Sure, there were probably rifles out there as good or better. At the end of the day, John’s choice had more to do with familiarity. Better to have a weapon system you knew like the back of your hand. Especially since clearing a jam on a rifle in the heat of battle could be a life-or-death situation.
Stuffed into one of his back pouches, John had yarrow for blood clotting as well as a small survival kit that contained wire, his flint and striker as well as some water purification tablets. He would also take his Lifesaver water bottle to provide an easy way to scoop up possibly unsafe water and filter it in seconds.
An eager-looking Rodriguez appeared just then. “I sent your message,” he told John.
John tightened the straps of his tactical vest, his gaze dropping to the sadness on Brandon’s face. Reaching into the back of the truck, John pulled the crate with George out onto the tailgate. Rodriguez went to grab the crate and that was when George sprang to life, squawking and snapping at his fingers.
Rodriguez recoiled. “Your bird’s crazy, John.”
“He also doesn’t taste very good,” Brandon added.
John snickered while George continued making a racket.
“How would you know how he tastes?”
“The kid thinks the bird’s his pet,” John explained. “But I gave you my word, so go ahead.”
“That’s right,” Rodriguez said. “You did give me your word.” He reached for the cage again when John stopped him.
“I didn’t say you could have the cage. I only said you could have the bird.”
Rodriguez froze for a moment.
John opened the lid and the radio operator barely got within a foot of the cage before George seized one of his fingers with his powerful beak. Rodriguez swore and tore his hand away. “What the hell, John? This is thing is possessed.”
John couldn’t help but laugh. “Believe me, I know. How about we do this? We’re gonna need to eat this thing sooner or later. I don’t mind doing all the nasty work, plucking his feathers, gutting him, and giving you half of what I cook.”
That offer seemed so much better to Rodriguez than getting his face pecked off. “Okay, deal. Just shut that thing up before I go deaf.”
John closed the cage and slid George back into the truck. He then reached into his pocket and gave George some more wild grass to eat.
After closing the hatch, he caught the smile plastered on Brandon’s face.
That was when it struck John that George was likely Brandon’s only friend, especially since no one in the Patriots was close to his age.
A call came just then for everyone to meet at the assembly area. As John got ready to leave, Brandon took him by the arm. “I wanna go with you,” Brandon said. “I’m a good shot with a rifle, you’ve seen me.”
“You are, Brandon. And we’ll need you when we head into Oneida, but I need you to sit this one out. Besides, who’s gonna feed George while I’m gone? Keep him nice and plump.” John reached into his pocket and handed Brandon what was left of the wild grass. “You know how to find more, right?”
The boy nodded.
“If you need anything, Gary’s there to help.” He paused and laid a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Chapter 20
Navigating the eight cars and trucks along with the thirty men who would participate in the ambush was nerve-racking. As John had recently discovered, the Chairman had checkpoints covering each major road into Oneida. Moreover, after John’s attempt to enter the town and the daring rescue mission which had saved him, the local militia was probably on high alert.
Keeping a safe distance meant they had to cut a wide circle to the east of the city. Before long, they found Route 27 north and headed into Daniel Boone National Forest. As they crossed the border into Kentucky, mobile homes along the road displayed torn and weathered signs promising state line discounts. The doors on many of them hung ajar, one blown completely off its hinges, likely from looters.
Not far ahead, a curve in the road offered the ideal place for an ambush. It was important the approaching trucks not see what was waiting for them. Equally important was the need to make sure the heavy vehicles would be able to stop before colliding with the trucks blocking the road. For that reason, two pickups were maneuvered to block the road fifty yards past the curve. A heavy spike strip was also laid across the asphalt in case the lead truck tried to break through.
Marshall seemed confident that at the slightest show of force, the truckers would stop their rigs and come out with their hands held high.
The remaining Patriot vehicles were stashed along the edge of the forest, out of sight.
John had opted to leave his Blazer back at camp. This way, if the operation lasted into the night, Brandon would have somewhere to sleep. The thought of making a more permanent dwelling in camp had occurred to him and on more than one occasion he had started gathering the material, although the truth of the matter was, he had no intention of staying very long. As soon as Diane and the others were home safe and sound, they would begin the long and arduous task of rebuilding their former bug-out location. And this time they would do everything they could to strengthen it from a similar attack.
With the vehicles in position, Marshall sent a group of ten men to wait a few hundred yards up the highway. Hunkered down and spread out across both sides of the road, they would help close the trap once the vehicles entered the ambush.
Ten more including Moss, Marshall and John would remain near the point of contact. The final ten were then divided into two groups and placed fifty yards south of the ambush site. Their job was to act as a stopping force for any rig that tried to burst through the blockade. In addition, this last group would monitor and engage any threats approaching from the rear.
Now came the waiting game as the men settled down and watched for the convoy. All they could do was hope that the intelligence Rodriguez had gathered was accurate.
