The Blastlands Saga

by DK Williamson

  Will keyed his mic. “Ranger Hill, this is Stealth Force Dando.”

  “SFD, this is Ranger Michaels. I read you.” His tone told Will he didn’t really care for the self-appointed name for the team.

  “We’re minutes out. Is it safe for us to approach the hill?”

  “Roger. Probably the best you’ll get for a bit. The rads walked into a buzz saw and sought cover again. Call when you’re close.”

  “Will do. Stealth Force Dando, out.” Will looked at Stan. They both laughed quietly, imagining Michaels was shaking his head about then.

  “You know, that is kind of juvenile,” Stan said.

  Will nodded. “Yes. Maybe we should stop.”

  A second and a half later, the two laughed again.

  “Never gonna happen.” Will waved an arm. “Let’s go.”

  The quintet moved quickly and quietly. As they moved within sight of the barbed wire that blocked the pole bridge over the creek, they stopped again.

  “Ranger Hill, Dando here. We’re near the bridge.”

  “Roger,” came Michaels voice. “We’ll be down to move the wire from this side. Sit tight.”

  They waited. After a couple of minutes, they heard footfalls, but from the north, not Ranger Hill.

  “Ranger Hill, this is Dando. Do you have any patrols this side of the creek?”

  “Negative.”

  Stan snapped his fingers to get Will’s attention. He pointed north, and then at his own eyes. “Rads,” he mouthed.

  Will nodded. “Ranger Hill. You have rads moving down the creek bank toward the bridge. Have a visual. We are fifty feet east of the bridge. The rads are north of us, but still clear.”

  “Will, Daley here. Stay where you are. We’ll put some fire down there pronto. Jerry, how close are you?”

  “We’re about fifty yards northwest of the crossing. We’re clear. Get your heads down, Will.”

  “Roger.” Will turned to his companions and signaled them to go prone.

  A few seconds later shots rang out, a few short bursts of machine gun fire added to the sound of bullets ripping through leaves and branches.

  A scream and a splash came from the north of the cousins’ position. Footfalls of men running away faded away to silence. Another scream came from the creek, a little closer now.

  Will keyed the mic. “They’re fleeing. We’re moving to the bridge.”

  “Cease fire, Hal,” Michaels said. “We’re headed there as well.”

  Will and the four men with him stopped and looked northward at the creek. A man flailed weakly as huge olive terrors swirled around, tearing at human flesh. The screams ceased and the red of blood in the water showed bright as the man’s torn form descended from sight, the red soon dissipating into the water’s flow. The men grimaced and said nothing.

  . . . . .

  Jack moved quickly—perhaps to quickly—through a stand of squat and knobby pine trees. His attention was divided between the worsening radio reception, the fight at Ranger Hill, and getting to L-02 as fast as possible. He didn’t see the man near a small stone building off in the trees until he was very near.

  “Hello, friend,” a voice said.

  Startled, Jack turned as he dropped to a knee, his sights settling on a gaunt man in a black cassock, a white clerical collar at his neck. He held empty hands before him.

  “The path you follow may not be one you wish to tread. It leads to the shrine of MIRV-One-Five-Alpha-One-Eight-Mike.”

  “A warhead?”

  “It was once, yes. It is now an object of the faith, a gift from Father Atomic.”

  “Is it radioactive? I’m not showing anything on my meter.”

  “You would not. We are too distant. I take it you are not one of the faithful.” He smiled and lowered his head. “At least not of my faith.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Do not partake if you are not one of the faithful. Father Atomic bids us to respect those of different beliefs. Ours is the walk in the glory of splendor. We must each find our path to walk, and if your path is not mine, go in peace. It is good that paths cross. They make us consider our own walk and those that tread elsewhere, and the different reasons for each. Remember, at the point where we cross, our path is the same, even if for but a step.”

  Jack was taken aback by the man’s statements and not entirely sure he believed him. “Nice philosophy. Too bad you can’t convince those of similar beliefs that seem hell bent on doing harm to follow your path.”

