Assault on Cheyenne Mountain (Denver Burning Book 4) Page 3

  Now that the snow was melting and the less-frigid days of early spring were upon them, Carson spent every third day laboring in the mud, planting crops with seeds the camp’s overseers had taken from some poor farmer or other. The prisoners hoped the crops would grow well and be sufficient. If they failed, Camp Carrion’s sarcastically-chosen name would no longer be hyperbole.

  A fellow inmate with an olive complexion and baggy cargo pants sank to one knee outside Carson’s tent. He was stroking a thick black beard with one hand. “Hey, man, can I borrow… oh, you’re already using it.”

  Carson nodded. “One second, Khalil. You can have it as soon as I’m done.”

  “Thanks. The guards are started to call me ‘Osama’ again, and you know what that means.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know why they care so much. Are we going to hide contraband in our beards or something?”

  “Just another way to harass us, man. Keep us in line.”

  Khalil was third generation Lebanese. He was a helicopter pilot that had refused to go along with Tamare’s orders one too many times once the Correctionists started calling the shots. It didn’t help that he’d gotten into a fist-fight with some of Commissioner Masters’ men when they called him a raghead. When he arrived at Camp Carrion, he had struck up a friendship with Carson based on their shared hatred of the men behind the balance of power in Colorado Springs.

  That all seemed far away now, though it was probably a two-hour walk from the camp. Carson wondered what Tamare and the Correctionists were up to, whether they had captured Denver yet. He wondered who the Correctionists even were. He had no way to find out, and the guards didn’t know enough to make it worth the trouble to get it out of them.

  One of the guards was worth talking to, though. Brunson had followed Carson to the prison camp a few months after his own departure. Not as an inmate but still being punished for some indiscretion or other. Carson never got him to confess what it was that finally got him on Tamare’s bad side, but it was enough to relegate the Marine to guard duty out at the prison camp instead of a cushy position inside the former NORAD compound.

  If Carson had hoped Brunson would aid him in an escape attempt, however, he had so far been mistaken. The guards were a tight-knit bunch, and they lived in fear of the random inspections Commissioner Masters and his men carried out. Tamare had given responsibility for the prison to Masters along with the products of the prisoners’ labor. Masters used their output to keep he and his men elevated in status above the rank and file of the town. Tamare turned a blind eye to the whole operation, and sent his least-valued soldiers to assist in controlling the prison population.

  Carson had discovered a brutal side of Brunson that hadn’t come out while he was in the Air Force base. The Marine obviously had martial arts experience and used his riot baton with stunning speed and ferocity when one of the prisoners gave him a problem. He nearly killed the man.

  It wasn’t until he had been there a few months that Carson overheard one guard telling another about the source of Brunson’s instability. It seemed that immediately prior to his assignment to Camp Carrion, Brunson had gone with the general to Cheyenne Mountain for further communication with the Correctionist leadership to the east. They learned, among other things, that after the EMP took out power to the East Coast the carnage spreading out of Baltimore had decimated the populations of every town from Bethesda to Annapolis. Then waves of disease had finished off all survivors, until the area north and east of D.C., where Brunson’s family had been stationed, was a considered a mass graveyard and was cordoned off with razor wire so the infection wouldn’t spread into the surviving remnants of Washington.

  Since that day, Brunson had become unhinged, and soon had to be sent to the camp because he wasn’t complying with Tamare’s orders. The other guards nervously joked that he was only one step away from getting a tent in the yard with the inmates. He no longer seemed to remember the rapport he and Carson had shared while at the base together. Only on rare occasions would he respond to questions or friendly overtures.

  But Carson wasn’t relying on the man to help him escape. He was actively planning it on his own, and gradually bringing Khalil into his plot.

