by John Grit
The punk caught the look in Nate’s eye – dogged, merciless – and hesitated. The game had somehow changed. Something about Nate’s eyes served as a warning more clear than the rattle on a snake’s tail. He’d kicked at the diamondback once too often. In a sudden panic, he reached for the pistol hidden under his jacket.
Nate and Deni fired at the same time, she twice, Nate three times. He was dead before he hit the ground. Nate approached his prone body, rifle shouldered. When he was ten feet away, he put two more rounds into his chest.
Deni had approached Vitrano alongside Nate. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Nate, he’s not worth it.”
He turned to her and the shadow lifted from his face. It was over.
Chapter 26
Nate sat in Donovan’s office. He and Deni listened to the Colonel inform them what his soldiers had learned about the anarchists.
Donovan pointed to several books on his desk. “We found this in one of the trucks.”
Deni and Nate glanced down at the books. The one on top was titled “Anarchy for a better World.”
Donovan continued. “Nate, your idea the six losers you and Sergeant Heath killed were part of the militia group seems to be accurate.”
“I thought the trucks had to be too much of a coincidence,” Nate said. “The first attackers were using trucks. The only difference was these two hadn’t been modified to carry men on the back where the trailer normally hooks up.”
“Would’ve made more sense to use dump trucks,” Deni said. “At least the steel in the back would’ve provided some protection from bullets, and they would’ve had more room.”
Nate nodded. “Yeah. They must have access to semis but not dump trucks or any other more suitable vehicles. That fact may help lead us to where they’re hiding.”
Donovan sat down behind his desk. “Well, Chesty and Tyrone say they know of no place in town where there would be a lot of semis. I’ve ordered pilots to keep an eye out for a gathering of trucks. They’ve covered a lot of this county and so far haven’t seen anything suspicious.”
Deni stood at ease in front of Donovan’s desk. “There are certainly a lot of trucks that were caught in the traffic jams on the interstate highways. Early on in the plague when I was trying to get back home, I saw a lot of them parked at truck stops that couldn’t go anywhere because the highways were jammed with pileups and dead people.” She raised a shoulder. “I guess they may have been able to get a few through the jams and then gotten their hands on fuel.”
“I don’t know.” Donovan clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “There must be a reason they’re using semis. They could’ve used any kind of transport, so why semis?”
No one had an answer.
A soldier entered the office. “Sir, the soldiers stationed at the lake are under attack.”
Donovan snapped out of his chair. “Are there any Black Hawks nearby?”
“Nothing,” the soldier answered. “Everything in the air is either north of the town or west of us.”
“Send an assault team.”
“Yes sir.” The soldier didn’t move. “There’s another problem. A civilian is asking for help on an amateur band. That group on the horse farm southwest of the lake is under attack.”
“Follow my previous orders, soldier,” Donovan said.
“Yes sir.” He ran out of the room.
Deni started, “Sir, I request permission –”
Donovan shook his head. “I need you here.”
“Are you going to send help to the farm?” Deni asked. As a noncom, she was pushing her luck by even asking but she asked anyway.
“I’m hoping the problem at the lake will be over quick and the team can then help the other group.”
Worry darkened her face.
Donovan noticed it. “Keep your head on, Sergeant. Personal feelings have to be pushed to the back of your mind.” He looked out the window of his office. “That was fast. They’re loading onto the rotorcraft now. Must’ve already been loaded up with a full kit when they got the word.”
The roar of three Black Hawks taking off rattled the building, even though the helicopters were some distance away.
Deni gave Nate a worried look.
Nate wanted to at least put his arm around her but knew better than to do that in front of her CO. “It’s a big farm and they have good security measures. The chances Samantha and Caroline are even near the fighting are small. Then there’s the fact I can attest to Caroline’s courage and fighting abilities.” He shook his head. “She doesn’t quit. And she can shoot. They’ll have to kill her to get to Samantha.”
“I know,” Deni said, her voice not sounding sure.
