by J. L. Salter
“Speaking of Brownings, do we have any automatic weapons at all?” Isaiah looked hopeful.
“Closest we’ve got is semiautomatic — my .45 that I lent to Lawrence.” Pete continued to regret letting that pistol out of his sight. “You’ll be on the line down there between Chet and Leo, close to the right end. Herb’s just inside my garage, about twenty-five feet to Leo’s right… didn’t want you to be surprised. I’m at about the middle of the line if you need me.”
Pete quickly briefed Isaiah on the planned diversionary maneuvers of Task Force Wade to their south. He still didn’t know whether the Legion men had finally joined Force Mitchell on its end run around their north.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wednesday at 1:40 p.m.
Task Force Mitchell
The solitary Marauder was exhausted and stressed from waiting.
Suddenly, two vehicles sped up Whiskey Road and took Winston Court’s sharp right turn so fast the minivan spun off into the church parking lot. The smaller SUV barely slowed enough to stay on Winston’s surface.
Out of the SUV’s front passenger side jumped a man about five feet eleven inches tall with a huge belly and an extremely tight tee shirt. Probably too much beer and not enough exercise. With a dramatically receding hairline, his hair was trimmed short, uniform length all over — not much more than three-eighths of an inch.
Pete had said Steve was a Marine during Desert Storm. This person was about the right age. Wade had said Steve was mean. This individual looked plenty stinking mean.
Must be Steve.
Moving a bit slower out of the SUV’s driver door — and favoring his left knee — was a shorter, stocky bald man in battle dress. Kelly had told Mitch about her encounter with Gary at the funeral. She’d described him to a T. All of a sudden, Mitch had a mild curiosity to feel the shrapnel in Gary’s knee.
Steve looked around with a bit of a sneer but didn’t speak.
Gary approached. “If you’re Bill Mitchell, Henley left word you’re our contact.”
At the front you don’t salute or shake hands either. Mitch grimaced with his best impression of a second lieutenant. “Pete wants me to show you the way along the west side of this neighborhood and then through the woods to the north. We’re supposed to get around behind seventeen armed punks in three big trucks.”
“Seventeen?” Steve suddenly looked more interested and came closer.
Mitch vaguely recalled hearing Kelly mention two other guys in a fourth truck, but he wasn’t certain they were connected and Pete had not said anything. “How much do you already know about what’s going on here?”
“Hardly anything.” Gary’s antennae were also up. “Henley said he needed us. We’re here.”
Mitch gave them a quick rundown about the robbers, their weapons and trucks, plus the barricade defense. He explained the formation of Task Force Mitchell but forgot to mention Force Wade.
“By the way, where’s your guns?” Mitch noticed their empty hands and belts.
Gary shook his head. “The firing squad rifles don’t stay at the Post anymore. Henley keeps them locked up at his house.” He motioned toward Steve. “But we collected several personal arms — rifles, shotguns, and handguns.”
“They’re in your vehicle?” Mitch craned his neck.
“They were.” Steve shook his head. “But Gary ran a four-way stop.”
“Wasn’t anything coming!” Gary mounted his defense.
“Anyhow, we got stopped by the town cops.”
“During this big drill, they’re making penny-ante traffic stops?” Mitch groaned.
“Not only that, they’re giving out tickets today.” Steve added a curse. “If Gary hadn’t had that illegal prescription…”
“It was just my sister’s pain pills,” Gary defended himself with appropriate indignance, “and it’s for my bum knee.”
“So what happened to all those guns, Gary?”
“Confiscated.” Gary’s face showed total disgust.
“Yeah, like we’re common criminals!” Steve’s version was much more incensed. “Ignoring the Second Amendment and whatever else. They kept every gun we had. Ammo too!”
Gary explained. “The cop said if we’d had just one gun in the glove box, it would’ve been no problem. But with seven — or was it eight? — firearms laying behind the back seat, he acted like we’d just robbed a gun shop or something.”
“Any cop could tell those weren’t new guns from a store.” Steve acted like he needed to hit somebody. “He’s just flexing his muscles because police can get away with everything.”
