Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 25
The last discovery was the most important one… There was a big pile of heroin and meth on the table with two stoned bikers passed out in recliners.
On the slow backwards walk out of the game room, Stu’s heel had knocked an empty whiskey bottle across the floor and into a cabinet. WWWHHHHAAAMMMM! It was just one whiskey bottle, but it might as well have been an artillery shell.
Nothing.
They must be as high as kites… I don’t believe it. They’re dead to the world! Plain dumb lu… No. Shut Up. There’s no such thing as luck.
Stu went to the owner’s study and stared at an expensive collection of gun cases and cabinets. Most of them were locked, but the old man had apparently staged a few around the house. Stu had picked up several components—ammunition, pistols, rifles, magazines—and had no luck in figuring out how to use them. I’m an LA doctor—I hate guns. Or at least… I used to. It didn’t much matter to Stu.
I have another idea. He headed for the kitchen.
The drugs weren’t of the best quality this deep into the crisis. And the euphoria of a heroin-meth cocktail wasn’t enough to keep the giant gang member asleep for his own death. Stu was pleased about that. Trip’s bloodcurdling, deep-voiced screech was deafening in the still mansion. Stu had remembered a critical detail.
I’m a surgeon, and these two wolves have self-anaesthetized—hard! I don’t need to know how to use a gun. Screw the Hippocratic Oath!
He had studied the knives in the kitchen. No. This guy was a sportsman. I bet there’s something much better on a wall somewhere.
He found it in the library, which was where most of the mounted marlin and other fish had wound up. On the wall in a display cabinet was a collection. Stu picked out a very nice, Japanese filet knife. It had ribbon-looking Damascus steel.
I’ll bet this thing has never even been used.
He had originally been thinking about the aorta, but he remembered it was much too protected.
THUMP-THUMP!
I get one shot with this huge beast. Can’t afford to screw it up!
THUMP-THUMP!
He opted for the near-side carotid artery instead. He knew exactly wear to plunge and was able to side step most of the spray as he twisted, pulling the twelve-inch-long blade out of the big biker’s neck with a slashing motion. The big man grabbed his throat on instinct as he sat upright, but it was too late. It was too dark and the drugs were too thick. Stu imagined that Trip had been able to recognize him as the curtains drew twelve seconds later. In all the excitement, Stu had forgotten about the flashlight he’d been holding.
Shorty hopped up when he heard his buddy screaming at the top of his lungs. The drug-induced stupor and the lack of lighting made it impossible for him to tell that his laces had been tied together as he tried to take a step. Just as he started to fall face first, Stu turned on the flashlight.
Shorty screamed in horror.
His drug-stupor had not been deep enough to disguise the bear trap in front of him as anything other than what it was. With almost karmic accuracy, Shorty fell precisely where Stu had wanted him to. He threw his hands up in a reflexive attempt to break his fall. The trap wasn’t an overly complicated device. There was a device with a gear and crank that assisted with springing it open in a slow, controlled fashion. Stu had tested it with a shoe in the master bedroom. He was surprised by how anti-climatic it was.
Shorty’s hands hit the trigger plate.
The trap released its jaws with about four hundred pounds of pressure. They clamped tight onto both arms with lightning speed, crunching bone and ripping arteries. The left arm popped off entirely right were the radius and ulna met the humerus, ripping open his flesh with an audible tear. Shorty’s right arm remained stuck in the trap. The little man’s screams started about six seconds before his partner’s died off.
Stu would never forget the sound of both men’s screams playing in harmony.
He held out for quite a bit longer, screaming and flopping and watching his arms shoot blood onto the wall and TV across from him for a good minute before the lights went out for the final time.
23
Things Will Never Be The Same.
Tahoma’s Hammer + 12 Days.
Phil had not expected his first tweeker house raid to be so slow. With the exception of one event, there had been no activity all evening or night. They must have water and a gravity-septic system…or else it is disgusting as hell in there.
