Into the Guns

CHAPTER 1

TACOMA, WASHINGTON

Sixty meteors entered Earth’s atmosphere on May Day 2018. One of them swept in over North America at 1:11 P.M. PST. It was brighter than the sun and traveling at nearly sixty times the speed of sound. Because of the object’s velocity and shallow angle of entry, it exploded above the San Juan Islands in Washington State.

The result was a flash of bright light, an expanding cloud of superheated gas and dust, and a powerful shock wave. Most of the meteorite’s energy was dispersed into the atmosphere. But the remainder produced an explosion twenty to thirty times more powerful than the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The blast was felt hundreds of miles away.

First Lieutenant Robin “Mac” Macintyre was walking toward the base exchange when she saw a flash of light out of the corner of her eye, heard a distant boom, and felt a wall of hot air hit her from behind. It threw her down. The ground shook for three seconds or so.

Mac did a push-up and was back on her feet in time to see a radio tower sway and fall. There was a resounding crash as the structure landed on a wood-frame building and cut it in half. Mac felt the force of the impact through the soles of her shoes. What the hell’s going on? she wondered. Did Mount Rainier blow? Did a plane crash nearby? No, a plane crash wouldn’t knock the radio tower down. Mac took off. She was off duty—and dressed in a tee shirt, shorts, and running shoes. Sirens wailed as aid units responded to calls, people ran every which way, and columns of smoke marched across the horizon.

Mac passed a chaplain as she rounded a corner. He was on his knees, head bowed, praying. It’s too late for that, Mac thought to herself, as a thick layer of dust swept in to partially block the sun. Something tells me that we’re well and truly screwed.

After crossing a grinder, Mac arrived at the company area where her platoon was waiting. Others were present as well, including Captain Paul Driscoll. The fact that he was dressed in camos came as no surprise since he was rarely seen in anything else. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Driscoll said. “We don’t have orders yet… But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the brass will come up with something for us to do. So draw weapons and get your platoon ready to roll.”

“Draw weapons?”

Driscoll looked grim. “I’m just guessing, but some sort of civil unrest is a distinct possibility. Oh, and Mac, one more thing…”

“Sir?”

“Find something to wear. You look like a cheerleader on her way to a workout.”

Mac made a face at him and went off to find Sergeant First Class Emilio Evans. He was her platoon sergeant and, if she was killed, would assume command until the army issued him a new lieutenant. Evans was five-five and typically stood on the balls of his feet as if to make himself look taller. He had brown skin, a round face, and a ready smile. “Good morning, ma’am… Is this some crazy shit or what?”

“It certainly is,” Mac agreed. “Do you have any intel on what happened?”

Evans shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Okay, how many people do we have at this point?”

“We’re five short,” Evans replied. “But three of them live off base. So they could be in transit.”

“Yeah,” Mac agreed although she had her doubts. The sky was a sickly-gray color, the light level had been reduced by half, and Mac could feel something gritty on her skin. Fallout from a nuke? If so, the entire platoon was going to die. But there was no point in saying that, so she didn’t. “All right,” Mac said. “I hope they’re okay. Let’s redistribute the people we have.”

“Yes, ma’am. Been there, done that.”

Mac chuckled. “Sorry, Emilio… That was stupid. Of course you have. Carry on. I need to find something to wear.”

“Check the lockers in the maintenance bay,” Evans suggested. “There should be some overalls back there.” The ground shook, and they were forced to grab onto a Stryker vehicle for support. Soldiers swore, windows shattered on a building nearby, and a new crack zigzagged across the street. “We’re havin’ some fun now,” Evans said, as the tremor faded away.

“If you say so,” Mac replied. “See you in five.”

Once inside the maintenance bay, Mac realized that it might be dangerous there. All sorts of stuff had spilled out of the wall lockers and onto the floor, including a stack of olive-drab overalls. Mac grabbed one labeled SMALL, and hurried to pull it on. By the time she returned to the vehicles, the platoon was armed and dressed in full combat gear.

Mac’s vest was waiting for her. It weighed 3.6 pounds and was loaded with a .9mm pistol in a cross-draw holster, spare magazines, and a small first-aid kit. “The colonel is about to brief company commanders and platoon leaders,” Evans told her. “Maybe she knows what’s going on,” he added hopefully.

