The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact

by Raymond Dean White

  “Right away,” Lt. Osaka responded, then before Michael could take off he asked, “Mr. Whitebear?”

  “Yes?”

  “You think we can beat these guys?”

  “I don’t know son, but we’re surely going to try.”

  *

  The Freeholds

  “We must try to negotiate,” Dr. Fariq was adamant. “There has been too much death already.”

  “Doctor,” Ellen said calmly, with much more patience than she felt. She was concerned that a majority of Freeholders and refugees seemed to favor some sort of appeasement. Even those from the Denver area who had first hand experience with Viper wanted to avoid hostilities. They were afraid. “There is nothing wrong with preparing to defend ourselves. This Viper person has built an army on hatred, racial divisiveness and greed. He murders or enslaves any who oppose him; and he eats people! How can we negotiate with someone like that? What do we say to him? Here are a few children, please leave us alone?”

  “I would never suggest such a… a… thing,” a wide-eyed Dr. Fariq spread his arms. “I’m only trying to avoid more bloodshed. Save lives. We have so much here compared to elsewhere.” His gaze roamed over the knotty pine paneling of Ellen’s study and out through the window across the valley spread out below. Homesteads, people tending gardens and livestock. God we even have the hydroelectric plant back on line. Wealth!

  “I know, Doctor,” Ellen replied. “And I am trying to preserve what we have; but your supporters are interfering with our preparations. Everyone should be working hard building breastworks, scrounging ammunition and guns, moving vehicles back onto the roads we’ve cleared, scouting--”

  “Preparing for war!” Fariq’s hand slammed onto the table, his, “I’m-just-a-poor-peacemaker mask” slipping slightly. He was new to politics, as was Ellen, but he enjoyed popularity among these people he’d never known before and being looked upon as a leader was, well, exciting. He could see the opportunity to establish himself as the leader of these people and he wasn’t going to let this woman stop him.

  For the first time, Ellen openly bristled. “My husband and other brave men are out there fighting for their lives to buy us precious time to construct a defense against this monster and you sit here accusing me of preparing for war. Viper has killed or enslaved every survivor between Denver and Colorado Springs. Friends of mine who escaped from him, people I trust, tell me he’s coming here, to take everything we have, kill everyone we love. We cannot negotiate with such a beast.”

  Fariq’s eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin hard line. “You call him a monster, a beast; but he is a man. Surely he can be reasoned with. How can we know until we try, and how can we try with that half-savage husband of yours--”

  Her openhanded slap smacked against his cheek, watering his eyes and bringing a deep red glow to his dusky face.

  Her voice was ice. “I will not tolerate bigotry, Doctor. My husband is half-Blackfoot, not half-savage.”

  Fariq’s eyes were on fire but his voice remained steady. “I only meant his actions were savage. He attacked Viper’s men when no one from The Freeholds was threatened.”

  “He was trying to save those Air Force Cadets.”

  “Ah, yes. Professional military men.” His voice dripped with scorn. “How do we know they didn’t attack Viper first? I insist you contact your husband and tell him to cease hostilities. We must try to negotiate.” He paused, noticing a commotion in the outer office.

  Jim Cantrell pushed into the room and threw a handful of Polaroid photos on the desk--heads, fresh, recognizable heads, were impaled on bloodstained poles.

  “Negotiate with these, Doctor,” Jim snarled. Turning to Ellen he added, “Viper’s greeting cards.”

  “What… what,” Fariq stammered, his olive complexion paling. Disaster!

  “The unauthorized party you sent out to negotiate with Viper,” Jim answered.

  Ellen gathered up the photos and handed them to Jim, her eyes hard, her voice firm. “Take these to Terrell. His computer is up and running. Have him scan these in and print a hundred copies in newsletter format. Will you write the article?”

  Jim nodded.

  “Good,” Ellen continued. “I want the inaugural issue of the Freehold’s Voice out by nightfall. Everyone must learn what we’re up against.”

  Jim cast a contemptuous look at Taraq and left.

  “Doctor Fariq?”

