2041 The Charters of Freedom

by TW Powell

  After checking out the Rez, Zion’s 100 continued moving northwest along the base of the Sheep Range. At first light they were a couple of miles due east of Indian Springs.

  The balance of Zion Squadron, along with Fishlake and Provo Squadrons had departed Overton, Nevada at sundown and were now rallying at the long-deserted Las Vegas Speedway complex. The Collective considered NASCAR a major symptom of Whiteness and shut down the Speedway shortly after coming to power.

  The Mormons had quickly moved southwest along I-15 covering 40 miles in 7 hours. Now, the Hummers were arriving, packed with heavy weapons. Nellis Airbase was a little over a mile to the southwest and the ordnance bunkers were about the same distance to the southeast. The sun was just peeking over Sunrise Mountain.

  All was quiet, then the Mormon’s radios crackled out, “ELVIS, I repeat, ELVIS!”

  A dozen Hummers peeled out of the Las Vegas Motor Speedway parking lot at Dale Earnhardt speed. They stirred up a tremendous cloud of dust as they crossed the patch of open desert just to the north of Nellis’s dual runways.

  Vegas has quite the reputation for big time stage productions, but this was one for the books.

  Two of the Hummers charged ahead and dropped a series of satchel charges all along the perimeter fence about a half-mile south of the Speedway. The line of Hummers then paused their advance about 50 yards short of that fence line.

  A button was pressed, the satchel charges exploded, and the perimeter fence came down. 1,000 galloping horses suddenly appeared from the cloud of smoke and dust. Several of the Hummers were equipped with impressive sound systems. North Las Vegas was awakened by what sounded like a John Wayne western, as the US Cavalry “Charge” Bugle Call blared out from the advancing Humvees.

  Fishlake and Provo Squadrons proceeded to neutralize every pilot, mechanic, and other flight line personnel on the base. Many of those eliminated were Chinese nationals. The Troopers blew up maintenance shops and hangars. The aviation fuel storage tanks were not blown until all 12 Blackhawk helicopters were fueled and a dozen Mormon pilots and a dozen Mormon copilots had those choppers airborne and heading northwest, toward Indian Springs.

  The Hummers were weaving all around amongst the dozens of aircraft parked along the dual tarmacs, raking the jets with .30 and .50 caliber machinegun fire. For added measure, the Troopers were throwing thermite grenades into the intakes of the jet aircraft. The Warthogs were given top priority, followed closely by the B-1 bombers.

  The remaining 400 Troopers of Zion Squadron took out the 70, or so, bunkers northeast of the airfield. Most of those bunkers were empty. Very little of the remaining ordnance was of use to the horse soldiers, so they blew it all to hell.

  As quickly as they appeared, the Mormons disappeared, leaving behind a bloody, burning, field of wreckage and carnage that had once been a major Air Force base. A few Troopers were wounded, over half of those were friendly fire casualties. There were no Mormon fatalities.

  Fishlake Squadron then retired to the northeast, back to Overton, destroying several solar power plants along the way. Provo Squadron and the 400 Zion Troopers left a trail of destruction in their wake as they skirted the far north side of the Vegas Valley, then turned northwest and proceeded up US 95 toward Indian Springs.

  As soon as “ELVIS” came over the radio, it was “go cat go”. The other 100 Zion Troopers attacked Indian Springs. These Troopers didn’t have Hummers carrying heavy weapons, nor did they have the advantage of large numbers, so their assault assumed a somewhat lower profile. That said, the Indian Springs attack followed pretty much the same game plan as the Nellis assault. Satchel charges took down the eastern perimeter fence. Then, a lone bugler sounded the charge.

  LAWS rockets took out the major security post at the Main Gate, on the southeastern corner of the base. Next, the Troopers split into two units. One unit attacked the building complex located on the northeast end of the runways; the other unit attacked the complex of buildings that lined US 95 along the south side of the base. Their mission was slightly different from the Nellis attack plan. This mission was strictly anti-personnel.

  Within 30 minutes, the Indian Springs airbase was securely in Deseret hands. Three Troopers had been wounded by Peoples’ Militia airfield security, but there were no Mormon fatalities. As the morning sun cleared the Sheep Range, the Stars & Stripes were hoisted at Creech Air Force Base, with the flag of Deseret flying alongside. A droning sound, like a thousand killer bees, approached from out of the morning sun. The dozen stolen Blackhawks were making their final approach into Indian Springs.

