Dark New World (Book 5): EMP Resurrection

by Henry G. Foster

  Looking around, Frank saw seven more battlecars arrayed to either side of him. As with his own, smoke billowed from them as the crews kept the gasifiers ready to go on the attack at a moment’s notice. He had ordered them kept lit, and now the fires were being stoked and fed to get the woodgas they produced back up to pressure.

  “Charlie One to Delta One, engage on heading zero-one-five,” Ethan’s voice said through his radio. Yes!

  Frank snarled confirmation into the radio and pressed the gas pedal. These battlecars were armored and heavy, so they wouldn’t win any races, but once they got up to speed they had amazing momentum. He watched as his speedometer crept up toward twenty-five miles per hour, about as fast as he could safely go across the terrain. It was pretty even, having once been plowed, but it wasn’t a road. Breaking a strut now would waste a perfectly good killing machine, right when it was most needed. This was all part of the briefing the battlecar drivers had received, and he kept it in mind. A quick check showed the rest of his group keeping pace, not trying to leap ahead.

  Ahead, the western front came into view. The Confed troops were stretched out in a long line, firing from cover at the onrushing Empire troops heading for a rough line of cover from boulders, scattered trees, and hedges. Getting there would put the enemy in range to exchange fire—and they vastly outnumbered the Confed forces. Frank could easily see Michael’s was a losing position, but what else was the Confederation to do but try to hold the line? Oh yeah—drive makeshift tanks straight up the Empire’s ass…

  Into his team radio, Frank said, “Delta One form on me, wedge formation. We’re a fastball coming right down the middle. Once we’re through, turn to bearing zero-seven-zero and keep pressing that attack from the north side.”

  As the other drivers acknowledged the orders, Frank shifted a little to the right as he had instructed the rest. After the first pass, it’d be impossible to give his unit beat-by-beat orders. They’d be mostly on their own. His plan was to drive through the east front’s enemy soldiers, then do the same for the goons hitting Clanholme’s north side. That might take pressure off the allies who had shown up, and let them shift some pressure back to the east lines.

  Frank drove fast over the crest of a low rise and felt his stomach tingle, the truck’s suspension extending as gravity reached to hold them down. Not quite “pulling air,” it still felt nice and dramatic. A great entrance. He aimed for the first enemy unit on a bearing to plow right through the whole length of it. He tapped his hood guns, and heard his top gunner firing bursts one after the other. People screamed and fell, hit point-blank, but he was past them before they had hit the ground…

  …And plowed into a squad clustered behind a lone chunk of stone wall. The rest of that wall was who-knows-where, since long ago. The result was the most gratifying kills of Empire goons he had ever made. Bodies went flying left and right, some directly into the cowcatcher of the next car in line. Blood sprayed. Screams echoed as they flew away, scattered like seeds in the wind to land in bloody heaps. His truck bounced and swayed violently as he ran over several bodies.

  Through his team radio, Frank heard one of his men shouting for joy before saying, “Hooah! Are we having fun yet?”

  Frank let the drivers chatter, congratulating each other on spectacular kills or a headshot with someone’s hood guns. Let them have their emotional high—he understood the joy they felt, the primal satisfaction of utterly smashing an enemy into pulp. He felt it too, but in his heart he knew that no amount of killing would fill the hole left in his soul by his wife’s death, but he’d give it his best. “Die, motherfuckers,” he muttered as he sent another Empire goon flying, blood spraying across the truck’s hood. Still, it was a start.

  * * *

  Joe watched the conflict below, banking left to get a clearer view. Michael had been right—the biplane could go slower than molasses and stay in the air. He and the other five crop dusters had been prowling the battlefield, dropping dynamite wherever they found the sonsabitches clustered together.

  A glimmer caught his eye and he banked toward it, his wingman pulling up, breaking off a bombing run to keep on Joe’s wing. On the radio, he said, “Delta Two Actual. Y’all keep doing what you’re doing. Heading one-three-zero to check something. Over and out.”