“No guns.” Mitch shook his head. “Pete told me to lead a patrol around the right flank of a squadron of heavily armed gangsters and all we’ve got is my ankle gun and a radio that won’t work.”
“Doesn’t Henley and whoever else have any guns?” Gary’s question was logical. “Honor Guard rack has at least seven Garands.”
“Yeah. One’s got a busted firing pin.” Mitch’s words sounded bitter. “Plus, the Legion’s transplanted armory doesn’t have any ammo but blanks.”
Steve stepped forward suddenly. “No other live ammo at all, from anybody?”
“You can shoot nails from those Garands, if you’ve got blanks,” Gary nodded as he spoke.
“Yeah, but you’d ruin the bore.” Steve cursed again.
Mitch detailed all that he’d learned standing in Pete’s kitchen when every resource was counted.
“Well, that’s just great!” Steve stomped his feet on the church parking lot like he was a child throwing a tantrum. “We’re gonna have to fight those punks with rocks and sticks!”
There was a moment of silence while the three Marauders mulled over their circumstances. In the distance, emerging from the rear seat doors of the SUV, were two older men who looked identical.
“That’s Elmer and Ralph.” Gary pointed. “Or Ralph and Elmer. Not sure.”
“They’re twins?”
“Brothers. One’s about a year-and-a-half older.”
The elderly siblings approached.
“Bill Mitchell. Glad you could make it, Elmer.”
Both nodded.
Mitch addressed the other brother. “It’s good you’re here, Ralph.”
Both nodded again.
Presently, Task Force Mitchell had five Marauders, with two almost identical. Mitch heard another vehicle door open. “How many guys did you recruit?”
Steve answered so quickly, it came out like spit. “Nobody could be bothered. Everybody’s fixalated with the stinking drill.”
“So who else came with you?” Mitch nodded toward the other vehicle.
About that time, three men in the minivan finally extricated themselves from the front and sliding doors. They were all in their eighties and one looked like he could barely walk.
“Firing squad guy. He stumbled going down a hill at a funeral and fell into a fence.” Gary spoke quietly. “He’ll be okay in a few days, but he busted up one of the Garands trying to break his fall.”
Mitch sighed. Probably bent that firing pin.
****
Barricade
Back at the barricade, Pete began moving large boxes from his garage into the space between his own condo corner and the tail of Wade’s trailer. Diane and Kelly helped. Cardboard boxes couldn’t stop bullets and wouldn’t prevent access by the gangsters, but they could help disguise positions and conceal movements of the defenders.
Already warm, Kelly looked up at the bright sun. “I got a feeling we’re gonna be out here for a good while. Wish I’d brought a tee shirt to change into.” She slid her sweater’s sleeves up over her elbows.
Art still wore his windbreaker and looked perfectly comfortable. One of the few autumn afternoons he didn’t feel cold.
Norm leaned his Garand against Earl’s Cadillac fender and pushed a wheeled trash container into a small gap between two vehicles. Diane did the same at another hole. Kelly rolled over an empty-but-heavy, fifty-five-gallon plast
ic drum and maneuvered it into place.
Diane tapped the drum. “Somehow I don’t expect this little bit of plastic to stop any bullets.”
“It won’t.” Kelly slapped it also. “That’s only concealment. It’s the steel you hide behind.”
Diane began looking for steel.
Near the bogus mine field, Pete surveyed the shallow holes, buried cake pans, loops of wire, and the wind-up alarm clock. “Good job, Art.”
“Melvin helped.”
Pete nodded at Melvin. All was forgiven. “Looks good enough to fool a visiting general.”
Art seemed slightly embarrassed. “No problem, Sarge.”
“I’m only a sergeant when my uniform’s on.”
Art shook his head. “No, Pete. You’re a sergeant deep down inside.”
It took everybody a few moments to get situated behind the barricade. Pete monitored their movements.
“Pete, how come Wade can’t stay here on the barricade and help us? We could use another young guy right here.” Art’s question was puzzlement, not complaint. “Why are you letting him go out there and shoot fruit balls at that gang?”
