Into the Guns (12 page)

The rotors slowed and came to a stop as Sloan was ordered to get out. A short walk took them over to a cube-shaped structure, where Short Guy led the way into a beautifully furnished lounge. There were two elevator doors, and Short Guy pushed the
DOWN
button. Thirty seconds passed before the lift arrived, and Flattop gave him a nudge. Sloan took the hint.

The doors closed, and Sloan watched a blunt finger push the button labeled 72. They arrived on the seventy-second floor seconds later. The doors opened onto a tastefully furnished lobby, and as Sloan stepped off, he could see the wide-eyed look on the receptionist's face. Sloan thought that was odd until he remembered
that he was wearing handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit! Not something she saw every day.

The receptionist continued to stare at him as she reached for the phone. Sloan couldn't hear what was said—but the conversation was short. “Take him in,” the woman said, and Sloan was led to a huge door that was embellished with a hand-carved
H
.

It opened into a large office. Four people were seated at a conference table made out of some exotic hardwood. Sloan could see an executive-style desk, windows, and the cityscape beyond the glass. All of those present turned to look his way, but only one of them rose to greet him. Matt Rankin had a high forehead and partially hooded eyes. “Hello, Sam . . . I'm glad you made it back from Mexico.” Rankin turned to the security men. “Remove the cuffs and wait outside.”

Sloan had met Rankin before and knew him to be Huxton Oil's CFO. So what the hell was going on? The cuffs were removed, and the security men left. “Come over to the table,” Rankin said. “I'll make the introductions. Let's start with my boss, Fred Huxton.”

Sloan had seen Huxton's picture on the cover of
Time
magazine but never met the tycoon face-to-face. He knew that the legendary oilman had taken the small drilling company left to him by his parents and turned it into a global brand. The oil baron had thinning hair and implacable eyes. A walrus-style mustache hid most of his mouth. He made no attempt to rise or to extend a hand. “Welcome to Houston, Mr. Sloan . . . Or should I say, ‘Mr. President'?”

Sloan frowned. “
‘Mr. President'?
What do you mean?”

Huxton laughed. “Well, I'll be damned . . . He doesn't know! The Yankee bastard is President of the United States, and he doesn't know!”

Rankin cleared his throat. “I guess you haven't heard . . . President Wainwright had a heart attack and died yesterday afternoon. And
you
, believe it or not, are the next person in line for the presidency.”

Sloan struggled to assimilate it. Wainwright dead . . . Still another blow to the struggling nation. He was still processing what the president's death meant when a
third
man came around the table to shake hands. “I'm Morton Lemaire . . . I don't believe we've met.”

As Sloan shook Lemaire's hand, he realized that he was talking to the governor of Florida. “I heard you paddled three hundred miles to get home from Mexico,” Lemaire said. “That took balls.”

Then the only woman in the room rose to greet him. “Yes,” she said, “it did. I'm Maria Perez.” She had black hair, brown eyes, and a firm handshake. Sloan was so dazed that it took him a moment to remember that Perez was the governor of Texas.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Sloan said. That wasn't true, of course, since Perez had been very critical of the president's energy policies. Especially those related to carbon emissions. Maybe he could convince her to . . . Then Sloan remembered. The president was dead, and carbon emissions were the least of his worries.

“Please,” Perez said as she gestured to an empty chair. “Have a seat.”

Sloan sat next to Rankin. His thoughts whirled as his brain struggled to assimilate the information he'd been given—and apply it to the situation that he found himself in. He was still attempting to sort things out when Rankin spoke. “I'm sorry, Sam . . . Please allow me to explain . . . After we lost the president, Congress, and what's estimated to be 30 million people, everything ground to a halt.

“And don't forget . . . The Pentagon was destroyed as well . . . So even though some senior officers survived, they were scattered around the country and lacked a central command structure. That led to disagreements. And while they squabbled, bases like Fort Bragg in North Carolina, Pendleton in California, and JBLM in Washington State were overrun by heavily armed gangs.

“Meanwhile, Vice President Wainwright was sworn in as
president. And within a matter of days, she began to put forth reconstruction plans that would not only bankrupt the nation but override state's rights and restrict personal freedoms.”

“She wanted to implement gun-control laws,” Huxton put in. “She claimed it was a way to combat lawlessness, but that's ridiculous. You've read the papers; you know what's going on. If citizens don't defend themselves, no one will.”