  As Joe and his wingman flew on, the source of the glimmer grew clearer—a wagon. No, a dozen wagons. Cut-off truck beds harnessed to two-horse teams. In back of the trucks, he saw a mess of boxes all stacked and ready. Joe grinned and clicked his radio. “Delta Two Actual to Delta Two. All units head one-three-zero and get ready to drop some presents. We done found their supply train, sittin’ all nice and pretty for us.”

  As the other pilots replied, confirming, Joe slid into a descent that would take him about a hundred feet above the wagons. He looked through the contraption Dean had put in, a metal circle with crosshairs, which extended horizontally from a PVC tube. The idea was that at two-hundred feet, flying at a snail’s pace of eighty miles-per-hour, the dynamite “bombs” would hit whatever was under the crosshairs when he dropped them down the tube. The other planes had to fly at one-twenty, and their crosshairs were set up a mite different, but the idea was the same. As far as Joe figured, the whole contraption needed to be re-jiggered, because they surely didn’t work too good. Though, it was better than hucking them over the side, he reckoned, but not by much.

  He watched as the rearmost wagon appeared to creep toward his crosshairs, bomb at the ready. On the mark, he let the girl loose and she spiraled down, down toward the wagon. He saw her falling, and had that gut feeling she was gonna fly true. And damn if that bomb didn’t fall square onto that trailer! Joe grinned despite the wind buffeting him, and below, the explosion—a whole stick of dynamite—was pretty impressive. But then he felt a huge blast, and a fireball rose right up like God’s own hand reaching up to swat him! Joe rolled right and shoved the throttle forward, and the fireball missed him by only a few meters. It looked like a fireworks finale, flaming chunks rising into beautiful, deadly arcs and colliding into the ground in their own individual brilliance.

  He got on the radio and shouted, “Holy crap! Did y’all see that?”

  “Must’ve been their ammo supply,” said one of the other pilots.

  Then Joe and the others passed back and forth, bombing the crap out of them boys and their wagons. Only one other wagon went up like that first one, so the rest had to be vittles and such. Their poor horses didn’t deserve to go out like that, but there was nothing for it. This was war, and he cared more about his own people than about his enemy’s horses. The Clan was kin. They’d rescue any surviving horses later.

  After the last wagon blew up, Joe banked back toward the front lines. Sure, the battle could have used them bombs, but the Empire couldn’t fight with “no bullets and no bacon,” as his pawpaw would have said it.

  The radio crackled, Ethan’s voice coming through. He said, “Charlie One to Bravo Two, our troops are pulling back. They have to go through the wire and it’s slowing them down. The north corner, by the edge of the forest, is about to be overrun. Focus heavy fire on the enemy there. Strafe them as you go by! Make it count, you only get one of those.”

  Joe acknowledged, and went to full throttle. It was slower than the other planes wanted to go, but that was just too bad. He had all five other planes form up on his wings. They’d fly in, skimming the tops of them trees by a whisker’s length, and drop all at once, all along the enemy line. With twelve bombs and over seven hundred rounds going out within seconds, they were sure to chew them bastards up, and good!

  Three… Two… One… “Let ’em have it,” he shouted into the radio. He dropped two bombs right after each other even as he pulled the trigger with his other hand. The plane shook a little from the recoil, but nothing to get riled up about.

  Joe banked left to watch the bombs fall, but it only took two or three seconds at that height. Just before impact, as he was at a descent, he drew closer to the action on the gro
und. Then his heart froze. Them troops down there weren’t just Empire—it was both sides, fighting hand to hand, shooting at point blank as the Empire had come up on the defender’s ridge! He heard a strange noise and then realized it was himself, cryin’ out for them bombs to miss, but he knew they wouldn’t. They was gonna hit right on target…

  Yellow and red blossoms sprouted along the ridgeline, over one hundred meters, a snake of fire and death. That strange noise wouldn’t stop coming out of his mouth, neither. He didn’t know what to do, and froze up. Someone was yelling on the radio, but he didn’t pay it any mind. He stared down at the ground, willing it to be different, praying he had been wrong, but knew he wasn’t.

