by G. R. Carter
“That’s your call, sir. But we don’t have much time. They’ve got more of those coming,” Levi said. Oliver couldn’t see him point in the dark, but he assumed the man meant more monitors.
“Charges are already rigged. I just need to set the timer,” Oliver replied. He felt more than saw his gunner staring at the back of his head as the man realized Oliver always meant to blow the whole ship if he thought it would help stop the ARK invasion.
“Get the wounded from below, then everyone double quick onto Mr. Marshall’s boat,” Oliver commanded the surviving crew. “I’ll take care of the scuttling, myself. Oh, and men…well done. You’ve done brave and noble things tonight. You have my gratitude, and the gratitude of your people.”
AN EARLY FALL
Book Five
Fortress Farm Series
To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven…a time to be born & a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted.
Ecclesiastes 3:1–8
Prologue
North of Mt. Horab (formerly Cape Girardeau)
Near Old Interstate 55
One Day after the Fall of Mt. Horab
Year 12 A.G.R. (After the Great Reset)
Massive headache. Double-check everything is still there. Arms: check. Legs: ouch, but check. Head: obviously there, stupid. Unless the crash had killed her…but this was not at all the way heaven should be, it hurt too much.
She tried to open her eyes, but one seemed to be sealed shut. She watched her arm rise up to touch her forehead and her fingers brushed against something damp and crusty at the same time. Blood, she realized. At least that should wash off; her eye probably wasn’t ruined, and if the head injury were serious she wouldn’t know enough to know she was in big trouble.
Essie took in her surroundings, first the cockpit of her ruined T–34 airplane, then what she could see outside the windscreen. There wasn’t much to be seen in front…she realized some of the pressure on her chest was the safety belts holding her against gravity—the plane sat a nearly 45-degree angle, nose-down in an old box culvert along the highway she used as a landing strip.
Not a bad landing for out of fuel, in the dark and lost, she thought. She tried to smile, but even that hurt.
Her head craned towards her open eye’s line of sight: just tall grass and brush that way. Probably the same in the other direction, no sense in wasting the effort. She forced her mind to go through the steps of getting out of the cockpit. Such an easy and natural process before, now she couldn’t remember if she slid the top back first or loosened her belts first. Oh well, both had to be done. She longed to get the cutting pressure of the belts off, so the safety release went first.
A breathtaking thud put her head and left shoulder into the instrument panel as the plane’s awkward angle worked with gravity. Ouch. Wrong order. She still felt pressure in her right shoulder: the right-side clasp hadn’t completely released, jammed from the impact of landing. She worked her left arm down to find her bowie knife strapped to her leg, finally finding it just within reach. She slid the super-sharp blade out its sheath and then paused. Turn the blade away from you, don’t celebrate a great landing by bleeding out on your own knife. Her thoughts were clearing, in spite of (or because of) the dull ache occupying every muscle and fiber.
She began sawing at the nylon strap half-holding her up. The tension began to release from the belt and she stopped, carefully setting the knife down on the instrument panel. Wriggling, the severed belt gave her just enough room to pull her arm out, wincing as a million tiny needles pierced nerve endings from fingertips to shoulder.
Essie tried to focus, straining to get ahold of the sliding top of the cockpit and force it open. Every push-up, pull-up and ab crunch the Self Defense Cooperative instructors had ever pushed her to do paid off, giving her just enough strength to create an opening she could slide through. Finally reoriented, she half-slid half-fell off the nose of the plane, barely avoiding the propeller but landing square in the middle of a blackberry bramble. Thousands of sharp thorns tore at her flight suit then found any exposed skin.
Essie sat for a moment—exhausted, sore, miserable and mad. She raised an arm, pulling away from the tiny teeth of the bush to rub her crusted eye with her flight suit sleeve. She wiped off the outer layer, then used her fingers to try and pick off as much crust as possible. She wished for her canteen to wash away the remaining layer, then realized how thirsty she was. The canteen remained in the cockpit along with her survival pack. She looked up at the tilted plane. How in the world am I going to be able to get back up there? The plane’s nose seemed to be the height of a mountain, except slick, with no handholds to gain purchase on.