Sloan
had
read the papers and now he knew why he'd been allowed to do so. Huxton and his cronies had been well aware of the fact that he was next in line for the presidency, and had been keeping him on a shelf in case he might come in handy! And in the wake of President Wainwright's death, they were dusting him off. Not only that, but according to what he'd read, Huxton was correct. For the moment anyway. There was a lot of lawlessness, and millions of people were on their own. So Wainwright's push for gun control had been premature.

“So,” Huxton continued, “that's why
we
, which is to say a group of about thirty people in and out of government, have been trying to assemble a substitute government here in the South. One that is better equipped to deal with things the way they really are. But before we pull the trigger on that effort, we thought it would be a good idea to have a chat with you. Now, I reckon you're pissed . . . And I get that. I would be, too. But, if you can put the anger aside, you'll see that there's an opportunity here. An opportunity to lead the nation back to greatness. But we need the right man.”

“That's right,” Governor Perez said. “No offense, Mr. Sloan, but the people haven't had a chance to vote for you. So, even though you inherited the presidency—you may or may not be the right man for the job.”

There it was. A clear declaration of intent. The people seated at the table were going to vet him. Never mind the fact that they had
no legal right to do so. And if they didn't like what he said? No problem. They were the only people who knew that he was alive. “I see,” Sloan replied. “So tell me about ‘the right man.' What would he be like?”

“That's a good question,” Huxton replied. “The right man would take a look around and realize that while the highly centralized federal government crumbled, the corporate infrastructure survived.
Why?
Because it was more self-sufficient, widely dispersed, and better met the needs of the people. And the right man would not only take inspiration from that—he'd build a
new
government based on the principles of personal initiative and responsibility. Or, put another way, he would create a new order for a new reality.”

The last phrase would have been perfect on a bumper sticker—and Sloan got the feeling that the planning Rankin had referenced was pretty far along. “I think you'll agree that the devil is in the details,” Sloan temporized. “How would the new government work?”

“Shareowners would own the country,” Huxton replied. “And each shareowner would express his or her wishes by voting the number of shares they happen to own.”

“Everyone would receive a hundred shares off the top,” Rankin explained, “and could sell them, or buy more in a free market.”

Sloan looked from face to face. “Does that include corporations?”

“Of course it does,” Perez answered. “Corporations are people . . . The Supreme Court made that clear.”

“I see,” Sloan said. “Aren't you afraid that corporations, and the oligarchs who own them, will seize control of the new order by acquiring millions of shares?”

Huxton shrugged. “The free market will rule . . . Everyone who chooses to participate will receive annual dividends they can spend
on the services they believe are most important. And by voting their shares in blocks, lesser shareowners can still have a significant impact on what happens.”

Sloan felt a rising sense of anger. Not only was the plan illegal . . . The conspirators were planning to seize control of the country for their own benefit! “So the right man will serve as a front for the new order?” he demanded. “A democratic face for the largest power grab in history?”

Huxton made a snorting sound as his eyes swung around. “It's just like I told you . . . Sloan is one of
them
. We're wasting our time.”

“Is that right?” Rankin demanded. “Are we wasting our time?”

Sloan paused to consider it. Maybe they were correct . . . Maybe some sort of structure was better than none. And, if he was part of the new order, he could work to change it from the inside. But his inner voice refused to go along.
What a load of crap! They won't listen to you . . . They'll tell you what to say—and you'll be forced to say it.

Sloan knew the voice was correct—and knew what had to be said. “Yes, you're wasting your time. If I'm the president, then it's my duty to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States. And by that I mean the one written in 1787, not a
new
constitution intended to further the interests of the wealthy.”

Lemaire broke the ensuing silence. “You're one stupid son of a bitch,” he said contemptuously.

Sloan heard a noise and turned to see the security men enter the room. How they had been summoned wasn't clear. “Put Mr. Sloan on the chopper,” Huxton ordered, “and take him back to the
Belle Marie
. We'll figure out what to do with him later.”

The words had an ominous quality, and Sloan rose from his chair. “Don't bother,” Flattop said. “Unless you want to feel a lot of pain.”

“Extend your wrists,” Short Guy instructed, and Sloan had no choice but to obey. The cuffs felt cold as they came into contact with his flesh. It would have been a good time to say something cool, but the best he could do was try to keep the fear from showing and resist the temptation to beg. Sloan heard one of the conspirators laugh as he was led away.