  The shortwave radio crackled once again, “Elvis has left the building. I repeat, Elvis has left the building.” The Collective’s airpower in Southern Nevada had just been neutralized.

  The Bloody Nose

  “Get ready to move out.”

  The previous evening, Grandpa John had delayed the Peoples’ Militia Strike Team’s advance up NV 376 for several critical hours. Now that The Collective’s airpower was neutralized, Thomas Jackson was wasting no time. He was ready to follow Juan’s earlier advice.

  The Deseret Troopers had brought Huey just enough fuel to reach the enemy force with maybe enough fuel remaining for a few minutes flight time over target. The Kingston forces now had two Hummers and Vince’s EV at their disposal. A dozen fighters could easily be transported in those three vehicles.

  About three miles south of Kingston, Bowman Creek crossed under NV 376. It was little more than a large gulley, but it was the best defensive position between Kingston and the advancing enemy convoy.

  Tom’s plan was simple. Jo and Apache would take out the MOBAT recoilless rifle using Huey and the Ma Deuce. When the fuel ran out, Jo would land Huey wherever Ma Deuce’s firepower could be best brought to bear. Meanwhile, the dozen Kingston fighters would delay the enemy’s advance up NV 376 as long as possible, then retreat back to Kingston’s southern roadblocks and resist some more. Tom didn’t know it yet, but one of those fighters would be Grandpa John armed with his sniper rifle.

  Doctor J had removed the metal dart from Grampa John’s thigh and stitched him back up. Tom told his Dad that there was no way he was going down to Bowman Creek.

  Grandpa John responded, “Which one of you is man enough to stop me? Now give me my damned rifle.”

  Tom grudgingly nodded affirmatively as he handed Grandpa John the sniper rifle. John immediately galloped off on Pal yelling, “Sempre Fi!”.

  Then Tom sketched out the plan, such as it was, “Junior and I will handle the BARs. Tommy will have Puma 2 up giving us real time intel. We have some grenades courtesy of Deseret. Once Jo and Apache take out that recoilless, they’ll join us on the ground. I reckon Dad will be somewhere out there invisibly killing as many as possible.”

  As the Kingston blocking force mounted their vehicles, Tommy’s voice came over the walkie,

  “Puma has spotted them. About 10 miles to the south.”

  Tom gave the order to move out, “Wish we had time to place the Claymores. We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got.”

  Big Sid once again yanked the covers off Huey and Jo fired up the turbines. Jo planned to fly Huey straight across Big Smoky Valley and then hang a right and fly south along the Toquima Range. Huey would then attack the Militia from the east, with the morning sun to her back. Like a gunslinger of old, Jo always preferred having an edge.

  “OK Lil’ Sweet Pea, what does your kitty see?”

  “There’s a bunch of vehicles heading north on NV 376, about 10 miles out. The sixth vehicle is carrying a tube. That’s your primary. A school bus full of Militia is a little way behind the primary.”

  “Got it! OK kid, enjoy the show! Jo out.”

  Huey once again tore out of Victorine Canyon and headed down Kingston Creek. Apache was in back, manning the Ma Deuce. After roaring through what was left of Kingston, Huey shot straight across the valley, kicking up one hellacious dust storm in her wake.

  Jo then turned Huey due south, fo
llowing the rugged Toquima Range. 5 minutes later, as she approached White Rock Mountain, Huey turned back to the west. Jo approached the Militia convoy from the east. She popped Huey up to about 500 feet off the deck, making full use of the desert sun to her rear.

  “Primary target sighted. Sixth vehicle in line, the one with the tube. I’m going to take us right over her.”

  Apache opened fire with the Ma Deuce, completely shredding the Hummer with the MOBAT. Moments later, some of the MOBAT’s HE rounds cooked off, sending shrapnel into a couple of other nearby vehicles.

  “That’s some mighty fine shootin’ Apache!”

  By now, the convoy had come to a screeching halt and Militia machinegunners were attempting to acquire Huey through the swirling clouds of dust and smoke and the blinding morning sun.

  “Yo Jo, let’s go ahead and take out that bus.”

  “Tally ho!”

