by W. J. Lundy
He would be prosecuted and judged for everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours. His life was already over. Now he had to use what was left of it to make a difference. He grimaced, took in a deep breath, then let it go. “The hell with it. I guess it’s time to get vigilant,” he said.
Bobby looked back at him and smiled. The radio came alive with Hooah! and Get some! and John realized he’d just said that over the radio. John gave Bobby a thumbs up, and the big man rose to a stand and began moving forward.
Who are these people?
Bobby patrolled through the dark forest, veering left and right, missing large stones and outcrops.
John hadn’t realized it before, but the forest floor was covered with obstacles that had been placed there intentionally. They turned around a set of logs and followed a trail just below the top of the ridge. A gentle slope led them to the top, and John looked back, knowing he was going to smack his shins and twist some ankles if he had to return alone, without Bobby’s help.
The big man knelt and spoke softly while looking at a rock face. “This is Jackal. Just behind you, Lima Five.”
“Come on in,” came a reply in John’s earpiece.
He squinted, looking into the dark ridgeline. Where the hell are they?
Bobby rose back up and took steps forward. Just before the lip of the ridge, he turned left and dropped into a crevice in the rockface and vanished. John put his head down and sighed before following the point man.
Inside the void, the air was noticeably cooler, with a breeze blowing against his face. Bobby was waiting for him at the bottom of a low path. When John reached it, the man got low and duck walked through a round, hand-cut tunnel in the rock and earth.
As Bobby exited the tunnel, John could see that it opened into a cavern. It was nothing like the one below the stove, but still wide enough for a pair of cots and a living space. A camp stove was in the corner, over a makeshift kitchen, and a lantern glowed on a small table set for two. Bobby moved into the space and stood against a wall. At the opposite end of the space was another tunnel. A lanky man with camo coveralls, black watch cap, and a thick goatee crawled through. The man tapped his ear, turning off his radio, and looked at Bobby and John to do the same.
“You got here just in time. We already see them moving down there,” the man said.
John looked at him oddly, and the man smiled.
“Ah shit, yeah, we haven’t met. Friends call me Rodrigo. My brother Edgar is out on the firing port,” he said, extending his hand.
John smiled and returned the handshake. “Wait, Rodrigo? Rodrigo Hernandez? Your family owned the car dealership.”
Rodrigo frowned and said, “Yeah that’s us. We lost the dealership when the corporation took over car sales.” He shrugged. “Not like there was much money in it once they limited us to three models of vehicle.” Rodrigo looked at Bobby and said, “But enough of that. I’m sorry we weren’t here for the fun you all had earlier.”
John scowled. “You think we’ve been having fun?”
The man waved him off and said, “Ya know, you two are famous. They are talking about you nonstop on the news. Hell, talk is Homeland had to stop doing collections because of what you two did today. And someplace out in Missouri, there was a fight just like you all had. The town sheriff took the boys in, and now the entire police department out there is refusing to turn them over to Homeland. Can you imagine that? Local cops refusing to work with Homeland?” The man shook his head. “Shit son, there’ll be some hell to pay for that.”
“Well, that didn’t happen here,” John said. “I’ve known Sheriff Ransom since high school, and he refused to go to bat for us.”
“Meh,” Rodrigo said. “I wouldn’t be too quick to judge Sheriff Ransom. He’s good people.”
“How’s that?” John said.
“Just is,” Rodrigo said. “And, anyhow, there are lots of local cops refusing to assist home visits, and when Homeland goes to folks’ doors without a local cop, folks is refusing to answer. Hell, down in Flint, someone even stole a Homeland patrol car while they were serving search orders.” Rodrigo laughed. “And now there are lawyers on TV saying they want to defend you all for free. People are saying that they murdered old Aaron, and you two just did what you could to get away.”
“People are saying that?” John said.
The man shrugged. “Some folks are, not that it matters; just as many say you all are domestic terrorists that should be executed. But, still, people are starting to question the searches, and that’s a start.”
John shook off the comment. “Not sure how it helps us.”
“Oh, it’ll help. We’re taking back Sherman, the county, and then the state,” Rodrigo said. “When others see it, they’ll do the same.”
“Wait, we’re doing what?” John said. He looked across at Bobby, who shrugged.
Rodrigo pointed to the exit on the far side and then he ushered the other men to follow him. The second tunnel exited in a space four feet wide and twelve feet long. The floor was slanted so that it tipped to both ends where a hole was dug in the floor.
John looked down at the hole on the right side. “What’s the hole for?”
Rodrigo chuckled. “For pissing in.” He chuckled again. “But if anyone is lucky enough to get a grenade through the window, it’ll hit the floor and roll down into the hole. Then, just like mini golf, it’ll shoot it right back at ’em. No need to pick it up and throw it back.” The man shrugged. “At least that’s how we hope it works; we’ve only tested it with softballs.” Rodrigo pointed to the opposite end of the space. “That’s my brother. Hey, Edgar, say hi.”
A man on the opposite end—a thicker, fatter version of Rodrigo—was leaning over a scoped rifle. The man leaned back, looked at John, and shot a salute before going back to the rifle.
