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  Chapter Eighteen

  Michael left Farris where he lie, checking for anything Ken Farris might have on him that he could use; he found nothing. Rourke stood, located the sun’s position, and held his Rolex watch horizontally, pointing the hour hand at the sun. Noting the direction that lies exactly midway between the hour hand and the numeral 12 gave him south. While it was late morning, it was still morning; the sun was in the east. He started off at a trot, reasoning heading east would take him further from the site of the attack and closer to a search team he knew would be dispatched from the Marine Air Base.

  His head hurt like hell, and the wound had started bleeding again. But, it was more like seepage than bleeding. Well, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself in, Michael thought. He had the clothes he was wearing, and that was about it. He searched his surroundings for something, anything he could use for a weapon; he found nothing. He could use a large stick as a club or a large rock, but that meant closing with the killer; that simply was not an option. If Rourke could kill or incapacitate the killer, it would have to be from a distance. He ran, walked, and trotted for two hours before he rested.

  Michael had been going to the air base for a photo opportunity to show his support for the military. He had been offered a ride in the back seat of one of the base’s jets, courtesy of the unit commander. The Public Affairs Officer had suggested Michael be in a flight suit for the ride. “Trust me Sir, gonna make a hell of a shot.” Going unarmed had not seemed to be a problem; after all, he was going to a Marine Base.

  Now, he assessed his situation. His flight jacket was gone, probably just a smoldering blob somewhere in the vehicle. The Nomex flight suit had offered him protection from the vehicle fire, and the flight boots were giving him good ankle stability on his escape after Farris’ death. He had his wrist watch, billfold, and A.G. Russell Sting 1-A, a copy of his father’s famous knife; but, that was it.

  Catching his breath and assessing his options, he realized he didn’t have any. He was on foot with no weapons, no food, and no supplies. It was then from the depths of his memory it came slowly bubbling to the surface. He thought of his dad’s old friend Jerry. Before the Night of the War, Jerry, a prolific writer and survival expert, had shown John what he called the Arrow. It was simple, easy to construct; John had taught young Michael how to make them as a child.

  “Jerry told me it really wasn’t his invention,” his dad had said. “It has been known by a lot of names: the Swiss arrow, Dutch arrow, Yorkshire arrow, and even the Gypsy arrow. Originally, it was designed for war and hunting in areas that had not developed the bow yet. Like the Atlatl or throwing stick, it probably goes back 40,000 years. The arrow shaft is made from wood; green garden canes are perfect for the job, being straight and lightweight.”

  “A slit is cut at one end for the fletching. You could use a pair of playing cards or even cardboard. At the other end, you put a point. The important part is a notch is cut into the shaft, just below the flights or fletching. After the flights are inserted, the open end of the slit is closed with string or a rubber band to prevent the flights from falling out. To launch the arrow, the thrower uses a length of string that is longer than the length of the arrow itself.”

  “A knot is tied in one end of the string, and this is placed into the notch in the arrow shaft. The rest of the string is then passed around the shaft once and is made to align over and above the knot before being stretched down to the point end of the arrow. You keep the string tight and make sure the knotted end stays within the notch. You wrap the surplus around your throwing hand and grip the arrow near the point end of the arrow.”

  “The arrow is then held behind the thrower; make sure to keep the string taut. When you throw it, the throwing arm should be as fully extended. The arrow is thrown like a javelin but held much closer to the tip. Following through with the throwing hand allows the string to provide additional forward force on the arrow, extending the length and reach of the thrower’s arm in a fashion similar to a sling. A considerable distance can be achieved, easily twice as far as you could throw the arrow without the string.”

  His dad had told him that kids usually used pieces of cane for the arrow shafts since they were round and smooth. Rourke also knew they were lightweight, but for what he had in mind, he needed to sacrifice straightness for weight and energy transfer to his target. He needed some kind of weapon with standoff distance or reach, more than what the Sting provided if he was going to survive. Looking around, he found a stand of saplings next to the creek. He broke several off, twisting and pulling until they separated from their roots.

