Holding Their Own: The Toymaker

by Joe Nobody

  Grim waited until his friend was close enough to make eye contact and then with minimum motion, the contractor pinched his fingers together and drew them through the air. A trip wire!

  It took Nick only a moment to find the line, the length of wire stretched taut against Grim’s shin. Another quarter of an inch, and the trap would have sprung.

  Tracing the line with his eyes, Nick followed the barely-visible wire to a nearby stump. There, he found a section of pipe, someone having wrapped the small bomb with rusty nails and screws.

  Chancing his flashlight, Nick illuminated the device, finding a simple trigger mechanism. After exchanging a “here goes,” look with Grim, the team leader proceeded to disarm the booby-trap.

  Happy to have both of his legs intact, Grim led the duo back to Butter’s position where they then waved Kevin forward.

  “The area is wired,” Nick informed his team. “They’re using pipe bombs and trip lines. We’re going to back out the way we came in. Be careful, and make sure you follow Grim and me precisely. Close up our spacing to three paces, and try to use the same footfalls. Got it?”

  The two junior members nodded their understanding, Nick noting Butter’s eyes seemed a bit wider than before. You wanted to be here, he thought. Deal with it.

  Nick backtracked over about 50 meters, again motioning his people in close. “We’re still going to circle that property, but in a wider arch.”

  Their progress was slowed by an abundance of caution, but Nick was determined to scout what he deemed a critical location. If the Alliance was going to figure out a solution, every fact was important, even the smallest bit of knowledge might make the difference.

  He was watching Grim’s cat eye, the small glowing patch of tape bouncing and moving as the contractor progressed through the forest. In a blink, it disappeared.

  Nick went low without thinking. A few seconds later, he could hear the patrol.

  He estimated there were five or six of them, walking in a straight line less than 20 meters to the south. They evidently were pretty good, able to approach that close before Grim had picked them up.

  It was the innocent rattle of someone’s equipment that had given them away, other than the occasional tinkle that sounded like a far-distant cow bell, Nick was impressed with how quietly the patrol was moving.

  The Alliance team let them pass, their path intersecting Grim’s position by less than 15 feet. After waiting a minute to give their foe a head start, Nick went forward to his point man’s position and said, “Follow them in.”

  Grim’s eyes went wide at the order, such a bold maneuver fraught with peril. “They’re amateurs,” Nick reassured. “They won’t post a rear guard. Go.”

  “I hope you’re right,” came the mouthed response, and then Grim was moving again.

  Nick’s logic was simple. The patrol would know where the booby-traps were located. Following in their footsteps would be the safest way to close on the objective.

  For over 40 minutes, they tailed the local patrol, Grim struggling to maintain a safe distance while at the same time not losing his guides in the forest.

  Twice the Alliance men got a fairly good look at the group in front of them. There were six males, all with long guns and small packs that appeared to contain ammunition and water. “They’re all Indians,” Grim observed after almost running into the back of their column. “They’re wearing war paint… or whatever they call it.”

  “So are you,” Nick replied, pointing at the streaks of camo-paint crossing his man’s face.

  “They move pretty good,” continued the report. “They’ve wearing boots, just like ours. I always thought Indians wore moccasins?”

  Nick nearly broke noise discipline by laughing at Grim’s expression when he delivered the report. The ex-contractor seemed on edge about the discovery, like he was haunted by the notion of facing Native Americans.

  “They don’t take scalps anymore,” Nick reassured.

  “That’s good to know,” Grim mouthed.

  “These tribes are headhunters. They want your entire brainpan.”

  There was enough light for Nick to see Grim nearly bought it, realizing a moment later that his team leader was messing with his mind. “Very fucking funny,” the ex-contractor hissed.

  At one point, the Alliance team watched as someone in the patrol decided he wanted a smoke. A match was struck, momentarily glowing like heat lightning, and then the red of a pipe’s embers could be seen as the owner stoked the bowl. A few seconds later, Nick smelled the tobacco.

  After taking their short break, the patrol resumed its pace, now having traveled to a point almost directly north of where Nick believed they would find the headquarters. And he was right.

  Twenty minutes later, they made a sharp right turn and then held that course.

  They crested a small rise a short time later, the Alliance men finding themselves looking down on the faint glow of electric lights gleaming through a cabin’s windows. Nick called a halt, thinking they were close enough.

  They watched the patrol continue into the compound, small pools of electric light allowing the team to track their progress as they moved closer to the complex.

  It was Grim who found the notches.

  “They’ve got the safe route marked around the booby-traps,” he said. “See those cuts on the trees? They always pass between them.”

  It took Nick a bit to see what Grim was talking about, but then he was nodding. About shoulder high on two nearby trunks were what initially appeared as random bark damage, but after his man’s observation, the ex-operator could spot the guides.

  “Good, Grim. Very good. That will help.”

  Daybreak found the team fed and in reasonably concealed positions. They were approximately 600 meters north of the complex, peering down on three buildings that Nick guessed were a cabin, some sort of barn or workshop, and a garage.

  In addition to the fixed structures, there was also a grouping of tents. The security force is temporary, Nick observed.

