Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line (20 page)

The first day on the trail I called General Jacobs’ secure line with the satellite phone. A polite digitized female voice answered and asked for my authorization code. I gave it. The voice told me to stand by and someone would be with me momentarily. The someone turned out to be a lieutenant with a steady, bookish voice who asked me for my name, unit, and the reason for my call.

“My name is Gabriel Garrett,” I said. “I’m not active-duty military, but I’m registered in the Archive. I’ll wait while you look me up.”

I could almost see the face puckering on the other side. “I’m sorry, sir, but if you’re not active-duty military you’ll need to-”

“I’m a contractor,” I interrupted. “And I know contractors aren’t normally given this number, but General Jacobs gave it to me personally. So trust me, you want to look me up before you blow me off. Might save your career.”

The lieutenant was silent a moment, then told me to hold and he would be back with me shortly. He sounded angry. I did not care. Eight years in the Marines, a stint with the CIA, and several more years with the top-secret arm of a mercenary outfit sanctioned by Homeland Security—not to mention all the wetwork I’ve done for General Jacobs since the Outbreak—has left me with very little patience for the self-importance of middle-management officer types. In fact, if I had wanted to, I could have taken a field commission as a colonel working directly for General Jacobs at Army Special Operations Command. Thing is, I didn’t want to. Hence my status as a highly-valued civilian contractor with a direct line to one of the most powerful men in the Union.

“General Jacobs is away on assignment,” the young-sounding officer said. “Can I take a message?”

“No. Whatever clearance you have, it’s not enough. Put me in touch with Jacobs’ chief of staff.”

“I’m not authorized to do that, sir.” The voice was downright lemony. I had, after all, called his boss ‘Jacobs’ and not ‘General Jacobs’. He was probably not used to that level of familiarity pertaining to someone who could make or break his career with the stroke of a pen.

“Then find someone who is.”

A pause. “Listen, sir-”

“No, you listen. I don’t have time for this shit. I have a priority message to give the general and he needs it yesterday. If you can’t get it done, go find someone who can. Because I guarantee you if he doesn’t get my report very fucking soon, heads are going to roll. Starting with yours. Get me?”

Maybe it was my tone, or the confidence in my voice, but when the lieutenant spoke after an uncomfortable silence, he sounded subdued. “Of course, sir. I’ll have to place you on hold, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“You hang up on me and I’ll have your liver on a platter.”

“Yes sir.” The line went silent, but I could tell by the static it was still open.

“Nice,” Hicks chuckled. He sat astride his horse as we followed the raiders’ trail southeast across the Kansas plains. “Not too subtle, but nice.”

“I’m nothing if not effective.”

“No argument there.”

The line was quiet for nearly five minutes. Finally, a mature male voice picked up.

“This is Colonel Frank Stephens. State your name and make your report.”

“My name is Gabriel Garrett.” I gave the declaration time to sink in. The other voice did not reply for a few moments, which told me I had struck a nerve.

“Garrett, huh? Heard about you.”

“I’m sure you have.”

Stephens cleared his throat. “So what you got for me?”

“You stationed in the Springs?”

“I’m with ASOC, so yeah. Why?”

“Ever heard of a caravan outfit goes under the name of Morningstar Transport? It’s one of the biggest outfits in the Springs, headed by a guy who calls himself Spike.”

“Yeah, I heard of ‘em. Why?”

“You might want to put in a call with the FTIC. They’ve been taken out by a band of raiders over two-hundred strong. Spike’s dead, and so are most of his people. Raiders took the trade and thirteen prisoners, all female, and are headed southeast. I’m on their trail with Sergeant Caleb Hicks, First Reconnaissance Expeditionary out of Fort McCray. He’s listed in the Archive among the same group of upstanding citizens as I am.”

The sound of fingers clicking over a keyboard traveled across the line. I counted to six before Colonel Stephens spoke again.

“I’ll need as many details as you can provide, Mr. Garrett.”

So I did. When I finished, the colonel asked to speak with Caleb. His report was much the same as mine, although he punctuated his sentences with ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’. Not unwise for a sergeant speaking to a colonel. When he was finished, he held the phone out to me.

“Says he wants to talk to you.”

I took the handset and said, “Yes, Colonel?” No harm in being polite. My mother always told me one catches more flies with honey than with vinegar.

“For now I need you to continue reconnaissance,” Stephens said. “Consider yourself on the clock. Full compensation per your usual fee upon completion of the mission.”

“What constitutes completing the mission?” I asked.

“Honestly, I don’t know yet. But I’m damned sure Phil ain’t gonna be happy about this. He’ll want retribution, and that right soon.”

