by G. R. Carter
He used the few moments to formulate a plan. He quickly sorted through the river boat battles of the Civil War, trying to remember times when the under equipped South had defeated the industrial might of the North. Battle of Plum Point he thought, remembering the gunboat battle just outside of Memphis. In his mind, he tried to calculate the angle and the speed of the monitor, then set the wheel of Firefly on an intercept course. His cannon shells kept reaching out towards the odd shape. He could see ricochets scatter in every direction as sparks flew from impact.
“Aim for the pilot house!” he shouted above the roar of battle. A lucky shot there would keep the monitor from being guided. His gunner continued to pour fire onto the most visible part however, trying to shred it the way he had Firefly’s other kills tonight.
Oliver was close enough now to see a dark spot in the monitor’s turret, becoming more visible as it turned in his direction. His courage was tested as he realized what the dark spot was…
A flash came from the short barrel sticking out from the darkness, but the gunner was too anxious, firing before Firefly was fully in his sights. Oliver thought he saw the shell fly past the wheelhouse, probably his imagination but the feeling was all too real. He wondered how long it might take to reload, then cut the wheel port for a moment, then back to starboard, hoping to unsettle the ARK gunner. A splash twenty feet in front of the bow announce the arrival of the second shot, sending a cascade of water over Firefly and drenching the gunner and the ship’s bridge.
Oliver didn’t maneuver this time, he was too close to alter course for fear of missing his target. The clock ticked in his head, causing him to involuntarily cringe, waiting for the next shot to come in through the bridge’s opening from point blank range.
He didn’t think to brace himself before the Firefly’s reinforced bow made contact with the monitor’s side, a crushing blow that nearly capsized the ARK ironclad. Oliver found himself flying through the air, being flung over the wheel and past the gunner’s station. He hit the fore deck of Firefly with a thud, knocking out his breath but not his consciousness. A moment of eerie calm settled over the ship, interrupted only by the splashing of the water trying to return to its current and the muffled swears of the crew inside the steel and wood turret. His engines were out, Firefly was dead in the water.
Both ships continued to rock back and forth, then the monitor’s muzzle flashed again, sending a shell right through Firefly’s bridge. Oliver felt the air rush past, but the range must have been too close. No explosion followed the point blank shot. The kinetic energy caused damage enough, sending pieces and parts flying in all directions. Oliver lay on the deck, feeling the sound of stressed metal as the two ships tried to pry apart from one another. More swears and yells came from inside the ARK ship, followed by a door in the turret being flung open just behind the pilot house. Men began to climb out, emerging like bears from hibernation.. Confusion settled in, followed by more swears as the deck of the monitor became awash with river water.
Sinking Oliver thought with grim satisfaction. He hurt all over, especially his previously wounded shoulder. There was no use in the arm at all now, but willpower forced him to his feet. He used his functioning arm to pull his .45 out of its holster. He pointed it towards the men on the monitor’s deck.
“You’re all prisoners of Mt. Horab. Come peacefully and you will be treated with all the rights of the Geneva Convention,” he spat out. He realized simultaneously that he was slurring his words and that most of these men would be way too young to know what the Geneva Convention was.
“You can barely stand old man,” one of the men shouted back.
Oliver heard ball bearings roll behind him as Firefly’s fore turret spun towards the group. “I don’t need to stand,” his gunner yelled up. “You can take your chance with the river for all I care.”
An uneasy standoff took hold. Oliver and his gunner were outnumbered. They had a crippled boat and no chance of making it to the bank themselves; they were at the mercy of the current. The monitor crew was about to lose their standing spot to the river’s bottom. The ships were detached now leaving ten feet of open water separating them. Oliver heard the aft door to engineering slam shut behind him, and two more of his men appeared from below. Each shouldered and aimed Steinbrink 76 battle rifles in the monitor’s direction; more gifts from Elector John Bolin when they volunteered to join the fight for the Buckles.
