Tears of Abraham

CHAPTER EIGHT Semper Fi

NORTHERN MONTANA

Henry Wilkins was willing to give his life for his country, but at the moment, his country seemed intent on killing him. This did not sit well in the jagged corners of his soul, humping through the Canadian Rockies with drones hunting him. His ideas of God, country, and honor had been defined long before he became an Army Ranger. His father had been the architect. Now, the pillars, walls, and supports that should have been true were askew. His entire belief system was under attack, the very things he knew to be true not because he had been told to but because he believed. There are bad guys and good guys, and there will be a fight. It is inevitable. Whether it’s a playground, a city, a country, or the globe.

There will be conflict between good and evil, the bully and the bullied.

“Stand up for yourself,” his father had said when Henry walked home with a bloody nose again. ’His old man, Tim Wilkins, peered down at Henry. A tall, rangy man with a straight back, pale blue eyes, and a face worn out by life, Tim Wilkins was not prone to overt displays of affection or sympathy. But he was the center of Henry’s universe.

In Henry’s eyes then, his father was granite, solid rock, unbreakable, unchangeable, and strong in the way of a proud mountain. The lens of hope and faith filtered out the cracks and fissures, the broken blood vessels on Papa’s windburned face, and the hurting eyes of a man eroded, but not yet completely worn smooth. Blasted by hard years, bad luck, and the love for the wrong woman, Papa remained undefeated then.

“Be a man. You’re gonna have to learn this some point or other. It’s tough and it ain’t fair, and nobody said it was. And if they said that, they lied to you. Now I could go up to the schoolhouse, and I could argue with them about how my boy is getting his ass kicked. But what does that teach you, son? What do you learn from that? A better lesson is life. Life will knock you down if you let it, so you’d better damn sure figure out how to punch life right in the mouth. You don’t—”

“But I got suspended!”

“Well, did you hit the other guy?”

“Well, yeah. That’s why I got kicked out of school.”

“Good.”

“But he gave me a bloody nose, and the teacher believed the other kid. Not me. But the asshole hit me first.”

“All right. Look here. And don’t say that word, Henry. You know better than that.”

“But Dad—”

“Don’t ‘but Dad’ me. You got into a fight. Your nose is bleeding and I’m not gonna wipe it for you. I’m sorry, son. You’re learning, see. You get punched, and then you hit back.”

“I did. That’s what I’m saying. It’s not fair. I—”

“I know it, son. Get used to that. Life won’t be fair. You outta know it by now, but you probably don’t, because it takes a bit for it to sink in. The thing is, you don’t just sit and take it when it ain’t fair. You figure out what you have to do to make it less unfair. Sometimes that means you shut up for a minute. But you’re thinking about what happens later on, and even though it looks like you’re taking it, you’re really biding your time. You’re thinking about the next time you catch that son of a bitch alone without his friends. And other times, you have to just stand up and punch somebody in the nose. What happens, happens. You might get beat, but that’s all right because you’ll know something. You’ll learn a thing about yourself.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll learn you can take more than you think you can. You learn self-respect. You learn you can take a punch. And later on, when you look in the mirror, you might remember that when you need to.”

“But I’m going to miss a whole week of school.”

“That’s all right. You learned more with this thing than you would have in a classroom. Sometimes you gotta stand and fight. Sometimes when you do, you get punished even when you’re right. That’s how the world works. You put your faith in the good Lord and you back it up with your actions. With your deeds and fists if you have to. Now let’s have some ice cream.”

That was one of the proudest and happiest days of Henry Wilkins’ life. He sat with his father and had an ice cream cone. The kitchen was abandoned, unused to laughter and conversation, and the house was still and the ice cream ran down his arm and spilled onto the floor and no one cared. His father had tousled Henry’s hair with a gruff, loving kind of pride. Henry felt that pride growing inside himself, and he felt it from the old man. Henry felt like he’d passed a test, even though he’d actually been kicked out of school. Henry Wilkins was becoming a Wolf, although neither he nor his father knew it.

Now, thirty-three years old and half frozen, Henry knew he could take a lot. He could embrace the suck when he had to. He could bide his time. With his family threatened by bullies, he felt the strong urge to punch someone in the throat. And not only were his wife and child under threat, America was being bullied as a whole. He did not feel like biding his time. For the moment, though, all he could do was try to survive. Embrace the suck.

