by Noah Mann
I held that position, ready to cover any pursuit, not hoping to stop any such advance by the enemy, but to delay it until reinforcements could arrive. There was no doubt in my mind that the firefight had been heard, at least on the eastern end of town. The three checkpoints there, all hardwired into the phone system, would have reported what was happening. Help would come.
As it turned out, none was needed.
Five minutes after I’d halted my retreat the first backup arrived, Sergeant Lorenzen and Private Quincy, with a half dozen armed civilians in tow.
“Where are they?” Lorenzen asked.
I pointed east and drew a sweeping arc to the south.
“Some were moving north when we broke contact,” I said. “I sent Nick Withers toward town. He was—”
“Pretty shaken up,” Lorenzen said.
“We sent two shooters back to town with him,” Quincy said.
“How many are out there, Fletch?”
I looked to the sergeant before answering his question.
“Too many.”
Lorenzen stood with me for a moment as Quincy directed the civilians to form a defensive line. We waited for five minutes, then ten, the sound of more reinforcements arriving behind us rising. Twenty minutes after the last bullet had been fired we were a force of fifty, including Schiavo.
“Enderson has a reaction force in town ready to move if this was just a feint,” the captain said.
Lorenzen thought for a second, then shook his head.
“The truth is, Captain, I don’t know what this is.”
Schiavo walked past her sergeant a few yards, into the no man’s land ahead of our line.
“Fletch,” she said, and I walked forward to join her.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think they were waiting for you, or do you think they were on the move first?”
“I have no idea,” I answered. “It just became a lead throwing contest, and they were the winner.”
Schiavo nodded and surveyed the darkening woods to the east.
“Good.”
“Captain,” I said, not understanding her appraisal of what had just happened. “How is any of this ‘good’?”
“Because we know they’re out there now,” she answered. “And they know we know.”
Fourteen
“We’re forming a town defense council,” Mayor Allen announced to those he’d gathered in the conference room at the town hall. “I’m asking everyone here to be part of it.”
The message had come by phone. A simple request early in the morning, when Elaine and I were sitting down to breakfast after a full night’s sleep, which followed a six-hour shift at an eastern checkpoint, together this time. After the engagement I’d been involved in, with Nick Withers at my side, I suspected that Elaine had initiated some contact with either Schiavo or Sergeant Lorenzen, and arranged, through begging or force of logic, that she and I should be paired on any assignment going forward. The latter, a carefully and forcefully presented argument, was the catalyst, I knew. Begging was not in her nature.
I had to say I was pleased. The incident with Nick, where his presence became more hindrance than help, had driven home the already known reality that we were only as strong as our weakest link. Out there, in the dead woods, he’d been the liability that could have gotten us both killed. If that had been the intent.
I didn’t believe for a moment that it was.
“What are we going to defend against?”
The question I posed seemed to take Schiavo, Martin, Mayor Allen, and even Elaine by surprise.
“You were out there, Fletch,” Mayor Allen said.
“I was. And there was a good force in the woods shooting at us.”
The puzzled gazes zeroed in on me, as if I was speaking from a place where amnesia had robbed me of recollections of recent events.
“Do you want to clarify your thoughts on this for us?” Schiavo asked,
I clenched my right hand into a fist atop the table, the contraction forcing an annoying throb to stab at the place where my arm had been violated.
“This is Bandon,” I said, then tapped with my free hand to points around my fist on three sides. “And we’ve had movement reports from here, here, and here and the exchange in the woods. Multiple contacts over the past few days.”
“Indicating testing of our defenses,” Schiavo said.
I nodded. And they waited, not following where I was going. To be honest, I hadn’t even considered the possibility of the conclusion I had come to until Elaine and I were just arriving at the meeting. Outside, Nick Withers stood, pistol on his hip, guarding the entrance to the town hall. Mayor Allen had asked for him to fill that position I knew, not wanting the young man’s failings in the firefight to beat down his morale. As Martin had said, we needed everyone, even those who might not perform at the highest standard. To that end, Nick Withers, mechanic extraordinaire and lackluster soldier, was being given a task through which he could contribute, and feel as though he was contributing to the town’s safety and security.
Looking at him as we entered, as he smiled and nodded and held the door open for Elaine and me, I thought very plainly that he should not be here. That I should not be here. The both of us should have died in the woods.
But we didn’t.
“How many do you think there are out there?” I asked. “Realistically.”
We’d battled our way up the coast of Alaska against a force of Russians that numbered fewer than two dozen. This was a world where armies, however mighty they once had been, were reduced to units only a fraction of their intended size. We were a town of just over 800, with maybe 100 that could be considered battle worthy at some level, with another 75 or 80 who could take up arms in a reserve capacity if things became desperate. But we were stationary, in a fixed position, and reasonably well supplied. Whoever was out there, in and beyond the woods and hills, was mobile. They’d come here, and whatever supply line they had was certainly extended. I knew this, and so did Schiavo.
