Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Page 2

  If they could.

  “If Chuck were…” he paused as he thought of his friend’s condition, “if Chuck were okay, he would take the team. But he’s not. He would say, ‘don’t ask others to do what you’re not prepared to do yourself,’ and you know he’s right.”

  Elliot searched her eyes for a reaction. There wasn’t one, so he continued. “I also think under these circumstances, he would—”

  “Elliot?” Bob poked his head around the door. “Sorry to interrupt, but we have to get a move-on if we plan to do this.”

  Elliot grabbed Cindy’s hand and squeezed. “Come on.”

  * * *

  “We’re discussing the structure of the team.” Bob told Elliot, then added he’d be of no help—he didn’t even know of the retaliatory system, much less any codes that would prevent the launch.

  “Tom wasn’t in the loop as far as DoD security goes on this matter, but has a fair idea of where the codes may be located.”

  “May be located?”

  “A lot of this is guesswork. This is an above-top-secret program and because of that, a lot of people don’t have a need to know, don’t have access to the codes, but I believe like all other systems, it will be part of the main control override. They will most likely be in the office of US Strategic Command inside the Pentagon,” Bob explained.

  “Also, Tom will need to access the Emergency Operations Center inside the White House where the codes are and then enter the Pentagon through the underground tunnel.” Bob looked over his left shoulder, then his right before he whispered to Elliot, “Don’t mention the tunnel to anyone. It's a secret!”

  Bob stepped back to where Tom was and looked at Elliot’s frozen face for a moment before he and his former staffer burst into laughter.

  “What’s the matter, what's so funny?” Elliot asked, his eyes darting from Bob to Tom, who was in on the gag and back again.

  “As if…” Bob said to him, “as if any of that matters now. But I had you going, though.”

  Elliot finally saw the joke and laughed along—just a little, his sense of humor had mostly vanished. Bob tried to ease the tension he’d noticed with a bit of humor. Just another of the attributes which made him unique among recent leaders. His intelligence, bravery, liberal policies, oratory skills, and his humor made him the most effective president ever. Too bad there wouldn’t be anyone around to remember him.

  “So far, we have Ewen, Tom, Tristan, and myself. We need one more.”

  “Ewen suggested Dave, his co-pilot from the Global Express, and I agree. Both these men are experienced Air Force personnel and know how to handle weapons, too.”

  “That would make the five we need. Let's do it.”

  “Just like that?” Cindy wasn’t to remain quiet any longer.

  “We have to check the conditions of the planes at the airport above, but once that's over with, we’ll load some basic supplies and—”

  Cindy spun on her heels and with a grunt, marched off to the administration offices in the back.

  “Is there something wrong, Elliot? Something we need to know about?”

  Elliot watched Cindy a moment longer before he answered. “Yeah, Cindy’s pregnant.”

  Sandspit 3

  Elliot delegated responsibility right away, he learned that from Chuck. Orders didn’t win hearts, minds, or followers, but faith in the ability of others and a demonstration of that faith did. It was because of this attitude he believed the journey to Washington was his responsibility.

  Elliot placed his younger friend, Allan, in charge of the guard teams outside the fish market. At two years younger than Elliot, this move could have angered some, but there were no complaints, and Allan was accepted. A team comprised of Chess, Riley, Ewen, Dave, and two men from Chess’ team who flew in on the C-17—Johnny Redmond and Cleavon Biggs—were quickly assembled and given the task of investigating the Sandspit airport up ahead. All six were armed with shotguns—it was time to conserve rifle ammunition. With seven rounds of buckshot in the tubular magazine and one in the chamber plus twenty-five in a bandolier, each man had thirty-three rounds. Not counting their side-arms, they had just under two hundred rounds of buckshot in total. Judging by the hundred or so foamer bodies that lay in the snow outside the market, the search team believed they had an adequate amount.

  “Choppers!” Chess pointed to the three helicopters that sat on the apron up ahead. “Can you guys fly choppers?”

  Dave shook his head several times. “I’ve taken a few lessons, but they scared the crap outta me.”

  “Never been interested in them at all,” Ewen said. “But a chopper would be an ideal choice.”

  “How do you figure?” Chess asked him as moved alongside the pilot.

  “Well, we have to assume everything Stateside is a mess, with most airports not even serviceable, but a chopper—”

  “A helicopter can land almost anywhere!” Chess raised his index finger, he understood the advantages.

  “Correct, and two helicopter pilots came in with you on the C-17, right?”

  “That they did, let me run back down and get them ready.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere by yourself, Chess,” Riley said.

  “You stay here, Johnny and I will go,” Cleavon said, then took off at a steady jog, Johnny Redmund by his side.

  “I can start one up no problems, check the fuel and all that,” Dave told Chess “There’s a maintenance hangar, so we should be able to find fuel.”

  * * *

  Elliot tried one last time to ease Cindy’s anger over his decision to leave. “I’m the one who said a team has to go back to Washington. I can’t just sit back and let others go. Cindy, I have to go.”

  The two sat on a wooden bench seat, under a shade cloth awning outside the front of the fish market.

