Standing at the Edge

by William Alan Webb

  “You need to bunk in for a while,” he said to Colonel Walling, still working in his wheelchair by the couch.

  “I’m fine, General.”

  “You don’t look fine. You know, you do have your own desk.”

  “Mmmm… yes, sir. Everything’s ready to go for tomorrow, if you still mean to go. You pull out at oh six hundred.”

  “I’m still going. Regardless of what happens with my family, I’m still the commanding officer of Overtime. I’m going up top and talk with them. I’ve got a radio if you hear any word from Joe.”

  “Roger that, sir. Perhaps—”

  “Perhaps what?”

  “It’s not my place, sir. Forget it.”

  “I shouldn’t be going personally, right? General Fleming and Green Ghost aren’t here to say it, so you can. We got too many lurps still out, enemy riders abroad, my son-in-law’s missing, Sevens could show up at any time, there’s Comeback to inspect… not to mention I’ve got my family back. Did I miss anything?”

  “I think you’ve got the gist of it, sir.”

  “Your objections are duly noted. Now I’m going to meet my family on top of the mountain. We’re gonna watch the sunset together as I try to figure out what to tell my daughter.”

  #

  They both jumped when the intercom buzzed. Angriff sat back down and grabbed the receiver. “Any news?” he said without preamble.

  “Sir, communications is routing a radio call to you from Creech.”

  “Oh, thank God. Put it through, J.C.”

  Walling still sat on his wheelchair by the couch working, and lifted his eyebrows at Angriff’s words.

  “Joe, are you back at Creech?”

  “Umm, this is isn’t Captain Randall, sir, it’s Sergeant Wardlaw. I command the squad that accompanied Green Ghost to Creech.”

  “What does that mean, Sergeant? Any word on Captain Randall?”

  “No, sir. That’s why I’m calling. I didn’t know they’d put me through to you, General.”

  “Well, they did. So what’s the news?”

  “Sir, Captain Randall’s crew chief asked me to call and see if maybe Prime has been in contact with him and Lieutenant Carlos.”

  “No, Sergeant, we haven’t. I take it that means you haven’t either.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “All right, thank you Wardlaw. If you hear any news, let me know at once.”

  “Yes, sir, General.”

  Angriff leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  #

  Chapter 87

  A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.

  Joseph Stalin

  Operation Hail Mary, a/k/a Evolution

  1829 hours, April 21

  “Father? May I speak with you?”

  Györgi Rosos, Sr., sat in a red leather armchair under a standing lamp. He laid aside the book he was reading, Mother by Maxim Gorky, and motioned his son to come in.

  “Good book?” Karoly asked.

  “One of the great books of the twentieth century. I should have required you to read it.”

  “All of those Noam Chomskys weren’t punishment enough?”

  “Chomsky was the greatest thinker of his generation. Now, did you interrupt my leisure to irritate me, or did you have a reason?”

  “New reports from the field have come in. Down south, it appears the Americans have moved into Nevada, and a large group of our cavalry hasn’t been heard from in a while. It’s feared they were destroyed.”

  Rosos gave a dismissive wave. “What of it? We’ll find some more. But that news about Nevada is significant. Anything else?”

  “We had eyes on a battle in northern California, where the Chinese moved to seize some old U.S. Army base… Sierra, they called it. Acres and acres of old tanks are stored there and the Chinese were about to overrun the few defenders, when out of nowhere an American transport aircraft showed up and dropped hundreds of paratroops. The Chinese were beaten and forced to retreat.”

  “Were they, now?” The old man pushed up from the chair and walked stiff-legged to his desk, where he sat in another red leather chair, this one on a swivel and with a hard back. “That is interesting. It sounds to me as though our Chinese friends might be looking for allies about now. That makes it the perfect moment to reach out to them. I want you to send the Learjet to Los Angeles with a message. Tie a note to a rock if you have to, but I want a meeting arranged with them in three or four days. Promise whatever you must. Drop a sat. phone, too, so they can call us, and be sure to include instructions on how to use it.”