Late in the afternoon, the Wolves came across a logging road. They followed the road, piled with heavy snow, until it came out on a paved, plowed, and salted road. It was dark by the time they hit the blacktop road, but Henry, Carlos, and Martinez were unaffected by this because of the night vision contacts they wore. It felt like they’d humped more than a hundred miles. Henry hoped they’d at least made it back to the States.

The crust of ice and snow on the road crunched beneath his boots. They were leaving the mountains, traveling east and south. No cars passed them that night, and they stopped for a few minutes only twice. There was a sense of urgency in all of the men.

They had decided to stick together until they got down to Texas, where Martinez’s family lived. They hoped to be able to upload the stick drive to the net from there, using one of the servers at the University of Houston to spread whatever information Colonel Bragg had accumulated far and wide. From Houston, Henry and Carlos would travel together to Florida.

Shortly after sunrise, a logging truck stopped. The driver, a scruffy looking guy who reeked of cigarettes and coffee, offered the Wolves a lift. He didn’t seem inclined to talk, and if he had questions about the soldiers walking through the wilderness kitted up in full battle rattle, he kept his questions to himself. He turned up his radio and played old country music. Henry crawled into the back of the cab, a coffin-sized space where the trucker apparently slept, and was out in seconds.

The sun was already going down when Henry woke to the hiss of air brakes and the blare of a truck horn.

“Okay, boys,” the driver said. “There’s a motel and a diner up ahead. You can take a couple of my coats if you want. You’re still going to stick out, but it’s better than nothing. If you want, I can see if I can raise another driver who’s headed further south. Might be able to find you a lift.”

“That’d be great, brother,” Martinez said from the front seat.

“All right, then,” said the trucker. He picked up the CB radio and put out a call.

“Anybody north of Great Falls got your ears on?” There was static.

“Bubba Red, here. Holler.”

“Bubba, go to the Harley,” said the driver. He looked over at Martinez. “Bubba’s good people.”

“That you Mountain Man? Come back.”

“Roger, Bubba. Got a couple of Road Rats headed south. Come back.”

“Can do, good neighbor. Got me some suds and mud.”

“See you in ten, Bubba Red.” Mountain Man put the handset into the clip. “There’s a half-assed store at the truck stop up here. I don’t suppose you’ve got any money?”

“No,” said Martinez. “How about a nine mil?”

“Well, then,” said Mountain Man. “That’s better than money. I’ll fix you up with some cash. I’ll get you some clothes in the store, if they’ve got anything that fits you oversized bastards.”

An hour later, Henry sat down at a corner booth with Martinez, Carlos, and Mountain Man, who said his real name was Joe. There were few patrons in the diner, all men, and they were hunkered down over coffee and food watching the news. There was no conversation, as if everyone there put up invisible walls around themselves. There were some hard looks at Martinez and Carlos from the truckers.

Henry and his companions ordered some hot coffee and fried chicken from a flirty, bleached-out waitress who’d smoked a few too many Camels. When Henry ordered his second dinner, she raised her eyebrows and laughed.

“You boys are going for a record,” she said.

After Henry pushed his plate away, he felt almost human again. Bubba Red came to the table and joked with Mountain Man for a few seconds about lot lizards, then squeezed into the booth, the table pressing against his ample belly. Martinez briefly explained that they were trying to get to Houston, and stay off the grid.

“You men picked a fine time to go sightseeing,” Bubba said. “National Guard’s got checkpoints set up all over the place. We should be able to make it down to Colorado without too much trouble. Then it’s gonna get dicey for you.”

“Why is that?” Martinez asked.

“Colorado is a war zone right now,” Mountain Man said. “Where the hell have you been?” He gestured with his thumb at the muted bank of television monitors on a wall. Images of burning cities filled the screens. “The interstates are shut down. Nobody in or out. Now you could swing east and cut through Nebraska and avoid Colorado altogether. Trouble is, I’m headed home to Albuquerque. I’m not trying to cut all across Texas. No sir. Bottom line, I can get you down close to the Colorado border, then you’re on your own.”

“We’ll be in your debt,” Martinez said.

Bubba and Mountain Man discussed the news that was available. The news was not good.

The national cable networks were reporting that the war was over, that reports of bloodshed were overblown. But reports from the Internet and the BBC painted a very different picture.

