Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 78
“Yes, I even get a sense of that out here,” Phil admitted quietly. “There’s always going to be people who push their own agenda, no matter how upright they seem on the surface…”
Charlie decided to change the subject. “Got anything else brewing? Anything to report, I mean?”
“Nothing you guys don’t already know.”
Phil led Charlie back out of the office. He watched his friend help his family start retrieving their stuff and headed back for his tent. When he got there, he ditched his pants and prosthetic to try and grab a nap before manning a fighting position for watch that night. This cartel thing…I don’t know if I’ll ever actually sleep until we figure this crap out once and for all…
Tahoma’s Hammer Plus 38 Days.
Late the evening before, Tyler and Gene watched the cartel finish loading their stuff onto the two boats. Several trucks of men disappeared through the rubble of train cars and broken pieces of road, made drivable by American construction workers and heavy equipment operators who didn’t feel like watching their families die painful and slow deaths. There were but two cartel soldiers guarding the pier.
“We’re going to have to find a moment of opportunity,” Tyler said. “Surely those two won’t stay planted in one spot all night.”
“What if they come in here?” Gene asked, concerned.
“That’s what this is for.” Tyler was holding a four-foot long piece of pipe he’d found in the shop. “The other thing we need to remember is that there’s probably crew on that ship. Anyone could come out for a cigarette at the exact wrong moment.”
Their opportunity finally came when one guard went onto the ship—probably to poop, Gene thought—and the other roved slowly down to the end of the pier. They snuck out as quickly as Gene could travel, and under the cover of night snuck right back onto the boat that had brought them there. All of the miscellaneous life preservers had been shoved into the front of the hold to make room for boxes and bags of equipment and supplies.
“This is comms gear, I’m sure of it,” Gene said as the two painfully pushed their way past it to bury themselves in stinky old Mae West style floatation devices and fishing buoys.
“Maybe some of it,” Tyler said. “How can you be so sure?”
“Those NSN numbers. It’s military, American. I was in information security when I was in the Navy. Learned a few things about the gear.”
“Huh,” Tyler grunted. “From the looks of things, these guys are operators,” he said as he peeked into a zipped gear bag. He looked at Gene. “We need to be as quiet as church mice when they get to wherever they’re going!”
Less than three hours later, the soldiers had returned and departed on a pre-dawn trip northwest across Puget Sound. An hour later some of the cargo disappeared from the hold and some of the men departed. The small vessel headed south for thirty minutes before stopping again. The process repeated itself.
“Dang!” Gene scream-whispered at Tyler as the now empty vessel fired back up to leave—presumably east. “Some of them didn’t leave!”
“I know! We need to run up and just fly off the back of this boat as fast as we can.”
“No!” Gene was terrified. “I can’t move that fast!”
“We got no choice, Gene. We’re dead men if we go back to Seattle on this boat!” Gene didn’t say anything, but Tyler had the impression he was going to freeze up from fear. “Look! We have to go! Push through the pain. I’ll head up the stairs first. Every second counts! We’re getting farther away from shore!”
With that, Tyler led the way—he wasn’t going to stay, and he knew leaving was the only way to spur Gene into moving. He pushed his way out of the fishing gear and life preservers and headed aft. He stood aside from the stairs when he got to them and could hear Gene trying to move through the mess, too. When he sensed his partner behind him, he moved up the ladder and cautiously tried to sneak a look. He waved Gene up.
As low as he could whisper, he cupped Gene’s ear and said, “The aft deck is clear. You make a break for it, and I’ll stop and shove anyone who comes after us into the water.”
Gene’s teeth were shaking as he looked at Tyler. “G-good luck!” And with that, Gene started running up and aft as fast as his tortured body and fiery balls would let him.
