by G. R. Carter
An odd mixture of pride and sorrow filled his heart. These men and women had been trained by Eric Olsen himself. He and Eric had been at odds multiple times years ago, but the core character of the man showed through in the actions of his troopers, character that would be challenged when—if—he awoke from induced unconsciousness. The doctors reported the loss of a hand already. In Fredericks’ youth the wonders of modern medicine could have likely saved the limb; now the Republic’s best and brightest were struggling to save Olsen’s life. The lead surgeons from Shelbyville were on sight already, less than twelve hours after the incident. Alex Hamilton was pulling out all the stops to save his former best friend.
But even the efforts of the most powerful man in the Midwest couldn’t save Maryanne Olsen. The youth, strength and vigor keeping her son alive hadn’t been present in her slight frame. The only consolation seemed to be that she had perished instantaneously. Her massive injuries sustained in the blast saved her the sight of her beloved buildings ruined and her only son grievously wounded. The woman had been a dynamo. Regardless of her faults, and those were certainly well documented, she was a driving force in the creation of a thriving province. The payback Fredericks had promised the troopers of the Shawnee would be terrible and swift when Eric Olsen woke up to find his mother gone.
Fredericks’ radio crackled again. “Commander Fredericks, can you come down here? One of the assassins insists on talking to the Founder. Says he’ll surrender if he sees Founder Hamilton.”
“Check,” Fredericks replied. He turned to head back outside.
“You’re not really going down there are you, sir?” one of his guards asked. “You know he just wants to die taking out a big shot.”
“Probably right. But I’ve got to get more intel. Founder Hamilton is in a seriously murderous mood. He’s going to attack everybody just to make sure he gets the right one if I don’t find a real culprit for him to channel his anger at,” Fredericks replied. He noticed his Okaw guard smile at that comment. He was a Silver Shield, one of Hamilton’s personal guards and a super-efficient killing machine. His presence was indicative of how valuable Hamilton considered Fredericks. Silver Shields witnessed the Founder’s extraordinary acts of kindness…and also witnessed one of the most volatile tempers imaginable when friends and family were threatened. Fredericks knew what the guard was thinking: hell itself was coming to whoever dared kill friends of the Hamiltons.
Fredericks himself was anxious for news of the world outside Mt. Vernon. From the last brief conversation with Hamilton, he knew that Mt. Horab was being attacked by ARK. The timing of that attack with the bombing of Mt. Vernon had been too perfect. Immediately the thought had gone to a masterful stroke of Republic decapitation; ARK taking out all leadership in one fell swoop while making a move on their hated neighbors to the south. But ARKShip One, the sparkling flagship synonymous with their wealth and power, burned to the ground at the same time as the attack on Tecumseh House. Jack Diamante and the entire ARK delegation had suffered the same fatal fate as Maryanne Olsen. Uncle Jack was too well loved for Tony Diamante to allow him to be collateral damage. Other forces were moving behind the scenes.
But that didn’t change the fact that ARK was invading a Republic ally. From Alex’s tone and his brief update, the fight hadn’t gone well. Mt. Horab civilians had fled across the Mississippi River to the relative safety of Shawnee territory. There they’d rest under the watchful eye of Republic Razorbacks and Raptors until Alex figured out what to do with them. Even though the Buckles weren’t Republic citizens, they were Republic friends. Fredericks knew the storm raging in his leader’s mind. A mixture of shock at the night’s events added to a betrayal from Tony and Nicole Diamante. Alex would be heartbroken: his fragile coalition crafted through ceaseless diplomacy and untold expense lay shattered.
Fredericks forced his mind to switch from speculation to calculation. He needed to focus on the immediate task. Local danger killed easier than global threats, and he had no desire to be martyred for the cause today. He noticed his guards were already in front of him a few steps, one on each side, at angles intersecting with buildings they approached. No clean shots from the front were possible as they approached a mixed group of Okaw deputies and Tri-S troopers.
