A pincer movement like when the refugees attacked but with well equipped troops was her worst nightmare.
She tapped the mangled pencil on the map, noticing how the positions marked for Viper’s army wound up the narrow pass like a snake. If we don’t stop them before they reach Green Mountain Falls, we won’t stop them before they get here, she thought. She stopped tapping. What if we cut off the snake’s head? The idea intrigued her. She’d been planning how to stop an army when maybe she should have been planning how to stop a man.
*
Viper paced back and forth scowling fiercely at a topo map; one Marcus Robitaille had brought him from the remains of the Chinook Bookstore in downtown Colorado Springs.
“Why aren’t we though the pass?” He snapped.
“That pass is narrow.” Marcus said. “It’s choked with rockslides and old cars that stop our tanks cold. It’s easily defended and some of these guys fighting us have military experience. And even the men we have with combat experience haven’t faced any serious opposition--not enough to keep them sharp, anyhow.”
Marcus met Viper’s baleful gaze and held it.
“I could go on,” he added.
“You making excuses or just forgetting your place?” Viper asked.
Marcus shook his head. “I’m telling it like it is. Besides, you need me almost as much as I need you.”
“And why would you think that?” Viper’s eyes were lidded, his voice full of menace. His right hand pulled his hideout gun from its holster.
Marcus ticked off his responses on his fingers.
Index finger. “First, because everyone else is so afraid of you they’d tell you white was black if they thought that’s what you wanted to hear.”
He pointed to his middle finger. “Second, this organization is too big for you to run by yourself and you need someone else with brains and guts to help you.”
Ring finger. “And third, because I’m the only man in your empire with whom you can have an intelligent conversation.”
Viper nodded thoughtfully, slid his hideout gun back into its holster and said, “Just don’t get too comfortable.”
He pointed to the map. “Now, how would you suggest we overcome this problem?”
Marcus was ready for this one. “I’d withdraw,” he said.
Viper raised an eyebrow.
“If we had air power we could blow the defenders off the ridges and push on through the pass, but we don’t. We’re just wasting men and armor trying to force our way up that canyon,” Marcus said. “I doubt the enemy has more than fifty men keeping us bottled up. Our tank’s guns won’t elevate high enough to blast them off the summits. Their machine guns keep us pinned down so we can’t clear the roads. When we try to set up mortars their snipers kill our crews. We must outnumber them a hundred to one, but we won’t if we don’t quit charging machine guns.”
“We pull back and the men will quit believing they’re unstoppable,” Viper argued.
“They’ve already been stopped, Leroy” Marcus replied. “I’m sorry, man but that’s a fact. Besides we’ll call it a strategic withdrawal.” He leaned over the map and circled a spot. “We pull back to here, leave the armor, and climb up the North side of the pass until we hit the old Rampart Range Road.”
Viper’s eyes followed Marcus’ finger along the road.
“We’ll march up the road to Woodland Park, cut back down the Pass and hit the defenders from behind. After we wipe them out we can take all the time we need to cut a road and bring our armor up.”
“That’s not bad, Colonel Robitaille,” Viper said, promoting Marcus on the spot. “But we won’t withdraw. We need to keep the enemy’s attention and that means keeping the pressure on. Bring up the reserves and use them for the end run and pull the reserve armor out of the Springs and send them through Garden of the Gods and up Rampart Range Road to join our troops.”
Marcus smiled to himself as he left the command post. That went better than expected. Brandon Silva was in charge of the reserves and Marcus got along well with the man. Like Marcus, Brandon had been an educated professional before the apocalypse. His top sergeant, Ladell Shore was a good man too.
*
Jim Cantrell’s gyrocopter settled to the ground in a cloud of whirling dust. Dan Osaka’s cadets grabbed 230 pounds of ammunition from the box Ellen Whitebear had ordered strapped into the second seat.
Emil Smolensky glanced disgustedly at the ammunition and asked, “How long ‘til you can get back?”
