, answering.

“You speak that language. Say something to them.”

“What do you want me to say to them, dumbass?” Ortiz yells.

“Tell them to calm the fuck down,” Speer answers.

Krandle thinks Ortiz may be a way to communicate with their assailants and dashes into the room. Just as he enters, he hears Ortiz shout at their attackers.

“Hey, Cabron. Tu madre es una puta.”

Ortiz draws away from the window with a smile and giggles.

Krandle recognizes the word ‘puta’ and guesses the rest was just as unpleasant.

Shouts from across the street rise above the din of firing. The volume of gunfire increases sending all of them to the floor. Rounds thunder into the house and decimate the remaining glass in the windows. Thuds against the side of the house shake it, sending splinters and shards of glass into the interior. The curtains hanging at the sides rock backward from the bullets slamming into them. The team folds their hands over their heads to protect from the rounds and volume of glass falling into their midst.

“What the fuck did you say?” Speer shouts from his defensive posture.

“I asked them if they enjoy a good cup of tea,” Ortiz yells back.

“Ortiz! You don’t get to talk from now on,” Krandle states.

Rising to the edge of the window, Krandle peeks out. He sees figures dart across the street to the right out of the range of fire. Franklin informs him that he saw others dash to their side of the road in his direction.

Calling the Santa Fe once again, he reports the change in their situation, giving their coordinates and those of the assailants.

“I don’t think they really like us being here much,” Krandle says, finishing.

“Is there any way you can extract yourself?” Leonard asks.

“No, sir. We’re rather stuck here,” Krandle answers.

“Will you be able to relocate?”

“How far are you thinking?” Krandle asks, amid the din.

“I would suggest four hundred meters,” Leonard replies.

“That’s iffy at best. But we’ll do what we can. How long are we talking, sir?”

“We’ll do what we can to help. Give me fifteen minutes and then I’ll tell you five minutes out. Twenty minutes total. Can you hold that long?”

“Do we have a choice, sir?” Krandle asks with bullets shredding the side of the house.

“No, Chief. Sorry.”

“Then we’ll do what we need to do. I need that five minute warning though,” Krandle says.

“You’ll get that, Chief.”

“Sir, it needs to be an exact five minute count down. Can we rely on that?”

“You’ll have it.”

Bullets unrelentingly tear into the house. Shredded window panes fall on the backs of the team as they fold themselves into a ball.

Twenty minutes… Fuck! Krandle thinks, knowing twenty minutes in a firefight can seem like forever, especially when holding out for an extraction.

“Okay, folks, we have twenty minutes to hold. Then we’re making a break for it. We’re being flanked and we need to suppress this fire. Rock n roll, gents,” Krandle briefs the team.

A scream rises momentarily above the clamor. Krandle believes it to be the night runner voicing its complaints about the intrusion on its privacy when Franklin comes on the air.

“Miller’s hit,” he says.

“How bad?” Blanchard asks.

“Upper chest. I can’t tell how bad. It’s a little busy over here,” Franklin replies.

Blanchard scrambles along the floor, making his way to the far side of the house. The remaining members, Speer, Ortiz, and Krandle brave the incoming fire and begin directing automatic fire into the houses and bushes across the roadway. Krandle feels two rounds pass on either side of his head, one brushing his hair just above his left ear. Another tugs at his vest at the top of his shoulder.

He’s been here before and knows that if they continue to protect themselves from the incoming fire, they’ll be as good as dead. They need to deliver concentrated fire in an attempt to regain the upper hand. At a minimum, they need to send rounds out to decrease the accuracy of the incoming fire. They need twenty minutes but, even then, they’re not out of it.

Several people run from between the houses, attempting to cross the dividing road closer in. Speer and Ortiz pump automatic fire into their midst. Bodies twist and turn under their onslaught, falling to the grit-covered pavement. Some lie still while others try to crawl away from their pain. Bullets rend flesh and shatter bones. Amidst the fury of rounds, two still make it and vanish from view. That means they have several on their side of the road to both sides of their beleaguered position.

