Standing in the Storm

by Webb, William Alan

  “It’s a calculated risk,” Angriff said. “That only leaves two recon companies to screen a twenty-mile line. That’s what, fifty vehicles, give or take? That’s not many, but I back your decision and I think it’s the right move. It’s all about overrunning that town before they can react.”

  Behind them they heard the crunch of footsteps and fell silent.

  “Nick?” said a voice from the dark.

  “We’re over here, Dennis. Watch your step, there’s some loose rocks.”

  Dennis Tompkins stepped up beside them, followed closely by Colonel Walling. Despite his eighty-plus years, Tompkins had made the climb from the camp below without getting winded. But the night vision gear took some getting used to.

  “Appreciate you letting me come along.”

  “You’re third in the chain of command. You need to be here. You also need to know that Norm pulled most of the Marine battalion back as a mobile force circling the city to the south. That gives us the other two companies as a screen on the left flank.”

  “All right,” Tompkins said, but there was hesitance in his tone.

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t mind me, General. I’ve never commanded more than a company, and the fights I’ve been in were close quarters compared to this operation.”

  “Dennis, I know we don’t know each other very well, so let me tell you something about me… I’m a cocky bastard, and I can be downright arrogant at times, which means I sometimes make decisions without asking anybody, because I think I’m the only one smart enough to make the right ones. But not always. Sometimes, when I get out of my own way, I’m smart enough to ask people I respect what they think about something, and when they are my subordinate I expect them to give me a straight answer.”

  Tompkins nodded, even though nobody could see him do it. “Well, if I’ve learned anything, it’s to expect trouble where I least expect it.”

  “You mean the left flank? You think it’s a mistake? So far there is no sign of anything in Phoenix, and you’re the one who told us this Caliphate was well to the east.”

  “I know, and you’re right. I can’t think of anything out there to worry about, and that’s what worries me. I never got bit by the snake I saw.”

  Chapter 23

  When you let go of what you were, you become what you might be.

  Lao Tzu

  0220 hours, July 29

  “So that’s Phoenix,” Piccaldi said, adjusting the infrared binoculars. The starlit desert shimmered with heat signatures, including outlines of distant buildings. Since he’d learned their line of deployment, Piccaldi had told everybody they would be in sight of Phoenix, and nobody could dissuade him. With the signatures nothing more than indistinct images on the horizon, he wasted no time in declaring himself correct.

  “I don’t think that’s Phoenix, Zo,” Sergeant Meyers said. “Maybe the northern suburbs. I think we’re too far out to see Phoenix in broad daylight, much less now… the map says it might be New River.”

  “Phoenix, New River, who gives a shit?” Piccaldi said. “I see buildings out there. You know how long it’s been since I’ve seen buildings?”

  Meyers shrugged. “It’s probably just a strip mall, but yeah, I get your point.”

  “It’s a reminder, you know? About how things used to be. About how maybe they will be again someday.”

  “Not in our lifetime.”

  “What do you think, Lara? You think we’ll see people living in cities again, going to football games and drinking beer?”

  Snowtiger stood facing southeast, where the rising sun would soon shine on her face. “There are mountains, far off on the horizon, whose peaks turn orange with the dawn. Do you see them, Zo? Sergeant Meyers?”

  Piccaldi and Meyers exchanged glances. Despite her lithe figure and classic beauty, Piccaldi both feared and adored Snowtiger. He and Meyers had had long discussions about whether she would be worth having as a girlfriend. It wasn’t her deadly skills — all Marines could kill — but something about her seemed unnatural. Sometimes she could be a swaggering Marine right out of a recruiting video, foul-mouthed and ready for a fight. But most of the time she was quiet and introspective, and quite spiritual. She also seemed ethereal, somehow.

  She’d once told Piccaldi she embodied the spirit of a Choctaw warrior come back to Earth. Piccaldi had no clue whether she was serious. But fear or not, he had the serious hots for her. He thought she didn’t know it. He was wrong.