Mac followed Driscoll over to the whitewashed headquarters building. The wood-framed structure dated back to WWII and stood slumped like an old soldier who could no longer stand at attention. Rather than run the risk that the building would collapse, the order was given to assemble in front of it. Somebody shouted, “Atten-hut!” as Wilson rounded a corner, and the soldiers came to attention.

Like Mac’s father, Major General Bo Macintyre, and her older sister, Major Victoria Macintyre, Lt. Colonel Marsha Wilson was a West Point graduate. It was an honor Robin Macintyre had chosen to forgo, much to her father’s disgust. Wilson was about five-eight and her back was ramrod straight. Mac scanned the other woman’s face and didn’t like what she saw. Uncertainty? Yes. But Mac could see something else as well. And it looked like fear.

“At ease,” Wilson said. “I don’t have the time to weasel word this,” she announced. “So here’s the straight scoop… It appears that a swarm of meteors hit the planet at a very high rate of speed. At least a third of them exploded over the oceans, but the rest detonated over land and caused significant damage. I’m sorry to inform you that Washington, D.C., took a direct hit.”

The news was received with a chorus of groans followed by comments like, “No way,” “Oh, shit,” and “Those poor bastards.”

One of Bravo Company’s platoon leaders began to cry, and Mac knew why. The woman’s husband was working at the Pentagon. Had been working at the Pentagon. And what about her own family? Where was her father when the poop hit the fan? And her sister? Mac felt an emptiness at the pit of her stomach.

“England, France, Italy, Romania, Turkmenistan, and China all took hits,” the battalion commander said grimly. “But that isn’t the worst of it… The Chinese thought they were under attack. So they launched a dozen intercontinental ballistic missiles from submarines out in the Pacific. Japan, South Korea, and Australia were targeted, along with certain locations in the United States. We believe Peterson Air Force Base was among them.”

The news was so bad that none of them said anything as Mac sought to absorb what the words meant. Millions, perhaps billions of people were dead, and Peterson was the headquarters for NORAD (the United States Northern Command), as well as the Air Force Space Command. Both were hardened targets—but could they withstand what the Chinese had thrown at them? Only time would tell.

“The Chinese apologized once they understood the truth of the matter,” Wilson said. “Not that it makes any difference. Our government has been destroyed—and our command structure has been decimated. So the general and his staff are on their own until someone wearing more stars shows up.”

Mac knew Wilson was referring to the Joint Base Lewis-McChord’s commanding officer, Lieutenant General “Rusty” Rawlings. A man who, unlike her father, had risen all the way from private E-1 to general. It was a long and nearly impossible journey.

“General Rawlings wants us to secure the base,” Wilson informed them. “Civilians are trying to enter. Our orders are to stop them using the minimum amount of force required to do so.” None of Mac’s peers said a word as they made their way back to the company area where anxious soldiers were awaiting them. Now it was their turn to deliver the bad news.

Even though Mac prided herself on knowing each person under her command by name, she couldn’t remember what area each one of them was from. But it seemed like a safe bet that each soldier had lost someone. Once the platoon was gathered around her, Mac delivered the news and eventually brought the briefing to a close with a lame, “I’m sorry.” Some of the soldiers cried and turned to each other for support. A few stood motionless, their faces empty of all expression, while they sought to process what they’d heard.

PFC Wessel, AKA “the Weasel,” started to giggle. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Specialist Sims demanded angrily.

“I’m from LA,” the Weasel explained. “The Chinese nuked my ex-wife! There is a God.”

Sims was staring at the other soldier in disbelief when Driscoll arrived. “Okay, people,” he said in a voice loud enough for everybody to hear. “The CO wants us to establish a position west of the main gate on Division Drive. The MPs set up a traffic control post over there, and we’re going to provide backup. Let’s load up and roll out.” His eyes roamed their faces. “I know this is hard,” Driscoll added. “But you joined the army to do hard things. This is your chance to make a difference.”

“You heard the captain,” Mac said, as Driscoll left the area. “Let’s roll.”

