Plague Years (Book 3): This Thing of Darkness I Acknowledge Mine

by Rounds, Mark

  Options were limited. The military had a small number of satellite phones but they couldn’t be everywhere so while Major Tippet had one, as did Slider’s patrol, but GEN Antonopoulos did not as he was relying on the aircraft SATCOM which they had to leave with the damaged C-17.

  “Haven Control, this is Sponge Bob One One,” said Sparky. The codename was his idea and everyone else just rolled their eyes.

  “This is Nixon,” said their control officer, “Authenticate Foxtrot Romeo.”

  “Authenticating Juliet November,” said Sparky.

  “What do you have for me Sponge Bob?” said Captain Nixon who wasn’t even attempting to hide his amusement at the code name.

  “We have a visual on a couple of four-wheel drive pickups and a couple of MRAP’s moving slowly down State Highway 23 headed south and east.”

  “It’s none of ours,” said Nixon. “Drone reports have motorized remnants of the attack that hit Fairchild heading down your way. This is potentially the force that is chasing Haven One. They are heavily armed, use caution.”

  “What’s the plan, Slider?” asked Voodoo after Slider had signed off.

  “Give me a minute,” said Slider who was looking at the map. Then he began to smile.

  “Alright, I have an idea,” said Slider with a grin.

  “O crap,” said Voodoo laughing. “The last time a heard that, we ended up in Juarez, hung over, broke, and out of gas.”

  “But it was fun though, wasn’t it?” said Slider. Then he became serious and pointed at the map. “They’re tooling down Highway 23 at what, thirty or so? If we get on it and take the backroads we can be at this bend in the road near D and J Farm Supply. The ground is kind of rough around there and we should be able to hide in the hills next to the road. What say we hit them with the AT-4 and blow away one of the MRAPs? We can shoot up the pickups and be down the road before they are any wiser.”

  “These aren’t dirt bikes ya know,” said Voodoo indicating his chopped Harley. “Those roads look mighty dicey.”

  “We’ll slide around some,” said VD winking, “should be fun!”

  “Let’s hit it!” said Slider.

  The bikers kept it pretty slow to keep the dust down, but with the smoke and haze from the wheat fire, they were hard to see. They managed to get to the bend in the road well before the MRAPs and got set up on a little rise at the top of a road cut. The hostiles would all have to drive right in front of them and if they stayed low on the crest of the hill, nobody would spot them.

  They settled in and had to wait only about twelve minutes before the first vehicle, a Toyota pickup rolled by. Sparky let the first one go by. Following about ten yards behind was an MRAP with a bored mercenary riding in the M-60 turret.

  Sparkey marked its movement through the iron sights on the anti-tank launcher. Slider slapped him on the shoulder and Sparkey’s answer was the whoosh of the AT-4 launching. Sparkey had read the manual sent along with the AT-4 several times before they actually got to use it so he knew not to fire at the front of the MRAP but wait until he could get a side shot. The range was short so there was scarcely a second from the report of the weapon being fired until impact. The target was covered with dust and smoke but continued to roll forward. Slider thought the weapon had not penetrated but then the MRAP drove off the road and he saw the M-60 gunner jump out and begin to crawl away. The back hatch flew open and another mercenary flopped out, obviously hurt.

  Slider was momentarily stunned at the effectiveness of his weapon. Then he realized where he was and fired off most of the rounds in the magazine of his MP-5. Slider was aiming at one of the Toyota pickups and scored several hits on the lead vehicle and the troops riding in the back, causing it to run off the road and turn over. The mercenaries were thrown into the field opposite the ambushers.

  Slider’s other riders returned fire with shotguns, ammo thoughtfully provided by GEN Antonopoulos’s drone. They did little damage to the MRAPS, but the pellets from the shotguns chewed up the other Toyota pickup and the men riding in the cargo space.

