by David Lucin
Johansen, a rifle slung across his chest, a warrior to each his left and his right, waited next to a heap of bodies on the road. The Khan estimated there to be twenty, perhaps twenty-five. All belonged to the defenders of Flagstaff. A pair of soldiers carried a corpse and roughly dropped it beside the others. A dozen more, followers of Gaia, had been arranged in a tidy row nearby. Farther down, a crowd of men and women sat or lay in the snow. Prisoners, the Khan assumed. An equal number of armed White Horde guards kept watch. Moans of pain mixed with the sound of crying, and the stench of gunpowder and iron still hung heavy in the air.
“Most attacked us from over there.” Johansen indicated a line of trees and brush screening a set of train tracks to the south. “A bunch of others were hiding in the buildings over there.” He chinned toward the empty businesses. “Started throwing pipe bombs.” Crouching, he retrieved a nail from the snow. “They were filled with these.”
“I see.” The Khan came to a stop in the middle of the road and surveyed the battlefield. “A decidedly difficult place from which to launch an ambush.”
Johansen tossed the nail aside but remained crouched. He aimed a finger past the Khan. Thirty of the White Horde’s vehicles, all of them undamaged, filled the road. Two dozen warriors stood guard, weapons at the ready. “I sent the truck and the van ahead first. When they were attacked, I ordered the rest to stop, then told our guys to get around the flanks.”
“The enemy’s casualties?”
“We’re still counting.” Johansen put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll get you the final numbers as soon as I have them, but so far, it’s looking like thirty or forty dead from Flagstaff. About the same number captured or injured. One of them’s a bigwig, I think. Seems to be in charge. Dressed in National Guard fatigues. Name tape says Murphy.”
A leader, Gaia mused into the Great Khan’s mind. He may prove valuable.
Indeed, he replied, then said aloud, “Have any of the prisoners volunteered any noteworthy intelligence on our opponents?”
“We questioned a few of them. Most wouldn’t talk, but one mentioned something about the Skydome. I’m guessing it’s a stadium somewhere. Sounds like most of the town’s holed up in there with their food and water.”
“Skydome,” the Khan echoed. To the warrior on Johansen’s left, a young man no older than seventeen or eighteen, his face darkened by weeks of grime, he ordered, “Find a map. Locate this Skydome.”
The warrior offered a shallow bow before scurrying past the Khan on his way to the main convoy.
“And our losses?” the Khan asked Johansen.
“Lighter. Like I said, we’re still doing a final tally, but it’s about half for us.”
“A favorable trade.” Moving around a patch of bloodied snow, the Khan gestured southward, in the direction of the interstate. “And what of the battle there?”
Johansen made a face like he’d tasted something rotten. “It’s bad. We found a couple alive, but they won’t make it. All the vehicles that went in are beat up or totaled. Whoever attacked us got away and had two combat drones cover their retreat. The things are out of ammo and in emergency shutdown mode. I’ve got some guys tinkering with them, but it’ll take a miracle to get them working.”
He disagrees with your decision to reconnoiter in force, Gaia said, and he holds you responsible for our losses.
“All due respect,” Johansen continued without any respect at all, “but we should’ve known something was gonna happen when we saw the way the road cut through the rock like that. It was an obvious place to launch an ambush.”
The pair of soldiers who’d dropped the last corpse had begun to walk away but paused and turned to face Johansen. A trio carrying weapons taken from the dead came to a stop as well. Two honor guards, a man and a woman, both in black jackets and black ski masks, took long strides forward to stand in front of their leader. The guards by the prisoners were also looking this way. The Khan could sense others watching him from the convoy of vehicles to his rear.
His palms began to sweat. In Colorado, after the hard-fought battle against the National Guard at the safe zones, a team of insurrectionists led by an Tovin Safaryan, one of the Khan’s captains, came for him in his chambers at night. Three of his honor guards perished in the ensuing firefight, but the traitors were defeated, and the survivors, Safaryan included, were publicly executed. Yet not even Safaryan had dared challenge the Khan’s authority so openly and in front of so many.
Do I act now, Mother? he asked Gaia. I can have my honor guards put Johansen down in seconds.
