“Because the Mormons run Utah, ma’am,” Ralston replied. “That includes local government, the fire departments, the police departments, and so on. Plus each family has three months’ worth of food on top of what the church has stored away. So while I don’t know this for a fact—it’s reasonable to assume that there weren’t any food riots in Salt Lake City. And by now it’s quite likely that a church-sponsored militia is guarding the city. If I’m correct, they’ll be looking for looters, bandits, and mercenaries.”
Mac felt stupid. Not only was Ralston correct, most of his points were glaringly obvious. Yet she had failed to think of them. Yes, she’d been busy . . . But that was no excuse. It would have been nice to save face somehow—but Mac couldn’t think of a credible way to do it. “Holy shit, Ralston,” she said. “That didn’t occur to me. Thanks for speaking up . . . There’s no point in walking into what could be a buzz saw.
“Scratch what I said earlier,” Mac said, as her eyes roamed the crowd. “What we need is a route that will take us around Salt Lake City as efficiently as possible. Fuel being a serious concern.”
Another hand went up. This one belonged to Sergeant Smith. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“I have a suggestion, ma’am. If we follow Highway 93 down to Wells, Nevada, we could do some shopping at the local Caterpillar dealership. Then we could go east and connect with the freeway south of Salt Lake City.”
It took a moment for Mac to catch on. The Strykers were powered by Caterpillar engines. And it was only a matter of time before the unit would need to replace one of them. Plus, a dealer would have lots of spare parts, too.
Were Ralston and Smith double-teaming her? Both were from Pendleton after all. Probably . . . But that’s what senior NCOs do. Often, but not always, for the betterment of their unit. Savvy officers knew when to listen and when not to. “I like it,” Mac said, “but let’s say we capture some engines. How would we move them?”
Smith didn’t have a ready answer but was quick to improvise. “The dealership will have a forklift,” he predicted. “As for transport, well, we’ll have to liberate a semi from someone.” Mac thought the plan was a bit vague—but what else could he say?
The conference continued for half an hour and covered everything from the need for field showers, to the maintenance issues related to one of the U-Haul trucks, and the need for Vitamin D supplements. “We aren’t getting enough sun,” Hoskins told them. “And that means we can’t make enough of our own Vitamin D to stay healthy. So please be on the lookout for supplies that we can buy, borrow, or steal.”
The convoy was on the road by 0900. After twenty minutes on I-84, they left the freeway for secondary roads that led them around Twin Falls to Highway 93. The surrounding countryside was flat for the most part, unrelievedly brown, and boring.
Thanks to the open terrain, and the fact that the Shadow was out in front of the column, Mac felt she could put Evans on point and ride in Roller-Twelve. The Stryker was the last vic in the convoy, and it was nice to shoot the shit with soldiers from her old platoon.
The first hour passed without incident. Then Esco put out a call for Mac to look at what he said was “some interesting video.”
So Mac ordered the column to pull over, authorized a bio break, and went to visit the Humvee. Esco’s gear was set up in the back. “Take my seat,” he suggested, “and watch the screen. The Shadow is circling Wells.”
The Humvee’s well-worn interior smelled like the men who rode in it, and Mac wrinkled her nose as she sat down and eyed the screen in front of her. Wells was a small town, and the streets were laid out grid-style. As viewed from above, the town’s most prominent features consisted of a well-watered park and adjacent sports field. “Okay,” Mac said. “What’s so interesting?”
“Zoom in,” Esco said. “Tell me what you see.”
Mac was surprised by what she saw. The streets were filled with motorcycles! There were hundreds of them. Some were parked in tidy rows—while others were racing down one of the main arterials. “That’s Sixth,” Esco told her, as he put a grubby finger on it. “See the ramp? Watch what happens.”
The ramp was located in the center of town in front of what might be a café or bar. As Mac watched, two motorcycles raced up the ramp, flew into the air, and landed hard. One wobbled and crashed. The other pulled a wheelie and continued on. “So a motorcycle gang took over the town,” Mac concluded.
