Marauder (Oregon Files 15)

“Don’t be a dipstick. One of their ammo dumps must have blown up.”

As he drove, Wheatley kept one eye on the fire burning behind him. He had no idea what set it off, but the light breeze coming from the sea would be fanning the flames.

Then from that direction, he saw something new, a bright light streaking toward them.

“What is that?” Wheatley asked.

Knoll turned in his seat. “It looks like a missile. Maybe it cooked off when the ammo dump went up.”

The missile shot over them just as they were entering the outskirts of Port Cook. Wheatley craned his neck to watch it through the windshield as it changed course and angled down toward the ground.

Five hundred feet above Port Cook, the rocket detonated, emitting a puff of white mist that seemed to quickly dissipate.

“That’s lucky,” Knoll said. “Looked like it was going to land in the center of town.”

As they were crossing the bridge over the river that marked the edge of town, Wheatley saw several of the townspeople outside on the main street watching the smoke in the distance. Without warning, each of them collapsed and slumped to the ground.

“What’s going on . . .”

That was all Wheatley got out before he lost consciousness.

When he came to, the first thing he noticed was the smell of brackish water. His legs and nose ached. He vaguely remembered that there was an accident at Talbot, and his last memory was of a missile shooting toward them. After that, it was black.

He opened his eyes and saw that the windshield was cracked and the hood crumpled. It was also sideways. In front of him was the bank of the river. Somehow they had plunged off the bridge, but he didn’t recall that happening.

Wheatley turned his head with effort, but his legs wouldn’t move, and he could only flail his arms. Knoll was below him, water from the river threatening to submerge him.

Wheatley tried talking, but he could croak out nothing more than a few unintelligible groans. Knoll responded with a terrified keening. The river’s surface was creeping higher as the truck settled into the river’s muck, and it didn’t look like he could move either.

Wheatley fumbled in an attempt to unhook his seat belt, then thought better of it. His seat belt was the only thing keeping him from dropping into the water beside Knoll.

The feeling of complete helplessness was horrifying. He could only watch as the water rose to Knoll’s neck. A similar fate would follow soon for Wheatley unless someone in town came to their rescue.

The two of them remained like that for what seemed like an eternity, but for all Wheatley knew, it could have been mere minutes. He heard nothing but the gurgling of water until the air was split by the screech of brakes.

The water was nearly up to Knoll’s mouth, so Wheatley did his best to shout, but it sounded more like the cry of a wounded animal.

“What is it, Wilson?” a man said from above. Wheatley recognized the voice as Sam Carter, one of the young airmen stationed at Talbot. The other man had to be his buddy Todd Wilson.

“Looks like a truck went over the side of the bridge,” Wilson said. “There are two guys inside.”

“Who is it?”

“Wheatley and Knoll.” He called to them as he clambered down the riverbank. “Oy, there. Are you hurt?”

Both Wheatley and Knoll responded with groans to the question.

“Come on, then, Carter,” Wilson said. “Give me a hand before they drown.”

Wilson yanked the driver’s door open. As Wheatley felt hands gripping his shoulders while his belt was unclipped, he was overwhelmed with relief at being rescued.

Wilson and Carter grunted with effort as they carried him back up to the road.

“Why do you think the fire brigade didn’t answer when we called?” Wilson asked.

“It certainly wasn’t because they were helping these fellows.”

They laid Wheatley roughly on the warm grass next to their Humvee so they could go back for Knoll.