“Looks like it’s too late guys,” Oliver shouted to the ARK crew. “I hate that for you, I really do. If any of you can swim the distance, you’ll be given safe travel…well, safe floating I guess…until we’re all rescued.”
The sound of a speeding motor and a boat’s hull slapping the water startled Oliver and his men. They all swung their weapons around to the threat, then relaxed when they recognized a Mt. Horab fast attack boat. The approaching boat’s throttle man cut the engines and the v-shaped hull settled into the water, leaving inertia to bring it close enough to throw a line.
“Captain Oliver,” a voice called out. “It’s me, Levi Marshall.”
“Mr. Marshall, I’m not sure I’ve ever been happier to see someone in my life,” Oliver replied, still slightly slurring. “Though the fact that you’re here instead of on the barge tells me I’ve failed to keep you safe.”
“On the contrary sir. We just ran out of ammunition. My orders were to fight as long as we could, then get as many men as I could to safety. No last stands, that was an order from the Senior Elector himself. We’ve spiked the 88, scuttled the barge, and sent everyone else up the Big Muddy or into Shawnee territory. We’re the last ones out sir.”
“The men of the Wasp?” Oliver asked with trepidation.
“Already headed inland, Captain.”
Oliver stood in a swirl of emotions. The relief to still be alive gave him a quick pang of guilt. Overall though, he had done his duty to the upmost, there was literally nothing left for him to do here.
“We’ll need to scuttle Firefly. I don’t think you’ll be able to tow her with your boat,” Oliver said. Saying the words out loud made his swirl of feelings turn into a tornado. He got his boat through the battle, now he had to wreck her with his own hands.
“That’s your call, sir. But we don’t have much time. They’ve got more of those coming,” Levi said. Oliver couldn’t see him point in the dark, but he assumed the man meant more monitors.
“Charges are already rigged. I just need to set the timer,” Oliver replied. He felt more than saw his gunner staring at the back of his head as the man realized Oliver always meant to blow the whole ship if he thought it would help stop the ARK invasion.
“Get the wounded from below, then everyone double quick onto Mr. Marshall’s boat,” Oliver commanded the surviving crew. “I’ll take care of the scuttling, myself. Oh, and men…well done. You’ve done brave and noble things tonight. You have my gratitude, and the gratitude of your people.”
RedHawkRepublic.com
Chapter One of Early Fall, the next novel of Fortress Farm
Northern Caliphate Territory
North of the Illinois River
Year 13 A.G.R. (After Great Reset)
Second after second passed slowly by. Flies, gnats...creepy crawlers you couldn't see but only feel worked to distract him. Iron willed discipline fought with human nature, causing a tornado of emotions during his first missions; now they were a mere inconvenience. Months and years of field training mixed with long stretches of solitude to create a different type of creature. Not physically of course, Shawnee Trackers still looked human despite a nearly inhuman tolerance of hunger and climate, making those outside of the Brotherhood wonder quietly about their physiology. Their personality found them more comfortable here among the creatures of the night. Human nature, human comforts, had become an afterthought.
Wasson of Saline was almost 300 miles from home, in a place he never heard of before being called to serve by the Red Hawks. Outside of a few Brother Trackers he briefly spoke with while in
camp, he was among friendly strangers here on the Republic’s northern border. Without question, the Legionnaires of the American Province treated him well. Wasson knew straight laced military folks like the Americans looked at Trackers a little different; grateful for their talents and help but taken aback by the shaved head, scars and tattoos only slightly covered by buckskins daubed in camouflage patterns. He certainly didn’t mind the assignment. The stories of atrocities in the lands occupied by the Northern Caliphate were wide spread, reaching even as far as Shawnee itself. Wasson figured most of the stories were lies to get folks fired up and ready to fight. Speaking with the few refugees able to reach the safety of Red Hawk America changed his mind. The eyewitness accounts were even worse than the rumors.
Wasson would do his duty either way - that was the way he was raised – though having a little hatred for your enemy helped smooth out the discomforts he faced. His task was to gather any kind of information he could on what the jihadists were planning. He was told to find one of their scouting parties, track them for three days, determine their tendencies and tasks, then eliminate all but one. The lone survivor was to be brought back for interrogation by his superiors. All along the frontier his Brother Trackers were attempting the same mission. With any luck some of them would succeed.
