his back against the front wheel of the Suburban, Dog limping along between us.
Timmons didn’t look good when we got to him. He was pale and his shirt was soaked in blood from a high chest wound. Looking up as we approached he tried to smile but it was more of a grimace, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Rachel dashed past me and dropped to her knees next to him, ripping his shirt open and barking at me to help her remove his body armor.
We were as gentle as we could be, propping him back up once the vest was worked over his head. I clicked on my flashlight so Rachel could see the wound, turning my head when I heard Martinez open fire. She was putting the infected males down and didn’t need my help so I turned my attention back to Timmons. He had reached out and taken Rachel’s hand in his.
“Going to die,” he wheezed out, looking into Rachel’s eyes.
I could see the tear form and trickle down her face as she nodded. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do without a hospital.”
“That’s alright then, pretty lady. Wasn’t liking life too much without my missus anyways.” He tried to laugh but it turned into a strangled cough. Bright red blood poured out of his mouth and he died, hand slipping out of Rachel’s to flop onto the pavement.
“There was just too much damage,” Rachel said, no longer trying to hold back the tears. “Big bullet and it most likely started tumbling from going through his vest. There’s no exit wound so it probably bounced around inside him.”
I wanted to hold Rachel and comfort her, but I didn’t think we had time. It was hard to imagine the girl with the rifle had been by herself. Anything’s possible, but that doesn’t mean it’s very damn likely. But if there were others with her, why hadn’t they attacked by now? Was she a lookout? Put there to keep an eye out for whatever her group was interested in?
That made sense. And lookouts usually have radios. Had she called for reinforcements? But then why they hell had she started shooting? Just young and inexperienced and eager to do something? That was all that was making sense, and that meant it was time to get the hell out of there. Fast.
Whistling to get Martinez’ attention I waved her over to the idling Suburban. She ran and jumped into the back seat with Dog, Rachel and I getting in front.
“What the hell?” Martinez said, reaching forward and banging on the heavy wire mesh that separated the back seat from the driver.
“Cop car,” I said, finding the switch to shut off the bank of lights on the front. Shifting into gear I spun us around and headed north, the powerful V8 roaring as I fed in gas.
“If either one of you so much as thinks about making a crack about a Mexican in the back seat of a police car, I’ll…” Martinez didn’t get to finish her thought as bullets began slamming into the vehicle.
28
Navy Lieutenant Randy Parker looked down over the lowered rear ramp of the C2-A Greyhound that had launched from the aircraft carrier USS Harry S. Truman over eight hours ago. The twin turbo-prop aircraft was flying at slightly over 32,000 feet and they were less than five minutes from the jump point of their HAHO – High Altitude High Opening – insertion into Alaska. Parker looked behind him at the rest of his SEALS, twelve of them stacked up in line. Everyone had switched over to their portable oxygen supply and were ready to go.
“Arrest and extract the President of the United States,” was what Admiral Packard had ordered Parker and his men to do.
After a lot of soul searching, and the most detailed background briefing for an operation that he’d ever received in his Naval career, Parker had accepted the order. Not without reservations and certainly not without doubt. But the “normal” world that would have made this act unthinkable a few months ago had been ripped away. There was no normal left. Only the fight to hold on to what you had, and the thought of the President handing the remains of the country to the Russians on a silver platter was what had swayed his decision.
“Fifteen seconds.” The jumpmaster’s voice over his radio. “Godspeed, Lieutenant.”
Parker looked up at the small “Christmas Tree” over the open rear door. A stack of lights resembling a