“Aim low, you idiots,” screamed another man. “Remember your orders!”
As soon as he reached the bottom, Michael was on his feet, darting between the trees, leaping from rock to rock, his mottled elk-hide clothing blending perfectly with his surroundings. He dashed through the forest and down the ravine for 40 yards before veering up the south side of the canyon, away from the side that both lines of troops were on. He raced up over the lip of the ravine and threw himself flat, then peered over the edge, examining his back trail as he eased into a crouch. What the hell did the guy mean, “aim low?” Did they want him alive?
His eyes scanned the narrow gulch below. By now they would have men down in there who were both above and below his position. He could hear others crashing through the brush as they sped to encircle him. The trees and brush were so thick that when a man stood upright he couldn’t see for more than ten feet, even less when lying flat: crouched over like Michael was, he could see for two or three times as far. He spotted movement down in the gorge, some up canyon and some down canyon. The two lines of men were closing on each other fast. Good!
On either side of him, he could hear troops moving up at his level on the hillside, trying to contain him, but they weren’t within sight yet. He pulled the pins from two of his remaining hand grenades and lobbed both of them down into the ravine in different directions. The confined walls of the gorge magnified the results of the twin explosions, decimating the clusters of men the grenades fell among. Michael lobbed his last two hand grenades into the trees on either side of him and just after they went off screamed, “There he is! He’s running south!”
As soon as the words were out, Michael jumped over the edge back down into the gulch, heading north. He dropped swiftly down the slope to the bottom, landing on a wounded soldier, finishing him off with a knife. Michael pivoted left and right, bloody knife in one hand, M16 in the other, but everyone else within sight was dead. The M79 thumped against his back when he moved and he took a moment to tighten the sling that held it in place. He paused a second to listen. The sounds of pursuit were fading to the south. Sporadic gunfire came from that direction and Michael’s lips curved in a mirthless smile as he realized they were either shooting at each other or at imagined ghosts. His dark side was beginning to enjoy this.
He took a walkie-talkie from a man who no longer needed it, crossed the ravine and headed up the north side.
If he was the enemy commander, he would make sure the third and fourth lines of searchers remained on this side of the canyon. As Michael climbed, he could hear them coming up from below. They seem to have stayed in skirmish-line formation. Michael headed back up and across the mountain ahead of them, pausing briefly to retrieve a dud grenade from his other booby trap. It had been tripped but hadn’t gone off. He pocketed the dud. Never could tell when one might come in handy.
An hour later, his breath was coming harder and a fine sheen of sweat had coated most of his body. He had worked his way north, past the end of the area the enemy was searching. Intermittent gunfire still reached his ears from down south. He circled back to his arms cache and pulled out a few more grenades, deciding it was time to find a place where he could lay low and eavesdrop. A mixed stand of spruce and ponderosa pine on a nearby knoll suggested itself. Michael climbed into a pine, sat on a thick limb, rested his back against the trunk and extended the radio’s aerial. He stuffed the earphone in and switched the set on, listening for half an hour to garbage before he learned anything interesting.
“What the hell do you mean, you need more men!” The voice blasted so loudly from the earphone that Michael winced and turned down the volume. This guy was obviously broadcasting from a base station. The reply was garbled, but the officer who’d requested more troops was explaining about the rough terrain, the ambushes and a few other assorted accidents that had cost him men.
“I’m not interested in excuses, Colonel...” he paused for a moment as if he couldn’t remember the Colonel’s name and had to ask someone, “Janko, only results. We’re trying to break out of Springville and I need every man I’ve got.”
The static-filled response was unintelligible except for the words “shoot to kill” and “Your Highness.”
“Goddammit! Listen to me, Janko! You tell your men that whoever kills that Whitebear sonofabitch I’ll...I’ll turn him and his commander, over to the Royal Inquisitor. That shit killed my brother and no one is going to deprive me of the pleasure of personally taking my revenge. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes, Sire!”