  Turning his binoculars to follow where she pointed, Piccaldi did see something orange, but it was far away, a faint speck on the horizon.

  “Damn, Lara, how the fuck can you see that without binoculars?”

  She smiled. “These mountains are sacred to the Apache. Some believe the entrance to Hell is located close to here. Can you feel the spirits of their ancestors watching us? They guard the mountains, and they are suspicious of why we are here.”

  “How do you know that? You’re not Apache; you’re Choctaw,” Piccaldi said.

  Snowtiger turned away so they could not see her face. So! Piccaldi does listen to me.

  “We are all one,” she said. “The Great Spirit unites us all.”

  “Uh-huh,” Piccaldi said. “I don’t know about that Indian mystic bullshit, but you’ve sure as hell got the best eyesight I ever saw. Not to mention a top ten best ass.”

  “If you think you’ve seen nine asses better than mine,” she said, “then you’re too blind to be a sniper.”

  Meyers laughed and slapped Piccaldi on the back. Piccaldi blushed. They both walked off toward the coffee. Snowtiger kept staring east until they were gone, then she quietly slid the 25x100mm astronomical binoculars back into her pack, content to let them think she had superhuman eyesight.

  They heard the Humvee long before they saw it. First Platoon of Dog Company had deployed hull-down on a long, low ridge, spread out to the west. The company screened seven thousand yards of front. Dog Company was responsible for eighteen hundreds yards all by itself. Instead of even spacing, First Platoon’s leader, Lt. Embekwe, had grouped them into hedgehog positions. This opened gaps in the line, but provided greater survivability. The company’s mission was to be a tripwire in case of a surprise attack, not hold a line to the death. So when Captain Sully pulled up in his command Humvee, it didn’t take long to assemble the squad leaders.

  “Good morning, jarheads,” Sully said, prompting knowing glances among the Marines standing around him in a teaching circle. They knew he disliked informality and slang. He disliked the sobriquet Loot, then Cap after his promotion, and he particularly hated the term jarhead. He never said anything to stop it, and his men loved him for tolerating it. But when he used the term himself, it was a bad sign.

  “I hope you haven’t gotten used to the view, because we’re re-deploying. Prime is pulling out Tackle, Tailback, and Corner, and both Head Coach and Trainer are going with them. Apparently we’re in the vacation spot. We are moving to the left flank and Safety will fill in on the right. There’s a lot of high ground there and we will move into Tackle’s positions.

  “There’s a big lake over that way to anchor our flank. First squad will be nearest the lake. I can’t tell you exactly where to deploy since I haven’t scouted the ground; just make sure you can lay down fire all the way to the water. You’ll know what to look for; you’re good Marines. We move at 0500 hours. It should be light enough by then. Any questions?”

  Lieutenant Randolph Embekwe raised a finger. “Cap, I’m no math whiz, but isn’t that fifty-two AFVs for twenty miles of front, about one every six hundred yards? Are we sure there are no burps out there?”

  “If Prime says we’re copa, we’re copa,” Sully said. “But to answer your first question, yes, we’re thin on the line. That confirms we’re the tripwire in case an unknown threat materializes. Prime would never spread us out like this if they expected trouble. It’s up to you how to deploy your platoon; it really depends on the terrain.”

  “And if bur
ps do appear out of nowhere?”

  “Make preparations to move out fast,” Sully said. “You’ll hold your positions, report to me, and I will relay to Head Coach. I would expect to get a pull-back order post haste.”

  “Aye sir, but…”

  “But what?”

  “It wouldn’t take much to flank us, Cap. What if we can’t hold until we hear back from Head Coach?”

  “In that case, Embekwe, you pull a Basilone. You hold your position anyway, and kill every enemy in sight.”

  Chapter 24

  We stand and defend the land of the Free,

  For it to stay free, it’s up to you and me;

  As hard as fighting and dying may be,

  It’s better than living on bended knee.

