The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact

by Raymond Dean White

  Jim edged the copter over to the largest mass of enemy soldiers he could see and, before they could scatter, Michael rained grenades on them. They stayed overhead, covering the withdrawal of the squad that took out the gun, and making a nuisance of themselves, until they ran low on fuel and dropped the last grenade.

  Michael and Jim had hoped to stall Viper’s attack long enough for the cadets to escape; but escape wasn’t the cadet’s plan. They refused to abandon the ridge. As the Freeholders veered off a lone cadet stepped back from his sniper post, snapped to attention and saluted them.

  Michael watched over his shoulder until the cadet was out of sight. With a lump in his throat he said, “They won’t last the night.”

  “Probably not,” Jim agreed.

  “Why aren’t they retreating? Why didn’t they get the hell out when we had Viper’s boys occupied?”

  “They must have their reasons,” Jim said.

  “God, I hate this! If the Freeholds was ready for Viper’s attack we could send some help for those boys. I mean, we’re going to need men of that caliber when he gets around to us.” Michael stroked his lush brown beard, absentmindedly pulling at a couple of tangles, deep in thought for less than a minute.

  “Ah, shit! Set me down here.”

  “What?” Jim turned his head and caught Michael’s gaze. Normally, Michael’s eyes were brown with green and yellow highlights, but the green came to the forefront in moments of passion and yellow took over when battle threatened. Jim stared into golden eyes.

  Michael pointed to a burned over field, next to Falcon Stadium. “Land this thing. I’ve got to try to persuade those kids to retreat.”

  A lifetime of experience had taught Jim when not to argue with his friend. He landed.

  Michael stepped away from the gyrocopter and checked his weapons. His M4 was a gift from Emil Smolensky. Each magazine held thirty rounds and he had a ten of them in individual pockets in his pack. The Smith and Wesson model 586 .357 on his hip was fully loaded and he had three speed-load holsters on his belt. His hunting knife was a Kabar, the one he had used a lifetime ago in the Marines.

  He looked over to Jim and said, “Warn Ellen, we’re out of time. My guess is Viper will be knocking on our door within a week. Grab Emil Smolenski and help Ellen organize a defense. Throw up breastworks at each end of the valley, preferably a series of breastworks. Send out scavenger parties. We’ll need all the guns and ammo they can find. Get some…ah, hell.” Michael stopped. Others would think of these things. “Go on.” Michael waved Jim away.

  “I’ll be back tomor…”

  “No!” Michael interrupted. “I won’t be here.”

  “Well, where will you be?”

  Michael’s golden eyes sought Jim’s.

  “Buying time,” he said.

  He turned and loped across the field, disappearing into the charred, but still green, pine forest surrounding it. The terrain between him and the cadets was rolling hills covered with pine and scrub oak, cut by ravines and interspersed with open meadows full of mullein stalks, yucca spikes and buffalo grass. He startled four mule deer. They dashed off, white tails waving like flags, and he slowed. No sense advertising his presence.

  Michael jogged through the trees trying to pace himself. Thanks to the constant hard work and exercise of the past two years his strength and endurance were better than when he was in his twenties, but he wasn’t used to running long distances. Stealth was more his game. A mile later he slowed, then paused and leaned against the rough orange bark of a ponderosa pine, breath coming in gasps.

  A month-old bunny munching the fresh green sprigs of grass poking up through the ash watched him fearlessly from less than twenty-feet away. Michael smiled at its innocence, then picked up a singed branch and sailed it toward the tiny ball of fur. The rabbit bolted in terror and Michael’s smile widened as its cottontail bobbed into the distance. That’s right little brother, he thought. Trust no one, for you are small and the woods are full of teeth.

  A blue jay screeched sending Michael into a wary crouch, swiveling toward the sound. The bird could be proclaiming its territory, or something could have alarmed it. No suspicious movement. No sound but the breeze rustling pine branches. A flash of blue among the branches and Michael relaxed. The bird had flown.

  He eased through the woods now, down a steep gully where muddy ground by a trickling creek showed coyote tracks, up the other side. The trees were denser here; still plenty of room between them but visibility was limited.

