by N. C. Reed
The children, all raised with the constant threat of violence, hit the ground, older covering younger in many cases in an attempt to protect brothers and sisters. Tommy watched over them from his position, Jose helping him. Every time one of the enemy 'troops' looked to target the children, Tommy killed him.
Gunfire raged for two minutes. Two minutes that seemed to last for hours. When there were no enemy standing in sight, Clay called a cease fire.
“Bear, we're moving in to check for survivors,” he called his second, and the big man answered with two simple clicks on his radio. “Tommy, stay in position,” Clay ordered the sniper and was rewarded with another two clicks. Waving his team up and forward, Clay slowly made his way into the gaggle of downed terrorists and terrified children.
They found seven terrorists still alive. Clay never even considered taking prisoners. They had to get the children home and that took precedent. None of these people deserved any kind of mercy and Clay and his men were all out of mercy anyway. The seven were put down much the same way one would put down a rabid dog and for the same reason.
Tandi “Doc” Maseo, the team's medic, ran to check the children over. Three had gunshot wounds, though thankfully none were immediately life threatening. Several more showed signs of having taken a beating, but all were mobile. They recognized the soldiers as friends which put them slightly at ease.
Clay allowed ten minutes to check the children, during which the soldiers shared their water and handed out MRE components that could be eaten on the go. All the children were hungry and thirsty. Finally, he motioned to Nate.
“Get us out of here,” he ordered. “Just in case their transport was just late.” Nate nodded, grabbed Mitchell, and the two started for Home, blazing the way for the rest. Clay hated to make the children head back so quickly but there wasn't much else he could do. He watched, saddened, as the older children rummaged through the dead terrorists, stripping them of weapons and ammunition. They would need them sooner or later. In Africa no one wasted anything. By the time they were on the trail almost every child had a pair of boots hanging from his neck and was carrying a pack or bag of some sort with whatever valuables their dead captors had been carrying.
I hate this place, Clay thought, waiting for the group to move ahead while he took the rear. I hate what it does to children.
He was doing all he could to change that, he told himself.
-
Despite his best intentions, Gordon had to interrupt.
“Son, I know I said I wouldn't interrupt, but I can't see what this has to do with -”
“You will,” Clay promised. “Just listen.”
-
It was well past dusk before they were able to get the children back to Home. The three wounded children had to be carried, and the children refused to relinquish the plunder taken from the bodies of their captors. Clay couldn't really blame them since the weapons and other items represented a small fortune for their families. But it did slow them down and in this country death waited in the dark.
Nate and Mitchell managed to make Home without raising an alarm and relayed the story to the survivors. While nothing would make up for the many dead and wounded, the news that the children were coming home and that their attackers were dead was welcome indeed. Low spirits were raised slightly because of it.
By the time Clay and the others arrived with the children in tow the village was waiting for them, a meal ready for the exhausted children. Maseo handed the wounded children over to the tribal medicine man/witch doctor/whatever, with instructions on how to care for their wounds. Those instructions would have been treated with scorn a year before, but Maseo had made a kind of peace with the tribal care-giver, mostly by being right when he said or did something concerning the treatment of the sick or injured.
Clay was the last in, taking the rear guard in the event someone managed to pick up their trail. No one had and an hour after the children had stumbled into camp Clay appeared out of the dark. He decided the team would remain over night in the village. They were tired, and if anyone else tried to hit Home tonight their presence would be a rude and nasty shock.
Clay accepted the thanks of parents, uncles and aunts, and grandparents who had seen their next generation returned for the most part unharmed. He assured Wee Man's uncle, (the boy's parents had been killed in the raid) that the men responsible were no longer a problem for anyone. The man's gratitude showed in his eyes as he nodded.
Clay accepted a bowl of whatever soup was being served and found a log to sit on out of the way. He didn't know what was in the soup but he'd learned a simple rule early in his career; if you're in a foreign land and the food is good, don't ask what it is.
