The takers had attacked twice during the night—but his force of nine men and women had managed to hold them off. Again. The bastards didn’t like to attack during the day, and there was a good reason for that. The machine guns on the roof could cover every inch of the surrounding ground. As for darkness, well, the bad guys liked that better. But not a lot better because of the night-vision gear that Smith’s people had. They’re wearing us down, though, Smith thought to himself. From thirteen to nine. It’s just a matter of time.
“Breakfast is served,” a voice said, and Smith turned to discover that Private Anne Renke was standing behind him. She handed him an MRE. “It’s your favorite,” she added. “Beef brisket.” Smith knew that she’d gone digging for it, or arranged for a trade. Not to suck up, but to make him feel better. Something she did for everyone.
“Thanks,” Smith said as he sat on an ammo crate. “How’s it going? Are you okay?”
“I could use a shower,” Renke answered. “But so could you.”
Smith laughed. And that was Renke’s talent, since she was a piss-poor shot and didn’t have any tech skills to speak of. The Guard was a part-time job for her . . . A way to make money for college. Now she was in the shit, and holding up damned well, all things considered. “Go take a nap, Private. They’ll be back.”
“Sure thing, Sarge,” Renke said, and turned away. An empty casing rattled away from a boot as she entered the hall.
Smith waited until Renke was gone to put the MRE on the floor and lean against the wall. He closed his eyes. The Alamo, Smith thought to himself. We’re in the fucking Alamo. And that’s where John Wayne died. Then he fell asleep.
MARYHILL, WASHINGTON
According to Kho, who’d been there before, the tiny town of Maryhill, Washington, was named for the wife and daughter of a wealthy businessman named Sam Hill. And after following the north bank of the Columbia River west, the column was going to cross the Sam Hill Memorial Bridge and enter Biggs Junction on the other side.
Mac knew that the old bridge was clear because Esco said it was. But as the column paused to take a bio break, she eyed the other side of the river through a pair of binoculars. There were no signs of trouble. The trip down Highway 221 to 14 had been uneventful. And although hundreds of pilgrims had passed the convoy going east, while the soldiers went west, there weren’t enough fanatics to represent a threat. And even now, there was a one-way stream of white-clad travelers coming her way across the bridge.
Mac lowered her glasses. They were about a hundred miles from Pendleton, Oregon. They’d been forced to bypass Kennewick, and the armory there, but what about Pendleton? Could they get supplies there? Mac felt a surge of impatience as she turned to Munroe. “Pass the word . . . The break’s over. Let’s cross the bridge.”
PENDLETON, OREGON
The clouds were the color of an old bruise as Smith brought a pair of binoculars up to his eyes. A bitter wind was chasing pieces of trash across the airfield, but there were no other signs of movement. And despite Smith’s expectations to the contrary, there hadn’t been any attacks during the night. Why? Had the takers given up? Smith wanted to believe that but didn’t. No, he decided, the person or people in charge of the gang were getting ready to try something new. The possibility frightened him. They knew how many people he had, or didn’t have, and how each one of them was deployed. That’s why Smith figured the bastards were going to throw something different his way. Something calculated to take advantage of the unit’s weaknesses. Of which there were plenty. “Oh, shit,” Corporal Cassidy said over the radio. “Look north . . . What is that?”
Smith swung his glasses to the right and saw a Greyhound bus emerge from behind a hangar. Sheets of metal had been fastened to the boxy vehicle.
“I see a semi,” Renke added, “coming in from the west. Over.”
“And a school bus is headed our way,” Haskins added.
Smith’s suspicions had been confirmed, but the noncom took no pleasure in being right. The makeshift armored vehicles were meant to divide the defenders’ fire, bulldoze their way through the base’s defensive wall, and deliver a shitload of men into the compound. And when that happened, his soldiers would die.
“Okay,” Smith said. “They plan to divide our fire and get in close. But we have an app for that. Let’s feed those bastards some rockets. Then, if any of them close in, man the fifties. Over.”
