by Blair Smith
The chase lasted nearly ten minutes, and ended when one of the drivers turned to circle back, but didn't; he backed up in front of the boy from a side street. At a dead run, Thad was looking back to locate the other jeep when he collided into the vehicle that pulled in front of him. His legs buckled under him; the boy slid off the door to the pavement.
On Dixville Notch, the Armdroid's wide tracks inched up the steeper slopes of the trail along Cascade Brook. Gorrilla-like arms hung from the base of its barrel torso; they were used to dig into the steep embankment to pull itself up. To rebels watching it through the glazed bunker ports, the thing looked surprisingly homemade. Nothing fancy, just a fifty-five gallon drum on tracks, with arms. Sensory ports for radar, heat, and motion, dotted the armored skin of the contraption. A fiber-optic tether came off the back, its link to the infantry that followed.
Wolfenstein, and others in the bunker, pressed up against the small rectangular port to watch. "See that thing on top?" Wolf referred to the rounded receiver node at the very top of the machine. "I bet you that's an infrared node to receive a signal in case the optic line is cut off. If we could cut the line and shoot that node off the top, they couldn't control it either. It would sit there and protect us, as long as we stayed in the bunker."
"Rrrright," responded one of the rebels." It would also be tough getting behind it to cut the line. If the Armdroid doesn't get you, the troops on the other side would. They've tested this thing, you know."
An old camcorder strapped to a motor-gun sat covered with brush thirty meters away from the rebel bunker. Wolfenstein watched a digital monitor displaying an image of the Armdroid. Wolf used a joystick to align the barrel to target. "Here goes." He pushed a black starter button and revved it with a rheostat knob. The Armdroid rotated toward the heat of the engine. On pressing the joystick button, glowing motor-gun balls shot out the barrel toward the Armdroid like a garden hose. Wolfenstein held the stream of shot steady on one point. The Armdroid fired back, taking out the camcorder and some of the stepping motors controlling the gun. A second later, the potbellied machine began smoldering and stopped. Wolf shut down the motor-gun and grabbed his Masada. "Let's chase after their asses boys before they get a chance to call in artillery."
Three leg-men with all-frequency jammers raced out the mud-covered hatchways and sprinted in different directions to set up a series of mobile frequency jammers. They synchronized each of the three units to turn on at different times for two minutes, every six minutes. Every two minutes, a leg-man had to race the jammers to a different location before a missile honed in their frequency source.
Other rebels sprinted down-slope with only Glock autopistols to intercept Army Regulars. They whistled location and numbers back to gunners and snipers who followed. Leg-men baited the troops with pistol fire. Once the Feds trailed them into the ambush, motor-guns rained shot into the thick of them. Snipers with Masadas tediously peered through tree slits and popped enemy faces they viewed through their scopes. The same leg-men who baited the Army units, returned to the bunker to reload their belts with ammo clips. Then they did an end run around to waylay the Federal soldiers. They ambushed anyone trying to retreat.
From satellite and low altitude drones, sensor readings showed what the Feds thought to be concentration centered around Dixville Notch; but those sensors actually read animal life and kerosene smudge-pots. Rebels waited undetected in bunkers. Commander Serrac had no idea they were concealed. As Federal troops closed in on Dixville proper, attack packs came out of their hives--but to kill not to sting. Like the ghosts of Pack 220 seeking revenge, they would appear at will to assassinate their target, only to vanish without a trace to their secluded bunkers.
Chaos planned to inflict as many casualties as possible. Mountain Boys shot Federal Troops instantly unless the enemy waved a white cloth. Rebels gave no overture to surrender. Even after a Federal soldier hoisted the white cloth, rebels shot them in the knee with a lead bullet and left them without a weapon; they hadn't time to take care of prisoners.
Chaos didn't fair so well on the southwest side. In the initial duel between Armdroid and motor-gun, the Armdroid won. The distance was too great and the Southerner had trouble holding a stream of shot on target. The Armdroid took out the remotely fired motor-gun and kept them pinned down in the bunker. Artillery had already pounded their location. The tunnel leading up the hill that served as an escape had collapsed, eliminating their means of retreat.
