Even if the men in these RVs were anxious to reunite with their families they understood there might be an advantage to having a frank discussion beyond the ears of children and wives. The men in the forward-most vehicles exited their rides and joined the other men in the barren stretch of asphalt road.
York nodded at the approaching entourage. "Good to see some familiar faces. Now what the hell happened out there?"
As usual, everyone deferred to the congressman. They shuffled their feet and watched him out of the corners of their eyes. They were all hesitant to state their personal opinions just in case the congressman had a contrary spin he wanted to put on the narrative.
Honaker shrugged, tucked his shirt into his pants, and slicked back his hair with two hands. He looked a little road weary, a little frazzled. "We had faulty intelligence. Place was a tougher nut to crack than we’d been led to believe. Bridges and his people were dug in like Japs in the Pacific. Not sure we could have driven them out with ten times the men."
The men in the security detail, who’d been waiting for their chance to move into the compound, looked at each other dumbstruck.
"So where does that leave us?" Carrier asked, holding his hands out as if to beseech an answer from the politician. "This is all we had. This was our only plan. We all spun the wheel and put everything we had on this one number. Where else are we going to go?"
“Pipe down,” Colonel Jacobs snapped. “You’ll get answers when the rest of us get them.”
Bradshaw stepped in at this point to deflect the heat from the congressman. It was what a good aide did. "It couldn’t be helped, son. As the congressman said, the intelligence we got was faulty. The men in that compound had more significant weaponry than we’d been led to believe. It's clearly some homespun militia training ground harboring a bunch of suicidal mercenaries and their illegal weapons. The cost to take it was just too high."
Carrier let his hands drop, frustrated, but finally understanding that this was really as much of an answer as he was going to get.
"So we stay here in the campground?" Bryant asked. “Is that the plan?”
The congressman shook his head as if irritated at being badgered, like he was facing reporters at a press conference. "No, we’re not staying here. We have a fallback plan.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of any fallback plan,” Bryant said.
“Because I don’t have to run every damn thought by you!” the congressman barked. “I don't want to go into the details until we’re all together. I don’t see any need to chew my fat twice."
“I’m sorry, sir,” Bryant said. “The guys and I have just been going a little stir crazy.”
"Maybe we should just go on in,” Carrier said. “I’m sure you guys want to reunite with your families.”
Bradshaw raised a hand. “About that. Before we go in, you need to know that we suffered several casualties. Some of them had families who are in there right now waiting for them. This is not going to be easy.”
“Who?” Carrier asked.
Bradshaw rattled off the names. Some of the lost had been their friends.
The congressman raised a finger and everyone stopped. "Have you seen my son Jeff? Is he here?"
York, Carrier, and Bryant exchanged glances, then York took over. "As a matter of fact, that's kind of a weird thing. We got this radio message out of nowhere. It's Jeff, and he says he's on the road with these two people and he’s being held prisoner. He says there was somebody at the compound who gave him a radio so he could reach out to us. He wanted us to be on the lookout for these people because they were headed our way and we could spring a trap on them.”
The congressman smiled at this, pleased to know that Carlos, despite his shortcomings, had managed to accomplish something while on the inside. "Did it work? Did you catch them?"
York shook his head. “That was the last radio transmission we got from him. I don't know if they found the radio or what, but we stayed on alert for them to show up. Sure enough, some tricked-out operator-type comes strolling into camp one night with night vision and we pounced on him. Jeff told us on the radio that he had a hidden knife. His plan was to take the woman prisoner once she and the man separated. Jeff thought we might be able to use her as a bargaining chip to get access to the compound."
"Exactly!" The congressman said, smiling broadly.
"Yeah, but Jeff never showed up with her. I had men all over the place. We looked nearly all night for him. We called out and no one ever answered. We never found any sign of him in the woods. We still don't know what happened."
“Did you ask the man you captured?”
York shook his head. "No, we didn’t exactly capture him. We sprung the trap and tried to sweep him up but lost him in the dark. We caught up with him again later but he fled into the mountains on an ATV. He killed one of our men."
"Dammit!" The congressman erupted. His face turned red and he paced angrily.
York tried to console him. No one liked giving the congressman bad news. "It's okay, right? I mean, we don't want the compound anymore anyway."
The congressman looked at York like he was an idiot. "Jeff. His mother is waiting in camp wanting to know where her son is."
York winced at the sharp rebuke. "Right, I'm sorry."
"Look, these guys probably went back to the compound. They don’t know we pulled out of there," Bradshaw said. "They're probably going to get back there and find out we've gone. They’ll be stuck with Jeff. He’ll be useless to them if we’re not there trying to get in. Maybe we just need to send a team back to negotiate his release. They’ll probably hand him right over."
"If he’s still alive," the congressman mumbled.
Bradshaw gave the congressman a warning shake of his head. "You can't be talking like that, sir. He's gonna be just fine. That's exactly what you're going to tell his mother too, right? That’s how we need to play this. Jeff isn’t missing, he’s just on the road somewhere else."
