A New World: Reckoning (4 page)

With the stoppage of the .50 cals, the two Strykers accompanying the convoy increase their rate of cannon fire. Near misses jolt Greg’s Stryker as it careens down the highway. Turning his view toward the town in the distance, the thermal imaging shows several Humvees arriving at the edge of the city where they then come to a stop. Moments later, they are joined by two
Strykers
who emerge onto the highway leading out of the city.

“Off the road, now!” Greg commands the driver. “To the southwest.”

The Stryker veers to the right, canting heavily as it makes the high-speed turn. It jolts as it heads down an embankment and reaches level ground. Crashing through a fence and entering a field, the Stryker plows through the tall grass of whatever agricultural product was planted last.

The second group from the vicinity of the city adds its fire to those of their comrades. Explosions blast dirt and grass up and outward around the Stryker. Those inside hear metal shards ring off the hull from near misses. One piece slices through the metal skin just above the heads of those sitting on the benches, imbedding itself into the opposite wall with a solid thwack.

“Everyone down,” Greg calls. To the driver, he adds, “Keep it floored and be damned about what lies ahead.”

Attempting to throw off the aim of those firing on them, the driver weaves randomly as they race through the field, jostling everyone inside. The Stryker lifts off the ground, becoming momentarily weightless before slamming back down. Several screams fill the interior. Greg is thrown against the forward bulkhead, smashing his head against it. As the vehicle stabilizes following the too-near miss, he feels a painful, burning sensation on his forehead. A warm trickle makes its way down between his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Wiping his head with the back of his hand, he sees a red smear of blood on his glove.

“Motherfuck,” he mutters.

His ringing ears mute the noise of the thundering explosions outside. However, it’s not enough for him to miss the driver shout, “Hang on.”

Entering a thin screen of trees, the Stryker encounters an embankment lining a large stream. The nose drops sharply and the vehicle hits the water with a tremendous splash. Greg is thrown forward, hitting his head once again. Momentarily stunned, he can only think that they’ve taken a direct hit.

The wheels gain purchase on the rocky bottom and the Stryker heaves forward, gaining the far embankment. Straining up the bank, the vehicle slams down, finding level ground once again. Regaining his senses, Greg sees that they’ve entered another thin line of trees. The Stryker accelerates through adjoining farming fields. Looking toward the two groups assailing them, he notices that the trees along embankment are blocking any direct line of sight. The explosions, which ceased when they entered the first tree line, don’t resume.

Having left their field of vision, Greg can envision the two groups desperately racing down the roads to block him before he can gain either highway. The narrow, steeply embanked road that the first group is on will hinder their reversal. The second group will have to navigate the streets of the town to get back to the highway. Providing nothing interferes with their progress, Greg has the most direct angle to the crossroads, perhaps gaining them a little time and space. The race is on.

As the Stryker speeds across the darkened landscape, running through fence lines as if they didn’t exist, Greg wonders what damage the Stryker has taken. So far it appears to be running as it should and he hopes that will continue. The near misses have surely stripped everything off the top. They had managed to almost fill their tanks, so they have some mileage available to them, but Greg hopes they were also able to retain some of their fuel canisters.

“Make for the crossroads,” Greg tells the driver. “And don’t let off on the throttle.”

The engine strains as the Stryker powers up a small hill. As they top the rise, they find themselves on a small airfield and speed across a narrow, paved runway. Greg thinks of how perfectly set up the two groups were. It’s as if they knew exactly where he was and, more importantly, where he was heading. He hopes they don’t have a drone aloft, or worse, a direct satellite feed. He and his group are already at a disadvantage. If he’s not able to maneuver tactically, if his position is constantly known, then it is only a matter of time.

Fuel, a breakdown, bad timing; any of these will eventually lead to them coming within range of the large caliber guns again and wiped from the face of the earth within minutes. For now, the only thing they can do is run and hope they make it to the crossroads first. After that, it’s a crap shoot, and they’ll just have to take it as it comes.

The few buildings comprising the airfield facilities vanish from view as the Stryker races down a runway covered with a fine layer of dirt, piled in small drifts in some places. Reaching the end, they descend the hill where the airstrip is located and enter more fields. Not too far ahead, past a couple of fenced-in fields, are the buildings which surround the crossroads. From there, highways stretch north, south, east, and west.

In the distance, to the north and east, along their respective roads, Greg spots the dim lights of the two other groups as they make rapidly for the same crossroad. He gives a sigh of relief when he sees the distance of the other vehicles. Greg’s decision to head cross country and make directly for the intersection, coupled with the difficulties the other groups had, have given him an advantage. Barring anything unforeseen happening in the next few moments, Greg and the others will reach the crossroads first with enough distance separating them from their pursuers.