  Then the air was full of bullets. A dozen punched through his left wings, canvas flapping where the bullets ripped it. Then he realized the people left on the ground, easily hundreds of ’em, maybe a thousand even, was shooting up at the planes. That snapped him out of his fog, and he throttled up again. “Break zero-nine-zero,” he shouted at his radio, but in his haste he forgot to click the transmit button. He banked, however, and the others followed him. Joe circled toward the east and flew low over Clanholme.

  The others then broke off, banking away from him, but Joe kept flying straight. The next hill was under a minute away. Maybe he’d just plow that plane right into it… How could he ever face the Clan again? Who had he killed? Hellfire, it didn’t matter who he had killed. They was Clan, and his brothers and sisters. No, he never could go home, he reckoned.

  Then the voice on the radio penetrated his fog. It was Cassy’s voice, shouting, “Joe, Joe, you there? You’re a flippin’ hero! You crazy, suicidal sonofagun, you broke the charge.”

  The two didn’t compute. Hero and friendly fire. Who the hell done named it that, anyhow? Weren’t nothing friendly about no “friendly fire,” as far as he could tell.

  “No ma’am. I just killed a bunch of our own boys and girls. Ain’t you got eyes? When this is over, you ain’t gotta worry. I’ll turn myself in.”

  “What are you talking about, Joe? You just saved an entire company of Taggart’s troops, holding the rear while we got everyone through the wire.”

  “Cassy, I done killed our own troops! What don’t you get about that?”

  “We were falling back, Joe. Those troops knew they were going to die. You made it worth the sacrifice.”

  “Ain’t nothing they did, ma’am. They didn’t sacrifice themselves. I gave the order, and I sacrificed them. I swear I didn’t know they was there!”

  “Joe… You broke the enemy’s back. They’re pulling back to regroup. Now we can re-deploy and get our wounded out, get our troops resupplied. We can get through the wire safely and shore up our lines. We would have fallen without that strike. You think on that, okay? Now get back out there and start dropping dynamite!”

  Joe lifted his goggles and wiped tears away. He took a quick, deep breath and then replied, “Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.”

  “Just stay focused, Joe. You’re doing great.”

  It didn’t feel great.

  - 27 -

  1300 HOURS - ZERO DAY +256

  CHOONY HANDED JAZ a reloaded rifle and took her empty one in return. Load, exchange, load, exchange. The hardest part was keeping the satchel of ammo and magazines from sliding down the roof on which he and Jaz had positioned themselves. Bullet holes here and there all around him taught him very clearly the difference between cover and concealment, and that he and Jaz only had the latter. If the few people who shot at them struck the roof, the bullet passed right through, barely slowing down.

  Given how much ammunition Jaz had fired off, and her pretty impressive hit rate, her Karma must be deeply negative. Once this war was over, he’d have to work hard motivating her to do good works to bring herself into balance again. She was a jaded cynic, so that would take some work, but she also had an inner light that was practically blinding to one such as him. A wonderful, beautiful spirit. She could do it, no doubt about it, if he could only motivate her.

  “Choony, more ammo!” Jaz’s voice was strained, tighter than the strings on a fiddle.

  He handed her the loaded rifle in another round of rinse-and-repeat. She didn’t normally sound so strained, but then again, she must be in terrible pain from her recent wound and so much shooting. Or maybe it was something else… He finished loading the rifle she had handed him, then peeked above the roof ridge.

  He immediately wished he hadn’t. There had to be at least a platoon down there in the city some fifty yards away. Not far enough. And they were all looking around frantically. They’d spot Jaz in moments if she kept firing.

  “Jaz, we have to fire and move. We can’t stay in one place.” Choony struggled to keep his heart rate down and his voice even. He failed.

  “The last thing I need is the stress of you freaking out.” Jaz had ducked down for a moment. Too many people looking in their direction, perhaps.

  “My fear is for your life, not my own. If we die, I will go to the Pure Land, while you remain stuck in the cycle of death and rebirth.”

  Jaz glanced at him, then nodded once. One of the many things he loved about her was her acceptance of his beliefs, even if they weren’t her own. “One more shot, then we relocate. Where to, boss?”