Donovan broke in. “Sounds like a vet.”
“No,” Nate said. “Well, she’s a veteran of living through a hell that would make Ranger School seem like nothing.”
“Are you going?” Deni asked Nate.
“It’ll all be over by the time I get there. Depends on what the assault team reports. If there’s anything we can do, I’ll ask Chesty to gather up some people to go with me, but he and the people here will want to go to the lake first. That’s where their neighbors are, not the horse farm.”
She blinked and turned away. “I promised Samantha…”
Donovan cleared his throat. “I need to get to the radio.” He rushed out of his office, leaving them alone. Once again, Donovan impressed Nate with his decency and leadership.
Nate held her. “That little girl’s as safe with Caroline as anyone. We have others there to worry about also, at both places, but I really doubt those buffoons have mounted any kind of an effective operation. The soldiers there should take care of them in no time.”
She nodded, girding her strength. “Austin and Kendell are reliable, too.”
“Yes they are. Most of the people at the lake and farm have been through a few fights. They can take care of themselves. It’s probably all over already.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right.” She pulled away from him. “I have to go do my job.” She left Nate standing there.
~~~
Nate left the Forward Operations Base and radioed Chesty while going to pick up Brian. In less than ten minutes, Chesty and Tyrone pulled in behind him in a truck. He pulled over and got out.
Chesty spoke before Nate had a chance. “Anything more about what’s happening?”
“No.” Nate leaned against the truck door. “They’ll radio us if there are any important developments. You might want to gather up a posse in case the fight becomes prolonged and they learn they’re up against a larger force than the usual punks that have attacked here.” He stopped for a second. “You might also consider the possibility of another attack here in town and make preparations.”
Chesty rasped the salt and pepper stubble on his face. “What did Donovan say about protecting them? I mean, is he committed to using everything he has if it turns out these idiots have more fight in them than we’ve seen so far? After all, we still don’t know how large this anarchist group is.”
Nate crossed his arms. “He was busy doing his job and didn’t have time to discuss what his plans were. All I know is he immediately sent an assault team – three choppers full of soldiers. If all they have are a couple or three semis loaded with a few punks, the fight will be over PDQ.”
Tyrone spoke up. “But they don’t know how large a force the attackers have?”
“They didn’t when I left.” Nate looked down the street, his eyes looking inward. “If you want to be on the safe side, gather up some volunteers and head down there. Just remember the town could be in danger, too. I’m going to pick up Brian.” He glanced at Tyrone. “And Atticus too, if he wants to come.”
Chesty snorted. “Then what? Wait for word from the Army?”
Nate opened the truck door and put one leg in. “Perhaps you could stage them at the church. I’ll be going back to the Captain for more info on what’s going on at the lake as soon as I g
et Brian. I learn anything, I’ll radio you.”
Tyrone spoke to Chesty, “That’s the best we can do right now.”
“Let’s go.” Chesty ran for his truck, Tyrone at his heels.
~~~
Second Lieutenant Colby Jacobson was an engineer; he was not in the infantry branch. The plague and the resulting mass die-off had forced the Army to reorganize and replace empty positions with personnel from other Military Occupational Specialties and even other branches. He’d seen artillery captains doing the job of an infantry lieutenant and colonels doing the job of a platoon sergeant. So he shouldn’t have been surprised to find himself in the middle of a firefight. He didn’t consider himself to be a brave man or a warrior, but he was a soldier and an officer in the U.S. Army. On this day he was responsible for a dozen scared young privates and one very experienced Sergeant Dean Sullivan. Battle-tested and hard-bitten, he had taken command as soon as the bullets started flying. To his credit, 2LT Jacobson stuck to his side and listened when Sgt. Sullivan spoke.
