Standing in the Storm

by William Alan Webb

  Then the shooting started.

  The chatter of machine guns came from above. Rifle fire from Court Square came through the open front doors. He crouched in a doorway near the central stairwell, wondering what to do next, when there was a muffled explosion. Seconds later the entire building shook and a much louder blast echoed down the stairs.

  Once, a long time ago, Parfist had watched from a distance as Patton’s tanks had attacked a village near his home in the mountains. They had fired a few cannon shells and he remembered the sound, and it was just like this explosion. He knew immediately what it meant — the Americans had arrived and opened fire, and he was out of time.

  0348 hours

  Ceiling plaster fell around Hull and Cranston in chunks. The weak beams of their flashlights reflected off the pulverized plaster that filled the air with a fine white powder. It clogged their noses and made them cough. Then there was another, much stronger explosion. It lifted the heavy building from its foundations and slammed it back down.

  Following a Security Policeman down the stairs, Cranston turned to Hull behind him. “That’s artillery!”

  “Where the hell did that come from?” Hull yelled back. “Who are these people?”

  At the first floor, they turned left toward Hull’s office. There was the loud crack of a rifle and the SP man staggered, clutched his chest, and fell. Cranston whirled back up the stairs, but before Hull could follow a hand grabbed his collar and jerked him backward. He felt the barrel of a rifle press against his spine and stopped struggling.

  “Whoever you are, General Patton is up those stairs but you’re letting him get away,” Hull said. “I’m his assistant.”

  Parfist knew that voice too well to fall for such a trick. He had eavesdropped on the leader of the New Republic of Arizona many times over the years. “Oh, no, General Patton. I know exactly who you are. I’m here because you said you wanted to meet me, and now we’re going somewhere to have a nice talk.”

  Still with his back to the man, Hull was not about to give up so easily. “If I yell, you’ll never get out of here alive.”

  “Nobody lives forever,” Parfist said. “I’m ready to die, as long as you do, too.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Remember that beautiful woman and her sweet daughter you were giving to the Chinese commander as a gift?”

  Hull did not answer, so Parfist poked him with the gun to prompt him. “I asked you a question.”

  “Yes.”

  “The woman told you that you would have to deal with her husband. Do you remember that, too?”

  “I’ll be rescued any minute now,” Hull said. “Surrender and I’ll spare your life.”

  “You’d better hope that doesn’t happen,” Parfist said. “I’m just looking for an excuse to kill you. Now answer my question or I’ll drop you like a bighorn sheep. Do you remember she said her husband would gut you like a trout?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you said you looked forward to meeting him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should be happy, because her husband is me.”

  Chapter 31

  Line them up, big and small,

  Line them up, we’ll fight them all.

  Sergio Velazquez, from “Yoke”

  0349 hours, July 29

  Using her Common Remotely Operated Weapon Station, Morgan Randall sprayed the street ahead with her M2HB fifty-caliber machine gun. Hostiles engaged in a firefight with the SEALs scattered when her rounds cut into their ranks. She cleared the area of living enemies, but just in case any survived, Joe’s Junk ran over them without slowing down. As part of the Tank Urban Survival Kit, the TUSK, she thought CROWS was a great idea.

  Ting-ting-ting.

  Speeding through the firefight, Joe’s Junk took hits from both sides. The echo of ricocheting bullets rang through the hull. They all leaned left as Tanya made the sharp right-hand turn that led to their destination. Seconds later they heard a 120mm gun firing behind them, and knew the rest of the column would have to fight its way through.

  Flashes outside lit the staircase with a strobe effect, but Cranston didn’t slow down. Whoever shot the Security man might be chasing him. Two more guards were running downstairs and he grabbed one by the arm, ordering him to go down and rescue the General. Then he headed for the radio room on the third floor.

  The radios at the courthouse ran on one of the working gas-powered generators. The most crucial military units had handsets with rechargeable batteries. The sets had limited range, but within the Prescott area reception was generally good.

