Into the Guns

CHAPTER 3

NEAR YAKIMA, WASHINGTON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evans laughed. “Better you than me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s my pleasure,” Mac lied, as she took a seat at a small conference table. “What can I do for you?”

Wylie was direct if nothing else. “Don’t be coy, Lieutenant. You know what I need… And that’s fuel.”

“The vast majority of the training center’s fuel was taken east,” Mac reminded him. “But yes, I have some. Not enough to solve your problems though… And, once orders come in, we’ll need what we have.”

“That’s the same line of bull you gave me last time,” Wylie said as he stared at her. “When will those orders come?”

“I don’t know.”

Wylie placed a pair of beefy forearms on the table. “Let’s be honest, Lieutenant… The whole country is belly-up! So there’s a good chance that those orders won’t arrive. And, while you sit on that fuel, the citizens of Yakima are suffering.”

“I’m sorry,” Mac replied. “I really am. But let’s keep this real. Yakima would run through my fuel in less than a week. It’s a drop in the bucket compared to what you need.”

Wylie had just opened his mouth to speak when Cobb entered, carrying a tray and two cups. “There you go,” she said cheerfully. “Please help yourselves to cream and sugar.”

Wylie thanked her and waited until Cobb had left the room before speaking again. His eyes were like chips of coal. “Listen, Lieutenant… I’m tired of playing footsie with you. Either you give 80 percent of your fuel to Yakima—or I’ll send the police over to take it away from you.”

Mac stood. Her voice was cold. “I would advise against that, Mr. Wylie… If you send your police to attack Vagabond, we will kill them. And who will protect you then?”

And with that, Mac took her jacket and left the office. Cobb looked concerned as Mac strode past her, and both soldiers stood. Mac paused to let them gulp the rest of their coffee before leading them to the stairs. The meeting was over.

In the wake of the face-to-face with Wylie, Mac had no choice but to put her tiny command on high alert. An observation post was established on the east side of the freeway, some of the platoon’s fighting positions were reinforced, and command-detonated mines were placed at key points around the perimeter.

But after three days without an attack, Mac began to relax. Then, on the fourth day, something remarkable occurred. The clouds parted—and the sun appeared! Mac felt better, and so did her troops, all of whom shed at least one layer of clothing—and went looking for opportunities to work outside. Even the normally dour Dr. Hoskins had a smile on his face.

So morale was up when the distant drone of a plane was heard, and the soldiers peered into the sky. All they could see was a dot, and a momentary glint of reflected light. Eventually, the dot morphed into a single-engine plane. It was boring in from the west, and that alone was enough to raise Mac’s spirits. Maybe, just maybe, someone had been sent to replace Captain Hollister! And that hope grew as Omata broke the news. She was tracking the plane with a pair of binoculars. “It has air force markings,” she said, “and it’s turning our way!”

The sound of the engine grew louder as Mac turned to Peters. “Get on the horn,” she told him. “See if you can make contact.”

Peters entered the Flight Control Center as Omata continued to eyeball the incoming aircraft. “It’s a T-41 Mescalero,” the pilot said. “I learned how to fly in the civilian version. Uh-oh… I see what could be bullet holes.”

Peters was back. “The pilot isn’t responding, Lieutenant.”

Mac turned to Evans. “Find Hoskins and take some people down to the airstrip. Roll the crash truck. The pilot could be wounded.” Evans shouted orders as he ran.

Now Mac could see the white-over-blue prop plane more clearly as it circled the base. “He’s checking us out,” Omata observed, “trying to make sure that we’re military.”

That made sense given current conditions—and Mac continued to watch as the plane turned into the wind. “He’s going to land,” Omata predicted, and she began to run. Mac was right behind her.

The runway had never been long enough for anything other than light planes. That was one of the reasons why Vagabond had been redesignated as a heliport. But Mac figured that if any plane could land there, the Mescalero could. The trainer was about fifteen feet off the ground as the women arrived at the edge of the runway.

Everything looked good at first, and Mac thought the Mescalero was going to make a textbook landing, when the right wingtip came down. It hit the ground, threw the plane into an uncontrolled loop, and razor-sharp pieces of metal flew through the air as the prop shattered. The officers hit the dirt, and metal screeched as the fuselage skidded to a halt.

Both women were up and running as the crash truck roared in to foam the wreckage. Omata was the first to duck under the left wing and jerk the door open. A man was slumped over the controls, and as Mac got closer, she saw holes in the roof.