Gaia spoke calmly: Look around you, child.
The Khan glanced toward the vehicles. A group of his followers had begun to approach in a line. All stayed their weapons, but the Khan did not know for certain where their loyalties lay, with him or with Johansen. Murmurs floated in from all directions, and tension warmed the air. A single spark could ignite a shootout.
A demonstration of your resolve and your strength, Gaia recommended. Remind them why I have chosen you as my hand on the material plane and why they must follow you, not Johansen.
The captain stood tall, defiant, hands clasped behind his back. A challenge. So the Khan shouted to anyone listening, “Bring me the leader, the one named Murphy.”
Johansen raised an eyebrow. Less than a minute later, two of the Khan’s warriors had retrieved a man from the group of prisoners. They held him by the arms, but he slouched between them, one foot dragging uselessly through the snow, the other struggling to gain purchase. He wore desert-camo fatigues that contrasted starkly with the white of the environment, and a tactical vest shielded his torso. Blood reddened his mouth and his beard. More blackened the pants over his limp leg.
He was dropped to his knees before the Great Khan. The two who’d carried him bowed their heads and backed away. Johansen watched on, motionless but for the persistent tugging of his earring.
“Murphy,” the Khan said, reading the man’s name tape. On the sleeve of his uniform, a patch of discolored fabric marked where a rank insignia had been removed. “You are military?”
Murphy rocked on his knees, chin to his chest, eyes half shut. Yet more blood glistened around his right armpit, where he’d apparently been shot. Soon, he would pass on. The Khan had to work fast.
He crouched, calmly, and spoke so every onlooker could hear: “Do you know who I am? Whom I represent?”
A cough from Murphy. Then, with what must have taken great effort, he lifted his chin and forced his eyes open. Something of a smile crossed his lips. “You’re uglier than I imagined.”
The Khan took no offense; in the throes of death, weak men often resorted to insults to stave off fear. Murphy’s bluster was nothing but a sad, final attempt to regain control of a hopeless situation.
Returning the smile, the Khan said, “You and your warriors fought bravely but in vain. Your army, it withdrew before I could destroy it. Where did it go?”
Murphy’s eyelids fluttered and then slammed shut. He leaned hard to the left, but an honor guard grasped him by the arm and forced him upright. At the touch, Murphy flinched, possibly in surprise, and his eyes widened.
You must be the one who sends him to the underworld, Gaia said. Act quickly.
The Khan held out his right hand, and the cool polymer of a handgun filled his palm. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle and waved the weapon in front of Murphy, who followed the motion with his pupils but otherwise gave no reaction. He exhibits great bravery, the Khan said to Gaia. A shame he could not be inducted into our horde.
Gaia merely hummed an affirmative into his mind.
“My patience is limited,” the Khan continued. “I will ask one final time. To where has your army withdrawn? Has it fallen back to this Skydome to defend your civilians?”
Murphy’s stare became distant and empty, and his complexion matched the color of the snow around him. He coughed out blood and drooped forward. Had an honor guard not been holding him upright, by now he wou
ld have collapsed.
“Very well.” The Khan rose to his feet, racked the slide of the pistol, and pressed the barrel to Murphy’s forehead.
Do it, Gaia commanded.
He met Johansen’s gaze, held it for a few long seconds, and then pulled the trigger. The crack of the weapon filled his ears, and with a muffled thwump, Murphy fell backward, onto the road.
One of the prisoners screamed, high and shrill, but the murmurs from the horde’s warriors, those rumblings of rebellion, had ceased entirely.
Johansen continued to stand tall.
Irked, the Khan returned the pistol to his honor guard, stepped over Murphy’s body, and ordered loudly so he’d be heard by all, “Send our dead to Gaia, but first, execute the captives. Leave their bodies to freeze in the street.”
A second scream came from the prisoners. In desperation, a few tried to stand. One, another soldier in desert-camo fatigues, was struck in the jaw with the butt end of a rifle. A woman in civilian clothing was kicked in the back of the knees and fell face-first onto the ground.
