by Nathan Jones
Pete wasn't. He didn't like doing it, sure, since there was a big difference between executing a condemned prisoner and killing an enemy in combat. But unlike torture this he could handle. Harsh experience had proven again and again that slavers allowed to live after a fight would come back later and harm more innocents. Canada didn't have the resources to inter and rehabilitate them, if that was even possible for animals like this, so they did the best they could under the circumstances.
He wondered if Matt would be disappointed in him. Then again, his friend had been in more than a few firing squads himself. Pete had to wonder if the moral compass he'd built around Matt was more generous than what the man really was. Good, certainly, one of the best men he'd ever met, but no perfect paragon of virtue.
As Pete and Chavez set up and prepared their weapons the residents a short distance away went nuts, cursing in Chinese and broken English. Pete ignored them as the sergeant cleared his throat and spoke up in a loud voice.
“Prisoners. Owing to these times and necessity, the governing bodies of the United States of America and Canada have authorized us to summarily execute anyone indisputably caught taking part in a slaving raid, or working within the slaving operation in the illegally occupied Central Controlled Zone.”
Chavez paused for a breath, and to inspect the slavers, then continued. “Anyone so condemned is guilty of committing or abetting kidnapping and gross human rights violations. As confirmed by testimony of the Canadian and American citizens freed from this camp, all of you assembled before us are guilty of murder, both overt and by neglect, torture, and mistreatment, as well as a host of other abuses. By my authorized mandate, I sentence you to death.”
The sergeant nodded, and Pete joined him in opening fire.
Once they were done Pete shouldered his rifle and turned away. “Should I organize a detail to bury the bodies?”
“Nah.” Chavez motioned towards the bound, cursing residents. Many of them were weeping. “They can bury their own dead when we're gone. I've got other shoveling for you to do.”
Pete blinked. “Huh?”
The sergeant motioned towards a few shovels sitting with the tools next to the pile of loot the squad had gathered. “Grab one of those and take me to this graveyard the freed slaves showed you.”
A few minutes later Pete found himself digging up one of the three graves set apart from the slave graves. The one with flowers on it. Apparently Torm had managed to get something out of the overseer, and this wasn't actually a grave at all.
After going down three or four feet through loose, recently disturbed soil he uncovered a tarp wrapped around a bundle a few feet square. Inside were some cases of liquor, a couple plastic bags full of precious metals and jewelry, a few dozen cartons of cigarettes and a box of cigars, and several other small, valuable items.
As Pete inspected the trove Chavez gave him a tight smile. “Say what you like, Torm's skills have their uses, right?” Pete looked away, unwilling to answer, and the sergeant chuckled. “You realize this stuff will help provide a new life for the slaves we just freed, get them settled and provided basic necessities until they can get on their feet.” He jabbed Pete with a sharp elbow. “Unless your brand of corruption strays towards making a few of these valuables disappear for your own benefit, right?”
“Was that an accusation, or an invitation?” Pete said, crouching to wrap everything up again and haul the heavy burden onto his back. He intended to make sure it all got turned into the quartermaster with nothing missing.
Chavez just chuckled again. “I get it, Childress. You're disappointed in what the Chainbreakers have become.” His voice hardened. “Now either take the stick out of your butt or suffer it in silence; whining isn't going to improve your position in Epsilon.”
“We can be better than this,” Pete replied quietly.
Chavez grit his teeth and turned to look at the ragged line of shallow graves dug for the slaves. “Remember when we first heard the Gold Bloc remnants were retreating into their own territory, and we all hoped it meant they were going to keep to themselves from then on?”
Pete snorted. “I never thought they would.”
The older man smiled bitterly. “Yeah, more fool anyone who did. Peace isn't in them, not even if you give them the chance. The only thing they understand is force.”
“I'm not sure they even understand that, or they would've given up by now,” Pete said, glancing toward camp and the bodies of the guards they'd taken out.
“Then we'll just have to keep sending them the message.” Chavez sighed. “They don't seem to value human life, not even the lives of their own soldiers. The system they've set up is doomed to collapse. We just have to make sure it does. That means sending them the sort of message they can understand, unappetizing as that is.”
Pete shook his head slightly. The system the CCZ was operating on was the same one warlords and conquerers throughout history had used. Maybe they did eventually collapse, or tear themselves apart internally, but something like them always seemed to reform from any chaos.
Of course, more civilized cultures eventually won out. He had to believe that.
As for Chavez trying to justify what Epsilon was doing in the context of the larger conflict, that just seemed like a lot of excuses to him.
Chapter Fourteen
Return
Since they'd managed to take the camp before any of the slavers could send out a warning the need to leave wasn't urgent, and the camp was small enough that it was unlikely anyone came to regularly check up on it more often than the few times a month a truck came around to pick up the loads of wood produced by slave labor.
Still, once everything was done Chavez wasted no time chivvying everyone up and away to meet up with the squad's trucks. They left the camp's residents behind, bound in a way that they'd (hopefully) be able to escape from before dying of thirst. That or someone would come along to help them.