  “I…I understand,” tears rolled down Cindy’s cheeks, “how you see your position, honest I do. You want to take Chuck's place, but you’re not Chuck. You’re Elliot Goodwin. Father of our child!”

  To be told he was trying to fill Chuck’s shoes didn’t sit well with him—especially when it came from the girl he loved. Before he could answer her, Cindy added logic to her argument.

  “Besides, what do you think you can accomplish? You don’t know any of the operations of the communication equipment Mr. Transky mentioned, nor how to gain access to any of these buildings in Washington. Which, by the way, if it’s overrun with foamers, your little group won’t have a chance of getting close to.”

  Elliot had his back up now, he had to defend his stance as only a man would. He was certain Chuck wouldn’t accept any of this—Charles Bronson, Lee Marvin, and John Wayne wouldn’t have, either.

  ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do!’ John Wayne’s voiced boomed in Elliot’s head.

  “If you want to keep me here by convincing me that I’m of no worth to anyone, then it won’t work!” Elliot’s temper rushed to the fore.

  “Elliot, that's not what I meant to—”

  “Enough, Cindy, enough. I’m going.”

  Cindy brought her hands to her face and wept.

  Elliot moved closer to comfort her when a male voice called to him from above their position. There didn’t appear to be any stress or panic associated with the tone, but one couldn’t take that for granted—not in foamer country.

  “Elliot, Elliot!” Cleavon Biggs called. He and Johnny Redmund came running from the direction of the airport.

  “What’s wrong?” Elliot jumped from the seat and grabbed the AR-15 he took with him everywhere. He feared the worse when he saw only two men returning.

  “Nothing’s wrong. No, no,” Johnny said when they got closer.

  Elliot marched forward to meet them on the path; better they didn’t see Cindy this way. Too many questions, too little time.

  “We found a six-seater helicopter, they’re fueling it up now. Dave can give it a quick check, but we came to get Richard and Ted, they’re the chopper pilots.”

&nbs
p; “A helicopter? Who decided on the change?”

  Cleavon explained why it would be a better proposition than a plane.

  “Listen.” The whir of the engine warming up could be heard from their position. “Sounds like it’s all systems go!”

  Elliot nodded as he pieced it all together when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Cindy rush inside the market building. A lump grew in his throat and tears welled up in his eyes.

  “Elliot?” Johnny called. “Elliot, are you okay?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah sure. The cold wind makes my eyes water.” Elliot coughed a couple of times to emphasize his remark.

  “Well, we better get inside and let those chopper jockeys know there’s been a change in plans.”

  “Lead the way,” Elliot said as the whine of the helicopter engine picked up. A nervous sensation crawled through his belly, like ten thousand ants scurrying through your intestines. He’d never been on a chopper before. He wondered if he should have chosen to stay. But the voice of The Duke or Bogey came back, A man’s go to do what a man’s got to do—and that means you too, son!

  There wouldn’t be much time to think it over. It had already passed midday and they would need to leave as soon as supplies could be loaded. They would get four hours flying time, and that would put them on Vancouver Island. It was discussed before, if they were to head back to Washington, it would be better to avoid the rugged mountain ranges of the Canadian wilderness—particularly if those forest fires continued to rage. Head toward Vancouver then Washington State, perhaps Oregon, then switch to an eastern route would be preferable. With the recent snowfalls and wind change, they believed—or rather hoped—the inferno in those states might have been reduced to little worse than an out-of-control campfire.

  With Chuck incapacitated, Cindy pregnant, and the threat of nuclear devastation, all Elliot needed was a scary helicopter ride across the country.

  “Damn, I’ll need a good vacation when we get back—if we get back.”

  “What was that, Elliot?” Cleavon turned around.

  “No, no, just clearing my throat again. Damn weather.”

  Port Edward 1

  The lone survivor of the assault, Richard Holmes, sped as fast as his limited ability with boats allowed him too. He knew little about finding his destination across open water. Holmes could only remember they came from over that way and pointed the craft in that direction.

  “I should’ve looked at the compass before we left the mainland!” he admonished himself.

  The only guide that would be available to him, as he headed in the general region of Port Edward, would be the three large islands that sat between the seaside town and the open sea. Digby Island to his left, Kaien Island tucked in just behind, and Smith Island to his right. He was relieved when the islands came into view. The one gauge he did take notice of was the fuel—and it was low. He had already refueled twice from the additional containers. He only had to get through the channel between Kaien Island and the much smaller Lelu Island. Once through there, it was only a short distance to Port Edward.

  He had no idea of how many miles per gallon the boat would get and to circumvent any possible problems, he opted to land at the dock on Kaien, next to the train terminals. Holmes now wore the battle jacket and carried the M4 carbine of the former leader of the Terrace force. After getting to shore, Holmes discovered an old bicycle when he was unable to find a car. He knew from a previous study of a map he could ride the bike along the train tracks, over the bridge, and right into Port Edward. From there he could summon help from the remainder of the Terrace force.

  If they were still alive.

  It was a good twenty-minute ride for Holmes—a man not in peak physical condition when a challenge was issued—as he approached the building used as the temporary camp by one of the Terrace guards he knew was still here.

  “Halt! State your name and business.”