“That’s the way it looks,” Esco agreed. “And they aren’t likely to welcome us with open arms. Of course, Peters and Omata could take them out in fifteen minutes.”
Mac could imagine how easy it would be for the Apache to chase the gang members down and grease them. But what if appearances were deceiving? What if the citizens of Wells liked having the gang there? Maybe the bikers were better than whatever the alternative was. She said as much to Esco. “I don’t think that’s the case, ma’am,” he replied. “Aim the camera at the athletic field and zoom in.”
Mac winced as the scene appeared. Rather than shooting down from directly overhead the drone’s camera was at least a mile to the north. That allowed Mac to see the crosses, two rows of them, each with a body tied to it. “It’s my guess that the bikers crucified anyone who objected to their presence,” Esco said.
That put a different light on things. But Mac was still reluctant to use the Apache, knowing how much collateral damage could result. “Where’s the Caterpillar dealership?” she inquired.
“It’s on the main drag,” Esco said, as his index finger landed again. “Two blocks from the ramp.”
“Okay,” Mac said, as she rose. “I’ll give the problem some thought. Thanks for the heads-up. Do me a favor, Sergeant . . . Keep the Shadow up high, where those scumbags will be less likely to spot it.”
“Roger that,” Esco said.
It felt good to escape the crowded confines of the Humvee and breathe some fresh air. Mac had a lot to think about as she made her way forward. The Marauders were mercenaries, and mercenaries get paid, so why fight the bikers? But Mac couldn’t shake the image of the crosses. Besides, Esco was correct. The gang wouldn’t let them waltz into town and take some Caterpillar engines without putting up a fight.
Mac climbed up onto Roller-One and told Sparks to pass the word. “Let’s get going . . . We’re headed to Contact, Nevada. Tell Peters to meet us there.”
It took forty-five minutes to reach Contact. It was little more than a house and a clutch of outbuildings on the east side of the road. There was a turnout on the west side of the highway, and that was where Mac told Garcia to stop. The helicopter was on the ground, and the JP8 truck went out to meet it.
Evans took a squad over to secure the house. Could the people who lived there communicate with the folks in Wells? If so, Mac didn’t want them to do so.
Once the area was under control, Mac ordered the unit to hide all of the vehicles with the exception of the Strykers behind the outbuildings. Then, with machine guns positioned to cover the highway and the gun trucks ready to roll, she felt confident the group could defend itself.
Mac still felt qualms, however, since dividing the company in half entailed some risk. But what choice did she have other than to do nothing? Taking civilians and soft-skinned vehicles into Wells would be insane.
Once everything was as good as she could make it, Mac called a meeting. A cold wind whipped her hair around as she explained the necessity of going into Wells, the way the plan was supposed to go down, and contingencies if it didn’t. Once all of the questions had been answered, it was time to mount up.
Mac chose to ride in the Stryker designated as Roller-Seven. She was standing in the front air-guard hatch with a light machine gun positioned in front of her as the truck took off. Like the other top gunners, Mac was wearing a brain bucket, sunglasses to keep the airborne grit out of her eyes, and a pair of gloves to keep her hands warm.
It took forty minu
tes to reach Wells. The ESV was in the lead by then. The vic swayed as it completed a hard right-hand turn, the other Strykers followed, and the column started to accelerate as it hit the straightaway. Mac eyed the scene ahead. There were clumps of trees; low, one-story buildings; and dozens of frozen mud puddles. It would have been better to attack at dawn. But Mac feared that the bikers would get word of the vehicles parked at Contact and have time to prepare.
As Seven followed the ESV into town, the external speakers came to life. Suddenly Mac found herself listening to “The Imperial March” from Star Wars. It struck Mac as corny at first, and she was about to order the truck commander to kill it, when she changed her mind. This is it, Mac thought to herself, this is how Strykers are supposed to fight. We’re going to kick some ass.
The town hadn’t been fortified, and as far as Mac could tell, the bikers didn’t have lookouts. From their perspective, it must have seemed as if the Strykers came out of nowhere. Tires screeched as the ESV led the other vics through a series of turns and onto Sixth. There was a long line of custom bikes parked side by side on the right. Lamm was driving the engineering vehicle and knew what to do. The dozer blade was up and angled to the right. Metal clashed with metal, and the hogs fell like dominoes.