  Ahead, through the trees he could hear small arms fire. He got his breathing under control. The sun was an orange blob setting through smoky haze. It would be dark in thirty minutes. The smell of burned wood covered everything. He knelt and rubbed ash and dirt over his face, neck and hands. No camo grease. Have to get some of that.

  For the first time since he’d left the gyro he had time to think about what he was doing. Was he nuts? Since his first fistfight as a child he’d loved battle (and been horrified by the attraction). Powerful, vibrant emotions overwhelmed him every time he went into a fight, charging him with a fierce, wild joy that made him want to scream Blackfoot war cries and cut out the hearts of his enemies. A five-year Sunday school pin earned during early childhood from a Christian church caused him to fight that impulse vehemently. Fighting is bad. Killing is evil.

  A moral code or conscience, while necessary for civilization, is a mixed blessing when defending loved ones or struggling for survival. So Michael had learned a long time ago, while wearing his country’s uniform in a war on the other side of the world, to lock his conscience up when it was time to fight, and grieve about it later. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he killed to save lives, his own and his loved ones, but he still felt guilty about enjoying the fight.

  Now, easing silently through the woods, neck on a pivot, eyes always moving, he caught the motion and froze before they saw him. That was the name of the infiltration game. See them first. And Michael had been taught well, first the art of tracking by his grandfather, then the art of survival by enemies distant in time, next-door in memory.

  The two black men, one chunky, the other muscular, moved cautiously, stopping less than ten feet from Michael.

  “Why we doin’ this?” the chunky man hissed. He didn’t like the feel of this at all.

  “Cause Viper said,” the other man grunted.

  “But they only two of us, Lifter.”

  “You the one had to stop an’ shit, Cadillac,” Lifter answered. “Now shut up and get goin’, and we still catch up to the rest.” The muscle man gestured with his rifle and Cadillac turned to go.

  “Ugh.” A grunt that was almost a sigh reached Cadillac’s ears.

  “What?” Cadillac turned and froze. Lifter was on the ground dead, a knife sticking out of his back. Standing over him was a cat-eyed man with a brown beard and a very large pistol.

  “Do you like breathing?” Michael’s voice was soft, his pistol steady.

  Cadillac nodded once and gulped, eyes glued to the enormous pistol barrel.

  “Then lay the gun down gently, then your pack, and back up against that pine tree.”

  Cadillac did exactly as he was told.

  “That’s good. Now, with your right hand only, take off your belt and throw it over here.” While Cadillac complied Michael tugged Lifter’s belt off and retrieved his knife. He stepped beside Cadillac and used the belts to tie the man’s hands behind the tree.

  “Now, let’s talk. How many of you in this army?”

  “More’n four thousand, man.” Cadillac saw no reason to lie. “You know who you fuckin’ with?”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” Michael replied. “How many men in this flanking movement.

  Cadillac hesitated. In a flash Michael’s blade was at his throat and those weird yellow eyes were way too close.

  “I do not have time to mess with you,” Michael hissed between clenched teeth. “Cooperate and I’ll let you live. You need me to spell out the a
lternative?”

  Cadillac shook his head.

  “Then answer my goddamn question.”

  “I don’t know.” The touch of the knife widened his eyes and he blurted out, “Hundreds!”

  “Go on.”

  “They sent us out in groups. Twenty, thirty at a time. But that’s all I know, man. They don’t tell me nothing but do this, do that, y’know?”

  Michael nodded. That made sense.

  “You hitting the cadets from behind?”

  Cadillac nodded. “Soon as the other tanks get here and open up.” Cadillac saw the shock on Michael’s face and thought, how you like that, honky?

  “How many tanks?”

  “Bunches,” Cadillac gloated. “I mean all those earthquakes and fires and shit, and we walk into the armory at the Federal Center and this stuff’s just sittin’ there, man, untouched.”

  Christ! That didn’t leave Michael much time. He slammed the butt of his Kabar into his prisoner’s temple. Cadillac sagged against his restraints. Michael stuffed a gag in the man’s mouth and rifled through the pack Cadillac had dumped, then Lifter’s, removing grenades and other useful items and adding them to his own.

