Alternative Truths

by Bob Brown

  Hell came to earth.

  Fire, and brimstone, and Lucifer himself, near as Dale could tell.

  The earth itself moved amidst all the fire, knocking Dale on his ass. The plunger dropped into the snow next to him, fallen from numb hands.

  Half the mountain looked like it was gone, four giant bites taken out of the face, like an angry mole the size of a whale had been there.

  Silence, too.

  All the firing had stopped, like a Christmas Day Armistice. There had been a song about that.

  Dale picked himself up and crept forward, unsure how safe the rocks were, now that someone had taken a ballpeen sledge to them.

  It looked safer to the right, so he moved that way. Just enough to peek over.

  There was a snake down there, all right. A big one. Mighty angry.

  Dale had dropped a bigger rock on top of it.

  It took a moment to resolve. Dale hadn’t realized just how much mountain was down there now.

  Way more than he had been expecting.

  The avalanche of snow and stone had hit the snake just about in the middle. Right where Light Horse Harry had suggested.

  Half the troop transports were buried, because Dale had blown it earlier than he planned, but he had still gotten the two tankers, buried them under tons of rock and yards of snow.

  Like Harry had said. Horse will graze just fine on grass. Tanks don’t have that option. No silage, no cavalry.

  Everyone had stopped firing down there.

  Probably shock. Sure as hell a goodly amount of surprise.

  Who expected someone to drop a mountain on them?

  Wouldn’t last that long.

  Dale crept back out of sight before anybody saw him. The tanks could still move, so he needed to get gone, but there was no way in hell he was coming home with Audrey and not Stan.

  Crazed patterns of stress had lit up these rocks, like a china plate glued back together.

  Stan was still in the middle of it, so Dale moved as carefully as he could.

  It was still a long ways down, and that cliff was a lot closer than it had been.

  Stan was on his back when Dale got close. Probably flipped by all the shockwaves that had knocked Dale on his own ass.

  There wasn’t much time, and Stan wasn’t all that heavy, regardless of heavy, winter clothing. Tall and wiry come summer greens. Dale knelt at his side and felt for a pulse. He could easily throw the old man’s body into a fireman’s carry and get him to cover.

  “Hold my beer,” Stan murmured.

  Dale was so shocked he fell on his butt again.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” Dale asked as he got back up.

  “Ya gotta know how to play with high explosives, kid,” Stan explained. “Shaping charges is an art form.”

  “Can you walk?” Dale asked, standing and offering a hand. “We need to be somewhere else.”

  Stan took the hand and let Dale pull him up, his left arm hanging useless by his side.

  Dale grabbed a handful of snow and pushed it into the bloody hole in Stan’s shoulder.

  All Dad’s first aid lessons came back as he did. Hit just right and there’s nothing but muscle and bone to hurt. Below the tendons, above the lungs, miss the heart. Pretty survivable wound.

  He turned Stan around and stuffed more snow into the back.

  Dying by Blue was a bigger risk than shock and blood loss right now. Those folks would be angry and vicious, at least until their commander got them under control and figured out what had happened.

  And what they could do now, with the snake chopped right in half.

  Audrey and Centurion could get the two of them far enough away that Dale could sew the old man up and get more teams vectored in. Or watch from a really safe distance while some idiots went full frontal on Fort Collins, expecting a flank surprise that had just gotten its teeth kicked in.

  Dale got Stan down to the horses and boosted the old man up onto Audrey’s saddle with a shoulder under his ass.

  Centurion held perfectly still, and then turned and took point all by himself, like he recognized that Audrey needed to walk careful going home.

  They were both better at this than he was.

  “You done good, kid,” Stan said through gritted teeth. “No. You done good, Ranger.”

  “But I’m only an 090, Stan,” Dale argued. “A Guide.”

  “No, Dale,” Stan said firmly. “After today, you’re a Ranger.”