The fact Colonel Stephens had called General Jacobs ‘Phil’ without a hitch in his voice told me all I needed to know about him.

“I’m on it, Colonel.”

“Call me with an update by 0900 tomorrow.”

“Will do.”

The line went dead.

“So?” Hicks asked.

“It seems we’re sanctioned.”

The young soldier’s eyes brightened and narrowed all at once. “Perfect.”

*****

My update the next morning, and for the next two days, was pretty much the same. The raiders were headed steadily eastward. During the day, we stayed out of sight and tracked them from a couple of miles back. At night, we moved in. The prisoners were under heavy guard and kept chained together in a pair of wagons. Thus far, as near as we could tell, they had not been abused. I figured their captors wanted to keep them looking healthy in case they ran across a federal patrol. However, the farther we traveled from Wichita, the sooner the prisoners’ situation was likely to deteriorate. Raiders are not known for their profound sense of restraint.

On the fifth day Caleb and I ate the last of our rations shortly before I made my report. This time, when I called in, I finally got General Jacobs on the line.

“You certainly have a knack for finding trouble, Mr. Garrett,” he said.

“Did Colonel Stephens brief you?”

“He did. Sounds like you’re up to your ass in alligators again.”

“Story of my life. Listen, we’re in a bad spot here. We’re out of food, and the guys we’re tracking aren’t getting any less horny. If we’re going to do something we had better do it soon. The prisoners are running out of time.”

“I can get you a supply drop by tonight, but sending troops will take a couple of days to coordinate.”

“I don’t need the Eighty-Second Airborne, General. A few skillful operators would do just fine.”

The line was quiet for a few seconds. “What did you have in mind?”

“Four men, a Chinook, and some extra ordnance. When the caravan stops for the night I’ll send in the drop coordinates. We’ll go in, hit them hard, and get the prisoners to the chopper.”

“That simple?”

“Of course not. But I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

“Call me back in twenty minutes.”

He hung up. I waited twenty long, impatient minutes and called back.

“I can get you what you need,” Jacobs said. “But you’ll have to move tonight.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Any special instructions?”

“Actually, yes. Quite a few.”

I laid out my plan in general terms and told Jacobs what supplies I needed and what I wanted from the soldiers he was sending me.

“Well, you’ve got balls. I’ll give you that much. Can I assume you’ll need operational control of the aircrew?”

“If you can swing it, yes.”

“Done.”

I let out a relieved breath. “Thanks for the assist, General.”

“Thank me when those prisoners are out of harm’s way. Anything else?”

“No. That’s it.”

“Good luck then.”

The line went dead.

The Chinook flew in three hours after nightfall.

It landed in an unremarkable patch of field in a vast plain of unremarkable fields. I waited a short distance away while the twin rotors slowly spun to a stop before approaching with my hands in the air. Something moved in the darkness of the chopper’s cargo bay and I knew I had no less than two rifles aimed at my chest.

“Arbiter,” I called out, hoping whoever briefed these men had given them the correct code word.

“Mason,” A voice replied. “Approach and be recognized.”

I did as ordered, hands still in the air. A pair of darkly painted faces peered at me from within the Chinook. The soldiers wore black helmets, black fatigues, NVGs, and were heavily armed.

“You Garrett?” one of them asked.

“That’s me.”

“Name’s Lanning. This is Greer, Clark, and the guy behind me is Duncan.”

Now that I was closer, I could see the men clearly. Lanning was tall, lean, and appeared to be in his mid-thirties. Greer and Clark were both younger white guys of medium build. Duncan was black, stood about five foot six, and was built like a refrigerator. I estimated his biceps at roughly the diameter of my head.

“You in charge?” I asked Lanning.

“Ordinarily, yes. Colonel tells me I’m to follow your orders.”

He did not sound happy.

“Have you been briefed?”

“Sure.”

Lanning gave me the rundown. I had to correct a few details, but mostly the ops guys had gotten it right.

“Now we’ve got that straightened out,” I said, “you have the supplies I asked for?”

“Yeah,” Lanning said. “In the back.”

I followed him in while Greer closed the door behind us. Lanning reached up and flipped a switch, bathing the interior of the Chinook in red light. A big, surly looking crewman stared down the barrel of a minigun aimed out a firing port and studiously ignored us. I returned the favor.

Two large green fiberglass crates sat strapped to the floor of the cargo bay. I undid the tie-downs on one and opened it. Inside were high-powered radios, six LAW rockets, two grenade launchers, a small box of fragmentation grenades, another small box of high-explosive point-detonation shells, two SAWs, a few boxes of linked 5.56 ammo, stick-on infrared patches, and most importantly, four GPS tracking devices. I rooted down to the bottom of the box and found four large duffel bags. The other box held water and provisions for Hicks, me, and our horses.

