Foreign Enemies and Traitors (33 page)

Vikersun grinned.  “Neither.  They wouldn’t let me separate, so I just walked away.  I’m not sure what they call it these days, but they’re not sending me a paycheck anymore, that’s for damn sure.  From their point of view, I guess I’m a deserter; they didn’t give me permission to leave.  But the way I see it, most of the ones that stayed on active duty are traitors—at least the ones operating with the foreign troops sure as hell are.  I walked away, so yeah, technically that means I deserted.  But when foreign soldiers are running around Tennessee, well, I sure as hell ain’t staying out of that fight!  This is
my
state.  Eighteen years or no eighteen years.  And I don’t care if our own president sent them in—Jamal Tambor’s a traitor too, as far as I’m concerned.”

The second man pulled off his own mask, revealing the face of a young man in his mid-twenties, with medium-length wavy black hair and dark eyes.  Unlike his older companion, he had only a week’s worth of stubble on his pale face.

“I’m Doug Dolan.  Nice to meet you, Mr. Carson.  Boone told me some of his father’s war stories, after we got the message and decided to come down here.  We just had to be sure you were the real thing, and not a plant.”  He held out his right hand. 

Carson sat up on the sofa and shook the offered hand while studying the younger man’s features.  Dolan seemed like a decent enough guy, at least on first impression.  It stood to reason that the Viking’s son wouldn’t hang around with any slackers or REMFs—Rear Echelon Mother F’ers.  Zack had also quietly entered the room, looking sheepish, as if he wasn’t sure if he should apologize for bringing these armed visitors to the house without giving any warning.

Boone stood up and stretched, holding his pistol straight out, and rocked his head from side to side, neck bones audibly cracking.  He was wearing a long unzipped parka that extended almost to his knees.  The hood was pushed back, revealing wild hair that covered his ears and stuck out in many directions.  Like his equally tall father, Boone was an imposing figure with electric blue eyes and a reddish-blond beard.  His rain parka was printed with one of the commercial hunting camouflage patterns, which looked like actual leaves and branches in a wet forest. 

He lowered his arms and unscrewed the suppressor from his pistol, rotating the metal tube seven or eight times before it came free.  He pulled his parka aside and slid the pistol into a black holster beneath a compartmented combat vest.  The black suppressor went into its own small pouch.  His coat covered the vest and weapon when it fell closed.  Then he looked down at Carson and said, “We can finish our little stroll down memory lane later on, but right now you’ve got to get up and get ready to leave.  We’re moving out.  I hope your ass is healed well enough so you can ride a horse.  That’s what we’ll be doing tonight—a lot of riding.  This house is blown.  It’s not secure.”

“How do you know?”  Carson pushed the blanket off and swung his legs to the floor. 

“I really don’t see any good reason why you need to know that.”  Boone paused, staring at Carson for a moment.  “Ah, what the hell.  Your getaway driver was picked up right after Christmas.  The black medic.  They know where you were dropped off, and that you were heading north, straight through here.  If the word made it to me in Tennessee, there’s no telling who else knows.  We can’t risk it, not after what happened to Zack’s father.  It’s only a matter of time before they’re connecting the dots and kicking down that door over there.  Or just dropping a rocket down this stovepipe, on general principle.”

“What about Zack?”

“He’s coming too.  He understands.  We had a long talk while you were cutting Z’s.  It’s no good, him hanging around where all of his family died.  And he knows how to contact us, so that makes it too much of a risk for him to stay, even if he wanted to.  A risk for him, and for us too.  This house was very useful, while it lasted.  Great location.  Zack’s father was a real patriot, an ideal courier, but shit…I guess his luck ran out.  His getting nailed on this side of the border by a missile—that took us by surprise.  We thought that was against the rules of engagement, but we’re figuring out that there aren’t any rules in this shitty little war.  So we’re taking what we can carry on horseback and getting out right now.”

“We’re moving tonight?  The sky is clear…isn’t that risky?”

“Have you looked outside lately?  It’s snowing.”

“Snowing?”

“Yeah, snowing hard, low overcast.  So we have to haul ass.  Once it stops…”

“Tracks.”

“Exactly.  And infrared—that’s even worse.  As long as it’s coming down, we should be fine.  They won’t put the drones up when it’s this bad.  I hope.”