“Got it, Sarge,” Cassidy said. “I’m gonna kill me a bus.”
Smith felt a sudden surge of confidence. Maybe, if enough rockets hit the targets . . .
“Uh-oh,” Private Weller said. “More assholes are coming out to play.”
Weller was correct. A dozen fast-moving cars, pickups, and SUVs had appeared on the airfield and were darting back and forth to distract the soldiers and divide their fire even more. “Ignore them,” Smith instructed. “Go for the big boys.”
Cassidy was standing behind a waist-high wall of sandbags off to Smith’s right. He had an AT4 on his shoulder and was aiming at the Greyhound. There was a flash of light followed by a loud report as the 84mm rocket flew downrange. Smith saw an orange-red explosion as the HEAT round hit the front of the bus and produced a loud boom. The behemoth coasted to a stop. Smith waited to see if passengers would exit, and none did. The takers knew how vulnerable they’d be out in the open.
“Give them a second helping,” Smith said, as he turned to survey the airfield. He felt a sense of panic. Things were happening quickly, he was losing control, and he didn’t know how to reacquire it. Smith swore as a rocket missed the semi and sailed off into the distance. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Renke spoke in his ear. “Aircraft inbound at two o’clock. Over.”
Smith turned to look. What the hell? Did the takers have a plane? Were they going to drop a barrel bomb on the building? Once the glasses came to bear, Smith realized that he was looking at an Apache gunship! What felt like liquid lead filled the pit of his stomach. If the bastards had an attack ship, the whole unit was SOL. “I have radio contact,” Private Tubin announced. “I’m patching the pilot through.”
“Flyby-One to ground unit, Pendleton,” a male voice said, as the Apache passed overhead. “Give me a sitrep. Over.”
Smith felt a sudden sense of hope! “This is Master Sergeant Rollo Smith, Detachment 1, Company B, Forty-first Special Troops Battalion. We’re under attack by a criminal gang that’s trying to capture our weapons. Over.”
“Roger that,” the voice said, as the helicopter circled the airport. “What’s the army motto?”
Smith swallowed. It was a test . . . To make sure that he was the real deal. “This we will defend.”
“What animal does West Point use as a mascot?”
“A mule.”
“What does FUBAR mean?”
“Fucked-up beyond all recognition.”
“Thanks, Sergeant . . . Keep your head down. Your people did a nice job. We’ll tidy up. Over.”
A reedy cheer went up from the beleaguered building as the Apache went to work. A Hellfire missile struck the school bus and blew it to yellow smithereens. Then the machine’s copilot went to work with the helo’s minigun. Geysers of asphalt and soil chased the smaller vehicles across the field and overran a black SUV, which disappeared in a bright orange explosion. The surviving vehicles fled in a desperate effort to escape the killing zone. Only one of them made it. The battle was over.
After circling the airfield a couple of times, the Apache came in for a landing next to the carcass of a burned-out Chinook. Smith was there to greet the copilot as she dropped to the ground. The rotors continued to turn, so she had to shout. “My name’s Omata . . . Warrant Officer Peters is going to remain at the controls in case the bad guys counterattack.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Smith said. “You saved our butts. Thank you. How big is the relief force?”
“There is no relief force,” Omata told him. “We’re attached to Archer Company, First Battalion, Second Stryker Brigade. Our outfit was cut off after the meteor strikes. The company’s CO is a first lieutenant named Macintyre. She’d like to bring the company here and lager up for the night. Would that be okay?”
“Okay? That would be wonderful,” Smith said. “Strykers . . . I like the sound of that. The bastards won’t mess with us tonight.”
Omata smiled. “No, Sergeant, they won’t.”
Smith removed a glove and extended a big paw. Omata’s hand disappeared. “Welcome to Pendleton, ma’am . . . I have some scotch stashed away—and the drinks will be on me.”
Archer Company took some sniper fire as it entered Pendleton. But there weren’t any casualties, for which Mac was grateful.
