Standing in the Storm

by William Alan Webb

  “I’ll do it, General!” Wimber said. “I won’t let you down again, sir.”

  “Very good. I believe you.”

  Strolling through the fetid mass of humanity, Hull avoided the puddles of blood, vomit, and excrement. Halfway around the gym, he used the tip of his boot to prod a young girl with long blonde hair, curled up on the floor. Terror-stricken, she scooted backward into her mother’s arms.

  “Stay away from her,” Lisa Parfist said, cradling her daughter’s face against her breast. “If my husband was here, he’d gut you like a trout.”

  Hull smiled like a genial grandfather. He loved playing that game, with young women in general and mothers in particular. He eyed the girl’s torn shirt and exposed skin. “Is he here, madam? No? So where is he? I would so like to meet him.”

  Lisa Parfist tried to spit on him, but her mouth was too dry. “You’ll meet him soon enough.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Hull said. “Although he’d better hurry.” He motioned to Wimber. “This one.” He pointed to the cowering girl. “Clean her up and take her to my quarters.”

  “No!” her mother screamed.

  Wimber waved two Security Police over. Strong hands grabbed Kayla and pulled her away. Kicking and biting, Lisa Parfist tried to defend her, but a vicious backhand knocked her senseless. Kayla started crying.

  “Stop that, you fool!” Hull snapped. “How much do you think we’ll get for her if she’s dead, or has a broken jaw? The next man who damages a slave gets a knife up his ass!”

  “I’m sorry, General,” the guard said, chastised.

  “Don’t do it again.” Hull leaned close to Lisa’s face. “Listen to me, lady. Your daughter is going where I say she goes, and if you want to go with her, then shut up and stop fighting. Otherwise, I’ll have you shot where you stand.”

  She wiped at a small trickle of blood coming from her left nostril. “If you do that, you can’t trade me for your precious fuel.”

  “And that’s the only thing keeping you alive right now. But if you want to stay that way, you’ll go with these men and help make yourself and your daughter pretty for your new owners. And I suggest you be nice to them; the Chinese aren’t as generous as I am. In the meantime, if you give me any more trouble, your daughter will need a new mother. So pick your poison.”

  “I’ll go,” she said. “And I won’t cause trouble. But I’d just as soon be in Hell with my feet on fire than be somebody’s slave.”

  “Once you’re paid for, I really don’t care what you do.”

  “I was born in this country, you bastard. I’m an American citizen, my daddy taught me that, and someday you’re gonna pay for what you’re doing.”

  Despite his best effort to keep a grim face, Hull couldn’t help chuckling. “And who’s going to make me pay, hmmm? Your husband? Lady, I am America. I’m the president, the Congress, and the military governor. You’re only a citizen if I say you’re a citizen. You chose to live outside of my protection, to turn your back on your country by living somewhere else, which means you gave up your citizenship. Once you did that, you lost all your rights.”

  With a shove, Lisa Parfist and her daughter were led away and out of the building. Patton watched them go and then turned back to Wimber.

  “Let that be a lesson. That’s what happens when you don’t see to a slave’s basic needs,” he said. “They get hungry and thirsty, then they can’t sleep, and then they become hard to control. Think of them as a herd of cows.” He again waved an arm at the entire room.

  “These people are a natural resource that has to be used carefully. You have to nurture them.”

  Chapter 19

  Study the past if you would define the future.

  Confucius

  1719 hours, July 29

  “General?”

  Lost in thought, Angriff had not heard his visitor enter the office. “Colonel Schiller,” he said, turning away from the desert view. “What can I do for you?”

  “Sir, I did more digging on Lieutenant Hull and it turns out there was quite a bit more in his records. I put together a dossier in case you wanted inside the mind of your opponent.”

  “You did that? Colonel, that information could be invaluable.”

  “I’m glad I could help, General. I’ll leave it on your desk.”

  “No need for that. We don’t pull out for a little while. Please, sit down and read it to me.”