Vanessa Larson's scheme to destroy the Abrams squad with a remote-controlled, gasoline truck was preempted by Butch and the Ghost Pack's attempt to take a tank. She and Max's group had used the same strategy to bomb the peace talks at Balsams Resort. This time the plan failed when Colebrook's Pack 220 intervened. Federal troops moved the tanks to an off-road location. Now, her primary concern was the children: Three boys lay dead, four wounded.
"The boys need medical attention. Right now!" Mrs. Larson was livid, forcing the captain against the wall as she screamed in his face.
Captain Jacobs shifted to the side to get more space between them. "God, lady, we're doing what we can. We can't find the medic. The last anyone saw him he was in the diner, and people there said he left." Captain Jacob shook from the incident. "God, lady. I'm sorry. We didn't want to shoot those kids but they took out two of my soldiers and burned another. We couldn't let them get off with the rif--"
Too late. Larson was off to the diner to see what Harvey and the others did with the captives. One of them might be the medic. She stomped through the diner and forced herself between two of the men in the back room. "Where are they?" she demanded.
Harvey stood between her and the door of the walk-in refrigerator, "You're not going to kill them."
"No. I'm not going to kill 'em. Get out of the way!" He stepped to the side. Vanessa opened the locker door and closed it behind her. She stared with a peripheral gaze at two young men in their twenties who looked back. "One of you peckers had better tell me you're a medic."
After Thad's capture, the Feds commandeered the Philbin home to use as a holding tank to question the boys. The captain in charge wanted that M-30 Strafer back before it was used on any of his troops.
At last, Thad stirred and rolled onto his belly, ending up face to face with Butch on the floor of the Philbin's living room. The floor puckered the boys' lips to a fish-lipped pose. Thad raised a hand and poked at his brother's shoulder with his index finger.
Butch blinked--and tried to figure out where he was. Butch could hardly speak, "Your nose?"
Thad felt his own face. His eyes widened on touching his nose. He had broken it. Blood covered the bottom half of his face and spread down to his belly.
Butch spoke carefully. "We need the Akela. She almost saved Barry and he was shot up a lot worse than me. You can outrun 'em, Thad. If you get in the woods, they'll never find you." Butch was unaware of the gauntlet his brother had run trying to evade soldiers the first time. The delicate-faced boy only stared forward as his older brother spoke. "You gotta do it. I don't know if I can make it for very long."
Hearing that, Thad got to his feet. He stood bloodied and bare chested, wearing only shorts and tennis shoes.
Tiffany saw him stand from the other side of the room. She had been in one of the jeeps chasing the boy, so she knew how fast the kid was. "Hold it right there!" She turned to the door behind her, "Mark, get in here." Tiffany needed help covering the exits, "Now don't move, kid!" Turning back to the door she hollered, "Somebody get their fat ass in here!"
Thad sidestepped to the right and looked around the room. The lady stood at the doorway. Billy was also in the room because his arms and shoulders had been cut when he had tried to jump through a window during his chase. He whispered, "The window, Thad."
Both the lady and Thad saw it at once. Thad took three steps toward the window and switched direction to the door. The woman tried to cut him off
at the window, slipped in blood when changing direction, and landed on her side. "Get him, you idiots!" she shrieked.
"Gotcha!" Thad went limp when a powerful arm caught him as he zipped through the doorway--a short chase this time. "What's the problem, Tiffany? You can't handle a few wounded kids?" The strapping soldier held the boy in midair, "This little bantam ain't going nowhere."
Tiffany got up and looked around at the bloodstains on her backside. "Oh, jeez." She looked to Mark, now holding Thad, "That boy's got to be locked up. He can't be in a room open to the outside like this."
"There's people all around," Mark answered.
"There's people all around, but if that rabbit gets loose and into the woods, we'll never catch him. I've decided to keep him in the basement. So put him down." The man lowered Thad to his feet.
