It was during his conversation with Moss that the perfect solution had come to him, one he’d kept secret even from Diane. It called for his team of guerrillas to assault the Jonesboro camp, converting the people inside from prisoners into an armed resistance movement. Some of the earliest civilian prisoners were in rough shape, but the hundreds and maybe even thousands of military POWs hadn’t been there for more than a few weeks. On their own, in hundreds of small groups, they could melt into the countryside and establish bases from which to launch their own attacks on other camps. John envisioned a long line of dominos, tumbling one after another as their numbers grew. With their ranks swelling, so too would their ability to tighten the noose on the disastrously overstretched Chinese supply lines. By then, General Dempsey should have the clear advantage he wanted. At least, he’d be hard pressed to find a reason not to attack.
Lying prone beside a maple tree, John peered out through his binoculars. The camp itself was rectangular, surrounded by a twenty-foot-high razor-wire fence―probably not electrified, especially now. Guard towers were spaced apart at hundred-yard intervals. It wasn’t long before he spotted prisoners in rags working the fields, tilling soil and planting seeds.
“Something tells me this food isn’t for them,” John told Moss on his left. “Keep an eye on the guards—where they patrol, whether they’re alone or in pairs, what they’re armed with. How many extra magazines they’re carrying.”
Most prison guards rarely expected to fire their weapons, let alone engage in a sustained firefight. Not when they could use the butt to bash in a disobedient prisoner’s skull. That meant when the time came to assault the place, the guards on the ground would quickly run dry on ammo. The ones in the towers, however, were likely better supplied. But that was where men with Reese’s expertise came in handy.
“I’ve got movement near the front gate,” Reese said, watching through his 10x scope.
The activity was frantic with vehicles coming and going. More likely than not, it had something to do with the mission John’s men had just pulled off.
In the field, it looked like there was a commotion going on. A group of guards approached a small prisoner―a child around Gregory’s height and weight―and began beating him.
“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Reese asked.
“I am,” John replied, his heart beating in his chest. Not only at the way his fellow countrymen were being treated. The boy who’d stood up to that guard looked an awful lot like Brandon. As if that wasn’t torture enough, John knew there was nothing he could do about it without jeopardizing the greater mission. Any hope of freeing the camps might mean watching his loved ones executed before his very eyes.
Chapter 23
Gregory looked up, frightened and in pain, trying to dodge the kicks and punches. Pug Face slammed the toe of his boot into the side of Gregory’s head, making his body go limp.
Brandon shouted and began running toward them. From off to his side, other guards screamed in Korean. The crack of AKs being fired came next, kicking up a patch of dirt at Brandon’s feet. That was when Pug Face unslung his rifle and pointed it at Brandon. His heart pounding with fear and rage, Brandon raised his hands, searching Gregory’s prone form for signs of movement. Two of Ellis’ American deputies showed up and dragged the boy away. Gregory’s eyes fluttered as they whisked him away.
Pug Face shouted something guttural Brandon couldn’t understand. He flicked the end of his rifle into the air, a move Brandon understood to mean, ‘Get back to work.’ The urge to charge the ugly little guard was nearly overpowering, but even in his rage, Brandon knew the move would be fruitless. John had taught him many things in the previous months but dodging bullets wasn’t one of them. Reluctantly, he turned his back and returned to what he’d been doing, aware that at any moment he might be shot in the back for daring to stand up.
As Pug Face settled down and moved on, one thing had become perfectly clear. Regardless of the consequences, Brandon and Gregory needed to leave this place or it was sure to become their final resting place.
•••
Later, after roll call, Brandon made his way back to the barracks. He’d hoped to get word on Gregory and whether he was doing any better. A kick to the head could mean concussion or, with little to no medical care, something far worse. He arrived to find Ellis and his deputies tearing the loose woolen blankets off each bunk and checking underneath the thin foam mattresses which covered them. Prisoners crowded the doorway, frightened.
“What’s going on?” Brandon asked.
An emaciated man next to him whose prison garb looked about as weathered as the man himself raised a bony finger. “They caught wind of another escape plan and now the whole camp’s going nuts. I heard Sheriff Ellis has spies he uses to sniff out the escapees. Looks to me like they hit pay dirt. I just hope the commandant doesn’t start bayoneting the rest of us.”
“He isn’t a sheriff,” Brandon said. “Not anymore. He’s a traitor and the worst kind.”
The man shrugged. “Maybe so, but I’d be willing to bet he’s convinced himself he’s saving lives.”
Brandon sighed, watching them tear the place to shreds. This wasn’t the first plot they’d uncovered. In fact, it seemed every other day a handful of so-called escapees were being rounded up and bayoneted. “Any word on who they caught?”
“Nothing certain, but I did see ’em haul off a mouthy soldier named Nixon…”
“You mean Dixon?”
“Yup, that’s him, and they had a boy with them too. Had to be carried away since his legs were real wobbly.”
Skeletal fingers danced up Brandon’s spine. He didn’t need to be given any more details to know who the skinny man in the tattered uniform was talking about. They were accusing Gregory of being part of the escape plot and now he and Dixon would both be executed.
