"Daryl McDaniel's commanding. I'm second."
Jess raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
He shrugged. "It's politics. I pissed them off at the last meeting, so now I'm being put in my place."
She shook her head. "Yeah, I mean, you've done this before. Heaven forbid you be trusted to do it again." Jason wondered if he needed to mop up the sarcasm that had spilled on the floor.
"Not my call," he sighed. "And I'm stuck. I have to go. If not, it's sour grapes that I'm not calling the shots."
"You don't think people around here are smart enough to figure out that you're not going because you value your life?"
Jason cocked his head and studied his wife. "Now come on. That's a little harsh. McDaniel's seen plenty of action. Hell, in this town, who hasn't?"
"Yeah, but it's all been defensive action. You said it yourself that there's a difference between fighting to defend a point and fighting to attack something."
"That doesn't mean he can't."
Jess flopped back on the couch, crossing her arms. "Who the hell are you trying to convince? Me or you?"
About to protest, he brought himself up short. Did she have a point? After all, he was the only possible commander who'd actually attacked something before. Sure, he'd been stupid as hell about it. His survival had been something of a miracle. The fact that it worked was beyond a miracle.
A pounding at the door snapped him from his thoughts. He got up and opened it.
"Sheriff, we need ya quick," a young man said, panting for air. He looked at Jason's naked hip. "You're gonna need your gun too," he said a moment before he ran off.
Jason sprinted back, grabbing his gun belt off the table next to his chair, and took off after the young man.
** ** **
Ricky examined the group before him. Fifteen men, all armed in some way, shape, or form, looked back with murder in their eyes. He could see Billy and Hector being dragged out of harm's way. That left the him alone until his father could get there. Come on, kid. I'm kind of on a deadline here, he thought as he held the Glock G-17 in his right hand, finger on the trigger.
"Boy," said John Baskin, "There ain't no reason for you to get hurt. We just want the girl."
Ricky turned his head slightly. Katie Miller stood behind him, her meat cleaver in her hand. He had no doubt that one wrong move and John Baskin would be turned into bacon. Unfortunately, there were too many for her to handle alone.
"I kinda think she's of a different mind," Ricky said, a calmness in his voice that he didn't really feel anywhere else.
Baskin took a step forward in defiance.
The G-17 swung up, just a couple of feet from Baskin's face. "Back up," Ricky said, both hands holding onto the Glock like his father taught him all that time ago.
"You fool!" Baskin screamed, saliva flying from his mouth. "She is the reason for all this." He waved his hand toward the destruction around town square. "We must do right by God's will and purge her from our midst. She must be fed to the purifying fire."
"Mention 'fire' one more time, and I'm going to take it as an invitation." His hand was steady, though he couldn't figure out how that was happening for the life of him.
"Come on, boy," one of the other men said. He was a rough looking man, with stubble around his chin, a close hair cut, with a deep tan and slight wrinkles in the corner of his eyes. Ricky recognized him from the fields, but couldn't recall the man's name. "You can't think you can take us all. You've got fifteen shots in that gun. Tops."
"Seventeen. That means I can shoot a couple of you twice," he answered. His eyes zeroed in on Baskin, and he said, "or, I can just shoot your ass three times."
The rough man laughed. "You really think you're that badass?"
Ricky smiled. "You really want to take the chance that I'm not?"
"Baskin!" a voice Ricky knew well called out from the other side of the square.
All heads but Ricky's swung toward the new voice. Jason Calvin stood, his AK-47 pointed at the mob. "You really think this is a good idea?"
"We will purge the harlot from this town!"
Jason swung the AK up to his shoulder a split second after taking the safety off. "And I'll purge this town of a few less assholes. Put your weapons down."
The mob didn't move.
"Now!" he shouted.
Ricky watched carefully. He knew that if someone had the drop on him, this is when he would try something. Several men moved and Ricky tensed. He relaxed a few moments later when they laid their weapons on the ground and stepped back, their hands up.
