Into the Guns (14 page)

Mac knew that Tier I UAVs like the hand-launched Raven had a range of six miles and could stay aloft for sixty to ninety minutes.
Tier II UAVs, such as the Shadow, could go farther and stay up longer. And Esco was correct. Although the Apache
could
scout ahead, it would not only burn a whole lot of fuel but announce their presence. There was a potential problem, however—and Mac addressed the question to Smith. “If I'm not mistaken, the Shadows would require a launcher . . . Do we have one?”

Smith grinned. “You're pretty smart for an officer. Yes, ma'am, we have one. It's mounted on a trailer. We'll haul it behind the Humvee. That'll add to the length of the column, but it'll be worth it.”

“I agree,” Mac said. “Let's assemble one of each. Have we got the necessary know-how?”

“The Raven will be easy,” Esco predicted. “They come in a couple of cases—and I could probably do it by myself. As for the Shadows, I've flown them but never been required to assemble one. The Apache's ground crew said they'd be willing to pitch in, though—and we have the necessary manuals.”

“How long will it take?”

“Two days,” Smith replied. “Assembly's only half of it. We've got to test the drones and train up.”

Mac felt a rising sense of frustration. She wanted to get on the road as soon as possible but knew how valuable the UAVs would be. “Okay, go for it. But two days max . . . We need to amscray before something big and ugly comes this way.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Esco said as he stood. “We'll be ready.”

The sergeants left Mac to stare at the opposite wall. A picture of the president was mounted there. He looked confident as he stared into the camera.
One nation under God,
Mac thought to herself.
Not anymore.

The American people abhor a vacuum.

—THEODORE ROOSEVELT

SOUTHEAST TEXAS

Swamp water churned, and arms thrashed as the men fought. Sloan's handcuffed hands were positioned in front of Short Guy's throat, and as he pulled them back, the connecting chain bit into the security officer's throat.
Die, son of a bitch, die!
Sloan thought to himself.

But Sloan's lungs were on fire . . . And as he began to lose consciousness, he had no choice but to give up and kick with his feet. Their heads broke the surface together. And, as Sloan struggled to suck air into his oxygen-starved lungs, he found himself in the powerful downdraft caused by the Huey's whirling rotors.

The downward pressure flattened the water around him but started to ease as the helicopter drifted sideways. That was when Flattop appeared in the open doorway above. Geysers of water jumped up in front of Sloan as the man opened fire. Sloan felt Short
Guy jerk as a 9mm round struck his body. Holy shit! Flattop didn't care who he hit.

Sloan tried to take Short Guy with him as he ducked below the surface. It didn't work. All Sloan could do was slide in under the other man and use the security officer's body as a shield while he kicked his feet and struggled to breathe. Fortunately, they were close to shore, which meant Sloan was able to tow Short Guy in under the thick foliage that hung out over the water.

The chopper vanished from sight as Sloan felt mud under his shoes and attempted to stand. But that wasn't possible without lifting his arms up off Short Guy first. Once on his feet, Sloan saw that the other man's face was blue. Had he been dead
before
Flattop shot him? That's the way it looked because the bullet hole was in Short Guy's left shoulder. Sloan looked up through a tangle of branches as the helicopter passed overhead. Then it was gone. Would Godbee send people to find him? Hell yes, he would.

After securing a firm grip on Short Guy's collar, Sloan dragged the dead man up onto the muddy bank. His hands shook as he searched the security officer's pockets. The key, he needed the key, and was thrilled to find it in a pants pocket.

It took three tries to get the key into the lock and turn it. Then, as the cuffs fell away, Sloan felt a profound sense of relief. He could use his hands freely now . . . And that felt wonderful.

Sloan set about the task of recovering everything else the corpse had to offer. That included Short Guy's Glock, an extra magazine, and a pocketknife. There was a wallet, too . . . With 118 bucks in it! Plus a photo of a little girl. She was smiling. Sloan swore. Short Guy was a father—and his daughter was never going to see him again.

That was the moment when Sloan realized he was a killer. Not a pathological killer, he assured himself, but a killer nonetheless.
He felt a terrible sense of guilt. But there was fear, too . . . Fear of being caught. And that was enough to get him moving.