Above them, the noonday sun looked on from a cloudless sky. Being in the shade helped somewhat, although strapped into full tactical gear with an AR at hand, John could feel his clothes becoming soaked with perspiration. It was important to stay hydrated at times like these and he fetched the canteen off his belt and took a long drink of warm, funny-tasting water.
The water had come from the camp’s filtration system, a tarp designed to funnel rainwater into a series of fifty-gallon drums. A stream nearby provided the rest. None of it was treated, which meant individuals scooped up what they needed and either boiled it or popped in some bleach or purification tablets. John wasn’t sure if the problem was laziness or lack of time. In large quantities, the iodine in the tablets wasn’t good for you, since they were only intended for emergencies. The same went for the bleach treatment.
It was a health risk for everyone and an issue John would address with Marshall when they returned. But right now, John had other things on his mind.
Beside him, Marshall scanned the baking length of asphalt through a set of binoculars. One man had positioned himself far ahead of the curve and was sending hand signals letting them know there was no sign of them yet.
Marshall sighed. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his right eye. He didn’t seem to notice. His beard looked dirty and matted with leaves and small twigs.
“Waiting around for something to happen,” Marshall said. “Just like the leadup to Desert Storm.” He turned to John. “You remember that?”
“Wasn’t there,” John answered, offering him some water.
Marshall declined. “Yeah, that’s right, Iraqi Freedom. Did you know we lost less than three hundred men in that entire war and only half of those were in combat?”
“I’d heard something about that.”
“Yessir, my CO was one of them. Part of the second group, that is. He was a fifty-four-year-old lieutenant colonel in the air cav. AH-1F Cobras. Anyway, so early dawn before the air campaign finally got underway, the colonel doesn’t show up
for his briefing. They send an airman out to see what the holdup is. You know what he finds?”
John wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Was he dead?”
“Dead as a doornail. Poor guy had a heart attack in his sleep. Fifty-four years old. Heck, that’s my age.”
“Died in his sleep,” John said thoughtfully. “Not a bad way to go.”
Marshall fixed John with a cold eye. “I thought the man got cheated, if I’m gonna be frank. Made it all the way out there, fixing for a fight, and bit the big one before he could get a shot off. That’s not how I wanna go out, no, sir. For me it’s guns blazing or nothing.”
Be careful what you wish for, John thought. In his mind, blazing guns were about defending what was sacred and precious. It was starting to sound as though the leader of this group saw himself as some kind of Viking. A tough warrior, no doubt, but was he also a reckless one? Special Forces and most regular soldiers he’d met prided themselves on completing a mission and then returning home safely to their families. There wasn’t a lot of glitz and glamor and it didn’t always make for exciting movies, but that was part of being a professional.
A hand signal from up ahead told them a group of trucks were approaching from the north.
“Here we go,” John said before making a final check of his weapons.
Chapter 21
More hand signals from the spotter up ahead. Ten trucks were approaching fast. This particular stretch of road was relatively clear of abandoned cars, allowing them to build up speed. In retrospect, placing a single vehicle a hundred yards up across the center line would have allowed the trucks to pass, but slowed them down. Either way, it was too late now. John would keep that bit tucked away for next time.
As the lead vehicle came into view, John noticed something strange. By all outward appearances, the intelligence Rodriguez had gotten via his contact in Jefferson City had been accurate. These were rigs with trailers on the back marked with UN decals on the front and sides. But even as they approached, John could see something was off.
“Pass me those binoculars,” he said to Marshall, who was rising onto one knee.
John peered through and focused on that first truck. The cab had a flat nose with a wide brim at the top, a similar design to the one he’d seen heading into Oneida the other day. It looked European. Then he read the company name across the grill.
“You ever heard of a truck company called Kamaz?” John asked Marshall, who looked at him strangely.
“Not sure,” Marshall replied. “Maybe that’s the brand the UN uses.”
After many years spent working overseas in war-torn countries, John knew that wasn’t the case. Generally the UN preferred Volkswagen trucks and Toyotas for their SUVs.
The vehicles were almost at the ambush point and Marshall was getting ready to give the signal. The plan was to swarm out as they slowed down and remove the driver from the lead and rear trucks, trapping the rest in between.
But the closer they got, the clearer it became these guys had no intention of stopping. John heard the lead truck hit the gas and that was when he charged out from cover. The others charged out as well. It was important they disable the first truck before it got through or the whole convoy might escape. Technically, Marshall hadn’t given the order to move out, but they couldn’t afford to wait another second.
The first truck was less than ten meters from the blockade when its engine roared to life. Men began firing from the edge of the forest. Most were aiming for the driver. John peered through the ACOG scope and fired at the front right tire. The first couple of shots hit the wheel well and then the tire rims. With the next squeeze he saw the tire explode. The truck swerved violently, losing control, and plowed through the blocking vehicles, spinning them like children’s toys. Shards of metal and bits of glass flew into the air. The lead truck veered off the road and into the ditch.
In the front cab, the driver was dead, but he wasn’t alone. A man with a rifle sat shotgun and he struggled to undo his seatbelt. John couldn’t risk allowing him to bring the weapon to bear. He zeroed in and put three more rounds through the windshield. The man slumped forward and lay still.