  Apache trashed the school bus with Ma Deuce, but by now, Huey was taking a massive amount of incoming fire. A .50 caliber armor piercing round hit Huey’s belly, then continued straight up through Apache. Apache immediately collapsed. Jo couldn’t tell if he was dead, or alive. Shards of glass peppered Jo’s face as machinegun fire shattered the cockpit windshield. Jo turned Huey westward, toward the safety of the Toiyabes, deploying decoy flares to cover her escape.

  The Peoples’ Militia’s Stinger missiles had been recently updated with improved IR seekers. They could distinguish the thermal image of a chopper’s engine from that of a decoy flare. One of those Stingers struck Huey in her tail rotor, blowing the rear fuselage clean off the chopper.

  Huey began spiraling down to the desert floor and made a hard crashlanding. This crash was much more violent than Jo’s crash on Okinawa back in ’26. The rotor tips struck the ground and disintegrated into a million pieces as Huey rolled over and finally came to rest on her side. Shards of carbon fiber composite rotor blade ripped into Jo’s left shoulder. Our girl was a bloody mess.

  The Keeper and Max were still half-asleep standing guard beside The Charters in that old mine shack up in Victorine Canyon. Suddenly, Max arose and went on point with his ears erect. He cocked his head for an instant, the tore out of the mine shack faster than Rin Tin Tin. Max never broke stride as he raced down Kingston Canyon, then hung a right and headed due south along the base of the Toiyabes, toward the column of smoke now rising from the Huey crash site.

  Jo checked the condition of her fallen comrade. He was unconscious. Josephine whispered something into Apache’s ear. He briefly came around and smiled. Then he was gone.

  Jo smelled smoke and attempted to climbed out through Huey’s broken windshield. She had the will to escape, but she was asking too much of her middle-aged body. Jo collapsed right beside her dead friend amid the smoldering Huey wreckage.

  The smoldering mess slowly began to burn in the thin mountain air. The flames were approaching the vapor filled empty fuel tanks. As the improvised aviation fuel vapors were about to ignite, Max leapt into the Huey and chomped down on Jo’s jumpsuit and began pulling. The Shepherd was pulling with all his might.

  Max pulled Jo from the wreckage and began licking her face. Jo came around just long enough to stagger clear of the ensuing explosion. The blast threw Jo face down upon the rock-hard desert floor. Lieutenant Josephine Parker was lying lifeless, face down in the desert, with her Colt 45 clutched in her hand. Max was sitting on his haunches beside her with his teeth bared.

  The same time Jo took off from Victorine Canyon, the Kingston blocking force sped southeastward on Humboldt Road toward NV 376. They arrived at Bowman Creek just as Huey went down.

  As the Kingston force took up positions in the muddy creek bed, Tom Jackson yelled out, “Boys, this one’s for Josephine! Sempre Fi!”

  Tears ran down Junior’s cheeks as he replied, “Oorah!!” Then he gritted his teeth and went into full Rambro mode.

  On this day, Rambro mode might not be good enough. The Peoples’ Militia set up several machine guns on either side of NV 376 and began pouring intense fire down upon the Kingston force.

  Tommy was sitting in the muddy creek bottom piloting Puma 2 as she loitered over the battlefield, “Dad, there are four or five machine guns to our front.”

  “Yeah, this guy is no dummy. Do you see any movement to our flanks?”

  “Two groups, about a dozen Militiamen in each group, on both flanks.”

  “Junior, grab two men and guard our left. They’re flanking us, double envelopment.

  “Juan, take the other BAR and cover our right.

  “Bobby Ray, you and Dawg give him a hand.”

  As Bobby Ray crawled westward through the creek bottom muck, Tom yelled out, “Bobby Ray, this is for real. Don’t get yourself killed out there.”

  Tom then glanced to his left, then right, “Dad, where’s Dad? Tommy, does Puma have eyes on Grandpa John?”

  Nobody had eyes on John and that was just as Grandpa intended.

  A shot rang out from Junior’s left. Followed by another shot a few seconds later. This went on intermittently for the next few minutes.

  “Puma sees no hostiles to our left. They are all down.”

  “I guess Puma can’t see the old man either.”

  “Nope Dad, Puma cannot acquire Grandpa John.”

  Tom raised Junior on the walkie, “Puma says we’re clear to our left. Guess the old man got them all. Turnabout is fair play. Junior, flank ‘em to the left.”