“Seventy, maybe eighty,” the captain answered.
“We outnumber them,” I said.
“They have some support and better arms,” Schiavo reminded me.
“And air assets,” Elaine added, curious along with the others as to where I was going with this.
“Right,” I said. “So why am I alive? Why is Nick Withers alive and standing guard at the door to the town hall?”
I could see the first spark of realization dance in Schiavo’s gaze.
“Nick and I were stationary targets out there,” I said. “We were making no move and they opened up on us, and missed us with every shot. Every shot. They were aiming high and wide. Even when I was running with Nick in the open between the trees their fire was still off.”
“You were perfect targets,” Elaine realized.
“More than once,” I said.
“They didn’t mean to kill you,” Martin said.
“If they had, you’d be talking to an empty chair,” I agreed.
Just below the tabletop, Elaine reached to my lap and gripped my knee. I was here, but I sensed she wanted to physically feel my presence after what I’d just said.
“Okay,” Schiavo said, allowing the possibility of what I’d suggested. “They’re just feigning an attack posture? That’s what you’re thinking?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe it’s psychological. To let us know they’re out there. To ratchet up our stress level.”
“You’re talking about a siege,” Martin said.
“Good Lord,” Mayor Allen reacted, shaking his head.
Schiavo thought on the situation for a moment.
“If that’s their purpose, what’s the end game? All sieges end. Either the besieged give up or fight to the death, or the outsiders are driven off.”
“What do they want?” Elaine asked.
“It would help if we knew who they were,” Martin said. “Where they’ve come from, who they answer to. That all would speak to
their motivation.”
His wife, though, didn’t seem certain of his appraisal.
“There’s no secret here,” Schiavo said. “Or at least there won’t be for long.”
“What do you mean?” Mayor Allen asked.
“She means they’ll make contact,” I said, and Schiavo gave a slight nod.
“And it won’t be a genial greeting,” Schiavo said. “It will be an ultimatum.”
That word, that near certainty, hung there for a moment, each of us processing what it might mean to Bandon. To our home.
“They’ll try to weaken us,” Schiavo said, her gaze shifting to me. “You might have been their first attempt at that.”
“The Trojan horse,” Martin said.
Mayor Allen thought for a moment, nodding.
“It’s possible we got that capsule out of you just in time,” the old doctor said. “If it was time release meant to spread some sickness after you’d been back in town for a while...”
Elaine squeezed my knee again and shook her head.
“What’s the ultimatum going to be?” she asked, glancing my way. “What are they going to want? What do we have that they just couldn’t ask for?”
No one had an answer that made any sense.
“Why not attack?”
It was Mayor Allen who posed the question, a suggestion that seemed so out of place coming from the peaceful, almost sedate old man.
“We have the advantage in numbers if Angela is correct,” the mayor said. “Why not use that? Right now?”
He focused on Schiavo. We all did. Though I knew before she spoke that her answer was not going to be in concert with what the mayor was envisioning.
“Because I could be wrong,” the captain said. “They could have a thousand troops out there on the other side of the hills. The aircraft they have could bear armaments. But the bottom line truth is that I have six real soldiers who’ve been trained to execute attacks. I can’t lead them and the few townspeople who could keep up into a lopsided battle. It would be suicide.”
Mayor Allen sat back in his chair, accepting the counter to his suggestion.
“There is one hope to better our situation,” Schiavo said in the brief silence after she’d gently shot down the idea of charging at our unseen, and unknown, adversary. “The Rushmore.”
“Can they bring in reinforcements?” Elaine asked.
“They would have already departed for their supply run,” Schiavo said. “But I can ask if they can spare some of the crew so I have a few more shooters. If the Navy is amenable, we might pick up a dozen troops. That would triple the size of the garrison.”
“Our friends out there might be made to think it’s more than that,” I said. “If we play it up big. Make it seem like we’re getting five times that. Six. Ten.”
“They might think twice about making any move,” Elaine said.
“The barbarians at the gate could just slink off, back to wherever they came from,” Schiavo said, agreeing.
“When is the Rushmore due in?” Mayor Allen asked.
“Three or four days from now,” Schiavo said.
“Can you get a burst transmission to them?” Martin asked.
His wife nodded and was about to say something more when the door to the conference room opened with sudden urgency, Sgt. Lorenzen coming through, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on his commander.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
Schiavo knew her second in command well enough that his tone, and his amped manner, pointed to something profound having occurred. She rose slowly, her chair sliding back as she did.
“What is it?”
Now Lorenzen looked to me, gaze widened over quickened breaths.
“She’s back.”
I stood now, as did Elaine, neither of us with near as smooth a motion as the captain. Our chairs screeched noisily away from the table, mine nearly tipping from my haste.
“Who?”
Asking the question was natural. But so was suspecting the answer. There was only one ‘she’ whose return would elicit such an announcement.
“Grace,” Lorenzen said. “And she’s not alone.”