This time Michael heard the answer so clearly he could hear the fear in the Colonel’s voice. Well, now he knew for certain that whoever “Your Highness” was wanted him alive. That knowledge might be useful. Michael was surprised they knew his name, but reckoned they’d either monitored his radio calls that morning or learned of him from Martin Dinelli. Michael was also surprised to learn the Prince he’d killed had a brother, who was evidently in command of the King’s army.
“That’s better,” the voice Michael had identified as Your Highness said. “And after you hit them with the stick, you can offer them a carrot. Tell them that the man who captures Whitebear can have his choice of one hundred slaves and will be elevated to nobility, complete with lands and titles.”
Michael couldn’t resist the temptation any longer. He keyed the mike, saying, “He’ll still need more men, you Royal Asshole.”
“WHAT? Who is that?” the voice bellowed.
“It’s Michael Whitebear, shithead. Who’d you think it was? Your mother? And since you seem to know who I am, just who the hell are you?”
“Whitebear!” John recovered quickly. “This is Prince John, commander of the Army of Peace. If you surrender now, we can work something out.”
Michael choked back a laugh. Yeah. Sure. So he calls himself Prince John, huh? Then who had Michael killed?
“How can I trust you when you won’t even tell me your real name?” Michael replied. “I killed Prince John more than two weeks ago.”
“That was my twin brother, Anthony.”
Twins! So that explained about “the next time we meet it’ll be your turn to die.” Michael had been unable to forget those chilling last words. Now he could see that Anthony had been trying to set a trap of his own. Attempting to plant a suggestion that could cause a fatal moment of hesitation, should Michael ever come face to face with John. Michael shook his head. That almost-admirable, kill-you-from-beyond-his-grave, bastard!
“Whitebear? You still there?”
“Yeah.” Jesus! Twins! Michael thought, no wonder he wants me so bad.
“Listen, I know it was you who took those kids back from me after the Freeholds raid. As a Royal Prince, I can’t ask any favors of an enemy, but as one fighting man to another, could you tell me how and where my brother died--so I can retrieve his body.”
For a second, Michael almost felt sorry for John. In that instant, the Prince sounded almost human. Losing a brother was hard. Losing a twin brother was probably harder. But then losing Minowayuh had been hard. Losing Randy and Mariko and the rest of the McKinley’s and Aaron and the Kirkwell’s and Wayne Anderson... None of them asked for this.
Michael wondered if Prince John still carried Mariko’s scalp as a war trophy. He decided to find out.
“You still have that scalp with the long black hair and the white streak?”
There was a pause while Prince John digested the change in direction of the conversation.
“Yes,” John said, but his voice sounded mildly confused.
“You give me your word as a Royal Prince and a fighting man that you’ll cremate that scalp with full honors and I’ll tell you about your brother.”
“You would bargain with me over the details of my brother’s death?” The Prince sounded outraged, as if his superior morals were suffering an affront.
“Don’t get snippy with me, you Royal Bastard. I happen to know it was my wife’s hair you were after. You just got M
ariko’s because you’re an incompetent shit.” The blazing fury behind Michael’s insult carried well over the radio.
There was another pause, this one somewhat longer.
“Very well.” The Prince’s voice was tense and tight-lipped, spoken through clenched teeth. “You have my word.”
“Your brother died like a man,” Michael said. “He fought ferociously and well. I tried to take him alive, but when he found out who I am, he lost control and charged my gun. I think he did it, at least partially, to avenge your honor.”
“That sounds like him,” John admitted. “Now, tell me where you buried him.”
It was Michael’s turn to pause. He didn’t want to sound like he was apologizing. After all, he hadn’t left Anthony unburied deliberately out of malice. He’d simply been too busy at the time.
“The fight took place southeast of Nephi, on the east side of Horse Heaven Mountain. Your brother saw to it that I had wounded and dead friends to attend to. By the time I was done with them, well, I was too tired to bury him. It was night. The animals got him.”
“You...you left my brother for the...”
