Trail of the Fallen

  Also by Bart Paul

  NONFICTION

  Double-Edged Sword: The Many Lives of Hemingway’s Friend, the American Matador Sidney Franklin

  FICTION

  Tommy Smith High Country Noir Series

  Under Tower Peak

  Cheatgrass

  See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

  Copyright © 2022 by Bart Paul

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or arcade@skyhorsepublishing.com.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022934940

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Cover illustration by Denise Klitsie

  ISBN: 978-1-950994-52-6

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-950994-63-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains, And the women come out to cut up your remains, Just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains And go to your God like a soldier . . .

  —Rudyard Kipling

  Just at dark Tommy carried Hendershott up the slope to the cave. The lieutenant was dripping from two wounds Tommy could see and more that he couldn’t, and he grunted with every step Tommy took. With ten yards to go, Tommy stumbled on the dried carcass of a pack burro half-buried under a load of firewood. Hendershott swore and dug his fingers into Tommy’s neck as Tommy fought to keep his feet. He rolled the lieutenant into the cave and propped him against the rocks then tended the wounds as best he could. The mouth of the cave had a small lip like a sill that gave them some cover, but not much.

  Tommy could see the black shapes moving toward them across the plain like ghost warriors, the closest taking up positions in the boulders at the foot of the slope. He crawled back outside the cave, keeping hidden by the rocks. The wound in his thigh began to sting and twitch. He got to the dead burro and cut the burlap sling loose from the homemade sawbuck with his skinning knife. It looked like it had been a nice enough little burro and reminded him of home. Tommy was halfway back to the cave with the wood before they noticed him and sent some fire his way. When he didn’t return fire he could hear their voices, laughing and mocking. One stood up and said something in Pashtun that made his boys laugh. Then another made a gesture recognizable in any language and turned his back, shaking his weapon in the air. The Kalashnikov rattled in the rocks when Tommy shot him. Tommy built a small fire at the mouth of the cave, just enough to take off the chill for Hendershott. It went on like that for three days.

  Just before dawn on the fourth day they came again, but slowly this time, almost leisurely, keeping their distance, their shouts faint, but confident that they were out of range. Tommy picked three that were clustered close together toward the rear, family men most likely, and sighted from one to the other to the other, from the second to the first to the third, until he had a rhythm. As Hendershott wheezed and gurgled behind him, Tommy fired three times fast and even the faintest shouting stopped. From far down the slope, Tommy heard one last voice, mocking and faraway like an echo. The voice was in English, and it was calling Tommy’s name. He heard the gunship overhead and heard Hendershott moving behind him. Then hell came knocking.

  Contents

  I THE BLACK FLAGS OF KHORASAN

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  II POGONIP

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  III BACKTRACK

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  I

  THE BLACK FLAGS OF KHORASAN

  Chapter One

  I woke up with the sweats again. It had stormed during the night, and fading moonlight lit up the new snow. It had been almost two years since I’d come home, but the night sweats and bad dreams had come for me the first time just days before when I was alone in the canyon closing up our new log house at the pack station for the winter. I’d known men who’d had the nightmares both in-country and back home and remembered the old guys I’d met two winters before in Walter Reed who’d had them since the battle for Hue along the Perfume River, and I remembered the Gulf War vets messed up from depleted uranium. I’d heard the crying in the night. I’d seen the fights with orderlies in the corridors. I’d known all of that, but it wasn’t going to happen to me. I thought I was different. But now my sheets were soaked and the shivering wouldn’t stop. Neither would the dream. The dream of the cave. I knew it was only a dream and that it had never happened. At least not that way.

  The days were getting short. I wrapped myself in a Pendleton blanket and turned on the generator then flipped on some lights and stripped the bed. I told myself it was four thirty on a nice black fall morning and the day ahead would be fine. While I was waiting for the coffee maker I’d set up the night before, I shuffled through the log rooms, making a mental checklist of what I had left to do. Walking past the bedroom door in the dim light, I caught my reflection in the mirror over Sarah’s dresser. Wrapped in the blanket, I looked like a starving Chiricahua waiting for his beef ration from a crooked Indian agent in a bad 1950s western. I wanted to take a shower to wash away the fear sweat, but I’d drained the pipes the day before. I set the sheets, some clothes, my tool boxes, and bags of anything a mouse would eat on the deck to load into my truck. By then the eastern sky was gray at the canyon mouth.

  The truck was packed and the diesel idling when I walked across the fresh snow toward the outhouse. I thought I saw some movement at the edge of the tamarack across the creek. Something black that stood out against the shadowy snow on the pine boughs. Something that could’ve been a man. A big wind swirled the loose dry snow into my eyes, and I got into the truck and drove out of the yard. The wind died as fast as it came and left the sky clear with the first of the blue dawn. When I looked back through the dirty rear window, whatever I thought I’d seen against the trees was gone. Maybe it was only a shadow, motionless in the wind.