Once they were out in the reception area, Sloan was forced to board the same elevator he'd ridden before. And by the time they reached the roof, the Huey was ready to depart.

The helicopter took off, banked away from the skyscraper, and flew east. All Sloan could do was let the slipstream buffet his face as the ground sped by below. The landscape was dry at first. But that began to change roughly twenty minutes later as the aircraft flew over part of the Piney Woods that covered most of east Texas. Eventually, the trees surrendered to the streams, rivers, and bayous that bordered the state of Louisiana. That was when the aircraft began to lose altitude and continued to do so until it was flying just above the treetops. Channels passed by below, as did stagnant ponds and small lakes.

Where was the
Belle Marie
? Five or ten minutes ahead? Yes, and once aboard, Sloan knew he would never have a chance to escape.

Short Guy hit the release on his seat belt and stood. The reason for that wasn't clear, but it gave Sloan an idea. What happened next was more the result of an impulse than careful planning. Short Guy was framed in the door as Sloan hit his release and charged forward. The maneuver wouldn't have been possible with Flattop. He was too tall. But Short Guy was short . . . And that made it possible for Sloan to bring his handcuffed hands down over the security officer's head. Then, with Shorty trapped in his arms, Sloan threw himself out through the open door.

A multitude of thoughts flashed through his mind.
Hang on to
him! He has the key to the cuffs! Pray for water . . . I don't have time to pray . . .
Then they hit, and hit hard. The force of the fall drove both men deep under the surface of the water.

Sloan's eyes were open, but the swamp water was so thick with vegetable matter that he couldn't see. Short Guy was struggling by then, and no wonder . . . While Sloan had known what was coming and taken a deep breath, the other man hadn't. That's why he was flailing around.

Of course, Sloan needed air, too . . . How long could he hold out? Long enough to kill the security officer? Sloan pulled the handcuffs tight under Shorty's chin and pulled back. A sharp elbow connected with Sloan's gut, and a large gulp of precious air was lost. A man was going to die. But which one?

When in doubt, do something.

—HARRY CHAPIN

SOUTH OF YAKIMA, WASHINGTON

It was a cold, wintry day in August as the convoy rolled onto Highway 82 and the soldiers began the thousand-mile journey to Arizona. The Humvee was out on point, about half a mile forward of the other vehicles, and Garcia was behind the wheel. Mac sat next to him, with Sparks and Kho in the back.

Mac had no way to know what
they
were feeling—but her emotions were evenly divided between excitement and fear. On the one hand, it felt good to do something,
anything
, after such a long period of relative inactivity. The decision to leave Vagabond hadn't been made lightly.

After giving the matter a lot of thought, Mac had concluded that it didn't make sense to remain at the airfield while their supplies dwindled away to nothing. So she'd called a meeting. It was held in a hangar and, with the exception of those on guard duty,
the entire unit was present. “Here's the deal,” she told them. “Gangs are in charge of JBLM, we're still cut off, and the locals are likely to take another run at us pretty soon.

“Rather than sit here and wait for that to happen, I think we should go south where, according to what the ham radio operators have to say, the weather is a little warmer. Plus there's a pretty good chance that we'll be able to acquire additional supplies along the way.

“Will such a trip be easy? Hell no. Will we make it to Arizona? I think so . . . But there aren't any guarantees. Do you
have
to go? No. Anyone who would like to leave the unit and go their own way is free to do so. I will provide you with written orders that might or might not shield you from charges if you happen to encounter the
real
army somewhere.

“But be advised that the officer in command could charge you with desertion . . . And that goes for those who follow me—since we'll be acting without orders.

“Finally,” Mac said, “I want to make it clear that if you remain with the unit, military discipline will continue to apply. Because without it, we will lose unit cohesion and the ability to fight effectively. And make no mistake, we
will
have to fight. Do you have any questions?”

There
were
questions. Lots of them. And when the three-hour session came to a close, four people decided to go looking for loved ones while the rest chose to stay. And they, plus a handful of dependents, like Dr. Hoskins's wife, were aboard the column of vehicles that was following the Humvee.

Mac's thoughts were interrupted as the Apache roared overhead. Peters and Omata were under orders to scout ahead—and provide air support if necessary. But only for short periods of time. Evans had been able to “requisition” three tankers . . . But only one of them was carrying JP8 for the helicopter. So the pilots had orders
to conserve fuel by landing short of Kennewick, Washington, and the National Guard armory located there. Had it been looted? There was only one way to find out.