Slamming up and over a small dirt lane, the Stryker crashes through a chain link fence that surrounds an industrial lot. Powering across the dusty lot and exiting from an entryway, they enter the highway. At the intersection, Greg engages the smoke generator. A thick cloud erupts from the vehicle, billowing outward and filling the cold air. Mixed with IR defeating particles, the smoke cloud will hide the thermal image of the Stryker from those making their way rapidly toward them. It may not hide their path, as there are only two to choose from, but it’s the only thing Greg has at his disposal. The highway south immediately enters into a pass. There is an off chance that they can be hidden by the time the other group works their way through the smoke. That may give Greg and the others some additional time…and distance.

Turning south, they enter between steep mountain walls rising directly from the highway. The hills aren’t as tall as those they came through earlier, but it’s still rough terrain. Snow hasn’t settled on any of the peaks as yet, but if the cold mountain air is any indication, that time isn’t far away. As the mammoth tires of the Stryker roll over the pavement, Greg is thankful they don’t have to deal with icy conditions in addition to being pursued by an armored force.

The crossroads behind are quickly lost from sight as the road meanders through the gap in the highlands. Before rounding a corner in the highway, which pushed the intersection out of sight, Greg wasn’t able to verify if the pursuit continued in their direction. For now, he can only assume that it does and continue their flight.

His plan is to run south through the night toward Santa Fe and Albuquerque. If they haven’t heard from Jack by that time, they will turn west, fleeing to the northwest and safety. He regrets not turning to the northwest when they had the initial choice. Every mile they drive south is taking them farther away from the compound. Greg knows there is only a small chance of linking up with Jack in the morning. And even then, the odds are remote that they’ll be able to create enough separation so that the 130 can land and pick them up. And that’s if there is a good place to land should they come into contact with Jack.

Yeah, I should have turned north
, Greg thinks as they race between the hills.

The fuel situation will have to work itself out. Those behind will have to stop and refuel as well. Having more vehicles, it will take them longer to accomplish which is one advantage Greg and the others have. They escaped the trap with almost a full load of fuel, so they won’t have to worry about that until somewhere near Santa Fe. The others, having the same type of vehicle, will have to stop before then. Stopping for fuel where they did has given him the advantage fuel-wise.

Greg feels his head drooping and his eyes involuntarily closing as weariness sets in. They are all tired and he tells the others to rest as well as they can. They’re going to need it in the coming days. Greg knows the driver has to be exhausted and the last thing they need is to run off the road. He has another soldier switch places with the driver. The things they can control, they will.

“Sir?” one solider says, getting Greg’s attention.

Having almost fallen asleep, Greg snaps his head up. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” the soldier asks.

Others in the compartment nod, the same question running through their minds. Hearing the question, Greg can’t imagine how the ones they rescued must be feeling. To be rescued from the caves, and almost certain death, only to be thrown into this wild chase must be traumatic for them.

“No…no, I do not,” Greg answers wearily.

“Any guesses, sir?”

“Well, we obviously pissed someone off pretty bad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was my ex. In lieu of that, your guess is as good as mine.”

“How long do you think they’ll come after us?” another soldier asks.

“They don’t seem to like us much, so I’m thinking they mean to chase us to the ends of the earth. If they were merely safeguarding a base camp, they would have stopped their pursuit long ago. The fact that they’ve chased us so hard and for so long gives me the impression that they’ll continue to do so. Sorry, but that’s the straight skinny as far as I see it.”

“What are we going to do, sir?”

“We’ll run south, to Albuquerque if necessary, then turn west and make our way back to the compound. We’ll fuel up whenever the opportunity arises. They’ll have to do the same, so we’re at least even with that. If Jack makes contact with us, we’ll find a place for him to land and haul our sorry asses out of here. Until then, we keep our heads on our shoulders and conduct a strategic withdrawal…at high speed,” Greg replies.

The last draws a few chuckles from the soldiers. Strategic withdrawal means retreat. It’s the military vernacular for ‘get the fuck out of Dodge’. The expressions of those they rescued ease to a degree. There are still lines of tension etched around the eyes, but there is some relaxation knowing there is at least a semblance of a plan, and that Greg isn’t entirely making it up as they go. Of course, there really isn’t anything to plan, or make up for that matter. It’s just run and try to stay far enough ahead. Kind of like a deadly form of tag…but in this game, there are no tag backs.

There is one thing that Greg has kept in a corner of his mind, which he doesn’t mention and has him worried. There is the second group that split off from their pursuers, the one that went south at Pueblo. They are unaccounted for, and he hopes they took that direction to cover the possible avenues Greg could have taken. If there is communication between those behind and that group, well, that wouldn’t bode well.

