One Year After: A Novel

by William R. Forstchen

  By the time they reached Swannanoa proper, John knew that it was turning into something more than just a game. The Apache pilot was getting increasingly aggressive, with Billy pushing the edge of sane piloting in response. He started to line up to go underneath a highway overpass, John finally asserting himself and shouting for Billy to break it off.

  Skimming only half a dozen feet above Interstate 40 for the last few miles, the helicopter circled wide and came across their front, the pilot half saluting them, but Billy returned the gesture with finger extended as he instantly pulled full back on the joystick and clawed for altitude, the plane shaking violently from the rotor downwash that would have slammed them into the pavement if he had not reacted.

  “I think that bastard was trying to crash us at the end!” Billy shouted.

  John did not reply. With the tension of the last hour at an end, he finally relaxed enough to reopen the barf bag and let go for a second time. There was a crosswind as they came in to touch down, Billy tensing up as much as when dodging the helicopters, landing with portside wing down low and rudder in the opposite direction, the plane coming down a bit hard and then rolling out. A couple of cars were parked on the westbound side of the highway, one of them Ed’s much-battered patrol car, the other Maury’s Jeep.

  They rolled to a stop while still on the highway, Billy popping the door, staggering out, and walking around the plane to look at the bullet hole in the wing and the one through the cab farther aft, which had shattered the overhead window. Then, like John, he just leaned over and vomited. “Damned if I ever fly you again, John,” he gasped.

  Leaping the highway crash barriers, Ed, Danny, and Maury approached the two, all three shouting questions as Ed grabbed hold of John, who was definitely shaking from the experience. He well understood now a conversation shared long ago with a general who had been a veteran, first wave in on Omaha Beach, and from there led his battalion all the way to the Elbe in 1945. He had once asked his elderly friend what was the most frightening moment of the war, and the general laughed, saying he was trained for Omaha and too busy on the beach that day trying to bring order out of chaos to be scared, but the time he had gone up with his recon pilot, the experience had scared him half to death. Though frightened by the game of chicken with the helicopter pilots, John was now furious, as well.

  Ed was still holding him by the arm. After all the noise, shouting, and confusion, it was hard to sort out what the police chief was saying, and then he caught it. “Fredericks wants to see you now, John.”

  John nodded. “You’re damn straight he does, and I want to see him now!”

  Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the parking area in front of the courthouse, John having quickly briefed Ed on what he had seen and what happened afterward.

  They got out of the car and headed for the courthouse entrance. The same sergeant who had hassled John on an earlier visit was out front and came toward him as if waiting to strike. John slowed and glared at him coldly. “Son, either you get the hell out of my way or you’re going to quickly find out if that gun of yours is for show or not.”

  The guard hesitated, and John stepped around him.

  “Bullshit trooper,” John snapped as they continued on. “No guts when facing someone really pissed off.”

  “Keep it calm, John,” Ed whispered.

  “Not after what I just saw,” John snapped.

  They stepped into the cool darkness of the courthouse. The fluorescent lights were off this morning. Another security guard blocked their way as they came into the foyer.

  “Your weapons,” he snapped as a preemptive order.

  “Yeah, right,” John growled, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a pocket Ruger semiautomatic, and slapping it on to the table. “Careful, son. It’s actually loaded.”

  The guard glared at him but said nothing then turned to Ed.

  “Like hell,” Ed announced loudly, his voice echoing in the foyer. “I am chief of police of my town, and for fifteen years, I’ve walked in and out of here and never surrendered a weapon unless going into a courtroom. So like hell, son.”

  He started to step around the table, and the guard stepped back, unclipping the safety strap of his holster.

  “Listen, boy, you are an amateur,” Ed snarled. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be before the devil or Saint Peter. So just leave your gun in that holster.”

  “Sir, step back three feet, turn around, and keep your hands over your head.”

  “Go ahead and try it.” Ed was actually grinning. “I was sick of your type before the war, and I’m doubly sick of you now.”

  “Sir, I will shoot to disable you.”

  “Oh, really? Go ahead, damn you!”

  John began to step between the two.

  “Charlie, back off.” It was Dale, storming out of his office with two security guards in tow.

  The guard looked away from Ed, and John’s friend laughed. “You village idiot. Wrong move, Charlie. Bang-bang, you’re dead.” Ed was holding up his empty hand, forefinger pointed at the guard, thumb moving like a gun hammer.

  One of Dale’s guards did have his gun out and drawn in reaction to Ed’s gesture, and for a frightful instant, John thought Ed was a dead man.

  Dale actually came to a stop, letting the guards move in front of him.

  “Everybody just freeze!” John shouted, and his command voice was firmly in place, echoing in the cavernous foyer.

  All looked to John, except Ed, whose hand was not on his holster but only inches away with the safety strap unbuttoned.

  “Now everyone work with me, and let’s calm down. Mr. Fredericks, please ask your personnel to relax. Ed, can I have your permission to remove your weapon myself and put it on the table?”