A man with tattoos spread over his arms and winding up his neck over the top of a clean-shaven head dominated the assembly without saying a word. Tanned buckskin blouse and trousers stood out among the more conventional uniforms surrounding him. No long-barrel weapon was slung over his shoulder like the others displayed; just a simple revolver in a closed holster joined by two long-bladed knives tucked into a simple leather belt.
Fredericks knew immediately who he was: Shawnee Trackers were impossible to miss, unless they chose not to be seen…
The Tracker turned as Fredericks approached, giving a slight nod of acknowledgement to him. “Commander Fredericks, I’m pleased you are here,” he rasped in a unique accent. “Though I wish we were reunited under more joyful circumstances.”
“Agreed, Wasson of Saline. Our duties find us scattered throughout the Creator’s world, it’s a shame only the evil of men bring us back together,” Fredericks replied, matching his language and tone to that of the Tracker.
Part by reputation, part by the way he carried himself, Wasson had taken charge of the scene. The confused and temporarily leaderless troopers around him seemed glad to follow the legend’s orders.
“I was with my uncle when He sent the Archangel to warn me of the danger. I came as quickly as I could.” Fredericks simply bowed his head in a gesture of thanks. He still wasn’t 100 percent comfortable with the overt spirituality of the Trackers. No one doubted Wasson when he said that a messenger from God visited him, which made it even more unsettling to those not accustomed to visitation with the Almighty. With the way Trackers seemed to move at inhuman speed, with inhuman fighting ability and inhuman tolerances to pain and discomfort, to say they were inhuman themselves seemed a reasonable stretch to many.
“What’s the situation, my friend? Are the killers going to surrender?” Fredericks asked.
“They’ll give themselves only to the Founder himself, may the Creator watch over him,” Wasson replied while crossing himself. A few other men in the group made the same sign. “Perhaps if they knew who you were, they would settle for you,” Wasson concluded with no disrespect intended.
“Or I could just say I was the Founder,” Fredericks replied. “I don’t think that kind of deception is forbidden. What do you think?”
Wasson raised his eyes to the clearing skies. Fredericks wondered if he was asking permission or forgiveness. “Yes, I believe that when dealing with demons His law is not applicable. I appreciate your idea. May I escort you?”
“With respect, Wasson, no. This is probably a trap; the demon is probably looking to martyr himself. If this goes poorly, I need you take command and finish clearing the city,” he replied.
Wasson nodded. It was the logical move, devoid of emotion. “
Fredericks turned to his guards. “Overwatch, nothing more. I don’t want to spook him, force him to panic. Check?”
Both looked away, trying to avoid acknowledging an order that would put their commander alone and in danger.
“Check?” Fredericks said again, using a voice well-honed as a leader of hardened men for most of his adult life. The two finally nodded, accepting the direct order.
Fredericks softened his tone. “Guys, listen, this is not the first time I’ve done something like this. I’ve got my vest on, and I won’t get close enough to let him blow me up.”
Fredericks turned to say something to Wasson, but the Tracker was already gone. He looked around at the rest of the group, who all seemed just as confused. Fredericks instinctually knew he was probably already within sight and range of the targeted house. But knowing didn’t explain how a full-grown man in odd dress could simply disappear in broad daylight.
Regardless, the thought of Wasson within striking dis
tance of the desperate men he now faced gave him the courage he needed to make the trip up the sidewalk. He prayed for guidance, not protection…he had witnessed too many good men die on the battlefield to believe prayer could deflect bullets. The Bishops of the Unified Church had talked him through his guilt about that…what he originally thought was a lack of faith. But their leadership was famous for a distinct lack of false optimism. There was no prosperity gospel preached under the Green and Silver, no guarantees of magic blankets to protect men and women who lived and fought in a harsh world. Instead, they taught that a better life awaited the faithful that were lost, something to look forward to for those who remained. Those stuck on this earthly plane needed strength and patience, something Fredericks sought now.