At least there’s no fuel to catch on fire. There’s a bright side to going empty before you crash.
She added that the short list of things to be thankful for in order to force her mood to improve; survival skill number one taught by the handful of United States Air Force veterans who designed the training programs for all Red Hawk pilots. A downed pilot in enemy territory could have every skillset in escape, evasion and foraging, but if they lacked the will to live, to survive, they’d never make it.
Essie Hamilton lacked nothing when it came to willpower. She reached into the pocket of her flight suit for a string of beads tucked safely away, taking a quick moment to say her Beatitudes and then a short prayer of thanksgiving for surviving the terrible night. A vicious air battle with ARK’s airships, trying to find her way in the pitch-black night, illuminated in the end only by those she sent to a fiery death. The nauseating sputter of her engine as it gasped the last drop of fuel from its tanks.
Essie had failed. Despite her best efforts Mt. Horab was destroyed, the people she loved either killed or forced to flee by the guns and bombs of ARK. She forced those events from her mind, blanking out the fate of her fiancé John Bolin in the terrible flames of Mt. Horab. Time to hope, or mourn, later. Now she needed to move.
She began to extricate herself from the thorny branches, taking a moment to pluck a few unripe berries and wince as she popped each tart fruit into her mouth. She needed the energy, but the pucker made her go from thirsty to parched.
She strained and plodded one step at a time, forcing the pain of the thorns trying to tear at her to subside; they couldn’t hurt, only annoy. The sturdy flight suit held up against rips, allowing her to finally get out of that obstacle and into the next. Grass nearly ten feet tall hid her view of the road, leaving the unpleasant option of having to poke her head out to get a look at her surroundings.
She got her bearings thanks to the angle of the plane—the tail should be towards the road she landed on. One foot at a time, she slogged through the thick stems, finding what had once been the roadside ditch thick with muddy water. She thought about it a moment—she was really thirsty—then thought better. Only moving water held a decent chance of not making her sick. Even now, years after the Reset, you never knew what invisible dangers lurked in standing water. Natural and unnatural pathogens could both make you too sick to move…or worse.
Whatever was around in the water or the grass reeked. One-part dead animal and one part…well, mostly dead animal. “Rancid” was the best way to describe it. She felt claustrophobia creeping in from the waving walls of green and gold surrounding her. Essie was used to being a bird of prey, scanning the land from above. Inability to see more than a couple of feet in front of her pulled at her courage.
Finally, a glimpse of opening passed through the swaying grass. She took a deep breath and pulled back the final layer for a clearer look at a…
Crap! Hold still, Essie. Don’t move…
That smell. She knew what it belonged to now—the largest lion she had ever seen stood staring at her from across the old highway’s crumbling asphalt. Its huge mane waved in the breeze. Low growls reverberated and shook her to her core.
Lions are scared of us, I think…just don’t turn and run…
Lions a
nd tigers were now part of everyday farm life in the Midwest. Released by well-meaning zookeepers and handlers after the power went out, animals once considered exotic in this part of the world were now a common sight in the wildlands. The climate was perfect for them and prey was abundant. And while big kitties usually steered clear of humans, it was not uncommon for a careless traveler or field worker to go missing in remote areas.
She slowly moved to reach for her sidearm. A .45 wouldn’t stop a beast like this right away, but maybe it would change its mind and move on to easier prey. Her hand reached the holster…empty.
Probably still in the cockpit along with everything else I need.
The seconds ticked by and she could feel more than see the creature start to lean toward her. Like he had made his mind to attack whatever she was, just in case she was threat or a meal. His decision forced hers. She took a step back slowly; any sudden movement would be met with the lion’s own. Another step backwards, finding more solid ground, trying not to let her boot get sucked into the mire.
