The squad left the clinic to the rumble of vehicles.
A motley convoy approached, pickups and SUVs and even a yellow school bus and an ancient olive-green army truck. Men and women sat in the back of these vehicles, all wearing black berets.
“What’s this?” Alex said. “Who are these people?”
Mitch spat on the ground. “Reinforcements.”
Alex expected them to cheer as the patriots always did. Death to the libs. God bless Marsh. USA, USA, USA!
Instead, they rolled past in an eerie silence, their sole concession to celebration a succession of satisfied smiles plastered on grim faces.
“They look serious,” Tom observed.
Alex understood now why the sergeant was in a foul mood. The colonel had made a deal with another militia to join forces along this stretch of front. And Mitch didn’t like it. Alex wondered why.
“The First Angels,” Mitch said. “America’s very own Taliban.”
FORTY-SIX
Aubrey drove them out to the front line, Terry grousing in the passenger seat and Rafael sitting taciturn in the back. The men wore flak jackets and blue helmets.
The SUV slid as she took a corner too fast. Terry blanched. “This isn’t the bloody Indy 500. I’d rather not see us go arse over tit before we even get there.”
It was his car, but she’d insisted on driving after their first round of trips across the city. “I’ve seen how slow you drive. I’m surprised you’re alive.”
“Now that I’ve seen you do it, I can return the compliment.”
As they approached the bridge, she spotted the police positions. The IMPD had begun fortifying in the event the rebels broke through. BearCat armored vehicles flanked the entrance, machine guns aimed at the far end. Police in black armor warmed themselves at burning trash barrels. Construction crews in orange vests poured foundations for concrete pillboxes.
The sentry squad raised their AR-15s and shotguns.
“I think now is a good time to slow down,” Terry said.
Aubrey stopped the car. “You know the drill. Hands on the dash.”
A stony-faced cop came forward and inspected the press badge she held up. He rapped the glass with his knuckles.
She rolled down the window. “We need to cross the river.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Nobody’s allowed to cross.”
She checked out the men and women manning the checkpoint, who gazed back at her with professional disdain. After working the guns and gang violence beats for years, she’d come to know a lot of people in the department. There were no familiar faces here, however, nobody who could help her out.
Before the war, the IMPD had more than a thousand sworn officers plus special units like SWAT and mounted patrol. Many had been killed or disabled on one side or the other in the early fighting. The IMPD now boasted over twenty-five hundred officers, many of them recruits like these people pointing rifles at her.
Few had the same training as the veteran police. The IMPD now functioned like a militia, and they were the city’s largest. More accurately, the government army, designed by the Centrist Bloc to eventually replace the militia system.
She said, “I have authorization to report in the combat zones.”
“Ma’am, turn your vehicle around now.”
A smiling cop approached the car. “As I live and breathe. I got this, Ford.”
The other officer retreated scowling.
Aubrey grinned. “Sergeant McGrath. I see you’re still ticking.”
He leaned on the doorframe. “Somebody’s got to keep the wolves from the door. And it’s Lieutenant McGrath now, if you please. I’m moving up in the world.”
Same old McGrath with his affectations playing up his image of the veteran Irish cop. She held out her hand to shake, and he clasped it, pocketing the two packs of Marlboros she’d slipped him. The last of her stash of cigarettes Gabrielle had brought from Canada and given her for trading.
“Congratulations on your promotion,” she said.
“You’re looking good, Aubrey. You still single?”
“You still married?”
The cop laughed and called out, “Let them through.”
He offered a jaunty salute as she started the car. She navigated the concrete barriers and sped across the bridge, passing straggling refugees going the other way.
“I’m impressed,” Terry said.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never greased the wheels for a story.”
“I’m impressed it only cost you two packages of cigarettes. I had no idea the going rate was so cheap.”
“I get the local discount.”
“A little flirting does not seem to hurt either,” Rafael said.
Aubrey glanced in the rearview. “You jealous?”
He smirked. “I thought we were not falling in love.”
She slowed the car to a crawl as they approached the border between Stringtown and Haughville. The front line was unnervingly close, but the battle’s energy had petered out for the time being, simmering in random flashes of automatic weapons fire. Soon, she was stopped again, this time by a band of fierce women wearing a collection of motley uniforms.
Aubrey repeated the ritual of holding up her press badge. “We’re looking for Hannah and Maria. They’re kids serving with you.”
A militia fighter scowled. “What do you want with them?”
“We’d heard they’d done some heroic stuff during the battle.”
“Maria’s at HQ. Hannah’s probably at the aid station. St. Peter’s.”
Aubrey knew the church. “Where’s your headquarters?”
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
The woman smiled, and Aubrey knew she meant it.
“We’ll try St. Peter’s. Thank you.”
“Peace.” The fighter tapped the roof, giving them permission to leave.
St. Peter’s was a Catholic church that before the war served as many as three hundred worshippers. Now it was dark, its pews removed, its organ and hymnals burned for warmth. The only reminder it had once been a house of worship was the altar and stained glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross. That and the nuns tending the groaning wounded, which lent the place the air of a medieval hospital.