Mac was in command of the battalion’s scout platoon, which consisted of four M1127A2 Stryker RCs. The “RC” stood for “recon.” Each vehicle was equipped with a .50 caliber machine gun, or a 40mm grenade launcher, and ancillary weapons as needed.

Crews consisted of a commander/gunner and a driver. A typical load out included a crew of two and a nine-person squad in back. But more people could, and frequently did, squeeze into the rear compartment. Archer Company’s record was seventeen.

Mac chose to ride in the one-two vic (vehicle). She rarely if ever rode with Evans since that would put the platoon’s entire command structure at risk. The rest of her tiny headquarters group consisted of Doc Obbie, the platoon’s combat medic; Sparks Munroe, her radio-telephone operator (RTO); and forward observer Lin Kho. The weapons squad was crammed into one-two as well, which meant Mac was sitting knee to knee with Sergeant Brown. If the noncom was worried about the overall situation, she couldn’t see any sign of it on his face.

The rear hatch produced a whining sound as it came up and locked into place. Now Mac was confined inside what amounted to a tin can where, though responsible for everything that happened to the platoon, she couldn’t see. It was a helpless feeling, and one she would never get used to. The air was heavy with the sickly-sweet smell of hydraulic fluid. The truck produced a high-pitched, whining noise as it got under way.

The soldiers slumped sideways as the TC (truck commander) applied the brakes. That was followed by some backing and filling as he positioned the Stryker to fire on whatever targets might present themselves. As soon as the ramp went down, Sergeant Brown and his squad surged out to take up defensive positions around the first platoon’s vehicles. But there wasn’t any threat that Mac could discern. A group of citizens was gathered around a hastily created traffic control point (TCP)—but the MPs had the situation under control.

In addition to his military gear, Sparks was carrying a Sony pocket radio. He turned the set on and fiddled with the controls until he found a station that was still on the air. All of them listened intently as a field reporter described the way things looked from the top of Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill. “… The top half of the space needle was sheared off… The wreckage fell toward the east—and is spread all over the place. Two of the buildings in the South Lake Union business complex were severely damaged, and one of them is on fire. The elevated section of I-5 can be seen through the smoke. It looks like a large section of it collapsed. Cars are scattered on the hillside and north–south traffic is blocked. Oh, no! Another section collapsed!”

“Turn it off,” Mac said. “I can only take so much of that.”

No one disagreed. Kho wiped her eyes. “My God, Lieutenant… When will it stop?”

Mac didn’t know. And as the day progressed, it became increasingly obvious that no one else did either. By the time the sun set, it was completely hidden by a globe-spanning blanket of particulate matter. And, because the power was out, the only lights to be seen were those that belonged to a scattering of people with generators and the military. Sporadic gunfire began shortly thereafter. “What the hell are they shooting at?” Brown wondered out loud as he munched on a candy bar.

“Each other,” Mac replied. “The people with generators shouldn’t turn them on. Lights will attract trouble.”

“What about our lights?” Brown inquired.

“Same thing,” Mac told him. “It’s only a matter of time.”

That was the beginning of a long, nerve-wracking night. Gunfire was heard, fires could be seen in the distance, and by the time there was enough light to see by, a large crowd had gathered in front of the traffic control point. Some people had been driven out of their homes by looters. Others had been forced to abandon their cars on I-5 and were looking for a safe place to stay. But General Rawlings knew there were tens of thousands of such individuals out there—and a very real limit on how many refugees JBLM could safely handle. So he had chosen to dispatch medical teams, plus food and water, rather than let them enter the base.

But as two days morphed into three, the pressure was starting to build. As the amount of crime in the surrounding areas continued to increase, people wanted to enter the base for safety’s sake. And Mac couldn’t blame them.

A tall, thin MP had taken up a position in front of the barricades and was clutching a bullhorn. “Do not approach the barricade unless you are a member of the military and have ID to prove it!” the MP declared. “Please stay back.”

A woman with two children approached him. Mac couldn’t hear what was said, but could see the look of anguish on her face and saw the MP point. The woman was sobbing as she led her children back into the seething crowd. It was heartbreaking.