•••
Brandon tore around to the back of the barracks, searching for the patch of earth underneath the wooden building’s framework where he’d hidden the leaflets. He dug through the dirt with fingers already raw from his work out in the fields. Finally he spotted a patch of white, grabbed the top leaflet and filled the hole back in. His next stop was the camp kitchen where he knocked several times. Finally, Sammy answered, looking concerned.
“Water run?”
“No, I need you to do me a favor.”
Sammy didn’t look so sure.
“Remember how you told me about those people who sneak up to the fence line, leaving food and tradeables?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think they’d be able to deliver a note to Oneida for me?”
“That’s kinda far, don’t you think? On the off chance their radio’s still working, maybe they could send the message that way.”
“Give me a pen.”
“Geez, kid, you’re killing me here.” Sammy plucked a pen from behind his ear and handed it over.
Brandon scribbled a few words on the leaflet and then handed the paper to Sammy. “Keep this well hidden till you can get it into the courier’s hands.”
When he turned to leave, Sammy called after him. “Hey, my pen.”
Brandon stopped and handed it over.
“Now where are you off to in such a hurry?” Sammy asked, folding the message and tucking it under the band of his pants.
Brandon drew in a deep, nervous breath. “To speak with the camp commandant.”
Chapter 24
What John had seen from outside the fence line of the North Korean concentration camp near Jonesboro had weighed heavily on him during the entire trek home. They had made the journey in record time. Seeing Brandon and his son in mortal danger had created a sense of urgency within him. But more than that, seeing the conditions at the camp—Americans dressed in rags, used as slave labor, beaten and probably killed at the slightest provocation—had made the need to free the camps so much more pressing.
They returned to Oneida to puzzled looks. No one knew about their mission and h
e’d told his men to keep it to themselves, at least until he gave the all-clear. Sure, some details were certain to slip out in the days to come. But Phoenix was still on the loose, and word of their plan leaking out might cost the lives of many Americans, including their own.
Once the horses were cleaned and back in their stables, John, Moss and Reese climbed into a four-seater golf cart and headed onto Alberta Street. Their next destination was the mayor’s office, where they hoped to find General Brooks. They didn’t get more than a few hundred feet, however, before John slammed on the brakes. Visible over the tops of the buildings were the spinning blades of both windmills. John turned the wheel hard and headed for the football field and the greenhouse, both of which sat in the windmill’s shadow.
They arrived to find a small crowd gathered around what appeared to be a glowing light bulb. Many watched it with utter amazement. A pine shack nearby was also new.
When Diane and Emma saw them approach, they peeled away from the others. Emma threw herself into John’s arms. Diane waited her turn with a warm smile, her head tilted slightly in the late-afternoon sun.
“Do I need to check you for wounds?” Diane asked.
“You won’t find any,” John told her. “At least none that are visible.”
“So what do you think, Dad?” Emma asked him. She was giddy for the first time in a long while.
John shook his head. “I didn’t think it would ever happen.”
Ray Gruber came over, brimming with grins and no doubt a ton of bad jokes.
“I gotta say, I’m proud of you Ray,” John told him. “They’re both beautiful.”
Ray laughed. “Until the Chinese come and knock them down, right? I’ve also set up a series of lawnmower generators in the new shed I built. Each is connected to an alternator, which charges a battery bank. They’re real noisy, but will serve in a pinch if anything should happen to my creation.”
In Ray’s mind, he’d conceived and built the whole thing himself. It didn’t seem to matter that dozens of others had also helped make it a reality. Every man had his foibles, John supposed, a failure of the flesh even he wasn’t immune to. “I didn’t know mower generators were even possible.”
“Adapting them wasn’t all that hard, but we did have trouble finding a pulley that would work. Finally settled on a two-and-a-half-inch pulley. Just took some trial and error, was all.”
John and the others excused themselves and headed back to the golf cart. Diane followed after them.
“Did you at least succeed in whatever mission you went on this time?”
John slid into the driver’s seat. “We did. But every success only reminds me how much we have left to do.”
“One step at a time, John. You start getting ahead of yourself and mistakes will happen.”
“You’re right, honey, but unfortunately this next step can’t wait.”
Chapter 25
Knoxville, three hundred and fifty days before EMP
The days following the news of Christopher Lewis’ death had been particularly hard on John. The warm summer temperatures, the lush foliage along the streets in Sequoia Hills, even the sound of children playing outside, none of it seemed to make things any better for him. Not the way it used to when he was in a rut.
Over the last week, John had also taken to sleeping in his truck. He’d begun to feel as though the rooms in their house were too large and unsafe for him. And before long, he no longer felt safe or secure unless he was in a small, cramped space. Even so, sleeping was something of a misnomer, since John hadn’t gotten a proper night of it since he returned from Iraq. This was his most dreaded time of day. If he was lucky, a dozen beers or a bottle of Jack Daniels would slide him into a dreamless stupor.