Aubrey spotted Hannah right away. The girl sat on the dais next to a middle-aged fighter propped against the altar.
“Commander,” she said in greeting.
The woman gestured to her bandaged arm. “Not anymore. It’s just Abigail now. You come to cover the battle?”
Aubrey pointed at Hannah. “Actually, we came to talk to her.”
“War crimes, right. All these women here fighting and dying for their city, and you drove all the way out here to tell that story.”
“Everybody already knows the other one.” Aubrey crouched. “Hi, Hannah.”
The girl clung to Abigail. “You can’t make me go with you.”
“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. Hannah, I write for a local newspaper. This is Terry, who writes for a British newspaper. And this is Rafael, who works for a newspaper in France.”
“Okay,” Hannah said warily.
“We want to tell a story about the children who are fighting in this war. People all over Europe will read it. We believe if we tell that story, the use of children as soldiers will change, which would be good for all these kids. It might even shorten the war. Will you talk to us?”
The child soldier looked to Abigail, who said, “We’re a volunteer army, sister. It’s up to you. There’s no harm in telling your story. I think the world should hear it.”
Hannah nodded. “Okay.”
“Would it be all right if I take your picture?” Rafael said.
The girl shrugged. Rafael took out his camera and squinted at his surroundings, judging composition and light.
Terry sat on the floor and took off his helmet. “How old are you, Hannah?”
Gone was the cynical, swaggering journali
st. His tone had become gentle. Aubrey remembered he was a father of two back in England.
“I just turned eleven.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks,” she deadpanned.
“I have two little ones of my own. A boy about your age, a girl who’s a little older.”
Hannah perked up. “I have an older brother. He’s fifteen.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in rebel country.”
“What’s his name?”
“Alex.”
Aubrey flashed to the gangly kid cleaning his rifle by a firepit. She wondered if it was the same Alex and if she should bring it up. They certainly looked alike.
She decided against it. She wasn’t sure, and it’d probably do the girl no good for her to believe her older brother was one of the rebels shooting at her. The kid had enough problems.
Terry finished his questions about her background. “Thank you, Hannah. Now I hope you’ll tell us how you ended up making friends with the Free Women. Go as far back as you want to remember.”
Abigail took Hannah’s hand in hers and held it tight.
The girl told her story. In matter-of-fact language, she described the horrors of her life. Everything she said struck Aubrey as supremely tragic, but for this girl, it was normal. If it had been any other way for her, it was a long time ago in her mind, a life she’d largely forgotten as irrelevant to her survival.
Terry prompted her with a few questions but for the most part just listened. Even Rafael stopped snapping pictures. They were all moved by the girl’s story.
As the interview finished, Aubrey asked only one question. “If we could take you away from here to somewhere safe, would you go?”
Terry shot her a surprised look, but it was a legitimate question, one to which Aubrey believed she already knew the answer, even after all the fighting.
The girl said, “No. I don’t want to leave.”
“I’m talking about a warm place, very safe, with plenty to eat—”
Hannah wagged her head. “No.”
“Why not?” Terry said.
The child soldier looked at Abigail. “If we win, no other girls will die. And no other girls’ moms.” She turned back to Aubrey and set her jaw. “I want to stay and do my part.”
Terry scowled at Abigail. “This is no place for a child.”
“I’m not forcing her to do anything,” the woman said. “I don’t like her being here either. But after what she’s suffered, she can make her own choices.”
“I know you think I’m a kid and that what I think isn’t real,” Hannah said. “I’m tired of being ignored because I’m a kid. I want this. The Free Women are my family now, and I don’t want to leave them.”
The reporters trooped back to their car in silence and got in. Aubrey turned the key in the ignition. The SUV roared to life.
“Wow,” she said at last.
“Just a kid,” Terry said with disgust.
“You see a child,” Rafael said. “In some ways, she is as old as you.”
He’d lingered on the way out to take one last photo. A wide-view shot of Hannah sitting with Abigail, their backs to the altar, framed in bright stained glass.
“Yet still not old enough to die,” Terry said. “She’s been brainwashed.”
Then he broke into a smile and chuckled.
Aubrey inspected him. “You okay?”
“That, my dear, was a blinding interview. I smell Pulitzer.”
Aubrey smiled, though it didn’t last. Hannah’s story had gotten under her skin.
She and Rafael once talked about how being a journalist often meant having to ignore what was right to be able to tell a story about a wrong.
Every once in a while, however, a war correspondent had the opportunity to get the story and do something good.
FORTY-SEVEN
It took the First Angels two days to roll into camp, about eighty strong. In a strip mall parking lot, the men and women unloaded supplies from their trucks and stacked them on the ground.
Aside from their black berets, they wore no uniforms but instead dressed in threadbare coats. Half were as poorly armed as the libs. They talked little and otherwise ignored Alpha squad, who fingered their high-tech rifles and eyed them with disdain.
“What a bunch of cucks,” Donnie said.