  Into mid-morning, the Alliance men watched, photographed, and scribbled notes on the activity below. The horses were fed and watered, a cooking fire was rekindled, and the perimeter security changed shifts. Overall, it looked like any other military camp the ex-operator had scouted.

  And Grim was right; the men they were surveilling were all Native Americans.

  The discovery of the opposition’s HQ had expanded the duration of the mission but was well worth it in the big man’s mind.

  While the Alliance leader pondered what he could do with such information, there was a change in the rhythm of movement below. Mr. White Hair appeared on the cabin’s front porch, his arrival prompting a new level of alertness in the guards.

  Nick watched as the apparent leader marched across the ground, one of the older security-types keeping step. The duo opened a side door of one of the outbuildings and went inside, only to reappear a short time later with two other men.

  One of the newcomers was clearly part of the security force, his rifle and face paint making that determination easy. It was the second man now being led outside that puzzled Nick.

  At first, Nick thought the unidentified person was very old or drunk. There was something off in his step, almost as if he was struggling to keep his balance. A few seconds later, the man half turned, and Nick could see his hands were bound. A prisoner?

  And then he knew. It was one of the U.S. team members. They weren’t all dead like Washington believed.

  Fuck, Nick thought. That changes everything.

  His previous thoughts of a helo-born assault, surgical ground invasion, or even a smart-bomb taking out the enemy HQ, were now far more complicated with the appearance of the prisoner.

  Nick couldn’t tell which member of the previous team had survived, but knew if it was the president’s son, the entire situation might easily spiral out of control.

  The guards returned the captive to the interior after letting him walk the perimeter of the building
for 30 minutes. It reminded Nick of something he’d read about maximum security prisons, and how the inmates received a half hour of outdoor time each day.

  After that, things seemed to settle into a routine below, and that presented Nick with his own problem.

  His men were exhausted, perhaps not so much physically, but mentally. They hadn’t rested, and despite his training and conditioning, Nick himself was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation.

  He was just about to order a rotating shift of two hours shuteye for each of his team when the White Wizard’s flowing mane reappeared.

  Carrying a coffee cup, he proceeded toward the garage with purpose in his step. Nick noted a few of the idling security men wandering closer, obviously curious about what the boss was doing.

  The Alliance team’s angle didn’t allow them to see inside the garage after the rolling door was pulled open, but that didn’t matter much.

  Again the easily identifiable hair appeared, this time holding something larger in his arms.

  It became clear a few moments later that it was a drone.

  With a small crowd of onlookers gathered around, the flying robot shot skyward. Nick followed the machine’s progress as it rose, his own curiosity piqued. That soon changed however when the drone flew directly at the Alliance team’s position, and then hovered above them.

  “Oh, shit,” Grim heard his boss say. That was never a good sign.

  Hack’s deductive reasoning was causing him to experience bouts of paranoia.

  When his flying eyes hadn’t found the intruders around what was left of the east ridge, he’d begun to worry. The Apache entourage had returned empty handed, and that had fueled the toymaker’s stress even further.

  They had flown infrared equipped drones throughout the night, but still no sign of the three men clearly depicted in the video.

  That left only three options, the least likely being they were buried in the hundreds of tons of rubble that had been blasted from the cliff. Given their position and speed from the video recording, Hack wasn’t prepared to accept that explanation.

  The second possibility was that they had escaped.

  Again, the toymaker found that option unlikely. They would have spotted a motorized vehicle with drones. Any sort of helicopter extraction would have been reported by the picket line of listening posts the tribes had established around the territory. There was no way men could travel on foot beyond the scope of their searches. It was across open desert, and distances were too great, no matter how well conditioned those individuals might be.

  That left the third alternative, which meant the strangers were still in the area and hiding in the forest.

  They’d launched twice the normal number of “patrol drones,” Hack devising an expanding search grid centered on the last known position of the quarry. Most of those flyers had been loaded-out with thermal imagers.

  The infrared cameras he’d modified to fit on the drones weren’t exactly high-resolution devices. Mostly, they’d been scavenged from German luxury cars equipped with IR as a nighttime driving safety feature.

  His best unit was hacked from the internals of a military infrared optic normally mounted on a rifle. That jewel had been found in a desk drawer at a New Mexico National Guard armory, packaged to be sent in for repairs. Hack had fixed the malfunctioning device in less than an hour.

  Infrared could detect varying levels of radiated heat, but the technology couldn’t see through solid objects, like the forest canopy, rock, or building walls. As a matter of fact, it couldn’t even see through window glass.

  What little sleep he managed had been filled with nightmares of vengeful soldiers kicking in the bedroom door and spraying his mattress with bullets.

  When dawn finally broke, he was more determined than ever to find the intruders so he could put this incident behind him and continue with more strategic projects.

  Evidently, the Apache were a little paranoid as well. As Hack had his tea, he was surprised to hear that no one had bothered to check on their prisoner. “If they somehow know he’s alive, that’s going to be where they go first,” he chided the security team.

  After finding their captive still secure in the storage room, Hack wanted to test an adjustment he’d made on his best infrared sensor.