Tyler had no intention of stopping. He lied through his teeth to get Gene the confidence he needed. He got right on Gene’s back and started shoving him in the middle of it as hard as he could. The two men jumped off the stern of the vessel and plummeted four feet into the water. Razors of icy pain shot through Gene’s broken body as the men hit the fifty-four-degree water. Gene made a bubbling sound as he screamed while submerged. He started to shoot his way up and Tyler grabbed him and held him down, half expecting to see Hollywood style bullet trails coming after them. Gene started to panic and eight seconds later broke free of Tyler’s grasp, shooting through the surface. Tyler followed.
“What the Hell?” Gene yelled through coughs, while Tyler was shushing him to be quiet. He spun around to get his bearings.
“We need to swim that way.” He pointed. There was a broken piling and pier farther north along the shore from where the cartel soldiers were still handling their gear. “Quietly!” he whispered.
There was a medium density rain that helped mask the sound of their strokes, which gave Tyler the confidence to try regular swimming versus dog paddling. He knew they only had moments before their bodies would freeze up and they’d drown. The two made their way past the pilings, grabbing onto the broken pier deck. They were surrounded by sunken boats, and the shore less than two hundred feet away was littered with trash and pieces of boat above the tideline.
“C’mon, Gene! We can rest when we get there!” Tyler urged.
The two battered, frozen men slowly made it to land and pulled themselves up onto the gravelly bank. Th-tha-than-thankk-y-youuu, L-Lo-Lor-Lorddd, Gene thought. He was so cold even his mind was shivering.
Tyler came to in the back of a truck bed. An old canopy was keeping the rain off him and Gene. It smelled of fish and bait, though there wasn’t any in there at that moment. Gene was curled up next to him, covered in what looked like a horse blanket. He looked at his own, naked lap and realized he had one, too. He scanned around and could see the back of a man’s legs.
Odd…this truck is surging and driving slower than my grandma… He decided it must be a weird dream. There was an old milk jug sitting between them, about half full of sloshing water. He took a long pull on the jug and laid back down, falling back asleep instantly.
A while later, he woke with a start as he heard voices. The cartel! He shot up and hit his head on the truck canopy, instantly crashing back down next to Gene. “Oowwwww!”
“Don’t do that,” he heard a grandfatherly voice calmly say.
Tyler repeated the cry, as it were just one more in a long list of pains he had accumulated. He looked down to see two men of Native American heritage staring at him.
“Whatchu got there, Floyd?” he heard the taller one say. He couldn’t see his face.
“A couple of naked white boys…”
“Yeah, I can see that. I mean, what’re two naked white boys doing in your trailer?”
“Yes, but that’s not what you asked,” the older one said as he and the other walked out of sight around toward the front.
“H-He—” Tyler’s voice cracked as he tried to call out. He slowly sat up and stooped his head. After taking another drink of the lukewarm water, he called out, “Heeellloooo?” He could hear multiple muffled voices approaching, getting louder as they spoke.
“…sounds like one of your white boys is up.” Just then the men returned with two more.
“Hey, there!” the oldest one said.
“H-Hey…” Tyler said. “I guess I’m not dreaming, then.”
“Heh—no…no… Let me help,” the old man said, reaching in.
Tyler leaned forward and took the old, leathery hand, trying to keep the horse blanket in front of him. It was still wet and cold outside. As he slid out onto the open tail gate, one of the younger ones, probably an older teen, was there to offer a full blanket, which he did without saying anything. Tyler took it as he was reaching for the gravelly ground with his feet.
“Thank you,” he said to the young man, who was already walking back around the truck bed. “Wh-where am I?” he asked the old man who was looking at him inquisitively.
The middle age taller one said, “Where do you want to be?” in as mysterious of a voice as he could. He started laughing loudly, drawing a rebuking look from the other.
“Must you always do that?” the shorter, older one scolded.
“Ha ha! You act like we get naked white boys here all the time! Can’t a guy have a little fun?”
The older one looked at Tyler. “I’m Floyd,” he said sticking his hand out to shake Tyler’s. “You’re at my place. I found you washed up on the shore.”
Tyler looked around and saw split-wood fencing all over. Must be a small horse ranch… “Please tell me this is Slaughter County,” he said hopefully.