"Everyone," Ricky said, in an icy tone.
"Fuck you, boy," Baskin spat, bringing up the revolver in his hands.
That was all Ricky was waiting for. He squeezed the trigger, sending the 9mm round rifling out the barrel, easily clearing the two feet or so between the end of the barrel and John Baskin's left eye.
As if it were a starting gun, the other armed men, most of whom already had their weapons trained on someone, began firing. Bits of clay pelted the back of Ricky's head as bullets struck the wall behind him. Instinctively, Ricky shrunk down, trying to make himself as small a target as humanly possible.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ricky saw his father walking forward, the AK firing round after round. Ricky's Glock was working just as hard as he focused on the front site of the pistol and squeezed the trigger when it lined up with his target. Adrenaline coursed through his body, shutting out the loud reports of the weapons. BLAM! BLAM! The rough looking man took two rounds to the chest, but was still standing. He raised his weapon toward Ricky, who stroked the trigger one more time.
The rough man fell to his knees. He looked down for an instant before falling forward.
Ricky swung the gun to the next man. It was Quinton Elias. He and Quinton hadn't gotten along. Apparently, the older man didn't appreciate being told how to do his job by a kid. Ricky had no hard feelings from the event, but the evil grin on the other man's face said the feeling wasn't reciprocated.
Quinton fired a shot. It slammed into the wall where Ricky stood just a moment before.
Ricky knew the Elais was more dangerous than most of the others here, so he grabbed Katie with his left hand and urged her forward. One handed, he fired at the man. His first two rounds missed, impacting harmlessly on the ground at the other man's feet.
Quinton returned fire, doing no better against the moving targets. Unfortunately for him, he was too focused on Ricky until the moment a 7.62x39mm round punched through his chest a split second before Ricky's one handed shot slammed into his right shoulder.
Quinton Elias died before he hit the ground. The thud from him hitting the hard Tennessee dirt the only sound in the now deserted square.
Chapter 8
Jason and Simon walked through the town square turned battlefield. Bodies of the would- be mob littered the ground. Out of the fifteen original, ten were dead while two more had been injured and quit the fight. Three had backed off, and weren't harmed.
Anyone involved who wasn't in the hospital building were locked up in the jail that was suddenly feeling rather cramped.
"Damn," Simon said as he looked down at John Baskin's body. "Didn't think he'd be crazy enough to try this crap."
Jason shrugged. "Well, apparently he was. He was also stupid enough to think Rick wouldn't pull the trigger." He looked over at his son.
Ricky stood to the side of the square, one arm wrapped around Katie Miller. For the first time since before she had disappeared, the blonde was smiling. Her attention was squarely on Ricky, who had a nervous smile of his own.
"Yeah, well, that was clearly a mistake," Simon said.
"You think?"
Simon smiled. "He going with you?"
Jason shook his head. "Nope.
The chairman considered that for a moment, then said, "I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. No offense, but he's got some serious skills."
Nodding, Jason said, "Yeah, that he does. Not what I wanted for him
when he was born, but whatever. The world had different plans. But I've got a bad feeling about this thing we're about to do, and I'd just as soon he be around after."
"You don’t think Daryl can hack it?"
He shrugged. "I'm not sure. I mean, he's never done anything like this, but I hadn't either when I did it the first time." He paused, considering what he really wanted to say. "I guess it's the fact that you and I know this is based on politics and nothing else."
"It's like I said. Everything is politics."
"Yeah, I know. But I also know what happens when politics starts trying to fight wars. Vietnam was screwed from the start. Iraq went to shit the moment we left. Russia started shit and next thing you know, we're dodging mushroom clouds. A whole damn history of politicians screwing up and other people dying over it."
"So what? You want the militia to determine when to go to war?"
Jason shook his head. "Nope. But that's where politics should stop. Once the decision is made, they need to get the hell out of the way."
"No one is telling McDaniel how to fight this. You know that, right?"
