“Thousands of them,” Naylor interjected the most important point. “They can’t be that bad.”
He pointed at Naylor. “In answer to your earlier question, Jim, for the moment, we are judge and jury. Not for them, for us. It’s not a question of who’s right or wrong, but who can we attach ourselves to. We need to find a body of people who have the critical mass in terms of numbers from which to build something that can truly be secure.” He stepped towards the map table they had set up and waved an open hand over Charlottesville.
“Secure enough, with enough numbers to expand and grow without having to resort to the kind of measures we saw today. This group is doing a lot right, and on the surface, based on our limited intel, a lot that turns my stomach.” He paused, looking at the map of Charlottesville, noting the natural lines of defense the university grounds offered and the obvious weak points an attacker could exploit. He stopped himself and looked up at the other faces in the room. “If we are going to survive long-term, we may have to make some strange bedfellows.”
“Sir?” Gunny Bruce was shaking his head. “Are you suggesting we help these people?”
“No,” he answered immediately. “I’m saying we need more information. If it comes down to joining our strength to theirs, we need to know what behaviors we can reinforce and which to put an end to. I have no desire to become some sort of warlord, and even less to be used in the service of another. But . . .” He pointedly looked at Gunny Bruce for a moment. “The world has moved on. If we hold to all of the rules we used to play by, we could end up hurting more people than we help.”
He paused and looked at every face in the room, holding up three fingers. “Three percent . . . that is the best official number we have as to the numbers that survived the virus. Throw in the riots that accompanied the die-off, the food insecurity, and the violence endemic to any failed state, and that three percent goes south rapidly from there. In the short term, stability may be just as important as our principles.”
“But not more important, right, sir?”
It was clear Gunny Bruce was going to be his conscience. He couldn’t have picked a better candidate himself, and he welcomed the challenging look in the Marine’s eyes. Jim Naylor was a great organizer but would be harder to convince to fight at all. It went in keeping with driving a sub. In Captain Naylor’s previous career, staying hidden and undetected was 95 percent of the fight. Pavel, he’d come to know, would be willing to take the fight to anyone. Period. He thought he could say the same for most of the other Marines and security contractors. The gunnery sergeant, and probably Corporal Hanson, the one they called Farmer, would need the same justification he sought himself.
“Gunny, we don’t have the authority to enforce the laws of a nation that no longer exists. The same holds for the norms of a civilization that is gone. For myself, I believe our principles may be the only type of law and order we have any hope of enforcing. They are the only guidelines that I think this world can afford right now. I’ll ask that you all keep that in mind, keep each other and me honest. Fair enough?”
Dr. Mandel, who had just listened so far, spoke up. “One man’s principles are another’s declaration of war. Given what has occurred to us as a species, survival of the greatest number of people must at least be given a consideration as an operating principle. Yes?”
He nodded in agreement. To a point . . . “That’s why we need to learn who these people are, what they’re about. I’d like to send a small group.” He smiled. “I guess the right term would be diplomatic delegation.”
“We’re big enough to have a diplomatic delegation?” Hoyt Sweet asked in surprise.
“They absolutely don’t need to know how few we are,” he answered, pointing at Hoyt. “That’s an important thing for you to remember. I’d like you to accompany Captain Naylor, who will lead the delegation. You’ll both take your rank with you. Tell them where we hunkered down during the die-off.” He nodded towards Gunny Bruce. “Pick three Marines, and I’ll find a couple of the civilians who wouldn’t mind a field trip.”
“What do we tell them?” Naylor asked. “I mean, who do I say we are?”
“The truth,” Dr. Mandel answered, “just not all of it. I suggest . . .” The discussion and planning went on for almost an hour before points already decided upon began to resurface. Drew ended the meeting at that point, and shared a sympathetic look with Captain Naylor as everyone started filing out of the classroom.
“Sorry to volunteer you for this, Jim.”
“To be honest, I’m a little excited at the prospect.”
He grinned a little. “That’s why I want to send you. You’ll give them a fair shake.”