  Each was a piece not quite a half-inch thick and about four feet long; then, he began hobbling along back on his escape path. Along the creek, he found a couple of rusted cans and two abandoned plastic milk bottles. Searching, he finally found a sheltered place he could work. With his black chrome Sting, he trimmed the twigs of the shafts and using the corner of a boulder smoothed the shafts until most of the knots disappeared.

  Next, he cut a cross hatch groove in one end of each four inches down. He cut the plastic milk bottle into square pieces of about three and a half inches then sliced halfway through each. When he slid two pieces together at the slice, they formed a cross. This he slid into the cross hatch cuts he had made in the shafts to serve as flights or fletching.

  Rourke removed his bootlaces, cut one in half, and re-laced both boots. Now, he would no longer have the ankle support of the severed laces, but they were long enough to at least close the shoe part of each boot and keep them on. He cut the tips off the other bootlace; a good bootlace is made similarly to paracord; there is a cover and inside several smaller strands of nylon.

  He used some of the strands to secure the flights in each shaft. It took longer to flatten the rusted can and fatigue the metal, bending it back and forth until it gave; it was longer still before Rourke had four flattened pieces he could use as tips for the arrows. He shaped and sharpened these on a large rock before making cuts in the end of each arrow, inserted the points and secured them with the last of his small strands of nylon. He cut an angled notch in each arrow, a vertical cut toward the point and the notch angled up toward the flights.

  Taking the bootlace cover, Rourke tied a knot in both ends. One knot was to keep the cover from unraveling, and the second was to launch the arrows; looking at his four weapons, he knew they were rough and weren’t what you would call “pretty.” As a kid however, Michael had been able to throw his “arrows” with accuracy into a round bale of hay at distances of 30 to 40 feet using man-sized silhouette targets, but that had been a long time ago. It was not much of a weapon, but it would have to do; now, he had to focus on the steps his father had taught him so long ago, the next steps of survival.

  “STOP,” his dad had said. “As soon as you realize you may be lost, stop, stay calm, and stay put until you have a plan. Usually, there is going to be nothing you can do about whatever got you to this point; focus now on solving problems of getting out of the situation.” Michael knew that rescuers would be trying to find him but so would his attackers. The question was who would get to him first. It would probably be the bad guys.

  “If you don’t know where you are, taking off on foot means you have probably an 85 percent chance of being the wrong direction,” John had said. “But, if you are not safe where you are, get to someplace safe, then stop. Sit down, take a drink of water, eat a handful of trail mix, and relax while you think things over.” Michael wasn’t just lost; he was under attack, and he had no trail mix. “Are you going north or south? Don’t move at all until you have a definite reason to take a step.”

  Michael had no compass or a grid map, but he knew a little about the area he was in. He had three hours of daylight left. Rain was not on the forecast, but he needed water and shelter first; food would be nice but not essential right now.

  His dad would have said, “Once you have determined the way to go and if you have time before dark, then go carefully.”
Michael knew a person could last about three minutes without air, three days without water, and three weeks without food. Dehydration was the most common physical condition in a survival situation, but he had found several creeks and runoffs; even if he cannot treat or filter the water, it was better to be sick a week from now rather than dead three days from now.

  He had to marshal his strength and not work his body into a state of exhaustion. Right now, he realized he was experiencing adrenal letdown. The immediate threat had passed, and while the adrenaline had moved his body through the past several hours, he realized he was tired. He was going to have find or make a shelter where he could rest.

  His father’s words came back to him, “If you are tired, you’re not effective, and you are more apt to become injured. Get as much rest as your body seems to need. When you are lost, the only resource you have is yourself.”

  Surveying his surroundings, he eliminated several potential shelter areas. He had pursuers trying to find him; his resting spot would have to be camouflaged. Spotting another possibility, Michael determined the safest path down a ravine. In the bottom of a ravine, he found another small stream and quenched his thirst. It took almost 45 minutes to navigate the steep terrain, but he found where he would camp.

