Fall of the Cities_A Mercedes for Soldier Boy

by Vance Huxley

  “But you said they’d all be safe!” For a moment the priest hesitated on the edge of rebellion. The Mart was only metres away, and maybe some of the shoppers would help nuns.

  “They’ll be safe, and so will all the civvies and their shopping, but only as long as you all do as I say. One hint of treachery and I’ll pass those five round the whole gang.” Conan’s big smile had absolutely no mercy in it now. “There’s over three hundred fighters now, scattered around the enclaves.” He turned to let his eyes sweep across the entire group. “If you start giving me trouble now, I may as well start shooting and take the surviving women straight home. My men can strip them off and have some fun on the way.”

  Some of the shoppers might have argued at least, but Conan’s men shoved the naked nun forward. “This one objected, but we were in a hurry so she’s only been beaten. We’ll do a lot worse to the next one.” More Barbarians came out of the Mart gatesand drew machetes, cutting off any escape, and the last resistance collapsed. The priest ordered the remaining four Lambs’ guards to drop their weapons, and the Barbarians moved in to split up their captives. Ten minutes later only eight naked bodies showed where the Lambs of God had met Conan’s wolf pack. Conan had his key to the enclave door, and it hadn’t cost him a single round of ammunition.

  * *

  The General:

  The General knew about spring steel from rail wagons, and had a few suspicions about where some of his information came from. He had no intention of telling anyone else about it either, especially Caddi. The General had called the current meeting, being held six miles to the northwest of Orchard Close, because he’d heard about Harold’s gun repairs. The General scowled at his spymaster. “Are you certain the bastard isn’t building weapons? If he is we go now and suck up the losses.”

  Rhys shook his head, emphatically. “No, just repairs but up to now it’s only been for close neighbours. I’ve got a sort of source in the GOFS, or someone I know has.I already told you Soldier Boy cleans and unjams weapons,but now I’ve got a better idea of his level of expertise. The Pinkies have had two repairs turned down, one’s a gunsmith could have rebuilt. I sent them, as a test. Cadillac isn’t so sure, but he’s a real paranoid and also has a thing about this Soldier Boy. I reckon Caddi is scared of him.” Rhys smiled slightly at the sceptical look from the General. “I can’t find out why, but he must be to let the bastard rub all over a Hot Rod woman.”

  The General’s frown broke into a grin. “I’ll let him rub over a dozen women if it gets us close to him.”

  “So far even Cadillac can’t get into this woman’s pants, and doesn’t push it. She’s a stone killer and a full gang member, but she’s got the hots for this Soldier Boy.” Rhys thought for a moment. “That might give us a chance, if it causes a war. Mind you, Cadillac is already busy with the war he’s got. If he wins and joins us in the attack, the Hot Rods will be big enough to insist on a full share.” The spy glanced at the uniformed men. “You’ll want to get rid of her anyway, before turning on Caddi. She’s his assassin, which is why she isn’t in his bed.”

  “Good point. I’ll share Orchard Close and maybe these GOFS with Caddi, but by then I want you to find a way to kill her. I’d rather someone else soaked up that GOFS cannon fire, so don’t tell Cadillac about it. Then when I’ve gobbled up Welly and the Geeks, and got the Pinkies and Barbies onside, we’ll see whose is biggest.” The General turned from the map on the wall to one on the table. “But first we want those rockets. Are you sure of your man?”

  “I’m sure I’ve found the right man, and the right approach, but we haven’t agreed on the payment. Are you sure we can get the Pinkies and the Barbies?” Rhys shrugged at the hard look. “The Pinkies are still not frightened enough to roll over, and the Barbies are downright bloody scary. It might be easier to scare the GOFS off and take on the Barbies.”