The United States was convulsing. People streamed across state borders, trying to go home. Trying to return to wherever they came from and the roots were the deepest. The highways and state roads were clogged. In many parts of the country, the power grid was down. Curfews were in effect, travel restricted, and interstate commerce was at a standstill. Each state had activated its own National Guard troops, while the larger bases and installations were on lockdown. Some of the bases disintegrated into chaos, like Malmstrom did.

The country had fractured into five distinct sections, and there were divisions within those areas. The Northeast down to Washington, DC, remained loyal to the federal government. The South, from Virginia to Florida and west to Texas, had declared independence under the name the Jefferson Republic. The West Coast had declared allegiance to the federal government, from California up to the Northwest. The Midwestern states were trying to stay neutral, restricting federal troop movement, threatening to shoot down all aircraft that violated their airspace.

The western states were leaning toward joining the Jeffersonians, but thus far had declared neutrality. The state governors seemed to be calling the shots; most of the United States Congress was dead.

Wall Street was closed, and the economy was in free fall. The United Nations had offered assistance, as had China, Russia, Australia, and the UK. The president of the United States was at an undisclosed location, calling for peace and unity. The US Navy set up a blockade along the east and west coasts to keep foreign powers at bay. For now, at least, the navy was staying out of the fighting spreading around the broken country like wildfire.

In large southern cities like Atlanta, racial tensions exploded onto the streets. Minorities clashed with police and National Guard units, protesting the secession. Entire city blocks were engulfed in flames and looting was rampant. One of the networks showed images of a gang shooting up a police cruiser, then burning it with a Molotov cocktail while the officers inside thrashed about and then collapsed onto the street, charred.

Trash and raw sewage covered city streets in big cities, as waste treatment plants shut down. There were water shortages, and killings over food.

On the outskirts of San Francisco and Washington, DC, thousands of people suffering from radiation burns camped outside overwhelmed hospitals and FEMA tents.

It was worse than Henry had imagined, and he had expected the worst.

“It’s all coming apart,” Bubba Red said. “They’re tearing the whole country to pieces. Burning it down to nothing so that the damn Chinese can come in and pick up the pieces. Won’t be anyplace safe. Things aren’t ever going back to normal, not after this.”

“I’m going back to Canada,” Mountain Man said. “I knew it was bad, but not this bad. No offense, but if I’d known, I’m not so sure I would’ve stopped for you.” The man stood and bade a brisk farewell. Henry shouted a thank-you as the man walked out the door into the cold.

“We’d best be getting on the road, too,” Bubba said. “I’m all filled up.”

Henry stood, feeling uncomfortable in the itchy new civilian clothes. His parka was bulky and the flannel shirt made him feel faintly ridiculous. His gear was stowed into two oversized black duffel bags. Martinez and Carlos wore similar attire, and the three men could almost pass for truckers themselves. Martinez wore a bright green John Deere cap, which Henry found amusing.

“Aw, shit,” Bubba said, looking through the blinds into the parking area outside. Flashing red and blue lights reflected off of the wet pavement.

“Buncha county mounties,” he said.

Henry followed Martinez and Carlos out the back door while Bubba went through the front entrance. They stayed in the shadows and moved around the side of the building. Two local police vehicles had pulled up beside Mountain Man’s rig, and it looked like the cops were giving him a hard time. Mountain Man stood gesturing wildly at his truck. One of the cops had his weapon drawn. Henry noticed it was a revolver.

“What do you think?” Carlos said. The Wolves were concealed about thirty yards from the truck.

“Wait and see,” Martinez answered. “They might click him up for crossing the border into the States. Or maybe they’ll let him go.”

Henry watched Bubba walk up to the police officers. One of the cops started shouting at Bubba.

“Get down!” the cop yelled. “Hands on the back of your head.” Bubba complied, on his knees. One of the police officers pulled out handcuffs.

“Aw, hell no,” Carlos muttered.

Another cruiser pulled into the parking lot. Two more cops stepped out.

“Wilkins, stay put,” Martinez said. “Carlos, flank right.” Both men stepped from the shadows, weapons drawn, advancing on the police officers.

The cop with the nickel-plated revolver was young. The fact that he preferred the showy weapon to a more practical sidearm worried Henry. The man was clearly afraid and uncertain, and this made him deadly.

Henry dropped to one knee and quickly rifled through the duffel bag containing his submachine gun. He withdrew the HK and snapped a magazine into place.