“Anything Lawrence can do to distract those creeps will buy us a little time.” Pete lowered his voice slightly. “We don’t have much ammo, so the longer we keep that gang pinned down, the better we are. They don’t move forward and we don’t get robbed. They don’t advance and maybe the law gets here in time.”
“So Wade shooting a fruit mortar is just a distraction?”
Pete nodded. “Diversionary maneuver.”
Art’s face scrunched up a bit. “Other than diverting their attention, think it’ll do any good?”
“Who knows?” Pete looked over the top of Earl’s Caddy. “He might actually hit somebody.”
Melvin looked up and back over his shoulder. “Hope it’s not any of us.”
Pete went back inside his condo and quickly returned with a long gun in each hand. “I’m using this hunting rifle. Art, you take my over n’ under.” He handed over the 12-gauge shotgun.
Art received it in both hands reverently. “Savage 330. Nice.”
“Barrels are twenty-eight-inch — one’s full choke and the other’s modified. Single selective trigger.” Pete might have been describing a new great-grandson. “I had my old shotgun a long while, Art.” He pointed for emphasis. “Take good care of it.”
Art nodded.
Pete reached into his biggest pocket. “Here’s a half box of 12-gauge, minus the box. Make them all count.”
“Will do, Sarge.” Art cupped both hands as thirteen shells transferred to his custody. Then he shoved them into the pockets of his country club windbreaker.
Pete resumed pacing back and forth along the barricade. His Winchester was by his side, barrel pointing up. He gazed at his American flag, extending from the inside edge of his garage over the nexus of the sidewalk and driveway.
“Think ya oughtta take it down?” Chet had come up beside him. “Hate to see bullet holes in it.”
Pete had already considered that. “No. Our flanking teams need a point of reference. Don’t want any friendly fire.” Then he looked down his street toward the invaders. “And those punks need to know who they’re fighting.” Pete stood on tiptoe to catch the flag’s bottom corner and held it for a few seconds before letting it return to the control of the breeze. “We’ll leave the colors flying.”
Chet shifted to the matter he’d come over to mention. He nodded far left, then far right, and cleared his throat loudly. “We’re open on the ends.”
Pete’s eyes followed Chet’s head motion. “Right. Right. Need a security detail.” He looked around and grabbed Norm and Stanley. Sergeants always grab the men nearest them. “These two retaining walls in me and Norm’s back yards help extend our barricade line by some thirty-seven feet each direction. It won’t take long for those city boys to send a probe around our flanks. We need a good man on each end watching those gangsters don’t get around us north or south.” Pete paused to see if his words were sinking in, but the two volunteers merely looked stunned. “Norm, you cover the north end of your wall from somewhere behind Bernie’s unit, maybe the west side of his deck if there’s enough protection there. Stanley, you cover the south end of my wall, from maybe Alice’s deck if you’ve got a good enough line of sight.”
Norm nodded and Stanley gulped.
“Stay down and don’t expose yourself.” Pete stuck his chin out slightly and nodded slowly. “Chet give you any live ammo?”
Norm counted. “I got eight rounds.”
“Six.” Stanley looked acutely disappointed.
Norm gave Stanley one .30’06 cartridge. That allowed each man seven.
“Okay.” Pete started to leave.
“Wait, Pete.” Stanley reached toward him but didn’t actually touch. “This sounds like sniper work. My eyes are shot.”
Pete shook his head. “Stanley, if we’re lucky you won’t have to shoot at all. We don’t even want that gang to know you’re out there. You only shoot if they probe and just to brush them back.”
“Brush ‘em back, how?”
Pete felt like he was patiently re-explaining to a new recruit how to lace up combat boots. “If they try to send anybody around those ends, fire right over their heads and scare them back. If they do flank us, drop them.”
Norm had been attentively listening. “When you say drop, do you mean kill?”
“Figure what those guys would do if you were in their sights.” Pete’s voice was distinctly solemn. “Then do it to them first.”