The price would be high, Trackers were rare and took a lifetime of training to perfect their craft. But information was needed urgently, making it worth the risk to place so many valuable assets in harm's way. Rumors of jihadist buildup here in no man's land were streaming into the Republic's leadership circles. For years now, a bloody stalemate settled over the hundreds of miles of border between Caliphate forces and the spread too thin defense forces of the Republic. Raid and counter raid took place weekly. Probing missions that accomplished little accept casualties kept everyone on edge, all the time. An all-out invasion from the north would happen someday and the feeling was that time was running out. Planes and airships provided a certain level of intelligence, but the ground was where the real facts were gleaned. Republic spooks needed live assets to interrogate. As many as possible - a man being water boarded might lie to make his torture stop, but if several said the same thing you could make a good guess at what was true. “Triangulation” the Master Tracker called it.
So here he was, lying in the cold dark watching and waiting. Adversaries like he faced tonight were tough opponents. Rural men mostly, converted to the jihadist religion of their overlords. These men seemed to know the woods – at least three of the four knew the woods. The fourth member of any jihadist group was always a religious advisor, making sure recent converts held to the laws of sharia and didn’t try to escape. That rat he would leave for last, and hopefully get him the fifteen miles to his hidden kayak and back across the river into friendly territory. If the cleric couldn’t be convinced to come willingly, Wasson would conduct some infield interrogation to squeeze out as much as possible.
Flickering light came into view just over the shallow stream in front of him. His prey had settled in for the evening, tired from their long day of marking trees for some unknown assignment. Flame glow from a small camp fire flickered under a hanging pot. The reflection of the embers off the metal gave just enough light to let three figures be seen huddled around. Warmth was at a premium this time of year, even to hardened men. Normal protocol would be to cold camp, but the cleric was probably getting sick of trying to sleep while shivering each night. Brief longings for his own fire crept into Wasson’s mind. In an instant he was back home, sitting on the wood floor beside his aunt while his uncle lead the family in his favorite hymn. “Onward Christian Soldiers” stirred his heart, briefly bringing a little comfort into his cold and lonely hiding spot. Memories were all he was able to carry with him. Glimpses of a time before he took his Tracker name, before he gave his life to the cause.
His mind re-centered, eyes searching out from the fire. There should be at least one sentry standing over-watch. If the scouts he faced were any good, and most of them were, they would have positioned a man about fifty yards away hiding in the dark. The outlier would be facing away from the fire to prevent night blindness. Wasson would deal with that one first, then turn his attention to the ones around the fire.
There...in the moonlight he noticed a tree limb move the wrong way. The night air was calm, not enough breeze to sway a large branch. There might be two sentries, but odds were against it. His briefing said these enemies sent their advance parties out in groups of four, and that’s all he had seen with this group. Wasson spent the last three days tracking this group, mentally recording every move and tactic. If his quarry knew he was there, they were excellent actors. Tonight was the night to find out for sure, time to make his move.
Wasson began to creep out of the shallow depression where he rested. He rose to a crouching position, balanced on the balls of his feet, took two full breaths and then stretched all the way up and leaned against a tree. He felt the blood pulse and circulate throughout his body as he breathed again, deep and measured. He handled his weapons of choice, two long blades sharpened to a hair. Both knives were perfect in balance and weight, his constant companions since presented to him by Governor Olsen himself the day he took his Tracker name and made the ceremonial sacrifice.
He checked his revolver, feeling more than seeing that everything was set with the weapon. The ancient but spotless Ruger was a weapon of last resort, to be used only if surrounded and left with no means of escape. Each Tracker knew to save the last bullet...capture was not an option.