  Panting after sprinting up two flights of stairs, Cranston held onto the radio room doorframe as another shell landed in Court Square. An elm tilted to one side, pulling a root ball from the ground.

  To his astonishment, two men still sat in the room, waiting for orders.

  “To all commands,” he shouted. “Enemy inside the city. Headquarters under attack. Secure prisoners—”

  A large shell exploded outside the window, shattering the remaining glass. The blast knocked everyone to the floor and toppled the radio gear, smashing it. Cranston touched his forehead and came away with a bloody hand, while the two radio men did not move. One groaned, but the other had a jagged glass shard in his neck and was bleeding out. Groggy, Cranston crawled for the door.

  The courthouse was not defensible, that much was obvious; he had to get out of there. He took one of the dead radio operators’ M16s. Hull had had escape tunnels dug from the basement for just such a situation. Stumbling, bleeding, Cranston headed back down the stairs.

  0351 hours

  Green Ghost heard gunfire and explosions to the south, from the courthouse area. Flashes of exploding shells lit the night sky like lightning. He recognized the sound of every weapon, from the M16s to the incoming artillery rounds.

  The instant the first small arms fire erupted, his men had gone into full defense mode. Their mission was to protect the prisoners until the evacuation trucks arrived.

  “Green Ghost, this is Copperhead Nine,” a voice said in his earphone. “Friendly armor headed your way.”

  Over the din of combat, he heard the unmistakable rumble of an M1A3 Abrams growing louder in the darkness. Seconds later, the familiar outline materialized and pulled up next to the doors of the gym. The tank’s front left showed blast marks. The commander’s hatch opened and a head popped up.

  “Enemy positions?” a female voice shouted down.

  “Negative, Lieutenant,” Green Ghost said, recognizing Morgan Randall. “I’ve got LPs out, and you passed the second and third holding stations. What’s going on back there?”

  “Firefight by the courthouse; burps are trying to stop us. Until they’re suppressed, the convoy can’t get through.” She stood higher in the turret and scanned the area for a few seconds. “I’m setting up over there.” Pointing, she indicated the northern end of the old football stadium.

  Green Ghost approved of her setup spot and gave her thumbs-up. “From there you can dominate the approaches to the buildings,” he yelled, cupping hands around his mouth. “But watch out for enemy infantry.”

  “Are we expecting any?”

  “I don’t know, but until the convoy gets here, we’re on our own.”

  Randall nodded and dropped back into Joe’s Junk.

  0358 hours

  “General, Bulldozer One One Two has made contact with Green Ghost,” the radio technician said. “They’ve taken up defensive position. No enemy activity yet.”

  “Where’s the rest of Bulldozer?” Angriff asked Norm Fleming.

  Fleming held one cup of a headset to his ear and raised a finger, meaning Give me a second. Then he smiled and lowered the headset. “Bulldozer One One reports the garrison at the courthouse is surrendering. Apparently the artillery didn’t agree with them.”

  Angriff could not help smiling. “Shrapnel’s hard to digest.”

  0408 hours

  Morgan Randall happened to be looki
ng right at a pile of debris when the hot outline of a man popped into her night vision goggles. Before she could fire the M2HB, there was a flash. Something smashed into the right side of Joe’s Junk, rocking the Abrams like a lizard shaking a rat.

  Although stunned, her crew’s training took over and all became reflex. The turret rotated and the barrel depressed, aiming at the heap of rubble. The Abrams rocked backward with recoil as a 120mm round fired at the target less than thirty yards away, blowing man and debris to smithereens. Shrapnel and clods of rubbish clanged off the top of the tank.

  “Damage?” Morgan Randall called into her mike.

  “My sanity,” Toy said. “Everything else checks.”

  “I’m good here,” Marty said.

  “Tanya?”

  “Not sure. Display’s rebooting, but I can’t guarantee anything until we start moving. I think we’re good, though.”