“Forty minutes round trip,” Jim said, damning the logistics of delivering ammo so far from The Freeholds. He shrugged and added, “Aaron Goldstein is on his way in the Pegasus. And Ellen started an ATV convoy with ammunition and reinforcements this way three hours ago. Another two or three hours they’ll be here. Sorry I couldn’t carry more, Emil.”
“You train someone lighter to fly that egg beater and they could carry more ammo,” Emil offered.
“Not a damned thing wrong with your hindsight, Emil,” Jim said. He waved as he accelerated down the dirt road and lifted off.
Emil grinned as he shouldered a box of ammo and headed back down the pass. That Cantrell was okay for a musician. Fifteen minutes later Emil was back in radio range.
Emil pushed the talk button on the GMRS transceiver and asked, “How we doing, Lieutenant?”
Static.
“Come in Lieutenant Osaka.”
“Dan’s been hit, Sergeant Smolensky. This is Dorsey McLeod.”
“What’s happening down there, Dorsey?”
“We’re holding them,” the Cadet said. “Hell, we can stop them if our ammo holds out.”
Emil winced. Dorsey had a lot to learn about radio discipline. Time to repair that blunder.
“No problem there, son. The ammo train just arrived. Say, is Michael around.”
“No, Sir! He’s up at the front with a sniper rifle. Christ! You should see him knock them over. Ain’t no one showed so much as a finger around that big rock by the curve for half-an-hour.”
Emil grinned again as he deciphered Dorsey’s Texas drawl. That Michael Whitebear would do, too. Then a thought came to him as he considered what he had just heard.
“Dorsey?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“You sure the enemy’s still there?” In a steep, narrow canyon like this a flanking move could be deadly.
“They’re there.” Dorsey said. “You can hear’em and see the dust they stir up.”
Emil exhaled a heavy sigh. Damn! He wasn’t used to thinking like an officer, though he’d spent a good part of his career thinking for officers.
A lone shot echoed up the canyon. Michael, or another sniper, Emil thought.
It wouldn’t hurt to move the flankers out farther, and he’d have to ask Jim or Aaron to fly a quick scout next time they dropped by.
He shouldered some ammo and got his munitions detail headed back down the pass. Time to get back to work.
*
Engine off, Aaron Goldstein glided the Pegasus high over the Rampart Range, catching thermals. Noiseless, like an eagle hunting rabbits he soared, scanning the ground below for enemy troops.
He caught a glimpse of movement. There, he thought, off to the side. He nudged the joystick until he was over them. Oh, God! Hundreds of them moving through the trees. At least it’s only infantry.
He rode another thermal gaining altitude. Not far from Garden of the Gods, he thought. Maybe we can intercept them and hold at Camera Point.
A dust cloud on the horizon spurred his curiosity and he headed that way. He heard them before he could see them. Tanks and Bradley’s, a dozen or more, laboring along behind a huge group of slaves who were clearing obstacles the machines couldn’t negotiate.
He climbed until he was sure they wouldn’t hear the motor and fired it up. Ellen and the Freeholders were headed for Ute Pass. He had to intercept them and get most of them headed this way. Then he had a thought. Emil Smolensky and the Air Force Academy Cadets were much
closer.
He unhooked his Yaesu VX 6R handie talkie from his belt, switched it to GMRS mode and raised Emil. On GMRS it was line of sight only since they didn’t have any repeaters up, but from his altitude line of sight could be twenty miles. Sure beat hell out of yelling.
*
Provo, Utah
Bob Young lit an oil lamp and opened the first of seven envelopes on his desk. He’d been sound asleep on his cot at City Hall when the courier came in. It took him three minutes to rub the sleep from his eyes, splash cold wake-up water on his face and reach his desk. He’d been waiting anxiously for these reports for more than a month.
The first report revealed a heavily defended settlement in Kingman, Arizona. Good people, friendly if wary, seeking trade. They had a functioning hospital. All Colorado River bridges out or submerged. Access to Kingman via zodiac launched just west of Nephi and by following the new coastline to Kingman. Locals who tried to find relatives in Phoenix say it is underwater, probably part of our new and much larger Gulf of California. Saw 3 gray whales and 1 Blue whale along with several pods of dolphins on voyage. Suggest we establish a fishing fleet.