“It is,” Floyd said. “You’re on the Suquamish Reservation. Got any idea how you wound up on our shore?” He watched as the two younger males and a newly arrived female showed up to pull Gene from the bed.
Tyler stepped out of the way. “Oh, hey—please be careful. He’s hurt. We both are…”
“Looks like you boys been beat up pretty good,” the taller one said.
Tyler finally took Floyd’s hand. “Sorry. I’m Tyler.” He then addressed the other. “We were captured by the drug cartel and taken to Seattle.” The cartel! he suddenly realized. They’re here! I need to get word to Phil! His face showed the sudden surge of urgency.
“What is it?” Floyd asked.
“The cartel!” Tyler explained. “They’re here!”
The taller one started to interject. “Drug dealers ain’t nothing new.”
“Quiet, Henry!” He looked at Tyler. “Please forgive my brother. He’s been kicked by one too many horses. Please continue.”
Tyler didn’t know why, but he found Floyd’s voice soothing…reassuring. “These aren’t the local dealers. The Mexican cartel has taken over Seattle.” He expected to see shocked looks, but both men just patiently waited for him to finish, their only emotion being one of calmness. Tyler continued. “We were tortured.” He watched Floyd’s family put Gene on a backboard and carry him off. “We were lucky and escaped. But—they’re here. They’re planning some sort of attack. I need to get to Bartlett and report what I know!”
“Easy does it, Tyler,” Floyd said. “You should probably warm up and get some rest, first.”
The old man turned and started to lead Tyler up a path toward a double-wide manufactured home. It was older but in decent shape. It looked as if it had some repairs made to it as a result of earthquake damage.
As they passed the trailer, Tyler could see the truck bed was actually not attached to a truck at all. It was a converted trailer being towed by a horse, which the young man who had brought him a blanket was now detaching from the trailer. Tyler followed Floyd into his home, trailed by Henry. He stepped inside and felt the warmth of a fireplace. Oh, man! Does that feel good!
“Have a seat, Tyler,” Henry said as Floyd turned up a hallway. “Keep that blanket tight. I don’t want your dirty butt on my couch!” Henry started laughing loudly again.
Tyler plopped down and realized there was a danger of falling asleep again. NO! You need to get going!
Floyd returned with a child of maybe ten years old holding a bowl of soup. She gave it to Tyler.
“Oh, wow! Thank you so much!” Tyler said graciously. The girl left and Floyd and Henry sat down in easy chairs.
“I think we can scrounge up some clothes for you. I’m sending my grandson to go fetch one of our tribal medics. Your friend’s grapefruits aren’t looking too ripe,” Floyd said matter-of-factly.
“They used a welding machine to do that,” Tyler explained. And I know I’m selfish, but I’m so glad it wasn’t me, he said to himself.
“And I’m betting you had all your teeth before this started,” Henry said, this time not making any jokes.
Tyler nodded and looked quickly down at his soup, stirring it. “You’re correct, I should stay and heal. But I can’t. I would be in your debt for some clothes and a ride to Bartlett. And if you can look after Gene until I can get back.”
“As you know, there is no hospital. Your friend will be my honored guest as he heals, unless we can get him some better care somehow,” Floyd explained. “And we will help you get to the far side of the rez, on the way to Peterson. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”
“Yeah,” Henry said with a smirk. “We don’t go off the reservation anymore!”
19
Not All news is Good.
Tahoma’s Hammer Plus 32 Days.
John felt the butterflies in his stomach as he watched his son swooping around, doing rollovers and sharp banking turns and dives. The weather had broken enough for him to come do his first flight in over five weeks. They needed it to not be raining. Water droplets on a wing could cause it to collapse. If God doesn’t give us some good weather when we need to use this thing, it was all for nothing, John realized. He watched the square, parachute type wing over his son stayed filled with cells of air and reacted to his every command, applied through two pair of control cables and brakes and one electric throttle.