Omata cut the pilot free from his harness and began to pull him out. The seat was soaked with blood, and the pilot was clearly unconscious as they lowered him to the ground.

Dr. Hoskins arrived seconds later, closely followed by Obbie. “Good work,” the doctor said. “Now get the hell out of the way.”

Mac and Omata backed away as the man was lifted onto a stretcher and carried to the waiting Humvee. “Shit,” Omata said feelingly. “Did you see that? The poor bastard had at least two holes in him.”

“Hoskins will patch him up,” Mac predicted, and hoped it was true. “Search the cockpit. Recover what you can. Maybe we can figure out who this guy is—and what he was up to. We’ll meet in Flight Control thirty from now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Omata responded. “I’m on it.”

Mac spent the next half hour supervising the cleanup, with help from Peters. Then she went up to Flight Control, where a number of items were laid out on a table. The collection included an AWOL bag, a laptop, a cell phone, a folding knife, a wallet, and some pocket litter.

“I got some of this stuff from Doc Obbie,” Omata explained. “And the rest is from the plane. The pilot is an army unmanned aerial vehicle operator named Staff Sergeant Nick Esco. He’s stationed at JBLM.”

“Okay,” Mac said. “Good work. Is that all?”

“No,” Omata said as she pointed to a pink envelope. “He had a girlfriend named Karol.”

“Had?”

“She dumped him two weeks prior to the meteor strike.”

“And she told him in a letter?”

“That’s affirmative.”

“What a bitch… All right, find your boss and tell him I would appreciate a low-level reconnaissance of the area.”

Omata’s face lit up. ‘You’re clearing us to fly?”

“Yes, I am.”

Omata produced a whoop of joy and nearly bowled Evans over on her way out of the building. He looked at Mac. “Why so happy?”

“She gets to fly.”

Evans shook his head. “Rotor heads… They’re crazy.”

The Apache lifted off half an hour later, circled the base, and went looking for trouble. That was useful, but the true purpose of the mission was to keep the pilots sharp and to boost their morale.

Shortly after the helicopter’s departure, Mac went to check on Sergeant Esco. The dispensary was well lit, and the air was warm. Hoskins was sitting in the tiny waiting room drinking a cup of coffee. He nodded. “Thanks for the power… I could operate by lanternlight. But I don’t want to. A bullet punched through Sergeant Esco’s right thigh, and another was lodged in his right buttock. Both projectiles came up through the bottom of the cabin. No wonder he crashed… The poor bastard was bleeding to death.”

Mac sat down. “And now?”

“And now he’s all patched up,” Hoskins informed her. “Obbie’s with him. He’s a good hospital corpsman, by the way… You’re lucky to have him.”

“We are,” Mac agreed. “Although we call them medics.”

“Who cares?” Hoskins responded. “He’s good. That’s the point.”

“Roger that,” Mac said. “I appreciate the feedback. So when can I speak with Sergeant Esco?”

“When he wakes up,” Hoskins said. “I’ll let you know.”

“Good,” Mac replied. “And thanks… We’re lucky to have you as well.” And with that, she left.

Mac was sitting in the Flight Control Center fretting about the unit’s quickly dwindling supply of food when she heard the helicopter clatter overhead and come in for a landing. If it hadn’t been for the MREs stored at Vagabond, the platoon would have run out of food weeks earlier. It was a perplexing problem, and one that became increasingly acute with each passing day.

Mac’s thoughts were interrupted when the door opened, and a blast of cold air flooded the room. The generator was off, and the stove provided what warmth there was. Evans sat with his back to the rest of the room. He said, “Hey, close the fucking door,” before turning around to look.

“That’s ‘close the fucking door,’ sir,” Peters said with a huge grin.

“My bad,” Evans conceded, as Peters trooped in. “I should have known. Only a pilot would be stupid enough to leave the door open.” Peters flipped him off, and both men laughed.

“So what’s going on out there?” Mac inquired.

“Not a helluva lot,” Peters said, as he plopped down. “Unless you’re into mining trucks.”

“Mining trucks? What kind of mining trucks? And where were they?”

“Big honking mining trucks,” the pilot replied. “On the other side of the river. They’re parked next to a convenience store. Omata has gun-camera footage, but we’ll need some juice in order to show it to you.”