  He wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  “I’m calling a full committee meeting for this evening,” Ellen announced. “I expect you to be there with plans for converting our clinic to a field hospital capable of dealing with battlefield wounds.”

  He looked up at her like a dog expecting to be beaten. Why doesn’t she mention the six men and women I sent out to die? One word from her and his political aspirations were in ruins. Yet her face held only sorrow, and he realized she would always be a greater leader than he, for she placed the needs of her people above her own and since he was the only real doctor in the Freeholds they needed him. If Cantrell’s article wasn’t too damning…it occurred to him he still might salvage something from this situation.

  He pulled himself together with a visible effort, stood, and walked to the door. “I’ll be there with the plans,” he said. “And the nurses I’ve already trained will make decent medics. We’ll prepare field packs.” As his right hand reached for the brass doorknob he turned to her. “Um…I’m sorry. You were right.” He pulled the door open and left before she could reply.

  *

  California

  “What now, Grandpa?” Sara Garcia asked. They’d fled east around the bay when Stanford fell, escaping Joey’s raiding parties by the skin of their teeth.

  “We keep going north,” Raoul replied. “We have to find someplace civilized enough to build a transmitter so we can contact the ISS and get them the control codes for Sunflower. It’s our only hope.”

  “How do we know it’s still up there?”

  “Because I saw it last night, or at least I think I did. It was moving more slowly, probably because they went into a higher orbit to escape debris, but I’m sure it was them.”

  “And you think the astronauts are still alive?”

  He shrugged and said, “We sent up tons of supplies, so if they’ve survived the hazards of living in space...yes, I think there’s a good possibility. In any event it’s our only chance.”

  “So we rig a transmitter?”

  He nodded and rubbed absently at a lump on his forehead he’d collected from walking into a low tree branch.

  He’d been working on a transmitter with an electrical engineer and a radio tech at Stanford when Scarlatti’s army invaded. He adjusted his pack straps as he walked and considered their options.

  “I think we’ll try Oregon first,” he said.

  Chapter 32: Buying Time

  Michael drifted through scarred, white aspen trunks and russet willow clumps, following the contour of the creek but staying away from the water where willow thickets became impenetrable. In the damp earth nearer the creek he saw the tracks of cottontail, bobcat, coyote, deer, lizard and mice. No people. Small game trails wound among the aspen, spruce and pine. He paused by an antler-rubbed spruce, eyes probing hard. Something didn’t feel right.

  A wild rose bush snagged his jeans and he tugged it free gently making no noise. That was it! Except for the burbling of the creek the normal woodland sounds were missing: no chickadee song, no jays or crows cawing, no squirrels chirring. It was silent as a frozen winter morning. The hair raised on the nape of his neck.

  Something was waiting. Something deadly. He froze absolutely still and scanned ahead for anything out of place. Trip wires, snare-triggers, disturbed leaves on the forest floor…

  “Ellen said you were good.”

  Michael jerked back then looked up into the spruce tree, where the large squirrel nest spoke again.

  “Bang, you’re dead.”

  “Emil?” Michael asked. Even now, this
close, he couldn’t make out the man’s shape.

  A low chuckle floated down to him. “You’re too focused on ground level,” Emil Smolensky said in his best gunnery sergeant tones. “Only time you look up is to check out the hillsides. Gotta see the trees in the forest, Michael.”

  Michael wondered how a man with an artificial leg could climb a tree but he didn’t have time for explanations.

  He motioned with his arm and said, “Come on down, Emil. I’ve got a couple hundred air force cadets about five minutes behind me, and a whole bunch of trouble close behind them.”

  “Scouting ambush sites?” Without waiting for an answer Emil continued. “One of the best is right here. Pass is only about sixty yards wide. Get some light machine guns set up in those rocks,” he pointed to a pink and black striped granite outcrop high up on the South side of the canyon, “and you’ll command the whole pass.”

  Michael nodded and said, “They’ve got tanks, Abrams.”

  “So?” Emil climbed down and shrugged off his ghilly suit, covered with pinecones and twigs. “In this terrain tanks will have to stick to the road. Means they’ll have to clear the road as they advance. We blow the lead tank, then pick’em off one at a time. You got any AT-4’s?”