Rodrigo grunted and pointed to the porthole on his side. “Now c’mon, this is what I wanted to show you.”
The man pressed against the wall and pointed through his porthole. John moved closer and looked out. He could see directly down the sloping ridge. It was the route he’d traveled up with Bobby the day before. In the far distance, he could see the glow of lights from Sherman, but to the south, he could see nearer flashing lights and other bright white lights moving up and down the road. He looked closer and swore he could see them coming. Small points of lights snaking their way up the slope. “Is that the trailhead road?” John said.
“Yes sir, that’s it. You see all them cars? They have an army down there. And state police are here now,” Rodrigo said. “No helicopters, but we’re expecting them eventually. That will make things tougher on us.”
“Troopers?” John said. “I thought the state police were staying out of it.”
Rodrigo nodded. “Oh, yeah. state police are refusing to come up the mountain. They are only blocking the road. Still, most of us got here by driving right through state roadblocks. They know what’s up and aren’t stopping anyone. But still, them pretending to hold roads frees up more of the Homeland guys to come after us. The local police want none of this, but we got plenty of trouble of our own.”
“So where are we at now?” John asked.
Rodrigo pointed to the east. “Some Homeland fellas started moving up out of that trailhead about forty minutes ago.”
John squinted, looking down. “You could see that from here?”
The man laughed. “Nah, son. My cousin is in the forestry service. He’s been down there all day, and those fools haven’t bothered to ask him to leave.”
Edgar leaned back off the rifle. “Damn it, Rodrigo, you weren’t supposed to tell nobody that.”
Rodrigo waved his brother off. “It’s cool, man. Don’t worry about it.” He looked back at John. “Anyhow, they were Steelies for sure. We think they’ll follow this slope, get on the trail, and cut right in front of us, and then try to circle in toward the pass. This is the only way through on this side without going on the road. They have no idea where we ar
e or what they are looking for. My cousin says they think you two are still down there watching the road.” The man chuckled.
“How long do we have before they are here?” John asked.
“If they are moving tactically with gear, they will probably be up here in an hour, no more than two,” Rodrigo said. “If they are hiking it, expect them in the next thirty minutes.” The man leaned out and waved his hands. “Our field of fire is designated ‘X-Ray.’ We’ll let you know as they cross through it.”
Bobby moved closer and pointed to the same area and a trail less than a hundred feet below them. Open grass was on both sides of the trail. It was redundant to say so, but it was their way to repeat the obvious to make sure everyone understood. “They’ll come right up here in two teams. A hundred meters past us, the trail cuts into the pass. They’ll follow that through the rocks, and that’s where we will be.” Bobby looked at Rodrigo. “When you spot them, hold your breath and let them move past. We’ll engage the first group, and when the second comes up, you hit them.” Bobby looked back out the window. “Pin them down, and we’ll move forward to finish the deal. Are Jerry and Smitty ready next door?”
Rodrigo nodded. “Yeah, they are set. I’ll let them know you all are triggering the ambush, and then we’ll clear the trail.”
Edgar pulled back from his scope. “Hey, Bobby, what about wounded and runners?”
The big man looked at John, who frowned, then back to Edgar. “If they are wounded, let them run away; they can send a warning to their buddies.”
“What if they are running away, but they aren’t wounded?” Edgar asked.
“Then wound ’em,” Bobby said. “Let’s go, John, we have to get set up.”
Chapter Thirteen
The men were lined up just inside the tree line, organized in a big circle, speaking to each other in hushed voices. Bill kept his distance. These were not Homeland agents. These were not people he felt comfortable around. He stood back, his feet still on the gravel of the lot, watching them in the darkness of the trees. He was still wearing his police uniform: dark-blue slacks, black boots, and khaki shirt. He stuck out with this group of men shrouded in black. Bill heard the group fall silent, and one of the men pointed at him. He heard the rest of them laugh.
The men suddenly scattered. A large, imposing man in the center of the group stayed then walked toward Bill. He wore a black vest overloaded with magazines, a pistol, and a large radio. He had a ski mask rolled up to his forehead and a black Kevlar helmet. In his left arm, he cradled an M4 rifle. The man walked until he was just six paces away then stopped. Closer, Bill could see the man’s hard jawline and piercing blue eyes. The man looked the sheriff up and down with a frown then said, “You’re the policeman that is supposed to show us the way up?”
Bill shrugged. “I’m supposed to go with you, but I don’t know the way—”
The man put up his hand, interrupting him. “Never mind. I don’t care. Dawson says you go, so you go. There is a case over there with gear. Put on a vest and fall in with the others. We leave in five minutes.”
Before Bill could protest, the man walked away. “Screw him,” Bill said.
He ignored the instructions and walked past the black case and went to the trunk of his patrol car. He opened it and pulled out his own armor and a pump-action shotgun. He didn’t have a helmet, but he had a black ballcap with police stenciled on the front in white. He suited up, then hesitated and put the shotgun back. He wasn’t one of them and didn’t want anyone to think that he was. He slammed the trunk shut and joined the others back at the trailhead.