  END

  RAID AT 817 MAPLE STREET

  Ken Staley

  When the bad guys arrived at nine-fifteen Tuesday night in Logan, Iowa, they drove new, black Suburban SUVs. Howie Collins looked out his upstairs window just as two dark vehicles coasted down Maple Street without headlights. He knew every pebble on Maple Street for blocks. His FaceBook friend, Billy Daves, told him that desperate burglar rings in the big city branched out into small towns like Logan—towns close enough to a freeway to make a quick get-away but not likely to have an efficient police force. Howie wasn’t fooled for a minute.

  He reached down and tapped the key to disconnect the internet. It was his turn in the War to End all Wars, an on-line game where you fought back the terrorist threat. Or became one. He’d been trying to infiltrate Jerusalem all morning, but Ibrim, his gaming challenger in Haifa, blocked each attempt. Howie’s cell, Billy366 in Seattle and Kelly144 from Tupelo, had a plan to infiltrate the middle-east and kill the King of Hordania. Howie thought Ibrim’s cell in Haifa had an unfair advantage because they lived in the area. His team gained the lead by one on the scoreboard when they blocked Ibrim’s attempt to blow up Mt Rushmore.

  ~o0o~

  “The objective was the suspect’s computer,” Special Agent Howard Kennedy said. Kennedy sat in a small Senate conference room. With him were four senators and his boss, General Jack Hamilton, the Assistant Director of Operations.

  “You were the agent in charge of the field operation?” Senator Albert Van Slyke (R-Iowa) asked.

  “Yes, sir, I was,” Kennedy replied.

  “What story was given to the press?” the Senator asked.

  “Our agency has no comment on any operation that may, or may not, be under consideration. Our ‘leak’ gave out the ‘home grown radicalized terror cell’ story that’s been making all the headlines.”

  “Why warn’t this done at some gawdawful time in the morning?” Senator Bart Fields (R-W Va) asked as he rifled through a pile of scraps that poured from his briefcase. “Whar is it,” he mumbled to himself as he pulled a slip from the stack and scrutinized it. “These things usually happen at four A.M. or some damned thing.”

  “Our intelligence sources indicated that the family would be away from their house early in the evening, Senator,” Kennedy said.

  “Why din’ you do it durin the day when there warn’t nobody home, then?” Senator Fields didn’t look up from his pile of papers.

  “Mrs. Collins does not work outside of the home, Senator,” Agent Kennedy said with an exasperated sigh. He was tired of the old man already and the hearing had just started.

  “She what?” Senator Fields was a Senate icon and antique. Approaching 90, he hadn’t missed a session in the Senate in 50 years.

  “She stays at home, Senator,” General Hamilton said when he saw that Kennedy was losing his patience. “Odd as it is, it still happens now and then. Our preliminary intelligence report indicated that the entire Collins family usually left the house early Tuesday night and didn’t return until late. Our plan was to be in, replace his entire hard drive and be out before anyone returned—half an hour at most.”

  “Didn’ work too well, did it?” Senator Fields snorted.

  ~o0o~

  Howie watched as the black SUVs parked in the shadows of the trees that gave their name to the street. Howie snorted in derision at their wasted attempt at stealth. He knew where every car on mile-long Maple Street parked at night. When they got out, their fake ninja outfits . . . black clothes, black knit caps, bl
ack combat boots . . . didn’t fool Howie either. All their big city stuff was way out of place in a small town like Logan. With a quick flip, Howie’s computer screen died, leaving him a clear, moon-washed picture.

  ~o0o~

  “Why didn’t all that fancy listenin’ crap pick up on this?” the Senator demanded. “Seems we pissed away enough money it shoulda made this an easy pick up.”

  “Our programs did flag the initial responses,” General Hamilton replied, “but we needed clarification. The suspect’s hard drive would have provided that.”

  “Why was his computer so important? What did you hope to gain from the boy’s computer, Agent Kennedy?” Senator Winston James (R-Iowa), sympathized with the agents but had constituents back home demanding answers.

  “Our programs flag messages between the middle-east and various suspected domestic cells. It took some time to narrow the field, but the subject’s computer continued to show up in our daily flags, sometimes several times a day. Early indications indicated a source of a domestic terror cell with possible middle-east funding. Analysts believed a real time examination of those messages might still be on the computer’s hard drive and prove out the details that a simple flagging doesn’t offer.”