Fifteen
Grace Moore had simply walked into town from the east, Krista at her side and a baby in her arms. They’d approached a checkpoint and were being sheltered there from a morning rain as we raced across town in a pair of Humvees to pick them up.
We took her and the children to their house. To what had been the house she shared with Neil. For six months it had sat vacant, but not empty. All that they had abandoned, minus the weapons, had been left undisturbed. A neighbor had come by one day soon after my friend’s inexplicable departure and made the beds. Once a week after that the same neighbor had entered the silent house and dusted, keeping the home as clean and tidy as possible, maybe in the hope that the family would someday return.
That hope had been realized in part.
“I need to feed the baby,” Grace said, shedding her coat and settling into a comfortable chair in the living room as if she’d just returned home from a trip to the market. “Can you hand me that blanket?”
The request was directed at Elaine, who noted the nod Grace gave toward a small, fuzzy throw neatly folded over the back of a high backed rocker. She retrieved it and handed it over.
“I’m just not one of those women who can let it all hang out when I’m breastfeeding,” Grace said, slipping the blanket over her shoulder and opening her blouse beneath as she began to feed her son.
Their son.
“A boy,” I said.
Grace looked up, some incalculable distance in the expression.
“His name is Brandon,” Grace said, gazing down at the infant in her arms. “Neil wanted that name. He said it was the closest to Bandon that wouldn’t get him beat up in kindergarten.”
She tried to smile at the mild joke. We all did. But the confusion that reigned over her sudden reappearance muted any natural reaction. Questions swirled without being asked. Doubts raged. Pity simmered as we looked upon those who had come back to us. Those who had come home.
I turned away from Grace and looked to Krista. She sat on the couch, ill at ease, as if she was visiting a stranger’s house and was afraid of offending her hosts.
“Hey sweetie,” I said, taking the space next to the child. “How are you?”
She didn’t verbalize any answer, but responded with a quiet nod. A child’s backpack sat on the floor near her feet, pretty and pink, its top zipper open to reveal a collection of toys and colored pencils inside.
“All your things are still in your room,” Elaine said. “Nothing’s been changed.”
Krista looked up to Elaine and let a small smile form, as if allowing the expression despite what she felt within. She clutched a small, hardbound notebook on her lap, its blue fabric cover bare, thumb and fingers rubbing nervously at the spine.
“What’s that?” I asked Krista.
Her gaze dipped to the notebook.
“My drawings,” Krista said.
She opened the cover and flipped through several pages of colorful, fanciful pictures. Animals drawn from memory. Horses. Elephants. Giraffes. Creatures that, almost certainly, existed only as recollections in the child’s mind.
“Those are very good,” Martin said.
“Micah showed me a lot of pictures of animals on his computer,” Krista said, closing the notebook, the smile she’d managed now fading.
“He had pictures of everything,” Martin said, his own smile building. “He loved showing them to you.”
Krista didn’t respond to Martin’s kind, bittersweet words. Her attention shifted, instead, to the front door. I looked and saw that the crowd which had gathered outside was growing, Lorenzen and Schiavo working to part the phalanx of townspeople so that familiar faces could make their way through.
“I hear we have a baby,” Mayor Allen said, Commander Genesee at his side.
Grace looked up and
nodded. The gesture was slack and subdued. No feeling in it whatsoever. Almost robotic. Without any training to back up my assessment, it seemed to me that she was in a state of mild shock.
“Grace, how are you?” Mayor Allen asked.
“I’m okay.”
The old doc tipped his head toward Krista.
“Is it all right if we give big sister a quick checkup?”
“Sure,” Grace said, her flaccid gaze shifting to her daughter. “Krista, Doc Allen is going to examine you.”
Krista, too, nodded almost without thought. Just a motion, head tipping up and down, because that was what the moment required.
“This is Commander Genesee,” Mayor Allen said, offering the introduction. “Trained in the Navy, so he must know what he’s doing.”
“It’s good to meet you,” Grace said, adjusting the baby against her breast.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Genesee responded.
“Why don’t we give Krista a quick look in her bedroom,” Mayor Allen suggested, smiling at the young girl. “I’m sure Elaine would come along to keep you company.”
“Absolutely,” Elaine said, reaching her hand out toward Krista.
“Can I bring my notebook and my backpack?”
“Of course,” Mayor Allen said.
Krista slid her small hand into Elaine’s and stood, slipping her notebook into the open backpack and lifting it by one strap. She and Elaine led the way down the hall and into her bedroom, Allen and Genesee following them in.
That left Martin and me with Grace and the son she’d had with my friend.
“Grace...”
She looked to me, a skim of tears glistening on her eyes. There were questions, too many questions. The both of us knew this. We also knew that answers would not change things. Would not turn the clock back.
Not while there was still one person missing.
“How is Neil?”
The simple question, so ordinary in another time, now carried with it pain, and disappointment, and worry.
