Fire From The Sky | Book 8 | Hell Fire

by Reed, N. C.

  “Let’s go home,” Mitchell ordered the rest.

  -

  “Got a whole two feet over here, man,” Zach said calmly, leaning out of the truck. “Little bit of a curve coming, though. Gonna tilt your way about a foot.”

  “I got it,” Roddy promised. “This thing is almost as bad as some of the roads back home,” he chuckled.

  “Yeah?” Zach knew Roddy was talking to ease his own nerves, but didn't mind playing along.

  “Killeen gets a lot of heavy military traffic,” Roddy nodded. “Tears the roads up something fierce.”

  “Sounds like log trucks and farm equipment around here,” Zach agreed. “Alright, we're hitting the curve so you need to ease, and I mean ease your way. Little more... little more... that's got it. We're back in the groove. Lotta tanks and stuff there, I guess?” he continued their conversation as if it hadn't been interrupted.

  “Oh, yeah,” Roddy replied. “Whole First Armored, well, First Cavalry is the official name, plus the 3rd Cav and a bunch of other outfits. Tanks, Brads, Strykers, you name it and you'll probably find it at Hood. Or used to, anyway. No telling what's happened since we left. I'm gonna have to come your way a little, how much room I got over there?”

  This back and forth continued for almost fifteen nerve wracking minutes as the truck all but crawled its way toward the abandoned factory. Neither man relaxed until they felt the wheels of the truck settle heavily on the pavement along the spur line's rail bed entering the factory grounds. Roddy pulled forward enough to let the Cougar get to the pavement before stopping momentarily to wipe the sweat from his brow and take a long pull from his water bottle.

  “Good driving, dude,” he heard a laid-back drawl inform him. He looked over to see Zach already settling back into the seat, feet on the dash, lifting his own water bottle. “Awesome,” he added before tipping the bottle back and taking a deep drink of his own.

  Roddy wondered if the kid had any actual blood in his veins or if was all just ice.

  “Awesome,” he repeated to himself, shaking his head. “I guess it was,” he nodded finally, putting the truck into gear. “Let 'em know we're on the way, I guess.”

  “You got it.”

  -

  “That was absolutely it,” Clay declared as everyone gathered that evening. “No more.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Mitchell Nolan asked, finger tapping his chin.

  “I know, I know,” Clay acknowledged the hit. “This was a have to, or at least a strong need to. I didn't want to do it but... we needed the rails to create stronger positions. But it cost too much,” he sighed. Jake was still in the clinic and would be for at least another twenty-four hours. Alicia had taken Jake's daughter, Jacqueline, home with her for the evening after allowing the girl to see her father and have him and Patricia explain that 'daddy was just tired' and needed rest and water. His daughter scolded him to listen to the doctor, then kissed his cheek before following Alicia home.

  “Jake is down for at least two more days; Cliff is in a cast for two months or so and we're lucky he's not crippled. Gordy damn near got snake bit,” Clay was shaking his head as he rattled off everything. “Enough. We'll make do with what we have. If we don't have enough then we'll have to rate the more important positions and cover them first.”

  “So, I guess tomorrow we work on the posts, then?” Jose asked.

  “If we can,” Clay nodded slowly. “Day after if not. We need it done, but we can't take any more chances like this. No more injuries or sickness. We may even be worked up over nothing, I don't know. But I'll feel better once we've got that hard point finished and ready for company.”

  No one disagreed with that sentiment.

  -

  “Dude, I'm sorry,” Clay said as he stood over Jake's reclining form.

  “Ah, hell, it wasn't your fault,” Jake waved the apology away. “I know better. I was just in a hurry, wanting to get the job done and get out of there. A five-minute break to rest and drink some water wouldn't have hurt nothing, I just didn't do it. Should have realized I had a problem.”

  “I'm still the one that sent you out there,” Clay reminded him.

  “Man, how did you survive so long in the army, in command of that bunch, with a guilt complex that big?” Jake gave him the eye. “I mean, seriously.”

  “Big John, mostly,” Clay replied mournfully. “He was always there to catch me when I spiraled. Said it was what sergeants was for,” he chuckled at the memory.