The high-pitched whine of rubber tires on asphalt suddenly caught the cat’s attention. As he pivoted to scan the area for the new threat, Essie spun and took off as fast as she could for her stricken plane. At the sudden movement, the predator’s instinct kicked in and he bounded towards her with a roar. In an acrobatic move she could never have duplicated without the adrenaline dump she now experienced, she landed one foot on a propeller blade. The edged surface held her weight against the engine and gave her just the support she needed to jump up to the cockpit opening with both hands. The metal frame bent slightly as she heaved her five-foot-nine-inch frame barely out of the reach of a plate-sized claw swiping below.
Essie spilled into the cockpit, now upside-down with feet high up in the air. She could hear the lion’s roar, and suddenly the length of the plane’s nose didn’t seem so high anymore. The sturdy plane felt the lion’s rage as it smacked at the cowling. She felt the plane rock backwards, then forwards again. She began to do the math in her head: how high would she be if the plane returned to level? Not good either way. One arm and then the other gained a grip on the side of the cockpit. She could see her .45 laying on the floor next to the rudder pedals, but there was no way she’d be able to hold on to it and push herself up.
Using her remaining leg strength, she pushed the canopy back as far she could, leaving just enough room for her to bend at the waist and work herself back up right. Every metal stick and switch dung into her back and sides, quickly forgotten when the plane shuddered again and rocked back. The weight of the lion’s strike and her movement sprung the nose free from the soft soil and the plane fell onto its tail. With the nose landing gear broken off and the T-34 having no tail wheel, the front of the craft now skewed skyward.
Relieved she was at least back seated upright, terror returned as the lion’s massive head reappeared over the side of the cockpit. For a moment she could feel the heat of its rancid breath.
Essie screamed with all her frustrated and frightened strength, grabbed her knife and plunged the eight-inch blade into the soft black nostrils inches away from her own. The lion screamed, jumping back down and pawing at its face, unsure of what had happened but trying desperately to make the pain go away. Blood spurted onto the matted grass and bush, driving the four-hundred-pound beast mad with rage. She could see the creature’s eyes look up and focus on her, and it coiled up to strike. She reached back to slide the canopy closed…bound to be a futile effort, but the only play she had left to make.
Tan fur flew toward her in slow motion as she tugged on the jagged metal handle now jammed into place by the wreck and her own weight.
Her eyes were open just long enough to see the lion’s body spin sideways in midair, punched and redirected by some invisible fist. The once-graceful leap now hit like a jolt against the side of the plane, rocking the several thousand pounds of metal with its force. The lion’s body landed in a twisted a heap on plane’s wing. Blood smeared across slanted metal as first legs, then head, then shoulders slid slowly down and onto the ground below. In the commotion she hadn’t heard the sharp stutter of weapons, but now she could see her earthly salvation. Smoke still wafted around the automatic rifles shouldered by three ARK Peacekeepers standing in the tall grass between her and highway.
The tire sound that had distracted the lions. Search party, she thought.
Her elation at being saved from becoming lion lunch faded quickly. The Peacekeeper rifles hadn’t lowered, merely swiveled from the lion to her. For a tense moment she sat in her plane, wondering what to do next. Her .45 was still at her feet, but they’d riddle the plane, and her, before she could even get her hands on it.
Not sure what Peacekeepers do to prisoners, especially female ones who just shot down and killed a bunch of their comrades. Maybe going out in a blaze of bullets is better?
No, not today. She’d take her chances on being worth more to ARK alive than dead. Today she’d stay alive, figure out a way to survive, and eventually escape.
Without moving her arms to give them a reason to overreact, she yelled out of the opening.
“Never thought I’d be glad to see you people,” she smiled sweetly. “Hey, it’s been a long day and I’m parched. If you want, I’d be willing to trade that fresh lion meat down there for some water.”
Chapter One
Mt. Vernon
Provincial Capital
Grand Shawnee
How could they get that many killers in this close?
Martin Fredericks’ mind tried to make sense of the events as he followed two of his heavily armed escort into the shattered west wing of Tecumseh House. Hotspots in the rubble still wafted smoke, a reminder of someone’s attempt to take out the entire leadership of the Red Hawk Republic and her allies. The Hamilton family had escaped unharmed, but many others hadn’t been so fortunate.
