by Finley, Zack
My mom squeezed me one more time before standing up. She reached down to give my dad a hand up. "Come on to bed, old man, Jeremy needs his beauty sleep."
My dad took the hand up. We said our goodnights and trundled off to bed.
One good thing about the trip, no PT in the morning.
Clear and cold was the weather of the predawn hours. About half the guys spent the night at Justice. The rest of us ate an early breakfast at the food hut. The presence of an urn full of coffee seemed like a celebration. Sausage, eggs, tortillas, and some jam didn't hurt either.
Dr. Jerrod had nixed serving coffee recently, because not enough of us were drinking pine needle tea. While the tea was a great source of vitamin C, it tasted and smelled like turpentine. I gagged down three cups of tea a week, trying to set a positive example. I couldn't decide whether it was better or worse with a drop of honey. It might prevent scurvy, but it wouldn't replace coffee.
No one dawdled over breakfast, eager to hit the road. The kitchen staff wished us well, and we jogged to the armory to mount up.
Allie and I were on the first Humvee. She was the official navigator for the trip, using the trusty map that served us well on the rescue mission. The semis with trailers needed pampering. The scouts and Humvees in the lead were not just looking for hostiles. We expected to shove a slew of vehicles off the road to clear the way for our full entourage.
There had been a lot of discussion about the order of travel, but we finally settled on four scouts, then the two Humvees, the bus, one semi, the flatbed, the second semi, and finally the two pickups. I considered bracketing the convoy with the Humvees, but Joel convinced us we'd need both to clear the highway.
Clearing the roadway on the outbound trip should reduce problems on the return when the trucks were heavy and even more unwieldy. This time we would drive straight through, swapping drivers as needed.
The semis had a driver, a relief driver, and a guard in each. The flatbed only had room for two, so the designated relief rode on the bus. The Humvees and pickups carried four each.
We had at least one Ranger in every vehicle. Zeke rode in the tail-end pickup. Much to the chagrin of our Gammas, the outbound scouts would all be combat veterans. Our Gammas were good, but the scouts were our most vulnerable group. When surrounded in enemy territory, experience mattered. Seasoned troops knew when to retreat, or they didn't become seasoned. I feared our Gammas would hesitate to back away from an unwinnable fight.
Grady commanded our reserves on the bus. We assigned him Craig, Tom, and Mike he knew well from the Arkansas trip as part of his team. He also had most of the Gammas and Dwayne.
The journey started through unexplored territory. Jules and I scouted the southern route along TN-52 to Jamestown by air, but that only gave us the location of the roadblocks and verified the roads were substantially clear. We avoided this route on the Arkansas rescue trip due to its population density. While the rugged northern highway was narrow, treacherous, and filled with hairpin turns, it snaked through remote public forestland. Our new route followed the valleys where people lived. While everything in this part of Tennessee was mountainous, TN-52 was straight as an arrow compared with the northern route. It was easier on our trucks, but the chance of encountering people who objected to our travel was higher.
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Chapter 12
The semis started on the first crank, and everyone formed up at Justice with minimal confusion. Getting our radio subgroups sorted out was the biggest headache, but quickly resolved since everyone knew their starting assignments. It was still dark when we left Justice.
Getting underway came with a sense of relief, marking the transition from planning into execution. We were committed, the time to weigh options, and second-guesses was over. In many ways, this was my favorite part of an operation. That golden time after kickoff, but before contact with the enemy. The feeling usually didn't last long, but I tried to enjoy it each time. I likened it to a parachute drop, the freefall before your chute opened. Not much you can do to change the outcome, so you might as well enjoy the ride.
The trip through Robbins was uneventful, slowing down only to creep by our partial roadblock on the Mecklin River bridge. It gave our large-truck drivers an early challenge. No one wanted to scrape the fenders.
Scouts reported the route through Elgin was clear. I was more concerned about Brewster Bridge over Clear Fork on the far side of Rugby. Jules and I spotted an assortment of vehicles there on our recon trip. Not enough to reconsider the route, but probably time-consuming to unravel.
We fell into a routine with Allie alerting those following about vehicles parked on the roadway.
"Single pickup on right shoulder."
"Semi and trailer left lane. Right shoulder clear if you need it."
"Three-car crash in the right lane, slow down, and use part of the left shoulder to get by."
Her running commentary helped, especially in the pre-dawn black. We only shoved a few vehicles into the ditch or onto the shoulder. None posed a real obstacle as the road was wide and reasonably straight. We would be more aggressive moving the stalls when the road narrowed or the line of sight, shortened.
As expected, the Brewster Bridge offered our first real challenge. We parked the three large-trucks on the left shoulder, putting spotters in the two reinforced firing positions on top of the trailers. One pickup guarded the road we came in on. Craig and Mike positioned themselves on top of the right shoulder cut.
The rest of us started dragging vehicles out of a tangled wreck. To speed up the clearing operation, Joel disconnected the front semi from its trailers to help clear.