“Looks like it’s all here.”

Lanning grunted. I went to the front of the chopper and spoke to one of the pilots. “Can we get a message out to Wichita, make sure they have a fix on the transmitters?”

“Already done,” the pilot said. “Been tracking since we left the FOB.”

“Perfect.”

I turned and motioned to the soldiers. “Just so I know, what outfit are you with?”

“Tenth S.F.,” Lanning said. “You?”

“Marines. Scout sniper.”

“You too old to be active duty,” Duncan said. He had a thick southern accent, one of the Gulf Coast states by the sound of it. “No offense.”

“None taken. And you’re right. After the Marines I did some time in the intelligence community, then a merc outfit. Now I’m freelance.”

“You a spook?” Lanning asked with more than a little distaste.

“Not anymore. Think of me as a concerned citizen.”

A snort. “Yeah. Sure. A concerned citizen who just happens to be on a first name basis with the head of ASOC.”

“Listen,” I said. “Who I am is a lot less important than why we’re here. There are thirteen prisoners being held by a group of raiders over two-hundred strong. And it’s our job to get them out alive.”

“No shit,” Greer said. “Didn’t we just review the briefing?”

I took a long breath and spoke evenly. Dealing with special operations types is always a pissing contest. Too many alpha dogs in too little kennel.

“I’m not trying to be patronizing. I just want to make sure we all stay focused on the mission, not the bullshit surrounding it.”

“Right,” Lanning said. His voice had taken on the tone of someone trying to be reasonable. “Speaking of the mission, weren’t there supposed to be two of you?”

“The other guy is procuring transportation. Should be along shortly.”

“Can you check in with him?” Greer said, pointing to the radio clipped to my vest. “See where he’s at?”

“Sure. Be right back.”

I walked outside, took a knee, and keyed my radio. “Hicks, you in range?”

No response. I waited a few minutes and tried again. This time, the earpiece buzzed to life.

“Copy Lima Charlie,” Hicks said. “En route. Four mikes.”

“How many did you get?”

“Enough for all of us.”

“Bodies?”

“Dragging along.”

“Nice work. See you soon. Out.”

I went back inside the Chinook and waited with the four Green Berets until the crewman on the minigun said he had incoming. I fired up my IR scope, which I had attached to my rifle earlier in the night, and looked through a crack in the door. Sure enough, I saw the unmistakable outline of Hicks riding toward the Chinook with Red and four other horses in tow. Behind him, being dragged by lengths of paracord, were the slowly cooling bodies of four raiders. I went outside to greet him. The soldiers followed.

“Run into any trouble?”

“Nope. Caught these four bunched together on patrol passing a bottle around. You know what they say. Complacency kills.”

I turned to Lanning. “This is Sergeant Caleb Hicks, First Reconnaissance Expeditionary. We work together from time to time.”

Lanning nodded in Hicks’ direction. “You ever been on a mission like this, Sergeant?”

“Yes sir.”

Lanning did not correct Hicks for addressing him as an officer, confirming my suspicions about his rank.

“I heard of the First Recon,” Duncan said. “Y’all supposed to be regular Army. The hell you doin’ way out here?”

Hicks pointed a thumb at the corpses behind him. “Killing raiders.”

Duncan grinned, his teeth white in the darkness.

“We need to get moving,” I said. “Those raiders will be missed soon if they haven’t been already.”

“Right,” Lanning said, all business. “Let’s get the gear loaded on the horses.”

After packing the duffel bags and securing them to the saddles with paracord, we cut loose the dead raiders, passed around the high-powered radios, did a quick comms check, and set off toward the raider encampment. Behind us, the Chinook’s powerful engine whined to life, its rotors slowly beginning to spin as the pilots went through their checklists.

“Just out of curiosity,” I said to Lanning. “Is horsemanship a part of S.F. ongoing training now?”

“Yep. Has been for two years. Rangers too, some of them. Heard a rumor the Joint Chiefs want to train five thousand mounted cavalry in the next four years, assuming the government can find enough horses.”

“Interesting,” I said, and meant it. The strategist in me saw the utility of mounted cavalry in a world with limited fuel and a dwindling stock of working vehicles. The business man in me, however, smelled an opportunity.

Get through tonight first
, I told myself.
Stay focused
.

“What’s that?” Lanning said.

I had not realized I was speaking out loud. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Might want to do your thinking quietly from here on out.”

