Into the Guns (9 page)

“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.

The liberties of our country, the freedom of our civil constitution, are worth defending against all hazards: And it is our duty to defend them against all attacks.

—SAMUEL ADAMS

OFF THE EAST COAST OF MEXICO

After twenty days spent paddling up Mexico's east coast, Sloan knew that if he wasn't in American waters, he'd arrive there soon. The moon was playing hide-and-seek behind broken clouds, and there were moments when it looked as if he were dipping his paddle into molten silver.

But the otherworldly moments came to an end when Sloan heard the sound of powerful engines and felt the first stirrings of fear. He didn't want to have contact with
anyone
 . . . Especially drug runners. Fortunately, the kayak was so low in the water, it would be difficult to see. When the speedboat passed him, Sloan had to turn into its wake or run the risk of being capsized. As he completed the maneuver, a powerful spot came on, swept the surface of the water, and nailed him. The voice was amplified.
“Levante sus manos—y mantenerlos allí!”
(“Raise your hands—and keep them there!”)

Shit! Shit! Shit!
Sloan dug his paddle into the water in a frantic attempt to escape. The light followed, and Sloan heard a burst of gunfire. Geysers of water shot up all around the kayak. Then there was a thump as a bullet passed through the hull. That left Sloan with no choice but to roll out as cold seawater flooded the kayak. Suddenly, the boat was there, looming above Sloan, as a black silhouette peered down.
“Tirar los peces en. Vamos a ver lo que tenemos.”
(“Pull the fish in. Let's see what we have.”)

Sloan had no choice but to cooperate as strong hands reached down to pull him up. Sloan heard one of the men address the helmsman in English. “Hey, Bob . . . Turn the bow into the waves. She's rolling like a pig.”

Sloan grabbed onto a seat as his feet hit the deck and the boat lurched. “Are you Americans?”

There was barely enough moonlight to see by. A man looked at him and grinned. “Hell no,” he said. “We're Texans! Who are you?”

“My name is Sloan . . . Samuel T. Sloan, the United States Secretary of Energy.”

“Do you have ID to prove that?” the man inquired.

“No,” Sloan admitted. “It was in the kayak.”

“That's one possibility,” the man agreed. “Or, and this seems more likely, you belong to a drug cartel. Cuff him, Hank.”

Sloan could see their uniforms by that time along with their disk-shaped badges. Texas Rangers perhaps? It didn't matter. All he could do was allow himself to be chained to an eyebolt and wait for the nightmare to end.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, night surrendered to day—and Sloan spotted a smudge of land. The United States? Yes, he thought so, and felt a renewed sense of hope. After going ashore, the authorities would free him. With that out of the way, he'd contact
his staff. Would the president want to speak with him? Probably . . . Then he'd call the assisted-care facility to check on his mother.

That's what Sloan was thinking as the gunboat rounded the south end of Padre Island. Sloan had been there numerous times and knew the area well. The boat slowed as they neared the Coast Guard station.

Once the gunboat was moored, Sloan was escorted up a ramp to a one-story building. A woman with two children stared at him. That was when Sloan remembered his bushy beard, ripped clothes, and bare feet. None of which would add to his credibility.

After being led through the scrupulously clean lobby, and past a reception desk, Sloan was escorted down a hallway to the holding cells located in the back of the building. The civilian clerk laughed when Sloan said he was the Secretary of Energy but wrote it down anyway. Then it was time to answer questions pertaining to his criminal record, health, and identifying marks if any.

Once the booking process was complete, and mug shots had been taken, an officer placed Sloan in cell 002. The six-foot-by-six-foot enclosure was equipped with metal bunk beds, a freestanding toilet, and a small sink. What light there was came from the single fixture located over his head—and a narrow gun-slit-style window. He heard a clang as the door closed. “Hey, dude,” the man in the next cell called out. “You got a smoke?”

“No,” Sloan replied. “I don't.”

“Then fuck you,” the man said. “I hope you die.” Sloan was home.

After a day of questioning by a variety of people, Sloan was given an airline-style personal-hygiene kit and allowed to shower and shave. Then he was required to don orange overalls that had the
word
PRISONER
printed across the back. A pair of canvas slip-ons completed the outfit. After that, he was left in his cell to think and worry. Eventually, Sloan went to sleep. There were dreams . . . Lots of dreams. And all of them were bad.

When morning came, he received a breakfast that consisted of a cup of coffee, an orange, and some sort of egg McMuffin thing. He couldn't get it down.

Shortly after breakfast, Sloan was removed from his cell and taken out through the front door. The Coast Guard station had a small helipad. And as Sloan was escorted along a walkway, he saw that the civilian version of a Huey was sitting on the concrete slab, with its rotors turning. Two men were waiting for him. Both wore Glocks, blue polo shirts, and khaki pants. Who were they? There was no way to know, as the man with the flattop and aviator-style shades pointed at the open door. “Get in!” He had to shout in order to be heard over the helo's engine.

Sloan had no choice but to get in. The interior was set up to transport cargo—but fold-down seats were bolted to the bulkheads. Once he was seated, the second guard was there to secure his seat belt. The helicopter took off two minutes later. There weren't any doors. That meant that the slipstream could enter the cabin and pummel Sloan's face. He turned to the man with the flattop. “Where are we going?”

When the man smiled, his lips pulled away from a set of teeth that were shaped like white tombstones. Then he held a finger up to his lips as if to shush a child. That was that.