  “I’ll just fly it long enough to scan around here and test my enhancements,” he informed Apache Jack.

  After watching the metal hawk launch, Hack had guided it north of the cabin, into an area he knew was void of human life. Less than a mile from his home, heat signatures equaling 99 degrees displayed on the viewer.

  Turning to the Apache, he asked, “Do you have men up on the mountain?”

  “No, Grandfather. The only patrol is toward the south.”

  In a lightning flash of logic, it all made sense to Hack. Of course, they would be spying on his cabin. That’s where the prisoner was. He was the one who’d issued the threat in Los Alamos.

  The toymaker’s first instinct was to turn and run. The thought that the enemy was so close to his abode nearly drove the man to panic. “There they are!” he snapped to the Apache, trying to point to the tablet’s screen and the forest at the same time.

  The bodyguard’s eyes grew wide for a split second, and then he was shouting commands to the surrounding warriors.

  Nick knew instantly they’d been detected.

  Raising his rifle, he centered on the hovering flying machine let loose with several shots. One of them must have connected as the device went crazy, jerking and wobbling before starting a death spiral toward the earth. The big man didn’t hang around to watch the impact. It was time to move.

  The Alliance team was up and hustling in seconds, Nick shouting orders the entire time.

  “They have horses,” he barked at his crew. Head into the thickest woods, or they’ll run us down in no time.

  A few moments later, the scream and whinny of excited horses sounded from below.

  Grim assumed his normal position on point, the contractor fighting the urge to run like the wind. The forest was booby-trapped. It took time to find the markers on the trees.

  Nick realized the dilemma at the same moment, his commander’s mind weighing the options. He estimated there were 30-40 armed men in the camp below. They weren’t unskilled. Their supply line was shorter. They had reinforcements close by. The odds were too long to stand and fight.

  But he could slow them down.

  “Kevin! Drop back and give them a few rounds. Make them think about it.”

  The boy did just that, slowing his jog to a walk as his head pivoted trying to find a suitable sniping position.

  Nick watched his son duck behind a small mound of stones, the barrel of his long distance rifle protruding from behind the mini-fortress.

  “Grim, I’m staying back with Kevin. You go on ahead with Butter. Move 1,000 meters straight north and then wait on us. We’re going to be coming in a hurry, so disable any wires along the way, clear?”

  “Roger that,” came the response, and then the other half of the Alliance team disappeared into the foliage.

  Nick took up a position slightly behind and off angle to his son. From there, he could discourage any flanking maneuver while watching Kevin’s back.

  For a minute, Nick thought the pursuers had given up already. There was no movement, noise, or any sign of the hunters.

  Kevin saw them first, the report of his weapon shattering the otherwise quiet mountainside. Nick followed his son’s aim and saw a semi-hidden horseman fall from his mount.

  Again, the sniper rifle fired, this shot answered with the howl of a wounded man.

  Damn he’s good, Nick thought, judging it over 700 meters to where his son’s rounds were impacting.

  The big man kept scanning downhill but knew Kevin’s superior optic would allow him to see any target well before his naked eye.

  A minute passed, and then another.

  Movement drew Nick’s attention, a man running bent at the waist, trying
to reach the guy Kevin had knocked off the horse. A third shot rang out, this time Nick saw the target rise up and clutch his gut before falling to the ground.

  “Let’s go, Kevin. That ought to slow them down a little.”

  And then they were moving, heading straight north, praying Grim had disabled any trip wires.

  Their speed over ground was good, and Nick couldn’t detect any pursuit. An old infantry adage popped into the big man’s mind – if it’s going well, you’re probably walking into an ambush.

  At that moment, Kevin pulled up short. The terrain had changed.

  They found themselves at the edge of a high mountain prairie, a beautiful creek running through the middle of the open spaces. While the postcard perfect scene would have normally been inspirational, it was a big problem for the hunted.

  Crossing any open space was a worry. It was a natural barrier for those trying to escape, and Nick knew full well that the locals would be aware of the field’s existence.

  “Shit,” he mumbled, looking left and right across the thigh-high grass and flowers.

  They stayed put for a bit, watching for any sign of the hunters… or the other members of their team. Grim must have crossed the field, but with his head start, the locals probably hadn’t had time to get into position.

  The sound of shouted orders and human voices came from behind, Nick knowing he had to act soon or they’d be pinned against the open space.

  “You go first,” he ordered Kevin. “Run like the wind. Once you reach the other side, cover my crossing.”

  “Yes, sir,” the kid responded as he launched himself out of the tree line.

  Kevin was less than halfway across when the riders broke from cover, their battle cries and firing weapons sending a bolt of fear through Nick’s soul.

  In a flash, his carbine was at the shoulder, spitting round after round into the charging horsemen. Kevin, wisely, kept running.

  Again and again, Nick poured lead into the men trying to kill his son. An animal went down, another rider knocked from his mount.

  Somehow the big man’s mind managed to calculate the distances and speeds involved in the pursuit, his fatherly instincts concluding that Kevin wasn’t going to make it. The carbine’s bolt locked back empty just as the third hunter fell. There were still seven or eight left.