I accepted the barb with a nod. “Sound advice.”

*****

“All stations, alpha lead. Everyone in position? Over.”

The two SAW gunners spoke up first, followed by the grenadiers, the aircrew, and finally Hicks.

“Acknowledged. Beginning approach. Stand by.”

I raised my head just enough to survey the area with my IR goggles.
Now for the hard part.

After leaving Haviland, the raiders who attacked Spike’s caravan rode southward, turned east on Highway 160, then south again on an access road, and finally resumed an easterly path on Highway 44. They set a tough pace, sometimes covering nearly thirty miles a day, often riding long into the night such that Hicks and I had been hard pressed to keep up. Initially I had thought they were fleeing the possibility of federal pursuit. Now I knew better. They were not worried about the Army. They had ridden as hard as they had because they were low on water.

The Chikaskia River ran north of my position and curved sharply to the south before turning southeast about a mile farther downstream. To the north, a thick stand of woodland ran along the northern bank of the stream and followed the curve of the river south and eastward. The raiders had stopped in a field close to the river.

Behind me to the west, two strips of woodland provided further concealment from the highway. One was a thin line of trees running along the ninety-degree angle of the field where the crop boundaries had once been, while the other meandered sinuously along a tributary that fed into the river further to the southeast. My grudging respect for the leader of this outfit went up a notch. This was a good place to make camp—hidden from the road, easily defensible, and near an abundant source of fresh water. Which also told me these men had been through here before. I wondered how long they had been at this game, and how many lives they had destroyed along the way.

I scanned left and right looking for signs of where I had ordered the others to take position. At my low vantage point, I could not spot them. If I had been up higher I might have had better luck, but lying on my belly in the grass, they were invisible. Which was good. If I could not see them, neither could the raiders. The possibility the scumbags camped along the river were equipped with NVGs was strong. There was also the possibility they had gotten their hands on FLIR equipment. A remote possibility, but a possibility nonetheless. I was taking no chances.

Satisfied there were no patrols between me and the raiders, I began the slow process of crawling toward them. I kept my head down, streamers of brush from my ghillie suit obscuring my vision, and let my ears guide me toward the camp. Every ten meters or so I looked up and evaluated my angle of approach. At the fifty yard mark I was on a straight course to where the prisoners were being held.

I keyed my radio. “Eagle, Alpha Lead. Status. Over.”

“Might want to hurry, alpha lead,” Hicks replied. He was waiting with the horses to the south, hidden in the boughs of one of the trees bordering the field in that direction. I had lent him my IR scope, but kept my goggles. “Looks like the booze is flowing and I see a few men gesturing toward the prisoners. I think our luck is about to run out.”

“Any sign they’ve noticed that patrol is missing?”

“No. But it’s only a matter of time.”

“Anybody goes to take the prisoners out of the wagon, put them down.”

A pause. “Won’t that alert the rest of the camp?”

“Yes, but at that point it won’t matter because I’ll give the signal and the raiders will have much bigger problems than their collective libido.”

“Roger that.”

I quickened my pace. The sounds of revelry from the camp were growing louder. The raiders were having some kind of celebration, probably figured they were out of danger from the feds. I tended to agree. The Army, for the most part, stayed close to the main trade routes, waystations, FOBs, and safe zones. It was unlikely they would venture this far south. And if I was honest, they had no reason to. Hardly anyone lived in this empty, remote part of the state. Not to mention the fact the farther south a person traveled, the more likely they were to run into infected. The men in the raider camp did not seem worried, which served as further evidence they were familiar with the area.

When I was within twenty meters of the prisoners I looked to my right and saw the edge of a cable fence within which grazed the raiders’ livestock. Farther ahead, another fence surrounded half the caravan. The rest of the wagons were arranged in a defensive circle outside the fence. The prisoners’ holding area was along this outer defensive layer. If I was careful and quick, I could climb into one of the wagons outside the fence and use it to get inside the perimeter. But then I had to figure out a way past the ring of cables.

One thing at a time
.

I covered the rest of the ground without incident. A patrol passed by perhaps thirty yards behind me, but I was well hidden by my ghillie suit and the waist-high grass. When they were out of earshot, I crawled quickly toward the prisoners.

The women were within ten yards now. But before I could help them, I had one other matter to attend to. I crawled to the nearest wagon, took one of the GPS transponders from my belt, and stuck its magnetic side the top of the rear axle close to the wheel where it would be hard to spot even if someone were looking for it. If they were not, it would be invisible. Three wagons and three transponders later, I crawled back to where the prisoners were and examined one of the fence posts.