  When Schiller sat in one of the two chairs facing his desk, Angriff noted his stiff posture and ramrod-straight back.

  “The style is a bit informal. I was trying to portray more than just hard facts, but this is out of my usual comfort zone.” He cleared his throat. “The man who calls himself General George S. Patton was born Lester Earl Hull in a hardscrabble neighborhood in Phoenix. It was the sort of area where having a working air conditioner, flat screen TV, and car not on blocks in the front yard made you better off than your neighbors. That’s a quote from a report written by his company commander.”

  “He was lower middle class,” Angriff said. “Nothing unusual there.”

  “I believe Hull saw it differently. From childhood, Hull felt himself driven to dominate whatever situation he was in. He told people that the spirits of great warriors of the past lived within him. Nobody seems to have known if he really believed this or not. He rarely spoke about it, since when he did people thought he was insane.

  “Although not physically imposing, Hull was athletic. He made up in persistence what he lacked in talent. He wore down his coaches to become the captain of whatever team he was on, including the chess team. Throughout school most of his peers avoided him, but few people ever picked on him, and the ones who did only did it once. His high school counselor noted that Lester did not understand boundaries. Once, in ninth grade, a larger boy made fun of Hull’s tendency toward being chubby. No matter how hard he worked out, it seems he could not get rid of a roll of fat around his hips.

  “But Hull did not attack the boy himself. Instead, a police report says he found some old steaks in the dumpster behind a grocery store and inserted finishing nails into a ribeye. He then threw it over the fence for the boy’s dog.”

  “The one who insulted him?”

  “Yes, sir. The dog wolfed down the meat, then died a slow and painful death while the boy cradled him and cried. Lester bragged about it the next day and that’s how he got caught. A lot of people wanted to hurt him, but nobody did anything. He terrified them. And if he was as crazy as his behavior suggested, then you could never hurt him as bad as he would hurt you in return. To Lester that was a win.”

  “How did this whack job get into the army?”

  “His IQ’s pretty high, sir, and from what I can tell, he’s relentless when he wants something. Once in the Army, he rose to first lieutenant pretty fast. He always obeyed orders to the letter, but regardless of the situation Hull saw himself as the leader. Multiple evaluators made it clear that what Hull saw as leadership was irritating persistence to everyone else.

  “I can only guess, of course, but it sounds to me like Hull might actually believe he is the reincarnation of some famous general from history.”

  “You gleaned all that from the records?”

  The question surprised Schiller. He thought he’d made that clear on the front end. “Yes, sir. I can’t guarantee it’s one hundred percent accurate, but I think it’s close.”

  “Colonel, you have materially helped me in this operation. Your initiative is a credit to the army. I’m impressed, and that’s not easy to do.”

  “Thank you, sir. I just want to do my part.”

  “Call me Nick.” Angriff stood and extended his hand.

  1738 hours

  “Tell me about the missing men,” Hull said.

  Wimber braced himself again. “Two men stationed outside are gone, General, and we found boot prints, really clear ones.”

  “Be specific, Wimber. What were their names again?”

  “Tisky and Chu.”

/>   “Tisky? I know him pretty well. He’s a good man. Are you telling me they deserted? Were they in trouble?”

  “No, General,” Wimber said. “They were two of my best men. But I wasn’t talking about seeing their bootprints; I meant there’s other prints. Lots of others. And they’re different. The tread on the bottom of these boots ain’t worn down like ours. The lines in the dirt are sharp. But Chu and Tisky’s prints are there, too. You can tell if you look close.”

  Hull stopped and rubbed his left jowl. “Where do they lead?”

  “Over the hill out back, then off northeast into the desert,” Wimber said. “And there are barefoot tracks up there, too.”

  “How many barefoot?”

  “Just one set.”

  “Are we looking at a kidnapping?” Hull said, disbelief in his voice. “Who would be stupid enough to try something like that?”

  “Maybe some men from that last village we raided? Some did get away.”