Ever.
He wolfed the soup down, surprised at his hunger. He and his team had been going hard all day though, and hadn't really had time to think about being hungry, thirsty, or anything else. With the tension of the day draining away, Clay realized that he was hungry and exhausted.
He almost fell off the log when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He had been half dozing where he sat watching the reunion. He looked up to see the lone remaining village elder looking at him intently.
“Hello, Mukimbo,” Clay said in his broken tribal language. As far as he knew the language didn't even have an official name, merely being recognized as a dialect of another African tongue.
“A hard day, my friend,” Mukimbo sat beside him. “We are in your debt,” he added, waving an arm at the happy people still active around the bonfire. Clay shook his head.
“Seems this might have been our fault,” he admitted. “They may have attacked you because you've been good to us. I'm sorry, Mukimbo, if that's the way of it. We'll leave in the morning and stay away from now on,” he promised. “That should help in the future.”
“Yes, time for you go home, Clay-tahn,” Mukimbo nodded, speaking broken English. Drawing out Clay's name was the villager's English version of Clayton. It had always tickled Clay, but not tonight.
“I know, and I'm sorry,” Clay said softly. He had hoped the man might tell him of some reason that the attack hadn't been his fault. It appeared that was not to be.
“No,” Mukimbo shook his head. “Not just leave Home. Must return your home, Clay-tahn,” the man said solemnly. “You, be needed there. Much bad coming your home, friend Clay-tahn. Own village need you now. More than we.”
“I don't understand,” Clay admitted, frowning. “I haven't been home in years. Haven't even spoken to my family in I don't know how long. What makes you think I need to go home?”
“Cannot know,” Mukimbo admitted. “Vision show much trouble come to your people. Your people, Clay-tahn, your home, not mine. Fire in the sky destroy much, burn much. Must be ready if you can. Must protect family from fire from the sky. Only you can do this, Clay-tahn. I have seen this much, but no more. Vision Spirit not always kind to Mukimbo. This all I know.” The elder rose and Clay was impressed with the man's regal dignity, just as he always had been.
“You must go home,” Mukimbo said again. “Miss you friend Clay-tahn,” he added in a softer tone. “Good man. Good that we have become brothers, even for so short time. Remembered you will be by Home. Always remembered.” He raised a hand and placed in firmly in Clay's shoulder.
“Safe journey.”
With that he walked away, leaving a startled and almost afraid Clayton behind him. Fire from the sky? That sounded like...
-
“You mean to tell me that all this is because some witch doctor warned you about some fire from the sky?”
“Yes,” Clay sighed at the tone of Gordon's voice. He had known this would be the way of it.
“Son, that's awful thin to be doing something like this on,” he waved to the room around him.
“This is nothing,” Leon snorted. “This is just stuff we didn't have time to put up. He's been working since he got home to do all this, for this entire family, alone. I pestered him into telling me a few weeks back and have
been helping ever since.”
“So, you're laying in supplies for what?” Gordon asked. “A nuclear strike?”
“Can you think of anything else that 'fire from the sky' might be?” Clay asked.
“Again, son, that's an awful flimsy reason,” Gordon said gently.
“I would love to agree,” Clay nodded. “Thing is, one of the things we were taught as we started to interact with them was that elders from their tribe have had these visions for ages. They keep a hieroglyph record of sorts on the wall of the cave where their elders are laid to rest. Every major event in world history seems to be on there going back at least two millennia. Hell, dad, there was even a glyph of two giant birds flying into twin mountains, and the mountains crashing to the ground,” he snorted. “What does that sound like?”
“Like nine-eleven,” Gordon nodded.
“Another showed a mountain exploding over a small town, and that town being engulfed in debris,” Clay went on. “It was old, too. Very old.”
“Pompeii,” Gordon nodded.