“The living are more important than the dead,” Michael interrupted.
“You will pay dearly for that outrage!”
“I already have,” Michael snapped. “I didn’t start this goddamned war, but I am going to end it. Mark my words, one fighting man to another. I’m coming after you John and there’s not one damned thing you can do to stop me. See ya.”
With that Michael jammed the transmit button down, blanketing that frequency with carrier wave squeal. It was time to get going. No telling if they had radio directional finders or not. He climbed down out of the tree and headed down the east side of the mountain, a grim look on his face, his rage fueled by the memory that Prince John had tried to kill Ellen and the rest of his family. The sonofabitch will die for that, he promised himself again.
He had been sorely tempted to demand the release of prisoners before revealing the details of Prince Anthony’s demise, but he’d thought better of it when he realized the word of a man like John was undoubtedly worthless in any event. No sense bringing the Prince’s wrath down on helpless prisoners. He put that out of his mind and concentrated on what he was doing.
First, he had to borrow an officer. He needed information, the more the better, but mostly he just wanted to know whether Prince John was in Payson or Spanish Fork. The strength of the walkie-talkie’s reception meant it almost had to be one of those places. At least he had several hundred men to choose from. He sped through the forest like a wraith, his eyes once more showing flecks of gold.
*
Back at headquarters, Prince John slammed down the receiver and went on a rampage.
“He has the gall to threaten me...ME! He left my brother to feed the scavengers!”
John paced back and forth, swinging his great arms. Others in the room cowered out of the way. “He presumes to dictate terms to me, to call me foul names in front of my subordinates!”
It never occurred to John that Michael might swear at him just for the purpose of provoking him beyond control.
“It isn’t enough to kill this one. Oh, no! We must teach him the meaning of respect, first. And he must know pain...great pain!”
John was unaware he was ranting like a madman.
He strode to a trophy case and snatched Mariko’s scalp from a shelf, throwing it to an officer who stood nearby.
“Take this scurvy thing and burn it. No! It seems to mean something to him. Feed it to the dogs.”
“But, Sire...” The man wilted under John’s gaze.
“Yes?” John’s voice was suddenly silky smooth and sibilant. He had found a target for his ire.
“N...Nothing Sire,” the man’s voice quavered.
“No. Really. Go ahead. You were about to say something.” John seemed to be back under control now, reasonable. He put one arm over the Major’s shoulders.
“Well Sire, you g...gave your R...Royal word,” the man stammered.
The arm about the man’s shoulders tightened convulsively, snapping the Major’s neck. John supported the man by his hair. He grabbed Mariko’s scalp from the man’s lifeless hands.
“Anyone else hear me give my word?”
Downcast eyes and a chorus of “No Sire’s” answered the question.
“Good! Now let me tell you something, not that I have to explain myself to such as you.” John shoved the dead officer into the arms of another for disposal. “My word, given to an enemy, especially that particular enemy, is worse than worthless. I will say anything, do anything, to insure victory. Just like that scum out there.”
John spun around to fix his officers with a stare. He waved Mariko’s scalp in front of them, before replacing it on his trophy shelf.
“Do you honestly think he’s coming down here after me?” Several of his men slid their eyes away from John as if maybe they gave the idea credence. John pointed at Edge Mountain on the map.
“He’s cut off up there, surrounded by 500 men. I’m down here, surrounded by an army and I’m supposed to worry about him coming after me. I should be so lucky.” He towered over them, smiling his tight-lipped smile, dangerous and confident. But a corner of his mind wondered who he was trying to convince.
Chapter 43: Retreat and Advance
“We need more shoring, Major,” Earl Baker said as he wiped dirt and grime from his face with a handkerchief that had seen better days.
“Jesus Earl, I’ve got men on the saws around the clock,” Jim Cantrell replied. “We’ve got to have wood for the fortifications too.” His haggard expression betrayed the strain he was under. He couldn’t be late...he couldn’t!
“We don’t finish sinking these shafts, your forts won’t matter.”