  “Sorry man,” Jake said softly. “Anyway, don't sweat it. Patty says it ain't gonna cause any lasting damage. A night in here, a couple days off work, and I should be good as new.” As he finished talking the door behind them opened and Sienna Newell, hair still wet from the shower, stepped inside bearing two plates of food. Her face went still as she saw Clay standing there, but softened as she saw him smile.

  “Well, looks like you're gonna be in good hands, grease monkey,” he turned back to Jake. “Need anything just send word, okay?”

  “Got it,” Jake nodded, looking past his friend to the woman in the doorway. “Thanks.”

  “He's all yours,” Clay whispered as he passed Sienna, who blushed furiously under her red hair but nodded in reply. Once Clay was gone, she walked over to Jake's bed and set the two trays down on the hospital table.

  “You jackass,” were the first words out of her mouth. “What the hell were you thinking? Letting yourself get into that bad a shape?” she demanded.

  “I wasn't,” Jake shrugged. “I just wanted to get done and get home, and wasn't paying attention. That's all. That for me?”

  “One of them is,” she nodded. “The other is mine. I suppose I'll have to feed you, what with you all sick to death and everything,” she snarked.

  “I think I can manage on my own, but thanks,” Jake snorted, reaching for one of the plates, only to have her roll it away from his reach.

  “Nuh-uh,” she chided, her voice gentle but uncompromising. “I can't let you over exert yourself. Doctor's orders and everything.” She took the fork as she pushed the table back closer. “Open wide,” she teased as she held a fork full of food before him.

  “Stop playing, now,” Jake grunted. “I'm hungry!”

  “Oh, honey, I ain't playing,” Sienna smiled brightly. “This is me, taking care of you because you won't do it yourself. Now open up!”

  Mulishly, almost pouting, Jake allowed her to stuff the fork into his mouth.

  “Now, that's all better!” she almost cooed at him.

  “Stop that shit or I'll quit,” he warned, but couldn't quite stop the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “Then you'll just go hungry,” she assured him. “And I'll tell you something else, too, you blockhead. When you're out of here and no longer under a doctor's care... no, you know what? You're on the no-duty roster for the next two days, aren't you? In that case, once you're out of here and I have you all to myself, you and I are gonna have a serious talk about your lack of situational awareness.” She shoved the fork into his open mouth again before he could answer.

  “What the hell is situational awareness?” he asked after he had swallowed the food. Either he was really hungry or that food was really good, he wasn't sure which it was.

  “Being aware of your situation, duh,” her eyebrow rose as she looked at him, taking a bite from her own plate with the same fork she was feeding him with. “I've been trying to get your attention for some time now, you know.”

  “Really?” Jake was genuinely surprised. “What about?”

  “My God, you really are thick headed,” she sighed, shoving the fork into his mouth once more to stop him from saying anything more. “This may be harder than I thought.”

  .

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Neither Clay nor Ronny had imagined just how difficult it would be to bring their ideas to life. Digging the hole was the easiest part, seeing as that was done with first the dozer and then later on the track hoe. And that was th
e last easy part they enjoyed in constructing the hard point bunker alongside the equipment drive of the Troy farm.

  “Why do we still call it the Troy farm?” Zach asked out of nowhere. “Ain't this technically the Sanders' farm now? Even if it's kept separate, it's still Clay Sanders' property, right?”

  “Old habits die hard, I guess,” Gordy shrugged. “It's just always been the Troy place.”

  “Yeah,” Greg agreed. “I never knew of or even heard of it being called anything else.”

  “Okay,” Zach nodded. “Makes sense. But still, we need to think of something besides Troy Farm, don't we?” He and Gordy eased a rail into place on the roof of the bunker. So far, the work had been hard on their backs but otherwise uncomplicated. Sienna Newell was down in the hole with welding leads, laying two-inch welds every foot or so between the rails. Other rails had already been used to create a frame for the roof, or top of the bunker, with beams secured into the ground with a combination of Ronny's homemade limestone cement, gravel and plain dirt. Now they were lining the roof with other rails and welding them into place. Once that was done, next would be logs crossing the rails, and finally a dirt cover.