“What we figured,” Clay sighed. “Look, I know how crazy this sounds, but with their track record I couldn't afford to chance it. Mukimbo was very specific that this vision was geared toward me, and to a lesser extent my men. Probably because I was in charge,” he added.
“In charge?” Gordon and Leon echoed each other.
“Yes,” Clay nodded. “I was commanding CTG 31. A completely off the books operation. As black as it gets. Our mission was to kill terrorists and get intel any way we had to. Complete deniability.”
“Leaving you hanging if something happened to you,” Gordon mused.
“Pretty much, yeah,” Clay agreed.
“Well, I still think this is pretty flimsy,” Gordon decided to let Clay's past lay for another time. “But, there's nothing wrong with taking some precautions, and that's for sure. You know they just discovered a dormant volcano under the Smoky Mountains, right?”
“I did not know that,” Clay admitted. “Perfect,” he groaned.
“Son, if a volcano like Yellowstone was to go off, we'd feel it here too,” Gordon told him. “Be the next thing to an ice age most likely. And while we're too far to get any real damage from the New Madrid, there is a fault line in North Alabama that could affect us was it to have a major release. There are always threats around us, Clay. Just the way the world is made, son.”
“Seems like you've thought about this a good bit,” Leon mused.
“I've got three kids and four grand children,” Gordon shrugged. “I'm always thinking about what could happen, and what I can do to prevent it from hurting any of them.”
“You're a good son, Gordon,” Leon said gently. “I don't say that enough, and never have. But you are. And a damn good man. I'm proud of you.”
“Thank you, Pa,” Gordon replied softly. “I appreciate that.”
“Well,” Leon straightened up in his chair. “Before you interrupted so you could stick your nose in our business,” Leon returned to normal, “I was telling Clayton that we needed some help. Help that we have in abundance right here on this farm.”
“The twins,” Gordon nodded and Leon looked at him.
“Makes sense,” Gordon made a hands up gesture. “The two of them are incredibly intelligent. There isn't much they can't do if they're motivated. There are a number of problems in recruiting them, though. Starting with their mother, and with what you tell them. We can't just come right out and tell them the truth up front. We 'll have to make them fish for it. Like they got one over on us.”
“Well, I might have an idea about that,” Leon said. “Lets try this...”
-
“. . .and so I suggested we ask you to help,” Gordon finished explaining the 'fishing' part of the story to the twins.
“You don't really expect us to buy that crap do you?”
Clay shot his father a withering glance as Leon the Younger (a nickname the boy hated beyond reason), finished his statement.
“What makes you think it's crap?” Gordon demanded, ignoring Clay's glare for the moment.
“No offense, Uncle Clay,” Leanne fielded that one, “but there's no way the Army allowed you out of their clutches with that kind of information.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, Little Anne, but the Army can only do so much to hold people,” he deliberately used a nickname that Leanne didn't care for, hoping to set her back some. “People with knowledge of Top Secret and above information are out-dated every week.” Clay actually smirked at that one.
“I'm sure they are,” her brother took over again. “But what are the odds that you had access to that kind of information? I'm betting it's pretty slim,” he added his own smirk at the end of that statement, almost a challenge to his uncle.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Leon the Elder grumbled. “These two have no respect for their elders, or their betters. Besides, what possible use could they be to three grown men?” The twins stiffened in their seats at that comment and the Old Man barely managed to keep a self-satisfied smirk from his face. These two were so smart it made them ridiculously easy to play.
“I'm sure we could help,” Leanne huffed. “But why would we want to, considering that the source for this is so. . .dubious.” Her look said she'd meant to use a harsher word but had elected not to at literally the last second.
“I'm agreeing with Pa, Dad,” Clay shook his head. “This was a mistake. They're too young and inexperienced in the way the world works to be of any use to us,” Clay continued Leon the Elder's assault on the twin's sensibilities. Their looks of indignation showed him it was working.