As he approached, a squat man left the group to intercept him. The man was dressed like all the others and had a compact machine gun clipped to his chest. His mask was pulled down over his face. Even hidden, Bill could see the contempt in the man’s eyes. Steel Corp was not happy to have him along.
He held up a flat palm, stopping Bill. “You’re with me. Stay by my side, and don’t do anything stupid,” he said with a thick Arab accent. He pointed at Bill’s face. “You want a mask?”
Bill shook his head. “I don’t need one.” The sheriff looked for a name on the man’s uniform but saw nothing more than a Steel Corp ID tag. “What should I call you? What’s your name?”
The man froze like he was confused by the question. “I am Nine, but if you want a name, you can call me … call me Rock.”
“You want to be called Rock?” Bill asked.
“Yes, like famous movie star,” the man answered then pointed toward the others, who were forming into teams. “Come, follow me. Stay close.”
Bill let the man walk away then he fell in behind him on the trail. Looking ahead, he could see another group of seven that had just begun filing into the woods, headed for the high ground. Bill spun and looked around. Five men were to his front and another three behind him, all heavily armed.
Fifteen armed men, plus himself. He looked up into the darkness toward the distant ridge. A light rain began to fall on his face. If Warren and Newsome were still up there, this would be their last night on the mountain. They had no idea what was coming for them. If they did, they would run.
Chapter Fourteen
John stared into the valley, now painted in shades of luminescent green. He was dug in beside a large boulder, looking down the optics of his rifle. The entrance into the pass was through a formation of rocks shaped like a funnel, the path water and snowmelt had used for centuries to leave the high ground. Down the middle was a worn trail that game used.
The optic on his scope glowed bright in his night vision. He could see down the narrow lane and into a field of flowing grass beyond it. Miles away, over treetops, were the twinkling lights of Sherman far in the distance. He wondered if the people of Sherman would hear what was about to take place. It was a small town; they had to know what was going on here. They must have heard the explosions and gunfire earlier.
He had his earbuds in and had been listening to teams check in along the perimeter circle. Homeland had made a false probe against the road again—an armored vehicle making a run. The boys watching the road pinged rounds off the armor, and the vehicle popped smoke and turned back. It was obvious that whoever was running the show down there didn’t know of the numbers in the pass. If they did, they would be trying to talk surrender. They had no idea what they were getting into.
John knew the tactics they were playing. Homeland sent the truck to keep focus on the road, so whatever team they had sent could attempt a sneak in through the back. Once that team called to say they were through, vehicles would hit the road again, only this time in force. Then the team on foot would move in and kill the defenders from behind. He knew that’s what they were doing, because it’s what he would have done.
There was a static pop in his ear. “Three men in a V formation just crossed line X-Ray.”
“Roger that, three entering X-Ray.” He heard Bobby respond.
If the intel was correct, there would be two more, then a break before the next team came into view. John pulled the rifle closer and tried to control his breathing. They would be in his rifle’s sights soon.
“Four more just crossed line X-Ray,” a voice said. “You got seven headed to you.”
There was a pause in the confirmation. He knew Bobby was trying to process the information. That was the problem with intel and game playing; people got fixated on facts, numbers, and plans and forgot how to call an audible.
John spoke softly. “Understood, four more in X-Ray, total of seven. Wait for us to engage.” It didn’t matter if it was five or seven; the plan was the same.
What did concern John was the follow-up team. Was it also larger, or had members just moved up? He could assume the basics applied. The follow-up men would be the reaction element of the patrol, and how they reacted would depend on how they were trained. What they had planned for. They may rush forward and assist the front element by charging through the ambush, in which case, the boys in the bunker would cut them down.
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They could spread out and flank them, which would cause chaos and expose their line, but in the end, they could still handle it. Maybe they would just leave and return to base. John was imagining that they had no plan. They were focused on traveling up the trail, infiltrating the pass, and then breaking into fire teams. Being ambushed and hit on the way had never been part of their plan.
Then there was the worst case: they would halt, dig in, and wait for orders or backup. With the element of surprise from the ambush gone, this would make them the most dangerous. It would be the most problematic, as he didn’t know the size of their force and what they would do.
John suddenly realized he didn’t know how his own men would react if the attack was broken. He hadn’t trained with the men up here. He clenched his eyes closed tight and took a deep breath, slowly releasing it. No, the people up here were trained. They had to have rehearsed these scenarios. He was the weak link, not them; he would follow Bobby’s lead and trust the plan.
“First three turning the corner, followed by two and two,” Bobby said.
John opened his eyes; he heard the light crunch of gravel and the clink of metal on metal. He squinted in the optics and saw the first of them, a broad-shouldered man with helmet and night vision of his own. He was carrying his rifle at the high ready. The man took choppy steps, sweeping side to side, patrolling like he was indoors and not on the side of a slope.
As was reported, two more walked in a V, one off to the left, another to the right. Further back, just coming into view, were two more. John wished he’d had a claymore; he would make all of them vanish at one time. He clicked his rifle off safe and waited for the lead man to draw just a bit closer. The armor would cause problems, but not much, not at this range and with them packed into a fatal funnel.