“You sound as if you wouldn’t have . . .?”
He was about to answer when Gunny Bruce stuck his head back into the classroom.
“Excuse me, sirs. Could Pavel and myself have a moment of your time?”
“Of course, Gunny.” He watched the Marine recon and Russian Spetsnaz operator shuffle in. He knew that look, and it seemed to hold true across cultures as Pavel’s face shared the same formal mien.
“Why do I feel like a green lieutenant about to be counseled by his sergeants?”
Bruce smiled in response. “It’s not that bad, sir. We just need some clarification.”
“You two fighting over the Marines?” Captain Naylor joked.
“No, sir,” Gunny Bruce answered. “But we could have. That’s what we both wanted to talk to you about.”
“Lack of a strict chain of command?” Drew guessed with a smile of his own. “Lack of military order and discipline?”
“Yes,” Pavel answered. “Sergeant Bruce and I were able to come to an understanding. I’ll be senior to him, as long as I don’t . . .”
“Screw with my Marines, sir.” Gunny Bruce nodded. “Pavel outranks me by a mile, and would be an officer in our Army. It works for us, but the men, sir . . . they need some structure, as I assume those we are training up will.”
“You are absolutely correct.” He nodded. “On all counts. I promise you, we’ll get there with whatever force structure we end up with. We are one step closer to that, now that you two have come to an acceptable understanding.” He gave a nod in Naylor’s direction. “The captain and I will reinforce it after he pays me the dollar he owes me. I wasn’t going to make a call regarding you two that you didn’t both support. We don’t have the numbers to be able to afford disgruntled leaders.”
“You set this up, sir?”
“Did it work out for the best?”
“It did . . .” Pavel said slowly.”
“In that case, Captain Pavel Eduardovich, and Lieutenant John Bruce, I have no idea what you are referring to.”
“Congratulations!” Captain Naylor stepped forward and shook the hands of the two shocked men. “More work, longer hours, same great food.”
“Pay’s not what it used to be,” Skirjanek added.
“Capitan?” Pavel said quietly before shaking his head. “I mean captain.”
“Your surname, Pavel?”
“Volkov, Colonel.”
“Well, you’re officially Captain Volkov from this point.” He turned to the Marine. “And you’re Lieutenant Bruce. I hope we grow into needing two captains. If we don’t, we’ll have a whole different set of problems.”
“Sir?” Lieutenant Bruce didn’t miss much.
“Let’s just say I have every hope that whoever is running things in Charlottesville is someone we can work with.” He left unsaid what could happen if they weren’t. It was better that way, because at the moment, he didn’t have a good answer.
Northern Virginia
They didn’t come for Carla the next day. It was his turn again, just like he’d known it would be. The look of panic on her face as Reed and Gabe manhandled him out the door was one of abject panic. Ray had almost wanted to laugh. Her concern wasn’t for his face or general health; it was the fact he now held her secret.
Jason listened to Ray’
s story, or rather Carla’s, with a growing sense of dread. Daniel sat next to him, holding his head in his hands.
“This is the group you saw in Charlottesville?” Daniel asked him.
“Oh yeah, it’s them. The New Republic.”
“You knew about them?” Ray asked. “And you’re still here?”
“Not like we knew they had ambitions this far north. They seem to have collected most of the survivors out of the Shenandoah I-81 corridor. They looked to have made it as far as Manassas and Leesburg. It seems they were gearing up for the DC metro area.”
“If it makes you feel any better, the crazy bitch made it sound like they’ve got the whole country in their sights.”
“It doesn’t. They sent their advance team here. Here is all we can afford to worry about.”
“What do we do with her?” Daniel asked.
“We see if she’ll talk,” Jason answered. “If she doesn’t, I don’t give a shit what we do to her.”
“She won’t talk,” Ray announced.
“You sound certain about that,” Daniel said.
“You didn’t hear her. I don’t think anything would make her happier than going out a martyr.”
