The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time

by Raymond Dean White

  Part of her motivation behind forcing Adam to place Michael in charge of the Air Force had been her belief that Michael was more likely to survive this war as a pilot than as a groundhog.

  Her smile widened at that thought. Here it was, a war and she didn’t want him taking risks. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be her Michael.

  She read the note again, lingering over the sentiment as she carefully folded it and tucked back inside the pocket nearest her heart. She might be President, but Michael always remembered she was a woman first.

  She forced her attention back to the wooded slopes above. Nothing she could do now but wait. Wait for fuel. Wait for noon tomorrow. Wait for word from Provo. Wait to be attacked. She wondered why more attention hadn’t been paid to the fact that “wait” was a four-letter word.

  *

  Adam Young sat with his head in his hands, massaging his temples. He couldn’t wait any longer. Too many brave men and women had died. Slowly but surely, the enemy had widened the breach in the defensive lines until his position was no longer tenable. That one load of bombs from the B-17 had blown a huge hole in his defenses and not even heroic measures by Major Cheryl Cummins, who arrived in the nick of time with Cantrell’s reinforcements, could seal it. With a weary sigh, he gave the order to fall back to Provo.

  Adam looked twenty years older than he had a few months ago. His hair was now the stark white of an old man. There were new lines in his face. And though he moved as vigorously as ever, he seemed somehow frail at first glance. The sheer pain of the constant retreat was getting to him. It showed in the way he spoke and the way he moved, as well as his appearance.

  “We might have held if it weren’t for those damn planes,” he muttered. Well, no we couldn’t, he admitted, crumpling the decoded message he’d just received from his cryptographer. Not with an enemy force behind us, now. He thanked God Ellen Whitebear had talked him into trusting the Lachelles.

  *

  Prince John was on the radio to General Carswell, the commander of his flanking force. His eyes gleamed at hearing the General’s report.

  “You’re certain they don’t suspect your presence?”

  “No, Your Highness. We surprised their outpost at Camp Williams and took them before they could get a warning out. It was nothing but a rifle squad. They didn’t even have a functioning radio! One of them was trying to fix it when we captured them.”

  It was clear from his tone Carswell was well satisfied with the way things were progressing. He had good reason to be. From the moment his men had set foot on the ships in Nephi, to their landing, north of the ruins of Salt Lake City, things had gone very well indeed. Even the arduous climb up the face of The Fault, which dipped to within 500 feet of the water at that point, had gone without incident.

  “Very good, General. Now, here’s what I want you to do. Tomorrow at dawn, hit their airport. It’s a small strip located just northeast of Lehi. I don’t want any more surprises from those bastards. I think we got all of their planes today, but I want to be certain. And try to take their pilots alive. The King needs good pilots and if what I’ve seen them do with inferior equipment is any indication, their pilots are exceptional.”

  “Consider it done, Your Highness.”

  “Then I want you to advance to Orem, seal off Provo Canyon and hit them with everything you’ve got. Your surprise attack should collapse their defenses. Above all, I don’t want them escaping up Provo Canyon. I want to finish this tomorrow.”

  “Your wish is my command, Your Highness.”

  “I know it is, Carswell. HQ out.”

  The Prince sighed as he signed off. Carswell was such a toady. Normally John encouraged brown-nosers, but Carswell laid it on so thick it almost made him sick. If only the King hadn’t purged General Westerman. There was a man who not only knew how to command an army, but also knew his place.

  The darkness was filled with threatening shadows as John and his escort walked back to the Command Center. For a moment, John wondered why he felt edgy, why he couldn’t simply enjoy his coming triumph, but he wasn’t given much to self-analysis. Too uncomfortable. Besides, a small part of him knew the reason he was uneasy, but that part wouldn’t let him admit it to himself.

  As soon as he reached his office he turned to the latest recon and intelligence reports. The enemy seemed to be pulling back from Springville in what looked like their typical orderly, fighting retreat. Still, after encountering that defensive minefield above Spanish Fork, he was reluctant to order rapid pursuit. Why push it? He’d finish them tomorrow, as planned. He was pleased he’d controlled his impatience.