  “Isn’t this dangerous, Father? What if they shoot down the Lear, thinking it’s an enemy?”

  “I doubt you have to worry about that. For one thing, they probably don’t have any working radar, but just in case, tell the pilot to fly low. For another, I wouldn’t think their anti-aircraft defenses are manned around the clock, not after forty years. Regardless, it’s a risk worth taking.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “Good, that is good. Karoly, I think this may be the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. Trying to manipulate the Americans may have been a mistake, but between us and the Chinese, we can crush Operation Overtime and get rid of the Americans once and for all. Maybe then we can build our perfect society right here in North America. Won’t that be a glorious day?”

  “Yes, Father, it sounds wonderful.”

  The elder Rosos rubbed his jowls. “You sound skeptical.”

  “Not skeptical. I just think we may be underestimating the Americans, that’s all.”

  “Bah! I know Americans well. They’re cowards and rejects, nothing more. It was foolish to finance their idiotic plans, but in the end, it was only money.”

  Karoly Rosos nodded as if agreeing, but in his mind he thought, I’m not so sure about that.

  #

  Chapter 88

  In every parting there is an image of death.

  George Eliot

  Operation Overtime

  1842 hours, April 21

  “Must you go, Nick?” his wife asked in her matriarchal Southern accent. A soft breeze from the west blew hair away from her face.

  He’d pasted on a smile and decided not to say anything about Randall being missing yet. “Yep, no choice. We leave at oh six hundred tomorrow, but I should be back in a couple of days. We’ve got to get fuel and technicians up there to Sierra, and a permanent garrison. But I’m only going as far as Creech, which isn’t far from Las Vegas. I’m leaving Norm up north for a while to get things sorted out, but we must find out what resources they have and how soon we can use them.”

  “I’m going to miss you.” She coughed at the sentence’s end. “Dang these allergies.”

  “Go see Doctor Friedenthall, you and Cindy both. I’m worried about you. Long Sleep has all kinds of potential lingering effects.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  She cleared her throat. “I promise.”

  He turned to Cynthia, who’d been listening at their side. She smiled. “Yes, Father, me too.”

  “I love it up here.” Angriff stared west at the sinking sun. “Norm and I’ve had many talks up here.”

  “I can leave if you’d rather get Norm up here.” Janine wrapped her arms around his waist and rubbed his shirt with her nose.

  “We can leave too if you want us to,” yelled Cynthia over a sudden wind. She laughed and then coughed. Beyond her, Nikki and Morgan, who’d become fast friends, pointed at their parents, whispering and giggling like fifth graders. He’d noticed lines in Morgan’s face earlier, but she hadn’t asked about Joe. She trusted him to tell her if something was wrong. He felt guilty, but for the sake of the moment, he pushed that aside.

  “I never, ever imagined this,” Angriff said. “Two weeks ago, I couldn’t fathom having you and Cynthia back, much less finding out I had four kids instead of two. None of it seems real. I’ve got to be the luckiest man in
the world.”

  “There you go again,” his wife said. “Talking about getting lucky. It’s all you men think about.”

  “It has been almost sixty years,” he said, grinning.

  Cynthia covered her ears. “Stop it, that’s gross!”

  They watched the bottom of the sun touch a mountain in the west, content to hold each other and let the winds flow over them. Their daughters sat on the mountaintop and chatted, leaving the general and his wife to simply enjoy each other.

  Something in the air caught Angriff’s peripheral vision. Janine hadn’t moved for five minutes and he didn’t want to disturb her, so he cut his eyes without turning his head. A prairie falcon blazed past overhead, its hunting scream loud at it flew off into the distance. He watched it go and then saw something else, far off and high in the sky. Sunlight reflected off metal for a bare second as something streaked toward the sun, leaving a contrail in its wake.

