Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 26
It was a Sunday morning, and the shipyard workers had been told the day before to expect it. Crane and his co-workers were enjoying a hot breakfast and late start at “Camp Yardbird” when they first heard them coming. The loud bass thumping was barely audible in the beginning. The reverberations off the hillsides and waters of the inlet increased as the fleet of rotor-winged aircraft approached, each bird carrying three very stuffed pallets of goods in a net hanging under it. In a scene that had replayed itself over every person the aircraft passed from the coast to Bartlett, the helicopters were assaulted from below with friendly waves and smiles. People just assumed it was over. We’re saved! they thought, seeing that many helicopters.
One occasional helicopter was not unheard of since the hammer fell, but this was different. They were coming in waves, like something from Apocalypse Now. Many people tried to count them all, but it was impossible—the sorties were spread out with one- to two-minute gaps to allow the ones ahead to drop their loot and get out of the way.
THWUMP-WUMP-WUMP-WUMP-WUMP! The gray MH-60Ss approached the Navy base from the southwest. Almost every able-bodied person heard them and ran outside—drizzle or not—to see what the ruckus was. The workers at the Slaughter County EOC on the hill in West Bartlett had one of the best views due to the elevation. There were close to three hundred county employees, volunteers, and Guardsmen watching as the four helicopters in each leg would adjust from a diamond shape to a staggered column once they were over the waters of Simpson Inlet. From there they spaced themselves out by adjusting speed. By the time the birds were approaching the Navy base a mile farther east they looked like little seagulls.
Most of the helicopters would come in and hover over one of two parking lots to the south of the worker’s camp, Crane noticed. He was impressed at their effectiveness—proud that these bad-ass Americans had dedicated themselves to being the best. People like Commander Rebekah Paddington, call-sign “Def-Woman,” who effortlessly glided her lumbering aircraft in to a spot she’d never flown before, hovered, and set down a slung-load of supplies—finally cutting loose and pulling away less than thirty seconds later. The continuous noise of rotor blades “thwumping” assaulted the ears in a good way.
By the time the fourth helicopter had lifted and flown north out of the way, the next sortie of four were gliding in for their turns.
Crane noticed that four helicopters had taken turns landing at the commissary and exchange parking lots. They had stayed there for several minutes dropping off people, most of them in uniform, before joining the “hel-exit” operation.
Crane had no idea how many helicopters had come-in—forty? Fifty? I wouldn’t be surprised if someone told me seventy-five—but he was glad he got to see it. He had goose-bumps. I wonder where they came from? The re-supply mission lasted almost an entire hour. The flying armada of hope had lifted everyone’s spirits in an unpredictable way.
Stacked on the backdoor’s right side, Phil made a snap decision to try keeping their surprise element as long as possible. He knew it wouldn’t last much longer in the single-wide mobile, but anything would help considering they had no idea how many people were in there. He turned the knob and pulled the door open just enough to look down a long hall to the left. It was dark with only daylight coming from the windows scattered throughout. It was a bit of luck that the backdoor opened into a long, slender hallway that fed the three bedrooms and one bathroom. He could hear voices at the far end, presumably in the kitchen or living room area.
He turned his head and whispered to Josh, “We’re both going left. Cover the six.” Josh nodded.
Phil slid his left arm back out through the sling, leaving the rifle draped only over his neck. He did this to provide extra slack, knowing he may have to re-shoulder to his left side in the tight hallway. He pulled the door open knowing it was mere seconds before this was all over. He could feel his pulse and respirations going up, compensating for the blood pressure increase that happens when the body surges itself with adrenaline and cortisol. He stepped in, fighting the instinct to look right and trusting his partner to be there covering it before a dirtbag could get the drop on him. He immediately started up the hallway.
Josh didn’t let Phil down. He was moving towards Phil’s space the instant he saw a shift in Phil’s weight. Josh had his barrel pointing up at high ready, pushing the flash-suppressor down and level as it passed the doorjamb. As Phil moved in, Josh was pivoting to the right, using his peripheral vision to scan the entire darkened space from left to right as he entered. Two doors were closed with the two at the far-right end of the hall were open. He could only see daylight creeping from those rooms, with no sign of movement. All of this took one second. Josh did a lightning fast head turn combined with shifting his eyes in order to know where Phil was. He knew he had about three small strides to walk backwards before he had to re-check.