  Junior and his two companions crawled out of Bowman Creek, looking to work their way around the enemy’s right, but the terrain to their front was flat, offering little cover. One of Junior’s companion’s weapon stopped a .30 caliber round. The bullet’s impact shattered his rifle and sent it flying from his hands. In the face of intense enemy fire, the trio beat a hasty retreat back to the protection of the creek bed.

  Junior heard two more loud pops originating somewhere out in the wide-open desert to his front and left. The enemy machinegun went silent. Grandpa John was still in the fight.

  A bare-knuckled gunfight ensued on Tom’s right as Juan & Company engaged the force attempting to envelope their right flank.

  “Dad, they’ve reinforced that group to our right. Puma sees at least a couple dozen over there.”

  Tom could now hear Juan’s BAR answering the Militia’s machinegun fire to his right.

  “Tommy, does Puma see a Browning over there on our right?”

  “Yep, there’s a .30 caliber Browning over there, not too far from where Huey went down.”

  Things went from bad to worse. A .30 caliber round hit Juan in the chest. He died seconds later in Bobby Ray’s arms.

  Bobby Ray picked up the BAR and charged out of the creek bed firing and tossing grenades. Then, Bobby Ray went down. Dawg began retreating back along the creek bed, but a 7.62 mm round hit him in the chest. Dawg went down.

  “Dad, they’ve turned our right. Just too many of ‘em with too much firepower. Juan, Dawg and Bobby Ray are all down.

  “Puma sees at least another dozen to our left, heading Junior’s way.”

  Tom heard a flurry of rifle fire and grenades exploding to his left. He also heard the periodic loud crack of Grandpa’s sniper rifle. Then, Junior and only one remaining companion came running through the creek bed, back toward NV 376.

  Junior was breathless, “There’s too many of ‘em out there. Tom, we gotta bug outta here before we’re surrounded.”

  “Junior, Dad’s still out there! We can’t leave him behind.”

  “Hell yes. Your old man is out there. He’s making those bastards pay for cutting him.”

  Surprisingly, BAR fire resumed from the right. Bobby Ray was down, but not out. He was back in the fight.

  Darius smiled, “That’s The Skipper out there.”

  Tom also heard pistol fire emanating from far to his right, higher up on the alluvial fan.

  “Hell yes Junior! That’s Bobby Ray out there! If I ain’t mistaken, that’s Jo’s Colt I hear up there where Hue
y crashed.”

  From their rear, Tom and Junior heard a vehicle approaching. Back in Kingston, Doc Williams had been listening on his walkie and knew exactly what he had to do. He rounded up 20, or so, fighters previously assigned to guarding Kingston and loaded them onto the remaining school bus.

  Tom yelled out as the bus turned sideways while skidding to a stop, blocking the highway about 100 yards to his rear, “Doc, half to our right with you and half to our left with Junior.

  “Junior, you’ve got to hold them!”

  With the arrival of reinforcements, Junior and Doc checked the Militia’s flanking attacks and the battle raged on for another quarter-hour with little movement. Then the Militia machinegun to Tom’s right front exploded.

  “Tommy, does Puma see anything?”

  “Negative Dad.”

  “Who in the hell is firing the heavy artillery?”

  Another Militia machinegun went up in smoke directly to Tom’s front. Then a Hummer exploded and, only a second later, a Land Rover erupted in flames.

  Junior replied, “Whoever’s plastering those bastards, we owe them a drink.”

  The Mormon Tech Sergeant down in the bunker at Indian Springs was quite pleased with himself. He was quickly learning the finer points of operating the MQ-9 Reaper. His bird was now Winchester and returning to base. His comrade, sitting at the adjacent control console, was busy piloting his Reaper northward through Big Smoky Valley on its way to Kingston.

  The tide of battle was slowly turning.

  “Damn it, Cowboy! Your old man is like a ghost.”

  “Yep Junior, just think what that old man could do if his thigh wasn’t screwed up. How many does that make?

  “I done lost count, but he’s still out there, running up the score.”

  Jo was slowly and tortuously crawling through the sagebrush, pistol in hand. Max was crawling right beside her and he was not happy. Every so often, they would surprise a Member and either Jo’s pistol, or Max’s bite, would quickly end the confrontation.