Into the Guns (21 page)

“That's a roger,” came the reply. “We have casualties, though . . .”

“Got it,” Mac replied. “One-Eight will respond. Do you copy One-Eight?”

Doc Obbie was riding in the ESV. “Copy,” he replied. “Over.”

The Cat dealership was impossible to miss, thanks to the huge sign on the roof. Seconds after the ESV pulled in, Sergeant Poole's soldiers surged out to secure the building. Mac's truck slowed and stopped, with the fifty pointed at the street. It began to chug as half a dozen bikes roared past. Obbie ran forward as Three pulled in.

Mac forced herself to switch focus. “Roller-Seven-Six to Flyby-One . . . Clean the streets but avoid structures to whatever extent you can. Over.”

Peters's voice was matter-of-fact. “Roger that, Six . . . Pop smoke. Commencing gun run. Over.” The Apache came in from the southwest. It was flying just above the rooftops and looked scary as hell. The ship's 30mm chain gun began to fire as Peters followed Sixth, staying south of the red smoke. The shells blew divots out of the concrete, tore already damaged motorcycles to shreds, and pulped a gang member stupid enough to fire at the helicopter with an M-16.

The Apache ceased firing as it roared over the Caterpillar dealership, only to resume on the far side. About twenty bikers had gathered northwest of town and were preparing to attack. When the gunship appeared, they turned, opened their throttles, and took off. That was a mistake. With no houses to worry about, Omata was free to fire rockets at them. The result was two overlapping explosions. None of the gang members survived. Shredded flesh and metal lay everywhere as Peters turned back.

He was hunting now, cruising each street looking for bad guys, but there were few to be found. Finally, after destroying a pick- up truck loaded with fleeing gang members, he made the call.
“Flyby-One to Six . . . I suspect some of the hostiles are hiding, but the rest are down. Over.”

“Roger that and thanks,” Mac replied. “Return to Contact, rearm, and provide security there. We'll call if we need you. Over.”

As the helicopter angled away, Mac hurried over to check on the casualties. Like the rest of her Strykers, Roller-Three was protected by slat armor commonly referred to as a “birdcage.” The structure's purpose was to detonate RPGs and protect the vic within. Even though the explosive charge hadn't been fired at the Stryker, Mac could see that the steel cage had done its job. The armor was a twisted mess, but the truck's hull was intact. An excellent trade-off for the extra weight.

But even though the birdcage had been able to protect the soldiers
inside
the vic, the top gunners hadn't been so lucky. And as Mac approached the truck, she saw that a half-covered body lay on the ground. Sergeant Poole turned to look as she arrived next to him. “Who is it?” she wanted to know.

“Dinkins,” he replied. “He was leaning out over the side, trying to take a shot with his M4, when the charge went off.”

“Shit. He was a good kid. I heard ‘casualties' plural. Did someone else get hit?”

“Yeah . . . Wessel took a bullet from somewhere—but Doc Hoskins says he's going to be okay. The slug went up into his helmet, circled his head, and fell out! Now Wessel claims that he's immortal.”

Mac shook her head in amazement. Wessel the Weasel was one lucky son of a bitch. “Sorry to interrupt,” Sparks said, “but we have visitors. Some locals would like to speak with you.”

Mac followed the RTO out to the street, where a three-person delegation stood waiting. A man stepped forward to shake hands.
He had a receding hairline, a paunch, and was wearing a Colt .45 six-shooter. “Hello . . . My name is Henry Wilkins. Carol Tice is on my left—Miranda Ivey is on the right. We're all that remains of the city council. The rest of them were crucified. Thank God you came! We thought the government had collapsed.”

“I'm sorry to say that it did,” Mac told them. “Our unit was cut off—and we're operating on our own.”

“Yet you chose to free our town,” Tice said. She had long brown hair and dark circles under her eyes.

“What the bikers did to your town is horrifying,” Mac said. “And I'm glad we were able to help. But we had an ulterior motive as well.”

“And what was that?” Ivey inquired. She had freckles, a pug nose, and green eyes.

“We need Caterpillar parts for our Strykers,” Mac replied. “And we knew there was a dealership in Wells.”