Bikes were parked side by side on the opposite side of the street, too. And that gave the gunners an opportunity for some target practice. Mac fired her machine gun in long, sweeping bursts—and was rewarded by the sight of falling bikes and exploding gas tanks.
Mac felt Roller-Seven slow, swerve to avoid the wooden ramp, and speed up again. The gang had started to react by that time—and bikers opened fire as they poured out of bars, cafés, and other buildings. They were armed with a wild variety of weapons—and Mac could hear the ping, ping, ping of bullets striking armor as she adjusted her aim. A man with white hair and a potbelly aimed an AR-15 at her and jerked spastically as half a dozen 5.56-by-45mm rounds tore his torso to shreds. The chatter of machine guns and the ominous music combined to create a symphony of death and destruction.
But just as Mac was beginning to believe that the battle was over, the situation took a turn for the worse. Not all of the motorcycles were lined up on the main drag. Mac heard a throaty roar and turned to see a trio of hogs accelerate out of a side street and join the fray. Roller-Three was the last Stryker in the column, so they went after it first. But Three was far from helpless. The lead bike went down as a burst of bullets chopped the rider’s left arm off, and sparks flew as the hog slid west.
But bikes two and three managed to avoid the wreck and pull up beside Roller-Three. As Mac looked back, she could see that each motorcycle had a passenger. One of them fired a pistol at the Stryker’s rear gunner, while the other leaned in to slap something onto the vic’s protective birdcage. “Watch out, Three!” Mac yelled into the mike. “They . . .”
The rest of Mac’s words were lost as the charge went off. The explosion produced a flash of light and a loud boom. The force of the blast was sufficient to lift the wheels on the left side of the Stryker up off the pavement. They came down with a thump, but the driver managed to retain control, and Three trailed smoke.
Mac had to change her focus at that point as more Harleys appeared, and the rear gunner engaged them. “This is Six actual,” Mac said. “All units will proceed to the objective and secure it. Talk to me, Three . . . Can you make it? Over.”
“That’s a roger,” came the reply. “We have casualties, though . . .”
“Got it,” Mac replied. “One-Eight will respond. Do you copy One-Eight?”
Doc Obbie was riding in the ESV. “Copy,” he replied. “Over.”
The Cat dealership was impossible to miss, thanks to the huge sign on the roof. Seconds after the ESV pulled in, Sergeant Poole’s soldiers surged out to secure the building. Mac’s truck slowed and stopped, with the fifty pointed at the street. It began to chug as half a dozen bikes roared past. Obbie ran forward as Three pulled in.
Mac forced herself to switch focus. “Roller-Seven-Six to Flyby-One . . . Clean the streets but avoid structures to whatever extent you can. Over.”
Peters’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Roger that, Six . . . Pop smoke. Commencing gun run. Over.” The Apache came in from the southwest. It was flying just above the rooftops and looked scary as hell. The ship’s 30mm chain gun began to fire as Peters followed Sixth, staying south of the red smoke. The shells blew divots out of the concrete, tore already damaged motorcycles to shreds, and pulped a gang member stupid enough to fire at the helicopter with an M-16.
The Apache ceased firing as it roared over the Caterpillar dealership, only to resume on the far side. About twenty bikers had gathered northwest of town and were preparing to attack. When the gunship appeared, they turned, opened their throttles, and took off. That was a mistake. With no houses to worry about, Omata was free to fire rockets at them. The result was two overlapping explosions. None of the gang members survived. Shredded flesh and metal lay everywhere as Peters turned back.
He was hunting now, cruising each street looking for bad guys, but there were few to be found. Finally, after destroying a pick- up truck loaded with fleeing gang members, he made the call. “Flyby-One to Six . . . I suspect some of the hostiles are hiding, but the rest are down. Over.”
“Roger that and thanks,” Mac replied. “Return to Contact, rearm, and provide security there. We’ll call if we need you. Over.”