“Miller took a round below the shoulder. He’ll be okay in time, but he’s out of action,” Blanchard reports.

“Can he move?” Krandle asks.

“With help he can—” Blanchard begins.

“I’ll be fine,” Miller states in the background.

“He’s mobile, but he’s lost blood,” Blanchard continues.

“Okay. Keep an eye on him and stay there to support Franklin,” Krandle says.

Shouts of “reloading” rise above the tumult as the team, minus Miller, direct focused and intense fire toward the flashes of light. The return fire is reduced as their bullets, tearing through shrubs and ripping into house corners, keeps the opposing heads down. The team has gained a small measure of containment, but it’s the ones that are coming from the sides and possibly the rear that worry Krandle. The openness of the yard around the house allows for good fields of vision and will make anyone approaching more cautious. He knows though that, regardless of how careful they may be, it is only a matter of time before they start receiving fire from the flanks.

It’s nothing. Just a few more minutes, Krandle thinks, looking at his watch.

He repeats this as a mantra while he sends burst after burst downrange. He has Ortiz watching the sides for any sign of those that crossed and reminds Franklin to do the same.

“We have movement near the house next to us. I can identify only three right now,” Franklin calls out.

“Can you hold or do you want Ortiz?”

“We’re fine for now,” Franklin says.

Ortiz catches Krandle’s attention and lets him know he sees movement on their side as well. As if to validate the information, rounds begin to pepper their position from that side.

“Speer, take care of the flank. Ortiz, head to the back and keep anyone off our backside. That’s our only way out,” Krandle calls out.

Ortiz rises and dashes into an adjoining room leading to the rear. Speer adjusts his position to take the shooters on the side under fire. Feeling the effects of his wound and the tightening of the muscles around it, he brings his carbine up slower than usual. However, he starts delivering high-speed projectiles at those attempting to flank their position.

Having to cover all sides diminishes fire they can concentrate in any one area. They are slowly being surrounded, regardless of how much they try to keep their assailants’ heads down to prevent that very thing. Krandle glances at his watch yet again.

Come on, Leonard. Do what you’re going to do and do it soon or we won’t be around for it to do any good, Krandle thinks, having an idea of what Leonard has in mind.

Focusing on those across the street, the sudden sting and burning on his forehead takes him by surprise. It feels like someone pinched him and then held a burning cigarette to his skin. He reaches up to the sudden sensation trying to wipe the burn away with the back of his hand. His glove comes away with a smear of blood soaked into the fabric. The blood mixes with the sweat and the warm flow trickles down his brow. He wipes it away again and continues firing.

“Chief Krandle,” he hears Leonard call over the radio.

“Krandle here,” he answers, resuming fire between clicking the mic button.

He’s the only one delivering fast-moving projectiles to this side of their front and they can’t afford to slack off on their fire. They have to keep the pressure on.

“Five minutes…ready, ready, mark,” Leonard says.

Krandle, having set a countdown timer on his watch, reaches up and clicks a button starting it.

“Copy,” he replies.

“Be sure you’re at a minimum of two hundred meters. Four hundred would be optimal, but two hundred should provide a measure of safety. Not much, but some,” Leonard states.

“Copy. Call you in five.”

“Five minutes. We’re leaving out the back in three plus forty-five. Ortiz, we’ll be coming out your way. Then we’re across the back yard to the cliff edge. Be ready to peel away on my call,” Krandle informs the team on the radio.

“The back is clear for now, Chief,” Ortiz radios.

That will be cutting it close to be away in time but they can’t leave too early as that will give their assailants time to chase them and put the team at a greater risk in the open.

Offshore, in the deeper water of the bay miles to the northwest of the Palos Verdes headland, the rolling swells are interrupted by an eruption. Water is flung upward and out. Through it rises a sleek, cylindrical shape. The roar of a rocket echoes across the bay and the object launches into the sky at an angle, leaving a trail of fire and smoke. With a rumbling roar, it picks up speed as it gains altitude.

