A New World: Storm

by John O'Brien

  We wait in hushed silence as the sunlight slowly grows brighter through the windows, signaling the coming of day. The tension residing within the hangar is palpable as we wait for the sun to peek above the horizon. Craig checked in when they reached their position high to the south of the marauder encampment and I should hear their report soon. It’s light enough outside that we don’t have to worry about lurking night runners so we exit onto the tarmac and ready the vehicles for our excursion. We will be using Jason's fuel reserves; but hopefully, by the end of the day, he won’t have to worry about that for a while…at least until the fuel itself goes bad.

  I climb in the passenger seat of one of the pickups with several soldiers piling in the back. They will hide their weapons in the beds. Initially, I thought about only using a couple of vehicles, but I decide to use more. There will be four vehicles pulling out of the gate to give the impression that the people here are desperate and making a run for the farm. The others will load up and be on their way once the lookouts have been disposed of. Then, the remainder of the twenty-five with me will catch up, and Horace will take her team in the other direction.

  “Jack, this is Craig, over,” the radio comes to life.

  “Go ahead,” I reply.

  “Robert says there is movement at the facility. One pickup with a team of four heading east along the remains of the highway,” he briefs.

  “Okay. Track them, but keep an eye on the building as well,” I say.

  “Copy that.”

  Several minutes pass before Craig calls in with an update. “The pickup turned off the main road past the reservoir. It’s heading to the northwest along dirt roads up the peninsula between the reservoir and river. They are going slow, most likely trying to avoid stirring up dust.”

  Well, they’re not total idiots, I think, tracking their progress on the map.

  From all appearances, the truck is trying to get to a place across the river where they can get into a position to monitor the base. Looking south, I see the faint outline of steep embankments.

  “Oh, and Robert wants me to let you know that they appear to be following a set of tracks already made in the road.”

  “Copy,” I reply.

  The sun climbs a little higher into the clear, blue sky. The morning has a chill to it but my nervousness pushes that into the background. I hate waiting and that only adds to my anxiety. I run our plan through my mind, trying to come up with glaring flaws, throwing variables in to see if we left an opening that will present a greater amount of risk. Perhaps I should just have Robert blast the building into next year and be done with it. Sitting in the truck in the light of day, I’m not sure why I don’t. It’s not that I really think the group we’re after will change their ways, and there’s no way I’d trust them if they appeared to do so. I guess I just want to see them face-to-face.

  “Jack, the vehicle stopped on one of the northern escarpments directly south of the base. The four exited and took a position right on the edge. It appears they are in good position to look over the entire base,” Craig updates.

  “Okay. Good copy. We’ll give them a chance to set up and move out in ten mikes,” I respond.

  We are operating on an encrypted satellite channel so there’s not much of a chance that we can be overheard. Robert is running a scan on known channels but hasn’t picked anything up as yet or he would have mentioned something. It could be that they are operating on CB channels, which would give them range, but there is nothing coming through the radio sitting on the seat beside me. Of course, we may be out of range ourselves.

  The ten minutes passes by both slowly and in the blink of an eye. I notify the others that we are moving out and direct the driver to the base’s main entrance. Once we exit the front gate and enter the highway, I hear a quick burst of static come from the CB radio. I don’t hear actual words, but the bursts continue for a short period of time.

  “We have movement at the facility,” Craig radios. “People are heading out of the building and loading into vehicles. Number unknown at this time, but there’s a few of them. We’ll give you a count and direction shortly.”

  Our verification is close at hand. I glance in the rear view and see the three other pickups with us tracking along behind. So far, things appear to be working as planned.

  Those are famous last words, I think, watching the sand-covered road ahead.

  “Jack. Robert reports twelve 4WD pickups, each with approximately four people, heading north along a dirt road that will place them on an intercept course with the highway. The track they’re on is a single road without any others forking off from it. They’re definitely heading your way,” Craig reports.

  “Copy that. We’ll take that as our verification. Keep tracking them and take out the lookouts,” I order.

  “On our way. They’re already targeted and we’ll be on them in three minutes,” Craig states.

  The first shot is about to be fired. It will be tricky timing if we don’t want to run into the intercepting force. Once the lookouts are taken down, it will take a few minutes for the Spooky to get into position to strafe the line of vehicles heading our way. We don’t dare halt our little convoy before the sentries are eliminated, as that will be suspicious. I just hope they don’t try and contact them afterwards. That’s a highly likely scenario, but there’s nothing we can do about a variable like that. If we are discovered, well, that’s not really that big of a deal. We’ll just pummel them and I’ll have to miss my little tête-à-tête. I do, however, have the driver slow down some.

  Looking to the south, I don’t see the Spooky. It should appear as a small dot being so far away, but I’m also looking southeastward into the sun. That will prevent the marauders from seeing it as well. Strain as I might, I don’t make out any streamers of red light. There’s just the radio call: “Lookouts eliminated. We’re on our way to the intercepting group. We have to detour to the north and we’ll be on station in five minutes.”

  “Copy that. All units, move out,” I radio, having the driver come to a halt.