  “Go to hell, John.”

  “Ed, please, let’s defuse this calmly. Okay, my friend?”

  Ed continued to stare intently at the guard who had drawn a weapon but finally nodded in agreement. John stepped up to his friend, deliberately letting the jumpy guard at the front desk and the ones now blocking off Dale from harm see him draw Ed’s weapon out with thumb and forefinger and place it on the table next to his Ruger.

  There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief, and Dale stepped around his two guards. “John, can I see you in my office?”

  John and Ed fell in behind Dale, Ed looking back over his shoulder menacingly at the two security guards who followed them all the way into Dale’s office. The guards stood unmoving until Dale finally gave a nod of dismissal.

  “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” Ed quipped as the two exited.

  “Damn it,” Dale snapped as soon as the door was closed. “I got enough trouble around here today without you two pulling that scene out there.”

  “Us pulling it?” Ed replied hotly. “I’ve been chief of police for fifteen years. Rules were I kept my sidearm in the building. Hell, there was even an incident in here some years back where folks were damn glad I was armed. Only time I was to disarm was when I went into a courtroom to testify. I’ll be damned if some black-uniformed rent-a-cop orders me to disarm and is so damn stupid I could have blown his ass away in response.”

  “And you two would have been dead,” Dale retorted icily. “Those two you just insulted are trained security specialists, and they know their business.”

  “Your personal bodyguards, Mr. Fredericks?” Ed cried.

  Dale was silent.

  “Well, if they’re so damn professionally trained, they forgot something.” Ed reached down and lifted up his right pant leg to reveal a Ruger like the one John had strapped to his ankle. “Some frigging security, Dale.”

  Dale gazed at him coldly.

  “So do I keep it, or do you call your goons?”

  “I suggest you leave this meeting now,” Dale replied, and there was a flicker of a smile, but John could see the coldness behind the mask.

  “And if I say no?”

  “I’ll have you escorted out. The rules h
ere are now firm. No firearms carried into this building.”

  “Then call your goons, and let’s see what happens.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Ed,” John interjected. “Let’s all cool it down here. We didn’t come here to argue about the policy of carrying in this building. Ed, there are bigger fish to fry at the moment.”

  “You telling me to leave, John? Is that an order? Because I’ll be damned if I part with my ankle shooter now.”

  John put a reassuring hand on the shoulder of this man who had stood by his side through two long, terrible years. “Ed, for the sake of the moment, as a favor, please go along with it.”

  “That was our problem before the Day. Just go along with it. It was always ‘just go along with things’ as we kept stepping backwards, and look where it landed us.” As he spoke, his gaze was fixed firmly on Dale.

  Dale did not move, but John could see his eyes going wide, features paling. “I will call my security team in ten seconds,” Dale replied.

  “Oh, now the threat to bring in the gestapo.”

  “The what? How dare you!”

  “Ed, please cool off,” John whispered, trying to sound reassuring. “Please help me with this.”

  There was eye contact, and Ed finally nodded and without a word turned and walked out of the office, slamming the door hard.

  “He’s a hothead, John.”

  “He’s saved my life more than once. He helped keep our town together, and frankly, he had every right to be pissed off just now.”

  Dale opened the cabinet and motioned to the bottle of scotch. “I think we could both use a drink after this.”

  John shook his head in refusal.

  “John, this country is still at war, and some rules have to change. For the security of this building, no weapons except by designated personnel is now firmly one of them.”

  “Rules changed. Like killing innocent civilians?”

  “Sit down, John. You’ve had a hard day.”

  “You’re damn straight it’s been a hard day after what I saw a few hours ago and what your hotshot pilots pulled on me after that.”

  “I heard you were up in that plane. Why in God’s name did you go up and stick yourself into the middle of that fight?”

  “Because it bordered territory I feel responsible for. That’s why.”

  “A bit of advice. There are times when a man in our position has to learn to delegate. And second, as a military man, you should have immediately grasped it was a military operation under way, and to go sticking yourself smack in the middle of it was foolhardy, and you know it.”

  “A military operation authorized by you?” John asked coldly.

  “John, regarding you. Thank God my pilots are well trained. One of them radioed in about your plane, and I ordered him to hold his fire. Otherwise, they were about to dump you out of the sky, thinking you were one of the gangs we were taking care of today.”

  “Gangs?” John exhaled noisily. “Have you debriefed your pilots yet? Have you looked at the gun camera footage?”

  “No to the first question, other than a brief radio report, and as for the second, we don’t have gun camera footage anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the equipment doesn’t exist. We’re cobbling aircraft back together once they are shipped back here to the States, and as quickly as we get them flying, they’re dispatched out. Gun cameras are just about the last damn thing we worry about as long as the machine flies.”