  It was full dark now, but the moon was rising, the light adequate. He melted into the trees, running hard for the cadet’s lines.

  Fifteen minutes later a rifle shot slapped into a tree beside him and he rolled left yelling, “Falcon!” The Fighting Falcons was the name of the Air Force Academy’s football team.

  “Who’s out there?” The voice was nervous, scared.

  “One of the guys from the gyrocopter with important news. Let me through.” Five minutes more and he was facing the young man in command.

  “Michael Whitebear,” he said, holding out his hand. The man was a couple of inches taller than Michael’s 5’10,” but where Michael carried 180 pounds of muscle; this kid was so thin he didn’t make much of a target.

  “Acting Lieutenant Dan Osaka.” His handshake was firm, but there were bags under his almond eyes. “So you were in that little helicopter. Your diversion allowed us to evacuate most of our wounded to the Springs so we owe you a load of thanks.”

  So that’s what they were up to while we were bombing, Michael thought. A vision of burning ambulances just south of the Academy flashed through Michael’s mind and he realized he had some bad news for the Lieutenant. But, first things first.

  “You have to get out of here, Lieutenant. You’ve already been flanked and you’re almost surrounded. There are more tanks coming and they’ll be here soon. When the tanks open up, you’ll be hit from behind.”

  “Ah, Jesus.” The Lieutenant hesitated just for a moment, before deciding to trust this stranger with the warm brown eyes. “Bartell, Vanderwahl!”

  A large black man and a slender blonde girl stepped forward and snapped to attention. “Sir,” they chimed in unison.

  “We’re pulling out south in ten minutes. We’ll keep to the high ground to discourage their armor. And Bartell…” The black man stiffened further. “Your company has rear guard.”

  A smile full of bright white teeth split the cadet’s face. “Thank you, Sir.” Daryl Bartell had no use for looters and killers, whatever their color. He saluted and left.

  “Vanderwahl, your company takes scout. Form teams of four and check the batteries in your radios. Pull out now, but stay in contact.” Fallon Vanderwahl saluted and jogged off, her cheeks and eyes glowing with pride at commanding the scouting detail. Scouts usually made first contact with the enemy and the nature of that first contact often determined the outcome of any battle.

  Dan Osaka keyed his radio mike. “Company commanders report.” Michael was surprised they had radios that worked. The upper atmosphere was so ionized it simply wrecked radio communications. No one from home had heard a working radio since The Dying Time.

  “Red, okay; White, okay;” static crackled and popped. “Green, okay; Orange, okay; Purple, okay.”

  “Blue, report,” Lieutenant Osaka ordered, worry lines creasing his forehead. Blue was supposed to be defending the airstrip.

  Silence and static.

  “Blue, report!”

  More silence.

  “Shit,” Dan Osaka muttered. “I hope they’re just out of range. These things don’t work very well. Half a mile at best.” Michael nodded.

  “All companies,” the Lieutenant spoke clearly into the mike. “Shift to frequency three.” He twisted the frequency knob on his radio and resumed. “We’re moving out. Delta quadrant. At…” He checked his watch. “19:30 hours. Spike your howitzers. We can’t take’em.” That gave them five minutes.

  Dan Osaka turned to a freckle-faced redhead, “Dorsey?”

  “Sir?”

  “Find Blue Company and give’em the news.”

  “Yes sir!” The kid left at a run.

  “Mr. Whitebear?”

  Michael didn’t like being called Mr. Whitebear. Made him sound old. Hell, compared to these kids, he was. Anyhow, now was not the time to argue over details.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “You came from the Springs?”

  “Just flew over. Enemy tanks and infantry’s already in the North end of town.”

  “Damn!” Anger glittered in the Lieutenant’s dark brown eyes. “We sent our wounded to Doc Lewis’s hospital.”

  Michael shook his head, knowing it was time to deliver bad news. “The hospital was burning when we flew over. Um, after our diversion, when we headed back toward town, we saw a couple of Humvee ambulances burning too. Not far south of here.” He paused to let that sink in, then offered a suggestion.