“When your work is done,” the Khan added, “gather their arms and armor and return to the convoy. Our enemy runs in fear of our might. We will find and destroy them, then feast on their riches in the name of our Great Mother.”
Several of his followers raised their fists or hoisted their weapons in the air while breaking into cheers. Their exuberance diffused like a drop of blood in water, and soon, most had begun shouting and chanting. Johansen had deflated, grown smaller, his shoulders slouched, spine rounded. After a final tug of his earlobe, he offered the Khan a bow, unslung his rifle, and marched off to carry out his orders.
Well done, my child, Gaia said. You have demonstrated true resolve.
Thank you, Mother. With Johansen tamed for now, he spun around and led his honor guards toward the horde’s main body on the interstate. Adrenaline tickled his extremities. His hands twitched, so he formed them into fists at his sides. Rarely did he choose to kill. That task was best left for his underlings. The horde is eager for blood. I can sense it.
Yes, I sense it, too. We must move swiftly, while morale is high. But proceed with caution. The ambush on the interstate was well-planned and well-executed, as was our enemy’s withdrawal. I fear the defending army has not all retreated to this Skydome. They may seek to strike our rear when we are at our most vulnerable.
A chorus of desperate screams and pleas for mercy rose from the prisoners, but they were silenced by the raucous rattle of automatic weapons fire.
Yes, Mother, the Khan said. I shall not underestimate them this time.
20
Jenn sat with her squad near the baggage claim area in the airport terminal. When Liam arrived at the hangar with Captain Townsend, he ordered the vehicles inside and the doors closed to keep them hidden from White Horde scouts. Little room remained for over two hundred Militia troops, who thus took refuge in here.
She pulled her feet up onto the plastic seat and brought her knees tight to her chest. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows. Exposed wooden rafters decorated the high, peaked ceiling, giving this place the feel of a ski lodge. Opposite a U-shaped baggage carousel stood banks of clunky, ancient-looking rental-car kiosks that likely hadn’t seen use in over two decades.
Most troopers sat idly in chairs, on the floor, or along the walls. A few moved around to keep warm. In the row of seats across from Jenn, Quinn blew into her hands and then rubbed them together. On her left, Freddie scratched away with his pencil but did more erasing than writing. On her right, Beau leaned his head back, eyes shut, arms tucked into his jacket. Jenn didn’t know how he could sleep at a time like this. She’d learned that a third of Bravo Company was missing, the troops presumed dead or captured. Another third were wounded and had withdrawn to the Skydome, where they would hopefully receive treatment. The remainder, forty-eight men and women, Captain Morgan included, rendezvoused with the rest of the Militia at the airport. Still nobody had seen or heard from Sergeant Murphy, and the last thing the drones saw before they ran out of batteries was the White Horde forming up in the parking lot of the Walkup Skydome. Liam had sent scouts on foot to reconnoiter the position further, and for the past hour, he’d been discussing the Militia’s next move with his officers.
“What’s taking so long?” Jenn asked anyone listening as she picked impatiently at her bootlaces. Sam, along with Gary and Maria and the rest of her family, were now trapped in the Skydome, and she was helpless to do anything about it—unless she wanted to take on the entire White Horde herself. If Liam didn’t come up with a plan soon, she might have to. “We need to move fast. We can’t let the Khan have free rein to do whatever he wants in town.”
Freddie laid his notebook in his lap and massaged his gloveless fingers; they were probably half frozen. “He could be waiting to see what we do.”
“Yeah,” Quinn agreed. She pulled a plastic baggy from her pocket, but only crumbs lined the bottom. “The commander obviously thinks he’s looking for us, since we’re hiding out in here.”
“You think he’ll try to find us or go straight for the Skydome?” Jenn asked.
“Could be a siege,” Beau said without opening his eyes. So he wasn’t sleeping after all. “They’ve got food in there for months but only enough water for, what, a week?”
“About that, yeah.” Jenn bit the inside of her cheek. Maria would exhaust her oxygen supply within days, before the Skydome ran out of water.
Quinn scooped out breadcrumbs with her index finger. As she licked them off, her attention wandered to something behind Jenn. So did Freddie’s. The ambient chatter in the baggage claim area quieted, and most of the troops were now facing the same direction.