As a consequence of being cooped up inside the Stryker, Mac didn’t get to see anything until the column arrived and one-two came to a stop. Once the ramp was down, Mac made her way out and onto the tarmac. She was inspecting the burned-out helicopter as two people came forward to greet her. “This is Sergeant Smith,” Omata said. “Sergeant Smith, this is Lieutenant Macintyre.”
They shook hands, and Mac liked what she saw. Even though Smith hadn’t shaved in days and was filthy to boot, his military bearing was intact. He had beady brown eyes, a hatchet-shaped nose, and a pugnacious jaw. “It’s a pleasure,” Mac said. “I’d put you and every member of your unit in for a medal if I could.”
“Thanks,” Smith replied. “But based on what Warrant Officer Omata tells me, we’re cut off.”
“That’s what I thought at first,” Mac told him. “But ‘cut off’ implies that a command structure still exists. And I’m not sure that it does.”
“Let’s go inside,” Smith suggested. “It’s warmer there.”
“That sounds good,” Mac replied. “But I want the tour first . . . And I’d like to meet your people.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Smith said. “Follow me.”
After touring the area, and pausing to chat with each one of Smith’s soldiers, Mac allowed herself to be steered inside. By the time they sat down in Major Elkins’s office, she had a pretty good idea of how the weeklong battle had been fought. The lights flickered every now and then. “So,” Mac said, “thanks for the hospitality.”
Smith shrugged. “You’re welcome, ma’am. But you’re army, we’re army, so what’s ours is yours. Especially since you’re the ranking officer here.”
“That’s true,” Mac said. “Sort of. But I can’t assume anything. Not the way things are.”
Smith stared at her. “You want our supplies. And you came here to get them.”
Mac nodded. “We did.”
“But you aren’t going to take them?”
Mac smiled thinly. “I hope you’ll give them to me.”
Smith frowned. “Tell me something, Lieutenant . . . Let’s say that I give you everything there is to give . . . What will you do with it? And more importantly, what will you do with my people?”
“We’re headed south, Sergeant . . . To Arizona, where if the ham-radio reports are correct, the weather is a tad better. That’s the first objective. Then, once we find a place to hole up, we’ll try to survive.”
“For what purpose?” Smith demanded. “To wait for orders that may not come? And, if they do come, might instruct you to do something stupid?”
Mac had been thinking about that. And now, for the first time, she put her thoughts into words. “That’s a good question . . . I don’t think it should be up to me alone. Each person should have a vote even if that isn’t very military.
“That said, I think we have to adapt if we’re going to survive. All of us have seen what the gangs can do. And they’re just getting started. Once the easy pickings are gone—how long before they take control of towns? And battle each other for turf?”
“Not long,” Evans said darkly. “It may have begun. Who knows what’s going on in Kennewick.”
“Exactly,” Mac agreed. “And in the absence of law enforcement, there will be a need for soldiers who can defend the people who can’t defend themselves. But, in order to do that, we’ll have to charge for our services. Otherwise, our vehicles will run out of fuel—and our troops will starve.”
Smith frowned. “Mercenaries? How is that different from becoming a gang?”
“Yes,” Mac replied. “I guess the word ‘mercenary’ would apply. But my notion is this . . . Rather than operate the unit as a business—we would run it as a self-sustaining nonprofit. The mission would be to keep our soldiers alive, feed their families, and help other people to the extent that we can.”
“You’ve been thinking about this,” Smith put in.
Mac shrugged. “For a few weeks.”
“You’re serious about the vote? And the mission?”
“Absolutely. Although it needs to be understood that army-style military discipline will prevail. A democracy won’t work. So once a person joins, they will be expected to serve out the length of their contract.”
“I’m in,” Smith said, “assuming you want me. My wife passed away sixteen months ago, my son is stationed in Germany, assuming he’s alive, and the weather sucks. Arizona sounds good.”
“I want you,” Mac said. “More than that, we need you.”