  “We won’t scare the GOFS now, with good reason. That fucking cannon will probably fire as far as our rockets can, unless we lob the things into the air. That’ll get us another visit from the RAF. Worse, anything short of a shell hitting the bloody thing will bounce off. Once I’ve got these new rockets, I’ll invite the Barbies to a parley and show them their options. I’ve got to hold up until the harvest is in but by then we should be ready. It’ll be handier if we let the SIMS sweat at collecting their food first. Patton?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “We’ll take another enclave in the interim, Napoleon’s.” The General pushed the map and a thin file across to the leader of the Bloods, a file he’d been careful not to mention until now. He hadn’t wanted to give Patton any chance to brood on the possible change to the command structure. “According to Rhys, there’s one man in charge and he might be approachable. If he isn’t it may be bloody, becausetheir fighters are good and well disciplined. If we get in position to shoot the leader and top officers, even if there’s a fight the rest might surrender. If not we’ll use automaticsto punch a hole. Once the Bloods are through their line, discipline won’t help them. You’ve got three weeks with Rhys to check the defences haven’t altered, and for you to train your people. They’ll need that to learn where everything is, so the fucking lunatics don’t burn something useful.”

  “No problem, and three weeks will be more than enough. You’d better use all the automatics, or the Blood’s injuries won’t be healed in time to attack these SIMs. Remember, I need two to three months to get the worst hit fighters back in action.” Patton glanced at the map. “Is it worth risking for one more medium sized enclave?”

  The General didn’t take a deep breath first, but definitely tensed up as he finally told Patton exactly why he wanted these fighters in particular. “Yes, because I want more disciplined fighters before going after Soldier Boy. Your nutters work well, but at the moment our steadier fighters are mixed with them. I’d like two forces, nutters who charge whoever is shooting and the types who’ll stand under fire.” The General tapped the file. “Even if we kill the leaders, these troops have been well trained. We’ll find an NCO among them and give him women, or whatever the hell else floats his boat.”

  Just as the General had hoped,Patton looked and sounded worried but talked rather than reaching for his weapons. “Two commands? I thought I led your Army?”

  “You do and you will. You’ll just have to rely more on your deputy to kick the Bloods into action for you. Promotion, Patton.” The General slapped the bigger man on the shoulder. “Cheer up, you’ll get twice the women and loot this way.” Patton didn’t cheer up. He watched the General leave and wondered if the arse had decided to get rid of a potential rival. Patton didn’t want the top job, but that might not save him if the General wanted to clean house. He needed a couple of men to lurk, handy-like. Then if some arse tried to top him? The trouble was, most of the Bloods weren’t the sneaky type.

  As he left the house, the General beckoned to three men wearing motorbike leathers. “I want you to go around all our enclaves. Tell everyone I want to know as soon as our workers have their crops in.” As the messengers left, he turned to Rhys. “Do you trust Patton?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t want your job. He prefers the actual fighting, not the planning, but be careful about promoting others or he might feel threatened. Patton doesn’t run the Bloods by being a deep thinker, so he’ll act first and worry later.” The spy glanced back at the house with Patton inside. “Maybe you need someone with a knife at his elbow, just in case?”

  “Don’t worry about that, I’ll deal with it. Just concentrate on finding a way into that SIMs place without getting half the Bloods slaughtered.” The General followed the spy’s look. “We’ll need Patton and the Bloods to scare the shit out Napoleon, then the queers, and to keep those dykes in order.”

  “I’m trying, but it’s slow work. I doubt we’ll be able to hit the SIMs much this side of Christmas. We need the extra disciplined men, but the delays after every fight to let everyone heal have slowed the whole job up.” Rhys perked up a bit. “That’ll be just
in time to give the Bloods a whole new set of Christmas stocking fillers, and we might still get at Soldier Boy’s women for Valentine’s.” They parted, both laughing.

  * *

  Professors:

  Despite learning about the mystery spy among Benny’s Boys, Prof hadn’t been able to find anyone in his own enclave who kept messenger pigeons. All the pigeons were clipped so they were incapable of flight, as were the few ducks they’d caught, so none of them flew off before going into the pot. Not enough birds to supply all the protein, but at least buying corned beef had become easier after making that new deal. Unfortunately, after a short period when Prof’s cars could visit the Mart for a reasonable bribe, Benny brought bad news.