  While the philosophical discussion over the name of the Troy place continued, Clay, Ronny and Jose were examining the foxholes already in place, looking for ways to make them stronger.

  “We can cover them with the rails and then add some dirt,” Ronny mused, thinking the plan over. “But they're going to stick out like that. When we built these, we pushed dirt over the log roofs and then packed it down. I honestly doubt we can uncover them without damage unless we do it with shovels. That is gonna be labor intensive and take a good while.”

  “I'm not sure we need it,” Jose admitted, still inspecting the hole east of the farm house. “We're looking at six to eight inches of log covered by a foot of packed dirt, here, on average,” he pointed to the small emplacement. “I'm not sure the rails would add anything to that but weight. Anything that could punch through that would likely knock the rails down as well. Worse, it would make rescuing whoever was inside a stone bitch, having to dig through dirt, logs and the rails.”

  “So, you think these positions are already as strong as we can make them?” Clay asked.

  “With what we have, yes,” Jose nodded slowly. “This is how we would build something if we were on the line, somewhere. The only change we would make is if it were a permanent position and we had access to concrete. While it is more or less a permanent position for us, we don't have concrete to make it a true pillbox or bunker, so... lining the place with logs and covering it with dirt is the next best thing. We did that already.”

  “So, getting the rails was a waste?” Clay sighed heavily.

  “No, we can use the rails for all sorts of things besides this,” Jose shook his head. “And the new bunker will benefit from them too. But we're building that place with all this in mind. The places we already put in, not so much. The nail that sticks out gets hammered first.”

  “That is true,” Clay agreed. “With that being said, is there anything we can do to make these emplacements stronger or safer?”

  “What if we sort of added a frame made of rails beneath the logs?” Ronny asked. “Inside, I mean,” he pointed down the small tunnel of sorts that led to the interior of the hole. “Make a frame around the inside roof, with rails acting as poles in the corners. We can weld a cross piece in the middle, too. That would help hold the logs in the event something heavy did hit the place. It would have to make it stronger. Right?” Clay and Jose stood silently, clearly considering this.

  “Like this,” Ronny grabbed a handful of small twigs and broke them into pieces, quickly building a live sketch of sorts to describe what he was talking about. “There,” he stood again once he was finished.

  “Wouldn't use near as many rails, or have nearly as much weight,” Jose nodded slowly. “And yeah, I think it would add some serious strength to the hole itself. Certainly, to the roof, which I think is our greatest concern here. Right?” he looked at Clay.

  “Yeah,” Clay drew the word out, his mind working to sort out what the inside would look like with the new addition. “And it wouldn't take up too much room inside, either,” he added, more to himself than to the other two.

  “No, it wouldn't,” Ronny replied anyway.

  “I think I kinda like this,” Jose said after another minute. “I also think it's the best compromise we can make under the circumstances.”

  “We'll do the outer places first,” Clay said finally, his voice firm now that the decision was made. “Start with both ends and work toward the middle. We can start laying this out while Sienna finishes at the bunker. We can't do anything else without the welder, anyway, but we can be ready as soon as she's finished. Good work, guys,” he complemented them both.

  “Hard work,” Ronny snorted. “That's what you meant to say. And it'll be harvest time before you know it,” he added.

  “Don't remind me.”

  -

  Three days later, the new bunker finished and in the process of being 'stocked', Leon Tillman came running up to Clay, not quite out of breath.

  “Jody needs you to come to the cupola right away!” he gasped out. Clay looked at his nephew, frowning.

  “Why not just call me on the radio?”

  “He said not to, and to tell everyone to stay off the air unless it was an emergency,” Leon shook his head. “So, you guys don't use the radio til we give the all clear!” he said to the others before taking off again.

  “I'll be back in a few minutes,” he told Jose. The other nodded, still concentrating on what he was doing. Clay made the trip to the cupola in three minutes, moving at a slow jog. When he climbed up top, Jody immediately made a shushing motion with a finger to his lips, and then motioned toward the east, cupping his ear.

