“Do something!” Jim hissed.
“Like what exactly?” But he had already put the binoculars down and swung his rifle around, stripping the cover off of its Redfield scope as he brought it to bear on the Sergeant. At this range, a good 800 yards, he had very little chance for a hit, much less a clean kill. Maybe when he was younger, much younger, say, back during his old Marine Corps days. But not now and certainly not in fading light.
The most he could hope for was a distraction, he thought, as he centered the crosshairs on the Sergeant’s head, then lifted his sights to the very top of the man’s cap to allow for the distance, a nice distraction that would bring about a hundred men down on he and Jim and for what? She was welcoming death as an end to her misery. Maybe she’d like it better if he didn’t interfere.
He’d learned a long time ago never to fire a rifle when he was arguing with himself; he’d miss every time. He sighed bitterly and eased off the trigger. Better, perhaps, to let it happen.
As if they had shared the same thought, Jim reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I guess we wouldn’t be doing her any favors,” Jim said. His binoculars were locked on the woman, an expression of intense concentration on his face. “But it’s a damn shame. She’s grand.”
The sergeant had the pistol cocked and leveled at her head. Michael ground his teeth. She fell, but--he checked again--no silencer on the pistol and no report from the gun. “What the hell?”
From the way the sergeant was shaking Michael could tell he was laughing as he put away his gun.
It didn’t make sense, unless... “Mock execution,” he said.
“To break her will.” Jim nodded in agreement and relief. When the sergeant pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked onto an empty chamber, the letdown must have been too much for her to bear. “I think she fainted,” Jim said.
She stirred slightly as she was being dragged back into the big tent, confirming his suspicion.
What they had just witnessed told them a quite a bit about those so-called soldiers and a lot more about the woman.
“She knows something,” Michael said.
“Something important,” Jim amended.
“And she hasn’t given it up yet.”
“Agreed.” The men below would never have played out such an elaborate deception if she had already been broken. He was afraid their ruse may have worked. She had clearly been holding herself together with the last of her strength and he couldn’t imagine a woman of her obvious quality fainting except in final despair.
She had prepared to meet death with a smile on her face, secure in the knowledge that she was taking what they wanted to her grave. And if her information was that important...
Michael waged a silent battle within. His gut was screaming help her, while his mind demanded he do his duty to the Freeholds and complete his mission. Intellect versus instinct, duty versus desire to do what he felt was the right thing. He hated arguing with himself.
“We have to get her out,” Jim said.
“Okay,” Michael agreed, letting Jim make the call. The outline of a typically Michael plan was already forming. “First, we hijack a patrol...”
*
Michael moved like a ghost through the darkness, studying and circling until he had all seven of them spotted. One was watching the horses downstream from the camp. Five more were stretched out in sleeping bags. One tended a small fire and kept the coffee hot. Michael wondered where the hell they got coffee. The aroma made his mouth water and triggered memories he didn’t want to dwell on.
With hand signals, he gestured Jim into position, then left to take out the man guarding the horses.
The guy wasn’t very smart, but judging from the fact his companions had posted him solo instead of pairing him with someone, he might well be the genius of the group. Due to an unpredictable switch in wind direction, the horses knew Michael was there, but the horse-tender obviously didn’t know how to read horses. They shuffled and stamped and blew nervously. He was still trying to quiet them when a 1/2-inch diameter marble launched from Michael’s sling shot slammed into the side of his head, just behind and above the temple. He dropped so quick he bounced when he hit. Michael sprang forward, gagged and hog-tied the man, then splashed water on him to clear his head. The guy had a swastika tattooed on his forehead, a la Charles Manson.
When Michael had his attention, he loosened the gag and asked the man politely what he and his friends were doing. The man gave Michael a stony-eyed stare and tried to yell. He obviously thought he was tough.
Michael decided it was time for a game of bad cop, homicidal cop. He shoved the gag back in and sliced off the guy’s left ear, and with a cold smile and a crazed voice said, “That diamond will make this one stand out in my collection. And since you don’t hear too good anyhow you won’t miss it.”