  Upon first being freed from the confines of his solitary cell on the Air Force base, Carson had assumed he’d find a way to freedom within a week or two if he wasn’t killed first. But he took his time so that when he broke out, he could be certain that he’d get away clean. Now that his mission as a DHS agent lay in ruins, he wasn’t in such a hurry that he was willing to risk taking a bullet in the back or being quickly run to ground by Masters’ men and their dogs. He was in it for the long haul now. Survival, answers, and retribution were his goal, but he could wait if needed. The weeks ground on as he gathered bits of information here and there from fellow inmates.

  Some reported that the Commissioner’s men patrolled all the territory east to Highway 71, but they watched the mountains to the west and the roads to the south especially carefully. Others coming in from the rural areas to the south and east told of an army advancing across the plains from Kansas. These soldiers had tanks and Hummers, and they were quick to use them against civilians that resisted their decrees. Some said they had been bogged down in the South or in Texas but others said they had already moved through Pueblo and headed up to Denver with Tamare’s blessing.

  There was also the weather to consider. As the nights got colder, Carson became more reluctant to break out with nothing but the shirt on his back. With snow on the ground, he’d freeze long before he found people he could count on to help him. And then there was the helicopter.

  Tamare had one helicopter, an MH-60 Pave Hawk, fully loaded and active. The Air Force version of the ubiquitous Black Hawk aircraft had evaded the EMP, according to Brunson, by occupying the sole berth in a specially reinforced hangar that shielded it.

  “How come all the hangars weren’t reinforced?” Carson had asked.

  “You want the world to make sense now?” Brunson had scoffed. “It was in the works, supposedly. The army was retrofitting some hangars and bunkers here and there to ward off EMP’s, and we were scheduled for upgrades. But you know the military.”

  Carson nodded, but privately he wondered if Coulter and his traitorous insiders hadn’t personally seen to the scuttling or at the least the delay of the anti-EMP measures.

  The general apparently had enough fuel to fly his bird around on regular reconnaissance flights, and back and forth from Cheyenne Mountain. Being the only working aircraft at a major military airbase, it had all the fuel to itself. It landed at the camp now and then to whisk a prisoner away from questioning at the base or to bring a VIP in to inspect the place. The inmates were constantly reminded that there was nowhere to run or hide even if they got past the razor wire and the guards’ rifles.

  A digger had broken out of the camp one night in early December, desperate to reach his family, and the guards didn’t find out for an hour. In a hurry to track the man down, they sent a runner to the Air Force base, and soon the thump-thump-thump of the helicopter’s blades had drawn the attention of every inmate in the camp. They tracked the thing as it flew over the hills and quickly flushed the escapee from his hiding place. They didn’t attempt to recapture him. He was killed with a single burst from the chopper’s guns, a stark warning and a declaration of dominance.

  On another occasion there was gunfire in the hills just after dark and the guards shouted about intruders spying on the prison camp. The chopper was called in and whoever had come near beat a hasty retreat.

  At first these incidents demoralized Carson, but as his friendship with Khalil grew the two began to fantasize about turning the tables on the men who used the chopper to control the region. Khalil hated the tall, blonde pilot they saw flying the bird.

  “Thinks he’s Top Gun or something,” Carson’s friend said, eyeing the man as he waited outside the chopper one day after delivering the general for a visit with the guards in the main building.
“I’d show him how to handle that machine if I could get it away from him for a minute or two.”

  “Let’s steal it, then,” Carson suggested, only half joking. “Hit that guy over the head, jump in, and we’re gone.”

  “Stealing it isn’t the problem,” Khalil said. “If you could overpower the pilot and hold off the guards, I could get the thing airborne in a couple of minutes easy. But we have no idea where we can land. And where would we find more fuel out there? What’s the destination?”

  “I dunno. Maui.”

  “Okay, we’re not making it to Maui, but Pave Hawks have good range even though I don’t see extra fuel tanks on this one. Hopefully there would be enough in the tank to carry us far enough away to avoid the initial search. Stealing it with an empty tank would be a non-starter. But regardless, a chopper is going to attract everyone on the ground wherever it goes, and wherever we land we have a very short time before people converge on the LZ. We’d need to make it at least fifty miles away from here to get a good head start on these soldiers, and more than that to find an area remote enough that we could land without getting swarmed.”