  “In time perhaps. Our history is filled with the struggle between belief systems. I suspect it always will be.”

  “You follow Father Atomic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe him to be real?”

  “It matters little if he is real or if he is just a construct. He is a messenger from God, a new way to seek Him. Father Atomic is a means for us to discover truth and faith and acquire the wisdom to see the simultaneity of them.”

  “Who are you?”

  “But a meager priest. My name is Father Robert.”

  “I’m Jack Traipse. From the Freelands.”

  Robert smiled. “So it says upon your roundel. A Ranger. You do range far. If you seek not the shrine, what do you seek?”

  “A missile silo north of here.”

  “You must mean L-Aught-Two. A place said by some to hold secrets and treasure. Do you seek the treasure?”

  “In a way, but it holds no value to me.”

  “I see. You walk your own path. It is held by those of another faith. It is well north. You need go around the shrine should you wish to reach the silo and avoid the outpouring of MIRV-One-Five-Alpha-One-Eight-Mike.”

  “Any suggestions on how I do that?”

  “Yes. Go west a few hundred paces, then proceed north. You should be safe.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I welcome the company and polite discourse. Feel free to visit anytime.”

  “If I’m ever again in the neighborhood, I will.”

  Jack went west, watching his rad meter. Despite the demeanor of the priest, he didn’t entirely trust him. By the time he made the turn north and traveled a couple hundred yards in that direction, he could see the shrine that marked the resting place of MIRV-15A18M in the distance to the east and not a sign of increased radiation on the meter. An honest and peaceful rad. I’ve heard of them, but never met one before. Will wonders never cease?

  Jack paused and listened to the radio traffic. Static and interference continued to worsen. The rads were assaulting Ranger Hill once more. Jack grimaced in worry and moved on.

  . . . . .

  The rads threw heavy fire at the Ranger positions from the stand of trees.

  “Watch the low ground,” Hal Daley’s voice buzzed from the TROGs in the fighting positions. “They’ll be coming.”

  Sean kept watch to the north. Heads popped up briefly from the defilade only to disappear before anyone could fire a shot. They’re waiting for something, he thought.

  A whistle sounded from one of the rad positions.

  “Watch it! Watch it!” David Stark shouted over the radio.

  Rads stood and fired from the low ground. Shots came from the trees along the waterways, most passing well overhead, but enough thudded into the berms to make the Rangers refrain from being too bold about returning fire without extreme caution. Despite the heavy fusillade, the rads didn’t charge.

  Sean’s brow wrinkled in bewilderment. “That’s damned strange,” he said to himself. He grabbed the TROG’s mic. “Watch the flanks. They’re up to something.”

  Immediately on the heels of Sean’s broadcast, Beth Cooper sent, “The bridge! They’re trying the bridge again.”

  Sean shot a glance in that direction and saw Beth and Jerry firing down the hill, Stark running down a trench in a crouch with an M60 in hand to assist. The three new arrivals sought cover in the emplacement where the handcarts sat. Sean looked down the hill to the north, and still the rads stayed put. He looked down the
steep embankment and saw nothing. As he looked up, he saw a trace of movement far to the west, a group of men running southward. “They’re flanking us,” he said as he tapped Baker on the shoulder. “Long. See if you can get the range and put fire on them.”

  Sean scurried into the trench behind their hole and went to the neighboring position.

  “Jim, we need some fire west. Rads flanking way out there.”

  Al Dunn nodded. “Go, Jim.”

  Tanner dragged the machine gun out of position and followed Sean to the other foxhole.

  “Near nine hundred yards out moving south-southwest,” Tony said without taking his eyes from his binoculars. “I’ll call your hits.”

  “Nine hundred? Ain’t you optimistic,” Tanner grumbled as he muscled the weight of the machine gun into place. He slid the rear sight up to the 900-meter mark and pulled the buttstock into his shoulder. A few seconds later he fired a ten-round burst.