The man, significantly less tough now, flinched away from the look in Michael’s golden eyes. Michael grabbed the guy’s hair and twisted his head up, then placed the blade of his knife against the lid of the man’s right eye saying, “Listen up, shit-head. I’m going to ask you a few questions. You’re going to answer them--quickly, quietly and truthfully. If I believe you, we’re all good. You’ll get to stay in one piece, more or less.” Michael punctuated his meaning by slapping the man’s face with the freshly removed ear.
Michael let his voice grow death-cold. “If I think you’re lying, you will lose another piece of you. And I’m not particular. If I decide I don’t like that broken nose, it goes. If I decide you’d look better as a girl,” shifting his knife for emphasis, “well, I can fix that too. Now, got any other parts you won’t miss? Or do we understand each other?”
The man’s eyes were as wide as an owl’s on a moonless night. He tried to nod his head yes, but could only shudder. Michael loosened the man’s gag.
Michael learned that the patrol was one of several companies looking for an old man who was supposed to know where something very important was hidden. One-Ear, as Michael dubbed his prisoner, didn’t know what. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if the Captain was important enough to know exactly what it was they were all looking for. Anybody else they came across was to be either killed, or “recruited” into their army. One-Ear added that his outfit was going to join up with the rest of their army and march on Provo as soon as they were done chasing around in the boonies.
“There’s too many of us to stop, man.” One-Ear said, regaining some of his bravado. “We’re gonna rule the world.”
Michael just shook his head in disgust as he shoved the gag back in. What a tired, corrupt old dream.
Michael checked One-Ear’s bonds and took off to join Jim.
*
The soldier sitting by the campfire poured a cup of coffee and prodded one of the sleeping men awake.
“Here,” he said, handing the cup of coffee to the grumbling man. “Go relieve Peters.”
The man slurped the coffee as he stumbled away from the fire in the direction of the horse herd.
Shit! Jim Cantrell knew what he was about to do would blow the timing of the attack, but he was clear on one thing. He couldn’t let anyone surprise Michael. He brought his rifle up to his cheek, centered his sights on the man and squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the shot echoed up and down the canyon, spawning a flurry of activity as sleeping men rolled from their blankets and dove into the woods.
Jim swung his rifle back to the camp but the man by the fire was gone and everyone else was moving fast. He fired too quickly and missed, then crawled toward a new position as bullets tore through the air overhead. They’ll try to flank me, he thought. And while they are, Michael will be flanking them. His lips twitched in a small smile as he realized he had them surrounded.
Fifty yards away, Michael had taken a fix on Jim’s location and was already stalking the first of the enemy soldiers. Like a spider, he waited and watched until the man was within range, then slid the bowie in and out so fast the man was dea
d before he knew what hit him. Michael eased the body gently to the ground then faded into the darkness, resuming the hunt.
The third man was less wary than the other two, possibly because he was tending a flesh wound. Michael eased out of the bush behind him. His right hand covered the man’s mouth and nose, while his left slipped nine inches of well-bloodied razor-sharp steel up under his victim’s ribs and into his heart. Michael felt the soldier stiffen briefly with surprise, then collapse and die as the last breath left his lungs.
He looked down with regret as he wiped the bowie clean on the dead man’s pants. A clean kill, he thought, easing the body to the ground and for a second Michael was back in the war against Viper, twelve years ago. He hadn’t liked killing then and he didn’t now. Sometimes he wished he didn’t have such a talent for it. He sighed softly then moved out. By his count there were two more out there.
Gunshots shattered the night and through the darkness Michael could see Jim struggling with one of the enemy soldiers. Too far to risk a shot; might hit the wrong one. He sped toward them with panther-like grace, leaping roots and small rocks, dodging low branches, small trees and bushes, making no more noise than a light breeze.