  Then Nergüi’s troops began to return fire and Slider knew they were outgunned as they received fire from the unmolested M-60 machine guns and an M-19 grenade launcher. The BACA members slid down the backside of the hill and got on their rides, fired them up, and took off across the field with dirt flying in all directions. Slider had just started to relax when the least damaged Toyota pickup bombed over the top of the hill. Two of the riders in the back of the Toyota were apparently unhurt and were firing prodigiously, if inaccurately from the bed of the truck over the cab, hanging on to the roll bar.

  The BACA riders had expended most of the ammunition in their weapons and had not taken time to reload. As a result there was no return fire and the road bikes BACA preferred had to go slowly over the rough ground. The four-wheel drive Toyota with its high ground clearance was gaining on them.

  Viking Dan saw the peril to his friends and comrades in an instant and turned his big motorcycle around and charged the pickup, shouting a war cry that was part American Indian, part Scandinavian, and all of it terrifying coming from a large red bearded man in leathers riding an unmuffled Harley.

  Viking Dan did have a small nine millimeter pistol under his coat, but it was hard to get to and not that effective. Instead, from the scabbard on his bike, he drew his nunchaku and began whirling it over his head making the vision even more fearful. He closed on the Toyota quickly and slammed the free stick of the nunchaku a glancing blow to the windshield of the pickup. Cracks spider webbed immediately from the impact across the rest of the windshield obscuring the driver’s vision. Viking Dan kept the forward motion of the nunchaku going and hit one of the gunners on the bed, knocking him clear off the truck.

  Then he spun the bike around and came back for another pass. The remaining gunner fired wildly but Viking Dan’s luck had run out. He took four rounds in the bike and two in his chest. He still managed to swing the nunchaku and hit his assailant hard in the hands so his rifle went flying. The driver attempted to turn his truck and block Dan, but he expertly slipped his bike and was away. The driver of the pickup had had enough and headed back to the road.

  Slider had meanwhile stopped his bike and seated another magazine into his MP-5. In one long burst he emptied the weapon into the truck and was rewarded by it turning hard to the right and rolling. The bikers roared off into the hills.

  No one knew how bad Viking Dan was hit until he tumbled from his bike a mile down the road. Slider got there first. Dan was looking up at the sky.

  “Hey Slider,” said Dan in a whisper.

  “Dude,” said Slider partially in shock from all the action, “That was one crazy stunt. Let’s get you patched up!”

  “Too late,” whispered Dan with a smile. “But it was a blast while it lasted ….”

  Even though Slider and the rest of the BACA members tried their best to stabilize the big man, Viking Dan rode into Valhalla a few moments later with his honor guard enhanced by half a dozen of Nergüi’s troops.

  Chapter 2

  July 10th, Friday, 6:57 pm PDT

  On State Highway 23 just north of Lamont WA

  “Macklin!” shouted Nergüi into his cell phone.

  “Macklin here.”

  “We have just been ambushed,” said Nergüi gathering his wits and calming down. “They had advanced weaponry and took out one of the MRAPs and destroyed both pickups. I need reinforcement.”

  “Yes sir,” said Macklin who paused for a moment. “What is your location?”

  “Just west of Steptoe,” said Nergüi after consulting his map. “We drove a couple of miles before laagering up.”

  “I have one bus near Steptoe,” said Macklin. “Is the road clear?”

  “I can see Steptoe,” said Nergüi testily, “such as it is. There is nothing between that humble little berg and me.”

  “I need to set this up,” said Macklin. “I will have a bus rolling in five minutes.”

  “No more than f
ive!” said Nergüi breaking the connection before Macklin could reply.

  Macklin, who was getting used to Nergüi’s arrogant ways, sighed and then punched in another number.

  “Ölnirsen?” said Macklin into the cell phone.

  “I am here,” said Ölnirsen with a trace of a Scandinavian accent that hinted of his origin. He had fought in a dozen wars, his life extended by the support of Nergüi and, ironically, the Plague.

  “Take your bus to Steptoe and then head west on highway 23,” said Macklin. “You are to join up with Nergüi’s group. He has taken casualties and feels the need of reinforcement.”

  “I will proceed,” said Ölnirsen.

  “Do not dawdle,” said Macklin. “Nergüi is … agitated.”