They had slid over the ten miles to a large mountain that had been frequented by paramotorists and their non-motorized cousins, parasailers, before the hammer fell. There were two security teams keeping watch and perimeter guard. Seeing a paramotor this long into the strange, new world was sure to bring some spectators. The idea of word about these tests getting to the cartel was foremost in John’s mind. The group had been hard-pressed to convince him to let them come out this time. Things better work, that’s all I have to say about it…
John was watching as Alex and Dexter busied themselves in prepping the craft. They had made a tow line out of a double strand of 550-paracord and had attached it to a hula hoop that Tucker could try to hook with his arm as he did a low-elevation fly-by. Typically when he flew just a few feet off the ground he tried to maintain a good portion of his power, which maxed out at over forty-five miles per hour. Flying low was the most fun and most challenging aspect of the sport—pilots needed time and space to climb if they came up on a tree or powerlines unexpectedly. Tucker was keeping his momentum at about twenty-five mph, which was enough to keep from stalling and landing.
To provide a small, shock-absorbing factor, the paracord line had been tied with a few alpine butterfly-loops and the cord had been run back and forth through them a few times. It had been secured with a large volume of wraps, similar to a noose. The intent was for the paracord tow line to grow in length as Tucker’s initial grab had pulled on it, absorbing the sudden shock and slowly transferring the energy to the glider.
The glider had everything except the actual explosive, which was going to be in the form of a construction grade mixture of TXT and RDX. It was waterproof and stable, but also required the use of another explosive to set it off. The electrically-fire blasting cap wouldn’t do it by itself. A common component in the construction and mining industry—ASA—was the small explosive triggered by the squib that would then explode the main charge. The small team had simulated the warhead by adding eight one-pound cornhole bags to the craft.
Tucker swooped down and pulled into a level flight barely four feet above the open sloping field. He lined up on Alex, who was holding the hoop out, ready to run aside before their glider caught him. About five hundred meters down the field, just before the next tree-line, Marshall had set up a weighted cardboard box covered in foil. He had traversed most of the way back towards the main group and was pointing a combat rifle with a civilian version of an IR laser pointer at the target. He and his target were off-line with Tucker’s flight path by at least forty-five degrees.
Tucker used his right hand—his non-throttle side—to reach out and grab the hula hoop. He cocked his arm to hold it tight knowing the weight of the glider would try dragging his shoulder back. He hit the throttle to begin an ascent as quickly as possible. Trying to get as much of his speed back as possible before the clunky, fifty-pound anchor behind him caused him to crash.
The paracord shock absorber began to grow and stretch as the wraps around it tightened around the pulley system they’d made out of knots started to tighten. The lumbering craft rolled on its two wheels, slowly at first, and gaining speed quickly. The extra wide and thick wing had such good loft, that the craft picked up speed quickly and began to float just ten feet down the field. It quickly gained altitude, following Tucker like an eagle chasing a baby seagull. Tucker could see the long paracord towline was at least three times longer than the forty or so feet in altitude he and the glider had, so he banked slowly left and kept climbing to loop back around.
“T-bird!” John said into the radio, knowing Tucker would be able to hear him in his headset and helmet. “That wasn’t the plan!”
“The glider needs more altitude,” John heard back. “I also think I need to cut this hula hoop from the line and hold onto it. This whole cord thing is going to fall like a rock before the glider can get to where it’s going!”
John knew there was nothing he could do—it was all in Tucker’s control. He scanned the perimeter, once again checking for threats. Tucker finished his loop. He and the glider trailing him were at least two-hundred feet above ground level. As he said he would, about the time he passed the group he cut the hula hoop free and let it fall. The glider, which had been seeking the IR beam from Marshall’s rifle the whole time was now free to do what it wanted—no longer under the command of Tucker’s powered wing. It made a couple of small adjustments as the four sensors did exactly as predicted, turning the craft towards Marshall. It flew right over him, dragging the paracord from its nose, and appeared to be headed for the foil covered box, but it landed about forty meters shy of getting to it.