Evans looked at Mac, she nodded, and he left. Once the generator was purring, it took five minutes to download the footage. There wasn’t much to see at first… Just some widely separated homes. Then the helo crossed both the freeway and the Yakima River. That was when four gigantic trucks became visible. Metal canopies jutted out over their cabs, and as the Apache circled, Mac saw that a steel balcony was mounted on the front of each vehicle.

Pickups looked like toys compared to the big beasts, and people were like ants, as they ran in every direction. And that raised an important question. Why would people run unless they had something to hide?

Mac had seen such trucks on TV and knew they were associated with open-pit mines. But there weren’t any open-pit mines nearby. None that she knew of. And that raised a second question: Why were the big mining machines parked next to a convenience store located a short distance from Vagabond? Then it came to her. The ore haulers were part of Wylie’s plan to attack the base! Mac felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of her stomach. “Can you give me some magnification? I’d like to have a closer look at the cabs on those trucks.”

Omata could and did. The video was grainy but sufficient to confirm what Mac already suspected. By welding steel plates to the balconies that fronted the truck cabs Wylie’s people had been able to provide the drivers with a modicum of protection. Was the armor thick enough to stop a .50 caliber slug? Probably. Could the Apache destroy the haulers with Hellfire missiles? Of course. But what then? What armament they had for the helicopter was already hanging on it. And once that was gone, the unit would be SOL if faced with an even greater threat.

Plus, there was the weather to consider. Mac was well aware of the fact that a lot of things can go wrong when an attack helicopter is forced to fly below five hundred feet, and visibility is limited to a couple of miles. And the clouds were moving back in. Evans was staring at the video. “Holy shit… Those bastards are getting ready for war.”

“Yes, they are,” Mac agreed. “It looks like they plan to roll in, crash through the fence, and level the base. Then they’ll take our fuel. Wylie was serious.”

Peters stared at her. “So what are we going to do?”

“We’ll attack,” Mac said without hesitation. “We have no choice. Now they know that we know—so they’ll come for us as soon as they can.” She turned to Evans. “Get everyone ready… I want to roll by 0400.”

Evans was on his feet. He looked grim. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he was gone.

There was a lot to do, and when the pilots left, Mac was all alone. You’re an idiot, she told herself. You should have sent patrols across the river. The fact that the weather cleared, and the rotor heads saw the trucks, was dumb luck.

I didn’t think Wylie would follow through, the other her objected. Plus, it would be easy for a patrol to get cut off that far out.

Excuses won’t cut it, the first voice said harshly. Get your shit together. Mac stood. A mistake had been made, and she wasn’t going to repeat it.

None of the soldiers slept that night. There were trucks to perform maintenance on, weapons to clean, and a wide variety of contingencies to plan for. The Apache was a good example. Rather than commit the gunship to the fight, Mac placed it on standby. It was her ace in the hole… A weapon she’d call on if necessary but only if forced to do so.

At 0305, Mac returned to her quarters to gear up. As she was getting ready, she came across the .9mm “Baby” Glock her father had given her when she graduated from high school. Some of her friends received jewelry, trips, and, in one case, a car.

But her gift was the pistol and lessons at the local range. It seemed stupid at the time—and her friends felt sorry for her. But now, as she prepared to go into combat, there was something comforting about the way the handgun felt in her hand. Was her father alive? There was no way to know as she slid the weapon into its holster.

The troops were loaded and ready by 0330. But before they left the base, Mac wanted to get one last report from Forward Observer Lin Kho. Private Hadley had been sent along to provide security, and the two of them were hidden in a cluster of trees just east of the convenience store, where they could put eyes on the mining trucks. They were equipped with night-vision goggles, so very little would escape their notice.

Mac was standing in one-one’s forward hatch as she spoke into her mike. “Archer-Six to One-Ten. Do you read me? Over.”

“This is Ten,” Kho whispered. “I read you five by five. Over.”

“We’re ready to roll… Give me a sitrep. Over.”

“You were correct,” Kho replied. “It looks like the trucks are preparing to depart. About twenty police officers are present, along with roughly thirty civilians, all of whom are armed. Hold one… Some of the cops are climbing up onto the roof canopies. They have bipod-mounted machine guns. Over.”

“Roger that. Is there any sign of Wylie? Over.”

“There’s a guy who’s walking around shouting at people,” Kho answered. “Over.”

“That sounds like him,” Mac said. “Tell Bravo-Two-Two to take the shot if he gets one. Then run like hell. Over.”