“Well, I tried,” Gordon shrugged, going along with the play. “I thought we could depend on them, that's all. You two head on home. If you start telling anyone about any of this we'll have to make you out to be liars though, so keep your traps shut. We'll get it done without your help.”
“We never said we wouldn't help,” Leanne shot back with a long-suffering tone in her voice. “But you can't really expect us to help you if you don't level with us. Why not just tell us the truth and then let us help based on that?”
The three older Sanders exchanged a look at that. Gordon was the first one to break the silence, chuckling.
“I suppose it can't hurt?” he asked of his father and son.
“Agreed,” the Elder nodded. Clay nodded in reluctant agreement as well. Gordon looked at his grand-twins, his face now as serious as they had ever seen it. Both of them were beginning to realize they had been played like cheap fiddles.
“Your Uncle Clay is about to give you a condensed version of what he went through and how he got this information. You will not repeat any of this to anyone, especially your mother. Am I understood?”
Leanne and Leon the Younger exchanged a look at the tone of Gordon's voice. Grandpa was usually a lot more laid back than this. Whatever was going on must be pretty serious.
“All right,” Leanne answered for them both. “But if we end up in trouble with Mom, we expect you to intervene. Deal?”
“I can live with that,” Gordon nodded.
“And you guys have to stop calling me 'the Younger'!” her brother threw in at the last second.
“What?”
“I mean it,” the boy held up a hand. “If you three stop calling me that then everyone else will, maybe. So you have to stop.”
“What do we call you, then?” Gordon tried not to smile.
“How 'bout Deuce,” Clay offered with a grin.
“What?” Leon the Younger looked startled.
“Deuce, for Two,” Clay explained. “Leon One,” he pointed at the Old Man, “and Leon Two. Deuce.”
“I like it,” Leanne nodded and her twin looked at her suspiciously.
“No, really,” she promised. “I'll use it too,” she offered.
“Why would you do that?” Leon the. . .Deuce, asked.
“Cause you want it,” she shrugged. “How 'bout it?”
“You guys promise
to use it from now on?” he looked to three adults.
“I think we can agree on that,” Gordon smiled. “Deuce,” he winked.
Gordon then looked at Clay, who launched into an extremely abbreviated version of his story, one cleaned up for them. When he was finished both twins were surprisingly quiet.
“Well?” the Old Man demanded after two minutes of silence. “You two ain't got nothin' to say?”
The twins exchanged looks for a minute and then looked back at their Uncle.
“Did you know that several studies have been conducted on the vision phenomenon this Mukimbo claimed to have?” Leanne asked evenly. “Most of them are fairly thorough, too. And they pretty much agree that while there's no real scientific explanation for it, such visions are far more accurate than not.”
“We didn't ask you up here to comment on the accuracy of -” Gordon began, but Leon the Deuce held up a hand.
“We're just saying that the likelihood that the vision is real is fairly high, Granddad,” he said. “Nothing else.” He looked back to his Uncle Clayton.
“And you decided that since it was 'fire from the sky' that had to mean a nuclear war, correct?” he asked and Clay nodded in agreement.
“Did you consider it might be a reference to a CME?” Leanne asked. Clay looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.
“A what's that?” Leon asked, eyebrows raising.
“Coronal Mass Ejection,” 'Deuce' fielded that one.
“You mean a solar flare?” Clay looked relieved. “And no, I hadn't considered -”
“What's a solar flare?” Gordon demanded, cutting him off. “And what has it got to do with this?”
“A solar flare is just what is sounds like, dad,” Clay interjected. “Literally a flare of fire shooting out from the sun. Sometimes they head our way. They cause all kinds of electromagnetic interference with radio signals and other equipment. Screws up navigation sensors in planes, GPS signals won't work, or won't be accurate, that kind of thing.”
“Makes television reception suck, too,” Deuce nodded seriously. Leon the Younger had a serious anime habit. Lack of television and internet service interfered with that.