  Sergio Velazquez, from “Yoke”

  0227 hours, July 29

  The street widened as it entered Prescott from the east. It sloped downhill, and rose again as it headed toward Thumb Butte and Granite Mountain, which overlooked the city on the west. In the moonless night, the two mountains were indistinct smears of blackness on the horizon. Once, when the city had been thriving early in the twenty-first century, four lanes of traffic had flowed down the road. This left more than enough room for parking spaces in front of the trendy fusion restaurants and the gift stores selling Chinese-made American Indian artifacts. Nor was the city abandoned now. Thousands still lived in Prescott, but it was no longer alive.

  Parfist led the Americans past the shells of ruined buildings. With the night vision goggles, he noticed details never seen during his nocturnal raids. As usual the only sound came from the droning buzz of palo verde beetles and desert cicadas. His sensitive nostrils picked out the faint scent of pine and creosote trees, overlaid by the reek of rotting garbage.

  Not all the outlying buildings were empty. But those within slept undisturbed by the wraiths moving past their boarded-up windows. As the tail of the column came abreast the ruins of a mall, they moved into the buildings on the south side of the road. The sprawling parking lot made for an excellent field of fire. A wall surrounded the parking lot, but a heavy machine-gun squad climbed a hill across the street and deployed in an abandoned motel. This set up a deadly fifty-caliber crossfire on the road below. The plan was to repeat this process through the city, thus securing the evacuation route.

  He loved his new boots. A supply sergeant had found some that fit, along with a pair of thick hiking socks. He no longer had to avoid broken glass or rusty nails. They were waterproof, snake proof, and almost puncture proof, which to him seemed miraculous.

  Two days before he hadn’t known such things still existed. Had someone told him, he would have scoffed at such a fantasy. Now he wore them while moving from one pool of shadow to the next, leading more than a hundred men to rescue his family. For him not to see the hand of God at work, Parfist thought he would have to be either blind or stupid.

  Parfist chose their route because of the cover it offered. Prescott had once been a city of big trees. Elms, junipers, pines, firs, and dozens of other species had grown tall in ideal growing conditions. But when the power had gone out and the weather had turned cold, the trees burned. Not even stumps remained in most places, replaced by crops and fruit trees. Only at the courthouse did the stately elms still stand.

  The old golf courses on the south side were sown with corn and cotton. An apple orchard provided cover on the north side. Large buildings interspersed with the flora made ideal firing positions, on both the roofs and at ground level. Securing the armor’s route into the city was a top priority. The most direct route bypassed the city center by a right turn just past an old hotel on the outskirts. Following that road north led straight to the ruined high school housing the prisoners. But that road had open ground and fewer buildings for cover, leaving the tanks vulnerable to anti-tank weapons.

  Parfist was trotting when he dropped into a squat so fast that Green Ghost almost tripped over him. They had stopped in front of a cluster of commercial buildings, most with empty windows and broken glass. Green Ghost tapped him on the shoulder and made the pre-arranged signal meaning What’s the problem?

  Parfist leaned close to Ghost’s ear, the one without an earpiece, and gestured across the street. His whisper could not be heard over the buzz of the insects. “Two guards are always in the shadows of that big building, the one with five windows across the top.”

  Green Ghost spelled OK with his fingers. In seconds he located the two guards, leaning against the brick wall of a defunct antique store. He signaled to Wingnut behind him, flashing two fingers and pointing across the street. Wingnut relayed the order and four men moved off without making a sound. Ghost then put his mouth to Parfist’s ear and cupped a hand over it.

  “We’ll take care of them,” he said. “But remember, they aren’t wearing night vision gear. They can’t see you, but you can see them.”

  We own the night.

  Parfist nodded.

  Within a minute the two guards were gone, although Parfist didn’t see what happened to them. Calculating time in his head, he moved off again, picking his cover and staying in the darkest shadows. Desperation drove him to hurry.