  “Short and behind. More lead,” Tony said.

  A few seconds later Jim unleashed another ten round burst.

  “Just long. Good lead. They’re nearing the tree line.”

  The interval was shorter this time. Tanner fired another long burst.

  “Right there! Hits all through the group, but they’re all up.”

  “And gone,” Tanner said as he raised his head from the weapon and let out a loud breath. “I wish I had the… what the hell do you call it? The T and E thing you use with the tripod.”

  “Traversing and Elevation Mechanism,” Baker said.

  “Yeah, that thing. Might have come in handy.”

  “Jack promised he’d show me how to use the thing. I hope he’s around to do that.”

  Sean nodded. “You and me both.” He looked to the southeast and saw David Stark moving back to the north.

  “The bridge is secure,” Michaels said over the net. “We got them all.”

  “That’s good news,” Tanner said, “but those guys I missed are going to be trouble.”

  Sean looked north and saw movement. He jutted his chin in that direction “Worry about them later, we have trouble now.”

  “They’re coming again!” Daley yelled over the unit radio net. “This is the big one. Open fire!”

  Tanner hefted his weapon again. “Back to my hole. This one will decide who is king of the hill and I’m getting low on ammo. Shoot well fellas. Make’em count and I’ll see you on the other side.” With that, he ran from the position.

  . . . . .

  McCarty was getting frustrated, as were all of the Rangers on board Flour Power. His frustration was different than the rest though, because he was driving and going places at the direction of others.

  It’s my damned truck, my damned driving, so now we’re going my damned way! he thought.

  All morning, ever since they left the missile silo, it had been one problem after another. First there was no communication with the Ranger force led by Sergeant Traipse, then it was out-of-date maps showing roads that no longer existed in real life, bridges long washed away or collapsed, waterways that no longer flowed where they once did.

  Frustrated by the near useless maps, one Ranger after another had suggested routes to get them east, and one route after another proved to be another dead end. McCarty had had enough.

  “I said try going right, Mac,” Geiger shouted from his place in the bed directly behind McCarty.

  McCarty ignored him. Dan’s as nice a man as you’ll ever meet, but I’ve had it up to my eyeballs. We’ve taken that road three times now, and by gum, we’re not doing it again. “Sorry, Dan, missed it. I’ll come around and we’ll get it, don’t you worry.”

  McCarty had an idea. Rangers might know their way around on foot or on horseback, but they weren’t born to drive motor vehicles. Rangers had field sense, McCarty had road sense. Not much use since the Calamity, but it was going into use now, come high or hellwater.

  McCarty pulled off the road and onto a dirt trail.

  “Where are we going, McCarty?” Art said from his seat beside the man.

  “We’re going where your Rangers are. Don’t ask how, and don’t get mad if it doesn’t work, but we’re doing it my way for now, even if it hurts you or Dan’s feelings.”

  “You can’t do any worse, Mac,” Dan yelled. “Besides, this is Art’s show.”

  “Oh, hell. It was Jack’s idea, LT,” Art said.

  “Tucker tells me different.”

  McCarty followed a dry creek bed northeast, and then for no other reason than his sense telling him to do so, he pulled onto a narrow trail that ran east through the trees.

  Suddenly Art grabbed McCarty’s arm. “Hold it.”

  McCarty brought Flour Power to a halt.

  “LT, look northeast.”

  A moment later a pair of red streaks arced through the air a few hundred yards away.

  “See’em, LT?” Art said. “Bursts from a machine gun. I’m betting that’s Ranger fire. Most others use machine guns as bullet hoses. The tracers were burning out. That means the fire’s coming from a thousand yards or so. Let’s see what they’re shooting at.”

  “If it is Rangers, it means Mac’s got us on the right path as well. You want to scout this, Art?”

  “Roger that, LT. You might hide the truck while we do that.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Ranger Hays, with me,” Art said.

  Amanda climbed from the truck.

  The two of them went north, the faint sound of weapons fire sounded through the trees.