“This is Two,” Hadley replied. “Roger that. Out.”

“All right,” Mac said. “Withdraw toward the overpass if you can… We’re on the way. Out.” Then, speaking to the truck commander, she said “Let’s roll.”

Strangely, given their size, the Strykers were extremely quiet. So much so that when first deployed to Iraq in 2003, people referred to them as Ghost Riders. Mac heard a high-pitched whine as one-one began to pick up speed and felt the cold air press against her face.

Rather than barrel straight down Firing Center Road, the three-vehicle column took a less direct route that zigzagged through back roads and went cross-country at times. Mac would have preferred to divide the platoon in two, with each team following a different route, but she had to leave a truck at the base just in case. And since the engineering vehicle was the most ungainly of the four—it made sense to leave that truck behind with a squad of soldiers and her orphans.

“This is Bravo-Two-Two,” Hadley said in her ear. Mac could hear heavy breathing and knew the sniper was running. “The guy with the big mouth is down—and five or six civilians are chasing us. The cops have dogs, and they’re closing fast. We’re looking for a place to make a stand. Out.”

Mac swore under her breath. Dogs. She hadn’t anticipated that. What else had she failed to think of? “This is Archer-Six actual. Roger that, Two… We’ll be there soon. Over.”

The Stryker produced a noise reminiscent of a city bus changing gears as it slowed, rounded a corner, and began to pick up speed. The overpass was directly ahead, and Mac could hear the steady bang, bang, bang of Hadley’s rifle interspersed with three-round bursts from Kho’s M4. They were making their stand. “This is Archer-One actual,” Mac said. “Bring one-two up alongside one-one, so we can put the maximum amount of firepower downrange. Three will guard our six. Over.”

Mac heard a series of double clicks as two pulled up next to one and three started to slow. As they passed a burned-out car, Mac saw Kho wave. From that point, it was possible to follow a line of dead bodies west. Mac didn’t feel so much as a bump when 16 tons of truck rolled over a dog and two dead humans. The bodies were evidence of the skill with which Kho and Hadley had handled themselves, and Mac felt proud of them.

That was when a pair of bright lights came on. They were unusually high off the ground and at least twenty feet apart. With a sense of shock Mac realized that one of the monster trucks was coming straight at her! An impression that was confirmed when a cop lying on top of the dump truck’s metal canopy opened fire. And being up high, he had an advantage. “Button it up!” Mac ordered, as she dropped into the vic. “Archer-One actual to One-Two. Put the AT4 team on the ground and kill that truck. Over.”

Meanwhile, one-one’s gunner was using the Stryker’s remote-weapons system to fire the truck’s fifty. Mac could hear the thump, thump, thump of outgoing rounds and wished she could put eyes on the target. “This is One-Two,” Sergeant Ralston said. “We’re in position. Stand by. Over.”

Even though Mac was inside a Stryker, she could hear the explosion as the AT4’s high-explosive projectile hit the truck. A combination of curiosity and claustrophobia drove her up through the hatch to stand on the seat. A glance was enough to confirm that the rocket launcher had done its job. The front of the gigantic hauler was wrapped in flames, and civilians were bailing out of it. “Kill the runners,” she ordered, and watched as tracers found the fugitives.

The slaughter wasn’t something that Mac enjoyed. But it had to be done in order to protect her people and the base. Then it was over, and Mac felt a brief moment of satisfaction in knowing that the other haulers were too large to pass the burning wreck.

But the feeling was short-lived as Evans spoke over the radio. He was in charge of the base, and his voice was calm. Mac heard an explosion in the background. “This is Archer-One-Seven. We’re taking mortar and small-arms fire from the south. I have two KIAs and a WIA. Over.”

Mac felt surprise mixed with anger. Mortars? Maybe they got them from a National Guard unit, Mac thought to herself. Not that it mattered. She had to stay focused. The force protecting the base consisted of the ESV, a squad of infantry, and the five-person air crew. That was a small contingent of defenders. What orders had been given to the attackers? Were they trying to pin the soldiers down while they waited for the ore haulers to arrive? Or were they prepping the base for an infantry assault? There was no way to be sure.

Mac faced a choice. She could send one or more vics back to reinforce the base, thereby weakening the force located on the overpass, or she could order Evans to counterattack, using the ESV. That would involve sending an unsupported Stryker out to fight by itself. A definite no-no under normal circumstances.