  #

  Epilogue

  Los Angeles International Airport, Los Angeles, CA

  1149 hours, April 23

  Generalissimo Zhang Wei watched the Gulfstream G-650 circle what used to be Los Angeles International Airport at 500 feet. Cracks in the longest runway had recently been filled with crushed stone, then flattened and hardened by hundreds of forced laborers using wooden tampers. The weeds that had overtaken much of the place had been cleared from that runway. A knot of uniformed Chinese stood outside near the main entrance of the old terminal. A car waited nearby.

  Decades had passed since Zhang had last seen a jet touch down at the once frantic airport. As he stood rock still, hands clasped firmly behind his back and his medals gleaming in the setting sun, he kept his face impassive, as if this were a daily occurrence. In truth, he’d never expected to see a fixed-wing aircraft in flight ever again.

  The Gulfstream touched down with a screech of tires and taxied over to the knot of Chinese guards surrounding Zhang. It was painted all black with no markings except a stylized G and R behind the cockpit. Once it stopped about thirty yards from the group, eight men trotted out and formed an honor guard for their guest. Only Zhang knew that the men had been selected based upon who fit the nicest uniforms so they would present the smartest possible image.

  Stairs unfolded from the Gulfstream and two men in dark jumpsuits descended, eyeing the Chinese guards with folded arms. Their uniforms carried the same emblem as the plane. Next came a huge man with broad shoulders and short beard in a plain khaki uniform. He wore sunglasses and walked as if nothing could block him. Finally, a man in his thirties came down at a jaunty trot. Once at the bottom, he pulled at the sleeves of his snowy white cotton button-down shirt and shrugged, reseating the black suit coat on his shoulders. His black leather shoes shone with a mirror finish.

  Flanked by his two bodyguards, the man kept a brisk pace as he walked between the Chinese guards holding their rifles at salute. A dark, closely trimmed beard framed his square face. Wavy black hair was cropped high on the sides. As he neared Zhang, he extended his hand. The Chinese general shook it.

  “Generalissimo,” he said in flawless Mandarin, “my name is Károly Rosos. On behalf of my father, György Rosos, let me say that it is a high honor to meet you on this auspicious day.”

  Zhang allowed himself the tiniest smile. “Wǒ hěn gāoxìng rènshí nǐ.” I’m glad to meet you. “You speak my language well, Mr. Rosos. You do my people great honor. We have prepared a banquet for you, if you would be so kind as to allow me to drive you there.”

  “The honor is all mine, General. It is good that we are together at last. Let us now celebrate our friendship, as we turn to rebuilding a better world on the decayed ruins of the United States. And please, allow me to introduce my chief of planning and security, who will be working closely with you to coordinate our moves. He is called Adder.”

  The End

  About the Author

  Bill is a proud member of the Society For Military History and the Alliance of Independent Authors.

  He’s the world's oldest teenager. Reading, writing, rock & roll, and an awesome wife make for the perfect life. The occasional beach doesn’t hurt, either.

  Bill grew up in West Tennessee, riding his bike on narrow rural roads lined with wild blackberry bushes, in the days before urban sprawl. He spent those long rides dreaming of new worlds of adventure. Childhood for him was one interesting activity after another, from front yard football to naval miniatures, but from the very beginning reading was the central pillar of his life.

  Any and all military history books fascinated him, beginning before age eight. By his teenage years he had discovered J.R.R. Tolkien and Robert E. Howard, Robert Heinlein and Fritz Leiber. College found him searching for his identity, first majoring in forestry but discovering creative writing and knowing he had found his life’s work.

  He turned to writing history and non-fiction and was published a number of times, including in World War Two magazine.

  In September of 2014 he wrote the first pages of what would become Standing The Final Watch and its sequel, Standing In The Storm. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? And if you like his work, a whole slew of new books are on the schedule of 2018 and 2019.

  His sincerest hope is that you enjoy his works and share them with your friends.