A short distance later, the solid propellant rocket that provides its initial boost detaches and falls into the ocean with a splash. The smoke trails off as the turbo-fan motor engages and the object vanishes from sight as it hurtles toward its destination.

Krandle glances at his watch for the hundredth time, watching the small numbers wind down. They hit the one minute, fifteen second mark.

“Everyone empty two mags and then we’re out of here. Blanchard, you start with Miller now. Franklin, Speer and I will follow you out,” Krandle calls.

Krandle fires continual bursts at anyplace that anyone could possibly be hidden in. He hears the shuffling of Miller and Blanchard behind him as they make their way to Ortiz. Replacing his mag, he sweeps the area with gunfire again. A series of rounds impacts the edge of the window near him, splintering the already shredded jamb. He feels a sting as several sharp fragments cut into his cheek.

“Okay, Franklin, you’re next… Go!” Krandle calls, down to the last few bullets in his mag.

Seconds later, as Franklin dashes by, he touches Krandle’s shoulder to let him know he’s past. Krandle fires the last rounds, replaces his mag, and looks at his watch. Fifty seconds to go.

It’s past time to beat cheeks out of here.

“Let’s go, Speer!”

They rise and race toward the back, passing Ortiz on the way. Ortiz follows them out a back door. Franklin, Miller, and Blanchard are part way across the large, open back yard. Speer, Ortiz, and Krandle emerge from the rear door when shouts ring out from both sides of the yard. Gunfire follows seconds later. They are being assaulted from both sides. The team’s unexpected appearance causes the assailants to fire hastily and therefore inaccurately.

Krandle hears rounds zip through the tall grass. He feels the pressure of one round passing just in front of him. Not slowing one bit, Franklin aims his carbine haphazardly in one hand and fires. The rounds go wide, but it causes the attackers to take cover. Miller shoves Blanchard away with his good hand, grabs his arm on the wounded side, and continues running toward the bluff edge.

Blanchard unslings his M-4 and adds his rounds to the fray. Krandle and the remaining two fire as they race across through the tall grass. Mindful of their limited time remaining, Krandle sacrifices his aim to keep pace. It’s now a pell-mell race for the edge as they try to outrace time itself. Krandle and the two with him catch up and pass Miller and Blanchard close to the bluff threshold.

The edge looms near with nothing in sight beyond except the ocean far below stretching out to the horizon. Their pace doesn’t slow. Rounds continue to pepper the air around them, following their mad race. Only a few feet separate the team from the long drop.

“Over we go, gents. Slide down,” Krandle shouts.

A couple of feet from the rim, they sling their M-4s and go to the ground like they were sliding into second. As their feet go over the edge, they roll onto their stomachs. Their legs slam into the rocky sides of the cliff and they begin skidding down. Stomachs, chests, knees, and elbows scrape against the rocky outcroppings as they scramble to grab hold of something to arrest their fall down the cliff.

The angle of the bluff at the top allows them some control and Krandle manages to grab hold of a rock projecting out of the steep wall. His feet find purchase on a small ledge and he secures himself. He looks up in time to see Miller falling past him, unable to catch himself with his one free hand. With a firm foot and hand hold, Krandle reaches out and grabs a handful of shirt. Miller screams in pain as Krandle has grabbed the shirt near his wounded shoulder. Krandle feels his feet slip and his hand aches holding onto the rock, but he doesn’t let go. Miller’s slide stops and he manages to secure his footing. With his good arm, he finds a handhold. Miller looks up, the pain evident in his eyes, and nods his thanks.

Krandle secures his grip on the cliff face once again and looks over his team. They have all found holds of some sort, but they are all hanging precariously to the side of the cliff. Just a few feet below them, the angle they slid down comes to an abrupt halt and plummets straight down onto a rocky shoreline two hundred feet below. Krandle begins to feel a little more secure in their situation as long as those above don’t appear at the edge and begin firing down on them. His watch chimes as the countdown ends.