Second report: Flagstaff--burned; Prescott--burned; Sedona--weird. (That brought a slight smile.) Rumors of Apache tribals going back to the land and hostile to whites are true. I got jumped by three men who identified themselves as Apache, told me I was on Apache land and stole my packhorse for trespassing. They almost killed me when I told them I was trying to survey the damages and changes in the land but let me go with a warning not to come back. They told me of slavers coming up from up from Mexico and I have no reason to doubt them.
Third Report: Gallup, New Mexico--severely damaged by fire and flood but holding together. Navaho tribe main power. White “foreigners” unwelcome, but allowed to pass by paying a tax in gold, fuel, food or trade items. Rumors of Ute and Cheyenne tribes east and north not confirmed. Albuquerque--mostly gone due to flooding. Saw some large greenhouses being run by slavers so I stayed clear. Santa Fe--mostly burned, but with a solid core of farmers and Pueblo Indians open to trade.
Fourth report: Central Utah below Park City--mostly drowned under huge new fresh water lake. Eastern Utah--still desert but greening up and still empty. Grand Junction, Colorado, wiped out by floods and fires except for a small survivor settlement high above the Colorado River, near Fruita. Folks wary but like almost everywhere else, desperate for news.
Fifth report: Western and North Central Wyoming--mostly buried under lava flow from Yellowstone Caldera eruption, but event not explosive, rather more like Kilauea with slow, steady, but vast flows. Isolated homestead communities, hostile at first. Cheyenne and Arapahoe tribes likewise, but open to trade. Rumors of Satanic cult ruling Denver from several refugee sources. Likely true.
Sixth report: Montana--Tons of volcanic ash, some from Yellowstone but suspect Hood and Rainier also. Very few people and most of them tend to shoot first.
Seventh report: Idaho and Northern Nevada--Seems like everything up here has been burned or buried under volcanic ash. Saw a few folk around Elko but they waved me off and I didn’t press matters. There’s a good-sized community growing up around the Coeur d’Alene area and another north of the Boise ruins. They’re trying to get potato beds and a few orchards restarted, but the ash is a problem.
No word yet from California, Oregon or Washington or Canada. Likewise Southern New Mexico and West Texas. No word from Adam since he’d sent a rider with the Western Colorado report.
*
Adam Young sat his mount with the ease of one accustomed to long hours in the saddle. His vantage point provided an excellent view of the ruins of Glenwood Springs, the charred timbers of the town and surrounding forest evidence of a hellish inferno. Aluminum cars parts had run like water and, as they cooled, left solid metal rivulets and puddles behind. Windshield glass melted and drooped, forming silicon stalactites on the rusted hulks. Crispy corpses, mostly undisturbed because of the lack of live scavengers, littered the scene. He’d seen it all before but only rarely did fire get hot enough to form streams from metal objects. He raised his field glasses and trained them on the peaks beyond the town.
His Minolta 10x50 binoculars were heavy, unwieldy and you had to have rock steady hands or the image would dance. They were also powerful and had optical coatings that guaranteed clarity, which meant they were perfect for reading the heliograph signals flashed to him by his distant forward scouts.
“I-70 impassable,” the Morse blinks spelled out.
He turned to his signaler and said, “Query: Why?”
“I-70 gone,” came the reply.
That did it. He’d be damned if he’d bushwhack his way across the mountains to reach the East Slope. He could try a different route, swing north and try to pick up I-80, but that would have to wait for another time.
He nodded to his signaler and said, “Send recall.” It was time to go home.
Chapter 34: The Skirmish at Ute Pass
Jim Cantrell had a problem. He could smell the overheated metal of his gyrocopter’s engine. Too hot. Damned air-cooled ultralight motors weren’t meant for continuous operation, especially when the machine was overloaded. He looked at the load of munitions on the seat beside him and shrugged. He knew how desperate Emil and the others must be so he couldn’t jettison the ammo. His only remaining choice was to slow down. Swearing to himself he throttled back. Better late than never.