Phil had walked the ten feet down to the left end of the hall, scanning the scene before him. He saw one unexpected male, a young adult with long blonde hair sitting on a barstool at the kitchen’s small counter. He was eating peanut butter directly off a butter knife. Phil heard Harry and the female arguing down at the far end of the trailer. He couldn’t see any others. He assessed all of this in a quick moment, barely slowing down. He entered the kitchen. As he cleared the hall’s threshold—transitioning from old, nasty shag carpet to worn out vinyl—he spun to the right to check the corner, knowing his partner was too busy covering the rear and walking backwards. This took a half-second before he spun back to cover the nearest male.
At this moment they locked eyes. The young male could hardly believe his eyes. “What the—”
Wham! Too late. Phil was already on him. He landed a left across the young man’s chin, keeping his right hand on the rifle’s pistol grip. The skinny-tweeker flew off the stool, hitting the floor at the same instant that Phil had his rifle back to level and trained on the other two. “Hands in the air! Now!”
He repeated himself at full volume over their protests, which ramped up the confusion. Harry was bargaining, while the woman was barking in protest, dropping f-bombs like she was a B-52. Harry was scanning the room and out the window, instinctively looking for the rest of the SWAT team. “What the Hell, man! This is entrapment! You a-holes just let me out this morning!”
Phil changed his commands. “I’m not a cop! Get on the floor! Or die—I really don’t care which!” Both meth-heads were still barking and not listening. Phil issued more commands. “Get on your knees! I’m here for the girl!”
The lightbulb came on over the woman’s head. “You!” The look of disgusted resentment came back to her face.
“Yeah…me,” Phil said coldly. “You got ‘im?” Phil yelled back to Josh, checking on the status of the one he knocked over.
“Yep.”
Phil moved forward to the pair, keeping his rifle trained on Harry, who was standing between a cheap wood coffee table and an old holey couch. The woman was closer, looking indignantly at Phil. He wasn’t having any. “On your knees. Now!”
“No, you son of—”
Wham! It was the first time Phil had ever punched a woman. At least I used my left hand, he thought. He hadn’t held up—he used full force born from hatred. She flew backwards into an easy chair and then thumped to the floor, knocked out cold. Harry made a shift in weight, and Phil immediately re-covered him with his rifle.
“Please do,” Phil said. Seeing Harry had wised up, he said, “On your knees…hands on the back of your head. Or else.” Phil clicked his safety off, causing Harry’s eyes to widen.
Harry complied. He clicked the safety back on and drew his pistol from his belt-mounted holster while using his left hand to lower the rifle to that side of his body. Keeping his Glock in his right hand and on the far side of himself from Harry, he rounded the coffee table and grabbed the tweeker by the back of the head, shoving it down to the table with full force. Harry let out a whelp as his nose-cartilage broke loose and started shooting blood. From the kneeling position he began yelling protests again, claiming police brutality.
Phil ignored him, lifting his metal leg through the gap between Harry and the sofa so he could straddle him from behind. He bent his knees, putting his weight onto Harry’s back and keeping his left hand on top of Harry’s hands and head. He re-holstered the pistol and used his right hand to rip open a Velcro map-sleeve on the front of his plate carrier. He pulled out one of the two heavy-duty zip-ties that he kept pre-looped in that sleeve and secured the dirtbag’s hands behind his back. He hauled Harry up and drug him around, shoving him onto the couch in a seated position. He stepped out of reach and did another check on the woman. Seeing only a marginal amount of movement from her, he crossed over the space to Josh, handing him a zip-tie.
“Cover ‘em,” he told his squad-mate.
Phil re-drew his pistol and went back to the other end of the hallway. He stopped at the first bedroom door and crouched, turning the knob and shoving the door inward. He slowly cut the angle on the doorway while covering the opening with his pistol. He was using a bent-elbow technique and keeping the sights of the tan Glock in his site-picture but focusing on the room.