“Thanks,” Smith said. “One last thing . . . I outrank Evans here, but I don’t want the number two slot. I’m a supply sergeant by trade . . . And correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re going to need supplies, plus some son of a bitch to keep track of them.”
Mac laughed. “I do, Sergeant. The job is yours.”
“Good,” Smith said. “A lot of our stuff went west with the major. And we had to expend some ammo fighting the takers. But I’ve still got quite a stash. Not to mention plenty of JP8 for your Apache.”
“That’s good news,” Mac said. “Very good news since we’ve been burning through what we had. Let’s set up a meeting with the people who are off duty—and a second one for later on. Some or all of your people may elect to stay here.”
The meetings took place over a period of twenty-four hours and went the way Mac expected them to. All of those who had decided to stay with the company understood the need to become what Mac called “nonprofit mercenaries” and voted for it. And although none of Smith’s soldiers objected to the concept, three of them expressed a desire to stay with family members in Pendleton.
Mac understood that and authorized Smith not only to let them retain their personal weapons but to give them a supply of ammo in lieu of severance pay. She also gave each soldier a letter explaining the decision she’d made, and taking full responsibility for it, even though it seemed unlikely that the “real” army was going to show up in Pendleton anytime soon.
There was a party to see them off, and to welcome twelve family members who were going to accompany their soldiers to Arizona. Even though the company already included a few civilians, Mac hadn’t given the issue of dependents much thought until then. And the fact that she had eighteen more mouths to feed put a lot of additional pressure on her. It couldn’t be helped though . . . Not if her troops were to enjoy normal lives in Arizona. And, truth be told, Mac knew that soldiers with families to defend would fight that much harder.
Some of the civilians joining them had useful skills. The group included a nurse, an auto mechanic, and an elementary school teacher. And with school-age children to care for, her skills would become increasingly important.
The civilians wanted to bring truckloads of belongings, not to mention their personal vehicles, and Mac couldn’t allow that because each additional car or truck would require fuel and maintenance.
And there was another issue to confront as well . . . As the column grew longer, it would be increasingly hard to defend. So Mac was grateful when Smith issued a detailed list of what people could bring, forced them to packag
e their belongings in shipping crates, and put all of their personal belongings on a moving van. Problem solved, for the moment at least.
Meanwhile, there were military stores to deal with, including a considerable quantity of weapons, ammo, and fuel. All of which were welcome. Once the company’s tankers were full, Mac sent the Apache out to find more fuelers. And when the pilots located them, Evans took two squads of soldiers out to “requisition” the additional trucks from a local oil company.
Mac felt guilty about that but had no way to pay for them. Not yet. Later, once the unit had some money or the equivalent thereof, she planned to buy vehicles rather than steal them.
Two days later, Mac was going over a list of to-dos when there was a knock on the door. She was sitting at Elkins’s desk and turned to see that Master Sergeant Smith and Staff Sergeant Esco were standing just inside the doorway. “Come in,” she told them. “Take a load off. Esco’s wearing a big smile. What’s up?”
“Drones,” Esco replied. “Sergeant Smith has four of them! Two Ravens and two Shadows. They’re still in crates, but once we put them together, we’ll be able to use them for scouting missions. And that will save a lot of JP8.”
Mac knew that Tier I UAVs like the hand-launched Raven had a range of six miles and could stay aloft for sixty to ninety minutes. Tier II UAVs, such as the Shadow, could go farther and stay up longer. And Esco was correct. Although the Apache could scout ahead, it would not only burn a whole lot of fuel but announce their presence. There was a potential problem, however—and Mac addressed the question to Smith. “If I’m not mistaken, the Shadows would require a launcher . . . Do we have one?”
Smith grinned. “You’re pretty smart for an officer. Yes, ma’am, we have one. It’s mounted on a trailer. We’ll haul it behind the Humvee. That’ll add to the length of the column, but it’ll be worth it.”
“I agree,” Mac said. “Let’s assemble one of each. Have we got the necessary know-how?”
Into the Guns Page 11