Jenn spun around in her seat, seeing Dylan descend a set of metal stairs leading to the second floor of the terminal. Her stomach clenched at the sight of her platoon leader; she hadn’t spoken to him since their blowout in the hangar.
He focused on her. “Jansen, you got a minute?”
She swallowed hard and poked her chest with her finger. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.” He motioned for her to follow him. “Come on.”
Hastily, she gathered her backpack and rifle. Was he going to chew her out for earlier? Probably. At least this would give her the opportunity to apologize.
“Be right back,” she said to her squadmates and hurried after Dylan, rehearsing her apology in her head. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that, and I shouldn’t have questioned you in front of the grunts. I’m sorry, and it’ll never happen again. I promise.
He led her past the washroom facilities and the café, where twenty or thirty troops sat at the tables and the bar, then went outside through a set of open automatic doors. An overhang with more decorative rafters covered the drop-off and pickup zone. The sun, red and beginning its descent toward the horizon, lurked behind a stand of tall ponderosa pines. Snow fell lazily from the sky. Despite all the violence Jenn had witnessed today, or maybe because of it, she found the scene beautiful.
They strolled down the sidewalk, away from the door, saying nothing. The air smelled crisp, clean, reminding Jenn of her hike to Lowell Observatory with Sam. She didn’t think anyone was supposed to be going outside, not with the Khan’s forces potentially scouring Flagstaff in search of the Militia, but she would follow Dylan’s lead.
When she worked up the courage to launch into her apology, she panicked at the last second, and all that came out was, “So what’s up? Did you guys come up with a plan to relieve the Skydome?”
“Liam’s just finalizing the details with Morgan and Townsend now. He’ll be briefing us in fifteen.”
“That’s good.” Things were being set in motion, putting her one step closer to rescuing Sam. She would have preferred launching a counterattack an hour ago, but she reminded herself yet again to leave the big decisions up to the experts, as much as it pained her to do so.
Dylan stopped at a picnic table. A dusting of snow covered the seats, so he b
rushed off enough room for them both to sit. The concrete was cool against her butt and thighs, but she barely noticed. She was about to receive a tongue-lashing, and she deserved it. Apologize, she told herself. Just do it.
Curling her toes, she blurted out, “I’m sorry for earlier. I was being a jerk and was way out of line. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. With everything going on, I was worried about Sam and I lost control and—”
“We were in Pokrovka,” he interrupted and sat beside her. “Or Peprova. I could never pronounce the name.”
“Peprova? What are you . . .” Realization and then surprise struck her like an open-handed slap across the face. “In West Ukraine?”
“Yeah, south central, not too far from Odesa on the Black Sea, which was swarming with Ruskies. Lots of Russian-speakers in Peprova, too. I was a few years older than you, twenty-five, in command of a squad. Our job was to hang tight, watch the nearby river for transports, make sure the Ruskies weren’t getting boats full of guns and ammo to their operatives farther north.”
“Makes sense,” she said, at a total loss for words. Why had Dylan decided to tell her about West Ukraine now, of all times? She wanted to listen and be his sounding board, but only if he was comfortable sharing this story with her. Hearing about his past wasn’t as important as their friendship. She could find other ways to support him. “Hey, if you don’t want to talk about this, I understand.”
“No, I should’ve told you a long time ago.” He drew lines in the snow on the tabletop with his finger. “So we were in P-whatever. Months go by. We’re checking boats every day. Usually it’s nothing, just locals. Then it all goes to hell. We catch a Ruskie arms shipment. They try to fight back. Shots are fired. A corporal gets hit, bullet to the neck. Lewis. Corporal Colleen Lewis. She had quite the mouth on her. Worse than you.”
Jenn considered lightening the mood with a joke but hung onto Dylan’s every word.
“Anyway, Lewis bleeds out in seconds,” he continued. “My lieutenant’s a guy named Thibault, real piece of work. Daddy was a colonel, so he thought he was hot stuff. He’s been on edge for weeks, thinking the villagers have been spying on us and sending intel to Odesa. They probably were, but there wasn’t really anything we could do about that. Not our job.