“Savannah. It’s Paw-paw.” He expected to hear nothing. The room was stuffed with garbage, old magazines, rotting food—Howcan people live this way? Phil thought once again. He felt his blood getting hot. I may just kill them if she’s not here. He went down to the other closed door and repeated the process. “Peaches. It’s me.”
All quiet for a few, heart-stopping seconds. “H-Hello?” a scared, tiny voice murmured.
“Honey, its Paw-paw!” Phil called. His voice was calm, but inside he felt a sense of elation he’d never experienced before. Thank you, God! “It’s okay. Come here.”
She ran over to her grandfather and jumped into his open arms, bawling. She was sobbing so hard she was shaking. Phil could have held her for hours, but he was keenly aware of his partner’s situation. “Peaches,” he said picking her up as he stood. “I’m going to take you outside and Mr. Don’s family is going to protect you for a minute while I come back in here.”
“You okay?” he asked Josh as he got to the back-door.
“One hundred percent.”
“Be right back.” Phil waved over Eli when he got outside. He handed off his granddaughter and reassured her once more. He went back inside and cleared the last two rooms. Returning to the living room, he saw that Josh had zip-tied the younger man’s hands. He then found a modem near the cable TV and pulled out a phone line with an angry yank. He went over to the moaning woman, flipped her over onto her front as roughly as he could, and tied her hands behind her back with the phone line.
He stood back upright and said to Harry, “Now. Let’s find out why you were in jail and why you were let out. Oh—and don’t give in too quickly. Please.”
24
Out of the Woods.
Tahoma’s Hammer + 12 Days.
Across Washington and the rest of the Pacific Northwest prepper groups were finally starting to amass at their retreat locations. Those with the foresight and fortune to live there year-round were busy preparing for the arrival of their friends, family, and partners. Foxholes were being dug, extra firewood cut—a multitude of things that would make life for four or five families in tight quarters somewhat comfortable. The people had good reason to flee. Murders were on the rise, sometimes the result of theft gone bad and sometimes old grudges being settled. Entire rows of homes in some neighborhoods were evolving their small local squabbles into the blood feuds of the old days. And there was nobody to stop them.
There was a lot less driving in Cascadia, too. Gasoline was too valuable, and riding in a car or truck was a surefire way to put a target on your back. So was running a generator. People were quickly finding out that if they wanted power, they’d better have a protection plan in place. As the use of vehicles decreased, the amount of old-school travel technologies increased—mostly walking. Horses and bicycles were becoming more common, too, but like generators, horses caught the attention of those that wanted them. When people did drive, it wasn’t like the old days. Windows were left down so that watchers could see that the vehicle was stuffed full of people and rifles. If you want what’s ours, you’d better be ready to pay admission…
In Slaughter County the people were also growing quite vocal about the helicopters. The Navy had turned over quite a bit of goods to the big FEMA camp in Bartlett, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Rumor had it that the shipyard workers were hoarding it for themselves. Years of watching the “anti-fascist” protest groups riot unchecked had taught society that the correct course of action was to complain about what was owed to them. There were rumors of a planned protest in Bartlett.
Across the pond in King and Snohomish Counties a rumor had spread that Boeing’s Paine Field was open for business, which was by far untrue but grounded in a promising report of reasonable reparability. Hundreds of thousands of survivors from several counties had started making the pilgrimage toward the fleet of supply stuffed airplanes that were supposedly on the way. The thirst and hunger fueled riots that resulted when they learned the truth left many thousands dead.
“What da’ Hell, man?” Harry yelled, his voice rising in fear. “Git away wit’ that! No need to be hostile, bro!”
“I wanna see what’s under that bandage,” Phil said flatly. He had drawn his knife out of its kydex scabbard and was using it to slice the bandage off Harry’s right wrist. “That’s an awfully conspicuous place. You didn’t try slicing your wrists did you, Harry?”