Martinez and the local sheriffs were shouting at each other.

“STAND DOWN!” Martinez was yelling.

The one cop who had already drawn his weapon was now pointing it directly at Martinez. His partner had his hands in the air. The other two policemen, the new arrivals, were edging back toward their patrol car.

“Drop your weapon!” said the cop with the revolver. “I will fire. Drop it now. Who the fuck are you?”

Henry put his sights on the sheriff on the near side of the cruiser. The man was moving sideways with his arms at his sides like he was pretending to fly.

The cop with the nickel-plated revolver was young. Early twenties. He was clearly afraid and uncertain, and this made him deadly.

“Don’t do it, son,” one of the other cops said. His voice was barely a whisper, but Henry heard him. Or maybe he just wanted the older cop to say that, a brief vision of Operation Snowshoe flashing through his mind.

Henry focused on the other cops because Martinez and Carlos would be targeting the immediate armed threat. Don’t make me do it. Lord, forgive me. I don’t want to shoot a cop. Finger on the trigger.

“We’re soldiers,” Martinez said. “We’re on your side. These guys are helping us get home, that’s all.”

“You have drawn a firearm on an officer of the law,” the young cop yelled. “Put your gun down. You’re under arrest.”

“Look,” Martinez said. “That’s not happening. You’re outnumbered. No one needs to die here today, but you most definitely will unless you put down that fucking popgun. Wilkins?”

Henry peppered the cruiser door with a burst from the HK. The cop with the revolver jumped at the crack of the shots and the slap of the rounds into the metal car door. The other officers dove for the ground.

Martinez closed on the young cop while Carlos remained twenty feet away in a shooter’s stance. The cop handed his revolver over.

Henry stepped from the shadows, and then helped Martinez and Carlos disarm the cops.

“I don’t know what to do with them,” Martinez said, giving the policemen a hard look. The cops, wearing dark brown uniforms under bulky black leather coats, remained silent. The oldest of the four stepped forward and offered his hand to Martinez.

“I’m Sheriff Bradshaw,” the man said. He sported a thick beard with more than a little gray in it and his eyes were not unkind. “I know things are crazy right now. We’ll let you boys pass. Never saw you, if you catch my meaning.”

“But—!” the young cop who had waved around the revolver said.

“Shut up, Josh,” Sheriff Bradshaw interjected. “These guys are military. Special Forces, I’m guessing?” He raised his eyebrows at the question. “Ah, well, you won’t tell me anyway.” Bradshaw raised the sleeve on his coat and shirt, revealing a tattoo on his inner forearm of a skull and the words “Semper Fi.”

Martinez grinned at the sheriff. “A jarhead. Well, all right then.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sheriff Bradshaw. “Marine Recon. Two tours in Iraq. Home to this sleepy little shithole.”

“You give your word you won’t pick up a radio?”

“No reason to do that. Haven’t seen a damn thing but truckers and moose.”

“Good enough for me,” Martinez said.

“You mind telling us what is going on?” Bradshaw asked.

“You probably know a lot more than we do,” Martinez said.

“I doubt that. Steer clear of the interstate if you’re trying to get far away from here, and I’m sure you are, because there’s nothing happening here. Don’t go near major cities. From what I understand, it’s gotten ugly quick-like.”

Henry, Carlos, and Martinez said good-bye to Bradshaw and the truck stop and piled into Bubba Red’s Peterbilt truck. The interior was more spacious than the last truck. Henry sat up front on a bench seat with Carlos while Martinez got some sleep in the rear.

Bubba Red regaled them with stories of the open highway and drove nonstop through the night over back roads and state highways. Progress was slow because the roads had not been plowed since the last snowfall. Bubba Red’s truck contained two computer screens, one for media and one for navigation. The GPS system was down, but maps on the hard drive proved accurate and up to date. From time to time, Bubba chatted with other truckers over the CB radio in a jargon incomprehensible to Henry. About all Henry was able to discern was that truckers did not care for police, and there were a whole lot of “bears” out and about.

Henry entered what the men called “field sleep,” and allowed his body and mind to rest while staying in a state of semi-alertness. He had long since learned to sleep when he could, storing up on moments of repose like a bear stocking up on body fat before a long winter, because he knew there would be times when he wouldn’t be able to rest for days at a time.

Colorado lurked in the darkness over the horizon.