  He still hadn’t decided how soon to relocate his headquarters to Springville. It would take a few hours for his troops to finish mopping up. He would probably move it up then, since he wanted to lead the charge into Provo personally, but that decision could wait. He flipped the page.

  There were reports of desertions and men rendered combat-ineffective by some strange event in the forward sectors. Evidently, some crazed Allied pilot had jumped out of a burning plane and smashed a platoon leader into jelly. It made quite an impression on several nearby troops, who swore the pilot was not only alive and conscious, but actually seemed to aim himself at the sergeant. Must have been the same bastard who shot down the B17. Damn! Another precious and irreplaceable plane lost. As for those deserters, maybe he should make a personal visit to that company and kick some ass.

  He turned another page. Still no word on Whitebear’s capture. God! How many damn men did he have to send up that mountain anyway? Against his better judgment, he’d detailed another battalion to the search. He simply didn’t see how anybody could hide from that many men. He sure couldn’t. His reverie was interrupted by a private with an urgent request that he return to the radio room.

  Whitebear? The Prince rushed out, a flame kindling in his eyes as he constructed a fantasy of revenge. John wanted Michael Whitebear alive and would keep him alive until he could capture the man’s entire family and kill them before his eyes. All except for Michael’s wife. John knew a man like Whitebear would suffer more if he saw his wife turned into a sex toy. The scalpel sharp, branding iron images that danced in John’s imagination caused a stirring in his loins. And when he was through with her, he would cut off her head and beat that bastard Whitebear to death with it. He would teach that insulting bastard the true meaning of agony.

  Chapter 44: The Hunted

  Michael Whitebear opened his eyes as the chill of the evening penetrated the pile of pine needles and squirrel-chewed pinecones he’d buried himself in. Generations of squirrels, chipmunks and chickarees had contributed to its formation at the base of a tall spruce. Michael had sought shelter in it when the search got too hot in his area, taking the opportunity to grab some sleep. Now, it was time to move.

  He rolled out of the pile, stood and brushed remnants of pine cones and needles from his clothing. Now he not only looked like part of the forest, what with the leaves and branches woven into his helmet, he smelled like part of the forest. Of course, most of the small animals were too terrified by the trampling hordes of men to sound any alarm, but every little thing helped. Dozens of times that day, he had been within arm’s length of searching soldiers. Most of them he spared, but on three occasions they had been observant enough to spot him. Those three died swiftly and silently.

  He stood there until his eyes, ears and nose located the nearest concentrations of enemy soldiers. It was a moonless night and they were congregating in camps. Campfires and lines of sweeping flashlights marked their positions. Odors of wood smoke and cooking wafted through the air. His stomach growled softly as he headed for the nearest camp. First he needed a prisoner and then some food.

  He drifted through the darkness, seeking, circling one campfire, ghosting through a line of pickets and toward a larger blaze. This one looked promising. There was a meeting of officers near the fire. He settled down to wait.

  Michael was good at waiting--especially at night, in the
woods, surrounded by enemies. He’d been introduced to the art of waiting by his Blackfoot grandfather. Marine drill instructors had refined his skill and a Zen Buddhist priest he’d befriended had polished it to a sheen.

  The meeting was breaking up. Pairs and trios of officers were leaving the fire. He wanted someone with sufficient rank to have access to the knowledge he needed, yet not so high up he would be missed quickly. He preferred someone with a radio, deciding to have a little fun. As his grandfather used to say, “If you can’t enjoy it, don’t do it.”

  Michael grinned at the memory.

  A Lieutenant and a pudgy Captain were heading out into the darkness. The Lieutenant carried a radio; the Captain had a flashlight in one hand and a pair of thermos bottles in the other. Perfect.