  A quarter mile down-canyon through the yellowed aspen I stopped the truck at the wooden bridge. I took a shovel from the truck bed and began pushing the fresh powder off the boards into the water in parallel tracks so if I had to come back and it hadn’t stormed again, the snow mashed down from the tires wouldn’t leave two tracks of ice under my wheels. It was a narrow bridge, and I knew folks could slide off it if they lost traction. I’d seen it happen.

  I shoveled fast, wanting to get back into the truck, but the flat edge of the shovel cau
ght on nailheads and splintery wood and made it slow going. I was almost to the log abutment on the far bank when I looked out across the meadow. I thought I saw the black shape of the man again, hobbling at the edge of the trees. I took a couple of deep breaths and walked toward the truck without looking back. The wind swirled and rushed again in the tamarack, and I told myself that I was hallucinating. That what I heard above the groaning of the wind in the trees was not the echo of a voice calling my name.

  It wasn’t till I got in the truck that I paid attention to why I’d been heading to the outhouse by the corral in the first place. I’d hidden my dad’s old Remington .270 in those rafters that summer so it was close and handy but out of sight. The last place a thief would look. It meant too much to me to leave it there. But I’d given myself the fantods so bad that was exactly what I was doing now. I wasn’t turning back. Not that morning.

  I got out to lock the steel gate on the pack station road behind me and took a quick glance at the snow for footprints but didn’t see a one. That just made the fantods worse. Like what was dogging my tracks didn’t leave any trace of their own that a human could see.

  I pulled into Paiute Meadows about a half hour later. It had snowed in the valley, but the snow hadn’t stuck. I parked on the side street next to the Sierra Peaks and got out. Then I looked west down the main street past the gas station at the end of town, towards the mouth of Aspen Canyon. A black line of storm clouds had formed above the western peaks, covering the Sawtooth ridges in the time it had taken me to drive the two blocks from the gas station. I turned away and hurried inside the Sierra Peaks for breakfast.

  I sat at the counter. A couple of people I semi knew nodded and I nodded back. I ordered a chicken-fried steak with home fries and over-easy eggs and black coffee while I glanced at the big TVs on the walls. The TVs were new. Both the two old cafés in town were trying to look like sports bars. The results were mixed. One screen was tuned to an Irish turf race with the sound off, and another was tuned to an NFL pregame show. The third screen at the end of the room was covering some breaking news. Crime news, it seemed like. The sound was off on that, too. Helicopter footage made it look like a mass shooting or hostage taking. I picked up my plate and coffee and moved down a few stools at the half-empty counter for a better look. It was live coverage of a prison break over in central California. I flagged down the waitress and asked her to turn up the sound. Once she did, it still was hard to figure what was what. Nobody talking to the camera knew anything. Accounts varied. Witnesses contradicted witnesses. The first statement from the Sacramento County Sheriff ’s Office rep was that eighteen convicts had busted out of prison in a laundry truck. They’d shot the truck driver and stole his clothes. A local news guy announced from inside a studio that the first clue there’d even been a breakout was when California Highway Patrol had found the laundry driver’s body in a ditch a mile from the lockup. The TV switched to a news reporter standing in front of what looked like the prison. He read a statement from the corrections department. All it said was that they were figuring they had a short count and would have more information as things got clear. Meanwhile, folks shouldn’t jump to conclusions. An announcer from cable news headquarters started talking over helicopter shots of a gray stone prison, then shots of a dam and a reservoir. I stared at the screen and poked at my gravy with a piece of toast. When they switched to new footage, I got a bad feeling.

  Now all three screens were switched to aerial shots of the prison. I ate slow, keeping my eyes on the screen while I kept feeling the stares of two guys in a booth behind me—like I was somehow involved or at least knew more than they did. I was pretty sure I knew exactly where all this was going down, so maybe I was involved just a little bit. Now a man in a suit ID’d as from the California Department of Corrections started an outdoor Q-and-A with a reporter. The wind was blowing the prison guy’s hair, and both he and the reporter looked cold standing out on the wet asphalt. He said the same thing as before. The prison was on lockdown and the count was still ongoing. The reporter grilled the guy hard about reports of heavy gunfire, like he didn’t buy a thing the prison guy said.

  I saw a number on the screen that folks could call with tips. Then they went silent and a voice-over cut in, and the footage switched to a suburban neighborhood. There was lots of smoke and confusion. It was the aftermath of a shoot-out between escapees and local law. The officers were outnumbered. A black-and-white was on fire and a second was wrapped around a light pole, and bodies were in the street. One of the bodies wore prison clothes and might have been a dead escapee. Whoever these folks were, they were seriously hard-core.

  A guy in uniform stood in front of a cluster of mics and ID’d himself as the Sacramento County sheriff. He said there might be as many as eighteen or twenty runners, so the prison statement about a bad head count was crap.