Macintyre heard a buzzing sound and turned in time to see a civilian helicopter appear from the south. It was flying low in order to escape the worst of the airborne grit and seemed to be following I-5 north. As an aid to navigation? In order to assess conditions on the freeway? Either possibility would make sense.

As the helo passed in front of her, Mac heard sporadic gunfire and realized that civilians on the freeway were firing on the aircraft! Why? Maybe they wanted to punish someone for the situation they found themselves in even if that didn’t make sense. Would her troops think the refugees were firing at them? Mac feared that the answer could be yes. “This is Archer-One actual,” she said via the platoon net. “Hold your fire.” They did, and the helicopter continued on its way, apparently undamaged.

The crowd in front of them continued to swell as more and more people left the freeway searching for assistance. Or had the crowd morphed into a mob? That was the way it appeared as a self-appointed leader elbowed his way up to the front of the assemblage and began to chant. “Let us in! Let us in! Let us in!”

The MP with the bullhorn tried to respond, but the mob shouted him down. Mac was about to notify Captain Driscoll when he appeared at her side. “Fire warning shots if they start to push through the barricade. If that doesn’t work, shoot their leaders.”

Mac was about to reply when a bullet blew the top of Driscoll’s skull off. Blood and brain tissue sprayed sideways, and as Doc hurried to respond, the rest of them hit the dirt.

All sorts of thoughts flitted through Mac’s mind. Had the sniper been waiting for an officer senior to her? Should she have ordered the platoon to dig in? Why wasn’t Driscoll wearing his helmet? Private Hadley’s voice cut through the muddle. “I have the bastard, Lieutenant… Just say the word.”

Hadley was the platoon’s marksman. “Smoke him,” Mac ordered, and heard the Remington 700 fire a fraction of a second later. “Got him,” the sniper said. “Over.”

“Confirmed,” his spotter echoed. “He was on the overpass at one o’clock. You can see the hole in the crowd. Over.”

Mac looked, and sure enough, she could see a steadily expanding gap in the crowd of people who lined the rail. Unfortunately, there was no time in which to give the matter further thought as another voice came over the radio. “Brown here… Look west… Something big is coming our way. It’s a front loader, and the bucket is raised to shield the driver.”

Mac had to stand in order to see what Brown saw but was careful to use one-two for cover. A pair of binoculars brought everything in close. The machine wasn’t big—it was HUGE! Stolen from a construction site? Probably. It looked as though criminals were trying to use the refugees as cannon fodder.

The loader was flanked by columns of motorcycles. The plan was obvious. Some sort of gang was planning to drive the machine through the TCP and head for the main gate. Once inside the base, they would go looking for heavy weapons. The kind they could use to take what they wanted. Judging from appearances, it looked as if the outriders hoped to flank the Strykers and get in behind them.

Did the man or woman in charge have some military training? Mac figured the answer was yes. She spoke into her mike. “Archer-One-Seven… Once the loader is fifty feet from the barricades, fire a burst of .50 cal over it. Archer-One-Four… If that plan doesn’t work, put two rockets on the bastard. Stryker commanders are to engage the motorcycles if they attempt to flank us or charge the barricades. Over.” Mac heard half a dozen clicks by way of a response.

People screamed and ran every which way as the loader and its escorts cleared the underpass and began to increase speed. The MP was still manning his post, his .9mm pistol raised, firing round after round at the charging machine. It was a gesture, but a brave one, and Mac was relieved when the soldier dived for the ground.

The sound of thunder was heard as the motorcycle riders revved their engines and spread out. Each man or woman had a passenger—and each passenger was armed. Mac heard the ping, ping, ping of bullets hitting one-two’s armor as they opened fire.

Then the loader smashed through the barricades and someone on Brown’s squad fired a rocket at it. The missile struck the bucket and blew it away. The second rocket sped through the resulting gap and hit the cab. Mac saw a flash of light and heard the resulting boom as the machine jerked to a halt.