  “If we ever meet the guy who designed TUSK, somebody should give him a blowjob,” Toy said.

  “Be my guest,” Tanya said.

  0411 hours

  The activity resembled the organized purpose of an anthill. Tanks and APCs deployed around the perimeter of the high school campus, while the following trucks lined up at the entrance. MARSOC teams directed traffic and helped the liberated prisoners into the transports. There was no stampede, since most of the prisoners were so weak even standing was difficult. Some cried but most stood silent, unsure of what was happening. Many thought it was time for transfer to the Chinese. There was a constant stream of shouted orders and the roar of powerful engines. At the center of it all was the lean figure of Green Ghost.

  He and Wingnut were deep in conversation when somebody tapped on his shoulder. They were in a puddle of darkness fifty feet from the entrance to the gym, and it took him a second to recognize Richard Parfist.

  “Mr. Parfist, now’s not the time,” he said, and turned back to Wingnut. He issued an order and Wingnut trotted off. When he turned, he found Parfist still there, pointing an M16 at a heavy-set man.

  “I’m very busy, Mr. Parfist. I don’t know where your family is,” he said. “But I’m sure they’re over there somewhere.”

  “Thanks, Ghost. Could you take this guy off my hands?”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s General Patton, the leader of this place.”

  0413 hours

  “Say again, Green Ghost. I repeat, say again.”

  The radio operator switched to speaker. The voice sounded clear but compressed.

  “Prime, this is Green Ghost. We have enemy commander in custody. Need instructions A-sap.”

  Ten feet away, Nick Angriff turned and pushed down the crowded aisle to the station. Keying the mike, he took over the call. “Green Ghost, this is Saint Nick. How do you know he’s the right guy?”

  There was a short pause and some inaudible background chatter. Then Green Ghost was back. “No doubt, sir. It’s him. Requesting orders.”

  “Great work. All right, tell him this — he’s to order an immediate stand-down for all forces under his command. Do whatever is necessary to help him accomplish this. Whatever it takes, do you understand? This is your top priority after the safety of the hostages. If he refuses, tell him his only other option is to be shot on the spot, but don’t actually do that. Do you understand these orders?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Nipple’s not with you, is she?”

  “No, she’s attached to your headquarters security team.”

  “Good. And again, great work. I don’t know how you did it, but you just saved a lot of lives.”

  “It wasn’t me, Saint, or anybody under my command. It was Mr. Parfist.”

  “Parfist? The guy who was your guide?”

  “Roger that. He’s very resourceful.”

  “Give him my thanks. We need all the men like him we can get.”

  Chapter 32

  We pray for one last landing, on the globe that gave us birth,

  Let us rest our eyes on the fleecy skies, and the cool, green hills of Earth.

  Robert A. Heinlein, from “The Green Hills of Earth”

  0414 hours, July 29

  Creeping through the dark streets, Norbert Cranston wondered why the shelling had stopped. But his primary concern was not getting shot by his own men, so he focused on his immediate surroundings. The trip, normally five minutes in daylight, took much longer, but within half an hour, when he emerged from the tunnel, he found General Patton’s tanks still on the west side of the hospital, within sight of the high school. Not one of the six even had its engine running. Holding them as a reserve had been the right move, but they should have already counter-attacked.

  The tank crews, though, were confused, scared, and unsure what to do next. Cranston did not hesitate. After a brief pep talk, he ordered an immediate attack to retake the high school and secure the hostages. The crews cheered, but it sounded forced to Cranston’s ears. They had heard the artillery barrage and the sounds of large vehicles, and he could read the fear in their eyes.

  No matter. As long as they obeyed, he didn’t care what they thought about the situation. Engine cranking, the first tank clanked past the hospital and turned right at a street that led straight to the high school.

  0418 hours

  “Tank signature at ten o’clock,” Toy said over the intercom. “It’s an M1, boss. One of ours?”

