The Blastlands Saga

by DK Williamson

  Jack nodded, then ran and slid down the slippery incline to Team 2’s position.

  “Glad you showed up when you did, Jack,” Sergeant Norman said.

  “We came as fast as we could. Smits and Wells are dead. Morris is wounded.”

  “What about McKay? He was up there with Smits.”

  Jack yelled at the Rangers up the ridge to look for Ranger McKay.

  “We lost Presley to the MG when the raiders took it,” Sergeant Norman said grimly.

  “Damn it, that’s three,” Jack said.

  “We found McKay,” Mike Pitts shouted from above. “He’s shot through the right arm, but I think he’ll be okay.”

  “Oh shit. Sergeants, you better look at this,” Thomas Young said, pointing to the opposite end of the large pasture area.

  Through the heavy rain there was a long line of horsemen slowly approaching, just barely visible in the distance.

  “Sergeant Norman looked through his binoculars and said, “Shit is right. Those are raiders. A couple hundred or so. Their horses look blown. Let’s move to the top of the ridge.”

  After struggling up the increasingly slippery ground, all of the Rangers were at the machine gun position near the top of the ridge.

  “We have to get out of here,” Sergeant Norman said.

  Jack grimaced and nodded. “Sergeant, you take everybody and head for Team 1. I’ll stay and see if I can slow the horsemen down a bit.”

  “Jack, that’s suicide. I’m not going to—”

  “Who’s in charge of this thing? Me. I’m responsible for getting you all into this, and I’ll do what I can to give you a chance to get out. Tired horses or not, they’ll run us down if something doesn’t slow them up. If I can I’ll try and sneak out, if not they’ll think we were a three man recon team,” Jack said, gesturing at the bodies of Smits and Wells.

  “Five man team, Jack. I ain’t running anywhere on this leg and Presley’s down the way,” said Ranger Morris.

  “Okay,” Jack said nodding. “The rest of you get going.”

  “Damn it, Jack. What will I tell Jen?” asked Thomas.

  “Tell her I screwed this up and I’m sorry. Get going!”

  “You heard the man. I hope you know what you’re doing, Jack,” said a glaring Sergeant Norman. “Take these,” he said passing a pair of hand grenades to Jack, “you might need them.”

  Jack took his bolt action rifle off his back and set it near the fighting position beside the empty M60 machine gun, still on its tripod. Tig Morris slid his way to a similar position dug into the ground about thirty feet away. Jack splashed out some of the water that had accumulated in the hole, knowing it was pointless with the heavy rain coming down.

  Jack could see the riders getting closer, so he double-checked his weapons one last time. Savage 110, AKM, M1911 pistol, hand grenades, quartermaster knife. “If I get to the point where I’m down to using my knife I’ll count myself lucky,” he muttered to himself.

  Jack was surprised how calm he was. “I’m a natural at facing my own death. Idiot,” Jack grumbled.

  Jack set his AKM in front of his fighting position and picked up his bolt action rifle. He looked through the scope at the approaching riders, now less than three hundred yards away. His view was diminished because of the water on his scope and eyeglass lenses. He scanned the riders from left to right. As his scope passed over the middle of the formation, he saw a rider that might be Jack Crow. It has to be him. He matches the description perfectly. Big black hat, big black moustache, Sam Browne rig.

  “They’re coming, Tig. Be ready,” Jack said loudly over the sound of the rain as it now became a downpour. Tig waved his hand in acknowledgment.

  Jack knew he would have to let Joe Crow get fairly near before he could take a shot because of the low visibility in the rough weather. Jack picked Crow out through the rain. Do this right. One through the head and end him, Jack thought. Jack calmed himself and controlled his breathing, then took up what little slack there was in the trigger and fired. A split second before Jack pulled the trigger, Tig Morris fired a shot, causing Joe Crow—among others—to flinch and hunch his shoulders. Jack’s bullet struck Crow’s hat, gaining just enough purchase on a buckle or hatband as it passed through to pluck it from his head.

  Jack snarled. Damn! If I’d shot at his chest he’d be dead now.

  He worked the bolt and ejected the fired case and chambered a fresh round. He tried to pick Crow out of the rain amongst the now charging horsemen but could not. He quickly switched to his AKM and muttered, “You’re in it now, Jack.”

  Jack opened fire on the horsemen closing on his position as fast as they could in the muddy conditions. Jack was making hits, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. Suddenly from the left Jack heard a volley of fire. Fearful it might be more raiders Jack turned and craned his head to see who was down there. It was Sergeant Norman and the rest of the Rangers from Teams 2 and 3, a hundred yards down the ridgeline pouring fire into the mass of raiders.

  From down the ridge among the horsemen Jack heard a voice shout, “Follow me Cuervos, follow me!”

  That must be Crow! Jack looked down the ridge and saw horses sliding and falling on the muddy slope. Many riders abandoned their mounts and tried to climb on foot, most of them fared as poorly as the horses. The Rangers to Jack’s left continued to throw rounds at the raiders, while Jack and Tig fired at heads as they popped into sight over the edge of the ridge.

  “Watch right!” Tig yelled.

  Jack saw a group of men who had made it up the muddy slope and were closing through the trees.

  “Down, Tig,” Jack yelled, showing Tig the grenade in his hand.

  Tig sunk into his muddy hole as Jack pulled the pin and hurled the grenade, the spoon spinning off and out of sight in the rainy gloom.