That didn’t slow the bikers though… They kept coming. And that was when the remotely operated machine guns mounted on her Strykers began to chug. The subsequent battle lasted for less than thirty seconds. Once it was over, motorcycles and riders lay in a bloody sprawl out in front of the platoon’s position. It was the first time Mac had been in combat. But rather than a sense of satisfaction—she felt sick to her stomach as she turned to Munroe. “Tell the captain what happened… I’m going forward to give Doc a hand.”

Munroe stared at her. “Captain Driscoll is dead, Lieutenant… You’re in command.”

That was when Mac remembered the way Driscoll had been killed and turned to look at the body. The sight came as a shock. In command? It made sense since she was the company’s XO (executive officer.) But I don’t want to be in command, Mac thought to herself. Hell, I don’t want to be in the army.

Yet you joined, the other her put in. Not right away, like Dad wanted you to, but after goofing off for two years. Why was that anyway? To please the old bastard? To compete with your sister? Or because you couldn’t think of an alternative?

Mac forced herself to focus. The rest of Archer Company… Where was it? What had the other platoons been ordered to do? She spent the next half hour making the rounds.

Like the first platoon, the other two were positioned to prevent people from entering the base. But that wasn’t all. Foot soldiers were patrolling the perimeter while the MPs searched for infiltrators, a number of whom had been placed under arrest. All of which made it impossible for the army to go out and help surrounding communities.

And that, according to a rumor Mac had heard, was the focus of a ninety-minute meeting between General Rawlings and a representative from the governor’s office. A woman who, by all accounts, believed that all of JBLM’s four-thousand-plus military personnel should be patrolling neighborhoods as far north as Seattle. But Rawlings called bullshit on that by pointing out that if the base were overrun, any work the troops managed to accomplish would be negated.

That was the way things stood as darkness fell, and orders came down for Archer Company’s platoons to remain where they were. Mac ordered everyone to dig defensive fighting positions and stand four-hour watches. She was with the second platoon, eating an MRE, when Driscoll’s replacement arrived. His name was Nick Hollister and he’d been taken off a desk job to lead Archer Company. Mac didn’t have much respect for staff officers, but Hollister could talk the talk and clearly knew one end of a Stryker from the other.

Mac decided to take comfort from that as she completed the handover and hitched a ride to the spot where the first platoon was dug in. The power grid was down, but the spill of light from one-two’s cargo compartment was sufficient to see by. Evans was there to greet Mac and provide a sitrep. “Everything’s quiet,” he assured her. “Everything except for some occasional sniper fire. But that’s no big deal compared to what’s happening on the other side of the freeway.”

Mac turned to look west. No stars were visible because of the heavy cloud cover. But Mac could see the orange-red glow of what had to be a large blaze, and hear the intermittent pop, pop, pop of small-arms fire. No sirens though… Not a single one. After three days of chaos, the local police and fire departments had been neutralized.

Maybe the bad guys couldn’t take JBLM. Not yet anyway… But they were free to rob, rape, and murder defenseless citizens. Some anyway. Although, with more than 300 million guns in the United States, others had the means to fight back.

That was the beginning of a long and mostly sleepless night. When dawn arrived, there was no sunrise as such. Just a gradual increase in the cold gray light that filtered down through thick layers of cloud. The air felt colder than it should have in May—and Mac wished she was wearing cold-weather gear. But that was in the BOQ with the rest of her belongings. So all she could do was clasp a hot mug of coffee with both hands and snuggle up to the heat that was radiating off one-two. That’s what Mac was doing when a Humvee arrived and Captain Hollister got out. He had sandy-colored hair, a roundish face, and a spray of freckles across his nose. The same nose on which a pair of black-rimmed birth control glasses (BCG) rested.

Maybe Hollister was a PowerPoint Ranger, and maybe he wasn’t. But he sure as hell looked like one. “Good morning,” Hollister said, never mind the fact that it clearly wasn’t. “Please ask the people who aren’t on duty to gather around. Reliable information is still hard to come by, but I’ll share what I have and ask you to brief the rest of the platoon later.”

Mac was eager to hear the news no matter how iffy it might be—and knew the people in her platoon felt the same way. They were worried about their families and friends, some to the point where they were barely functional.