Still… It seemed safe to assume that the locals weren’t trained or equipped to tackle armor—and that meant that the vic would have a good chance against them. Assumptions get people killed, the voice told her, but Mac chose to overrule it. “This is Six… Send the ESV after the bastards. And tell Tillis to keep moving, so they can’t put mortar fire on him. Over.”

“Roger that,” Evans replied. “Over.”

Having made what might be a fateful decision, Mac had to let go and turned back to the situation in front of her. There were three additional monster trucks to disable or kill. “This is Archer-One… Let’s put the rest of our boots on the ground. Once everybody is clear, one-one will lead the way, followed by one-two and one-three. Watch those intervals. Over.”

The first squad was riding on one-one, and Mac followed them out into the cold night air. By the time the second and third squads had deassed their trucks, one-one had entered the narrow gap that lay between the burning truck and the bridge. Truck Commander Lamm was forced to put a set of four tires on the sidewalk to get through. The rest of the Strykers followed with squads one, two, and three bringing up the rear.

Mac had to jog in order to keep up with one-three, and the rest of the platoon followed her example. She positioned herself to the left of the vic in order to see past it and ensure that the way was clear. A couple of minutes later, one-one cleared the bridge and began to close on the parking lot that Mac had seen earlier. Then she realized that the surviving ore haulers were spread out. As one-one passed between two of the behemoths, Mac felt a sudden sense of alarm. Something was wrong… But what?

The answer came in the form of a massive explosion as the truck on the far right was transformed into an orange-red ball of flame. It rose like an obscene balloon, which popped a hundred feet off the ground. Mac came to a halt and ordered her troops to do likewise. The smoke made it impossible to see. Sparks gave her the mike. “One-one? One-two? This is Archer-Six… Report. Over.”

“This is one-one,” came the halting reply. “One-two was caught in the blast. It’s gone.”

Mac felt her heart sink. It wasn’t the truck… Fuck that. Evitt was dead, plus his gunner, and Evans’s people. All to defend a base that nobody cared about. Mac felt nauseous but couldn’t throw up because people were counting on her. She forced herself to speak. “One-one and one-three will destroy the remaining ore trucks. As soon as that’s accomplished, the rest of the platoon will move in and mop up.”

The remaining vics were taking machine-gun fire but nothing big enough to matter. One of the ore haulers took off, or tried to, but didn’t get far as one-one’s vengeful gunner poured fire into the truck. It didn’t take long for a tracer to find a fuel line and spark a fire. Mac heard a thump as flames appeared, and the behemoth ground to a halt.

Meanwhile, one-three’s gunner was firing his 40mm grenade launcher at the remaining truck. It seemed to wilt as blast after blast hit the cab, engine compartment, and gigantic tires. Then it, too, was gone as the fuel tank blew—and one-three’s commander uttered a whoop of joy. Sergeant Ralston ordered him to “Cut the crap.”

Mac grinned. “Come on!” she shouted. “Follow me… Let’s get the rest of them!”

Machine-gun fire was coming from in and around the convenience store. Bullets dug divots out of the parking lot as Mac zigzagged forward. She was using cars and pickups for cover, and that wasn’t the brightest plan, since it was safe to assume that some of the vehicles had fuel in their tanks. And there was the possibility of another IED. But Mac was hating rather than thinking, so none of that occurred to her.

When a smoke grenade landed in front of the store, she charged through the fog, firing bursts from the M4. Then she was through the front door and inside. Mac saw shadowy forms turning her way and fired at the one off to her right. She saw the man stagger as the .223 rounds hit him but knew better than to watch because the other targets were still in motion. Each person was part of a race to see who would live and who would die.

Mac switched to full auto and held the trigger back as she sprayed the woman in front of her with bullets. The bitch fell, but it wasn’t going to be enough. A third defender had Mac dead to rights and was about to fire. That was when Mac heard a loud boom to her left, and saw half of the man’s face vanish. The force of the blast turned him around, and he collapsed. Mac couldn’t believe her good fortune, and turned to see Sparks work the action on his twelve-gauge pump gun. The RTO spit on the floor. “Asshole.”

Mac laughed and took note of how shrill it sounded. After thanking the RTO for saving her ass, Mac turned her attention to the things that had to get done. First, she ordered the remaining Strykers to provide security. Then she sent the first squad out to retrieve intelligence. That included electronic devices, documents, IDs, and pocket litter.