The soldier had rolled on top of Jim, his knife poised to plunge, when he heard a sinister click. His eyes widened in shock as he glanced up and saw a pistol inches from his face.
Michael shot him in the head without breaking stride and dashed on past, disappearing into the forest. He’d seen the last man, running panic-stricken toward the horses.
The frightened soldier never spared a glance for One-Ear. He snatched up a pair of reins, vaulted into the saddle and kicked the horse into a gallop. Intense pain blossomed in his back. It swelled, like a balloon being blown up inside his chest, larger and larger till it burst, carrying him into blackness.
Michael pulled his throwing knife from the man’s back and straightened up. Now to get the woman.
He gathered up One-Ear and the horses, including his and Jim’s. By the time he got back, Jim had the dead men rounded up and laid out. While they stripped the bodies of anything that might be useful or informative, Michael told Jim what he’d learned from One Ear.
“Okay,” Jim said. “We have a patrol. Now what?”
“Diversion,” Michael explained, hoisting one of the dead men onto a horse. He arranged the body in the saddle and tied it upright. “Ever see that movie where John Wayne and his cavalry are surrounded by Indians and most of his men are dead so he ties the dead men on their horses and charges the Indians?”
“Wait a minute. You got this plan from Hollywood?”
Michael shrugged. “It worked for John Wayne.” Besides, he thought. It was based in deception. Sun Tsu would approve.
Chapter 9: The Rescue
As they neared the staging area, Michael reined his horse around and pulled up next to Jim.
“Think you can make like a mortar?”
Jim nodded yes. He had an even dozen homemade pipe grenades in his pack. The grenades were made from sections of iron pipe, a homemade blasting cap, black powder and fuse cord. The pipe was scored in several places--the better to provide shrapnel. Best of all, he had a 12-gauge shotgun that could launch a grenade more than 200 yards. He could fire them at a rate of one every fifteen seconds. “What’ve you got up your sleeve this time?”
“Another diversion,” Michael replied.
The two men picketed their horses, hauled One-Ear out of the saddle and tied him to a tree, then put their heads together and finalized the details of their plan.
One-Ear sat sullenly, squirming against his bonds, trying to get comfortable, or at least avoid the broken branch poking him in the back. The amused glances the two maniacs occasionally sent his way didn’t help.
“Time to check it out,” Michael said. He pulled on one of the dead men’s uniforms and walked into the darkness. About five hundred feet from the enemy camp he stopped and settled down to adapt to the sounds of the woods at night--the better to blend in with them. Chipmunks, mice and other small ones scuttled about in the pine needles, making faint rustling noises. An owl soared quietly past, his ghostly presence felt rather than seen or heard. Silent death. A grouse called to its mate.
There was a good breeze. Branches rustled and clicked and golden aspen leaves fluttered. In the old days, those leaves would have already been on the ground, but ever since the seasons got back in sync, almost two years after the asteroid hit, Spring had come about a month earlier and Fall a month later. Michael heard a porcupine grunt and whistle as it waddled by. No odd noises. No unusual silences. He grinned. No tigers. He couldn’t wait to get back to the Freeholds and spread that one around.
The sky was clear and bright, filled with dazzling stars; visual poetry. Visibility was excellent. That was not so good.
He drifted among the trees, at one with the forest, studying, listening, feeling, becoming part of the night. The breeze kept him from circling upwind of their horse herd. As he closed on their base he heard a sentry. The man was alert, but fidgeted and made too much noise. Michael slipped past, invisible.
That was how he had operated earlier in the evening--why the enemy patrol had no chance. He became part of the night, undetectable until it was too late. A hundred feet away the sound of urine splashing on the undergrowth told him where another man was posted. Michael was inside their perimeter, just behind the tents. Cooking odors and the sweat-rich smell of tightly packed men wearing aftershave to cover B.O. overpowered the fresh, clean, pine-scented air.