It would have been nice to take the other man's clothes and rid himself of the jumpsuit, but there was no way that Short Guy's duds were going to fit. So Sloan pushed the body out into the water, where it soon sank below the surface.

Did the Huey pilot have an exact fix on the spot where the two of them hit the water? That seemed unlikely. So by getting rid of the body, Sloan hoped to make it that much more difficult for searchers to find the starting point.

Think,
Sloan told himself, as he used a piece of driftwood to erase his footprints.
What should you do next?
The answer was obvious. Put a lot of distance between himself and the spot where he was standing.
But how?
He couldn't swim from place to place. Not without winding up inside an alligator.
I need a log,
Sloan concluded.
Anything that will keep me up out of the water.

That realization began a search that took him halfway around what turned out to be an island. People had been using the swamp for a long time, so plenty of plastic bottles and chunks of styrofoam were washed up along the shoreline. But it wasn't until twenty minutes into the search that he located a section of what had been a dock. It consisted of three planks nailed to crosspieces. A raft!

But when Sloan pulled it down into the water, he soon discovered that the planks weren't enough to support his weight, which meant that they were partially submerged. Not only that, but his feet were hanging off one end and might look good to a hungry gator.

That couldn't be helped, however. Sloan had to get going and do so quickly. Darkness was still hours away—and Godbee would send boats to find him. Sloan chose the tallest tree on the far shore
as his target and began to paddle. It was easy at first. But then, as the adrenaline started to fade, his arms began to tire. All Sloan could do was grit his teeth and keep on.

Eventually, the trees grew taller, details became clear, and the tall marsh grass took him in. As the bottom came up, Sloan stood, pushed the raft in farther, and made his way onto the shore. And not a moment too soon. Sloan
heard
the airboat before he saw it . . . He hurried to find a place to hide, remembered the footprints he'd left behind, and went back to smooth them over. He was barely out of sight when the propeller-driven boat appeared.

There were three men in the boat. One sat on a raised seat with the rudder stick in one hand and his foot on the gas. The others were up front, rifles at the ready. Water surged away from the squared-off bow as the driver cut power, and the riflemen used their scopes to search the shoreline.

All Sloan could do was hunker down and wait. According to Short Guy's Rolex, only ten minutes passed before the engine noise increased, and the airboat departed. But it seemed like an eternity. Sloan felt a sense of relief as he watched it go. But that emotion was short-lived. He needed to do something, but what?

It was tempting to choose a direction and start walking or wading. But that would consume valuable calories, and for what? Chances were that he'd find himself standing in a similar spot two hours later, and with darkness closing in.

No, Sloan decided, it made sense to stay where he was for the night. He'd been a Boy Scout. So he was familiar with the bow-and-drill method of starting a fire, and he knew how difficult the process could be, even in the backyard.

That's why he decided to build a debris shelter before tackling anything else. There were plenty of fallen branches to choose from,
and while going out to gather them, Sloan discovered that he was on a narrow finger of land that jutted out into a lake.

After half an hour or so, Sloan had a large pile of construction materials. The next hour was spent turning them into a small but serviceable hut.

The light was starting to fade as he went to work on a fire. The raw materials had been set aside during the hut construction process—and included a green branch, a stick, fireboard, drill, and socket. With dry tinder at the ready, Sloan turned the branch into a bow by adding one of his shoelaces. The drill consisted of a stick, a concave rock that would serve as a socket, and a piece of dry driftwood for the fireboard.

A legion of mosquitoes began to feast on Sloan as he went to work. And when darkness fell, he was still working, with only a single wisp of smoke to show for his efforts. Eventually, after what might have been an hour, he gave up in disgust.

When it started to rain, Sloan left the hut to tilt his head back and drink as much as he could. Then it was time to go back inside and watch the lightning zigzag across the sky. It lit up the point the way a flashbulb would . . . But that was comforting in a way because it allowed him to see his surroundings for a moment.

As the thunder died away, Sloan was left to sit in complete darkness as the swamp dwellers came out to eat and be eaten. Sloan heard a cacophony of grunts, what sounded like human screams, and the occasional splash out in the pond. There were hoots as well and, way off in the distance, the intermittent barking of a dog. And that was interesting because dogs usually live with people. Those sounds, combined with the constant whine of the mosquitoes, meant that Sloan didn't get a wink of sleep.