The soldiers came together on the east side of a Stryker, where they would be safe from snipers. “Okay,” Hollister said as he consulted a printout. “Here’s what the Intel people have been able to pull together. An object, widely believed to be one of at least a dozen meteorites, exploded over the San Juan Islands at approximately 1300 hours three days ago. The blast, plus the resulting shock wave, killed thousands of people. Earthquakes triggered by subsequent impacts caused additional deaths. Around the same time, a tsunami surged south through Puget Sound and laid waste to low-lying coastal areas. The Bremerton Naval Base and the Port of Seattle were destroyed.”

That produced a chorus of groans. Hollister kept his eyes on the piece of paper. Because he was focused on the briefing? Or because it was difficult to maintain his composure? Mac suspected the latter. “The tidal wave surged south,” Hollister continued. “And when it entered the Tacoma Narrows, the wall of water was a hundred feet high. The westbound span of the Narrows Bridge collapsed and dumped dozens of cars into the water. That means the channel is blocked, which will prevent ships from entering or leaving the port of Olympia until the Corps of Engineers can clear it.”

Hollister looked up at that point. His expression was grave. “We still don’t have a lot of information about the national or international situation other than what the colonel provided earlier. Once it comes in, I’ll pass it along. In the meantime, we will continue to perform our duties.

“Unfortunately, Sea-Tac Airport was damaged by a quake—and very few planes are flying because of the particulate matter in the air. In fact, so much of the local infrastructure has been damaged that we have orders to escort thousands of civilians over Snoqualmie Pass to Yakima. A fleet of approximately forty buses is being assembled in Tacoma, and the convoy will depart at 0900 tomorrow morning. This platoon will take the point—and be responsible for scouting ahead.

“Your job will be to assess the condition of roads and bridges and provide the column with the kind of guidance that will enable it to keep moving. And that’s critical. Because if the convoy bogs down, it might become difficult to keep the evacuees under control, and we’ll be sitting ducks if criminal elements attack us. The second platoon will lead the column—and the third will bring up the rear. Platoon leaders will receive their orders by 1300 hours today.”

Hollister looked at Mac. “In the meantime, you are to rotate your people back to their quarters, where they can shower, collect their winter clothing, and gear up. A platoon of Bradleys will relieve your platoon by 1600 hours. Once they do, swing by supply and pick up trailers loaded with MREs and water. We’ll have a lot of mouths to feed. Do you have any questions?”

Mac had questions—plenty of ’em. Like, “How the hell can a recon platoon do its job while towing a frigging trailer?” But that sort of thing was best saved for a private conversation—or dispensed with altogether under the circumstances. “I’ll get back to you, sir.”

Hollister nodded. His expression was bleak. “Good. This is just the beginning. We’re going to move two thousand people. But there are, or were, about 3.5 million people living in the Puget Sound area. Based on initial estimates something like 2.8 million of them are still alive. So our convoy will be the first of many as the government seeks to move at least eight hundred thousand residents east. I’m proud to say that Archer Company was chosen to lead the way.”

Hollister made it sound good… But as a practical matter, Mac found it hard to believe that the authorities would be able to move that many people across the mountains two thousand at a time. What was that? Something like sixteen thousand busloads? Still, they were trying… And that beat the alternative.

It was snowing in May. That was what Mac discovered when she rolled out of her rack and crossed the room to peer through the blinds. It was dark outside, but JBLM’s emergency generators were running, and half of the streetlights were on. Mac could see individual snowflakes as they twirled down out of the black sky. Did that mean the weather had started to deteriorate? Because of the persistent overcast? Probably. And would this have a negative effect on crops? The answer was yes. According to one news report the so-called impact winter was going to have a devastating effect on agriculture, causing up to 25 percent of the human population to perish. That would be something like 3.5 billion people! A number so large, Mac couldn’t wrap her mind around it. But there was nothing she could do other than help to the extent she could.

Mac had what was likely to be her last hot shower for days to come. It felt good, and she took her time. Once Mac was dressed, there were choices to make. Archer Company was supposed to return to JBLM in a matter of days. And maybe it would. But what if it didn’t? Depending on what happened, she might never see her belongings again. So Mac placed the items of greatest importance into her “A” bag. That included all her winter clothing, two hundred dollars’ worth of personal items purchased at the PX the evening before, and three framed pictures.