  The Lycans, as the gang called themselves, hadn’t repaired the gates Prof had smashed but they’d recovered from the shock. Benny had a woman in the other gang, a spy, one who worked around their headquarters, cleaning up. She’d heard some complaining lately, and suggestions on ways to fix the problem. The Lycans’ neighbours had been taking the piss about how they’d been stuffed by a bunch of old men and schoolkids. It hadn’t turned into anything yet, but Benny wouldn’t get much warning when it did. He tried for getting a trebuchet permanently installed to cover the broken gates, but Prof didn’t trust Benny or his Boys enough for that.

  Instead, he started making plans. According to Benny, the gang were talking about payback, something more than just closing the road. Some of the Lycanswanted to stop a shopping run to ask for a hugely inflated price. Not too bad, but according to Benny it wouldn’t be optional, the cars wouldn’t be allowed to back away. They’d take the weapons and cars, and the more militant Lycans wanted to take a couple of the girls, to make a point.

  Prof asked the engineering department to construct trebuchets that were easy to dismantle for transporting, and adapt as many of the existing ones as possible. He’d finally reached the end of his patience, even if he wouldn’t tell the students yet. If the Lycans wanted to push his students into a fight, they could have one, but they definitely wouldn’t enjoy the result.

  * *

  Reivers:

  In the Scottish mountains,there were no Cabal agents and no rail wagon steel. Machetes weren’t much good most of the time, because the foreign troops now had varying degrees of air cover. One particular unit of Italian troops had perfected working with their top cover, a Greek Chinook transport helicopter with machine guns firing from openings on each flank. Not a true warplane, but more reliable than hoping the controllers would send support when asked. The Chinook hovered above and behind the soldiers to give covering fire, following them as they advanced.

  The chopper came with a liaison officer who,in the Italian commander’s opinion, fell a long way short of the usual standards of theBritish Armed Forces.”Follow them, close-up, you’ve got them running. Don’t let them get away!” The Greek pilot rolled his eyes to his comrades as the liaison screamed into his radio. The soldiers below had chased groups of these so-called bandits before. Any time now there’d be an attempt to set up an ambush, or the Scots would settle into a new defensive position.

  The stink of spent ammunition filled the helicopter where the three flank machine guns had been laying down covering fire. They were silent for now as the pilot moved slowly sideways, keeping well back from the soldiers and jinking now and then. The Germans had lost a helicopter to snipers. “That’s it, they’re trapped. Flank them, push men up the slopes either side. Then when they break you’ve got them.” The pilot could hear the officer down below answering through the radio, trying to explain why he shouldn’t and couldn’t.

  The rebels,now digging in across a small valley, would probably love a flanking attack. Either the steep slopes either side would be mined, or there’d be more men waiting there. The ragged fighters had broken contact, fleeing in apparent panicuntil they’d suddenly stopped right here. Even as a pilot he could recognise a pre-planned fall-back position. A death trap if the Italians had a larger force, but sending soldiers up both flanks would leave the pinning force too small. These Scots would counterattack at any opportunity, and they loved hand to hand. The pilot rotated the big helicopter to use the machine guns along the other flank, to give the first three a chance to cool.

  *

  Ahead of the Italian soldiers, up in the valley, a man in ragged plaid crooned quietly to himself. “Come on, ye bastards, just a wee bit further. Come intae ma bluidy great nasty parlour.” He raised his voice a little. “The men or yon Chinook, Angus?”

  “The Chinook. That’s why we picked this unit. They’ve got a system, a guid one, but this time it’s perfect for us. Are the men too far forward or too far back?” The speaker didn’t raise his eye from his rifle, tracking his first target.

  “Too close, they could charge with nae warning when yon bird goes doon.”

  “No, they’re good troops so they’ll wait for the officer. That means they’ll freeze for a second or two, and a few might even forget to keep in cover and stick a head up to look.” Everyone could hear the hunger in his voice. “Remember, lads, just how we’ve been training ye. None of yon mad charges from the Mel Gibson film. Aimed shots, pick your target and drop him.” His voice took on a cadence, calming the half-trained ex-gangsters and farm workers while reminding them what to do. “Rabbie, don’t hurry, make sure of the Chinook. If the Italians charge, these lads are used to hand to hand.” Angus thought he’d prepared properly, but nowhe worried the Italian bastards would smell the trap and ask for real air support. An Apache or a jet would cost the Reivers a lot of fighters. Around him occasional shots spat out, the shooters hugging cover afterwards as the machine guns in the helicopter responded.