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  Also by William Alan Webb

  Prologue

  October 12

  Lake Tahoe sparkled under a high sun in a cloudless sky. From the warmth of the tour boat’s passenger lounge, Mary Buffer giggled as her chubby husband Winslow braced against the bow railings and turned his face into the wind. They had not vacationed since Emily’s birth three years ago, and Mary intended to enjoy every moment.

  The red-haired toddler stood on tiptoes and waved at her father, then knocked on the window to get his attention. Her warm breath steamed the glass. Winslow grinned at her despite the cold spray and waved back.

  Out of the chill and sipping hot chocolate from a foam cup, Mary watched Winslow acting like a little boy and her giggle turned into a laugh. He often painted with words his fantasy of cutting the clear waters of the Caribbean, wind blowing his sparse hair, as he stood at the helm of his own sailing ship. He even confided that those daydreams cycled in an endless loop in his mind. She hoped so; starting a practice as a new CPA required long hours and hard sacrifices, and he deserved time to dream and play.

  The muffled buzz of a speedboat grew louder as it neared. Mary glanced left, but milling people blocked her view as the smaller boat throttled down near the port bow. She looked back at Winslow in time to see something metal hit the deck and bounce, stopping near his feet. The egg-shaped object seemed familiar, but her mind did not recognize it before the blast of the grenade ripped him apart.

  His right arm smacked into the lounge window and left a bloody smear as it slid to the deck. His right shoe, and most of the foot and shin, remained upright on the deck. The rest of Winslow Buffer swirled astern.

  Inside the large cabin Mary Buffer watched her husband’s arm slide from view. Stunned, she dropped the foam cup and covered her mouth for almost two seconds before she screamed and grabbed Emily. Panic flooded her with adrenaline and the instincts of motherhood took over. Getting away from the horror on the bow drove her to claw and elbow through her fellow tourists, headed for the stern while dragging Emily behind her.

  Another woman followed with a toddler under each arm, yelling for her husband, but panicky screams drowned her out. Mother and children fell when a large man shoved through, and they disappeared in the tangle of feet. Two men fought to shield their families from the stampede as everyone made for the starboard door. Mary stumbled, but a lithe middle-aged woman with blonde hair caught her left arm, and a girl who could only have been her daughter grabbed her right. Together they got Mary back to her feet. The two women exchanged a brief glance and Mary drew strength from the older woman’s nod of confidence.

>   A moment later the crowd shoved Mary against a window, Emily behind her and the women on either side. Outside, the speedboat bobbed on the waves. Three of the four men jumped aboard the tour boat and fanned out. They wore black shoes, gloves, and three-hole balaclavas, and all carried machine pistols. One of the attackers locked eyes with her through the window. His were green, but she could see no humanity in them, no spark of empathy, nothing except cold indifference. He turned as a deck hand rounded the stern corner of the lounge and hosed him with 9mm rounds that chewed his chest into a red slaw of bone and lung. As the crewman toppled over the side, the killer met Mary’s eyes again. This time he smiled.

  Mary screamed and his smile widened. Pinned against the glass with Emily, she could not move no matter how much she struggled.

  Forward of the lounge, the pilothouse overlooked the entire boat from a height of ten feet. The port door opened and the ship’s captain stepped out, aiming a large pistol in shaking hands. Mary’s breath caught. The terrorists on board had their backs to him, but the fourth man, still on the speedboat, spotted the danger and sprayed the pilothouse doorway, grinding up both the captain and the door frame. She watched as shells ejected from the gun and bounced on the boat’s deck in a shining stream of metal.

  Mary tried to squirm away as the terrorists burst in through the nearest door. Several men without families dove over the starboard side. Stopping next to her, the smallest of the three black-clad killers pointed with his machine gun and another killer charged back outside. After clubbing and punching his way through hysterical women and children, the gunman emptied his magazine into the swimmers’ backs.

  The leader, short but exuding authority, stood next to Mary. He scanned the lounge and spotted Emily huddled behind her. He leaned over and tousled her hair. Emily’s face reddened as she sobbed louder, gulping little breaths.