Carson stood up and stretched.  He said, “Okay, Boone, you’re the boss.”  Then he put his hand out.  “This is for your father—the Viking.”

Boone Vikersun smiled and accepted the offered handshake.  In his face Carson saw Eric the Red, decades before.  Viker, rhymes with biker.  The son was now probably pushing forty, about the age Eric was the last time he had seen him, over twenty years earlier at Fort Bragg.  Boone the son was now older than the Vietnam memories of his father, eerily blurring and merging the two men into one in his mind.  “So where are we going, roughly?”

“Roughly?”  Boone laughed.  “Straight up into Tennessee, where else?  That’s my state, and that’s where the whole shit storm is coming down.  You’ll see for yourself, soon enough.”

****

Jenny landed on her back hard,
knocking the wind out of her.  She moved each limb in turn and then her head; nothing seemed to be broken.  She lay motionless for a moment, listening, and then she slowly sat up.  The backpack lay a yard from her feet; the fur hat was still on her head.  She was at the side of the mansion.  A raised patio deck with snow-covered outdoor furniture was just a few yards to her right.  She had narrowly missed landing on the wooden railing around the deck.  If she had, she’d have certainly broken something, so she counted herself lucky.

She slowly stood upright, looking all around as she brushed the snow off her backside.  The closest of the bare oaks surrounding the mansion was about fifty yards down the slope.  No soldiers or vehicles were visible on this side of the house.  Pumping with adrenaline, she easily hefted the pack onto her back and walked straight downhill toward the trees, not looking back—hoping that any guard peering in her direction through the falling snow would see only another soldier. 

In half a minute Jenny reached the nearest oak, and once behind it she turned for the first time to stare back at the house.  Flames leapt skyward from the windows on either side of the chimney, coloring the falling snow orange.  The side of the house and the overhanging roof above the two windows were on fire.  A pair of doors on the back of the mansion flew open, there was shouting and yelling.  Soldiers stormed out, then turned to look up at the burning roof while throwing on their coats and hats.  Jenny could see some girls mixed among the troops, all of them lit by the orange glow reflected off the blanket of snow.  The soldiers’ attention seemed focused on the roiling flames above them.  At least now the girls had some small chance to take advantage of the confusion caused by the sudden fire.  While she watched, more fire exploded out of the third-floor bedroom windows.  No one turned away from the fire to look downhill toward her hiding place. 

Jenny pushed the straps of the backpack further up on her shoulders and walked away.  She continued down toward a stand of woods that grew in what appeared to be a small depression or valley.  There was an inch of new snow on the ground, nearly covering the lawn of unmown grass and weeds.  Her footprints were not obvious in the snow among the protruding tufts, as far as she could tell.  If it continued snowing, her tracks would be erased after only a short while. 

Walking in the open, she tried not to think of a guard’s night scope being aimed at her back.  In a few more seconds, she reached the covering line of bushes and low trees.  Because it was winter, the thickly twined vegetation had receded enough for her to find a trail, and Jenny began to think that she might live to see another sunrise.  She took one more look back up the hill.  The entire top of the mansion was fully engulfed in dancing waves of fire reaching dozens of yards into the sky, outlined by the black fingers of the oak branches.

****

Four horses were tied outside, saddled and ready to ride.
  Zack and the two visitors hurriedly loaded what supplies they could carry into bags and packs, and slung them across the horses in front and behind the saddles.  The horses were huffing excitedly, stamping and blowing vapor through their nostrils while biting impatiently at their steel bits.  The men were all dressed warmly in multiple layers, plus thick wool hats and gloves.  Carson wore his complete military camouflage uniform, with long johns underneath, and the military-issue gore-tex parka on top.  Doctor Foley’s 9mm Beretta was holstered on a web belt around his waist.  Days earlier, he had found the web belt among the gear at Zack’s house, and modified a generic black nylon holster to take the Beretta.  A velcro strap he had sewn onto it would hold the pistol securely in any position.  Even while resting and recuperating, Carson had been preparing to leave, always improving his kit, and he was glad that he had been ready when Boone Vikersun arrived without advance notice.  The unseen moon illuminated the clouds and the inch-deep snow on the ground, providing just enough light for them to see through the blowing flakes.

                “Do you need help getting up in the saddle?” asked Boone.