It all began when two pickups loaded with armed young men, many just teens, sped up the dirt road, yellow clay dust billowing behind them, and refused to stop for the guard at the entrance to the fledgling farm, crashing through the gate and shooting the shocked townsman, killing him on the spot. There was supposed to be a soldier at the gate also, but he had gone to squat in the bushes. They immediately raced for the nearly finished dam and its hydro generator, firing at anyone they saw on the way.
Five-foot-seven, 120-pound “Big” Ben Tran was operating a backhoe, digging the main ditch deeper, when bullets started bouncing off the tractor. He jumped down with his old Marlin lever-action 30/30 rifle and ran for cover in a shallow branch ditch that was crosswise from the attackers. He landed on Sergeant Sullivan, who cut loose with a string of profane insults. “Sorry, soldier,” Tran said. “In case you haven’t noticed, those bastards are shooting at us.” He pointed 100 yards away at the attackers, who seemed to be placing explosives on the dam. “Do you have a plan?”
Sullivan looked at him like he was a dog pile smeared on the bottom of his shoe. “Of course I have a goddamn plan, you dumbass!” A bullet screamed inches over his head, but he paid less attention than if it had been a fly.
Jacobson broke in. “Would you please let us in on it?”
The sergeant turned and glared at the lieutenant. “We live; they die.” He turned to four soldiers in the same ditch with them and cranked up his voice to a level that would’ve impressed a megaphone. “At my command, concentrate fire on the men at the dam.” He aimed. The soldiers and Tran also aimed and readied for the command to fire.
Sullivan yelled, “Fire!”
The three men working at the dam seemed to come apart where they stood.
Sullivan yelled, “Aim at the engine of the truck on the left and wait my command!” When he yelled “Fire!” everyone poured bullets into the truck’s engine and flattened the near front tire. Two of the attackers had taken refuge behind the truck and paid for their mistake with their lives.
“Now the second truck!”
The same process resulted in leaving the attackers without transport and motorized escape.
The remainder of the attacking force had taken cover in the ditch behind the dam and in a line of tall cattails along the lakeshore. The cattails offered only concealment and wouldn’t stop bullets no matter how much they may have wished them to. They lay shivering with fear in the mud with lake water covering all but their upper shoulders and head.
Sullivan noticed two soldiers taking refuge behind logs that had been bulldozed into a pile to be cut up later and carried off the field and used for firewood in the cold of winter. They were 75 yards away and too far for even his loud voice, with all the gunfire. He hand-signaled, telling them to provide cover fire on his command. This would force the attackers to split their efforts and fire in two directions, reducing their effectiveness.
The soldiers and townsman continued to receive haphazard, light, incoming fire. Judging by the Sergeant’s lack of concern, he considered it nothing more than a mild annoyance. Bullets screamed by his head as he raised it up over the lip of the ditch and scanned the field, searching for cover he and his men could run to while closing on his enemies. Since they were in a field, cover was scarce. He needed several places where he and his men could take cover between their position and the enemy’s position. They would be steppingstones to victory. He saw only two such places – both shallow ditches, barely deep enough to provide cover. He decided to divide his small force into two teams. Half would bound to the nearest ditch while the other half and the soldiers on their flank kept the enemies’ heads down. Then his team would provide cover fire while the other half bounded past them to the last ditch. The rest of the soldiers on the farm should be there to assist by then and they would have the attackers’ position fixed, meaning they couldn’t maneuver or escape. Those left alive would have to choose: either surrender or die.
When the time came – to Sullivan’s surprise – the civilian who’d landed on him in the ditch jumped up alongside of him, firing and working his lever-action rifle from the shoulder. He’d expected the man to stay in the ditch where it was safer. It had been too long since Sergeant Sullivan had been proud to risk his life for a civilian, and the feeling made him smile inside as he ran like hell. The little bastard has balls.
Jacobson fired as he ran, sweat dripping from his face. An increase in fire from the cattails along the lakeshore was answered with intense fire from the two soldiers behind the log pile, mowing cattails down, along with two of the killers hiding behind them. Those in the ditch added to the cover fire, managing to keep most of the men behind the dam hunkered down, where they couldn’t see to fire over the top.