He longed to grab the string of beads in his pocket, to recite the Beatitudes - there was a peace that came with the tactile reinforcing the spiritual. Instead he said them silently, in his mind. He kept his hands clear of his pockets, raised to his sides though not over his head. Showing peaceful intentions was one thing, but he refused to appear as a captive.
He stopped about thirty yards away from the freshly painted house where the assassins were barricaded. A neatly planted front yard garden reflected the sense of security residents felt here in Mt. Vernon. It was the perfect Republic home, well-tended and practical. Functional wooden shutters, a holdover from the chaotic days after The Reset, covered the windows. There was no way to tell if someone was watching him, but he could feel eyes tracking him from somewhere.
The distance was probably still too close, depending on how powerful the assassins’ explosives were, but instinct told him that wasn’t going to happen. There was something else at play, some reason this holdout had called for the Founder instead of just dying like a rat who wanted to be a martyr.
“I’m Alex Hamilton!” Fredericks shouted at the house. “Who am I speaking with?”
No answer came as he stood there. He could feel his heart pounding with each second that slipped past. Fear of the unknown eroded his strength. For a moment he feared he might turn his back and run, but the thought of not seeing the threat was more terrifying than the threat itself.
“Founder Hamilton is here!” he repeated, a little louder. “I’ve come here to meet you just like you asked, now let’s talk. You don’t have to die today.”
“I see you, Commander Fredericks,” a voice inside replied. Fredericks tried to keep a stone face to hide his shock. Not only had their little ruse not worked, but whoever was inside knew his real identity. “You ought’n try to fool desperate men, Commander.” Fredericks tried to place the man’s accent. It was familiar, definitely north country, but something was even more familiar about the tone. Something from his past called to him…
“I’m sorry about that,” Fredericks lied. “But you should have known the Founder’s long gone from here. You had to know he wouldn’t be coming.”
“True. Just had to see how high up a bird I could catch, ya know? Never expected I’d find you, though. Thought you’d be up north playing with your new toys there in America,” the voice said, clipping the sound of each word in a nasal tone.
“Seems you know a great deal more about me than I know about you,” Fredericks replied.
There was silence again. Fredericks listened to birds singing and chirping in the trees around. He wondered at the absurdity, the peace of nature unmoved by the emotional wreckage of mankind. Maybe the environmentalists had been right before the Reset…this planet would be better off without the species claiming to be its master. He was getting impatient. There were still a million things to get done today. As bad as he needed anyone inside alive, he was beginning to justify reasons to just level the whole structure and move on.
The voice inside interrupted his thoughts. “Yah, that’s right. For once us little people have you at the disadvantage. After everything we done, bleeding for your precious Republic and such. You left us alone to die. Or even worse, to live under those crazies who made us follow their religion.” Fredericks’ heart began to pound a bit harder. He could hear the rage in the man’s voice. Worse, there was the sound of hopelessness, the telltale sign of a man resigned to death.
Fredericks waited for whatever was fated. Seconds seemed to stretch into eternity. He took an unconscious step backwards, losing all nerve at the unseen actions inside. His mind played tricks, causing him to hear movement, then a muffled shout. The step back became a step forward, then another. Battlefield instinct took over, he would face his enemy and destroy them up close—he stopped suddenly, surprised as an arm waved out the house’s side window. He watched it closely, recognizing tattoos contrasted on tan skin.
Wasson’s bald head emerged. To Fredericks’ knowledge, no one had ever witnessed a Tracker smile, but the look on his face must have been the next closest thing.
Calmly he called out to Fredericks, “Under control in here, Commander. You just needed one of them alive, right?”
*****
There was just a hint of pity in Fredericks’ heart as he watched the bound man weep. He was tied to a kitchen chair, hands wrapped behind him with an old extension cord capable of applying pressure to joints with a simple pull. It wasn’t needed. The emotional torment on the man’s face blazed stronger than any physical pain could match.
“You just don’t understand what dem’ Jijis do to us,” the captive slurred through the snot and tears. Wasson moved closer with his knife drawn and the man flinched in terror. Calmly, the Tracker cut the bonds, then silently moved back to the corner. The humiliation of being so afraid sucked whatever life was left out of him. He rubbed his wrists where the rope had cut into his skin, then wiped the wetness from his face as best he could.