  “A few, and some LAWs, and mortars some cadets and I grabbed at Fort Carson. And I picked up some dynamite at a demolition contractor’s place in town.” Michael smiled. It could work, and he had an idea of his own to try out.

  Two minutes later he literally contacted Fallon Vanderwahl’s point man.

  “Jesus!” The point man jumped as Michael’s knife tickled his throat. “What are you doing, Sir?” The boy’s dusky skin was noticeably flushed, his voice squeaked and his eyes blinked rapidly. The man just appeared.

  “Saving your life, son,” Michael said, sheathing his knife. “You looked right at me and didn’t see me until I moved. Your eyes saw me, but your mind didn’t. You see with your mind, not your eyes.”

  The boy’s flush deepened. “I guess you’re right, Sir. But you like to scared me to death.” He was embarrassed and a touch angry.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Enrico Gutierrez, Sir.”

  “Well, Enrico, this kind of experience is the best teacher. You don’t like being humiliated or frightened, no one does. But it’ll be a long while before you forget the touch of that knife.

  “Tell you what. Practice makes perfect, and there’s a friend of mine up ahead of you who’s better at this than I am. See if you can spot him.” Michael gave a casual salute and faded back toward the rest of the squad.

  Forty minutes later the ambush erupted.

  An AT-4 antitank rocket zipped across the canyon and into the lead tank, which swelled like a balloon about to pop before the turret blew off and bounced down the road. Machine guns scythed down the infantry following the tank. A LAWS rocket went wild when the cadet aiming it was shot. The rocket exploded against the red orange cliff on the opposite side of the pass just below a bus-sized boulder. The monstrous rock teetered and fell, slamming into the second tank in line, flattening it like a car smashing a beer can.

  At the rear of the column Michael and Fallon dropped from an overhang onto the last Abrams in the column. Michael’s combat knife left a gaping red slash across the Tank commander’s throat. He grabbed the man under the shoulders and heaved him out of the tank. Instantly, Fallon leaned down through the open hatch and shot the gunner and loader, her .45 enormously loud in the confined space. Battle odors, voided bowels, cordite and the coppery scent of blood filled the tank. Michael slid inside the turret basket popped open the door to the driver’s compartment, put two rounds in the man’s chest, and peeled him out of the driver’s seat.

  Cadet snipers and machine gunners cleared the enemy from around the captured tank while Michael, Fallon, and Enrico Gutierrez climbed inside, hoisted the dead men out, and trained the cannon on the next tank in line. Fallon slid into the gunner’s seat while Enrico took the loader’s position. Michael, in the commander’s seat, ripped the enemy infantry from behind with fifty caliber rounds from the M2 mounted on the turret. Daryl Bartel took the driver’s place. The radio squealed as panicked tank commanders jammed the net.

  Fallon fired and the tank immediately in front of her exploded like a skyrocket on the Fourth of July. The blast and noise as the round fired were stunning, and everyone inside flinched as the breech/recoil system absorbed the recoil by allowing 115 tons of 120mm gun to slam backwards just inches from them. Michael and Enrico checked their legs and arms carefully each man edging slightly away from the breech. That thing could put a serious hurt on anyone who got in the way.

  Fallon screamed, “Sabot!”

  Enrico twisted to his right, banged his knee against the switch that opened a blast-proof door to the ready ammunition compartment and hefted out a fresh M829 round. He released the knee switch, which allowed the door to close automatically, slammed the round into the breech with his right arm, pulled it out of the way and yelled, “Up!”

  Fallon, who already had another M1A1 targeted with the laser range finder, yelled, “On the way!” and depressed the triggers. Again the blast and recoil shook them. Again an enemy tank exploded.

  Eight M1A1’s left. Seven, Michael corrected as an AT-4 took out another. The fifth tank in line had additional antennas, probably the column commander. Its turret was pointed straight at them, the cannon barrel dropping in line.

  “Daryl!” Michael yelled.