  “Explain how all that works again, General Hamilton,” Senator Smiling Jack Peters, (D-Wisconsin—and presidential hopeful) asked.

  “Congress gave permission for our agency to screen internet traffic as part of the Make America Safe Act,” General Hamilton said. “Our software combs virtually every communication either sent or received from a foreign source. We’ve a solid set of phrases and code words. This sort is resorted and reduced by iterative reduction techniques. When something trips through all of those safeguards we assign an analyst. We did, and acted on his recommendations.”

  “What kind of traffic are you talking about, General?” Senator Peters asked. “You make it sound like a traffic accident. And what constitutes a ‘petabyte’?”

  “It’s difficult to explain, Senator,” the general said. “Even those who understand the process have trouble making it easy for people without a computer background to understand. In straightforward data volume, the agencies process a hundred thousand petabytes a week.”

  “How big is that?”

  “To put it in words that even I understood, our computers sift through 200 entire sets of an encyclopedia every minute.”

  “What led you to suspect Howard Collins?” Senator Peters asked.

  “Senator, we have records of planned attacks in the United States, including the Space Needle in Seattle and Mt. Rushmore.”

  “You have evidence?” Senator Marsha Wilburn (D-Calif) asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kennedy slid a computer print-out across the table to her. “You can see that we’ve been able to trace his exchanges to another cell operating in Europe and the Middle East.”

  “Why weren’t charges ever pressed?” Senator Fields asked. “This seems damnably harsh punishment for a simple kid playin’ with his computer.”

  “We have been unable to match each threat this cell made. We are still uncertain about the veracity of the threats. We managed to determine Mr. Collins is the cell leader in the United States, Senator,” Hamilton said.

  “C’mon! A sixteen year old kid! You’ll have to do better than that,” Senator Fields said.

  “Several of the most recent suicide bombers in Europe have been boys younger than Howie Collins,” Agent Kennedy said.

  ~o0o~

  Alone in his upstairs bedroom, Howie watched as the ninjas slung MP5s over their shoulders from the back of one of the vans. They separated into three teams. One pair crouched down like they wanted to take a dump in the middle of the street; then rushed across the street, heading for the alley. Two others crouch-ran across the street, too, until Mrs. Arnson’s picket fence stopped them. With a quick leap, they landed in her garden and tramped her roses.

  Lucky she isn’t home, Howie thought, or she’d have been all over them like a wet rag. Nobody messed with Mrs. Arnson’s roses.

  Four raiders remained. They looked at his house, then up and down the street, then crouched down and started straight toward his front door.

  ~o0o~

  “My team made a standard approach, Senator James,” Agent Kennedy said. “This entire operation started as a simple ‘by the book’ plan, small stuff, really. Initial recon discovered no real problems except a loud dog in the subject’s back yard. We approached without incident, neutralized the animal and deployed per procedure.”

  “Killed it, you mean,” interjected Senator Peters.

  “Yes, sir.” It was a potential risk.

  “Had the proper warrants been issued?” Senator Fields asked.

  “Yes. We have copies of them here.” Agent Kennedy slid copies of the warrants across the table. “Issued by the Counter Terrorism Hearing Office earlier that morning. Colonel Harold B. Lawson.”

  ~o0o~

  Howie felt his heart pound against his chest and his mind raced through one confusing thought after another. Just like Billy Daves warned. A gang of big city thieves headed across Maple for his house. Mom and Pop still had an hour of bingo left at the American Legion Hall in Marion, plus an hour drive back home. It was only 9:30 and phoning 911 didn’t occur to Howie. Sheriff Murphy rolled up the streets and went home after dark anyway. He knew that it was up to him to protect his home.

  Howie ran to the upstairs hall closet as Barkely, his golden retriever, raised Hell in the back yard, yipped once, and stopped. Dad always kept his hunting rifle loaded and handy “just in case.” Howie pulled open the closet and removed the hunting rifle. Until tonight, Howie always wondered “in case of what?” Now he knew. He took the stairs two at a time, his adrenaline fired excitement caused him to stumble on the landing at the bottom of the steps. He took in the living room with a glance, a place that was such a normal part of his life now seemed alien.