Time crawled by. Sloan could see out through the starboard door, but there wasn't much to look at. Just the dull gray water of the gulf, a few fishing boats, and an occasional glimpse of an oil rig in the hazy distance. The monotony combined with the drone of the engine put Sloan to sleep. And when he awoke, it was to see
verdant vegetation below. Trees mostly, but marsh grass, too, and lots of water. Freshwater from the looks of it—that filled lakes, ponds, and hundreds of serpentine channels. A swamp! They were flying over a swamp . . . But
where
? The southeast corner of Texas seemed most likely since it was only a few hours from Padre Island, and the sun was behind them.

A flock of birds took to the air as the helicopter lost altitude and skimmed the treetops. Sloan couldn't see what lay directly ahead. But as the helo entered into a wide turn, an oil rig appeared. The blocky superstructure was three stories high and sitting on a steel barge. Though barely legible, the name
HUXTON OIL
could be read on the side of the rig, and that was interesting—since the Texas-based company was one of the largest in the world. Or had been anyway. Judging from how rusty all the running gear was, the derrick mounted on the bow hadn't been used in a long time.

Such were Sloan's thoughts as the Huey settled onto the circular pad affixed to the barge's stern. “Get out,” Flattop shouted, as he pointed at the door.

Sloan pressed the release on his seat belt and stood. Two women stood waiting on the cluttered deck. Both had black hair, dark skin, and were dressed in blue overalls. One held a Taser barrel up, with her index finger resting on the trigger guard. “Welcome aboard, Secretary Sloan,” she said. “Please follow Molly . . . Mr. Godbee wants to meet you.”

Sloan took note. They knew his name! Finally . . . But why was he being held against his will? Out in the middle of a swamp? Hopefully, Godbee would tell him.

Sloan had no choice but to follow Molly under a platform, past a blowout preventer, and up a set of steel stairs to the deck above. A walkway gave access to a large office, which was surprisingly clean and tidy.

A man rose from his desk and came forward to meet Sloan. He had a limp, which forced him to use a tree-root-style cane. His clothing consisted of a tasteful Hawaiian shirt and white slacks. “Welcome to the
Belle Marie
, Secretary Sloan . . . It's a strange name, don't you think? This rig was never pretty. My name is Walter Godbee, and I'm in charge here. You can remove Mr. Sloan's cuffs, Molly. Please don't do anything unpleasant, Mr. Sloan . . . Lucy doesn't like troublemakers.” Sloan looked at Lucy. The Taser was still in her hand.

“Understood,” Sloan said, as the cuffs came off. “So why am I here?”

Godbee smiled. “This is a repository of sorts. A place where individuals like yourself can be stored.”

“By Huxton Oil?”

Godbee shrugged. “What difference does it make? You're here, and you're going to remain here, and that's what matters. My staff and I will do what we can to make your stay tolerable. As for
you
? Well, I suggest that you consider the serenity prayer by Reinhold Niebuhr: ‘God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.' And this, Mr. Sloan, is something that you cannot change. Take Mr. Sloan to his cabin, ladies. I'm sure he'd like to shower after his journey. Oh, and Mr. Sloan . . . Don't waste your time trying to seduce Molly or Lucy. They play for the other team.”

Sloan followed Molly out of the office and up another flight of stairs, to the third deck. From there, it was a short trip to the hatch labeled
CABIN 3
.

The mechanism on the outside surface of the hatch was common to larger vessels that had watertight doors. It consisted of a wheel and four spoke-like “dogs” or rods that could extend to hold the slab of steel firmly in place. The chances of breaking out? Zero.

Molly turned the wheel, waited for the dogs to clear, and pulled the door open. Then she stood to one side, so Sloan could enter. The cabin was nicer than he had expected. The bulkheads were covered with light green paint. The full-sized bed was nicely made and topped with two large pillows. There was an easy chair, too . . . And a side table. A small bathroom could be seen through an open door.

“Your dinner will arrive at six,” Lucy told him. “I hope you like fish.” And with that, the women withdrew. Sloan heard a series of clanking sounds, followed by near silence.

The cabin boasted a single curtain-covered window. Sloan went over to peer out. He could see bars and mangrove trees beyond.
Okay,
he thought to himself.
I'll find another way to escape.
The next fifteen minutes were spent exploring the nooks and crannies of his cabin. There were two orange jumpsuits in the dresser, both of which had the word
PRISONER
on the back and would make it that much more difficult to evade capture should he manage to escape. No,
when
he escaped.

A radio was sitting on the table next to the chair, and it worked! That meant he could listen to the news once he managed to find some. The only station he could get was playing country-western music at the moment. Where were the rest? Off the air as a result of the meteor impacts? Maybe.

A closer inspection of the bathroom turned up a set of toiletries, and that led him into the shower, where he spent ten glorious minutes under a powerful stream of hot water. Sloan felt clean and reinvigorated as he put a fresh jumpsuit on. He was about to fiddle with the radio when the hatch opened.

Molly entered first. She was carrying a linen-covered tray. Lucy came next with the Taser at the ready. She was about five-eight or so, and in good shape. But Sloan had four inches on her and was in tip-top condition after weeks of paddling. So, if he could get
behind Lucy, Sloan felt sure that he could take her down.
Will take her down,
he told himself.
And soon, too.