He heard a strange noise and moved away from the tents, tracking the sound toward the horse herd and a small barbed wire compound hidden in the trees. Nearby, two guards huddled over a stump, playing cards by starlight, the cards slapped as they were played. Circling the enclosure Michael counted five forms lying on the ground within. As he neared the wire opposite the sentries, the form nearest the fence stirred slightly and soft words came to his ears.
“Welcome Brother. You move like the wind.” There was a smile in the voice.
“Indian?” Michael questioned.
“Ute,” the man answered. Proud.
“New recruit?”
“So they say,” the Ute replied and the amusement in his tone spoke volumes.
“You want out?”
“Not alone,” the Ute gestured toward the others.
Michael made the decision instantly, trusting his gut. He slid his spare sheathe knife, silenced pistol and an extra clip through the wire and into the Ute’s waiting hands, keeping only his bowie and .357 for himself.
“Wait till dawn. Escape in the confusion,” Michael whispered; then asked, “What do you know of the woman?”
“Only that she is brave and that she is kept with the Captain,” the Ute said.
Michael turned to go.
“Wait!” the Ute whispered. “I am Minowayuh. Who honors me with this debt?”
“What debt?” Michael responded. “I’m Michael Whitebear, from the Freeholds. Visit us sometime as a friend.”
Minowayuh’s gold tooth gleamed in the starlight as he smiled and nodded his assent, but his final words still reached Michael as he faded back into the trees.
“Thanks for the pistol and the chance to die like a man.”
Michael made his way back among their tents. Walking openly, as if he belonged, he crossed the camp, noticing everything, the location of the latrine and mess tent, their relative distances to the Captain’s tent, how far it was from the tents to the woods, the location and types of tools laying about.
Behind the Captain’s tent he paused to check that she was there, sniffing the acrid copper of fresh blood. His reconnaissance complete, his route planned, he disappeared into the trees and circled quickly back to Jim’s position.
“We’ll have some help in the morning,” he announced as he hunkered down by Jim and peered through the darkness at the camp below.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Some prisoners are going to escape.”
/> Jim saw the starlight glinting off his friend’s toothy smile and responded in kind, knowing the kind of mischief Michael could make.
Michael stood up and stretched, then walked over to One-Ear and loosened the man’s gag. As he did so, he looked back at Jim and said, “I think it’s time to let this one in on our little plan. Let him get used to the idea.”
“Aw and I was saving it for a surprise,” Jim said.
“Wh-What plan?” One-Ear asked as soon as he got his voice working. He wondered if they were close enough to the camp to risk a scream. Then he noticed the big bowie in Michael’s hand. Maybe not.
“Well, in about an hour,” Michael checked the eastern sky, “Yep, about an hour, you and your friends over there,” he gestured toward the dead men, “are going to charge the camp.”
One-Ear snorted. “Are you crazy? They’ll kill me!” Maybe screaming wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He took a breath.
Michael clamped a hand over One-Ear’s mouth, stifling the yell and sliced off the man’s other ear. “On the other hand, No-Ears, you could always stay here with me.”
Jim’s poorly stifled chuckling was the final straw. No-Ears nodded his head, giving in. These guys were crazy. He was fresh out of ears and didn’t even want to think about what that gold-eyed bastard might carve off next.
Michael shoved the man’s gag back in and walked off into the woods. The terrified look in the man’s eyes bothered him, but dammit, he didn’t have time to be gentle. Whatever works, be strong enough to do it, was the motto he’d lived by for twelve long years. It was several minutes before he returned.
No-Ears sat against the tree, staring at Michael with a mixture of fear and hatred. Then he heard Jim mention the Freeholds and his blood froze.
Memories flooded back of a probing raid gone sour. His company had set up a howitzer, ranged it carefully and blown hell out of an isolated homestead. Then, before they could start in on the other places, a crazy man attacked flying some odd-looking little plane and killing more than a dozen men before being shot down. He glanced at Michael again. No doubt about it, this was the same guy. He shivered, dreading they might somehow connect him with that attack.
The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time Page 9