  “Well, I wish to God you rethought that one.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I wandered on to the scene, it wasn’t that those hotshots were tearing up some vehicles belonging to gangs and murderous thugs—they were strafing the woods where noncombatants, women, children, and old people were hiding.” He paused, forcing himself to calm down, to shift out of an emotional response, to fall back on to the long years of training to be dispassionate, in control of himself. He took a deep breath. “I witnessed the last firing run. The pilot lit up a stretch of woods, and a couple dozen people, many of them obviously women and children, broke cover in panic. They were gunned down without mercy.”

  “How many?”

  “A couple dozen, at least. Nearly all were hit.”

  Dale took that in, again putting fingertips together in the shape of an inverted V, chin resting on the tips, looking pensive. “Hmm. They didn’t report that.”

  “What were their mission orders? But before that, why the attack in the first place?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “A supply convoy running from here up to Johnson City was hit just north of Mars Hill. Two of my people dead, half a dozen wounded, one vehicle destroyed. That was yesterday afternoon.”

  “Mars Hill—that’s in Madison County. Word is that the border reivers up there are an entirely different group.”

  “How do you know that?”

  At that moment, he felt it best not to elaborate too much. “Dale, I’ve been dealing with these issues for two years. You’ve been here how long? A month?”

  Dale did not reply.

  “May I suggest you get a better feel for who is what before you start sending out strike missions. There’s a nut job over in Madison and down into Haywood County who claims he talks directly to God and gets his marching orders from him, and that includes killing. They were the ones who most likely hit your convoy. Even with that in mind, is an attack on your convoy justification for slaughtering dozens of civilians in reply? How can you be sure you even were hitting the group that attacked your people on the highway?”

  “Damn sure.” Dale’s tone was getting sharp, disturbed that his judgment had been challenged. “I had a drone up to check it out before we went in.”

  “You’ve got drones?”

  “Of course we do. Did a survey several hours after the attack on the highway—spotted a couple of vehicles heading from the direction of Mars Hill straight back to the encampment I ordered to be attacked today. It was and is intended to be a message to all in the region that, henceforth, official federal operations and convoys are not to be harassed. It is a necessary message to everyone if we are to restore order in my district.”

  “But no confirmed identification that it was definitely them?”

  “John, are you trying to defend these people?”

  “No, Dale,” he replied quietly, making direct eye contact. “But what I can confirm is that I saw your people gun down innocent civilians.”

  “If they are running with the reivers, they are not innocent civilians. If innocent, they’d have come out of the backcountry long ago, registered for rations, lived in safe areas as designated by the government. The army unit that was here before me put out that appeal, and I’ve done the same thing. Therefore, after they hit my convoy, I saw that as justified reason to send the strongest possible message that things have changed around here.”

  “Dale, your people were shooting up civilians. They are people who were living up there before the war, and those that are left see it as their land still. And the fact that this drone of yours—which apparently has video equipment while your helicopters do not—spots two vehicles is slim evidence to me. These people are far too savvy to pull a hit on a convoy and then be spotted two hours later.”

  “I made the decision and stand by it.” He paused. “Though I should have given you a call to get your view since you seem to know these reivers a lot better than you let on.”

  “You implying something?”

  “Well, it is curious that you get taken prisoner by them, and four days later, you come walking out of the woods as if nothing had happened.”

  “What are you implying, Dale?” John repeated, this time more forcefully.

  “Just that it was strange. You should have filed a report with me about what happened while you were their prisoner. It seems a lot more transpired than you let on in our last conversation. Otherwise, you would not be defending them now.” He pause
d. “Did you strike any deals with them?”

  “I didn’t receive any memo from you that henceforth I was to report all activities to you.”

  “I am the representative of the government here. If you had been more forthright with me, maybe what happened today could have been avoided.”

  John glared at him without responding to this classic maneuver to transfer responsibility and guilt if something went sour.

  “Yeah, the reivers over the mountain from me are a tough bunch, but they’re mostly into raiding for food, gas, and whatever they think they need. Yes, they’ve killed, and we’ve killed some of them, but outright murdering for a pig, a bushel of wheat, a few gallons of gas … that’s not their style or mine. Taking on an armed convoy sounds more like the reivers farther west following one of those nut jobs than the ones north of me who I have found are mostly folks just trying to survive, the same as you and me.” He paused for a moment. “In spite of our differences, I still see them as Americans.”

  “And I see them as what you locals here call reivers. They got a hundred different names for them around the country, but they all come down to the same type, and one of my jobs is to either bring them back under legal control and compliance with the law or else.”

  “Or else what, Dale? And while we’re on that, what is this rumor about the release of neutron bombs for use within the continental United States?”

  “The situation in some urban areas is beyond retrieval. But come on—to actually use them? We both know the game of threat, and that’s all I can tell you.” Dale sighed and extended his hands in a gesture of frustration. “But back to here and now. I’d rather try persuasion than what I had to do this morning.”

  “Twenty-millimeter miniguns are a rather permanent and uncompromising way of persuasion.”

  “Damn it, John.” Now his voice was cold. “Have you been anywhere outside of your small town since the Day?”