“Ropes aren't that hard to get out of,” Torm replied to Pete's concerns. Pete wanted to tell the interrogator to shut it and press the subject further, but Chavez obviously valued his preferred second's opinion over Pete's.
They loaded up with everything useful from the camps, and that really meant loaded; the soldiers of Epsilon were soon weighed down like pack mules with their own gear on top of almost the same weight in loot. Even the freed slaves, weak as they were, carried as much as they could of the camp's tools and supplies, knowing this stuff would all be going towards helping them start their new lives; the more they managed to bring with them, the better off they'd be.
The heavy burdens and the prospect of a long walk had Pete's squad mates grumbling and wishing they had a working vehicle, and he noticed more than a few shot hostile looks in the direction of the CCZ resident who'd trashed the camp trucks, tied up with the others inside the dining hall.
That annoyance was magnified by the fact that instead of the trucks carrying them, they'd be carrying the trucks. Or at least part of them: the vehicles had quickly been stripped of small, useful parts to bring along too, with much lamenting about the perfectly good parts left behind because they were simply too large and heavy to carry. From Chavez's glares it was obvious the sergeant would've made them take out the entire engines and drag them along on makeshift sleds if they'd had the time and it had been in any way practical.
They set off at the best pace they could reasonably manage for going such a distance, which was agonizingly slow. At first Pete was afraid that even that would be too much for the freed slaves, but the emaciated men kept pace with a silent, grim determination. Maybe their long labor had strengthened them in spite of starvation, or maybe they were pushing themselves past their limits one last time to escape the CCZ and the hell they'd been in.
Either way they managed a mile an hour, and it was usually the Epsilon soldiers who needed to stop first. Of course they were carrying more than twice the weight, but even so Pete was impressed.
Almost four hours later they receiv
ed word over the radio that Jack had reached the trucks and they'd arrived to pick everyone up. His friend must've been pushing hard to make the distance so quickly, and was probably even more exhausted than the rest of them in spite of carrying less weight.
Either way the group's relief was palpable as the vehicles rumbled into view. They quickly loaded up, Chavez and Torm spending a few minutes planning their route as everyone else worked. The two pointedly didn't invite Pete to the discussion.
Then they were off.
Pete knew from his own experience that the drive back to the border after a raid was in many ways just as tense as the attack itself; more tense, in some ways, since so much of it was out of your control. There was a higher chance the attack had alerted the enemy, with increased patrols and even ambushes prepared in response. And even an attack like this where the enemy should have no idea what had happened at the logging camp wasn't completely free from danger. They could encounter a civilian car or enemy patrol using the roads they took, drive past some settlement of CCZ residents who would report them, or even just get unlucky and have vehicle trouble that would slow them down long enough for one of the other things that could go wrong to happen.
They drove quickly, preferring a hasty trip to trying to move stealthily in large noisy military vehicles. They had plans to change routes if they were spotted, and to speed up even more in an attempt to evade pursuit, but thankfully that was never necessary. As far as they knew they weren't spotted, or if they were the response was slow enough that they were long gone before enemy pursuit arrived.
The simple fact of the matter was that even after five years, and even with the CCZ's mysterious source of fuel, vehicles just weren't all that common. Even the military used theirs sparingly, and tried to get as much out of them as possible by doubling up duties like delivering goods and messages and transferring personnel to fill up any extra space.
And it was equally unlikely they'd pass unknown settlements. The CCZ covered a vast area, and even if their territory was shrinking by the year there just weren't that many people around, and those that were got swallowed up in the expanse. The odds of running into someone out in the middle of nowhere, and of that person actually having a radio or other means of raising the alarm, weren't high.
Of course the same applied for Canada and probably the US as well, which was why raiding was such an effective tactic. Even Mexico, by far the most secure of the four North American nations, was protected more by the fact that everyone depended on them for food and other goods than because their soldiers effectively patrolled their borders.
A fact which was becoming more and more apparent now that the CCZ had found the nerve to begin raiding their neighbor to the south. Those raids were a recent development, just within the last few weeks, and news of them had only begun spreading in the last week or so as Mexico finally realized the trouble was coming from the CCZ and not from increased activity from local bandits.
From what Pete had heard those daring slavers were enjoying shocking success, not least of all because Mexico obviously hadn't been expecting such aggression and wasn't prepared for it.
Epsilon Squad reached the Mississippi late enough that rather than risk crossing in the dark, which would require flashlights that might be seen a long way away, Chavez decided they'd camp there and cross in the morning.
Nobody much liked the decision, even if it was necessary: getting across the river didn't guarantee safety since slavers might raid into Illinois at any moment, but it was far safer than camping on this side. On the other hand trying to get to Lafayette by land would be suicide, since while the CCZ had long since given up on reclaiming that area they still patrolled the borders around it heavily to deter raiders.
The sergeant picked a spot far enough away that enemies patrolling the river wouldn't stumble on them. Pete and his squad mates didn't light any fires, and rather than setting up tents just rolled up in sleeping bags after a meal of dry rations. Even so it felt luxurious just to rest; after almost a full day of hiking, half of it carrying heavy weight, broken only by attacking the enemy camp, everyone was exhausted enough to sleep in any conditions.