  A recent storm had caused the root system of a large tree to give way, falling; the trunk had landed on a large boulder and created a pocket underneath the canopy. He could not afford a fire, so he focused on collecting bedding and insulation. An hour later, he was finished and returned to the stream. Finding several discarded soft drink containers, he collected water and headed back to his shelter. His dad had said, “Sleeping is a survival task that rests your body and conserves energy.”

  Right now, the temperature was about 85 degrees, and it would drop close to 40 after the sun went down. Hypothermia was a threat if wet and he was. His body would get colder much faster, and he could die from hypothermia, even at 60 degrees. He emptied his bladder 20 feet away from the shelter and, before climbing in, positioned his water bottles where they would not spill.

  Once inside, he removed his boots and socks, setting them to dry. He removed his flight suit and squeezed as much water as he could from the lower legs, drying his lower legs as best he could. Adjusting two branches he had prepared just for this purpose, he camouflaged the opening to his shelter and stretched out for a cat nap on a mattress of tree boughs, covering up with a blanket of leaves.

  Thirty minutes passed before he slowly opened his eyes and listened. The sun had dropped low behind the hill he was on; the temperature was dropping. He redressed, thankful that most of the moisture had wicked away. His dad’s words came back to him again, “Fear can motivate or paralyze; you need to control it, or it will control you. Every small thing makes survival a bit harder, and you don’t need the extra challenge.”

  Redressed, rehydrated, hidden, and armed, Michael Rourke, President of the United States, spent the night listening, catnapping, and waiting to hear his enemies or his rescuers searching for him; when the sun crept across the ravine, the next day he was still waiting.

  His dad would have said, “You’ve done good Son, but remember, every day you don’t eat is another day you are consuming your body’s stores and becoming weaker. Fortunately, you can go many days without food, but every day will see you weaker.” Michael knew he had completed all the survival tasks he could early on, so he wouldn’t be required to do them as he weakened.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Okay,” John Rourke said as he greeted the Secret Service team in front of his home. “Where is Tim Shaw?”

  Frank Cole, the team leader, said, “He’ll rendezvous with you at the first ambush site.”

  “The first?”

  “Yes sir,” Cole waved Rourke into the passenger seat. “I’m sending Agent Jack Bream with you.” Rourke positioned his CAR-15 between his legs, muzzle down, and buckled up as Bream gassed the black SUV. “The convoy was hit twice; the President and trail vehicle made it out of the first one, but they were hit again a couple of miles further on.”

  “Casualties?”

  “I don’t have all of the details, Mr. Rourke,” Bream admitted. “We have some agents who survived, several we know did not. We have two missing, your son and Agent Ken Farris. We have to assume they survived the attack.”

  Rourke nodded and picked up his cell phone, “Tim, your guy tried, he really did. But I’m coming and I want to be a part of finding my son.”

  Shaw said, “Let me talk to Bream.” Rourke handed the phone to the agent.

  “Sir, I’m sorry,” Bream said.

  “Forget it Jack, I’ve never been able to get John Rourke to mind either,” Shaw said. “Just stick to him like glue. If he gets hurt, we both will suffer.” Shaw wasn’t concerned about the official problem, but he did not want to face his daughter Emma’s wrath if Rourke was injured.

  Bream closed the phone and said to Rourke, “Ken Farris is a good agent Mr. Rourke; he’ll do his best to take care of your son.”

  “I know,” was Rourke’s final comment on the 30-minute drive.

  *****

  Shaw was waiting next to the broken guardrail; smoke still rose from the wreck and a second medical helicopter was landing. “John,” Shaw said extending his hand as Rourke approached.

  With Emma and the rest of the family safely under Secret Service protection, Rourke had commandeered an agent for backup and raced toward the scene of the ambush. Agent Jack Bream, following on Rourke’s heels, feared his boss would probably give him a hard time for not being able to keep Rourke at home and under protection.

  “What do we know, Tim?” Rourke asked, “How bad is it?”