Meanwhile, the situation on Highway 82 was what Mac expected it to be. There wasn't a whole lot of car traffic. But motorcycles whizzed by from time to time, bicyclists weaved in and out between the wrecks, and heavily laden pedestrians were a common sight. A man on a John Deere lawn mower passed them half an hour into the journey. He waved, and Mac waved back. Most people were less friendly. They needed help and weren't getting any.

Columns of gray smoke wafted up from modest homes to merge with low-hanging clouds as they passed the town of Union Gap. The smoke was a sure sign that the power was out, and the locals were burning wood to stay warm.

But that wasn't all . . . Many houses had been fortified, or were in the process of being fortified, which suggested that crime was on the rise.

What would society be like in six months? Mac wondered. And how would her unit survive? “Flyby-One to Archer-Six,” Peters said. “Over.”

“This is Six,” Mac replied. “Go. Over.”

“We just flew over Sunnyside. The highway is clear for the most part although there are a lot of wrecks, and an IED could be hidden in any one of them. Over.”

“Roger that Flyby . . . Anything else? Over.”

“There's one thing,” Peters replied. “A lot of pedestrians are walking south on 82 . . . And more people join them at each ramp. Oh, and most are wearing white.”

Mac thought about that before pressing the
TRANSMIT
button. “How many constitutes ‘a lot'? Over.”

“Hundreds,” Peters answered. “Maybe a thousand in all. Over.”

“Keep me informed,” Mac said. “Over.”

Peters delivered a double click by way of a reply.

It wasn't long before Mac began to see the people Peters had mentioned. That was when she realized that they'd been there all along, hiking down the highway in small groups and wearing white. Not from head to toe . . . But by way of a headband, a scarf, or a waist sash. And most of them were armed.

So what
was
she looking at? A pilgrimage of some sort? And did it represent a threat? The obvious answer was “yes,” as more people poured onto 82, and the Humvee became an island in a river of humanity. “What do you think?” Kho demanded. “Should I go upstairs and get on the fifty?”

“No,” Mac replied. “Not yet anyway. We'll go with the flow for the moment.”

Mac examined her map. The Columbia River ran east to west up ahead. If they stayed on the freeway, they could cross it south of Kennewick near Umatilla, Oregon. But where were the pilgrims headed? The city of Kennewick seemed like the most likely answer, but it was never a good idea to assume anything.

Mac turned to Kho. “When I tell Garcia to stop, I want you to get out and gather some intel. Chat with some pilgrims. Find out where they're headed and why. Go with her, Sparks . . . And stay within a hundred feet of the Humvee.”

Both of them nodded, and Kho said, “Yes, ma'am.”

Mac ordered Garcia to stop so the soldiers could get out. Then she went topside where she could keep an eye on them and fire the fifty should it come to that. Fortunately, it didn't. The soldiers returned ten minutes later, and Mac left the gunner's position to hear Kho's report. “They belong to what sounds like a cult,” the observer reported. “A woman called the Lady of Light is in charge and gets her orders from a group of so-called space masters.

“It seems that although most of the Hanford nuclear facility is shut down, the part that's still operational came under the cult's control two weeks ago. The people we spoke to believe that once the space masters bring all of Hanford's reactors back online, a new civilization will be born.”

Mac looked from Kho to Munroe and back again. “You're shitting me.”

“No, ma'am,” Kho replied. “These people are serious.”

It would be foolish to follow the pilgrims into Kennewick. Mac realized that now. She looked at the map. There weren't that many bridges across the Columbia. The nearest alternative was a hundred miles west at a town called Maryhill. The detour would cost the unit time and fuel. But it was either that or try to bullshit her way past thousands of cult members. The choice was no choice at all. She turned to Munroe. “Put out the word. We're going to turn off the freeway onto 221 south. The exit is about five miles ahead. And,” Mac added, “tell everyone to pay close attention to what's going on. These people are batshit crazy.”

PENDLETON, OREGON

Master Sergeant Rollo Smith peered out through a shattered window. He could see his breath, and snowflakes fell out of the gunmetal-gray sky as he stared north. National Guard headquarters, Pendleton, Oregon, was located adjacent to the city's tiny airport. And that made sense since the unit had three Chinook helicopters and some UAVs.