  He shoved the sofa away from the up-right player piano and jumped behind it. The piano, with its brass sounding board, protected his back. He gulped for air, hoping to catch his breath before his panting betrayed his nerves. Howie poked the barrel of the rifle along the arm of the over-stuffed sofa giving him an unobstructed view of the front door. What just moments ago felt foreign now wrapped him in comfortable familiarity again. Howie’s nerves betrayed him again and he lost control of those extra shells in his pockets, scattering them in several directions. He scrambled to find as many as he could reach. He lined them up like a squad of soldiers as he’d seen other, real soldiers do in the movies.

  Outside, the frontal assault team reached the porch. They climbed over the low wall that surrounded the porch. Using the trellis as a ladder, they scaled the wall rather than take the stairs like normal people.

  ~o0o~

  “What happened when you attempted to serve the warrants?” Senator James asked.

  “Procedure,” General Hamilton said.

  “I think we’d prefer to hear from your field agent, General Hamilton,” Senator James said.

  “Just as the General said—procedure,” Agent Kennedy said. “When we heard movement inside the house, we announced ourselves . . .”

  ~o0o~

  Chintz curtains hung in the front door windows, displaying shadows of the four stupid robber gang, like some sort of spastic puppet show. Howie snuggled the stock against his cheek and he sighted down the barrel.

  Two of the shadows bracketed the door, a third backed down the steps. The fourth person on the porch stood so that his shadow didn’t cross the window at all. Howie centered the door in his sights. The bad guys didn’t wait, or knock. With a crash, the door banged open and smashed against the inside wall, its large, heavy glass window shattered. Shards of broken glass scattered across the landing, the sound drowning out everything else.

  ~o0o~

  “We met well-armed resistance, Senator,” Agent Kennedy said.

  “From a kid?” Senator Fields asked.

  ~o0o~ />
  Howie fired as the first ninja crossed the threshold in a semi crouch. Howie’s 30/30 blast drilled through the intruder’s skull at the hairline and dropped him in the hole that was once his front door. The ninja’s wool cap exploded in a spray of red like soda spurting from a well-shaken pop bottle.

  Momentum carried the second ninja through the door, fast on the heels of the first but the dying body across the threshold slowed him and tangled his feet. Howie nailed this one with a head shot, too, and his sorry ass crumpled on top of his pal. Their pile of bodies made any further assault through the front door impossible.

  Howie giggled three times as the visions of the flying cap came back to him. Clean head shots, both of them. Images of brain matter and pieces of skull came with the vision and his nerves caught up with him. He vomited all over Mom’s couch.

  ~o0o~

  “Senator, that ‘kid’ killed two of my best agents in a matter of seconds,” Agent Kennedy said. His voice was cold as he turned toward Senator Fields. General Hamilton reached over and squeezed his arm.

  ~o0o~

  Frantic calls from the remaining ninjas rang out across the neighborhood as they scurried for cover. Howie stopped retching when he heard the rustle of two other ninjas as they scraped past the counter in the kitchen. In all the excitement at the front door, he’d forgotten about the pair of ninjas at Mrs. Arnson’s house next door. They must have come in the back door during all the firing. He wondered about Barkley, but only for a moment. Assassins who would kick in his front door would have taken out his dog.

  Angered that they’d kill his dog, Howie stood and used the piano as his shooting bench. The first ninja through the kitchen door sprayed bullets indiscriminately into the dining and living rooms, doing a roll toward the dining room table. He didn’t get far. Howie was rifle champ at school for three years running. He nailed the guy in mid-roll.

  The second guy simply stuck his arm around the corner and fired. The piano screamed this time as keys flew in all directions. Howie’s return shot shattered the arm just at the wrist and the MP5 dropped, and curses came through clenched teeth as the guy stumbled down the kitchen steps and slammed through the back door, ending the attack from behind.