Stanley reached toward him again. “You sure you wouldn’t rather have Herb or Chet for this detail? I got congestion around my heart, Pete.”
“We need you. Now hitch up your britches and get out on that south end.” Pete gripped Stanley’s shoulder firmly, held it a second, and then pushed slightly toward the assigned position. He cocked his head. Go on.
Each moved as ably as men in their mid-eighties could while hunkered over. They positioned themselves where they could see the long retaining walls angled from the backs of the two primary duplexes and spot anyone trying to cross their extended siege line.
****
Most of the vehicles, filled to capacity with frightened residents from North Pleasant Drive and Placid Lane, had long ago left for the main building complex. Plus, many residents had taken the hill and curve on foot.
What remained of potential use on the street were Kelly’s four-wheel drive, Mitch’s SUV, Roger’s vehicle, and Stanley’s minivan — just enough to convey the sixteen valiant defenders if they were forced to flee. All four were parked farther around the curve and higher up the hill.
One other stray vehicle was nearby, though nobody would think of using it for transportation — Herb’s truck with the ill-tempered Billie goat was parked slightly behind the massive dozer.
Below the barricade, the only vehicle of residents or guests was in front of Art’s unit — his big Chrysler with the dead battery.
With his wheeled walker and enormous single-barreled shotgun, Bernie had just appeared outside. He’d been in the Henleys’ bathroom for a long time.
Chet noticed his return. “How many shells ya got for that blunderbuss, Bernie?”
“Three in my pocket.” Bernie shrugged and broke open the breech. “Couldn’t find the key to my ammo box.”
“Art’s got some 12-gauge. Get a couple extras from him.”
Pete came over. “You ever cleaned that old Long Tom since you got it?” He peered into the oxidized chamber. “That sucker might just blow up in your face.”
“Daddy cleaned it. He was never skeered to shoot it.”
That was probably thirty years ago. Pete shrugged and started to move down the line.
“You know, Chet, it’s been a good long while.” Bernie paused. “Last time I shot at a person was when I dropped in Operation Market Garden.”
“These punks is only persons if ya see them at the car rally.” Chet spit tobacc
o juice on the street. “They ain’t persons if they come in here trying ta rob us and kill us.”
Bernie was not one to argue with Chet, even if he apparently disagreed with that moral distinction.
Next order of NCO business was to recheck the integrity of their main line of resistance. The far ends must be guarded, of course, but Pete also wanted to anchor the two near ends of the principal barricade, where most of the defenders’ true firepower would need to be concentrated. Along the barricade proper, Pete spaced out those men with functioning weapons and live ammo. As much as possible, he alternated them among the ladies with no firearms. If any of the females thought they were victims of sexism, none said so. Except for Kelly, who wished she had the shotgun from her cabin, most of the women seemed relieved not to contend with controlled explosions in a blued steel chamber at the breech of a barrel.
Pete would have preferred to redistribute Kelly and Diane, but he needed them as bookends for his granddaughter. It peeved him to have his symmetry ruined.
He ticked off his complete barricade force of sixteen, from north to south.
On the far north, guarding the rock bed and retaining wall which jutted from his own northwest corner was Norm with a Garand and seven rounds of .30’06. Perched behind Bernie’s wooden deck with good visibility of his assigned area and moderate protection, he could not, however, see any part of the barricade.
Melvin, with ten rounds of live ammo for his M-1, was posted just inside the east wall of Leo’s open garage. There he had very good cover and excellent visibility of the barricade and the bogus mine field just to the east of Leo’s driveway.
Behind the front of his own vehicle, Earl was stationed on the inside left end with his urine-powered mega-sprayer. Next was Art with Pete’s over/under shotgun and then Bernie on his walker with the Long Tom. The huge sedan had enough length to cover all three of those men, plus Ellie, who would move from the back of Earl’s Cadillac to the front of Chet’s pickup. Ellie had her bat, plus she held the non-firing Garand without its bolt. Next was Irene, clutching the heavy, non-functional Springfield that was nearly as long as she was tall. Ellie’s Garand and Irene’s Springfield were merely bluffs of extra firepower.