  Carson and Khalil conjectured endlessly on the subject, running the numbers in their heads and trying to figure out how far they could get if the chopper had at least half a tank of fuel when it arrived at the prison. They studied the country around the base whenever they were able, learning what their options would be if they broke through the wire versus flying out in style.

  To the east was sagebrush, flat and endless, with scattered roads and ranches. To the south and west, hills covered in scrub oak.

  Carson probed about the situation between Tamare and the Commissioner whenever Brunson or the guards were feeling talkative. Bit by bit, he gathered that the relationship between the two factions, military and militia, was steadily deteriorating. Masters had quite a bit of support among the civilian population, due in no small part to his coercive tactics. He had stepped up pressure on Tamare to give him control of more and more of the military assets. The general held on to his control over the base and his men and machines, but he seemed very preoccupied with goings-on to the north and east. Sometimes he left the base with only a few soldiers guarding it while he took the bulk of his men and equipment out on campaigns. Brunson didn’t know the details of the mission, just that the guards were occasionally left without much support from Tamare. Carson filed that tidbit away; when he and Khalil made their move, it would be to their advantage to have Tamare out on a long expedition.

  They survived the winter without becoming desperate enough to leave the shelter of the camp and make a break for the hills, or take a chance on the chopper. But as March rolled into April and the snow gave way to mud, grass, and birdsong, things started to change.

  The prison guards began getting edgy. They wouldn’t say what was wrong, but they overreacted and came down harshly on some men for things as small as a joke. They spoke in hushed tones and eyed the prisoners more cautiously, ceasing conversation when an inmate was near enough to overhear.

  Carson and Khalil began to speak much more earnestly of finding a way out. They sensed that something was coming, and they didn’t want to be in the prison camp when it arrived.

  The helicopter came in one day while Khalil and Carson were digging a new latrine near the eastern edge of the camp, its thunderous roar drowning out everything and reverberating off the hills. It landed in its customary spot next to the main building, a hundred feet from where they were digging. The pilot was alone, but he carried a briefcase when he emerged from the cockpit and clutched it close as the guards greeted him. He hurried inside with the camp commandant. Instead of lingering outside near the chopper, the other guards also went inside. Their faces were tight and clenched.

  Carson’s eyes strayed to the whirlybird, and he nudged Khalil. A quick sprint across the gravel drive and they could be at the chopper. There was only one guard on this side of the building, and it was Brunson.

  He stood, brooding, watching them closely as they worked from a spot along the fence. He’d been unusually morose that morning and Carson’s efforts to strike up a conversation had been quickly rebuffed. He wondered if it was his anniversary, or maybe the birthday of the kid he’d lost.

  As they paused from their labor to gaze at the helicopter and the building where the other guards had gone inside, Brunson spoke.

  “They’re going to execute you.”

  Chapter 5: Up and Away

  Khalil turned to him, shovel still full of dirt. “What?”

  “They’re killing off a bunch of you,” Brunson said. “Orders are coming down, there’s a big push in the campaigns up north now that the snows are mostly gone, and Tamare’s done supporting the camp. They want us to bring the numbers down by half and then turn the whole place over to the Commissioner.”

  “Holy crap, no wonder you’ve been quiet today,” Khalil said. “Would they really do that?” Carson just watched Brunson’s face and waited.

  The Marine nodded. “Khalil, I don’t even know why you’re here. You didn’t do anything I haven’t done myself. And Carson, you’re just a fed who stopped at the wrong base at the wrong time. It isn’t right.”

  “We heartily agree,” Carson said. “You wouldn’t be able to put in a good word for us, would you?”