As the helicopter angled away, Mac hurried over to check on the casualties. Like the rest of her Strykers, Roller-Three was protected by slat armor commonly referred to as a “birdcage.” The structure’s purpose was to detonate RPGs and protect the vic within. Even though the explosive charge hadn’t been fired at the Stryker, Mac could see that the steel cage had done its job. The armor was a twisted mess, but the truck’s hull was intact. An excellent trade-off for the extra weight.
But even though the birdcage had been able to protect the soldiers inside the vic, the top gunners hadn’t been so lucky. And as Mac approached the truck, she saw that a half-covered body lay on the ground. Sergeant Poole turned to look as she arrived next to him. “Who is it?” she wanted to know.
“Dinkins,” he replied. “He was leaning out over the side, trying to take a shot with his M4, when the charge went off.”
“Shit. He was a good kid. I heard ‘casualties’ plural. Did someone else get hit?”
“Yeah . . . Wessel took a bullet from somewhere—but Doc Hoskins says he’s going to be okay. The slug went up into his helmet, circled his head, and fell out! Now Wessel claims that he’s immortal.”
Mac shook her head in amazement. Wessel the Weasel was one lucky son of a bitch. “Sorry to interrupt,” Sparks said, “but we have visitors. Some locals would like to speak with you.”
Mac followed the RTO out to the street, where a three-person delegation stood waiting. A man stepped forward to shake hands. He had a receding hairline, a paunch, and was wearing a Colt .45 six-shooter. “Hello . . . My name is Henry Wilkins. Carol Tice is on my left—Miranda Ivey is on the right. We’re all that remains of the city council. The rest of them were crucified. Thank God you came! We thought the government had collapsed.”
“I’m sorry to say that it did,” Mac told them. “Our unit was cut off—and we’re operating on our own.”
“Yet you chose to free our town,” Tice said. She had long brown hair and dark circles under her eyes.
“What the bikers did to your town is horrifying,” Mac said. “And I’m glad we were able to help. But we had an ulterior motive as well.”
“And what was that?” Ivey inquired. She had freckles, a pug nose, and green eyes.
“We need Caterpillar parts for our Strykers,” Mac replied. “And we knew there was a dealership in Wells.”
Wilkins pointed a finger at Roller-Three. “Is that a Stryker?”
“Yes, it is,” Mac said. “Who owns this deale
rship? Could I speak with them?”
Wilkins looked away. “Mr. Vickers owned it. But he and his family were killed early on . . . Before the crucifixions began.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mac said. “Will you permit us to take what we need from the dealership?”
“I don’t think we could stop you,” Tice said.
“Probably not,” Mac agreed. “But we did take care of the bikers for you . . . Perhaps you’d be willing to give us some parts by way of a reward.”
“I’m for it,” Ivey said.
“Me, too,” Wilkins put in.
“I guess you’ve got a deal,” Tice said. “So take what you want from the dealership, but nothing more. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Mac replied. “We’ll bring the rest of our vehicles down from Contract if that’s okay . . . And we’ll put some temporary security in place. I would suggest that you gather up all the weapons that are lying around and organize a militia. Another gang will overrun the town if you don’t.”
“We’ll get to work on it,” Ivey said, “and on burying the dead. Thank you.”
Mac looked over to where the body lay and back again. “We lost one of our soldiers during the fighting. Could we bury him in your cemetery?”
“Of course,” Ivey said. “We’ll make a special place for him.”
“Thank you,” Mac said. “Sergeant Poole will work with you to make the necessary arrangements.”
Once the conversation ended, Mac turned to find that Sergeant Smith was waiting for her. “We’ve got what we came for, ma’am, two Cat engines and a lot of assorted spare parts.”
“Thank God for that,” Mac said. “We paid a high price.”
Smith nodded. “Yes, ma’am. There’s a problem, though.”
“Which is?”
“We need a vehicle to haul everything with. A tractor hooked to a lowboy trailer would be perfect.”
Mac raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And I found what we need a few blocks from here.”
Into the Guns Page 17
