When Totems Fall (16 page)

Post-Invasion

TWENTY TWO

Eastern Washington

Zeb looked out, across the expansive valley. Hands on thighs, exhaling forcefully, he was relieved, maybe even a bit surprised. Behind him was the vast backcountry he had impossibly survived. Ahead—the foothills, leading off the downward edge of the Cascade Range.

The grand vista welcomed him
home to loved, familiar territory. Zeb had come this way most of his growing years, along with a passel of first cousins from the extended Dalton clan, all crammed into the belt-less seats of a '79 Ford VistaCruiser. Everyone understood the arrangement. Two weeks each spring were given to working row after row of his grandparents' sixty acres, non-gratis. The familial labor crew rose before dawn, a long morning's work awaiting them as they trudged through endless plots of apple and peach trees. The work was both monotonous and demanding. The company made it bearable.

Zeb's relatives occupied the usual lineup of odd characters and best friends springing from blood kin. Some you were downright proud of. Others avoided mention in family conversations altogether. Those days were never boring, that was for sure. And after a "good enough for today" came across Grandpa Dalton's lips, late afternoons were spent with a fishing line dangling in the creek, or if the water had warmed enough, their bodies in the lake.

Zeb smiled. This place did his heart and mind good. It was early, far too soon yet for fruit to be showing. Still, nascent buds protruded off gangly vines and limbs, announcing that winter had once again lost its grip. The dying season had ended. Life awaited on the near horizon as growth and fruitfulness prepared to explode across miles of farmlands.

Dalton had not experienced the area from this exact vantage point before. Nonetheless, it comforted and reassured him. It told him he was on the right track, had done the right thing in fleeing. These known sights and smells fostered a momentary yet significant hope. Zeb desperately needed that, in light of all the man had endured the last ten days. Back with the others at Swedish Medical Center, Zeb knew a tactical decision would be required, immediately so. The choices were clear enough. Stay and be forever trapped in the claws of the new Chinese province. Risk it all and run. Two options on the table.

For a man like Zeb, it was an easy choice.

Run. Go dark.

There'd been precious little time to consider his illegal, dangerous exodus from the Seattle metro area, no margin to prepare for the high altitude trek his instincts told him needed to take place now or helplessly await foreign dominion over everything and everyone between Canada in the north and Oregon in the south. This being the case, Zeb carried limited provisions with him into the wilds of the Cascades. A few sticks of beef jerky, two granola bars, and a handful of mixed nuts was all that money and time had allowed for. It was also what had been available at the only quickmart on the highway up to Snoqualmie Pass, after the frightened couple had left him to his own devices. Dalton knew how to budget such meager rations; he was a combat vet, after all. Disciplined allocation of resources wouldn't be the problem. Hypothermia, dehydration, wild animals. These were the real problems.

For the first day and a half
Zeb tracked along the highway, staying as close as possible while still remaining undetected. This hadn't been terribly difficult. With the exception of two aerial patrols, both only broad, inexact sweeps of the area, he'd found himself pretty much alone between 4,000 and 6,000 feet above sea level. The Chinese were banking on police blockades and the stark, unforgiving environs of the Cascades to do a good part of their job for them. No one would be foolish enough to try to escape via this route.

Well, almost no one.

As rigorous as Day One turned out to be, Days Two through Three and a Half were much harder. In the pre-dawn hours of the third day Zeb came around a blind corner—a harrowingly narrow path around large sandstone formations—only to find himself face to face with a grizzly, forty paces out, holding ground right where he was heading.

Maybe he was only seeing things. Blinking. Blinking Again. No, this was no phantom; no by-product of an overtaxed body and brain.

Run
.

The command from his dulled mind produced a less-than-impressive reaction, more like ragged stumbling than a burst of acceleration on a straight line. Dark fur and sharp, bared fangs thrashed after him at an astounding pace. Zeb heard somewhere that a bear's pursuit velocity was among the fastest in the animal kingdom. Still, it seemed unreal that the large mammal moved with such power and grace. Only ten seconds of frenzied activity later, and who knows why, the creature gave up the chase.

The immediate peril appeared to have passed so Dalton slowed some. Trying to catch his breath yet still moving forward, his foot snagged an exposed root ball. Instantly, he was face down in the mud, arms splayed to the side.

Are you kidding me?! C'mon, I outran a flippin' bear.

Zeb stood, brushing himself off, dizzy and angered by the tumble. One more step forward.

Whoa.

The next footfall, had he taken it, would've dislodged a patch of loose rocks hidden by the thickened ground cover. His body weight, cooperating with the merciless pull of gravity, would have sent him through the veil of green and off a sheer, unseen cliff.

Zeb peeked over the edge.

The bottom loomed, some four hundred feet away.

Reflexively, he moved back from the alpine precipice. There, Dalton forced himself to think, to reset his mind and body before continuing on. So tired. He needed rest yet couldn't afford much of it at any one time. Constant cold, the need to keep active. His body's depletion. These elements all conspired against him, making the unthinkable somewhat appealing.

Lay down, give up.

Best-case scenario? Zeb would be dead by the time winter-starved scavengers sniffed out his carcass. Probably. Then again, maybe not.