  “Easy soldier, easy. It's me, Holmes, the company man.” Holmes used the term the Terrace forces had called him. “I was with the raiding party—we were ambushed! I’m the only one who made it out.”

  The young guard stepped forward to get a better view—he recognized the voice but wanted a visual confirmation.

  “Ambushed? Are y-you s-s-sure?” he said.

  To Holmes, the young man sounded like Gomer Pyle, he also looked as goofy.

  “We don’t have much time. We have to get organized and mount a counter attack if we’re to save the rest.”

  “Okay, okay. Let's get back to the marina building. We made the second floor our living quarters.”

  “Have you seen any?” Holmes asked as he and Gomer double-timed it to a metal-clad two-story structure opposite the harbor.

  He told Holmes there had been no disturbances at all during the nights. They just huddled together and kept quiet all night. The only sound they heard was that of the wind and the sea along the edges of the harbor. This was good news to Holmes. It meant that, in all likelihood, there were no foamers about. Holmes’ plan—if it could be called that—was to take the last six armed men that had stayed behind at Port Edward and head back to Sandspit, but this time from a different angle. He knew there would be protests from the wives and girlfriends of the Terrace force, which now consisted of these remaining six men. Holmes was as concerned with the well-being of these women as he was for that of the group's leader—the man he shot in the head from point-blank range.

  If he was to get the six paramilitaries—he didn’t consider them soldiers—to follow his commands, he would have to appease the women first. That wouldn’t be his hardest task for the day. As a career intelligence operative, lying was second nature for Richard Holmes. He was given a hot mug of coffee and two energy bars the moment he came inside. Allowed time to eat the first bar and drink some coffee, he did so quickly before they asked how the raiding party—almost twenty men—could have been ambushed.

  “So how is it that you managed to escape when no one else did?” the most senior of the six—in age, anyway—asked.

  Holmes heard the suspicion, but showed an icy resolve. “I was onboard the boat with your commander. He had gone to the front to watch the assault through binoculars when he was shot—a sniper took him out from the shore. He must have been spotted when he did that.”

  “But you say our entire party was killed or captured?” the senior man pressed. “How could you tell if you were still onboard the boat?”

  “There was heavy fire, but then it stopped suddenly. I waited a few minutes, then looked up. I took the commander’s binoculars and saw men—who use to be my men—rounding up the survivors and the wounded. Or at least that's how it looked.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” a younger member of the group asked.

  Holmes was grateful that the questioning took place away from the women and the few children. This was where it could get messy if they were present. “There were many on the ground, but I was unable to make out their condition.”

  “You’re sure it was our men?”

  “Yes. I could tell by the jackets,” Holmes said to the senior man. “Your guys wore Canadian military uniforms, while they mostly wore US woodland pattern or black military clothing. It was easy enough to distinguish between the two sides.”

  Holmes had been particularly thankful for the last question. It gave him a chance to show how he could determine the fate of the invading force. The six originally from Terrace exchanged looks of anger and, without a doubt, some shock. There was a noticeable lift from the tension in the room. There were more questions to be asked, but he felt he’d won them over. Like horses, he’d led them to water and now all he had to was get them to drink.

  “It won’t be easy, but if we come from behind them, we may be able to surprise them and take them out.” Holmes stood. Now in his element, he gave the final pep talk. “Extreme prejudice, gentlemen. Spare no lives. We can’t afford to, not if we want to save your men.”

  That was the clincher; “save your
men.” No one would question Holmes’ motives again. It was now a rescue mission and a mission of revenge—cold, hard revenge. The sooner they started, the sooner justice could be exacted.

  Sandspit 4

  Riley loaded the last bag onto the helicopter before he spoke to Elliot. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough how good this survival food is after all.”

  “Yeah, we’ve been spoiled with Aunt Kath’s meals, but the jerky has been okay, and you know all about those noodles!” Elliot tossed Riley a wink. He knew of the former Twin Falls cop's toiletry issues over the cup of noodles, which had been a staple diet on their journey from Twin Falls to Prince George.

  “Still a smartass after all this time, eh?”

  Elliot laughed at his friend’s good-natured quip before both survivors of the foamer infestation and who knows what else looked at each other for several long seconds. Nothing more was said—it didn’t need to be. Both knew the dangers, and this could be the last time they saw each other.

  Elliot finally broke the silence. “What did you pack in there, just out of curiosity?”

  “There’s bags of freeze-dried meals, jerky, some coffee and tea, water purification tablets, extra drinking water, cans of beans and chili. There are several emergency pocket stoves and fuel tablets that we grabbed from your store in Twin Falls. They’ll be good enough to heat canned food and boil water, but…”

  Riley raised his index finger to make a point.

  “I know you’ll be avoiding large population areas, but even the water systems of smaller towns are pumped in. With no power, it may not be as easy as turning on the faucet, and none of the filtration systems will be working, either. So, no matter what, you use the purification tablets in every drop of water you collect. In fact, it wouldn’t hurt to boil that water in your canteen cup to make doubly sure, okay?”

  “Good idea Riley, I’ll do that.” The two shook hands. The love, respect, and friendship that had developed passed between them. No words were said—there weren’t any.