Around 7:00 PM, the back door opened and a mangy tan and white pit bull came out. It relieved itself, and then it must’ve gotten a whiff of Phil’s scent. It started barking in his direction and started a slow-creeping investigation. Phil was about five meters back into the woods. He readied his coyote-brown AR-15, which was fitted with a custom sound-suppressor. While quite effective, they still put out more than a whisper, contrary to what TV shows led people to believe.
The dog passed the assortment of junk lining the property—things like a discarded washing machine, an old door-less refrigerator, a car that hadn’t moved in years—and raised the barking to include throat growls. It was standing at the brush line. It knew Phil was there, and it was a matter of moments before it defended its territory with its teeth.
The dog let out a whelp as Eli’s carbon-fiber arrow tipped with a broadhead pushed its way through the dog’s heart and lungs at roughly two hundred miles-per-hour. The missile, designed to take down elk, passed through the canine and imbedded itself in the brush and dirt about ten feet to the dog’s left. The shot surprised Phil, too. It took him a second or two to react.
Phil pulled the fixed-blade knife out of the holster on his battle belt and began to creep forward, keeping his frame lower than the junk between the dog and the house. He was thankful that his half-leg was amputated below the knee. It made crouching and such a little easier than the above-joint amputees he’d met at the VA hospital. It was a moot point. The yelping and whimpering stopped about three seconds later as the dog bled out. He re-sheathed the knife and pulled the animal into the woods, gently pushing it into some bushes and out of sight.
Now that’s ironic. Who’d a thought we’d shoot their dog with an arrow. He felt a bit angry—not with Eli but with the jerks who’d let this dog start starving to death. Some of the sweetest dogs he’d ever met were pit bulls. Rest in peace, girl. I don’t take the fact that you were about to eat my face personally.
He waited for the reaction from the house—and waited some more. I bet these losers let this dog run around out here for hours without even checking on it. Even if these people weren’t the abductors, it sat well with him as an act of mercy that Eli put that dog out of its own misery.
[Brrrt—Josh: “???”]
[Brrrt—Eli: “Shot a dog that was about to eat Phil.”]
[Phil: “Saved us from blowing our concealment. Thx.”]
About an hour later, Phil texted for each person to get two hours of sleep starting with Jeff and working clockwise. He decided he’d throw the other Gotenna up into a tree at 0200 when he got up from his nap.
The rain came back, testing everyone’s resolve. He felt fortunate to have these men with him, shouldering this burden. He gave a silent prayer, starting with his usual confession and ending with a plead to protect his granddaughter. Please let this be them, Lord. I can’t face Payton if it isn’t.
Around 8:00 AM, Jeff sent out an alert. [Brrrt—Jeff: “There’s noise coming from up the driveway. What do I do?”] There was an attached “worried-face” emoji.
Phil half hoped Jeff wouldn’t check the phone, but he wanted to get this message out before Eli responded. [Phil: “B still”]
Soon enough a green van slowly pulled up to the front of the property. Is that a county van? Phil asked himself. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a county-owned corrections-department van. Phil always saw this van parked near where ever the local lock ups were cleaning trash on the side of the road. It stopped and idled long enough for the passenger in the front to get out and open the double side-doors. From his vantage he couldn’t tell what was happening. Soon he heard the van slowly back up and turn down the long dirt road. A minute later it could no longer be heard. He still couldn’t see who had gotten out but figured they must’ve gone inside. He waited for a sit-rep from Josh.
[Brrrt—Josh: “Sketchiest perv ever just went in. Greeted by sketchy female. She looked stoned. Yelling started almost immediately”]
Phil decided to save battery and not reply. About three minutes later the backdoor flung open, allowing the voices of two arguing adults to be heard. The new arrival stepped out onto the small, rotting three-by-four-foot landing outside the back door. What a scumbag, Phil thought instantly. He had filthy clothes on—probably what he was arrested in. He was a middle-aged white man, average height, thin build, with long and thinning light-brown and gray hair. His face was covered in stubble and showed the wrinkles that came early in life to people who partied all the time.