She took Thad to the basement and sat him on the same table the Colebrook Covenant met at. Under the single bulb, she coaxed him to tell the whereabouts of the rifle. "So you won't say a thing, is that it?" She got out an electronic notepad, flipped open the screen, and wrote down her name. "See, I'm Tiffany. What's yours?"
Thad cautiously leaned over and pecked out his name.
"Well now, Thad. That's a start. What's your mother's name?
"MOM'S GONE," he typed.
"How about your father, or guardian, or something?"
"JUST BUTCH AND ME," the boy kept it simple.
"The other boy you were talking to?" Tiffany asked. Thad nodded yes. "So no one watches over you?"
Thad pulled the memo pad closer. "THE AKELA, AND THE GHOST PACK, AND THE MOUNTAIN BOYS WATCH OVER US."
Tiffany watched the boy as he typed it out. "You can't talk at all, can you?" Thad looked away, not answering. Tiffany sounded more consoling now. "Okay, why did you boys attack us?"
"YOU SHOT US."
"We had to. You kids blew up two of our guys and were running off with a rifle."
Thad started pecking before she finished, "NO. BEFORE. YOU KILLED OFF PACK 220. AND YOU KILLED MY FRIEND BARRY." The boy's soft, brown eyes turned dark.
"Are you talking about the smugglers' attack at the Notch?"
Thad's finger moved swiftly over the keyboard, "YES. TALKING ABOUT THE AUTOMAN. BUTCH AND ME WAS THERE."
"You were--"
He hadn't stopped typing, "MY BROTHER AND ME ARE THE LAST OF PACK 220." Tiffany watched in stunned silence. THE GHOST PACK HAS SWORN TO FIGHT THE FEDS UNTIL THEY GO, OR UNTIL THEY HAVE NO ONE TO RULE."
"I'm sorry about your brother." Tiffany was guilt stricken. She had heard the rumors, but didn't really believe it. "I can let you see him if you promise not to bolt." Thad didn't respond. Tiffany continued, "Okay, but I'm going to have to keep a hold of you at all times."
She took him upstairs and led him to Butch on the other side of the room. The wounded boy hadn't moved. Tiffany checked Butch's carotid on his neck. No pulse.
"He's dead," Billy announced glumly from his prone position only yards away. "No one helped him." Speaking to Thad now, "I heard him call your name before he went. He said he saw Barry, that friend he talked about."
Thad dropped his head to his brother's back to listen for a heartbeat. He straightened up and just watched his lifeless brother.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Tiffany said in tears.
Mark came in from the other room. "What's the problem?"
She went over to talk to him, "I think we might be making a big mistake here. You know those rumors on CB radio about the Army and Dixville?"
"Yeah."
"I think they're true."
"How can you be sure?" She pulled out her electronic notepad and showed him the comments Thad had pecked out earlier. "They're brothers," her voice cracked, "and now he's the last one." Her hand quivered as she showed him the pad. "This isn't about stopping a bunch of smugglers and tax cheats." She wiped tears from her eyes. "Everyone here hates us. The U.S. military murdered 64 of their children. We have no business being here."
Mark was ready to believe her. "I heard they're kicking the living shit out of us on the mountain. Son-of-a-bitch, I overheard the captain say he's never seen so many casualties so fast. Everything people have said about the combat skills of those Mountain Boys was true. And they have motor-guns like the ones in Boston, only these cut through armor."
"I'm going to the Captain with this," said Tiffany
"What about the kid?" asked the soldier.
Tiffany looked at Thad. "Be kind to him, but don't lose him. He's the last survivor from the Scout Pack that was massacred."
After Tiffany left, Mark gently held Thad's arm and led him to the basement stairway. "I gotta do this kid. We can't just let you go. I have my orders. Were you really at the Dixville Massacre?" Thad looked away and nodded yes. "Look, if you promise not to run, I'll let you stay up here with the others." Thad gave no response. "Okay, then. I'll have to keep you down there." Before closing the door he said, "I'm sorry about your brother."