There was a flash of hatred in the man’s eyes as he finally looked up. Wasson saw it, or sensed it, and took a half step forward. Fredericks stopped him with a subtle headshake, keeping his eyes locked on the chair and ready for any sudden lunge.
“You still don’t recognize us, do you, Fredericks?” he spat.
“I’m sorry. I don’t. But I’ll tell you one thing, I’m getting tired of playing these games. You and your Jiji buddies came into our town and killed our people. I’m inclined to allow my friends here use you for target practice for that offense. You’re lucky I need to know the real reason why you’re here. For that reason only, I’m willing to let you keep your life.
Fredericks shifted his stance, and his tone. “But it’s a limited-time offer, young man. You better hurry, because I’ve got another one of you who’s going to wake up soon. Whoever talks first gets to avoid a meeting with those very angry, very mean-spirited men right outside this house,” he threatened. Fredericks quickly assured himself he’d never do such a thing to a prisoner of war…though terrorists might be a different story.
“Doesn’t matter,” the captured man said. He was sobbing again. “Everyone is dead. You killed them years ago. You’re the one who made the decision to leave us behind. You promised you’d never abandon us and you did it anyway!” he shouted.
Interstate 39 Bridge
Southern Bank of the Illinois River
Five Years Prior (Immediately following the fall of the New America)
Martin Fredericks watched a Raptor attack plane circle slowly over the Illinois River, tipping one wing so the pilot could get a good look at the hellish carnage below. Field glasses in hand, he waited to see which path the boxy airplane would take, trying to see from land what the bird of prey had spotted from above. A puff of exhaust smoke coughed out of the cowling, then the engine roared to life, gaining the pilot a little altitude before pitching over into a dive.
Fredericks calculated the angle and put the binoculars up to his eyes, trying to see what had caught the Raptor pilot's attention. A former city bus with a halfcocked version of camouflage spray-painted in lines instead of blobs weaved its way down the street. The attempt at concealment was semi-effective from ground level, but no Caliphate soldiers had faced air power before, s
o no one had thought to paint the roof; it was bright white, shining in the summer sun, presenting a perfect target to the plunging Red Hawk attacker.
White smoke poured off the Raptor’s wings, followed by the slightly delayed sound of cannon fire. Small explosions rippled around and over the bus, unrelenting as it veered left and into a pile of burnt-out vehicles already ruined by weeks of gunfire. The bus nearly tipped over, then settled back, rocking on its wheels in a smoking heap. Men carrying an odd assortment of weapons stumbled out the side door, and one even raised his weapon and fired up into the now-empty air. Others scattered without looking, most running to the brick shell of a long-abandoned factory. The far bank of the riverside was dotted with such buildings, shelled continuously by the hodgepodge of American artillery gathered on the bluff just above Fredericks’ position.
He watched the far away figures on the other side disappear into the ruins, calling out locations to Lieutenant Alicia Beasley. Fredericks’ longtime aide scribbled down brief descriptions of the targets to send back to the Raptor base, simply a flat stretch of level highway up on the bluffs. The rugged converted crop dusters needed little maintenance, just enough time to refuel and rearm before taking off again. They’d repeat the process all day for as long as the pilots could take it.
The Raptor flashed over the riverfront once more, this time focused on the building where the bus survivors were hiding. The plane slowed, appearing to almost hover, speed reduced to the minimum before stalling. Two rockets flashed out from the undercarriage, and then the Raptor’s engine roared back to life, gaining altitude over its target as twin explosions ripped the building’s wall to rubble. Dust and smoke from the explosions combined with the residue of several weeks’ worth of fighting, hanging over the river like a blanket. Only occasionally a breeze pushed away the clouds of war, quickly replaced by the smoke of the constant fires consuming anything flammable. The air smelled constantly of ruin, a reminder of the desperate struggle engaged here.