  We’ll wait in our location for the others to catch up. Without anyone on their side to see us now, we can afford to stop.

  To the south-southwest, I spot a faint trail of dust rising on the still morning air. If I wasn’t looking for and expecting it, I might have missed it in the midst of the brown landscape surrounding us. Stepping outside, I gaze into the sky to see the small dot of the Spooky circling the base to the north. They’ll set up and make a run from north to south down the road, turning before they get too close to the marauder camp. Although the interceptors are closing in on our small group, the farther north they get, the better.

  The dust cloud trailing behind the intercepting group grows larger. Above the noise of the idling pickup, I hear a faint droning and look up to see the Spooky, several thousand feet overhead, pass us as they line up for their attack run. They’ll make a straight-line pass down the length of the column using only the Gatling gun. Any explosions from the 40mm or 105mm cannon will carry and create clouds of dirt that could be seen for miles. Of course, should any of the vehicles catch fire, the dark smoke rising in the air will also be seen. At any point, should it be apparent that our attack is observed, I’ll abandon the thought of drawing close and just have the gunship attack the main building.

  * * * * * *

  Standing in the darkened command center, lit only by the reflected glow of the monitors, Robert stares at one of the screens. It gives him an overall view of the terrain extending out several miles. They had hit the lookouts perched on the edge of a steep cliff only a few minutes before. The ground around where the four had huddled together suddenly erupted in a flurry of dust as heavy caliber rounds tore into it. Bodies were slammed into the surface, limbs separated and torsos ripped apart as the shells slammed into them. One body was thrown over the cliff from the tremendous force that came upon them out of the blue. Robert was careful to identify each body and validate that they were down before Craig turned aw
ay toward their next assignment.

  This never gets old, he had thought, seeing the results of his actions.

  He was removed from the actual carnage, like one of the video games he played, well, when there were such things.

  We may have to set up a gaming center when we get back and things settle down.

  “We’re north of the base and turning for our run,” Craig radios.

  “Copy that. We’re set up and the vehicles are in sight and targeted,” Robert responds.

  Below, centered on the screen giving him his extended view outward, he spots four vehicles halted on the road leading west from the base. Reaching over Henderson’s shoulder, he taps a console button and the screen magnifies. Standing next to the lead vehicle, he makes out the face of his dad peering upward. With a small smile, Robert taps the button again and the screen resumes extended view of the landscape below.

  The aircraft straightens out from its turn to the south. Ahead and to the left of the Spooky, Robert eyes a line of vehicles approaching those halted on the highway. The lead trucks are in view, but layers of dust billowing from the moving vehicles hide the others behind. On the targeting monitor of the Gatling gun he sees a more magnified image of the pickups. He knows that the weapon can put a round in every square inch of a football field on a single pass, but they’ll have to be steady on this one. Luckily, the cold morning air is stable and the aircraft is steady without any turbulence.

  “Switch to IR,” he calls.

  The monitor flickers and the screen, which had presented a daytime image, changes to one that highlights the vehicles. The dust clouds vanish, leaving only a hint of their existence, revealing the vehicles with astonishing clarity.

  “Get ready, on my mark. Craig, once we complete our run, make your turn to the left so we can verify the kill zone,” Robert says.

  The target indicator drifts steadily down the dirt track. Just in front of the lead vehicle, Robert calls calmly: “Mark. Begin firing.”

  Over the drone of the engines, he hears the buzz saw sound of the Gatling gun go into action. The results are displayed on his screen as streaks of light pour outward and rounds begin shredding the road. Sparks shower where the heavy caliber rounds impact the metal of the trucks. Hoods are punched in and the vehicles are slammed downward under the onslaught. Windshields shatter as the bullets tear through, seeking the flesh of those seated behind them. The people riding in the beds are torn apart. Rounds march down the road like a swift moving wave. It takes only seconds before they reach the last truck.

  “Cease fire,” Robert calls. “Craig, run completed.”

  As the aircraft begins a shallow bank to the left, Robert stares at the monitor. “Okay, let’s look for runners.”

  He looks, but sees nothing moving. There are the figures of bodies lying everywhere, slowly fading as they cool. There’s nothing below except the dead or dying, and twelve pickups that will sit on the road until they rust into the ground.

  “We have a runner,” Gonzalez reports.

  Looking back to the screen, Robert sees a white figure running through one of the fields adjacent the road. He isn’t sure how the person made it through the slaughter, but there he is.

  “Target and fire,” he says.

  The reticle moves to a position just in front of the fleeing figure. The Gatling gun fires a quick burst, almost too fast to be heard. The ground surrounding the runner erupts for a split second, leaving behind another cooling corpse.

  “Targets eliminated,” Robert informs Craig.

  * * * * * *

  I watch the Spooky pass overhead, and climb back in the truck. A line of trucks pulls up behind our little convoy as the soldiers join. Keeping the aircraft in view, I have the driver proceed. As much as I’d like to watch the gunship do its work, we have precious few minutes and need to get as close to the camp as we can. A stream of red tracers leaps out from the dark silhouette and streak toward the ground. From this distance, I can’t see the results, other than an increase in the amount of dust in the air. The fire only lasts for a few seconds before I see the aircraft begin a turn. Glancing back to the dirt swirling in the calm air, I don’t see any dark smoke plumes that would give us away.