  The picture cut back to the prison. There was smoke rising from behind the stone wall and what looked to be a main gate was swinging wide. The sheriff said that roadblocks were being set up and the situation was in flux.

  The waitress followed me down the counter with a coffeepot in her hand and her eyes on the flat screen.

  “Anybody hurt?” she said.

  “Looks like two or three dead so far.” Just saying that brought back the old dread. “But I doubt it’ll end there.”

  “Where is this?”

  “Folsom.”

  “Isn’t that where your wife’s ex is locked up, Tommy?” She finally looked at me. “The guy you shot to pieces a year or two ago?”

  “Yup.”

  I left a twenty on the counter. The two guys watching me from a booth nodded to me as I walked by. I nodded back. I got the feeling every damn customer was watching me go.

  The Frémont County sheriff ’s office and historic stone jail where my wife, Sarah Cathcart, worked as a deputy was on the corner a block away. A TV was on in the squad room there, too. I saw Sarah sitting on the edge of a table, watching. She reached her hand out to me without looking and kept her eyes on the TV screen. I took her hand in mine.

  Sarah’s boss, Mitch Mendenhall, shuffled over our way, one bootlace dragging. He nodded in my direction then focused on the news. A bigger-than-life-sized cardboard cutout of him in uniform leaned against the wall telling folks to RE-ELECT MENDENHALL FOR SHERIFF.

  “Holy crap,” he said, “I don’t envy that Sacto sheriff one little bit.”

  “Rough night, Mitch?”

  “Fundraiser down at June Lakes,” he said. “Host had a margarita machine then a blindfolded whiskey tasting plus an auction.” Mitch popped a couple aspirin and swallowed them dry. Then he disappeared in his office and came back holding a decanter. He held it out to me.

  “Guess who won the blindfold taste test?” Mitch said.

  I took the decanter from him. The label said Pappy Van Winkle.

  “This is a fine bottle of bourbon, Mitch.”

  “Yuck. Bourbon’s nasty,” he said.

  “You want, I’ll take it off your hands. The whole deal sounds rigged.”

  “You can’t believe how much some of them bottles went for at auction,” he said. “Tell you what . . .”

  “Mitch?” Sarah said. “Any word on the names of these renegades?”

  “I’ll leave it to you in my will.” He winked at me like it would be our little secret.

  “You break the seal on that bottle,” Sarah said, “the US Attorney could decide this election for you—for taking a bribe.”

  He laughed.

  “Mitch,” she said, “the convicts?”

  “I figured you two’d be askin’, so I already checked with a public affairs gal down there. Some real bad actors.” He looked right at Sarah. “But the ex-husband is all tucked in at the prison infirmary.”

  “Sick or shivved?”

  “Blood poisoning, Tom,” Mitch said. He turned to a shaved-headed moose of a deputy writing a report at a desk by the door.

  “Probably from one a Tommy’s two-sev
enties from when he shot him in the foot, huh Sorenson?”

  “Before my time.” The guy named Sorenson grunted and kept hitting the keys.

  “You sure it was Kip Isringhausen?”

  Sarah tensed just hearing me say the ex-husband’s name.

  “Yup,” he said. “The gal said old Kip’s on a lotta meds, so they’re keeping him real quiet.”

  “Thanks for checking, Mitch,” Sarah said.

  “Real quiet,” Mitch said, “for now.” He laughed and stood up like it hurt.

  After a few minutes the coverage repeated and repeated. The name of the dead truck driver was being withheld until family could be notified, but one of the law enforcement officers sprawled on the street had been identified, and his brother was being interviewed. That was pretty grim. The brother spoke for ten or fifteen seconds then broke down and couldn’t talk anymore. Sarah led me over to her desk and we sat together.

  “Did you get the cabin all buttoned up?” she said, trying to sound normal.

  I nodded yeah.

  “I’m going to miss that canyon the next few months.” She gave me a sweet look. “Way more privacy than at Dad’s.”

  I squeezed her hand but didn’t say anything. Mitch was walking back our way holding his phone.

  “I’m serious, Mitch,” she said. “You better get your campaign sign out of here, too, before someone busts you for electioneering on county property.”

  He just waved her off.

  Sarah turned back to me.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves on this.” She nodded toward the TV screen. “There’s nothing so far that has anything to do with us.”

  “I know. I’m heading back to your dad’s. I’ll swing by the school later and pick up Audie.”

  “Okay.” She held my hand with both of hers now. “If she hasn’t burned down the fifth grade.”

  “Always a possibility.”

  Mitch stopped at her desk looking at his phone. “First two IDs on the runners,” Mitch said. “Gilbert Orosco, halfway through a ten-to-twenty for armed robbery, and Chester Livermore, first-degree murder, kidnapping, and raping a kid. Both from over in California.”