  “I think you ought to skirt the North end of the Springs and cut west through Garden of the Gods. The terrain is so rough it’ll slow the enemy armor if they follow. It’s good ambush country, and it’s the only way we can beat them to Ute Pass.”

  “But--the civilians in town.”

  “The only citizens I saw were following Doc Lewis up the pass toward the Freeholds,” Michael said.

  Dan Osaka sighed, “At least the Doc made it out.” Then something else sunk in. “You’re from the Freeholds?”

  “Yeah. You’ve heard of us?”

  “Some of the townies you met last year told us about you. But anyhow, we have to head south, that’s Delta quadrant by the way, to find our wounded. Then we head up the pass.”

  “Son,” Michael laid a hand on the Lieutenant’s shoulder. “You have enemy troops and tanks to the South and if we don’t beat them to Ute pass we’ll lose any chance of cutting them off.”

  He stared deep into the young Lieutenant’s eyes, his meaning clear, he thought.

  Dan Osaka shook his head. “You’re saying we should abandon our wounded? We won’t--”

  Michael cut in. “I’m saying if you sent them out in ambulances they’re already dead.” The Humvees could travel across the essentially road less, bridgeless terrain, but if they’d run into tanks….

  Lieutenant Osaka nodded slowly and wiped a hand across his face, reluctant to admit the loss. His confidence seemed to crumble. “Uh…I…this is my first battle. My first command. I studied air tactics, but we only have a couple of unarmed trainers and they’re both down for maintenance.”

  Michael shook his head. “Your planes are gone,” he said gently.

  Dan Osaka looked around him at his men, his women, firing at the enemy troops, and glanced back to Michael, a quiet plea in his eyes.

  “They’re all depending on me, Sir.” His voice lowered to a desperate whisper. “And I don’t know what to do.”

  Michael gripped the young man’s shoulders firmly and said, “Look at me.”

  Lieutenant Osaka met his gaze, noting in passing that the man’s eyes seemed yellowish now, like a mountain lion’s he’d seen in a zoo. Yet confidence flowed back into him from those eyes and the man’s grip on his shoulders as much as from his words.

  “Son,” Michael said. “I’m an ex-marine, if there is such a thing, and I’ve seen combat. I�
��ll help you all I can and offer suggestions when I can. But you’ve led your people through this fight, and from what I can see you’ve done a damn fine job of it. So the first thing you have to remember is that you’re the officer in charge and you can never admit to anyone that you don’t know what to do. That can undermine their confidence in you and damage their confidence in themselves. You fake it ‘til you make it. Understand?”

  The Lieutenant nodded.

  “Okay, now, remember the marine motto and let’s get with it.”

  “Semper Fi?” Dan Osaka questioned. Always loyal?

  “That’s the official motto. The one that counts is semper persistence. We don’t ever give up.”

  Dan Osaka grinned, then looked at his watch. “Time to go.” He raised the radio to his lips and said, “Move out!”

  Then he turned back to Michael Whitebear and said, “Thanks.”

  “Couple more things to consider Lieutenant,” Michael offered as they started out. “I saw some intact small arms lockers at Fort Carson. I don’t know how your ammo and antitank rounds are holding up but if you can divert Viper’s attention for a while in Colorado Springs, I could lead a squad to check them out or blow them up.

  “After that, I think I should catch up to Vanderwahl’s squad so I can scout ambush sites.”

  The Lieutenant nodded agreement. “I think we can draw them over toward Garden of the Gods and delay them while you hit Ft. Carson. And since you want to join Vanderwahl’s squad, take half of them with you to the Fort. Where do you suggest we rendezvous?”

  Michael thought for a second and said, “Half a mile west of the Cave of the Winds exit on highway 24. Unless I find a better ambush site closer. Think you can hold them until tomorrow afternoon?”

  Dan Osaka chuckled, thinking of all the times he’d gone rock climbing on the red sandstone outcroppings in the Garden. “Once we hit that sandstone maze their armor will be worthless. And you’ve taken care of their artillery. So, yes, I think tomorrow afternoon isn’t asking too much.”

  “Good,” Michael grinned. “That’ll put the sun in their eyes. I’d better get going. You’ll let Vanderwahl know I’m coming up behind them?”