The congressman reluctantly nodded, like a child forced to acknowledge something he didn’t want to. He understood that Bradshaw was right. "Pick three men. Send a team in a truck. Now. I want them to either come back with Jeff or with news of what happened to him. I’ve got to have something to tell his mother."
Bradshaw looked at Colonel Jacobs. "Who do you think?"
Jacobs considered the question for a moment before replying. "Decker, Voorhees, and French. They’re solid men who can think on their feet."
Bradshaw patted Honaker on the shoulder. "We’ll make it happen. Don't worry about this part. Just enjoy your reunion with your family."
The congressman looked doubtful. “For the families, it’s been fun and games up until this point, like an adventure. A long camping trip. It gets serious now. You’ve lost a man and we’ve lost several. I hoped to shield all of our families during this dark time. I guess it’s just not possible.”
"Then we use it as a rallying point," Jacobs said. “We assure the families that these sacrifices were not made for nothing and we’re obligated to continue moving forward toward the goals these men died for."
“Spoken like a soldier. Thanks, old friend,” the congressman said. He addressed the rest of the men. “No sense delaying this any further. Let’s get on with it.”
The three from the security detail hopped in their pickup truck and made a U-turn to lead the caravan back to the campground. While the rest of the command team returned to their vehicles, Bradshaw jogged toward the rear of the convoy. He flagged down the men that Jacobs had recommended, giving them their instructions. They asked a few questions then said they were good to go.
Bradshaw stepped out of the way and allowed them to turn their vehicle, returning back the way they'd come. He’d intentionally picked men without families, men who wouldn’t have to make excuses about why they were immediately heading back out. Bradshaw jogged back to Honaker’s RV and climbed inside so the caravan could continue its somber journey to the waiting families.
Th
e reunion was everything that the congressman and his men expected, joy dampened by loss. Families comforted one another. Assurances were made that each family would help the others. The congressman cried harder, moaned louder, and hugged tighter than all of them, an accomplished showman and manipulator.
When the worst was over, he took to the stump. It was an actual, literal stump from a pine tree, the yellow faded to light gray and sap streaming down the leathery sides like amber. He wiped tears from his eyes with his grubby pink paws, casting sorrowful glances at those families hit the hardest. He shared their pain.
“I know some of you have heard that things did not go as expected. All I can say is that the people I had on the inside failed to provide us with accurate intelligence. We expected to encounter little more than a shooting club. A small group of men with a love of firearms who had planned on weathering this period of hardship on this shared property. What we encountered was a hardened militia group, practically a terrorist organization, and they were far better armed than we were. As painful as it was, we had to accept that we needed to develop another plan.”
Hands shot up in the audience but the congressman gestured they should lower them.
“I will answer all your questions, I assure you, but let me say my piece. You see, we were forced to regroup and take stock after we lost men. In fact, my own son was taken prisoner by those scoundrels and has yet to be released. It was obvious that we needed a softer target. I now have reason to believe that an associate of this group has an offshoot compound that may be suitable for our needs. It’s located a couple of hours north of here in Damascus, Virginia. It belongs to a man named Robert Hardwick.”
There was an eruption of questions and comments.
“Virginia?” complained one woman. “Do we even have enough fuel to get there?”
“What if we get turned away there too?” asked another.
The congressman gazed on them stoically, the model of a sincere politician delivering a heartfelt oration. “I don’t have all the answers. As much as I wish I did, I simply don’t. All I can do is promise to each and every one of you that I will do my best to provide for you. I will do my best to find a place where we can weather this storm in safety.”
Despite their concerns, his audience was moved. A single person in the crowd started to clap, a plaintive gesture of support, and it grew until even the sobbing mourners clapped. The congressman burst into tears and climbed down from the stump, embracing his family in a side hug that would not block him from the news cameras, had there been any.
35
When awareness seeped into Robert's body it brought with it a palette of pain so vivid it surpassed anything he'd ever experienced before. Every pain brought with it dozens of nagging sub-pains. It was bones, muscles, bruised and torn flesh. He also thought it included blindness until he realized that the pain-induced starbursts in his vision were intermingled with real stars within the night sky.
He must have been out a while. Instinct urged him into motion, but even the gentlest attempt to raise himself caused his many pains to impact together like the crashing of cymbals. His stomach heaved and he threw up, vomit running down his face, his neck, and around his ears. Only then, feeling like he was going to choke, was he able to force himself over to his side. He threw up again. Each involuntary arching of his body, each heave of his stomach, stimulated some pained and damaged part of him. It was hard to comprehend just how much pain there was in the world until you crossed paths with it.
He was laying on his left side in a tangle of branches and boulders that had been pushed over the bank when the forest service made the road. In the darkness it felt like he was caught in some mountain man’s trap, woven of branches and anchored with stones. He had to make himself more comfortable so that he could assess his injuries, or at least be able to think clearly. He put his right hand on the ground, trying both to turn and raise his body at the same time. Pain flickered and flared within him.
"Oh God," he groaned.