Diane hadn’t understood much of what he’d been going through, but she’d respected his wishes. The VA (Veterans Affairs) had told her John would require time to reintegrate back into civilian life and she was trying to be as understanding as possible. Soon enough, however, John’s need for his own space had meant that he’d sometimes pull into the driveway and not enter the house at all. Getting a serious buzz on had been the only way to keep those thorny memories at bay.
Sometimes, when he did manage to get some shuteye, he would wake up shouting orders to ghostly mortar teams to check their fire. The weight of being responsible for another man’s life was a heavy one indeed. He’d read an article years ago about a scientist trying to find the weight of the human soul. The scientist had conducted a series of experiments and eventually arrived at a measurement: twenty-one grams. Thinking back to how many men he’d lost in combat and post-deployment suicides―and the crippling strain of those lost souls pressing down on his shoulders every day―John knew that number couldn’t possibly be right. It had to be more. Much more.
Pulling into his driveway after a night of hard drinking, John spotted his neighbor Al Thomson, sitting on his front porch, enjoying the warm weather. John killed the engine and reclined his seat, ready to sleep off another evening of too many beers.
He hadn’t been more than a few minutes into his oblivion when a rap came at the window. At once, his hand went for the S&W M&P .40 Pro he kept under the seat before he realized who it was. John gave the key a quarter turn and lowered the window.
“Fine night, isn’t it?” Al asked, peeking inside the truck.
John looked around, the cab spinning around him. “If you say so.”
“Everything all right, John?”
“Sure,” he replied, vaguely aware of his slur.
“You didn’t have a fight with the missus, did you? We have a guest bedroom in the basement if you need somewhere to sleep.”
John tried to smile. “Thanks, Al, but I prefer it in here. I tend to keep Diane up at night, so I’ve gotten in the habit of making alternate arrangements.” He tapped the steering wheel, as if to say, She might not look like much, but to me she’s home.
“How’d you get that cut on your hand, John?”
“Oh, this? It’s nothing, I was just taking out the trash.”
Al stared at the wound, straining to see in the dim light cast by the truck’s overhead lights. “I’m no doctor, but I think that could be infected. You might wanna have it looked at.”
John glared at the cut, having trouble focusing. “Nah, I think I’m fine.”
“You didn’t drive like this, did you?”
“What’s with all the questions, Al?” John barked. “I’m just trying to get some sleep here.”
Just then a light came on in the house and Diane appeared.
“Oh, great, now you’ve gone and woken up my wife.”
Al watched Diane as she approached.
“Why don’t you come inside, honey?” she asked John.
“I don’t wanna disturb you or the kids.”
“Well, believe it or not, you’re disturbing them every time you sleep out here.”
John was suddenly terribly embarrassed she was speaking so frankly in front of Al.
“There’s a cut on his hand that I’m worried about,” Al said.
“I thought you were going to get that treated,” Diane said.
“I will. Tomorrow.”
Al pulled a hanky out of his pocket and wrapped it around John’s hand. Now Al’s wife Missy came over. This was turning into a crowd, making John more and more uncomfortable.
“Why don’t you come inside,” Diane offered. “I’ll set up the pull-out couch for you.”
Without being prompted, Al opened the door and helped John out of the truck. He landed on a pair of wobbly legs, grabbing onto his neighbors’ shoulders for support.
They headed inside and brought John to the sofa in the living room. Gregory and Emma stood in the kitchen, watching all this unfold.
“Thank you,” Diane said to Al and Missy.
“Don’t mention it,” he replied, ruffling Gregory’s hair. “Who knows, maybe one day we’ll be the ones in need of a hand. That’s what neighbors are for, isn’t it?”
<
br /> After they left, Diane sent the kids to their rooms so she and John could talk.
“James Wright called the house,” Diane told him, opening a wicker trunk where they kept extra blankets and pillows. “Said you weren’t at Christopher Lewis’ funeral. You know, I told you I was happy to go with you.”
John shook his head. How was he supposed to explain that being there was too difficult?
“The drinking’s starting to become a real problem, John. Susan Wright and I have started talking on a regular basis now. Commiserating, you might say. James has been hitting the bottle and it’s gotten to a point where she’s about to throw him out. Is that where you want things to go with us?”
John shook his head, patting the plush pillow.
“I think you should go and talk to someone at the VA.”
“You mean a shrink?” John spat with disgust.
“I’m sure it’ll help.”
“And then what, Diane? Have them label me a coward?”
Tears came to her eyes. “Ever since I’ve known you, John, you’ve always been under such control. I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I can handle it.”
“No, you can’t. That’s exactly the problem. You always take too much on yourself and fail to do the most important thing.”
“Really? And what’s that?”
“Ask for help. No one’s gonna brand you a coward, John. If not for yourself, do it for the kids. Think of your JTAC friend Christopher Lewis. You don’t want them growing up without a father, do you?”
On a bookshelf beside the television was a row of framed family pictures. A handful were of Gregory and Emma learning to water-ski two summers ago, beaming with joy and pride at what they’d accomplished. But more than that, John knew part of the joy the kids had experienced came from knowing their parents had been watching them grow.
Last Stand: Turning the Tide (Book 4) Page 9