Thad inspected the basement for exits. The two, eight by sixteen-inch windows had been boarded up solidly by the Philbin's for privacy because of their Covenant meetings. Light, cast by the single bulb, crept halfway up the stone walls and highlighted the bricked-up exit used to smuggle slaves during the Civil War era. Below it, a rat scampered along the edge of the wall and stopped to sniff an empty jar before it continued on. Thad grabbed a hammer from the bench and went to where the rat had stopped. With a burlap sack over the wall to muffle the sound, he began hammering the brick--the same exit to freedom used by desperate people over a century ago.
Chapter 17
Dixville Mountain, New Hampshire
In wonderment, Steve Morrison stopped recording the historic battle from Chaos' underground bunker, "We're going to die!" Their "back door," as Chaos called it, which tunneled up the mountain, had been severed by penetration bombing. The attack packs who had scrambled out earlier to take on the Armdroid, had been killed or wounded. Chaos' left hand had been injured. Only Chaos, Steve Morrison, and Al remained in the bunker. Al was a big, likable fellow from Missouri.
Optically controlled by a soldier from the rear using a virtual-reality visor and command pad, the automated Armdroid could be shut off at any time. The potbellied robot sat fifty yards down hill, holding Chaos and Al at bay. Army Regulars disabled the weapon so companion troops could launch hand-held rockets at the viewing ports. The blasts left gaping holes in the bunker the enemy could shoot into.
Steve Morrison couldn't take it any longer, "God, what if they put another rocket in here? Shouldn't we give up?" Chaos had learned to ignore Steve's perpetual whining, but the same thought had crossed his mind. "Hey! I'm still here! Can you hear me, Chief?" The reporter insisted, as he gnawed on his gum aggressively.
Chaos used a stainless steel mirror to look around the edge of the opening. "If they had the missile, they would have launched it by now." Al jerked his head in and out of the opening to get a fix on troop movement; he did it again for another look-see. "Don't do that," said Chaos, "that thing will trace your heat signature and lo--" A bullet reeled passed the edge of the opening where Al was looking. "See what I mean. If you don't have your mirror, get one off one of the bodies in here."
Al looked around at the corpses littering the floor. "Yes, sir." He began sifting through a man's side-pack.
"Can I give up? I'm just a reporter. This isn't my fight!" Morrison protested.
Chaos stopped and looked at him. "I thought you wanted to be in the thick of it?"
"But I don't want to die."
"Find something white and give it to me, but I can't guarantee you won't get shot surrendering."
Steve feverishly took off his pants to get to his underwear--the only white thing he had. The reporter was reluctant to strip the dead. Chaos placed the briefs on the tip of a Masada. He poked it out th
e opening for all to see. "You might want to put your pants back on," Chaos instructed to Morrison. "There might be some females down there." The jittery reporter noticed and complied.
An Army Regular yelled up, "It's okay. The Armdroid is off."
Steve frantically gathered up his equipment in a knapsack. "You're not coming with me?"
The Southerner answered flatly, "No." Chaos turned to Al. "You're not obligated to stay."
"If you're not going, I'm not going," the chubby Missourian answered. He pulled a red memory disk from his side-pack and handed it to the reporter, "Give this to my niece, Chelsea. Her name and address is written on the disk."
"When you get down there," Chaos told Steve, "tell them we're going to stay and fight. Don't say how many of us are left."
"Reporters are neutral. I don't have to say anything." Steve stopped before leaving and put out his hand, "Good luck, guys." He shook Al's hand too. Then he added regretfully, "I'll see you on the Evening News."
"I hope you find what you're looking for, Steve."
"Oh, I have my story."
"I was referring to home," Chaos concluded. "You'll know you're home--"
"--when you're willing to fight for it." Steve finished the familiar refrain with a restrained smile, waved goodbye and crawled out the opening. That statement continued to haunt him. Always on the move, Morrison hadn't formed commitments. He had few friends. The alliance with the rebels had been bittersweet, mutual survival the skilled mediator that bonded them. Steve regretted walking out on them. He couldn't look back.
Two soldiers escorted Steve Morrison to the base of the slope where two other Army Regulars were bunched up, one of them the commander of the squad; the Armdroid controller was in a world of his own with visor and command pad.