The first was of her mother. Some people said there was a resemblance, and Mac hoped they were right, because Margaret Macintyre had dark hair, intelligent eyes, and a softly rounded face. But unfortunately the woman in the picture had died of cancer shortly after her youngest daughter’s tenth birthday. Mac missed her every day.

The second photo was of her father. The general was decked out in his dress uniform and looking into the camera with the implacable stare that he reserved for daughters who fell short of his expectations. Which was to say Mac, since Victoria excelled at everything.

And finally there was a picture of Victoria. It had been taken by one of Mac’s friends and sent to her without Victoria’s knowledge. In it, Vic could be seen kissing a helicopter pilot—the same helicopter pilot Mac had been engaged to at the time.

Had Victoria been in love with the man? Or had she taken him away just for the fun of it? To prove that she could? The answer could be seen in the fact that Vic dumped the pilot one week after Mac ended the relationship.

Then why did you frame the photo? Mac asked herself. And, why keep it? The answer was complicated. To remind herself that Victoria was a bitch? Certainly. Because it was the only image of Victoria she had? Maybe and maybe not.

Mac wrapped each picture in a tee shirt before placing them in the bag. The platoon wasn’t supposed to take “A” bags because they were too large. But screw that. Mac had instructed Evans to let her people choose. Their “A” bag or a smaller “B” bag. The choice was up to them.

Finally, with her field gear on, her “A” bag in one hand and a rucksack dangling from the other, Mac left the BOQ. A flight of stairs took her down to a door and out into the frigid air beyond. A snowflake kissed her cheek. She didn’t look back.

All four of Mac’s Strykers were lined up and waiting. The so-called birdcages that surrounded the Strykers made them look big and ungainly but offered protection against rocket-propelled grenades. Each vic had eight wheels and was armed with light machine guns in addition to a .50 caliber machine gun or a grenade launcher.

The Engineer Squad Vehicle or ESV looked different from the rest, however. It had what looked like a bulldozer blade mounted up front. But rather than use the machine for clearing mines, which it was designed to do, Mac planned to move stalled cars with it. Something they’d do a lot of. It hadn’t been easy to get the ESV, though… Hollister had been cynical, and Evans was on record saying that the last thing they needed was “a fucking anchor.” But Mac had prevailed in the end, and the ESV had been brought in to replace her fourth truck.

After handing her gear to a private in one-four, Mac went looking for Captain Hollister. He was with the second platoon. “Good morning,” he said, seemingly oblivious to what lay ahead. “How’s the first platoon? Did everyone report for duty?”

Mac hadn’t thought to ask but knew Evans would have told her if someone had gone over the hill. “The people who were MIA yesterday still are,” she replied. “But the rest of the platoon is here.”

“Good,” Hollister replied. “Two members of the second platoon are AWOL, along with a soldier from the third. All of them have families who live off base.”

Mac winced. It made sense given how bad things were. An effort was under way to bring dependents inside the wire—but that could take weeks. And how would families fare in the meantime? Had she been in their place, Mac might have done the same thing. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Okay,” Hollister said as he offered a printout. “Here’s the plan. Take your platoon to the Tacoma Mall parking lot, where the buses will be waiting for you. Then you’ll lead the column up I-5 and onto Highway 18, which will take you to I-90. From that point, it will be a straight shot up and over the pass. I will ride with the second platoon at the head of the column. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Mac said. “Odds are that at least one of those buses will break down. What then?”

“That’s a good question,” Hollister answered. “We will have forty-two buses. Two more than we need, plus a fuel tanker, and a wrecker following along behind the column.”

“That’s awesome,” Mac said, as she gave Hollister points for planning. It looked as if the ex–desk jockey had a clue. Thank God.

The sky was starting to lighten as the first platoon led Archer Company down Forty-first Division Drive to I-5. Mac was riding in one-two, with her head and shoulders sticking up through the forward air guard hatch. There were two reasons for that. The first was that she wanted a clear view of what was taking place—and the second had to do with her incipient claustrophobia.

