Without Warning (36 page)

“Jesus,” he said, watching the REMF vehicle roll down toward a container. “I’ve died and gone to the rear.”

The truck stopped in front of the container, where a detail of soldiers waited. With great care, two soldiers at a time removed a single body bag from the truck and carried it into the container. Melton could see a refrigeration unit attached to the side. A couple of soldiers from the Third ID glanced at the body, then looked away. Melton overheard them as they passed.

“Those poor dumb bastards really got zapped,” one specialist said.

“Glad I wasn’t there,” the other, a private first class, replied. “Stupid fucking mission anyway.”

“Amen to that,” Melton said under his breath.

He gazed over a vista of thousands of tents and makeshift arrangements of prefab huts, motorized trailers, converted shipping containers, vehicle parks,
supply depots, and chopper pads. A cluster of antennas sprouted next to a tight knot of command vehicles and shelters. The camp had to cover a couple of klicks of real estate, thought Melton. He cautiously craned his head skyward, and could pick out the twinkling points and occasional contrails of at least a dozen jets flying CAP.

“Division Main will want that on the double,” someone said to an underling. The underling nodded to the soldier, who was standing in the back of a communications shelter. Melton read the bumper number without thinking.

123 Sig BN.

“Guess that commo puke didn’t have to worry about shooting himself in the foot after all,” he thought aloud. “Must be at Third ID’s main camp.”

Now, where that was, he had no idea.

The ground was rockier, harder than he remembered from that last big post. It made walking a little more treacherous for someone with his injuries, but it also meant that there was marginally less grit and sand in the air. From the lowering position of the sun he estimated the time as being quite late in the day, maybe 1600 or more. His watch was missing. There was only room enough for foot traffic in this part of the base, and it was heavily congested. Everyone was fully armed, as though expecting the enemy to appear around the corner at any moment, but people made way for him as he shuffled off in the direction of the mess tent.

It was slow going. His whole body was stiff, and every movement seemed to threaten new rips and tears in those parts of him that had already been sundered apart and put back together. Melton desperately wanted to know what had happened while he’d been out of it. What had become of “his” platoon? Who’d lived and died? And what had gone down in the wider world? The little he’d picked up from Shetty and Deftereos wasn’t reassuring. He had the impression of a world that had already tipped over the brink and was now falling toward destruction.

It took him a while and a good deal of discomfort to cover the short distance to the mess, and he felt worn out when he’d done it, but satisfied, too, as though he’d proved to himself that he wasn’t a total cot case. Pushing in through the fly-screen doors he found about half of the tables occupied by service men and women whose working routines obviously had them out of sync with the bulk of the camp. He recognized marines and army personnel, some foreign uniforms, possibly Australian special forces. There was even one table of USN sailors looking very much out of place. The hum of the room was subdued, with many of the diners watching a television that hung from a pole near one end of the space. Nobody appeared to be enjoying the show, some sort of news broadcast. Melton was desperate for information,
but also weak with hunger. His appetite had come roaring up as he shuffled toward the mess with its familiar smell of fried meat, grease, and instant coffee. He was salivating heavily, and his stomach actually seemed to twist itself into a knot in the effort to move him toward a folding table where a female on KP duty smiled at him.

“Can I help you, sir?” the specialist asked. Melton couldn’t read her name tape. It was covered by her body armor. “We got some burgers and fries that are sorta fresh. And you look like you need feeding up.”

He shook his head but smiled.

“Got any soup?”

She turned toward the giant metal pots sitting on a big field oven behind her.

“Got some beef stew in one of them, sir. I could add a bit of water if you like. That’d almost be like soup, wouldn’t it? Just chunkier.”

“Chunky is good,” said Melton.

The army specialist even helped him over to a table where he could watch the TV, which surprised him. No one was ever cheerful to be put on KP duty. A minute or two later he was sitting on a poncho liner she loaned him, trying to ignore the sharp pain from his butt sutures, dunking a bread roll into the thick dark stew of chuck steak and vegetables. His ranger buddies would have given him a ration of shit for accepting the snivel gear, but his ass hurt, and as far as he was concerned, he wasn’t a ranger anymore.

“You ain’t a ranger with that haircut.”

Melton turned to an air force sergeant and noticed that the remains of his ranger tattoo was visible on his left shoulder. For some, it’d be fighting words, but Melton just wasn’t wired that way. The sergeant inhaled a chili mac and green beans with a good-natured grin. Bret reached his hand over to shake.

“Reporter these days. Bret Melton,
Army Times.
Or I was until last week,” Melton replied. “But no, I’m not in the army anymore.”

“Sergeant Anderson. Michael Anderson,” he said. “But you can call me Micky if you want. You look pretty badly shot up there, Bret. You mind if I call you Bret? You get caught up with the marines?”

He shook his head.

“5/7 Cav. At An Nasiriyah.”

The sergeant nodded sagely but said, “Didn’t hear about that. But then, there’s been a helluva lotta fighting here and there. They’re still patching my C-130 back together after all the fire we took from the Iranians getting in here. Copilot didn’t make it. Hell of a ride, I’ll tell you. Two burning and two
turning and I don’t mean jets. Your guys, the ones you embedded with, they okay?”

“Afraid not. We got caught in a bad spot. They mortared the shit out of us … I don’t even know how we got out.”

The realization had just struck him. He really did have no idea why he was alive. Shetty hadn’t explained how they had escaped, only that they’d been blown into a building of some sort. A shop or something. One of the other platoons must have fought their way over to drag them out. Hadn’t they lost air support just before the mortars started to fall?

He found himself slipping away into reverie and consciously pulled himself back into the present.