The four scouts slipped through the roadblock when we made room and guarded the scenic overlook and hayfield on the far side of the bridge. The lack of nosy neighbors made clearing the wreck easier. The bridge was about 1,000 feet long and nearly 100 feet above the river below.
We first had to move the three cars backed up on our side of the wreck before Joel could fully drag the two interlocked cars out of the way.
The Humvees had enough power and traction to shove the abandoned cars against the bridge railing. This cleared the way for Joel to do his thing. Once Joel got the pile moving, he dragged it completely off the end of the bridge. The horrible screeching sounds reverberated through the canyon, making my fillings hurt. We feared the sounds would bring someone to investigate, but if it did, we never spotted them. The total stop cost us an hour.
The wintry sun blazed in our rear-view mirror, and our next known obstacle was ahead in Jamestown. With roadblocks on each road from this direction, the consensus was to detour from TN-52 at the town of Allardt, and then go north on US-127 before rejoining TN-52 heading west. This route avoided much of Jamestown, including a Walmart and most residential zones. The downside was it traversed the city center and required moving two roadblocks.
On our trip to Arkansas, we navigated around Jamestown roadblocks using the more plentiful side streets on the north side.
"Lead Scout to Convoy," Matt radioed.
"Go for Convoy," I answered.
"We have a pile of junked cars blocking TN-296 on a narrow bridge. Estimate it at about one to two miles from US-127. No tangoes, so far."
"Any obvious way around?" I radioed.
"Creek is too deep. We can haul the ninjas over the roadblock to scout farther ahead, but it will take at least 10 minutes," Matt radioed.
"Remain on this side of the roadblock and take cover," I radioed, looking at Allie.
"Any obvious way around?" I asked.
"Crooked Creek crosses all roads from this direction, so roadblocks are more effective in this quadrant than we experienced coming through Jamestown from Oneida," Allie said. "That helped us get through on our way to Arkansas. We have fewer options from this quadrant, so we should just deal with the roadblocks. Not surprising, they spent more effort blocking travel from the south than they did from the north. We need to get through their perimeter. If it isn't man
ned, it should just delay us a few minutes."
"Convoy, bunch up and stop in a clear location until we assess the situation," I radioed. "Be able to pull back if necessary. Put someone in the two trailer firing positions, but keep your heads down. Pickups, deploy as needed to secure convoy against possible hostiles."
Our Humvee crept forward. The bridge roadblock came into view the moment we crossed the brow of the hill. I estimated it was half-a-mile in front.
There were clusters of buildings, mostly south of the highway, some with thin trails of smoke spiraling from chimneys. If someone watched the roadblock, they would be stationed there. If they stayed inside the buildings, they posed no direct threat to my team.
I sent the second Humvee back toward the bus,
"Humvees and Bus will move to the roadblock and establish a perimeter. Troops on the bus will then sweep the area around the bridge. Use your cover. Once we are secure, we will begin removing the roadblock." I waited for the acknowledgments before continuing.
"Semis stay in position but keep your engines running. Pickups, secure the area around the semis."
The second group acknowledged. My Humvee edged down the hill toward the bridge with no one in the turret, although we could remedy that in a heartbeat. In this exercise, my Hummers was the bright shiny bait. No need for the bait to stick its head out just to get it shot at. I hated splitting up, but there was no way the semis with tandem trailers could turn around on this stretch of the roadway. Unlike our Humvees, the semis could be disabled with a few lucky rifle shots. If we didn't keep them secure, this would be a wasted trip.
"Scout to Humvee One," Matt radioed.
"Go for Humvee One," I responded.
"The wrecked cars were crushed before being towed in place. Pushing them looks to be the only way to shift them out of the way. Don't know it a Hummer will do it without jacking up one side of the obstacle," Matt radioed. "It should budge if we can wedge logs under the south side.
"Bus, stop on the east side of the bridge. Secure that location, send remaining troops to the main scout for assignment. Humvee Two, stop where you can monitor the road on both sides of the bridge," I radioed.
The bus angled across the highway, providing some concealment for those working on the roadblock. Humvee Two manned their turret, and I knew the rest of the guys monitored the surroundings with an eagle eye.
Crooked Creek was running strong, but within its unruly banks. The bridge was an old one, barely two lanes wide with no shoulders. The creek was about 15 feet below us. Lots of cedar trees and a few pines added green to the winter landscape. Plenty of briars and brambles to make crossing this area a hassle. I suspected deer and other wildlife used this wild corridor for travel, so there would be game trails throughout the area. Camping under the bridge would provide shelter with easy access to water and game.
I wasn't the only one thinking that way. Matt had already sent two scouts to check. We left Allie in the Humvee One turret, and the rest of us bailed out to examine the roadblock.
Someone dumped a row of crushed cars from a junkyard to form the barrier. Effective. It also showed a level of organization that concerned me. I had expected any roadblocks to be comprised of wrecked or abandoned cars. Widely available and easy to drag into place.