“This ain’t a big dick contest,” Mitch said. “They’re on our side.”
Alex studied the newcomers. They weren’t the same people who’d taken over Sterling, but they had the same ideology, which made them the same tribe. Mitch had said the Angels didn’t care about popular support or even governing, their church being all they needed.
From what Alex heard, they believed their cause justified any level of violence. They were like an army of Sergeant Shooks, only they had God on their side. Dad had been smart to make a run for it, though he’d waited too long out of worries about his family.
A teenaged girl caught his eye. Her long blond hair spilled out from under her beret. The webbed canvas belt around her coat accentuated her slim waist.
“Amen,” Jack said.
“She’s really pretty,” Alex agreed.
“Remember, we’re the pros,” Mitch said. “Be sure to act like it at all times.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” This response had become a simple reflex for him.
Colonel Lewis stood in a group of their officers discussing some important matter. He threw his head back and roared with laughter. The Angels didn’t laugh with him.
Alpha squad bristled at the sight and banded closer together.
“Trigger discipline could be a problem,” Tom said. “They don’t have any training. We could have friendly fire incidents.”
Donnie spat on the ground. “Look at the way they used their mortars during the attack. Some of their shells fell on our heads.”
Tom nudged Alex. “They start shooting at us, it’s okay to shoot back, kid.”
Whoever’s side the Angels were on, the Liberty Tree didn’t think much of them, and it went way beyond their fighting ability. While there were no atheists in the Tree’s foxholes, their liberty had driven them to take up arms against the government, not their religion. The gulf in their ideological differences was nearly as wide as the one separating them from the libs.
“Whatever Mitch says, goes,” Alex said, stating a simple truth.
He didn’t care about ideology. He watched the pretty teenaged girl unload boxes.
“We need them,” Mitch said. “Let’s wait and see what the colonel works out. Then we’ll know what the play is.”
Colonel Lewis left his huddle. His smile melted from his face. He walked over to clap Mitch on the back. “This is going to work out just fine.”
“How long do you see the Angels being in our area of operations, sir?”
“You wanted the other militias to join the offensive, well, this is who we got,” the colonel said. “Now we really need them. You did good, Mitch. Too good. It’s put us in a tight spot.”
Like a spear, Alex’s platoon had penetrated almost all the way to Stringtown. The men had spread out to create a bulge, but they were overextended for the manpower they had.
Colonel Lewis added, “With their help, we’ll push these libs back to the river. We do that, the entire front will collapse. Because of us, the Brickyard Crossing offensive stalled out. We do this right, it’ll be a whole new ball game. We’ll be right on their doorstep.”
Mitch watched some of the First Angels tag houses with crosses and evangelical slogans. “As long as my boys get credit for what they did.”
“Are you kidding? We’re gonna be heroes, Mitch.”
The colonel’s eyes lit up like he was picturing kids learning about him in school the way they learned about Paul Revere and the Minutemen.
“Second Platoon is coming off the line as the Angels move up,” he went on. “Your platoon will refit and redeploy alongside First. The next offensive will be a coordinated push from the no
rth and east with twice the strength.”
The Angels were taking over the Liberty Tree’s forward positions, and there’d be hard fighting ahead. Alex had heard everything he needed to know. He watched the girl leave the main group and join her friends, who were spray-painting black crosses on a house.
He didn’t see any harm in one of the pros doing a little fraternizing with an ally.
Alex nudged Jack. “Be my wingman.”
Using his gloved fingers, the kid rough-combed his hair to make a crude side part. “I think you mean that the other way around, bro.”
“Don’t make me fight you again.”
Jack laughed. “You sure you want to go there?”
Checking to make sure his gear was in order, Alex walked over to the house and cleared his throat. “Hi. I’m Alex.”
“I’m Jack,” his friend chimed in.
The girl was even prettier close up. Mouth parted in surprise, she turned scarlet. Her girlfriends tilted their heads to get a good look at the Liberty Tree boys.
Flushed at the attention, Alex didn’t know what to say next. He glanced at the wall she’d decorated. “I, uh, like your crosses.”
Jack burst into laughter. The girl giggled.
Alex ribbed him, hoping he’d say something smart.
“I like them too,” his friend said. “They’re really awesome.”
Then they were all giggling like fools. It could have gone smoother, but Alex didn’t mind. He was smiling at this pretty girl, who was smiling back. Her blue eyes flashed. She wasn’t looking at Jack; she was looking at him.
“We’ve seen some really hard fighting,” he said, showing off. “Nothing we couldn’t handle, but we’re glad you’re here to help.”
The girl’s smile faded. She nodded. Good, they were communicating now, but he wished she would say something. He was dying here.
“So where are you from?” he asked her.
“She can’t talk to you,” a voice said.
The First Angel wore a long black dress coat belted at the waist with pouches, canteen, and pistol. Alex barely noticed these details as he focused on the boy’s face. More specifically, his pale blue eyes, which seemed to radiate light. Alex guessed his age at about sixteen.
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