  “We had three who survived here; the driver died on impact. We’ve evacuated the two most seriously injured; one of them probably won’t make it. Bill Manning is being debriefed,” Shaw turned and pointed down the hill. “He’s over there, minor injuries. The other vehicles followed protocol after the initial attack; they were hit again a few minutes further up there.”

  Looking in the direction Shaw had pointed, Rourke could see smoke rising from the second location. “Tim, get me over there,” Rourke said jerking the charging handle on the CAR and setting the safety. Shaw motioned to Jack Bream, “Get him over to the second site and stick with him like ugly on an ape.” Shaw keyed the microphone, “TACTICAL, this is Shaw, over.”

  “TACTICAL, go ahead, over.” Anders came back.

  “John Rourke is headed your way, leaving the scene as we speak. Just a head’s up, over.”

  “Roger that. Any tips on how to handle him? Over,” Anders asked.

  “Straight up, Rourke doesn’t have much tolerance for anything else, out,” Shaw answered. Casting his gaze over the scene, Shaw dropped a Wrightism to the wind, “Wonder what happens if you get scared half to death twice?” and went to one of the AATVs.

  Bream pulled over 100 yards back from the smoking debris; he pointed a man out and said, “That’s Anders, Sir. You need to speak with him.” Rourke nodded, exited the vehicle, and jogged over the SSAC.

  “Agent Anders,” Rourke said, extending his hand. “I’m John Rourke.”

  “Pleasure to meet you sir, but I wished it was under better conditions,” Anders said returning the handshake.

  “Lay it out for me,” Rourke said.

  “The second attack came from that direction,” Anders said pointing to the south. “The first two energy blasts knocked both vehicles off the road and down the embankment. The third one destroyed the vehicles, creating the explosion and resulting fire. We have two missing, the President and Agent Ken Farris. There is no sign of either.”

  Rourke nodded, “Do we have eyes in the sky yet?”

  “We do sir, but they haven’t spotted anything yet. We don’t know if the President and Farris were captured or are on the run. We do know they’re unarmed; all of the agents’ weapons have been accounted for, including Farris. Apparently in the violence of the crash, the weapons were knocked ou
t of their hands, and I presume Farris just didn’t have time to search for his. Fog of trauma or necessity because of the fire and need to get POTUS to safety, I can’t really say. Maybe both I’d guess; Farris was a dedicated agent whose first responsibility was getting Michael Rourke to a safe position. That’s what he did.”

  Rourke asked, “Can I get closer to the vehicles?”

  Anders led the way down. Rourke made a cursory examination of both vehicles focusing on the ground before moving about 30 yards away and walking parallel to the scene on the north side. Cole turned to Anders, “What’s he doing?”

  “I’d say he’s ‘casting for sign,’” Anders said. “I believe he’s trying to pick up their trail, he’s tracking.”

  Rourke stopped and knelt down for a long minute before standing back up. “They went in that direction,” he announced as he pulled the slung CAR-15 from his shoulder, double-checked the magazine and the safety, and started walking in that direction. Cole hurried to catch up with Rourke as Anders gave orders for two OSS teams to flank Rourke. Anders shook his head as he walked with one team, “We’ve been over this ground, and none of us saw a damn thing.”

  The team leader smiled and said simply, “None of us are John Thomas Rourke.” About 45 minutes later, they recovered the body of Ken Farris. Rourke examined Farris and then turned to study the area. Finally, he leaned against a tree and lit a cigar; speaking softly, Rourke asked, “Where are you Son?”

  Anders came over to Rourke, “Mr. Rourke?”

  “Farris carried Michael most of the way,” Rourke said. “He had to drag him the last few hundred yards but couldn’t go on any further. Farris bled out internally, probably a partially ruptured spleen or damaged liver. He could have probably been saved if he had been able to get to a hospital. The autopsy will confirm that; I’m sure. Michael was probably knocked out during the attack and regained consciousness here when Farris stopped to rest.”