I saw right away what Matt pointed out. While the Humvee's engine might have enough horsepower in the lowest gear to do the job, its wheels probably couldn't get the needed traction.
A team took the Humvee's bow saw and axes to cut saplings to slide under the crushed car. We snugged our bumper against the obstacle and waited for Humvee Two to line up beside us. We brought up Humvee Two to help with the initial push. We pushed. Nothing happened except one of our back wheels started to spin. Even the high-tech brake-traction control, we weren’t budging the roadblock this way. It seemed the crushed car was either embedded in the road surface or was stuck on something.
Scouts found a camp under the bridge, but no campers spotted, whether they hid in the woods or were out foraging was anyone's guess.
"We are just passing through. If you ignore us, we will ignore you. Threaten us, and we will end you," Eric intoned over the loudspeaker.
Matt expressed concern about the cluster of buildings about 50 feet past the end of the bridge. I wasn't the only one who felt like we were being watched. I couldn't tell whether it was the bridge camper, or we had armed guards assigned to the roadblock, or both.
After 20 minutes of trying, we finally gave up on the Humvees pushing the pile of crushed cars without help. I wished we brought an acetylene torch to remove the guardrails.
By now, the guys had cut and trimmed a pile of saplings and tree branches to slide under the leftmost crushed car. Others placed the Jacks from both Humvees at one end of that car cube, ready to start the next phase of operations. I didn't know if the Hummers could budge the obstacle, even with the skids reducing the friction.
Joel thought the bottom of the front bumpers on the semis were too high to help this operation, but stood by to give it a try anyway. He could always use a Humvee for his bumper.
The skids worked surprisingly well, for a short distance. Until the far side of the crushed car dug back into the pavement. Then everything stopped again. We needed to extend the poles to reduce contact with the highway. A group left to cut more poles, while others reset the jacks for the next push. This process should work. Once we had room for a Humvee to get through, we could push and pull.
"Joel, bring up the convoy. Stop at the bus and keep your eyes on swivels. People are watching. So far, no hostile moves," I radioed.
"Mounting up," Joel radioed back.
"Scout Two to Humvee One, we have a Tango in custody. What do you want us to do with him?"
"This is Humvee One, bring him to the roadblock for a consult," I radioed.
"Roger that, he has a police radio and badge."
Intriguing. This was where I missed Roger or Phil. They knew the local politicians, police, and a whole lot more. It helped to know the players, but it wasn't my first rodeo. At least in rural Tennessee, we started with a common background. It was a lot tougher to avoid misunderstandings in Africa or the Middle East.
Two of my team brought the uniformed officer out of the woods on the southwest side of the bridge. Matt's guess that those in the buildings on that side were monitoring the roadblock seemed correct. The officer wasn't dressed for spending nights in the forest.
While the man was disheveled, whether that was due to the state of civilization or his capture wasn't clear. He wore a tactical vest and an empty holster. My guys carried his automatic rifle and handgun, but the radio remained on his belt.
He wore a Fentress County sheriff's uniform jacket. Jamestown was the Fentress County seat and its only real town with a Walmart, most of the county’s commercial stores, and an airport.
I hoped he really was a deputy in the old-fashioned sense.
Locals considered Fentress County more agricultural and less tourist-oriented than Mecklin County. Jamestown sprawled while Huntsville and Oneida clung to their main highways. Jamestown's lack of access to rail limited its growth until after World War II. Travel east and west from Jamestown was challenging since the mountain ranges run north to south.
Capturing a well-armed potential hostile reinforced the need to stay low and work with as much cover as possible. I noted with approval that everyone seemed more on their guard. I knew as well as the next guy the extra motivation an enemy observer provided. The threat was real; it was no longer hypothetical.
"Hi, my name is Jeremy. We are just traveling through, should be out of your area in an hour or so." I reached my hand out. The man hesitated, wiping his hand on his vest, before shaking mine. He was medium height, slim build, with long greasy hair. No hat. He wore BDU pants that had seen hard times. Mud caked his knees, elbows, and chest, consistent with creeping through the undergrowth to spy on us. The smears of mud on his face would have provided reasonable camouflage.
He was probably young, though his face was gaunt.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Bill."
"Well, Bill. Would you like some hot coffee?" I asked. Eric moved toward my Humvee to get the thermos, while Matt kept the rest of the group on task. I didn't need to ask, my guys felt that Bill was not alone. The sooner we cleared the road ahead, the better.
Whatever Bill expected, being asked if he wanted coffee was not it. Eric poured two mugs, handing one to Bill and the other to me. I cupped my metal mug in my hands, enjoying the heat and the aroma. This emboldened Bill to do the same.
While Bill and I weren't best of buds, he showed a lot of smarts, enjoying the coffee without worrying about the consequences. Something about the way he acted made me suspect he saw some active duty.