Krandle hears a sound rising above the roar of the surf below, similar to that of a low-flying jet. This is followed quickly by a storm of explosions. The cliff wall shakes from the multitude of blasts above, each detonation sounding like a mortar round going off. The thunderous explosions are indistinguishable from each other and form a continuous, rolling barrage. The shaking precipice on which they only have a tentative hold threatens to knock them loose. The ten feet between them and the straight, two hundred foot drop seems to shrink. Rocks shaken loose pelt the team members and continue past them over the edge.

Krandle hugs the wall, trying to push farther into its solid exterior. As quickly as it began, it’s over. Krandle feels his heart beating rapidly and hears his hoarse, panting breath as he exhales into the cliff, blowing dust away with each breath. He feels small rocks and grit fall out of his hair, and sand makes its way into his collar. Looking up, he sees dark smoke roiling above the ridgeline overhead.

The stunned team waits several seconds, expecting to see figures materialize, outlined on the ridge above. When the anticipated forms and subsequent volleys of fire don’t appear, they start climbing slowly up the cliff wall. Krandle helps Miller who grunts and grimaces with pain with each extension of his arm but they eventually crest the ridge.

The landscape ahead looks nothing like what they left minutes ago. The house they were in and the ones to either side, along with those across the street are smoldering ruins. Smoke drifts up from the rubble of timber, red slate, and stucco to join with the dark clouds hanging over the area, created from the explosions. A breeze catches the dark mass and carries it inland.

Between the houses stand shredded bushes and trees, many with snapped limbs, some hanging limply toward the ground. Small fires blaze in places in the dry grass and begin to spread. The team hoists themselves into this area of destruction, alert for any surviving members of those that engaged them. Blanchard takes Miller on his shoulder which he thankfully accepts this time. Nothing moves, and the only sound is the crackling of the spot fires and the groan of broken houses settling farther.

“That was…interesting,” Speer says, breaking through the team’s silent inspection of the area.

“Which way?” Franklin asks.

“I don’t really want to traverse the neighborhoods again. There might still be others and they won’t be happy with us. Let’s try the break in the cliff you spotted earlier,” Krandle answers.

The team starts along the cliff edge, alertly guarding against any remaining assailants. Krandle looks to Blanchard asking after Miller’s condition. Blanchard nods, indicating that he’ll be okay.

“We need to get back soon, though,” Blanchard says.

“Noted. That we do,” Krandle says, sweeping his hands through his hair to clear the remaining debris.

The others look like they’ve been hauled across the ground tied behind horses. Each and every one of them has a coating of dust and is covered with cuts and scratches. The grit has staunched the flow of blood from Krandle’s forehead and cheek forming small ridges of dirt over the wounds.

As they walk, avoiding the spreading fires, Krandle sees scraps of clothing and parts of bodies spread liberally on the churned up ground. He’s thankful they made it out when they did. He can’t fathom what it must have been like to be in the midst of that attack. Of course, it’s not like anyone would have felt anything as the darkness of the other side would have come immediately.

Krandle digs sand out of his ear and contacts the Santa Fe, giving them the situation and their wounded.

“Glad you made it, Chief,” Leonard responds. “We’ll have a medical team on standby when you return.”

“We’ll be there in a little over an hour barring any further interruptions,” Krandle replies.

They reach the break in the bluff. It’s a ravine which leads steeply down but a path through the middle makes it navigable. They stumble some of the way, Miller groaning with each fall. The team makes it to the rocky shoreline after slipping most of the way down. Glancing nervously at the tall ridge above, they make it to the raft and put out to sea. The sleek sub rises quietly from the depths as they near its location. The wounded are brought aboard and treated. Miller and Speer will be out of action for a time as they recuperate. With all safely aboard, the Santa Fe slides below the waves and turns south.