While they took care of that, Mac made the rounds with the second squad. Their job was to collect all of the weapons and ammunition that were lying around. Later, once the unit returned to base, the pile would be divided into two categories: keep and destroy.

Finally, after confirming that Hadley’s dead man was none other than Fred Wylie, Mac ordered the unit to pull out. She rode in one-three on the way back and understood why the mood was so somber. A battle had been won, but the price of victory had been high. Two men had been killed, and not only killed, but obliterated. Not so much as a dog tag had been found in the blast zone. It was depressing as hell, and all of them were silent as the vic rolled onto the base.

The good news was that one-four had been able to find and eliminate both of the insurgent mortar teams. One-four’s gunner had taken one group out while Tillis ran the other team down. They were holding the tube between them and running south when the vic caught up and crushed them. Some riflemen were killed subsequent to that—but Evans figured that a dozen of the bastards had survived.

Unfortunately, none of this could make up for the two people who’d been killed during the initial mortar attack. And as an orange disk rose in the east, and the bodies were lowered into what Private Wessel callously referred to as “a double wide,” it was Mac’s duty to say a few words. Her throat felt tight, and she wished there had been time to prepare something.

“We’re gathered here to say good-bye to our comrades. Men who stood by their country in its darkest hour, who fought to keep it alive, and died protecting their fellow soldiers. We’re going to miss them… And keep them alive with the stories that we tell. May God take and keep them.”

Once the service was over, and the grave was filled in, half of the soldiers were sent to grab some sleep while the rest stood guard. And that included Mac, who flipped a coin with Evans and won. After a hot shower, she crawled into her bag and fell asleep. And when her alarm went off two hours later, it seemed as if only seconds had passed.

The generator was off, so the best Mac could do was to wash her face and brush her teeth prior to shuffling over to the Flight Center, where Evans was waiting to be relieved. After two cups of coffee and an MRE, Mac went to visit the dispensary. Dr. Hoskins was there to introduce Staff Sergeant Nick Esco. The noncom had sandy-brown hair, green eyes, and a ready smile. Mac saw him wince as he got up off a pillow. “Good morning, ma’am… The doctor tells me that you helped to pull me out of the Mescalero. Thank you.”

“Warrant Officer Omata got to you first,” Mac told him, “so it was a team effort. You’re lucky to be alive. We saw lots of bullet holes. Some of which were in you.”

“Yeah,” Esco said wryly. “A whole lot of bad guys were shooting at me as I took off from JBLM, and believe me, there’s nothing worse than getting shot in the ass. It’s embarrassing.”

Mac chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is. But what you did took a lot of guts. Were you a pilot before you joined?”

Esco shook his head. “No, ma’am. Even though I’m a drone pilot, I had never flown a real plane until I took off from JBLM.”

Mac allowed her eyebrows to rise. “That’s amazing… And you flew over the mountains?”

“I followed Highway 410 most of the way… People shot at me as I flew over Chinook Pass.”

“Yeah,” Mac said. “We heard that a warlord controls it. I hear that travelers have to pay him in order to travel back and forth. So why come here? You could have gone anywhere.”

“Sergeant Poole is my cousin… Maybe the only family I have left. So, given the way things are going, I’d like to join your outfit.”

Poole was in charge of squad two—and a good man. Mac nodded. “Welcome to the platoon. Tell me, what’s going on at JBLM? Why can’t we reach anyone?”

Esco stared at her. “You haven’t heard?”

Hoskins spoke for the first time since making the introductions. “No,” he said, “she hasn’t.”

There was a hollow feeling in Mac’s stomach as Esco looked at her. What was that in his eyes? Sympathy? Pity? She wasn’t sure. “JBLM was overrun,” Esco said. “They call themselves ‘the People’s Army,’ but that’s bullshit. All they are is a consortium of gangs that came together to loot the base. We fought them for more than a month, but they grew stronger, and we had to fall back. Hundreds of our people were killed. Eventually, it came down to a choice between bombing most of Tacoma or pulling out. And we were about to do that when a mob broke through the perimeter. We fought, but not for long… All of us had been ready to go for days, so all I had to do was grab my AWOL bag and run. The Mescalero was parked near the building where I worked, so I took it. End of story.”

Mac turned so that the men couldn’t see the tears, wiped them away, and knew that Esco was wrong. The loss of JBLM and all that it stood for wasn’t the end of the story. It was the beginning.