Harry was bound to an old, yellow vinyl dining chair, tied up with paracord on all four limbs. Josh was posted at the hallway’s intersection with the kitchen, keeping an eye on the room they had dragged the other two into.
“Suck my nuts, soldier-boy! I ain’t tellin’ you jack!” Harry made the intake suction sound of someone about to spit when Phil’s left hand reached out and grabbed his throat, squeezing.
“You’d better swallow that! I’m not the cops. I’m still trying to decide if the coyotes get to dine on you tonight.” Phil was bluffing, but Harry didn’t know that. He’d radioed Jerry at the Command Post earlier, instructing him to use his HAM magic to let the sheriff’s office know they’d found Savannah. He had no intent of making her wait any longer than necessary to go home, but…might as well extract some intel while I’m waiting for them to show up.
After about ten seconds, Harry started to flush in the face and tear up, so Phil let go of his larynx. Harry wisely chose to swallow the loogey. Phil sliced off the rest of the bandage. “What the…”
Harry was silent, scowling about his predicament.
“What’s this?” No response. Phil smashed the base of his left hand into the right side of Harry’s head. “What is this?!” He was looking at a little incision, barely a quarter inch, not even long enough to need a stitch. He sure as Hell didn’t try to slice his wrist…
“I dunno,” Harry mumbled, staring at the floor.
“What?” Phil had lowered his face to be level with his prisoner’s.
“I don’t know, man!” Harry yelled. “They were doin’ it to all of us. No explanation! No choice!” After twenty minutes, Harry’d had enough. “They drug us by block, man. Out to temp-holding. Gave us a shot and gave us our belongin’s back! Said they were letting us go. Who was I to argue?”
“Incoming,” Phil heard on his and Josh’s radios. Harry’s face was worried.
“What’s goin’ on, man?” asked Harry. Phil was walking toward the back doorway. “Hey, c’mon, man, I been straight wit’ch you—” he heard Harry pleading as he went outside.
The first thing he did was scan for Eli’s post. There was the tarp with Eli and Savannah sitting under it. Eli gave him a thumbs up.
“Roger, that.” Phil replied into the radio. “Whatcha got?”
Jeff replied, “We got one… no, make that two Sheriff’s department vehicles… Wait. They’ve stopped. They’re just sitting there.”
Phil could suddenly hear the squad car’s speaker blaring, but he was too far away and on the wrong side of the house to make out what was being said. “Can you relay?” he asked Jeff.
“He said your name. And he said his name is Charlie.”
“Roger that. Just sit there. I’m coming up.”
With his rifle still slung around his neck, Phil put his hands on the back of his head and walked around the junk and the house to the front driveway. He finally made it to a point in the dirt road where he could see the two sheriff’s rigs about a hundred meters away. He kept his hands on his head and made his unusual one-plus-a-partial-leg maneuver to get onto his knees.
The two rigs began creeping up slowly. They parked, and Charlie Reeves got out of the first one. A male deputy that Phil didn’t know got out of the other.
“Well, well,” Charlie said. “Get up, man. You look ridiculous,” he said, smiling.
Phil stood up and said, “Yeah, well, ridiculous beats getting shot. Ask me how I know.” The two friends fist-bumped, and Charlie waved his partner up.
“Phil, Wayne. Wayne, Phil.” The two men shook hands. “So, you found Savannah here…”
“Yep.” He could read the quizzing look his friend was giving him. “She’s around back, safe. With a friend.”
“How many ‘friends’ do you have here?”
Charlie’s all-deputy right now, isn’t he? He looks tired. “Three. How do you want me to play it?”
“Call them over.” Charlie shot Wayne a look, telling him it was okay.
Phil keyed up his mic. “West and North perimeter—fall in, my position. Bring the package with you. Interior, you stay put.” Even with the authorities involved, Phil didn’t dare say anyone’s name on the air. Anybody could be listening. “I’m leaving one in the hall, right at the back of the kitchen,” Phil told Charlie. “Name’s Josh. He’s guarding three adults—one male and one female in a bedroom and one male in the kitchen. All are restrained.”