  “It couldn’t have been. You only found one set of barefoot tracks. None of them would have boots; where would they get them?” Hull stood silent for more than a minute and then headed outside. The hot air refreshed him after the stale fumes inside.

  “That’s two incidents we can’t explain,” he said. Wimber still stood beside him, but Hull was talking more to himself than the lieutenant. “This must be connected with those old trucks we found out in the desert. Our vehicles didn’t just disappear into thin air, or our men. What was the leader’s name again?”

  “Busson. Sergeant Slick Busson.”

  “Yeah, Busson. He was a loyal SP. You told me that and I believe you. So where are he, his men, and most importantly, his vehicles, especially the Bradley? They didn’t just vanish. No, there’s something else going on here, and we need to find out what it is. We’ve now lost eight men and three vehicles, and we don’t know why.”

  Hull frowned, thinking. “We found tracks heading north from where those old trucks were found, and that one shell casing. What if Busson did not lead his men into the mountains? What if he’s dead, or a prisoner?”

  “But who would do that? Who could do that? The Bradley had a chain gun. I can’t think of anything in the desert that could fight with it.”

  “The Chinese could,” Hull said. “What if the Chinese took them as bargaining chips?”

  “You mean Chu and Tisky?”

  “I mean all of them, the Bradley, too. What if they’re looking to bargain for a better deal? Well, screw them. The fuel is more important than a few men or vehicles.” Realizing he had spoken out loud, he added, “Except for the Guards, of course. They’re the most important thing.”

  Wimber nodded. “You’re the only man smart enough to figure all that out, General.”

  “That’s why I’m leading this Republic. And we’re going to get them all back, just you watch. Detail one of your men to find Colonel Cranston and tell him to meet me at headquarters, then start cleaning those people. I want them pretty for their new owners.”

  1822 hours

  Norbert Cranston rubbed his neck. Preparing for the Chinese meant preparing for anything — a peaceful trade, a tense negotiation, or open war.

  Never before had they come to Prescott to pick up such a huge shipment of slaves. In the past the number had never exceeded one or two hundred. Transferring five thousand human beings took a tremendous amount of planning, and readying for potential combat left no room for error. He only had so many men, after all, and in his heart Cranston did not trust the Chinese. Why would they burn so much fuel driving to Prescott when the Republic would have met them halfway?

  Regardless, it was Cranston’s job to make their route passable for a convoy of heavy vehicles. In the past they had used the western route, following old Interstate 40 to Arizona State Highway 93, then turning southeast until it intersected with SH 96. Taking 96 to SH 89 led them to enter Prescott from the southwest. But several sections of Highway 96 had collapsed, requiring long overland detours for a convoy of trucks and heavy vehicles. This time the Chinese would continue on I-40 until it met SH 89, which led straight into Prescott from the north.

  Scouting the routes and coordinating with the advance Chinese patrols had taken all morning and most of the afternoon. The work of clearing the roads and filling holes had been going on for weeks, and Cranston wanted nothing more than to collapse. Instead, he was heading to confer with his boss, General Patton. He could think of nothing more exhausting.

  The sun waned by the time he got there. Shadows from the elm trees in Courthouse Square cooled his face as he approached the broad steps leading inside. The water bucket near the front double doors was full, for once, and he drank cups before moving into the old building.

  He found Patton in his office, leaning back in his creaky office chair, bare feet on his desk, lost in thought. When Cranston knocked, Patton waved him in.

  “Sit down, Bert. Are we ready to move the prisoners and greet our Chinese friends?” He put emphasis on the word friends.

  Cranston noticed. “Straight to business,” he said. “Got anything to drink?”

  Patton pointed to a table against the wall, where a pitcher and some glasses were shaded from the late afternoon sun. Cranston drank yet more water and slumped into a wooden chair. “This heat’s hard to take sometimes.”

  “We’re getting old, Bert. After this is over, we can kick back and do some trout fishing, but until then we’ve got to push on. So, are we ready?”