                “I’m about to find out,” replied Carson, lifting his left boot into the stirrup, and pulling himself up using the saddle horn for a grip.  There was no easy method for him to mount the horse; he had to push and strain.  The tight skin of his wound didn’t tear as he swung his right leg over the wide saddle and found the opposite stirrup with his right foot.  The other three men had smoothly mounted up while he struggled aboard.  “Okay, I’m ready.”

                Boone addressed them all in a loud voice.  “I’m leading.  Carson, you’ll be second, then Zack, and Doug is going to be rear security.  Phil, your horse knows what to do—you’ll be okay if you don’t mess up too bad.  These are quarter horses, and nothing much spooks them.  They don’t get ridden much in the winter, so they’re awful frisky.  I’ll warn you now: they’re just dying to take off in a gallop, so hang on.  I assume you know the basics of riding?”

                “I’m rusty, but yeah, I know what to do.  Steer with the reins, like this.  Pull back for slower, and kick for faster.  I’ll be okay.” 
Just as long as my ass holds together
, Carson thought.  From this point on, he wouldn’t bitch or whine aloud, even if he bled to death.  They’d know he couldn’t ride any further when his dead body fell from the saddle.  Would he show weakness to the Viking’s kid?  To another Special Forces operator?  Never, not as long as he was alive.  That’s just the way it was, within the ancient code of stoicism that defined their tribe.  Even at his age.  He’d die first.

“Keep your head down and be alert,” instructed Boone. “We’re going to be riding under a lot of low branches, and a few bridges and tunnels even.  If I holler duck, don’t wait to see what I’m ducking.  Your horse will do all right—you just stay on the saddle.”  While he was talking, Boone slipped night vision goggles over his face, and then pulled a bulky Icelandic knitted wool cap onto his head and over the NVG’s straps.

Carson asked, “What’s his name?”

“Who, your horse?  Hell if I know.  They’re not mine.”

“You stole them?”

“Of course not,” replied Boone, laughing.  “I borrowed them—with permission.  Sort of.  Zack, are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”  Zack’s compound bow was strapped across his back; a Winchester 30-30 lever-action was jammed into a saddle scabbard.  The four horses wheeled and turned together.

Boone asked the boy, “You remember everything else I told you?”

“I remember.”

“Your father would be real proud of you.  Okay, that’s it.  We’ve got a long ride ahead of us, and it’s not going to snow forever.  Let’s go.”  Boone reined his horse’s head sharply to the side and made a loud clicking sound with his tongue, kicked his heels and his horse broke into an easy loping canter, eager to be moving.  Carson turned his horse to follow, digging with his heels.

Boone kept the horses moving at a steady walk most of the time, which was easier on Carson’s wound, just a long, slow, back-and-forth heaving motion.  He remembered the gaits: walk, trot, canter and gallop.  Bumping up and down while trotting was the worst, and they avoided it.  Sometimes the trail went uphill and the horses broke into a run.  Often he had to rein back his mount as it tried to pass Boone’s horse and gain the lead.

Carson couldn’t tell a quarter horse from a thoroughbred in the darkness, but it was obvious these four were keen to run.  Just a few hours earlier, he had been reading about General Forrest’s cavalry dashing around the Tennessee countryside.  Now, improbably, he found himself astride a horse with a gun on his hip.  The transition was surreal but exciting, and welcome after three weeks of forced indolence while he recovered from his wound.  Horses were nearly ideal for this country and this type of low intensity conflict, he mused.  They were not restricted to the roads, where checkpoints might be encountered, and were not bothered in the least by weather that grounded hostile aircraft. He remembered seeing a picture of Special Forces riding horses in Afghanistan.  I’ll have to ask Boone about that sometime, he thought. 

He wondered how Boone knew their way, even while wearing night vision goggles.  For long stretches, their route seemed to wind through labyrinthine passageways below overhanging branches, so low the riders needed to hug their mounts’ necks.  Other times they went right up streams, splashing through water and mud, clattering over rocks, their horses struggling to find sure footing.  Once they rode thirty or forty feet through a tunnel beneath some kind of elevated roadbed.  Boone shouted back for them to stay low and they did, leaning forward and down until their faces were buried in their horses’ manes.  Water streamed through the tunnel, and Carson’s horse balked and needed encouragement to move forward in nearly pitch darkness.