“…your fault if anything happens to that dog!” he yelled at the woman behind him as he stepped out. She hadn’t come out enough for Phil to see her, and he couldn’t clearly hear her retort.
“Damned-dog… Food… money… a-hole!”
“Angel!” the tweeker yelled into the woods. “Here, girl!” He waited a few seconds. “Angel!” He turned around and headed back into the house. Phil could hear yelling as he slammed the door behind him, and he could still hear it even after the door was closed. They’re starting to go at it. Probably a normal morning for them. So much for warm reunions.
Two minutes later the door flew open once more as the man came out. “…more frickin’ mouths to feed!” She followed him out.
Phil’s heart thumped hard. Her! It was the woman who had stared him down as she passed by the range. She had followed the man out to continue the fight.
“Angel!” he yelled again.
“… got her for you, Harry! I know that’s what you like. Help you git your nut, since you don’t like my old worn-out parts anymore! A-hole! Take her back! See if I…” The woman had turned back in and Phil couldn’t hear the rest. Just a few seconds later she reappeared.
What the… Phil pulled his small waterproof binoculars closer to his eyes and held it as steady as he could. …Hell? His hands started to shake with rage. He dropped the binoculars at the base of the bush he was behind and put his hands on his temples, sighing out a deep breath. Lord, please… He picked the binoculars back up and took another look. The old woman and thrown it at Harry in anger. Laying on the ground was a multi-colored backpack, covered in unicorns.
He picked up the cell and sent a text. [Phil: “Confirmation wait 1”] He needed to stop his hands from shaking. He could feel his face getting hot. He took another deep breath and picked the phone back up.
[Phil: “Josh. South route to my OP”]
[Phil: “Jeff. Stay put. Runners will go up the driveway. Do nothing to them unless threatened. Then shoot—2 in chest 1 in head”]
[Phil: “Eli. Stay put cover back. Switch 2 pistol after first arrow”
[Brrrt—Josh: “Copy eta 15”]
Josh was careful not to be seen. He would have preferred to take an entire half hour to make a maneuver around the south over to Phil’s position, but he knew things were in play now that “Harry” was home.
When he arrived at the position, he dumped his pack next to Phil’s. “What’d you see?”
“The backpack Savannah wears every waking hour.” Phil looked the combat vet in the eyes. Josh was there, one hundred percent primed. Thank you, God, for sending me this vet today. “You good to go?”
“What’s the plan?” Josh asked with a head nod, almost insulted by the question.
“On ‘Go,’ we’re going to run in to the concealment of that fridge and washer. Quick scan, then glide in. We’ll both stack on the handle side, since it’s daylight—stay out of the door’s windows. I’ll breech for myself and take the path of least resistance. Cover the opposite zone. Standard two man sweep and maneuver. Clear?”
“ROE?” Josh was wanting to know what the rules of engagement were.
“No telling how they’ll react. No way of knowing if they’re armed. Low on drugs and off-their-meds crazy is bad enough. Watch the hands. Only shoot if you have to. I plan on getting the sheriffs out here.”
“Roger that,” Josh said.
The two combat vets slid to the edge of the brush in a crouched position and took a deep breath. “Go.”
The men’s screams had caused a severe screaming episode for Carmen, too. It wasn’t until Stu had the sense to shine the flashlight on his own face that she stopped screaming and writhing on the couch. She switched to bawling hysterically.
“They’re dead. They’re gone.” Stu kept repeating himself, trying to get her to understand that the threat was over. He removed the tape-gag from her head. “I’m going to get a blanket. I’ll be right back. I am the only person here. There is no one else in the house alive.” His heart was aching for what she must be going through.
Stu left and came back in a minute with a big quilt. He held the flashlight on his own face again so that she’d know it was him. “Carmen. I’m going to come over and help you.” He could hear her huffing and puffing loudly—borderline hyper-ventilating.