He thumbed the transmit button on his hand-held radio.
“Emil, you copy?”
No response.
“Emil, come in?”
Static hissed out of the speaker. No Emil. Still not in range. At least he hoped that was the problem. Radios didn’t work for shit anymore. He’d heard Aaron and Randy complaining that the only people they could talk to on their HAM sets was each other. Aaron said it was like trying to broadcast during a lighting storm.
The engine sputtered and quit, and when he tried the starter, it wouldn’t crank.
“Shit!” He popped the ballistic chute and rode the tiny copter down into a boggy meadow just east of Woodland Park. He stuffed all the ammunition he could carry into his backpack and legged it toward Emil’s last reported position.
*
Emil Smolensky, former gunnery Sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps and current Colonel in the Freeholds Militia, crouched behind a gray and black granite boulder and counted his rounds as bullets buzzed by overhead and ricocheted off nearby rocks. Too few. He was down to a Ruger Mini-14 that fired .22’s. Three boxes wouldn’t last another five minutes. He glanced at the boy-soldiers who had come with him and grinned like a wolf.
“More of that ammo they waste, the less they have to tote around, huh?”
Nervous grins and wide eyes answered him.
He raised the Mini-14 above the sheltering granite and fired three rounds without aiming or exposing himself.
“Let’em know we aren’t out,” he explained. “Make’em a little more cautious.”
One of the Cadets near him stood up and squeezed off a three round burst from an M-16. He caught a return round through the forehead and dropped.
Emil’s lips tightened in a thin line. “That’s why I told you to keep your heads down,” Emil said. He picked up the dead boy’s M-16 and asked, “Who’s out?”
A pimply faced Cadet with dark hair raised his hand and Emil handed him the rifle.” Let’em know we’re still here,” Emil said.
Twenty-five Cadets followed his example and fired three round bursts without exposing themselves.
Emil pointed back along what was left of Rampart Range Road. “Now let’s fall back a bit before we’re surrounded. Regroup behind those pink and black striped rocks.” Where the hell was that damned musician and his ammo?
*
Michael Whitebear centered the officer’s forehead in the crosshairs. He let out half a breath and relaxed, squeezing the trigger gently, firing between heartbeats. The rifle roared and a red mist sprung from the officer’s head
. The man behind the officer clutched his chest and fell. Before Michael could chamber another round everyone else near the officer had taken cover.
“Two-fers?” Randy McKinley asked, lowering his binoculars. “At 400 yards, you’re lining up two-fers?”
Two nearby Cadets manning an M-60 gave each other a knowing look. The echo of the shot faded down the canyon.
“Dumb luck, Randy,” Michael replied, scanning the hillside with the scope. He paused and put a round into an exposed foot. “Besides,” he said, “dropping two at once gives away our direction. Their snipers will be homing in on us now. Time to move.” They slid down behind the dark red sandstone outcrop.
“Right,” Randy said. “But keep that up and they’ll be too scared to show themselves, much less mount an assault.”
“They aren’t mounting anything, Randy.” Michael said, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and stepping out. “They haven’t even made a halfhearted attempt to get past that choke point in hours. They’re up to something.”
Randy moved with him. “Flanking us?”
“What I’d try,” Michael said.
Randy nodded. “So you think Ellen guessed right?”
Michael stopped and gave Randy a mirthless grin. “One thing I’ve learned being married to her,” he said. “Nobody’s getting rich betting against Ellen.”
“Think Emil can stop them?”
Michael just kept walking. The two cadets brought up the rear.
“Right. Dumb question.” Randy answered himself. Every able-bodied Freeholder was on the way to reinforce Ute Pass and the Rampart Range bypass. If they didn’t arrive soon enough, well, he and every Cadet and Freeholder making a stand at Ute Pass would know soon enough.
*
“All I’m saying is this is the best organized resistance we’ve ever encountered.” Marcus said. “And we’re giving them too much--”
The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Page 35