Running through a hail of bullets, throwing themselves recklessly into the shallow irrigation ditch, Jacobson and Sullivan looked around to learn that only they and the civilian had made it. Behind them in the open field, a twenty-year-old private lay dead.
Sullivan’s attention turned to a mass of movement in the narrow Jeep trail that led to where several buildings were in the process of being hastily built. A train of trucks loaded down with armed civilians led by a HUMVEE full of soldiers sped toward them. In a second, he was trying to raise the soldiers in the HUMVEE to inform them where the enemy was and where to position for best effect.
The squad leader driving the HUMVEE followed Sullivan’s directions explicitly. The civilians understood that the soldiers were the pros and they should trust them to know how to handle the situation. Working together in surprising efficiency, they managed to have the opposing force so well pinned in, with their backs against the lake and facing overwhelming force, everyone, including Sullivan, expected them to give up.
They were wrong.
It seemed there was more fight in this unorganized, untrained, and hopelessly outgunned gang of punks than anyone there could believe. Sullivan’s request to surrender was met with sporadic, ineffective gunfire.
Sullivan looked at Jacobson. “A bunch of goddamn goosepimply assed brain-fart-headed losers. What, they’re going to die for their cause? What chickenshit cause?”
Tran interrupted the conversation when he aimed his lever-action and fired at a young man who climbed up out of the ditch and tried to get at the explosives they’d placed on the dam.
Sullivan glared at the dead man. “What in the hell is their fixation on that dam about?”
Jacobson gripped his rifle tighter in preparation for another try at the explosives. “I too wonder why they think destroying that dam is worth dying for.”
The standoff had lasted ten minutes, neither side firing, when a shot rang out from the tree line 300 yards away. Another shot followed.
A civilian fifty yards away was in a better position to see into the ditch behind the dam. He yelled over to Jacobson and Sullivan, “That guy shooting just killed two of them. Both headshots.”
“Who is it?” Tran yelled back.
<
br /> “I’d bet it’s Trent Branningan and his wife. They went hunting this morning and haven’t come back.”
Ben Tran yelled back, “Yeah, it sounds like his 30-06 bolt-action.”
Another shot boomed.
“He got another one,” the man yelled.
Sullivan grunted and pointed. “White flag! Don’t believe ‘em. Not until they all walk out into the open unarmed.”
Jacobson yelled as loud as he could, hoping most of the crowd heard him, including the other side. “No one shoot. But be ready in case this is a trick.”
A soldier crawled along the ditch, trying to keep as low as possible. He stopped next to Jacobson. “Sir, I finally contacted the FOB. Captain Donovan has ordered an assault team to reinforce us. Three birds should be here soon.”
Jacobson turned his ear to the sky. “Yeah, I hear them coming.” He took the radio mike from the soldier and radioed the pilots, telling them to circle at altitude out of rifle range but within sight of the opposing force. “They’re flying a white flag already, so just let them see you and I think this will be over quick.”
It was. Or at least it seemed that way. The scared young men and teens, who had been wallowing in the mud for nearly 20 minutes watching their friends get shot, got up and walked into the opening with their empty hands up; but when they walked by the others in the ditch behind the dam, an explosion triggered by someone in the ditch killed all but two of the anarchists.
Sullivan stood and scanned the carnage. “Goddamn fanatics!”
Jacobson spoke into the radio mike. “It’s over here. Go help the other group of civilians.”
Chapter 27
Caroline was feeding the horses when she heard the first shots. They came from the road, at the gate. Her rifle was slung across her back, so she didn’t have to hunt for it when she ran for the house, where Samantha was last seen playing with the other children. Her ‘store-bought leg’, as she called it, couldn’t slow her down by much; the strength of her heart wouldn’t allow it. Whatever was going on at the gate, she intended to keep it away from the children. Besides, her backpack was in the house, and in it she had more ammo.