Jason laughed. "You really think Cory Masters isn't going to try and put his fingers in this?"
"Yeah, actually, I do. Cory's an idiot, but he's not that big of an idiot. He knows he'd be bounced off the council if we even suspect he'd pulled anything like that." Simon stepped in front of Jason, putting himself face to face with his old friend. "It's not perfect. Probably never will be, but it's not as bad as you think."
Jason smiled. "Yeah, you're probably right. I've just had a lot on my mind."
Simon nodded. "Fair enough. What about your guys?"
"They're alright. One of them had a taser. Put them down, but nothing permanent."
"Good. Are they going to be able to hold down the fort while you're gone?"
Jason nodded. "Billy's scarier than I am. Hector too. Both of them know what to do in most any circumstances they're likely to encounter, and they've done it enough that I'm not worried."
"Good."
He nodded in agreement with Simon's assessment. If only he could shake that feeling.
** ** **
Terry Conklin sat back in his air conditioned office, enjoying his return to civilization. He couldn't help but think about how those Tennessee hillbillies had been going all Little House on the Prairie with their tech base. Losers. He didn't plan on correcting them either.
It was late in the day. Plaques and trophies, the mementos of a bygone era, littered the walls and shelves. Those things had once meant so much to him. Now? He knew they didn't mean much in the grand scheme of things. Appearances, however, must be maintained, and commanding officers always have their "love me" walls.
His desk was an antique, a work of woodcraft mastery, complete with baroque carvings and beautifully forged pulls. He almost felt bad for putting his feet up on such a beautiful work of art. Almost.
Conklin leaned back in his chair and did just that an instant before a knock at the door sounded through the deep blue painted room.
"Yeah?" he bellowed.
The door opened. Ramirez entered.
"We've got them all in holding," he said.
Conklin nodded. "Good. Megan Hernandez?"
"She's down below, sir."
He smiled. He had no illusions about how feral he looked, so he forgave his subordinate for the shudder. At least the man had the good grace to try and hide it. "Good. Leave her down there for a few days. Minimal rations."
Ramirez nodded. "Yes, sir. And the New Eden women?"
"I need a few days. I don't want to bring them up all on the same charges. Appearances and all that. Plus, there are the other reasons for keeping them around, so I'm not even sure we're going to indenture them."
The subordinate nodded.
"What is it?"
"Are they coming?"
Conklin laughed. "You really have to ask that? Did you look at their sheriff?"
The other man nodded. "Yes, sir, but I got the impression that he doesn't call the shots."
"Of course not. But I'll tell you one thing. That man? He's the only worthy son of a bitch I've run into since the damn war. He'll come. Even if he's by himself, he'll come."
Ramirez looked puzzled. "How do you know that, sir?" His eyes flew open wide as he said, "Not that I'm doubting you, sir. I'm just curious."
Conklin smiled. Oh, the Army had tried to say that good leaders took care of their men, but he'd since learned that fear worked better than hippy bullshit ever would.
"Because, Major Ramirez, that man is a crusader. He's got the Itch. He'll come, and he'll fight. Too bad for him he's an amateur."
Ramirez nodded. He'd gotten the intel on Jason Calvin's life story, so there were no questions on that front.
Oh, Conklin was duly impressed with what Calvin had accomplished since the war, but he'd bumbled his way around. Conklin, on the other hand, was a pro. He'd been trained by the best on tactics and strategy.
"He'll come," he continued, more for himself than his man's benefit. "He'll come, and then we'll unleash hell on Earth."
** ** **
Just days had passed since the gunfight in town square. Now, he found himself on the road, walking with the dismounted militia. That was fine with him, since he wasn't much of a horseman in the first place.
What did bother him was Daryl McDaniel repeatedly dodging him to discuss intelligence. What the hell kind of commander doesn't try to learn as much about the enemy and their defenses as possible?
"So, Jason? What's the plan when we get there?" asked the man walking next to him.