Let's think this through. Fall asleep on the semi-frozen ground for one last, eternal nap. Body stays intact until it decays, leaving a skeleton behind for some intrepid hiker to find, years from now.

Not so bad. The less-desirable outcome?

Various predators tugging at his not-yet-dead flesh and organs as he lay immobilized; conscious and helpless through it all.

The thought gave him a shiver, keeping him on task. That, and another idea as well: the slim possibility his own survival might lead to others' freedoms, making a difference for the millions of his countrymen now left behind. These thoughts fueled him, as well as the very understandable desire to not end up as an entrée in the wilderness circle of life.

So here he was. With four days of deprivation and danger behind him, Dalton gazed down toward the outskirts of the small city of Wenatchee, Washington.

Funny, all those times crossing over with his family—no big deal. A short car ride from one side of the state to another. Now, he'd just crossed an international border. What was behind was no longer his homeland.

Zeb breathed in again, taking in the fragrances of the woods and fields around him. The life-giving presence began to revive him from suffering through yet another long night of painful memories and subfreezing temperatures. The routine was the same as always. For Zeb, physical and emotional challenges seem to go hand in hand, forging some kind of link between lack of sleep and having to relive the hardest things of his past, his internal monsters lying in wait for those moments he was too weakened to mount a defense. Once started, this cruel psycho-biological reality looped endlessly, sated only by uninterrupted rest. This antidote had been in short supply as of late, so Zeb kept fighting.

Another deep breath. Fragrant evergreen. The tang of immature fruit blossoms. A soft bed of pine needles and underbrush beneath his feet. It all worked together, amounting to a needed sensory buffer for his frazzled condition. This was a good moment, one to stop and take in. On this rocky outcropping his spirit began to lift, even if only a little.

The unmistakable roar
of a Blackhawk's rotor-wash cut the air above. The UH60 attack chopper, invisible on radar, was so loud it would rarely, if ever, take someone by surprise. That it had presented itself without prior warning spoke volumes as to this fugitive's real state of fatigue. Cornered, Dalton's last reserves of energy faded fast. He neither wanted to run nor could he.

The chopper's mid-ship lift bay door sat opened on its tracked hinges, her 50 cal. spun up, hot. The gleaming barrel and cold, efficient stare of the gunner coming back at him through darkened visor told him there was no play to be had. At only thirty-some yards out, he would get about a half a second before being cut down. Zeb knew what was coming next. He counted down in his head, like a floor director calling for action on a film set.

Three... two... one...

A few meters behind, from the edge of the treeline he only recently had walked out of, came the order.

"Sir, place your hands over your head and drop to the ground! Do not move to the side or back. Do not motion with your hands toward your body. To your knees, NOW!"

Zeb had been in on the planning and tactics side of takedowns like this one hundreds of times. Whether in the unpredictable spaces of Iraqi villages or the unwelcoming crags of Afghan rock shelters, overwhelming force was always the principle. Sort of the Powell Doctrine applied to patrol-level detection and detention.

A massive implement of war overhead. Six, highly trained special operators surrounding a single man.

Overwhelming force?

Check.

In blinding succession, Zeb's face met dirt and his hands were secured behind his back in flex cuffs. The rapid loss of equilibrium caused his stomach to lurch as its minimal contents—acid and not much else—tried to make a grandiose appearance. An adult male's knee knifed into the small of his back and another putrid mixture—blood from a split lip and soil—filled his mouth. This beautiful morning, initially so promising, was taking a turn for the worse. And quickly.

The leader spoke again. This time, though, not to Zeb.

"Clark Base: Unknown personnel has been detained. ETA is approx. thirty-five. Do you copy? Over."

The reply came back in a metallic timbre.

"Roger. Thirty-five to Clark. Copy. Over."

"Okay, folks let's get busy," the man ordered. "We've got trail to eat up and there are some important people who want to know what in the world our new friend here has been up to. Move it."

TWENTY THREE

Staff Sergeant
William "Loch" Lochland,
squad leader—Ranger Unit Bravo, raised Zeb off the ground and to a standing position... with one hand only.

The sudden change
to an upright orientation caused the weary man to wretch, bile spilling across his lips. Zeb's head cleared enough to snatch a glance through drooping eyelids at the man holding him up. What he saw was quite surprising. The stocky Scotsman gripping him from the side was a mere five-six, boot heels included. Zeb had almost a full five inches on him. Be that as it may, it was obvious this wouldn't count as any kind of advantage. Whatever the soldier lacked on the vertical plane was abundantly compensated for in both upper body strength and leadership demeanor as the sergeant played the part of professional wrestler, body builder, and world's strongest man competitor to a tee. Zeb was not about to challenge him. Beside being drained from the last four days in the boonies, he wagered this guy didn't lose many altercations. He was wrong.

Loch never lost any fights.

Ever.

Lochland sized Zeb up in an initial display of dominance before checking for weapons on his person. A 360 sweep of the stranger provided a basic survey of potential threats. None registered. He stepped back, satisfied the intruder was under his command.

In heavy Highland Brogue:

"Okay, Mr. Woodsmaaaaaahn. Two questions. Fiirst, just who the craaahhpp are you? And Number Twoo: what are you doing in my forest, overlooking a United States Military installation?"