That works for me. “For now, I think we send you on your way to Georgia. We tell her you didn’t make it through today’s Q-and-A session and let the girl and her grandfather go.”
“You’re going to keep your word?” Ray almost sounded surprised.
“Of course,” Daniel answered.
“I’m still going to try and talk you into staying.” Jason surprised himself by how much he meant it.
Ray shook his head. “I’ve been to this dance before. I lost a lot of people I’d come to care about. I don’t want to go through that again. If you’re smart, you’ll get out and let them have this place and your stockpile—everything you can’t carry with you.”
Jason found himself in total agreement. The only difference was the people he cared about were still with him. “It’s not the place or the supplies we have, it’s the people they want. They’re playing the long game.”
“All the more reason . . .”
*
Chapter 13
Charlottesville, VA
“Boise Actual, Raven Team . . .”
“Go, Raven.” Jim Naylor thought it strange that his call sign was still tied to the now sunken USS Boise. It would be a very long time before navies were ever a thing again.
“Raven Team in place with eyes on. Alert level is low. One Bradley M2 with no, repeat, no AT missiles loaded. One 25 mike-mike gun. Bradley does not appear to be manned. Several civilian vehicles, total armed personnel on ground, fourteen—repeat, one four.”
“Copy all, Raven, we are rolling. ETA five minutes.”
Farmer as Raven lead set his radio down and stared through the break in the foliage, just east of the enemy roadblock he’d just described. “Enemy” was perhaps pushing it, regardless of how he felt. Lucas “Farmer” Hanson had been a Marine sergeant for less than a day, and Gunny Bruce—correction, Lieutenant Bruce had warned him that he’d be an officer himself, just as soon as Colonel Skirjanek thought they had enough troops to warrant it.
It was a little weird that even with the end of the world, his chosen career track hadn’t changed one iota. He figured he was one of a very few people left who could say that. He’d signed up with the Marines as enlisted after graduating college, wanting the experience and the challenge. Six months in, he knew he’d found his calling and started angling towards Officer Candidate School. His acceptance letter for OCS had been in his pocket on the day they’d entered The Hole.
“What do you suppose they’re barbecuing, Sergeant?” Salguero asked, his voice sounding muffled as his face was stuck inside the “Clue,” the Command Launch Unit—CLU of a Javelin missile. Just one of the party favors they’d pulled out of The Hole.
“You have that Bradley locked?”
“Affirmative, Sergeant.” Salguero was a smart-ass; he hadn’t missed an opportunity to throw in “Sergeant” since they’d departed the Gypsies’ camp. “No IR signature to target, they look to have just parked it. But I have it framed and locked, Sergeant.”
Lucas thumbed his radio. “God, you there?”
Nathans came back almost immediately. “Hamburgers. They’re grilling hamburgers with all the fixings.” Nathans was glued to his sniper rifle, a hundred yards closer to the Charlottesville roadblock stretching across I-64. The roadblock of abandoned cars, set bumper to bumper in a line, lay just a quarter mile east of the Richmond Road interchange. The Bradley and a few working vehicles looked to be the movable gate. Right now, the guards appeared to be enjoying a midday barbecue, half of them sprawled in lawn chairs. The whole gathering was set half a mile east of where Highway 250 interchanged with the freeway.
“Great,” he called back. “This goes smooth, maybe we can get one.”
“With bacon,” Salguero commented from beside him, “with cheese, fresh tomato, maybe some jalapeno slices, Sergeant.”
“There they are.” Newly minted Sergeant Kent Mason had retired from the Marine Corps three years earlier and had been serving as the director of the contractor security staff at McMurdo when the world had died. Here he was now, back at his old rank, escorting a former sub driver towards an armed encampment.
“That doesn’t look too bad . . .” Captain Naylor’s executive officer, Hoyt Sweet, said from the back seat of the Humvee. “One APC and bunch of civilians.”
Mason shook his head. “That twenty-five on the Bradley could saw this vehicle in half in about three seconds, if they know what they are doing.”
“What if they don’t know what they are doing?” Hoyt asked.