  *

  As the valley sides began to get steeper, and he began to lose a man here and there, the Italian officer asked for real air support. He needed something carrying rockets or bombs, even an Apache’s nose cannon would do, just to break up the prepared defence ahead of him. “Air support? You’ve got a bloody helicopter and fifty trained soldiers against about thirty rabble. They’re trapped so there’s no real danger, no need to call the jets off a real target.” The liaison didn’t give the real reason, he’d been told to economise on the more expensive munitions.

  Many of the foreign troops had been low on missiles and bombs when they arrived, and the British Armed Forces needed what they’d got. There were plenty of bullets, which was why the Chinook had so many machine guns. The liaison officer had been told to drive the foreign troops hard, regardless of casualties, to push the rebels north. “If you can’t do the job, we may as well send you back across the Channel.” That should do it. None of the foreigners wanted to take their wives and kids back into that mess.

  The officer gave up, moving his men forward slowly and carefully. The fighters ahead weren’t rabble, and probably had more than thirty men, but he had enough soldiers to take them. Real air support would have cut down on his casualties, something they’d had too many of when they’d first met these Scots and the enemy sucked off the air cover. The officer contacted the helicopter, warning the gunners the ground pounders would be going all the way in. A bullet whined off a rock, much too close, and he ducked further behind cover. The machine guns behind him fired short, efficient bursts in reply, and then the ground trembled and he heard a strange sound. As he turned the officer began to scream, “Terra, terra!” quickly changing it to, “Get down, land.” The pilot might not understand, butthe officer knew exactly what those pillars of fire were.

  The pilot saw the ground in front of him erupt and the streaks of fire climbing upwards, and immediately realised most of them would miss. He poured on the power and tried to throw the big, cumbersome machine up and sideways. He daren’t land, the chances were he’d never get off the ground again because bullets were already punching through the Chinook. The enemy had brought heavy rifles and snipers. The Chinook began to twist in mid-air, the pilot began to hope because nothing had hit him yet, and then he found out the rockets weren’t
meant to.

  In a ripple that started below the aircraft and worked up past it, spreading tens of metres all around, scores of explosions enveloped the helicopter. Not too dangerous in themselves, each burst sent shrapnel sleeting through the air in every direction and enough found a target. The windshield starred, gunners cried out in pain, the rear rotors stuttered, and the helicopter slid downwards and backwards. The pilot fought the failing rear motor, then screamed as a rocket went off near the window behind and to the side, open for a machine gunner. Crude shrapnel tore through the gunner and the cockpit, silencing the liaison and the radio, while the pilot collapsed forward. The Chinook slid further backwards before twisting and dropping, the surviving gunners barely having time to realise before it struck and crumpled. Pure shock brought too many of the Italian soldiers to their feet, or up on their knees, staring back at the unfolding disaster.

  “No! Scendere! Anatra!” The Italian officer shouted at his men to get down, take cover, but all the Reivers opened fire. Within moments over a dozen soldierswere down, and several more had been hit. “Fall back in sections. Dig in round the helicopter, it’s got machine guns.” The officer peeked out round his boulder to check the enemy weren’t charging, then flipped over backwards. Angus had been waiting, knowing the officer would have to check.

  Despite losing their officer, the Italians began an ordered withdrawal, taking turns to lay down covering fire. Their ranks faltered as theReiver snipers retargeted from the helicopter,and began shooting anyone giving orders. The soldiers were soon without NCOs but they were professionals, so they kept leapfrogging back towards the wreck with its radio and machine guns. Angus took occasional shots, content to let them go for now. Fifty yards later the survivors found out why. The trap had cost a fortune in sugar, first for the rockets and then for the mines,but the result was worth it. As the operator behind Angus held down the second switch, a long strip of ground erupted. The bombs weren’t efficient, being buried deep to avoid detection.Most of the shrapnel went upwards, but just for a few moments the soldiers in among the explosions broke.As even those on the edges of the mines scrambledto get away, the Reiversfinally had their clear targets. Bullets scythed through the shocked Italians, and man after man toppled before the survivorsthrew themselves into cover.