“I know, I know.” Jim’s shoulders slumped slightly as he looked over the steadily rising mound of earth and logs that held the Allies’ last hope. Sixty feet wide at the base, forty feet tall, the bunker stretched from wall to wall of the sheer-sided canyon. The only gap in the breastwork was where the river rushed through and even that was well fortified, with coils of razor wire stretched across the water and heavy machine gun emplacements on either side. Tunnels ran its length and width. It was the third and by far the largest of the barricades that Jim’s men had thrown across Provo Canyon. If Adam couldn’t hold long enough... He didn’t want to think about that.
“Okay, Earl, I’ll divert more logs from the fortification,” Jim said at last. He turned to look at the tailings pile from the last of an even dozen shafts Earl and his men had sunk. Jim watched as the squat, bowlegged mining engineer hustled back to work. “Christ, I hope he knows what he’s doing,” Jim mumbled.
“Party coming in!” The call echoed up the valley from a sentry posted below the bunker.
Jim snatched up the field glasses that hung from his neck and jammed them against his eyes. Raymond Stormcloud and Sara? He sighed and his shoulders slumped farther. Four men and a mule train. Barrels were strapped onto the mules. Must be fuel for the Huey. He’d see they had good directions and send them on their way along the lake to Ellen. No sign of Sara, no word of her or Raymond...damn!
Jim had sent over four thousand men on down Provo Canyon to help out Adam Young’s beleaguered army, keeping the rest so work on the fallback plan could proceed in shifts. They’d had a bit of a scare that morning when some enemy planes zoomed over, but almost all of the men had been under cover and the planes hadn’t come back. Still, three of the main shafts had been exposed to view as the men changed shifts...cause for concern.
*
Ellen Whitebear looked back over her shoulder at the Huey down on the beach near the lake. Terrell and Gypsy had patched all the bullet holes and repaired a hydraulic fluid leak. Medics were attending the wounded men in a make shift hospital between her and the chopper. All of the wounded and Doc Merriman’s wagons had been rafted over the night before. The doctor’s people seemed genuinely dismayed that he was a
spy. In any event, they were first-rate medical personnel and more than one wounded soldier was thankful for their presence.
Of the twenty able-bodied Freeholders Jim left behind, half were sacked out in the shade and the other half were, like her, manning sentry posts. She’d sent men out to recover the Huey’s jettisoned fuel pods, hoping they could refuel the helicopter that way, but the pods had split open when they smashed into the rocks. She had already decided if a fuel supply didn’t turn up by noon tomorrow she would take half of the men and head for either Provo, or Jim’s forces. She just hadn’t made up her mind which.
Terrell had tried radioing Provo at least once every hour for the past two days with no success. The Huey’s radio could reach the Freeholds, but not even the Freeholds could reach Provo. Either Provo’s communications had been destroyed or it had already fallen and she didn’t want to think about that.
She shifted position and heard the crackle of paper in her breast pocket. Curious, she reached in, pulled out a note and read, “Sweetheart, just a reminder I love you and miss you. You are in my thoughts and in my heart always.” It was signed, “Me.” Her lips curled into a smile and a warm glow filled her. Michael was always doing something sweet and romantic like this. Half a dozen times a year she would find these little love notes and she rarely ran out of fresh flowers when they were in season.
She sighed. People didn’t really know him. They thought of him as fierce and fearless, a cold, hard killer. But she knew the fears he hid from others. She also knew he was the same kind-hearted, gentle, caring man she’d fallen in love with so many years ago. He’d only become a killer because the times demanded one.
It was the same with his flying machines. He’d always loved the things, in spite of his fear of heights. That fear was why he insisted on flying. He’d once explained to her that fear was the deadliest killer of all, because it murdered the spirit even if the body survived. Michael was one of those men whose need to maintain control over himself was such that he refused to allow fear to stand in his way. It was part of him, one of the reasons she loved him so much. She just wished he wouldn’t take so many risks.
The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time Page 43