Wilkins pointed a finger at Roller-Three. “Is that a Stryker?”

“Yes, it is,” Mac said. “Who owns this dealership? Could I speak with them?”

Wilkins looked away. “Mr. Vickers owned it. But he and his family were killed early on . . . Before the crucifixions began.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Mac said. “Will you permit us to take what we need from the dealership?”

“I don't think we could stop you,” Tice said.

“Probably not,” Mac agreed. “But we did take care of the bikers for you . . . Perhaps you'd be willing to give us some parts by way of a reward.”

“I'm for it,” Ivey said.

“Me, too,” Wilkins put in.

“I guess you've got a deal,” Tice said. “So take what you want from the dealership, but nothing more. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Mac replied. “We'll bring the rest of our vehicles
down from Contract if that's okay . . . And we'll put some temporary security in place. I would suggest that you gather up all the weapons that are lying around and organize a militia. Another gang will overrun the town if you don't.”

“We'll get to work on it,” Ivey said, “
and
on burying the dead. Thank you.”

Mac looked over to where the body lay and back again. “We lost one of our soldiers during the fighting. Could we bury him in your cemetery?”

“Of course,” Ivey said. “We'll make a special place for him.”

“Thank you,” Mac said. “Sergeant Poole will work with you to make the necessary arrangements.”

Once the conversation ended, Mac turned to find that Sergeant Smith was waiting for her. “We've got what we came for, ma'am, two Cat engines and a lot of assorted spare parts.”

“Thank God for that,” Mac said. “We paid a high price.”

Smith nodded. “Yes, ma'am. There's a problem, though.”

“Which is?”

“We need a vehicle to haul everything with. A tractor hooked to a lowboy trailer would be perfect.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I found what we need a few blocks from here.”

“See if you can buy it,” Mac told him. “Offer some of the stuff we found at Mountain Home. After what they've been through, these folks might put a pretty high value on a couple of light machine guns and some ammo. Not too much, though . . . And it wouldn't be a good idea to deliver the ordnance until we're ready to leave.”

“And if they say, ‘no'?”

Mac sighed. One of the reasons she'd joined the army was because the people who belonged to it were
trying
to do the right thing even if they failed occasionally. That's what her father claimed, anyway.
Now she was up to her butt in moral ambiguity. “If you can't buy it, then call me. We'd better be ready for a fight if we're going to take it.”

Smith nodded. “Yes, ma'am.” Then he was gone.

It took the better part of two days for the Marauders to bury Dinkins with full honors, buy the tractor-trailer rig, and catch up on deferred maintenance. Then it was time to get back on the road. Their destination was a base called Camp Navajo, which was located just west of Flagstaff, Arizona. Assuming the information Mac had was correct, a wide variety of supplies could be found there, including fuel for the Apache. The latter was of critical importance because the JP8 truck was running low.

They took 93 south. Then, rather than enter Las Vegas, which was said to be under the control of a warlord, the Marauders went east. After three days of zigzagging across northern Arizona, they wound up on I-40 headed for Camp Navajo. Looted cars lined both sides of the highway, there were crosses on the median, and the overpasses were covered with graffiti.

Rather than show up at Camp Navajo hoping for the best, Mac led the convoy off the interstate north of the base and entered the tiny town of Parks. The Flagstaff area was known for its skiing, but there shouldn't have been any snow this time of year. The evergreens were loaded with the white stuff, however—and there was six inches of it on the ground. That was a disappointment since the Marauders had been hoping for better weather in Arizona.
Maybe it will be,
Mac told herself,
especially at lower elevations.

About a thousand people were supposed to be living in and around Parks. But they were nowhere to be seen as the Marauders rolled into town and took control of a church.

Evans was busy setting up a security perimeter when Mac went to meet with Esco. “Put the Shadow up,” she told him, “and give me all the intel you can. Meanwhile, I'm going to send Brown and Kho out
for a ground-level view of what's going on. If the situation warrants, we'll go in. Otherwise, we'll bypass the base and continue south.”