Actually the freed slaves claimed they were more comfortable than usual, since they'd carried out most of the camp's blankets and other bedding because it was reasonably light and undeniably useful, if bulky and awkward to carry. They slept a far sight better here than on the dry grass pallet with a thin blanket that they were used to in the slave barrack.
Since Team 2 hadn't taken much part in the attack, especially with Monty and Nelson watching the trucks, they got assigned to guard duty that night. Pete set up a two-man rotating shift that would at least allow his people to get some sleep, quietly resenting the fact that Chavez wouldn't even give him two more men for a normal schedule so they could all get a decent amount of rest.
He set Monty and Nelson on the first shift, since they'd been with the trucks and were more rested. Before rolling into his sleeping bag he warned them that if either of them fell asleep on watch he'd tie rocks to their feet and toss them into the middle of the Mississippi. Assuming a CCZ patrol didn't discover them and kill them all while they were sleeping first.
The warning was especially for Monty, since recruits often didn't have a proper appreciation for the importance of staying alert on watch, or the sort of punishment their own squad mates would rightfully dish out if they dropped the ball.
Once Pete was sure the kid had got the message loud and clear he cinched his sleeping bag's opening tight around his face, rolled over, and went to sleep.
* * * * *
The next morning, bright and early, they crossed the river.
Not by a bridge, of course. There wasn't an unguarded bridge between where the Mississippi began in Minnesota to where it ran into the Gulf of Mexico. Most had been outright destroyed, since no trade went on between the CCZ and Canada and they were officially at war and raiding each other constantly. The few that remained were heavily guarded by one side or the other, with an equally strong presence by the opposing side guarding against incursions across it.
That presented a bit of a problem. There was a reason the Mississippi River had naturally formed a barrier between Canada and the CCZ, and that's because it was a natural barrier. A bit downstream of where the great river merged with the Missouri it was nearly a mile wide. Not a fun swim, and good luck getting a vehicle across.
Of course they were hours north of there where it wasn't nearly that wide. Still enough to provide a good barrier, though.
After breaking camp the two trucks drove a few miles to a scenic byway beside the river, with a tangled snarl of deadfall in view on the other side of the broad expanse of water.
Almost as soon as the vehicles stopped their forward motion Epsilon squad poured out, several men fanning out to scout the surrounding area for any unfriendly eyes. Meanwhile Torm jogged up to the highest point overlooking the river, binoculars around his neck, to check across the water for any sign of a threat on the eastern side.
Pete wasn't on scouting duty. He hopped out and strode purposefully over to a ditch, where he pulled aside branches and other refuse to reveal the canoe they'd hidden there. Jack came with him, and with his friend's help he lifted the craft free and carried it over to the river. There they unceremoniously plopped it in, and Nelson trotted over to join them.
Jack held the end while Pete climbed inside and made his way to the far rowing seat, pulling an oar out of the bottom of the narrow craft. Nelson followed and settled in the bottom, shifting aside the other oar. Then Jack nimbly hopped in as well, pushing the canoe away from shore in the same motion, and as Pete began paddling them farther out his friend settled into the other rowing seat and accepted the second oar Nelson handed him.
They all had some experience paddling a canoe, but even so it took them some time to get across, and it was a tiring trip. Their work wasn't done when they reached the other side, either.
After pulling the craft up onto sho
re where it wouldn't wash away, Pete and Jack left Nelson to watch for signals from across the river, as well as keep an eye on the river itself. Then they separated to jog to different vantage points, doing their best to stay low and unseen as much as possible.
When Pete reached his vantage, which gave him a good view of most of the surrounding area to the east and northeast but kept him fairly well concealed, he pulled out his own pair of binoculars and spent several minutes thoroughly searching the area for any eyes, friendly or unfriendly. A bit to the south Jack was doing the same for the view to the east and southeast.
It may have seemed like paranoia, searching for threats in the middle of nowhere with no bridge within a hundred miles, but they couldn't afford to take chances. This was their only way across the river in this area, after all.
Typical MO for slavers was to swim across the river, or paddle across in small boats, then walk until they could find and steal a vehicle. The vehicle's occupants either became their first slaves or their first victims. From there they generally fanned out, forming a temporary base of operations as they scouted potential targets for raiding and stole more vehicles.
Then they'd hit their targets, bring the loot and slaves back to the Mississippi, and radio support on the other side. The support would provide enough boats to bring everything but the vehicles across, and they'd have their own trucks waiting in CCZ territory. They'd torch the vehicles they'd stolen, cross to safety, and drive away.
Mission accomplished.
Problem with that was, it took time. Good soldiers knew that the longer an operation took the more chances it had to go wrong, and good soldiers tried to eliminate any variable that might lead to things going wrong. Before starting this mission Chavez had told Pete that nothing put a burr in his britches worse than sitting on the west side of the Mississippi watching the clock tick.