Just as important, who are they? He wanted to ask someone, anyone. But instead every trooper and citizen looked to him for the answers. Remain calm, work the problem, he reminded himself.
The Governor’s Mansion of Grand Shawnee Province had been cleared of hostiles an hour before, but everyone remained on edge. Crumpled bodies lay draped over the rubble, a testament to the savagery of the fight. Just for good measure, one of Fredericks’ escorts poked one of the black-clad bodies with his rifle; soldiers became veterans instead of casualties by making sure their enemies were well dead. Already rumors were circulating among the Shawnee and Okaw soldiers about the mystery enemy fighting to the death. Witnesses said some even blew themselves up when cornered.
Fredericks tried to remain impassive at the sight of the destruction. Tecumseh House was an architectural marvel, made more so by the efforts of the Olsen family to turn it into a showcase of Grand Shawnee’s progress since the Reset. The gorgeous style still showed through the damage. No doubt it would be rebuilt at some point, as much as out of resilience as need.
What couldn’t be rebuilt was trust. A sense of peace and safety had been lost in these attacks. Constant threat of war and ditchmen attacks was a thing of the past here in the heart of the Republic. Dangers were kept out on the frontier by the Okaw Self Defense Cooperative and Grand Shawnee’s Tri-S, the Shawnee Security Service. But here in a provincial capital city, buildings still burned or sat wrecked to some degree. Worst of all, no one knew yet who held final responsibility for the destruction. Though a key to the needed information sat locked in the Tri-S barracks at the airport. One lone assassin remained alive—one man out of fifty assailants counted as dead so far.
That man remained in the custody of Republic doctors, kept under constant guard lest some grieving Tri-S operative decide to avenge fallen comrades. Revenge would have to wait. Right now, they needed information worse than payback. But Fredericks made it clear to all his troops—Founder Hamilton had put him in charge of Republic forces on sight until further notice—payback would be coming. Each man and woman under arms had a personal reason to fight. Some had lost com
rades in the bitter house-to-house fighting or in the bombings, others felt violated that those under their protection had been killed or wounded. Whatever the reason, palpable rage simmered inside the well-trained fighters walking the streets of Mt. Vernon right now.
Small arms fire echoed against the walls, just a block or two down judged by his well-trained ears. His guards flinched reflexively, scanning 360 degrees around their position. Fredericks moved on, not being cavalier about his safety but trusting these men to do their job: to protect him while he inspected the building for any clues missed in the initial rush. A handheld radio attached by carabiner to his service belt crackled to life. “Count two in the house on the corner one block over from Tecumseh House. Southeast at the corner of Republic Boulevard.”
Fredericks reached to interject before anyone else. “We need information worse than scalps. Check? Take them alive if possible. Use the knockout gas if you can. If, and only if, that doesn’t work, blow the house. No team assaults, check? I don’t want anyone else hurt.”
“Check,” came the simple reply of acknowledgement used by the Tri-S troops. Fredericks had received a crash course in their terminology.
While he waited for resolution, he stood and looked at a jagged hole busted in the wall. He found himself giving thanks there hadn’t been more casualties. He guessed the assassin assault group had underestimated the strength built into the nearly two-centuries-old construction. Not like the stick-and-board buildings they likely trained against. The blast hadn’t even penetrated the interior walls, allowing guards inside the building to mount an effective defense against assassin groups storming in. The fighting had been the most severe here; the Tri-S lost ten troopers just in this room alone. Viscous hand-to-hand combat took place in the dark and the confusion. Troopers would have been half in shock from the surprise of the thing. Most were wearing full dress uniform to impress the evening’s visiting dignitaries, armed only with their service pistols and ceremonial swords. Fredericks had personally visited the wounded already, including a few still fighting for their lives from wounds. Stories of troopers throwing their bodies over civilians to take bullets were corroborated by multiple witnesses. Others tackled better-armed invaders armed with nothing but bare hands.