So Mac was in a good position to see the Bradleys, the aid station, and the recently established food-distribution point. Two six-bys were parked next to it, and soldiers were busy unloading boxes of MREs for the people lined up to receive them. The line stretched west and under I-5 to the neighborhood beyond. MPs were patrolling the column to prevent people from jumping the queue—and that was critical to keeping the situation under control.

It was cold, though… And most of the folks in line were wearing winter coats or had blankets draped over their shoulders. Mac waved at them, and most waved back. That boosted her spirits. The feeling was short-lived, however, as one-two pulled up the ramp and onto the freeway. There was enough light to see by then, and I-5 was strewn with cars, RVs, and trucks. An Apache helicopter roared overhead and disappeared to the south. God help anyone who fired at it.

Having determined the situation to be relatively safe, Mac ordered the ESV to take the lead. Then, with the blade lowered, it began to push cars out of the way so that the other trucks could follow. Most of the abandoned vehicles had been looted. So smashed windows and open doors were a common sight. Items the thieves didn’t want lay strewn on the highway. There were a lot of brightly colored toys.

The process went slowly at first. Too slowly. But as the ESV’s driver continued to gain confidence, the pace quickened. That, plus the fact that there were occasional open spaces, meant that the rest of the column could travel at a steady 5 mph. Bodies lined the route, and the crows covered them like black shrouds. As the ESV approached, some of the birds were so full, they were barely able to take off.

There were signs of life, however, including pet dogs that didn’t know where to go and refugees who came in all shapes and sizes. Some, like a disheveled businessman, were on foot. But there were bicyclists, too… Plus people on horses and a steady stream of heavily laden motorcyclists traveling in both directions. Mac tracked them with the machine gun mounted forward of the hatch, but none posed a threat.

It took an hour to make what should have been a fifteen-minute trip. The snow had tapered off by the time they arrived at the mall. The parking lot was strewn with items looted from the stores and later rejected. Dozens of people were picking through the castoffs, searching for shoes that fit them, a jacket for a child, or something to eat.

As the company entered the parking lot on the east side of the Tacoma Mall, Mac saw that while some of the stores were intact, about a third of the complex lay in ruins. According to Hollister, the two thousand people who were going to take a bus ride east had been chosen from roughly five thousand people camped in and around the mall. Were they looters? Hell yes, they were. Although the line between thief and survivalist had started to blur.

A lottery had been held to determine who the “winners” would be—assuming that the people who boarded the buses were better off as a result. But would that occur? The final outcome was anything but certain. As one-two came to a stop, Mac saw that the last passengers were passing through a security checkpoint before boarding the buses. That’s where they were required to temporarily surrender their weapons or remain in Tacoma. A commonsense precaution that was intended to prevent violence along the way.

Some of the buses were yellow and had the words TACOMA SCHOOL DISTRICT painted on their flanks. Others were the property of Pierce County Transit and Greyhound. “Archer-Six to Archer-One,” Hollister said over her headset. “Send some people out to verify that each and every bus has a full tank of diesel. Over.”

Mac’s estimate of Hollister’s competence went up another notch. “This is One. Roger that, over.”

Evans had already dispatched a squad to do Hollister’s bidding by the time Mac ducked down into the cargo area and exited through the rear hatch. It took the better part of an hour to check all of the buses, top off tanks, and get the riders settled.

Meanwhile, more people had arrived at the mall, and some of them were pissed. Why weren’t they on one of the buses? Hollister tried to explain, but many of the newcomers refused to listen, and the situation had started to get ugly when Mac received orders to move out. “Clear the way,” Hollister told her. “The second will lead the convoy out—and the third will provide security until the last bus is clear.”

Mac returned to one-two and her position in the front hatch. The ESV led the rest of the platoon out of the parking lot, over I-5, and onto the freeway. That stretch of highway was depressingly similar to what they’d experienced earlier. But things went smoothly until they arrived at the point where an overpass had collapsed onto the freeway, blocking all the northbound lanes.

Mac radioed a warning to Hollister and ordered her vehicles to execute a U-turn. Even though it took fifteen minutes to reach the last exit, they still arrived before the column did and were able to lead it down a ramp onto a frontage road. It took them north under the portion of the overpass that was still standing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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