Once the drone was up, and scouts were on the way, all Mac could do was wait. To pass the time, she made the rounds and paused to admire the small track hoe Smith had purchased in Wells. Evans was right . . . The machine made short work of digging fighting positions and latrines. That was a definite plus.

Esco called for her an hour later. “Take my seat,” Esco said, as Mac entered the Humvee. “Rather than make you sit through the whole mission, I cut some of the footage together.”

The UAV operator crouched behind Mac where he could provide her with a running narration. “So here's Flagstaff,” Esco said, as the drone circled over the snow-clad city. “Notice the smoke coming out of chimneys . . . That suggests that the power grid is down. And look at the streets. There's very little traffic. Why? Because people are afraid to go out, that's why.”

Esco leaned in to put a finger on the screen. “See
this
? And
this
? They're barricades. It appears that the town has been Balkanized.”

Esco was correct. Mac could see the way cars, RVs, and piles of junk had been used to seal entire neighborhoods off. That seemed to suggest that the local government had collapsed, leaving citizens to fight among themselves.

“And here's Camp Navajo,” Esco added. “It's about thirty miles west of Flagstaff. You'll notice that it's sealed off as well . . . You can see vehicles inside the perimeter. That suggests that the Guard is still there, but nothing is moving. So where
are
the troops? Inside drinking hot chocolate?”

Where indeed? Mac wondered. There should have been lots of activity given the nature of the situation. Maybe the scouts would be able to provide some answers.

A six-hour wait followed the meeting with Esco. Mac knew that
Kho and Brown had been able to reach the base, and were okay, because they had orders to report in every thirty minutes. But the frequencies available to them were available to the local Guard unit as well. That made it necessary to keep the transmissions short and cryptic.

At first, Mac killed time by wandering around, sticking her nose in where it wasn't welcome, and offering unnecessary suggestions. That pissed everyone off. A problem she failed to recognize until Evans told her about it.

The temperature fell as the sun went down and a stygian darkness claimed the land. It was snowing by then—and Mac was worried. Maybe Brown and Kho had been ambushed. Maybe the scouts were lost. Maybe she should send the quick-reaction force out to find them. Maybe . . . “The scouts are back,” Sparks announced as he appeared at her side. “And they have a prisoner.”

Mac felt a tremendous flood of relief, thanked Munroe, and hurried toward the church. She could see her breath, feel the snow give under her boots, and hear the purring sound the generator made. Half a dozen jury-rigged lights were on inside, it was at least ten degrees warmer, and the odor of cooking hung in the air. Food was another thing they needed more of.

Pews had been moved to make way for rows of sleeping bags—and some of the children were playing a game in the middle of the chapel. All of them were wearing coats. Evans waved her over. “They're in the office,” he told her. “Both are fine.”

“Good,” Mac said as she followed him through a door and into a room equipped with three mismatched desks, some metal filing cabinets, and a bulletin board filled with childish drawings. There were muddy tracks on the floor—and a pile of gear sat where the scouts had dumped it. Brown was standing off to one side, Kho was perched on the corner of a desk, and a stranger was seated
on a plastic chair. He was twentysomething and wearing an Indian-style headband. Long black hair fell to his shoulders. Kho smiled. “We brought you a present.”

“That's a present?” Mac inquired.

“Yup,” Brown responded. “He sure is. Lieutenant Macintyre, meet Corporal Vickers.” Vickers continued to stare at the floor.

“A corporal?” Mac inquired. “You're kidding.”

“Nope,” Brown responded. “This piece of shit is a corporal. It says so on his ID card.”

“But he's also a deserter,” Kho put in. “Which is how we came across him. There we were, scouting the base, when Vickers cut a hole in the wire and walked into our arms.”

“And no one noticed?” Mac inquired.

“Not while we were there,” Brown answered. “That's because Vickers was on guard duty—and he left through the section of wire he had responsibility for.”

“Wow,” Mac said as she looked Vickers up and down. “You
are
a piece of shit. So let's get to it. I want to know everything there is to know about conditions inside the base.”

Vickers looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, and arcane symbols were tattooed on his forehead. The letters were uneven and clearly the work of an amateur. “What will you give me?”