  Our speed along the highway increases. I’m not sure of their radio procedures, but I’m sure they’ll soon be curious as to how things are going. We need to be much closer before that happens, before they figure out that things aren’t right. I glance to the CB radio beside me. There was a momentary break in the squelch when the column was hit, but it wasn’t long enough for me to believe that it was any sort of warning. There’s still a lot that could happen between now and then. If there is any break in the squelch, or an actual conversation that leads me to believe there is an attempt to contact the intercepting party, I’ll radio Craig and just have them hit the building.

  “Jack, Robert reports that all targets are eliminated,” Craig radios.

  The Spooky circumvents the marauder base and sets up to the south in order to monitor the building. I have them scan the surrounding area for any others that might be keeping watch; focusing on the small town we’ll be passing through. Craig reports that they don’t see anyone in the outlying areas. The bandits may have been smart about setting up their watch over the base, but that’s where their intelligence ends. I’m guessing they are secure in their numbers and don’t believe that anyone is capable of attacking them.

  Horace sends updates on her position and we adjust our speed accordingly. I want to arrive at our disembarkation points and meet up at the building at the same time. As we both close in, we’ll slow in order to minimize our dust trails. I thought about taking the same road as the intercepting group, but there’s just no way we can come in from that angle without being spotted. The east and west approaches are still our best shot.

  Swinging to the south, we cross over the Snake River and are through the small town on the other side of the bridge in no time. So far, there hasn’t been a peep from the CB. I’m thinking that they won’t be expecting a radio call from their group until after they do whatever it is they were going to do…if at all. If they do call, I figure I can fake a reply that may buy us a little time. At least, as long as nothing personal is mentioned. And, seeing we don't get very good reception where we are, I’ll hide my voice by making it scratchy. If they are expecting to hear their comrade, that’s what they’ll hear. The mind is geared to notice something out of the ordinary. If I can provide what they expect, that will complete the illusion. Besides, I don’t really have anything to lose by doing so.

  We soon slow down and pull off the road. We’ve reached the point where we’ll leave the trucks and proceed through the overgrown fields. The stalks in the outlying fields have grown higher than our heads. As long as we don’t push through them like a stampeding herd of water buffalo, we should be able to approach undetected. We wait for a couple of minutes until Horace calls in that she and her group are in position to proceed on foot. It’s here that we’ll leave our asses hanging in the breeze. However, with the nature of the landscape, we should be able to disengage and lose any pursuit quite easily. The Spooky loitering above will help with that.

  That doesn’t help my nerves much, though. However, at least we’re doing something and not just waiting around. Although I feel the tension strumming through every nerve, I also feel a cold calm begin to settle within. It’s time to focus every sense on the environment around; focus on each and every step.

  We start slowly toward the facility, stepping between the tall stalks as best we can. We won’t be able to disguise the trail left by twenty-six people, but we can hide the fact that we’re coming. In the tall grass, our field of vision is limited to a scant few feet, and I have to make periodic forays to the road to check our progress. I have the CB radio with me with the volume turned down, so that any sound coming from it won’t be heard for very far. With my hearing, I can keep it almost silent. There’s nothing but the swish of clothing brushing through the stalks. Lu
ckily, the chill day continues, or we would all be a sweltering mess.

  Not far from the building, I come to a thick screen of bushes growing next to an irrigation canal. The flow of water is sluggish, but the nature of the canal makes it deep. Glancing to my right, I notice a footbridge has been placed across. It’s a welcome sight, as I wasn’t looking forward to slogging around in wet boots for the rest of the day. I’ve done that enough times in the past and it’s never been near the top of my fun list.

  We quickly cross, and with the view of the road from the canal, I’m able to place our location on the map. We’re a little ways into the field from the highway, the building about a quarter mile away on the opposite side of the road. Horace reports that they’re closing in and I have them halt in place so we can catch up. Having to adjust our path to the crossing has held us up a little.

  “Where are you guys? What’s going on?” a barely audible, deep voice comes from the CB.

  Holding the mobile radio, I reply in a halting, scratchy voice. “We’re just…on them now. Hang on.”

  “Well, hurry the fuck up. We’re making that foray into town soon,” the voice responds.

  We have a little time, but not much. Whoever is on the other end of the radio seems a touch impatient; and from the sound of it, they may be departing the facility soon, with or without the missing party. It’s not like we can move any faster. I won’t sacrifice stealth for speed.

  The scenery doesn’t change and it seems like we are stuck on a treadmill, with tall stalks passing on either side, only to be replaced by more. Only the sun rising higher in the sky indicates the passage of anything. Every once in a while, I catch a hint of sound from the Spooky circling to the south. It’s so faint, even to my hearing, that I think I’m only imagining it because I expect it to be there. It’s like the faint brush of a stalk against my clothes, there and then gone in an instant.