  Five minutes later, Michael stepped up behind the Lieutenant. A hand to the mouth, a knife through the brain stem and the man was dead. Michael lowered him to the ground, snagged the man’s radio and stepped close to the Captain.

  “Bruce?” The Captain peered quizzically at the shape beside him. His flashlight started to swing toward it. A sharp knife pricked his throat. He froze.

  “If you want to keep breathing, act like nothing’s wrong,” Michael whispered softly into the now-rigid Captain’s ear.

  “You...You...You’re him aren’t you,” the Captain squeaked in a suddenly dry voice. “The ghost we’ve been chasing all day.” He tried to keep from trembling and failed. The man holding the knife at his throat was a stone cold killer! Almost twenty men had died at his hands this day, dozens of others injured or killed by friendly fire. He wondered if Bruce was dead, then decided he didn’t really want to know.

  “Just walk with me like everything’s okay,” Michael said. “Cooperate and I give you my word I won’t hurt you.” He pulled the Captain off into the night.

  Sure, the Captain thought. He wanted very badly to believe it though. From his friends in intelligence he’d heard whispered, frightened rumors concerning this man. A Sergeant Peters, who everyone called No-Ears before he got killed on the Freeholds raid, told the worst ones. No-Ears had actually been captured and tortured by this very man who was holding a knife to his throat. Another friend had told him this Whitebear had gone one on one with Prince Anthony and not even broken a sweat. Feats he hadn’t believed until now. But what else had No-Ears said? Oh, yeah, “He’ll do whatever he tells ya.”

  The Captain grabbed at that straw. He decided to cooperate. If nothing else, it would buy him time.

  “Anybody challenges us, you tell them whatever story keeps them from getting suspicious.” The Captain understood what would happen if anybody got suspicious. Michael guided him farther and farther from the fires.

  The Captain tried desperately to think of something convincing to tell a sentry and finally fell back on the fact that he was an officer who could do practically anything he wanted. They weren’t challenged.

  Michael led the Captain to a secluded spot.

  “Turn off your flashlight.”

  The Captain flicked it off.

  “Damn things ruin a man’s night vision,” Michael said. “Only an idiot would use one.”

  “Our sentries have orders to shoot anything that moves if it doesn’t have one,” the Captain volunteered.

  “I know,” Michael offered. “I was listening.”

  The Captain digested that for a moment.

  “You mean what you say about not hurting me if I cooperate?”

  “I give my word, I keep it,” Michael said. “Now put those thermos bottles down and give me your pistol and your belt.” The Captain dropped the bottles, took out his pistol, taking care to touch it only with his fingertips and handed it and his belt to Michael. He knew this man could kill him at any time and yet, for some reason, he believed the man would keep his word.

  “Now, strip to your underwear.”

  Slowly, awkwardly because of the knife at his throat, the Captain complied. His jacket and shirt went first. He carefully unstrapped the sheath and knife he kept strapped to his leg and threw the whole thing onto his growing pile of clothes. He’d glimpsed Michael’s combat knife. By comparison, his own looked neither deadly nor well used. He wasn’t going to do anything to provoke Michael into using it. He removed his boots, let his pants slide down his legs and slowly stepped out of them, then hooked his pants with a big toe and pushed them toward the rest of his clothes. He shivered.

  “You can put this on,” Michael said, handing the Captain his own jacket, which the man slid into.

  “Good! Now, put your hands behind you.”

  Michael bound the man’s hands with the belt.

  The Captain was beginning to wonder if Michael’s knife would ever leave the vicinity of his neck.

  As if he’d read his mind, Michael pulled the knife away and moved around in front of the Captain. He was still far too close for the man to even think about making a move. Especially with his hands tied together. The Captain congratulated himself often on being no fool and he knew that on the best day of his life he wouldn’t stand a chance against this man.

  “Sit down,” Michael ordered, indicating a small boulder that lay up against the foot of a tree. As the Captain did so, Michael stepped in close; bent and secured the man’s feet with a belt he’d taken off a dead man that afternoon.