"You'll know when you need to know. Don't sweat it right now." Jason wasn't an expert on leadership or anything, but he'd learned enough to know that that these men needed to believe in their leadership. Telling them that he didn't have a damn clue wasn't really the best way to go about making sure that was the case.
Hours droned by, the monotony of walking for hours on hard, broken asphalt failing to help the time speed by in any meaningful way. All around him, men played ridiculous car games, made even more ridiculous by the slow speed of their passing. I Spy was fine at forty-five miles per hour, but at a walk? Damn boring.
When the order passed to make camp, Jason was relieved. While the pace had been relatively mild, his mind turned the seemingly endless miles through the dense trees torturous.
Tents dotted the relatively flat area. The only way Jason could describe the formation of tents was absolute chaos. He'd stopped at several tents, only to find they weren't the right ones. Exasperated, he finally yelled, "Anyone know where Commander McDaniel is?"
One of the militia members directed him toward the western edge of the encampment. Sure enough, the militia commander was there. Outside of his tent, a fly had been set up. Beneath it, a small wooden knockdown table sat with several chairs around it. McDaniel looked at a piece of paper with one of his aides.
The militia commander looked up and smiled as Jason approached. "There you are. I was wondering where you'd gotten off to."
Jason fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, considering how the camp's set up, it's a freaking miracle I found you at all."
McDaniel shrugged. "I know, but I was never a big fan of that crap when I was in the Army. Never saw where it accomplished a damn thing."
"Well, it would have helped me find you for one."
The other man smiled. "You're here now. That's what matters."
Jason turned his attention on the aide. "I need a minute with the commander. Alone."
The aide look at Jason, his contempt for the sheriff obvious.
"Go away," Jason growled.
McDaniel dismissed the aide with a nod, his friendly demeanor now gone. "No need to be rude, you know?"
Jason shrugged. "Hey, I tried to be polite. He didn't get the hint."
McDaniel smiled again. "True enough. What can I do for you?" he asked as he motioned toward a chair on the opposite side of the table.
"Maybe you can tell me what the hell the plan is?" Jason asked as he stepped forward, pulled out a chair and sat down.
"We're working on it. We don't have a lot of intelligence."
Jason laughed mirthlessly. "I had intelligence sitting in one of my cells, but you didn't seem interested."
"Yes, well…I had been briefed that the turncoat wasn't reliable."
"Really? That's funny. Who told you that?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"Oh, you don't have to 'say'. I know who the hell told you, and if we even survive to get back, I'm going to nail his ass to the wall."
"There's no need to get upset. We'll assess the situation when we get there and plan accordingly."
Jason shook his head in exasperation.
"Is there a problem?" McDaniel asked.
"Yeah, there is. You could have talked to my guy, gotten a briefing on the layout, and at least had some idea what the hell was going on. Instead, we're going to go in blind and hope we can figure out where the hell everyone is."
"We've both been through the militia commander training. The first step is to assess the threat, and we will do that before any plans are in place."
Jason stood up. "And you assess a threat using all available information, including human intelligence when available, as well as your on site assessment. Did you forget that part?" he asked, then turned and walked away.
** ** **
"Uh, Mrs. Calvin?" said a familiar sounding voice. Jess turned carefully, trying her best not to bump into anyone in the crowded market.
Katie Miller wove her way through the bustling crowd and smiled. "Can you talk for a minute?" she asked.
Jess nodded. "Sure. Just call me Jess, Okay? I'm still not comfortable with being called Mrs. Calvin or anything," she said, adding a smile at the end.
The other woman smiled back. "Um…I'm not really sure how to say this."
"Well, I'd go with as simply and directly as you can. I'm a big girl. I'm sure I can take it," she said, flashing a quick smile.
"Okay. Um…I was just wondering if Rick had a favorite food or something? I'd really like to invite him for supper one night and…well…I want it to be something he'll enjoy."
Bloody Eden (Soldiers of New Eden Book 2) Page 7