When daylight returned, it did so gradually as if reluctant to
chase the night away. Sloan was hungry by then, his skin was raw from scratching bites, and he was shivering. Not a good start to the day.
Get up,
Sloan told himself,
and move around. You'll feel warmer then.

That's what Sloan was thinking about when he heard the distant but unmistakable sound of a chain saw. It was coming from what he thought of as the east, so he dashed across the point to try to get a fix. He was facing a body of water, and the sound seemed to be coming from a point beyond an extremely tall tree, which would give him something to aim at.

Thus began a long, torturous day. It was difficult to steer a straight course as he traveled through a maze of channels. On two occasions, it was necessary to slide off the raft and duck under the surface of the water as the Huey passed overhead. And Sloan saw numerous boats but always in the distance. Were they searching for him? Or did the speedy outboards belong to swampers, who were out doing whatever swampers did? There was no way to know.

All Sloan could do was head from one reference point to another and try to keep the sun behind him. At one point, he tried to
will
the person with the chain saw to start the machine up but with no success. Finally, hungry and exhausted, Sloan was forced to stop. As the light began to fade, he went ashore and set about the business of gathering materials and building a second hut. A water moccasin slithered away at one point, but the process went more quickly than it had the day before, and Sloan was grateful for that.

There were two potential sources of water, the stuff straight out of the swamp and what could be found in puddles. Sloan was desperately thirsty by that time and decided to take a chance on a pool of rainwater. He took care to filter it through the fabric of his undershirt and into a plastic Coke bottle that had washed up onto the beach. Of course, that was something of a joke because thousands
of evil microorganisms might be living in the bottle—or could pass through the weave of his shirt. But it was the best he could do.

After slaking his thirst, Sloan sat down in front of the hut determined to start a fire. But after assembling another bow-and-drill set, and working for what must have been half an hour, he was forced to give up again. The long, cold night began, complete with the usual symphony of nerve-wracking noises.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sloan woke to the realization that he had fallen asleep at some point, the sun was up, and he could hear a chain saw! He burst out of the hut, launched the raft, and began to paddle. The noise stopped after ten minutes—but the sound was enough to restore his morale.

Splash, pull, splash, pull . . . The work went on and on. There were times when Sloan had to veer off course and circle an island before homing in on whatever tree he was using as a target. He saw alligators from time to time . . . But none were close.

As the hours passed, Sloan fell into something akin to a trance. His chest was raw by that time, and his shoulders were on fire, but he was only dimly aware of the pain as the battle continued. Finally, as Sloan rounded a point of land, he saw something that caused his heart to leap. A long pole was sticking up out of the water—and a length of bright pink surveyor tape was tied to the top of it! And another marker could be seen farther on! It didn't take a genius to realize that the carefully placed poles would lead him somewhere. To the person with the chain saw? That seemed like a good bet.

But Sloan knew how vulnerable he was. Maybe the person at the other end of those markers would help him. But it seemed more likely that they'd take one look at the orange jumpsuit and turn him in. And, in the wake of Short Guy's death, that would be the equivalent of a death sentence.

As Sloan passed the first marker, and closed in on the second,
he prayed that no one would happen along in a boat. Because if they did, he'd be at their mercy. Yes, there was the Glock to turn to, but he wanted to avoid that.

To improve his chances of escaping detection, Sloan propelled his raft in under the bank of thick foliage that hung out over the water. It was dark under the greenery, and he would be hard to see there. The next half hour or so was spent working his way into a well-marked side channel. That led him into the lagoon, where a shabby houseboat was moored. It was positioned up against a muddy bank, with a plank to serve as a footbridge.

Sloan stopped paddling at that point and was careful to stay under the foliage. He could see the flat-bottomed skiff that was secured to the houseboat and the motor on the stern. That was his way out
if
he could steal it. And what other choice did he have? He couldn't throw himself on the mercy of a complete stranger who, assuming he had a gun, might take one look at the orange jumpsuit and open fire. Where was the swamper anyway? Inside? Or out in the mangroves?