  “Sounds like there’s quite a dance going on,” Art said quietly. “No reason for two bursts to come from that far off to the same location, but one. You know what it is?”

  “They were shooting at something in our vicinity.”

  Art smiled. “Not bad for a mere office worker.”

  “Jack said something to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, he was just one of five. So accept the fact that you have a whole band of folks who give a shit and the great Art Sierra trusts you enough to prowl the Blastlands with you.”

  Amanda smiled. “I do, and thanks. Where are we going?”

  He pointed straight ahead. “That way. There’s the edge of the ridge we’re on, as squat as it might be.” Toward their right was a dry creek bed that likely ran down to meet the creek McCarty had followed earlier.”

  Through the trees, the pair of Rangers could see a distant column of people. A quick look through binoculars revealed they were rads.

  They moved forward another fifty paces to a point where the trees thinned and the ground sloped away. Art pulled out his map and oriented it, and after looking from map to terrain and back again, he pronounced, “I think I know where they are.” He poked a finger onto his map. Under it was a small, unnamed, and rather short hillock between two waterways.

  “It’s right for the tracer rounds we saw. It’s the best ground mapwise too.”

  “Mapwise?”

  “Using just the map to evaluate.”

  Amanda smiled. “Ah, an Artism. It’s not a very high hill. It’s a hillock.”

  “High enough. Dig in and shoot straight, it’d be hard to get someone off there. If it is the best ground, that’s where they’ll be. Too many good Rangers in Jack’s force not to pick it. If they are there and those rads down there are flanking, they’ll use this creek bed and any arroyos that’ll get them close. Tell Dan what we have.” He paused to look at the ground and the distant rads. “They’ll come right through here. We have maybe five or six minutes to set up a hasty ambush.”

  Geiger led the Other Rangers to Art’s position, where the veteran Ranger explained what he had in mind. Geiger had no objections.

  Art picked a spot overlooking the creek bed where there was no dead ground and the only way to escape would keep them under fire for quite a ways. “If they run, we’ll butcher them. Their only chance to make it will be to attack our ambush. It’ll get interesting if they do.”

  Art chose to operate the M60 machi
ne gun himself, placing Hays and Lewis beside him. As he explained it, “I’m a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of’em. I want the medic right next to me if I get wounded and the commo expert to call for help if I need it.”

  Dan placed the rest of the Rangers in a line to the left of the machine gun. The initial burst of the M60 would be the signal to initiate the ambush.

  The rads moved quickly, a point man walking a distance ahead of the rest of the party, “but not far enough,” Art whispered.

  He directed Amanda and Jennifer to target the point man. “I’ll verbally signal you so our fire will be coordinated. Understand?”

  They both nodded.

  As the rad force closed, Art targeted the man he believed to be the leader of the unit.

  “Now,” Art hissed. The M60 in his control barked nearly simultaneously with Amanda’s AKM and Jen’s Mini-14. The point man staggered from a pair of hits and crumpled to the ground. The leader and those near him went down as well while the rest of the Ranger force poured fire into the rads. Many went down, but just as many reacted as seasoned soldiers would, they charged into the teeth of the ambush, knowing that running or going prone was suicide and the only way they might survive was to escape the kill zone and do some killing of their own. “It just had to get interesting, didn’t it?” Art said as he shifted fire.

  . . . . .

  The rads attack up Ranger Hill was a desperate one. Their fanaticism made up for their lack of skill and they pressed the Rangers hard. The first attack saw suicidal attempts to pull the wire away from the northern slope, followed by charges directly up the hill. At one point, rads advanced so near the Rangers positions that Al Dunn screamed for Sean to drop a grenade just outside his own fighting position as rads were that close. It worked and left three dead bodies mere feet from the berms.

  Finally, the initial assault exhausted itself, only to be reinvigorated by a second attack as desperate as the first. The rads had fallen back, but every Ranger on the hill knew they had at least one more assault to endure. They prepared while the surviving rads threw lead at the Ranger positions.