  “I understand,” said Ölnirsen warily.

  July 10th, Friday, 7:17 pm PDT

  US Highway 195 just south of Steptoe WA

  JD was riding hard, pushing Stomper to run just a little faster. He had surprised a school bus filled with mercenaries of all things and now he had to get back to the column before they were hit. They had parked the convoy in the interest of saving gas and had sent two of the bikers, Ace and Hammer, down Highway 23. JD said he would head down 195 alone. This wasn’t just bravado. Most of the horses in his squad were even tempered saddle ponies used for trail rides. As a consequence, they weren’t very fast. Stomper was different. He could run and furthermore, he loved it and JD needed every bit of that right now.

  JD and Stomper busted through Steptoe heading south, running just off the road to avoid stumbling on the pavement. As he approached Major Tippet and his convoy, he was waving his hat frantically over his head, the signal for hostile mechanized units. He could only hope that some of his troopers had read the manual.

  Billie was the first to spot him, using her binoculars, and she began shouting. J.D. couldn’t hear the words, but he could see the horse holders walking the horses back and troops scattering left and right, taking positions in a small drainage ditch that ran perpendicular to the road. JD reined his horse and jumped off, Billie expertly gathered the reins and lead his horse back to the horse holders.

  “What do you have?” said Dave urgently as he moved JD off the highway.

  “There is a damned bus behind me filled to the brim with troops,” said a breathless JD

  “Anything else?” asked Dave.

  “They had just come around the corner,” said JD shaking his head. “Four or five of them opened up on me through the windows and I could see more windows coming down. I just turned and ran. I am surprised though, that they didn’t have a point vehicle or any outriders.”

  “Maybe they do,” said Dave “and they are just out of position. Anyway, if they are driving down the road, we can fuck them up pretty bad. Go settle in with your troops. Be prepared to put it to them.”

  “Yes sir!” said JD who tumbled into the line with his squad.

  “Connor!” shouted Dave. “Let them clear town so they don’t have much cover, then kill the driver. You are shooting through glass so don’t count on the first shot hitting the target. Use all eight.”

  “Yes sir,” said Connor.

  “Let him take the shot,” said Chris quietly. “You have to run this rodeo.”

  “I should be taking it myself,” said Dave irritably.

  “Sayla says he is good,” said Chris. “I’ve seen him shoot. Let him do his job so you can do yours.”

  “That’s my lecture,” said Dave somewhat chagrined.

  “I listened,” said Chris with a smile.

  Just then the bus barreled through town, probably going fifty miles an hour. Dave checked his troops but they were all in cover. The vehicles were well off the road. He needed to stay mobile and couldn’t risk them for a road block.

  Dave looked over to where Connor was set up. He was well settled. Someone, probably Harold Gibson, who, at 71 was probably the oldest private in the Army, had provided him with a small sandbag and was now acting as Connor’s spotter. Connor himself was focused on making a sight picture. Dave could do no more.

  Then the big rifle spoke. First once, then three more in quick succession. Dave could see that Connor had fired once to break the windscreen, then three more to incapacitate the driver who slumped over in the seat. Someone was reaching from behind, trying to direct the bus and keep it on the blacktop.

  Connor’s fired again and the hands retreated. Dave was so engrossed that he nearly forgot he had other soldiers waiting for an order.

  “Open fire!” shouted Dave.

  Thirty weapons opened up on the hapless bus. Everything from shot guns in the hands of the cavalrymen to the M-60’s in the vehicle mounts began chewing up the bus. They began firing at two hundred yards and so they only had five seconds, but they wrecked the front of the bus and everyone sitting in the first two rows. Incredibly the bus continued right down the road, past their position.

  Connor calmly switched direction and fired off hand, hitting the left rear tire with the last three rounds in his M-1. With no one guiding the bus, it slowly veered to the left and then, almost in slow motion rolled over, bodies flying out of every opening on the bus. Everything was quiet for a second and time seemed to slow down, then the screams of the wounded mercenaries pierced the silence and time again moved forward at normal speed.