  “I see him,” Daryl answered, twisting the throttle. Their tank lurched forward, hiding behind the burning wreck ahead of them. Kerwhang! The turret rang like a church bell as a round glanced off and exploded against the cliff. The sound stunned all of them motionless but Daryl, who slammed their tank into reverse and backed them toward a curve.

  Enrico rammed another round home. “Up!”

  Fallon focused on the shot knowing she’d likely only get one chance, distantly aware that two more enemy tanks were tracking her now. The gun recoiled, surprising Michael, who hadn’t heard Fallon’s warning. Just before they cleared the bend their tank jolted sideways, tipped and slammed back to the ground, bursting into flame.

  “Out!” Michael screamed, but no one heard him. A quick glance told him Fallon and Enrico were both dead. Fire singed the hair on his forearms and licked at his pants as he threw open the tank commander’s hatch and pulled himself out. Daryl was halfway out of the drivers compartment when a round from a 7.62 coaxial machine gun mounted on another tank tore his heart out.

  Flame-licked metal blistered Michael’s hands as he vaulted off his tank and rolled down the embankment, noting in passing the jagged hole and sheets of fire erupting from the enemy commander’s tank.

  He dropped between two rocks, startling a pair of enemy soldiers hiding there. Faster than thought his left hand plunged the Kabar through the closest man’s eye, while his right hand triggered the .357, blowing a large hole through the other’s chest. Heart pounding like a bass drum in a marching band, Michael holstered his pistol and picked up a dead enemy’s M16. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Daryl draped down the front of the tank like a rag doll, a red smear running down his chest and across the back of his head. Battle fever gripped him, tingling his senses. He stripped the corpses of clips and began the hunt: a golden-eyed tiger stalking armed prey.

  He eeled from tree to tree, rock to rock, finding them. Knife work if they were alone or in pairs. Grenades if they were clustered. He drifted on, leaving mute, bloody warnings to those who followed.

  Lieutenant Dan Osaka and Emil Smolensky were both out of antitank rockets and low on machine gun and mortar ammunition. From Dan’s vantage point he could see a never-ending stream of Viper’s men pouring into the pass.

  More M1A1’s and Bradley’s were coming up from Colorado Springs and the five remaining tanks caught in the ambush were raking the hillsides with cannon and machine gun fire. He pulled out his radio, checked with Emil, then ordered his soldiers to break
contact. They’d pull back to the next ambush site.

  Flickers of motion on the upper slopes told Michael, Lt. Osaka and Emil were pulling out. He was so far gone into battle lust he almost hated to see it end. Six burning hulks lined Highway 24 and scores of twisted corpses bobbed in Fountain Creek, staining it red. Michael grinned as he crabbed over the ridge so as not to skyline himself. Viper wouldn’t be amused.

  He slid down a steep side hill into a narrow ravine and found himself facing a couple of cadets. Part of the rear guard.

  “You all right, Sir?” They really looked concerned.

  Michael looked down at himself, for the first time noticing all the blood.

  He shrugged and stepped past them, saying, “Not mine.”

  The two cadets swallowed and looked at each other, eyes big. Who was this guy?

  Chapter 33: Preparing for War

  Ellen Whitebear struggled over the old topographic map. She wasn’t a real military commander for God’s sake. Well, okay, she was President of The Freeholds and she had led the counterattacks that defeated the refugees. But those were desperate, starving people who were lightly armed. Her brow creased as she chewed on the end of her pencil. Viper’s army was coming at the Freeholds with tanks, artillery and automatic weapons, so the question was how to stop them?

  The corrections Michael and Emil had drawn on the topo maps didn’t help much. Remembering how she’d been outflanked during the battle with the refugees, she couldn’t see why, if her forces blocked this canyon, Viper wouldn’t just attack up another one, possibly via Deckers to the North or Canyon City to the South? For that matter, if Viper had several thousand fighters he could outflank the Freeholds by coming up Highway 285 from Denver to Jefferson and cutting back southeast. She decided to have Jim Cantrell or Aaron Goldstein check those possibilities out from the air and dispatched scout squads armed with IED’s to cover those routes, just in case.