His efforts proved futile. He was tangled and couldn’t see what he needed to do to free himself. He groped along the front of his plate carrier, tracing the loops of webbing. The movement of his arm stirred a mélange of pain—the dull burn of raw flesh, the sharp sting of damaged nerves. A finger brushed against the aluminum tube of the pen-sized Streamlight flashlight he carried and he shoved it upward, pulling it from the Molle webbing.
He clicked the rubber bulb, emitting a harsh LED light that seared his corneas. It also revealed that he was covered in blood, both dried and fresh. His clothing was torn and he was no longer in the vehicle he’d been riding in. It wasn’t anywhere within the circle of light created by the little flashlight. He played the light over his arm since that appeared to be the source of a lot of the blood. It was messed up, or at least looked that way.
The sight of his gore-encrusted arm provided new motivation to get on his feet and take stock of his injuries. Using the light, he found that one boot was trapped in the crotch of a branch laced deep into the undergrowth. That was what had been holding him back. Raising his knee, he threaded his foot out of the underbrush and was free.
He rolled over onto his stomach, cursing when he realized that he was rolling through his own vomit. It was already covering him at this point, so he wasn’t sure what the big deal was, other than that he found the very idea offensive. He finally managed to get one elbow underneath him and pushed, raising himself. His spine sang with pain. Every other part of his body harmonized along with it—shoulders, muscles, neck.
When he made it to his knees he began to examine his visible wounds. A slug from his own rifle, wielded by Jeff, had ripped through the edge of his right bicep. It was a grazing wound but deep enough that there was muscle damage. He flexed his arm and worked his fingers. It all functioned well enough but the pain was eye-watering.
The act of turning his head that small measure to look down at his bicep pulled at the dried blood on his chin. He brushed a hand along his neck, finding dozens of scabs throughout the stubble of his beard. The whole attack, wreck, incident, whatever you wanted to call it, was a blur. He remembered vignettes of it but not the entirety.
He looked down at his plate carrier and figured out what happened to his chin. He wore an American flag morale patch over his heart and there was a frayed bullet hole going right through it. Shredded nylon around the patch told him that the bullet had shattered on impact with his body armor, sending shards in all directions. It was one of the unpleasant side effects of steel plates but certainly less unpleasant than a penetrating bullet wound to the heart.
Another wound to the back of his shoulder hurt every time he moved. His back felt damp from the blood seeping from that wound. There would be no way he could see it without a mirror, nor could he easily bandage it by himself.
He turned his head to each side, confirming that his neck still worked and his head was attached properly. He twisted his body and the pain in his spine was electric. He felt like he’d leaned into an electric fence. He couldn't tell that anything was broken but it was the kind of pain that would have taken him down for days in his old life, at least until the chiropractor worked his magic.
Robert played the light around and found the Razer resting on its side against a tree. The distance between him and the vehicle he’d been ejected from gave him pause. He was lucky to be alive. He stumbled to the vehicle and clutched the flashlight in his mouth. He shoved against the vehicle with both hands but it was wedged in tight. Even if he could turn it over, he didn’t think he could drive it back up the steep bank. Maybe in better times with a winch, fewer injuries, and a clearer head.
He located a bottle of water in a cracked plastic tote still strapped to the Razer, took a drink, and washed his mouth out. Running his tongue through his mouth, he found all his teeth present and accounted for. It was a small blessing.
Needing to tend to his wounds before he could do anything, he unfastened the Velcro that held his plate carrier in p
lace. Even the flexibility required to do that was challenging and took him a ridiculous amount of time. When every fastener was undone he lifted the heavy piece of gear over his head and dropped it to the ground beside him. He unhooked the plastic buckle of his battle belt and lowered it to the ground a little more carefully since it held his Glock 19.
His pack had been sitting loose beside him in the Razer and it took him a moment to locate it. Just like Robert himself, the pack had been launched from the Razer as it rolled down the hill. Inside the pack was his individual first-aid kit. He struggled for a moment with whether to ignore his wounds and get on the road or take a little time for self-care.
Not knowing what was ahead of him, he decided he’d be in better condition if he cared for his wounds. It would reduce the chance of infection, and that was the last thing he needed right now. The bicep wound was the most concerning of what he’d seen. It had clearly bled a lot while he was unconscious and he’d reopened the wound while moving around. He used an alcohol pad to clean the grit and dirt from it, then bound it with gauze and tape so it would stay closed when he moved his arm. Although it was difficult to bandage himself one-handed, the job was passable.
Still a little scrambled from everything that had happened to him, Robert tried to get his head together. He dug out his headlamp, turned it on, and replaced the Streamlight in his plate carrier. He finished his water and ate a nasty protein bar from his pack before beginning to gear up again. He put on the plate carrier and the battle belt, making sure nothing had fallen out in the process. He searched the vehicle, taking a few more bottles of water and a pack of jerky.
He looked for the KSG shotgun. Jeff had his AR pistol, and the KSG was all Robert had besides the Glock and his backup pistol. He emitted a small cheer when he located the buttstock buried in the leaves at the base of the vehicle, but his satisfaction was short-lived. The shotgun didn’t immediately pull free and, when he finally worked it free, the barrel was bent.
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