  “Two roofs over that way.” He pointed west. Here, the buildings were close enough together to jump from one roof to the next. “Then fire until they start shooting too close, and move again.”

  “Fine.” Jaz slid her rifle up over the roof’s ridge, aimed, fired, ducked back down. It was all done in one fluid motion. “So, we should like, go now… I think they spotted me.” Jaz let herself slide halfway down the roof.

  Choony, unable to resist his curiosity, peeked up over the ridge. “The Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha protect us…” He scurried down from the ridgeline too and with satchel in hand, sprinted after Jaz. There had been well over a squad of Empire troops rushing toward them. Down below, he saw half a dozen Manheim fighters burst out the back door of that same house, scattering toward other nearby buildings.

  This was getting ridiculous. As the Empire’s forces drove deeper into Manheim, they’d have to relocate more frequently. The end was closing in on them, the fighting more frantic as both sides inched toward their breaking point. Manheim was still going strong, but as the intensity of the fighting grew, so did their casualties. At least the Empire’s troops were being cut down, too. What a waste of life, and over what? Buildings, empty ones. Needless suffering. But such was the way of the world.

  Choony jumped the last chasm and then scrambled to Jaz. She was already aiming to fire. One shot. Then another. Soon, she had emptied the rifle’s five-round magazine.

  “Shit, run,” she said, voice frantic. They tossed their rifles to one another, then scrambled toward the roof’s far edge with Jaz in the lead—she didn’t have to carry the burdensome satchel of ammo and supplies, and quickly outpaced him.

  As he sprinted toward the edge, Jaz leapt into the air. Just then came the three bellowing roars of an AK rifle burst. Midair, Jaz cried out in pain. She hit the roof on the other side like a bag of wet rice and, seemingly in slow motion, slid down the steeply-angled roof toward the edge. Choony didn’t turn around to look at who had fired, but landed in a crouch on the far side. Pulse racing, panic took over. He let his feet slide out from under him, and when he reached the edge, he dangled off it. He had to get as low as he could for the drop…

  Choony glanced up at movement to his right and saw two Empire troops had come out that back door, and now aimed their rifles at him. One was an AK. His options were limited. Choony let go and felt his stomach lurch as the ground, twenty feet below, rushed up at him. The impact was painful despite his tuck-and-roll turning much of his momentum into a forward roll. He scrambled to his feet and part of him wondered if he had been injured or shot. He didn’t feel anything, but that could be adrenaline, some clinical part of his mind told him.

  The two soldiers took aim at Choony
as he reached Jaz’s limp form. Choony looked at Jaz’s rifle lying next to her, then back up at the soldiers. One of them grinned.

  Then multiple shots rang out from seemingly all around him, and the soldiers dropped to the ground, one clearly dead and the other crying out in pain. As another Empire trooper came out the door, he too was cut down. It was the Manheim troops! They were covering him.

  Choony wasted no time. He slung both rifles over his back and the satchel over his shoulder. He sat Jaz up, resting her torso on his knees. Reaching under both of her arms, he laced his fingers together over her chest and pulled himself to his feet. An inch at a time, he dragged Jaz out of that bloody courtyard to the nearest door. It opened when he got close, and a young man darted out to help. Together, they got Jaz inside and then closed the door. For a few seconds at least, they were safe.

  “Thank you so much,” Choony said. “Our lives are yours. But once enough goons get together, they’ll clear that courtyard and come in here. Is there a back door?”

  “Window,” the man said. He picked up an AR-15 that leaned against the doorway. “I’ll cover you. Be quick.”

  Choony nodded and rushed to kneel by Jaz. She was unconscious, but still breathing. He looked her over, checking for wounds, and found it immediately—a round had passed through her thigh. There wasn’t much blood, not as much as he expected to find. Buddha bless her, they had missed her main artery there, just as they had missed the one in her shoulder. Once again, her luck had held. He breathed a sigh of relief, took out his med kit and got to work applying pressure to stop what bleeding there was while the young man rapid-fired single shots through the window into the courtyard, occasionally ducking back to reload. The noise in the house from his rifle was deafening.