Now came the second truck and if they could stop it cold, it might just be enough to block the road.
A handful of men were already racing toward the back of the approaching convoy of trucks. The goal here was to engage the armed escorts in the passenger seat without disabling the trucks themselves. Otherwise they would never get all those supplies back to camp.
Just then, the second truck roared past the shattered cars and over the spike strip. Both front tires blew out, flinging the strip itself into the air. The device was good for a single use and John just hoped it would be enough.
The ten Patriots south of them emerged and engaged the second truck. Sparks sprayed from the asphalt as it tried to flee on a pair of twisted rims.
AK fire from the passenger side of the truck hit two Patriots before the driver and gunman were killed. The vehicle slowed until it came to a stop in the middle of the road, blocking the path.
Running gun battles were raging up and down a fifty-meter length of Route 27 as Marshall’s men tried to prevent the rear vehicles from turning around and fleeing. This wasn’t going completely to plan, but combat never really did.
The truth was there was far more resistance than any of them had anticipated.
On John’s left, more Patriots began to fall. Not that it was a huge surprise. They were using shotguns, deer rifles and a few even had pistols while the men guarding the trucks were armed with AKs. John dropped to the ground and peered through his scope. Three enemies were positioned under one of the trailers, firing on the advancing Patriots.
Under fire from all sides, the men had taken cover wherever they could. For John, it had only meant they lined up perfectly. He opened up with a short burst. By the time the first two were down, a final volley finished off the last. That was another thing the movies never talked about. A large enough round would slam through the human body and often keep on going into the man next to him.
When the rest of the drivers and the men guarding them recognized the Patriots could hit them from every direction, they threw down their weapons and surrendered.
Now came the time to gather the prisoners and commandeer the remaining trucks. The first two had been completely disabled, which created a problem. They could either leave the supplies they were carrying or spend valuable time transferring them to the remaining vehicles.
John advised Marshall not to get greedy. They would do a quick search through their contents to make sure they weren’t leaving behind any weapons or vital supplies. There were also a number of wounded who would need to be cared for.
After a quick search, they discovered that the contents of the first two trucks consisted mostly of clothing and blankets. Confident nothing important was being left behind, they assigned men to drive each of the remaining rigs.
They needed to make it quick before any patrols from Oneida caught wind of what had happened.
John climbed into an old GM pickup with Sullivan riding shotgun. They would cover the rear of the column.
The price of the ambush had been costly. Five dead and another six seriously wounded. John only hoped they would find what they were looking for.
In all, the returning convoy consisted of sixteen vehicles in all, eight trucks and eight of their own vehicles.
As they rolled out, a thought came to John that hadn’t occurred to him as he’d watched the row of eighteen-wheelers barreling down on them from the north. Apart from displaying a name he’d never seen before—Kamaz—these UN trucks looked brand new. Certainly they weren’t relics from the 1970’s the way Betsy was, which meant they were likely brought from overseas. John remembered seeing something on the internet years before about fears that the UN would one day show up to confiscate American guns. Was he witnessing the realization of this conspiracy theory? Or was a more sinister plan afoot?
Chapter 22
John and Sullivan followed closely as the convoy headed back toward the Patriot camp. If these trucks contained assault rifles and perhaps even more, then a takeover of Oneida would finally be possible. There was a certain appeal to overthrowing a tyrant and it wasn’t just about saving Diane and the kids. No one deserved to live in the equivalent of a North Korean labor camp.
Beside him, Sullivan rolled down his window and stuck his hand out, letting the wind push it back and forth. “What did you do before the lights went out?” he asked.
John’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. The sting hit him whenever he remembered his old life. One he would likely never know again. “General contractor.”
Sullivan laughed. “I never did understand what those guys did.”
“We get ulcers,” John replied. “That’s what we do.” He was looking at the back of the truck driving before them. It was missing a license plate as well as safety stickers.
Caution: Wide right turns
Wherever it was they were made, they were right off the assembly line.
“You get a chance to speak with any of those drivers?” he asked Sullivan.
“Nah, I don’t think they said much of anything. Seemed scared as hell, cowering down like we were gonna execute them. Listen, I don’t have a problem returning fire when I’m attacked, but the thought of killing people who are just trying to make a living in this crazy new world doesn’t sit well with me.”
“Me neither,” John said, replaying in his mind how the drivers had tried to run the blockade as the guards in the passenger seats sprayed AK fire into the Patriots’ ranks.
Most of those guards had been killed, but the Patriots had suffered their own losses.
“What about you, Sullivan? What did you do before the world went to hell?”
“I taught geography at the local high school.” Sullivan was nodding his head as though reliving hallways filled with rowdy kids and boisterous laughter.
“A noble profession. One of the residents on Willow Creek was a gym teacher. Peter Warden. Good man.” John paused. “No, he was a great man.”
Last Stand: Patriots (Book 2) Page 8