“Then it might take twice as long; it’s a serious gun.”
“Oh . . .”
“Surely they aren’t going to fire on vehicles rolling up with a white flag flying.” Captain Naylor, in the front passenger seat, sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.
Kent could see the people at the roadblock scrambling as they were noticed, and he immediately let up off the gas and started braking. The large SUV following him had four of his “trainees” in it, two of them former Boise crewmen, two of them honest-to-God climatologists who had decided they needed a new profession in the fallen world. He reached down, grabbed the half length of broomstick, and stuck the attached white pillowcase out of his window as he rolled to a stop, a hundred yards away from the line of vehicles. There were enough rifles pointed at them over the hoods and trunks of abandoned cars that he figured the 25mm chain gun on the Bradley was a moot point.
The defenders didn’t feel the same way. He heard the big 600-horsepower diesel cough to life on the Bradley, and a moment later, the turret of the 25mm main gun adjusted its aim by a few inches in their direction.
“OK, Captain. We are officially in their sights. You’re on. Radio’s on, ear shrouds in.”
Naylor was carrying a smaller white flag that he waved out his own window before popping the door and stepping out in the middle of the interstate. “You two with me.”
“Follow car, stay with your vehicle.” Kent spoke into his open mic to everyone, including Raven Team, hidden in the surrounding woods after hiking in hours earlier.
“Bradley is hot, driver and gunner buttoned up.” Hanson’s voice intoned in their ears. “They all seem to be looking towards that group to the side of the Bradley for direction.”
“I see them,” Naylor replied.
Kent joined Hoyt and Naylor on the road in front of their vehicle. “Sirs—there’s a culvert between the roadways. If this goes bad, it’s as good as we are going to get for cover.”
A thin man wearing a green baseball cap separated himself from the group they’d been watching and waved them forward. “Leave your guns on the ground!”
“Let’s do it.” Naylor unsnapped his holster from his belt and tossed it to the ground.
“Sir?” Hoyt didn’t sound as if he liked the idea.
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Kent laid his own M4 on the ground. “Do it, Mr. Sweet. We’re covered six ways to Sunday.”
Kent was keenly aware of what they looked like as they approached the barricade. Colonel Skirjanek had put them all in standard BDUs with flak jackets—the three of them looked like soldiers walking up to a citizen militia sporting various degrees of readiness. He saw a lot of M4s among the hunting rifles and shotguns covering them. The small man who was apparently running the roadblock couldn’t have looked less like a soldier; he was wearing cargo shorts and flip-flops and had a tactical radio up to his ear, no doubt communicating with somebody back at the campus.
“Who are you? Where do you come from?” The man sounded bored, almost flippant, as if he were put off to have had his barbecue cut short.
“I’m Captain Jim Naylor, formerly of the USS Boise. I represent a group of former US Navy personnel that waited out the virus at McMurdo station in the Antarctic.”
“The US Navy?” The little man’s eyebrows flashed upward. “You’re a little late in terms of defending us from threats foreign and domestic, aren’t you?”
“We lost a lot of people as well.” Kent thought Naylor did a good job in not looking or sounding like he wanted to throttle the dickhead.
“How?” the man asked. “You said you outlasted the virus?”
“Starvation mostly.” Naylor delivered it in a matter-of-fact tone. “While our families were home dying like yours were. Who do I have the honor of addressing?”
“I’m a citizen of the New Republic.” The man smiled. “My name is unimportant.”
“I agree.” Naylor got his own dig in. “Perhaps there is somebody more important we should be speaking to. I represent a sizable force, and your community is the largest group we’ve come across. We just want to talk.”
“I’ll bet we are,” the man answered with a smile. “You thinking we’re going to bow down to your GI Joe bullshit? You looking to recreate the United States? I don’t know how long you’ve been back . . .” The rat-faced goateed beatnik waved his arms around him. “Take a good look around, Captain Jim. Your world is dead and gone.”
Seasons of Man | Book 2 | Reap What You Sow Page 12