He knelt on one knee next to her and covered her with the quilt. He realized she was still bound. “I’m going to uncover your hands so I can un-tie you.” He got no reaction from her regarding the comment. She refused to look at him or speak. As gently as he could he removed her hand and foot bindings. She flinched every time he accidentally touched her.
“I’m going to move you to a different room. Okay?” Nothing in return from her. “We just need to get out of this room. I’ll treat your injuries in a clean bedroom.” Still no response. Stu kept the quilt between his arms and her naked body as he scooped her off the couch. She stayed curled in the fetal position as much as possible as he carried her into one of the guest bedrooms and laid her on a bed. He found a couple of candles in the study and used them to light Carmen’s room.
“Carmen. I’m going to clean you up some. Your arms, legs, back…face. I won’t touch anything I shouldn’t. I need to see how bad your injuries are.” She was still ignoring him. “I’m going to figure out how to warm some water. I will call out to you to let you know when I’m coming back in.”
Once again Stu felt things inside himself he’d not experienced his whole adult life—sympathy, remorse, compassion, even love… I’m so sorry, sweetie. Something happened inside the doctor when he slayed the monsters. He didn’t know it yet, but he’d been reborn. The weak and pathetic socialite had been destroyed—a process started when the hammer fell and finished when he learned the difference between killing and murder a few hours earlier. Doctor Stuart Schwartz was a new man.
The United States Navy 3rd Fleet had thrown everything that was available into a pair of operations, and it wasn’t as much as the average citizen would think. Thirty years of poor national policy and planning were hard to make up for. In the early 1990s, American bases and ships were on the chopping block called “BRAC”, the nickname of the Congressional Committee for Base Realignment and Closure. We’d won the Cold War. President Reagan’s six hundred-ship fleet was 20th Century thinking. We were ushering in an age of world peace—a “new world order,” according to President George HW Bush.
The attacks of September 11th, 2001 triggered two decades of war and taxed the members of the military with deployment cycles that nearly matched those of World War II—but for five times as many years. The “we don’t need ships” mindset was hard to shake in Washington DC once the idiots on both sides of the aisle were used to spending the money in other, more wasteful areas. In the last few years before Tahoma’s Hammer, though, an outsider had seen the light. He was trying to “right the ship” with a rebuilt Navy. Few realized that it would take the same thirty years to rebuild that the state of readiness had taken to decay. The current public and private shipyards were trying to keep up with maintenance and equipment upgrade cycles. Those shipyards that built ships just didn’t have the dry-docks, facilities, or skilled people to manufacture ships at the necessary rate.
The Joint USN/USMC Strike Group, “Task Force Truxtun,” had scrounged up as many ships as they could to support two operations in the Rainier Impact Zone. The largest were twelve amphibious ships of various classes. Each was designed with its own function in mind for war, but for peace time operations they could all do the essentials—haul food, people, and equipment. The Task Force had taken several days to load those items and set sail. They conducted briefs and training on the way up, learning the key aspects of both operations just in case unplanned events forced mutual support.
“Operation SOS” was meant to do one thing—support the missions at the shipyard and, to a lesser degree, assist the community. Warding off the potential nuclear disaster and preventing the loss of an aircraft carrier to flooding were their sole objectives. But they knew that workers would work longer if they knew their loved ones were being cared for, so provide that care they did. They’d left the distribution headaches to the locals to handle.
There was only one possible thing that could trump those objectives and that was securing the arsenal and delivery systems that may or may not have been stored at the Bogdon Submarine Base. The security at Bogdon was ironclad, but it was never intended to run unsupplied for an indefinite amount of time. Within two minutes of the news that Cascadia had fallen, there were military officers dusting off the binders with the response to this contingency already spelled out in them. Thus, “Operation Citadel Rampart” was born. Forces and supplies, first by air and then by sea, were being sent to Bogdon to secure it and its equipment. They were to transport the nastiest of that weaponry by sea to other locations for safe keeping.