  Clay's heartbeat bumping in his ear from climbing the stairs and then the ladder, it took a minute for him to realize what he was hearing.

  Gunfire. Distant gunfire. Heavy fire at that.

  “Is that... you think that's Jordan?” he asked after a few minutes.

  “Not sure, but I suspect not,” Jody replied after a few seconds of thought. “It sounds more like it's coming from Peabody. The gunfire from your battle in Jordan was much louder than this, and on a different heading. This sounds more like what we heard from Peabody before the fire. Other than the automatic weapons fire and what sounds like the occasional grenade.”

  “Shit,” Clay mumbled. “So that bunch wasn't just passing through after all.”

  “It does sound like such,” Jody agreed. “It's stopped,” he said next. “I haven't heard anything for the last minute other than what sounds like the occasional gunshot.”

  Clay hadn't noted it, but now that Jody pointed it out, he noticed it.

  “I guess I better go to Jordan,” he sighed. “I'd rather wrestle a mountain lion with an abscessed tooth, but if they didn't hear that, they need to be warned.”

  “I'd go in strength,” Jody warned.

  “Yeah. Imagine I better.”

  -

  One larger Cougar and one smaller, the two-vehicle convoy headed for Jordan. The four wheel mounted a BMG while the six-wheel mounted a Mk 19 grenade launcher. Each vehicle also had two LAW rockets aboard in case they ran into someone with vehicles like their own. The LAW was an older system, but dependable. A light and easy way for a foot soldier to have at least a minimal defense from armored vehicles.

  The first thing Clay noted was the road block along the road leading into town. Maybe one hundred yards out of the town proper, it consisted of a log trailer behind one of the trucks taken from the prepper compound. An effective road block to be sure. Gordy slowed the MRAP as Clay opened the door.

  “State your business,” said a man that looked vaguely familiar to Clay, his tone abrupt.

  “We were coming to see the Mayor and Dawson,” Clay replied. “Pass on some information to them. We promised we would if we learned anything.�
��

  “They know you're coming?” the man demanded.

  “Now how in the hell would they know we're coming?” Clay asked. “Not like I can just phone them up for an appointment, now is it?”

  “Could have used the radio,” the man shot back.

  “We're on radio silence for now,” Clay shook his head. “Part of what we're here to see them about. Did you guys hear the gunfire earlier?”

  “Yeah,” the man nodded.

  “Well, no need for us to keep sitting here putting up with your rudeness, then,” Clay nodded. “That's what we were coming to warn you about.” Without waiting for a reply, Clay turned to look at Titus Terry, driving the second vehicle. He made a spinning motion over his head, then pointed back the way they had come. Waving, Terry began to turn around.

  “Now you just wait a minute,” the man reached out to take Clay's arm, but Clay's hand on his pistol stopped him. Or maybe it was Zach pulling the charging lever on the fifty-caliber gun above them. Either way, the man froze.

  “You guys be careful,” Clay smiled. “No telling who that was or what they have. We haven't caught sight of them anywhere, but we did find a small place shot up a while back. Pickett knows about it and I think Dawson does as well. We just didn't want you guys caught unaware. Clearly you aren't, so we'll be headed back. You don't mind, be sure and tell them we came by. Thanks!” Clay was already on board by then and closed the door in the man's face.

  “Get us the hell out of here and back home,” he ordered Gordy. “We tried. I'm not taking any shit from a security guard. For nobody.”

  “Cool,” Gordy nodded, maneuvering his way around to follow Titus home. Zach carefully turned to face behind them, almost as if expecting someone in Jordan to take a shot at them. One look at the grim-faced teen behind the big gun would have changed anyone's mind about that.

  -

  “They didn't want to see you?” Jose asked, frowning.

  “No idea,” Clay shrugged. “Didn't want to let us in without an attitude and I'm not doing that. Just am not. We went to warn them, their guard said they already knew about it, so I didn't see any reason to try and talk my way in. I told them we were on radio silence, so maybe he'll pass that along, too. If he doesn't, then they need to train their people better. Also, not my problem.”