  “I’ve tried all that. My opinion doesn’t pull much weight around here. Speaking out is what got me ousted from the base. The other guards barely trust me. They’re in there right now going over the list. Who they’re going to keep, who they won’t need to have around anymore. And you’ll notice they didn’t invite me into the huddle.”

  Carson’s eyes drifted back toward the momentarily unguarded helicopter. He forced them back toward the guard standing by the wire, watching he and Khalil. “So, what do you think?” he asked.

  “What do I think? I think it’s a crime. An atrocity.” The Marine glowered. “But… we’ve all been doing things lately that we wouldn’t have considered last year. You know?”

  “Well,” Khalil said, choosing his words delicately, “some of us still try to stay true. Do what we think is right, even when it’s hard. I think you’re like that, Brunson.”

  Brunson raised an eyebrow. “What, Khalil? You think I’m gonna let you out of here, make a run for it?”

  Khalil shrugged.

  “Why not?” Carson said, a sudden intensity infusing his voice with urgency. “You’re a good man, Brunson. You’re a Marine, for crying out loud. You don’t turn mass-murderer just because some pansy in charge of a prison camp tells you to start shooting fellow Americans. I can’t believe you’d do something like that, not even now. What would your wife and kid think?”

  Brunson stared back at Carson. His hand strayed to his truncheon, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Shut your mouth, Carson.”

  “And what’s the alternative?” Carson continued. He had nothing to lose. “You can’t join in this butchery, not with your wife and kid watching from the other side. But you can’t stick around either, or you’d be next on the firing line.”

  Brunson growled. “I said shut it, Carson, or you’re going to make me rethink all of this.” He sighed. “I met a lady in town last week that wants you out of here, Carson. She’s very determined. She worked me over desperately for three days before I told her I wasn’t about to go along with the killing, and she didn’t need to persuade me any further.”

  Carson couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Had Scala come back to the city to help him?

  “I offered up a few hand grenades,” Brunson continued, still looking at Carson, “and she suggested using them to breach the wire and allow you guys to make a run for it. But I had a better idea.”

  “What about me?” Khalil asked. “Did she say anything about getting me out too?”

  Brunson turned his gaze to the other man. “You’re our ticket out of here, Khalil.” He pointed at the helicopter. “That chopper is still warm. Hear its engine ticking? If you can fly it out of her
e in the next few minutes, this lady said she knows a place where we can go to find food, guns, a place to hide. The plan is to use the grenades as a distraction. Then we get in the chopper and we’re gone.”

  Carson licked his dry lips, wondering if Brunson was pulling some cruel prank, or setting them up. “What are we waiting for, then?”

  Brunson looked up at the sky. “The distraction. My watch stopped a while back. What time would you say it was, Carson?”

  Carson eyed the position of the sun. “Four o’clock, maybe.”

  “Closer to five,” Khalil corrected.

  “Call it four thirty, then,” Brunson said. Honestly, I’ve been expecting a boom for the last twenty minutes. You two ready to climb into that chopper as soon as you hear one?”

  The two prisoners nodded. “Okay. Maybe we can start moseying over there, real casual. Stay with me, and if anyone looks our way I’ll jab you with my stick so it’ll look like I’m taking you in for discipline or something.”

  Carson put down his pick and moved toward the helicopter. Khalil came next, still carrying his shovel as if he intended to brain someone with it if they tried to stop the trio. And Brunson came after, looking for all the world as if he were escorting two prisoners across the yard.

  Carson fought to keep a grin off his face at the sheer audacity of what they were doing. At the same time, his senses were on overdrive. They would either be shot during the next five minutes, or they would escape the prison camp and take with them the prized possession of the general that had put them there.

  They were only halfway to the helicopter when the thump of high explosive echoed across the grounds. Carson’s eyes were drawn instantly to the perimeter and he saw a cloud of smoke and flying dirt. Severed strands of razor wire bounced away from the blast like slinky toys, and a nearby guard was thrown on his face.