  Morgan Randall saw it move from the cover of a building and turn directly for Joe’s Junk.

  “Shit! I don’t know. Marty, what’s in the chamber?”

  “HEAT, boss. Switch ’em out?”

  “No, KE next.” Behind the first tank, she saw others following. “Bulldozer One One, I’ve got unidentified Abrams tanks headed toward my position west of the high school, range two hundred and closing fast. Urgently need ID. Are they friendly?”

  “Boss,” Toy said, “the gun. Look at the gun.”

  Randall focused on the screen. As she watched, the oncoming tank rotated its turret from side to side, as if seeking a target. At first glance the gun appeared identical to theirs, but then she picked up the small differences in length and width. “That’s a 105, not a 120! Enemy in sight! Toy, you locked in?”

  “I’ve got him, boss.”

  “Fire!”

  Joe’s Junk rocked backward as the HEAT round left the barrel and struck the oncoming M1 at the turret seam, just below the main gun. At point-blank range, the round penetrated the tank’s armor, releasing its jet of volcanic fire into the crew compartment and killing everyone inside. The exploding shell set off the ready ammunition. Secondary explosions were visible more than a mile away. They ripped out the sides and blew the turret fifty feet into the air.

  The following M1s panicked, but the glare of the explosions revealed a tank under some trees at the end of the street. Without precise firing data, but at a range of less than a hundred yards, the second M1 fired one round and then turned. The rest of the line all swerved and turned at once, with the fourth and fifth tanks ramming each other, disabling both and blocking the street. In the light of their burning comrades, the crews bailed out and ran away. Seeing their friends racing past them, the last M1 crew climbed out and joined the fleeing group, leaving their tank running.

  Norbert Cranston tried to stop them. He waved his arms and shouted and threatened, but nothing could stop their headlong flight. He would have shot them if he’d had a sidearm. Finally, as they disappeared into the night, he knew there was no choice except to join them.

  To Morgan Randall’s mind, the muzzle flash was simultaneous with a loud crack as the 105mm round struck a massive pine tree three feet to the left of Joe’s Junk. Wood splinters showered the hull. Then the Abrams was shaken and collapsed on its shock absorbers as the tree fell on top of them. The weight tilted the huge tank backward at more than a ten degree angle.

  “Fuck!” Toy said. “Did we get stepped on by a giant?”

  Stunned, Morgan Randall shook her head hard and sought a new targe
t. She assumed the enemy was lining up for a kill shot. Instead, she saw the receding shapes of the enemy tankers running away. “Sound off,” she said.

  “I’m good,” Tanya said.

  “Me, too,” Marty said.

  “I need a drink,” Toy said.

  “Boss, I’m spiking hot,” Tanya said. “I think something’s blocking the air intakes.”

  “I’m going topside.” But when Randall tried, the commander’s hatch would not open. “Damn, something’s blocking it. Tanya, move us up but be careful. I think that’s a tree up there.”

  The radio crackled. “Bulldozer One One Two, gimme a sitrep.”

  Scanning her display for new threats, Randall spoke into the headset as she multi-tasked. “One enemy tank destroyed, four or five others abandoned by hostiles. I’m damaged, extent currently unknown. Request immediate support.”

  “Bulldozer One Two One and One Two Two are on the way.”

  “One One Two out.”

  Tanya inched Joe’s Junk forward. As the tank moved, they heard screeching as the tree scraped against the hull. It pressed down further and further on the hull’s rear until it rolled off and the whole tank sprang up, then down, and finally settled on an even keel. Morgan Randall shoved her hatch open and climbed out. After checking for enemies, she inspected the damage.

  Needles and branches lay all over the top, and there was the strong scent of pine. The CROWS tilted left and the fifty-caliber machine gun angled backward, its barrel bent downward by some massive weight. Behind them was the hulk of a huge pine tree, at least 36 inches in diameter.