“Sorry, Sergeant… I mean … Micky. I’ve only just woken up. Been out of it since we got hit. But no, I don’t think many guys made it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But at least you weren’t with the marines at Abadan. Man, what a fucking mess.”

He didn’t explain further. Another forkful of chili mac effectively silenced him. Melton gingerly dunked his bread into the rich broth of beef stew and tried to focus on the TV screen. He recognized BBC World’s business news presenter, Dharshini David, on the screen. Her normally dark, full lips seemed pale and pressed tightly together, and her eyes were haunted and nervous. It was hard to hear what she was saying but a tagline rolling across the bottom of the screen, and a small picture window hovering beside her head, implied that there had been a massive banking collapse in Europe. The little video window carried footage of black-clad riot police; he recognized them as French CRS, baton-charging a huge crowd laying siege to an old, colonnaded building. He assumed it was a financial institution that had run out of money. The scene switched to London, where even bigger crowds waited a lot more patiently outside a large Barclay’s bank in the city. A man in a dark blue suit made some sort of announcement to them and they reacted with catcalls and jeering, but there was no violence. The presenter then threw to an interview with a frightened-looking woman who was holding on to two children.

“Any idea what that’s about, Micky?”

Sergeant Anderson glanced quickly over his shoulder at the television and shrugged. “Something about the banks falling over.” He grunted in disgust. “Welcome to my world. I haven’t been paid yet. Not that it matters, since my ex gets half of it. Or … she used to, I suppose.”

He stabbed at the chili mac. “But at least I’m not going hungry.”

Yet,
thought Melton.

He could tell there was a problem from two blocks away. Two women, one of them covered in blood, ran past his car, hair streaming behind, eyes bugging out. Kipper nearly gift-wrapped a telephone pole trying to follow them in his mirror. When he looked up, saw the danger, and jerked the pickup back onto a safe course with one wrenching pull on the steering wheel, he could see more people running toward him, many of them pounding up the middle of the road, which was free of any vehicles save his own. With his heart beating quickly, Kip pulled up and wound down his window, immediately becoming aware of a distant siren.

He hopped out and tried to flag down somebody to ask what had happened—it had to be a problem with the food bank—but nobody would stop. A couple of young men abused him when he tried to hop into their path.

“Get out of the way, you crazy old fuck. D’you wanna get killed, too?”

And then he realized that the crackling, popping sound he could hear was gunfire.

Shit.

Kipper jumped back into his truck, but before stomping on the gas, he re-dialed Barney, who answered on the second ring.

“What’s happening, boss man?”

“Something’s gone wrong, Barn. Very fucking wrong. I’m about two blocks from Costco and I can hear shots and there’s all sorts of people running past me. Some of them bleeding.”

A string of oaths burst out of the earpiece.

“It sounds like cops are coming. But get on the phone anyway. Make sure they get here before the army. Those assholes should have been here already. They turn up now, they’re just as likely to kill anyone they see moving … Oh, and ambulances, too. I think we’re gonna need lots of ambulances.”

At that moment a weeping woman ran past, holding up one hand, from which a couple of fingers had clearly been removed by a gunshot. Kipper had no idea how she kept going, give the amount of blood she was losing.

Barney didn’t answer. He’d already hung up.

Kipper’s head was reeling and he felt distinctly ill. This was his fault. The food banks had been his idea, a way to ensure that the aid shipments coming in from across the Pacific were distributed in a rational, effective manner. It wasn’t the sort of thing he should have been involved with; as the city engineer he already had a full dance card with the utilities. But the elected councillors had frozen like rabbits on the road, and they had let him run with the program. He’d personally negotiated the use of the Costco facilities with company management, who’d assigned dozens of their own stock-control specialists to the job and cleared their warehouse space of all nonessential items. He and Barney had been expecting all sorts of teething problems on the first day, but nothing like this.

Heather.

An image of his nervy intern sprang up unbidden: a big pair of Bambi eyes staring out at him from under a short blond bob as her hands twisted in her lap like a small, white otters, constantly moving over and around each other.

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, stamping on the accelerator and punching the horn.

The truck leapt forward, scattering the fleeing mob in front of it.

Many of the people running toward him still paid no heed in their desire to flee whatever had happened at Costco, forcing him to slow down some. By the time he made South Bradford Street the crowds were thinning out, with most people having already fled and dispersed. He rolled down his window and listened for gunfire but heard only screams and cries and the growing wail of sirens.

Kipper threw the pickup onto the sidewalk and into the parking lot at the northern end of the giant wholesale warehouse. Immediately he saw bodies, a lot of them lying still, and people who were so badly wounded they could
not flee. But no shooting. Costco warehouse staff were everywhere, easily identifiable by their brightly colored vests, many of them tending to the injured. Of the army, who were supposed to have provided a security detail, there was no sign. Nor of the cops or other emergency services, although he could hear them approaching.

Kip turned off the engine and stepped down warily. His senses seemed to be unnaturally alive, and even though this part of the city was a gray, industrial area, he could never recall seeing colors so vibrant as the red and blue of the giant Costco sign high up on the building. His hearing, too, was amped up, with every cry and moan disturbingly clear. Small stones crunched on the tarmac beneath his feet, and the engine block of the F-150 ticked loudly as it cooled down. And he gagged as the smell of violent death flooded his nostrils.

Barney’s car, an old mud-splattered Chevy C10, came flying up the road and screeched to a halt under a tree at the entrance to the lot. The squeal of his tires caused some people to jump and shy away a few steps. Barney climbed out, and raised one massive hand, pointing toward the warehouse. Kipper saw Heather standing there, a small, forlorn figure in blue jeans and a Minneapolis Twins sweater. Even from a distance Kip could see that she was shaking violently. The two men hurried over to her, picking their way through the carnage.