Moving like water between rocks, darting from tree to tree, his leather moccasins barely made a sound. One silent step at a time led him to the space between the fire and the sentry's post. Pause...steady...breathe... he listened for any sound of warning from where he knew the sentry to be. He was careful to keep his eyes away from the camp fire to his left; even a brief glimpse would blind him to the details he needed.
Now the tricky part. Sentry removal was an art form, at least if done correctly. The hilt of his bowie knife already displayed numerous notches, but most represented dead ditchers – bandits living out in the wildlands of his home country. Certainly they were crafty and dangerous enough, that's why the Governor of Grand Shawnee recruited and trained Trackers in the first place. But years had passed since ditchers held much capacity for creative thought.
Crack! Oops, dead branch. Slow a bit. More careful, keep breathing, be the dark and float…you don’t see me. He willed the tree man to look away, one arm, then one leg, another arm, then the other leg gracefully glided toward his target. Pause. Exhale. Hug the ground for a moment. A tiny rodent scurried ten feet away, movement registering in the corner of Wasson’s eye. A swoosh and a flash of feathers darted past, snatching the rodent in the viscous grip of talons and silently stealing the animal away. Good hunting brother owl, thanks for the confidence. If the master of the night sky hadn’t sensed him, no chance of human detection either.
Wasson was close now, no more than ten yards away. Just about close enough to make a bound into the tree. He searched to find the silhouette of something that didn’t match up with small oak’s outline. Even well trained humans had to move occasionally, especially if they needed to keep their own limbs from going numb, just a simple shake out of an arm or a stretch of a leg. One could remain perfectly still for only so long, and if your focus was fifty yards out instead of within your own zone of vulnerability… Center, exhale, focus…wait for him to get uncomfortable and readjust…there!
Wasson slowly raised to a crouch, coiling up like a leopard to strike. One final long slow deep breath and up he leapt, his vice like hand reaching for the area where he knew the sentry’s head to be. The hand felt a familiar texture of human skin, stretched tight over the hard skull below. Still in motion, Wasson’s grasped the man’s face making sure to keep the mouth covered. His unoccupied hand now flashed the dull colored knife, and in an instant a lifeless body slowly slouched to the ground guided by its killer’s arms.
&
nbsp; One down, time to move…He had to be quicker now. Luck of the battlefield sometimes caused a dead sentry’s friend to try and relieve him a little early, or bring him a drink of water. The best of their kind didn’t do that, they stayed true to discipline. But all it took was one man to act out of turn and a perfect plan was blown. Wasson was crouched and gliding now, head up, eyes up, shoulders down. Both hands gripped knives, he’d try to get one of the remaining scouts with each blade, by throw or thrust depending on spacing.
Just a breeze, or an animal, nothing to worry about, no need to look out here…
The fire got closer and he could smell the wood smoke. Some sort of meat mixed into the aroma and made his stomach growl lowly. Every few seconds a small pop from the flames threw sparks up, punctuating the low murmur of voices. They didn’t sound alarmed so he paused to determine where each sat. He heard two distinctly different pitches, where was the third? Sleeping, relieving himself behind a tree? There…a clank of a metal cup against a tree. Probably about ten yards or so off to the right. Can I get him first? No, too close and that would leave two reaching for a weapon instead of one. Play the odds. The two voices go first in one motion, then circle the clanking noise. One more step, two more steps…
“Digniin! Digniin! Get up you swine!” a heavily accented voice shouted. Wasson didn’t need the translation to take the meaning. Immediately he launched a bounding step toward the voices. Just as he cleared the tall grass two men stood and wheeled around, staring straight at him. As if in slow motion, one reached back down for a weapon, but it was too late. Their death was already in midair, their last earthly vision a wolf’s snarl of unnaturally white teeth, contrasted by a blacked out face in the firelight. Wasson’s blades both found their target almost simultaneously, and he dropped his body in a roll, passing close enough to feel the singe of the fire. One of the blades stuck in the upper rib cage of its victim and Wasson released his grip. Loud flashes and reports of a revolver twenty yards away rang out, giving him the location of his last adversary. The shots were wild as the man tried to hit the terrifying specter in front of him.