  “Okay, now let’s have a little talk. How many of you are up here looking for me?”

  It was always best to start out with something relatively harmless.

  “More than eight hundred men at last count.”

  “Fine. You know my name. What’s yours?”

  “Captain Allen Hoffman.”

  Michael was examining the Captain’s clothes as he talked. He held the Captain’s jacket up in front of him and pointed to an insignia he’d never seen until today.

  “What’s this mean?”

  “Royal Quartermaster Corps.”

  “You get to dispense the goodies, huh? What’re you doing up here?”

  “Following orders,” the Captain replied ruefully.

  Michael smiled understandingly and said, “Okay, Allen, I asked for that one. But seriously, what’s a quartermaster doing on a manhunt?”

  “When the Prince ordered General Marsh to send a whole battalion to look for one man, the General about had a fit. But he didn’t get to be General by being stupid enough to argue with Prince John, so he picked us. He sent men from the Motor Pool up later. Leastways that’s the scuttlebutt.”

  It figured. That way, the General kept his best combat troops for the assault. It also explained why the weapons of two of the men he’d killed had their safeties engaged. Mechanics and supply clerks: Jesus! But what about those other guys he’d seen, the ones with the bloody dagger insignia. They sure as hell weren’t in the motor pool.

  “Anybody else?”

  Allen shifted uncomfortably on the rock.

  “I haven’t seen them but...well, there’s supposed to be a couple of companies of Rangers up here.”

  Michael picked up one of the thermos bottles the Captain had been carrying and started unscrewing the cup that formed the lid.

  “Got any food?” The aroma wafting up from the thermos answered his question. “Chicken soup?”

  “I thought I might get hungry,” Allen replied in a slightly wounded tone. He was sensitive about his weight.

  “Hey, no offense.” Things were going smoothly with this guy and Michael didn’t want to treat him any rougher than he had to. “It’s just that I haven’t eaten since this morning and I was surprised.”

  Michael took a sip of soup. “Good stuff.”

  “Glad you like it,” Allen said and was surprised to find he meant it. Anything he could do to ingratiate himself to this particular man couldn’t hurt. Besides, the man’s fearlessness impressed him. He’d often wished he, himself, was more like that. One thing was certain. Right now, this killer would make a better friend than enemy. Scratch that, Allen thought. At any time this guy would be a better friend th
an enemy. For the first time, Allen wondered if he was on the wrong side. He’d known little but fear and bullying in the King’s service.

  “There’s hot chocolate in the other one,” Allen said, wishing he could offer Michael a steak.

  “Thanks,” Michael said. The sincerity behind the word surprised Allen. Maybe this man wouldn’t kill him.

  “Look, Allen,” Michael said, pausing for another swallow of soup and again it was like the man had read his mind, “You’re doing just fine. Keep this up and all you’ll have to show for this experience will be a cold night in the woods.”

  Michael finished the soup and started on the hot chocolate.

  “You know, Allen, you don’t seem like such a bad sort. How did you end up in the King’s army?”

  Michael sensed the easiest way to get accurate information from this guy was to buddy up to him. Allen was obviously the sort who would fold completely if Michael got too rough. If that happened, the man would tell him any lie he thought Michael wanted to hear. Anything to avoid the knife. With some types of men, like No-Ears, Michael could tell they were lying because they would look him straight in the eye and bluff. But with the more craven sort, they’d tell a lie so convincingly it would sound like the truth. They developed a kind of sixth sense for saying the things people wanted to hear. Michael decided to trust his gut and stay with the “buddy” system for the time being.

  “I didn’t really have much say in the matter,” Allen began. “One day, the King’s army rolled into town, I ran a farmer’s market back then, and the next day I was a quartermaster. Most of the rest of the folks were dead or slaves. I always have had a talent for organizing things. They spotted that. At least they had the good sense not to try to turn me into a front line soldier. This is the first real action I’ve seen and I campaigned all the way through California, Oregon and Washington.”