  In a world where streetlights did not exist, night was the time of the hunter. Predators with superior night vision and heightened senses of smell and hearing had replaced Man at the top of the food chain. Humans who ventured into the dark did so at the risk of sudden and horrifying death. The man who survived in such an environment developed skills beyond those of his fellows.

  Richard Parfist had been to Prescott many times, but never in daylight. Instead, he’d crept through the dark streets, stealing supplies or tools his village needed. Over the years he’d mapped every foot of Prescott in his mind, and could have navigated its warrens blind. He knew the guards’ general routines, their hiding spots, and even some of their names. Having seen his new allies in action, he also knew they stood no chance against Green Ghost and his men. With Parfist pointing out every sentry and guardhouse, the SEALs took them out without disturbing the tranquility of the night.

  A rusty green signpost marked the intersection with Montezuma Street, Prescott’s main crossroads. To their left was Courthouse Square, the main headquarters for Patton and his LifeGuards. They moved past with extreme caution. The stately American elms towered in Court Square like sentinels.

  On two other corners rose multi-story buildings. A three-story hotel stood on the southwest corner, with laundry hanging from windows. Green Ghost asked about sentries and Parfist shook his head: never. As pre-arranged, they brought four fifty-caliber machine guns forward to cover the courthouse, its green space, and its avenues of approach. This would be their forward base of fire, and a squad of MARSOCs took up defensive positions around the machine guns.

  An FAO, forward artillery observer, and another squad of MARSOCs moved to the roof of a two-story building to the north. It was a perfect spot to direct the on-call artillery battery. If need be, a few salvos from 155mm guns could reduce the whole area to rubble.

  The entire deployment process took less than two minutes.

  Parfist motioned for a right turn. But there was a guard shack across the street on the northwest corner, near a ruined Mexican restaurant. Pointing with his hand, Parfist indicated it usually had four guards assigned to it. The shack was a heap of bricks and corrugated metal taken from the crumbling restaurant. A faint light shone through cracks in the walls and around the doorway, a rare thing in Prescott. Candles were scarce.

  SEALs glided across the street, coming in from behind. They heard snoring but no talking, and found all four men asleep at their posts. The door was not hinged but only propped in place, open to the cool of the night. Four SEALs moved through and the only noise was the faint scrape of a scuffle.

  With that threat neutralized, the column turned north, toward the high school and the thousands of prisoners. Parfist had to force himself not to be in too big of a hurry to rescue his family. He was not used to being part of a t
eam, except on occasional hunting expeditions. Green Ghost had a lot of men to coordinate. The thought of his family suffering tortured him, but he waited until Green Ghost signaled to proceed. From there on they had to avoid alerting the Guards watching the prisoners, so he measured his steps and moved as he did when stalking a gazelle.

  Peeking around the corner of an abandoned bank, he saw the dark outline of the high school.

  Chapter 25

  Till I saw the temples topple, till I saw the idols reel,

  Till my brain had turned to iron, and my heart had turned to steel.

  Robert E. Howard, “Always Comes Evening”

  0239 hours, July 29

  White and green light spilled from a dozen monitors. In front of each one sat a man or woman wearing a headset, faces luminescent in the glow of their video displays. Few spoke, and when they did it was in hushed tones. Everybody listened and stared and waited for the shooting to start. In the meantime there was static and silence and a pervasive tension that charged the air like an approaching electrical storm.

  While most headquarters personnel waited for events, Schiller stayed in constant motion. A hundred details needed attention. He hustled down the narrow aisles between banks of electronics, dodging chairs and talking to multiple people at once. Like good NCOs have done since the first army sallied onto the field of battle, Schiller was the backbone of the headquarters company’s preparations for battle. He made sure everyone knew their job, had what they needed to perform that duty, and was mentally sharp. He was a blur of chaos in the otherwise quiet interior of the mobile headquarters.