No,
Smith told himself,
that isn't accurate. We had three Chinooks . . . Back before the takers towed one of them away and forced us to destroy the others.
When was that anyway? Three
days ago? Time didn't have much meaning anymore. The only things that mattered were pride and duty. No pack of civilian assholes was going to steal the unit's supplies! Not so long as Smith was vertical. And not while he had orders to hold the base.

Where's Major Elkins?
Smith wondered. The answer was obvious. Five days after the meteorites struck, Elkins and the rest of the unit had been dispatched to deal with civil unrest in Portland. They hadn't been heard from since. That meant they were . . .
No!
Smith told himself.
Don't think it. You're tired, that's all.
And that was true.

The takers had attacked twice during the night—but his force of nine men and women had managed to hold them off.
Again.
The bastards didn't like to attack during the day, and there was a good reason for that. The machine guns on the roof could cover every inch of the surrounding ground. As for darkness, well, the bad guys liked that better. But not a
lot
better because of the night-vision gear that Smith's people had.
They're wearing us down, though,
Smith thought to himself.
From thirteen to nine. It's just a matter of time.

“Breakfast is served,” a voice said, and Smith turned to discover that Private Anne Renke was standing behind him. She handed him an MRE. “It's your favorite,” she added. “Beef brisket.” Smith knew that she'd gone digging for it, or arranged for a trade. Not to suck up, but to make him feel better. Something she did for everyone.

“Thanks,” Smith said as he sat on an ammo crate. “How's it going? Are you okay?”

“I could use a shower,” Renke answered. “But so could you.”

Smith laughed. And that was Renke's talent, since she was a piss-poor shot and didn't have any tech skills to speak of. The Guard was a part-time job for her . . . A way to make money for
college. Now she was in the shit, and holding up damned well, all things considered. “Go take a nap, Private. They'll be back.”

“Sure thing, Sarge,” Renke said, and turned away. An empty casing rattled away from a boot as she entered the hall.

Smith waited until Renke was gone to put the MRE on the floor and lean against the wall. He closed his eyes.
The Alamo,
Smith thought to himself.
We're in the fucking Alamo. And that's where John Wayne died.
Then he fell asleep.

MARYHILL, WASHINGTON

According to Kho, who'd been there before, the tiny town of Maryhill, Washington, was named for the wife and daughter of a wealthy businessman named Sam Hill. And after following the north bank of the Columbia River west, the column was going to cross the Sam Hill Memorial Bridge and enter Biggs Junction on the other side.

Mac knew that the old bridge was clear because Esco said it was. But as the column paused to take a bio break, she eyed the other side of the river through a pair of binoculars. There were no signs of trouble. The trip down Highway 221 to 14 had been uneventful. And although hundreds of pilgrims had passed the convoy going east, while the soldiers went west, there weren't enough fanatics to represent a threat. And even now, there was a one-way stream of white-clad travelers coming her way across the bridge.

Mac lowered her glasses. They were about a hundred miles from Pendleton, Oregon. They'd been forced to bypass Kennewick, and the armory there, but what about Pendleton? Could they get supplies there? Mac felt a surge of impatience as she turned to Munroe. “Pass the word . . . The break's over. Let's cross the bridge.”

PENDLETON, OREGON

The clouds were the color of an old bruise as Smith brought a pair of binoculars up to his eyes. A bitter wind was chasing pieces of trash across the airfield, but there were no other signs of movement. And despite Smith's expectations to the contrary, there hadn't been any attacks during the night.
Why?
Had the takers given up? Smith
wanted
to believe that but didn't. No, he decided, the person or people in charge of the gang were getting ready to try something new. The possibility frightened him. They knew how many people he had, or
didn't
have, and how each one of them was deployed. That's why Smith figured the bastards were going to throw something different his way. Something calculated to take advantage of the unit's weaknesses. Of which there were plenty. “Oh, shit,” Corporal Cassidy said over the radio. “Look north . . . What
is
that?”

Smith swung his glasses to the right and saw a Greyhound bus emerge from behind a hangar. Sheets of metal had been fastened to the boxy vehicle.

“I see a semi,” Renke added, “coming in from the west. Over.”

“And a school bus is headed our way,” Haskins added.

Smith's suspicions had been confirmed, but the noncom took no pleasure in being right. The makeshift armored vehicles were meant to divide the defenders' fire, bulldoze their way through the base's defensive wall, and deliver a shitload of men into the compound. And when that happened, his soldiers would die.