  “If we’re not, I don’t know what else we can do. This is the worst possible time of year for trading in humans, as I’ve told you a hundred times. My biggest issue is moving the cargo to the loading zones before the day heats up. I’m sure it’s going to be another scorcher tomorrow, so we have to move and load them before the sun kills off the weaker ones. We’ve consolidated the prisoners as planned in the old community center, the school, and the gym. I heard you inspected them.”

  Patton nodded. “Briefly. Put the fear of God in a few people, but it wasn’t any worse than I expected. We can’t keep human beings locked up in this kind of weather for long without incurring dead loss.”

  “I issued instructions to every citizen that it was their duty to help us get the merchandise to the Chinese transports, even if we have to carry them. The plan is for the prisoners to walk to the reservoir. The Chinese can assemble their trucks there instead of driving into town. I don’t like the idea of them in the heart of the city. It smacks of a Trojan horse-type betrayal.”

  “I had the same thought,” Hull said. “They drive in, but instead of empty trucks, they’re loaded with troops. They know we have to guard the perimeter and can’t spare too much to keep an eye on them.”

  Cranston nodded. “So we take the merchandise to them, instead of the other way around. If they’re planning to fuck us over, we’ll screw it up. If they’re not, it won’t matter where they pick them up.

  “My main concern is security along the route of march and having enough water stations set up to keep the prisoners moving. The distance will be about three miles, which shouldn’t be a problem for the young and healthy ones, but the children and older adults are a different story. We could have a high attrition rate.

  “All storage tanks are ready to accept fuel. We’ve checked the valves and sealed any leaks, but the one problem we can’t solve is capacity. We barely have enough for the amount of gas we’ve contracted for. We shouldn’t need any for a long while after this, maybe as long as three years. The tanker trucks will use the direct route, the one that avoids the transport park and heads directly for the tank storage farm.

  “The men are deployed in strongpoints. If the chinks try to double-cross us, we’ll make them pay. I’ve ordered all of the RPGs handed out, and all of the machine guns, too.”

  “Including the M2s?” Hull said.

  Cranston nodded. “And every round of ammo we’ve got, including training rounds. I think you know I don’t trust those slants as far as I can throw them, General, so I’
m deploying all available forces. The tanks are positioned near the hospital, and the Bradley, Humvees, and civilian vehicles are ready to transport reserves wherever we need them. If they try something, we’re gonna bleed them bad. Honestly, I hope they do. I’m in the mood for a fight.”

  Hull glared from under bushy brows. “None of that, do you hear me? This republic needs fuel. More importantly, we need the Chinese to keep trading with us. They’re our only source of gas. I don’t trust the little bastards either, I think they’re behind that patrol that disappeared a few weeks ago, and just last night two guards turned up missing. But even if they’re behind both of those, that’s no reason to start a war.”

  “What if they shoot first?”

  “If the Chinese come here looking for a fight, we’ll give it to them, but only if they fire first. I mean it, Bert — only if they start it.”

  Chapter 20

  The lofty pine is oftenest shaken by the winds; High towers fall with a heavier crash; And the lightning strikes the highest mountain.

  Qunitus Horatius Flaccus, a/k/a Horace

  1930 hours, July 28

  “Attention, all hands.”

  Throughout the mountain activity stopped.

  In Motor Bay C, Marine Battalion Commander Colonel Berger nodded and the battalion’s XO, Major Harold ‘Harry the Hat’ Strickland, ordered “Atten-hut!”

  At the other end of the bay, Lt. Col. Bishop T. Hines ordered First Armored Battalion to stop work and cut engines.

  In the hangar bay, Frances Rossi shut down her crew.

  In the hospital, Colonel Friedenthall stepped away from an MRI console into the hallway.

  Everywhere tools were put on work benches, running vehicles were set to low idle, conversations ebbed, machinery was laid aside, as every member of Overtime Prime who could turned to the nearest loudspeaker.