After the initial twists and turns, the mountain pass levels out and they are able to make good speed, even with having to drive on thermal imaging. The trip through the passage is a short one and they soon find themselves driving past lower hills, eventually spilling out into a long, gradually widening valley. So far, Greg hasn’t seen any sign of their pursuit, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there as the winding road prevents any distant view.

They drive out onto the flat plain of the valley and the road runs straight for miles. Greg looks back and is dismayed to see their pursuit emerge from behind the hills. The chase so far hasn’t enabled him to gain any separation, but the others still haven’t been able to close the distance either. Greg reasons that the armored column following them must have had to refuel by this time.

Perhaps they’re doing it in a series, refueling some while the others pursue
, Greg thinks, feeling his eyes begin to close again.
That way they can leap frog each other and continue the chase
.

Greg, knowing he’ll need his wits with the coming day, trades places with a soldier. With instructions to wake him should the situation change, he gets as comfortable as possible and closes his eyes. He is soon fast asleep.

Carrying its crew of very tired people, the Stryker continues its journey south. Any apprehensions they have about the dangers are lost in the blur of exhaustion, especially among those who were rescued. They’ve been through a lot…and it shows.

Through the night, the Stryker maintains its flight toward Santa Fe, passing through the small townships of Villa Grove, Moffat, Hooper, Alamosa, and others that flash by in the blink of an eye, barely noticed before they fade from view. The tall peaks edging the long valley are darker shades against the night sky. The seemingly abandoned small towns, the twinkling stars above, and the faint lights sporadically visible behind are the only company as they race under the velvet of the nighttime sky.

The eastern sky above the peaks lightens with the impending arrival of the dawn, gradually turning a lighter shade of blue, outlining the dark shapes of the mountain tops. Somewhere in their run through the night, they passed the sign welcoming them to New Mexico.

Greg feels his shoulder being shaken and, as if from a distance, he hears someone calling him. He opens his eyes as consciousness slowly rises from the depths of his exhausted sleep. Across from him, on the opposite bench seat, soldiers and those rescued rest their heads on each other, trying to sleep while constantly being jostled from the motion of the Stryker.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m awake. What is it?” Greg asks, gazing blurry-eyed at the soldier who awakened him.

“Sir, we’re approaching a large city. It’s nearly dawn,” the soldier responds.

“How’s our fuel?” Greg asks, rubbing his hand across his face in an attempt to banish the fatigue.

“We’re getting low, just under a third of a tank.”

“Anything on our pursuit?”

“They’re still behind us, sir. We haven’t gained or lost any distance from them.”

“Okay, good job. Get some rest,” Greg says, rising.

He wakes the driver and has him replace the soldier currently manning the position. Clambering over and around a tangle of legs, Greg resumes his position in the commander’s station. Looking at the map, he orients himself to their location and what they are facing ahead.

Sunlight illuminates the very tops of the mountaintops to the west as the team enters the beginnings of a once-inhabited town. It may still be populated, but whether that is by any remnants of humankind, night runners, or a combination thereof is unknown. The map shows several towns built next to each other. They surround the confluence of several streams, the waters having originated from the surrounding elevations.

Pursuit isn’t too far behind. Greg has few choices. They’ll need fuel within the next one hundred miles, and this may be the last chance prior to Santa Fe. If they don’t refuel now, they’ll be running on fumes by the time they reach the large metropolis, at which point, any choices will be taken away from them.

They are on the outskirts of a city large enough that they could possibly lose their pursuers within the myriad of streets. The last time didn’t work out very well, but there’s a better chance within the larger urban sprawl. If the armor behind passes them by, Greg can wait until they’re out of sight and flee to the north. To do that, he’ll have to make sure they all pass and aren’t operating in a leap-frog fashion as they refuel…and that they don’t have airborne surveillance.

The third option is to continue driving south in the hopes that they outrun those behind. He’s not comfortable continuing a chase of this manner in addition to running low on fuel.

Pondering the choices, Greg knows that the immediate priority is fuel. If they are to make a run back to the compound and safety, they will have to stay on top of the fuel situation.

The trick is how to accomplish that feat. It will have to be out from sight from the main thoroughfare with ready access to an escape route. They can’t use a gas station; that will take too long to set up. That leaves siphoning fuel from a semi-tractor or other large, diesel-driven piece of equipment.

Turning to the group, most of whom are now awake, he tells them, “Okay, folks. We’re going to need to fuel up here. Hopefully we still have some fuel canisters. If so, then we’re going to do it the same way we did it last time, three pouring fuel and the rest siphoning.”