  “JD” shouted Dave. “Get some of your riders down there and check it out. See if there is anyone we can interrogate. Everyone else, eyes front! There could be another bus!”

  Dave noted with satisfaction that Connor had already reloaded and was focused down range, Gibson still acting as his spotter.

  The road remained empty. Apparently, the bus was operating by itself. But JD was quick about getting to the bus. His troops sorted out those that were still living and did a hasty triage for those injured.

  “Wait!” shouted Amber as she jumped up from her position. “Watch the big blond man!”

  Ölnirsen had been shot twice while trying to control the bus from the seat behind the driver and the rollover had stunned him but Amber realized he was still dangerous and if he decided there was no hope of escape, very capable of ending his own life. He could be very valuable if kept alive.

  Amber, followed by Sayla and Chris, sprinted the intervening distance to where the bus lay on its side.

  “You can die here if you want,” said Amber to Ölnirsen who had suddenly focused on her, “but there is a way out of Nergüi’s bondage.”

  Ölnirsen reached for his sidearm only to find the holster empty. He reached for the knife on his combat harness and found the scabbard empty as well. Chris held them both up, well out of Ölnirsen reach, along with the AMT .380 that he carried as a backup.

  “Sorry, not that easy,” said Chris stepping back.

  Ölnirsen attempted to lurch to his feet, his progress slowed by his wounds. Sayla easily kicked his feet out from under him and as he hit the ground, gathered him up in a hammerlock.

  “Listen to me,” said Amber. “Dying is easy. But you don’t have to. Do you like being owned by Nergüi?”

  “What else is there?” spat Ölnirsen. “As soon as he knows you have me, he will withdraw and the Plague will come back. A life on Slash is a poor substitute for really living. I’d rather die!”

  “Relax for a moment,” said Amber. “What do you feel?”

  “You are in my mind,” said Ölnirsen suddenly. “Is this a trick!?”

  “No trick,” said Amber who then pointed at Sayla. “Do you know this man?”

  “He is the silent Indian that was with Nergüi,” said Ölnirsen slowly.

  “Silent no longer,” said Sayla. “Nergüi is evil. You know this. You were once a warrior. Act like one! Strike against him!”

  “How?” asked Ölnirsen as he slumped back onto the ground. “He has resources and works for others like him. What can I do?”

  “Tell us about him,” said Amber soothingly. “Tell us what he is doing and why he is here.”

  “I don’t work w
ith him so much now,” said Ölnirsen. “I work for the new one, Macklin.”

  “Tell us all about it,” said Amber.

  She was interrupted as Ace and Hammer came screaming down the road from Steptoe. They pulled up by the Humvee that held Dave.

  “What do you have for me?” asked Dave even before the motorcycle was shut down.

  “There are three MRAPs maybe a mile down the road.” said Ace, “and there is smoke behind them. Looks like they have been hit pretty hard.”

  “It’s Nergüi!” said Dave triumphantly. “Get me the sat phone! I need to tell Haven Control and see if we can pop this guy once and for all!”

  July 10th, Friday, 7:31 pm PDT

  Command Center in the Commons building, University of Idaho, Moscow ID

  “Captain,” said Chad as calmly as he could muster into his sat phone, “we have an opportunity here. Major Tippet has a location for Nergüi. He would like to hit them before nightfall, but he lacks enough force to ensure success. He is willing to take them with what he has, but the chance for success is not good in my estimation.”

  “Are you sure it’s Nergüi?” asked Lassiter.

  “This isn’t a guarantee,” said Chad, “but consider that these MRAPs are the sum total of his armored forces and whoever is controlling them is obviously hunting the General. Secondly, after they were ambushed, he was able to call in an ill planned and poorly executed reinforcement attempt. That fits Nergüi. He is clever and cagey as hell, but certain aspects of modern combat still elude him.”

  “OK, what have you got to hit him with?” asked Lassiter.

  “They have a short platoon with an MRAP and a Humvee mounting M-60s. There are eight BACA bikers with small arms and not much ammunition close by. We have another platoon of mounted cavalry scattered all over the Palouse.”