  The grenade exploded with a sharp bark, followed by screams of the wounded. Jack threw the second grenade down the slope along the path the raiders had climbed. The second explosion caused more screams from wounded raiders.

  Jack transitioned to his AKM as Tig resumed firing downhill. Jack could make out a small group of raiders gesturing at his position. He took them under fire and those that weren’t hit scattered.

  Jack rolled onto his side and fished a fresh magazine out of his mag pouch and rocked it into place in the magazine well of his rifle. As he turned and raised up to look down the ridge a black-clad rider on a black horse leapt over his fighting position firing down at Jack as he passed over creating miniature columns of water where the bullets hit in the flooded hole inches from Jack. One of the horse’s hooves struck Jack’s rifle and sent it flying. He recoiled away and twisted his left knee, grimacing in pain as he slammed into the side of the hole.

  Joe Crow leapt from his horse and shouted, “Yeah!” as he walked to Jack’s water-filled position.

  “I got you now, Ranger. You come close,” Crow said leaning forward, looking into the hole as he brought his pistol upward, “but no Ranger ever caught Joe Cr—” a shot rang out and Crow staggered backwards and fell with a bullet hole in his throat and an exit wound in the back of his neck.

  Jack lowered his pistol, smoke from the barrel barely visible in the damp air, and slithered out of the water and mud and approached Crow. He found him still alive, but barely. Jack glared into the raider leader’s eyes and said, “It was time for shooting, not crowing.”

  . . . . .

  Down the hill, the raiders had stopped trying to claw their way up the slope. They looked to the top, expectantly.

  “Buck, what happened?” a voice yelled out.

  Another voice called out, “Joe Crow is dead! He’s dead. That Ranger blew his head off. I seen it. I’m skinnin’ out of here! Jazz, let’s go!”

  Jack heard the nearby raiders, and remembered them from the road near Kings Town. The redhead. Jazz. Buck. I hope we meet somewhere down the road, he thought with a grimace on his face.

  A chorus of voices shouted similar sentiments among the fleeing raid
ers. The demoralized men ran and slid down the muddy slope, grabbing the first horse they could reach. Others ran after horses roaming loose in the water-logged field below. Some just simply ran away. Within minutes, the remainder of the raider force was nowhere to be seen, having faded away into the grey light and falling water. Over the sound of the rain Jack could hear horses screaming.

  Jack limped to Tig’s position and found the Ranger struggling to pull his way out of the water that filled the hole.

  “I thought that bastard got you,” Tig said. “He shot me in my other leg as he went by.”

  Jack pulled Tig from the hole and put a temporary dressing on the wound, which seemed to be minor.

  “Jack, can you hear me?” came the voice of Sergeant Norman.

  “Yeah, I can hear you,” he answered as he moved to the edge of the ridge.

  “We can’t get up the ridge to your position without circling around to the backside. It’s too slick. Mike and I are the only Rangers not wounded down here. We need to get to the medicos as soon as we can. Besides, those raiders may be back. What made them run?”

  “Your fire from the flank and Joe Crow getting killed,” Jack shouted.

  “You got him? I’ll be. Are you okay?”

  “I think so. I need to get Tig patched up and get Crow’s carcass on a horse. You guys get moving, we’ll catch up,” Jack yelled. He paused a moment. “Why did you come back?” he shouted.

  “What would you have done in my place, Jack? See you at the river crossing.”

  . . . . .

  Jack helped Tig onto Joe Crow’s horse and put clean dressings on his wounds, then hoisted Crow’s body behind the saddle and lashed it down. Jack covered the bodies of Ranger Wells and Ranger Smits with his parka for recovery at a later time.

  He found his AKM in the mud not far from his fighting position as he was securing the M60 machine gun and the other weapons strewn across the ridge top. The rifles he bundled together and left near the machine gun tripod. The M60 he strapped to the top of his rucksack; Crow’s pistols he stuffed inside the ruck.

  When he was finished, he limped to the horse and said to Tig, “You be okay here for a minute?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I have something I must do.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Tig said.

  A minute later, a shot rang out, followed by several more spaced a few seconds apart.

  Shortly after, Jack returned.

  “What were you shooting, raiders?”

  “No, horses. They were screaming.”

  “I didn’t know horses scream.”

  “They do. Let’s get out of here.”

  . . . . .

  The rain had slackened to a steady drizzle as Jack led the horse down the backside of the ridge. The incline was much shallower than the opposite slope and the horse was sure-footed, so they made it off the ridge without incident.

  They headed toward the river crossing. Jack and the horse moved slowly, partly out of caution, and partly because of Jack’s injured knee.

  A couple of hours later they arrived at the crossing and found the Washita swollen with turbulent water hurtling downstream. On the other side of the river Jack could see Sergeant Norman helping someone up the bank.

  “Ho, Rangers!” Jack yelled.

  “Jack. We had to run a rope guide to get across, but the river is running too fast for that now,” Norman shouted in reply.

  “We’ll go to the bridge upstream. Call the Rangers there and tell them to look for us. Tig has enough extra holes.”

  “Will do. See you in Mead,” he replied with a wave.

  . . . . .

  Two hours later, Jack was helping Tig down from Crow’s horse at the medic center in Mead. Jack asked for the whereabouts of Sergeant Norman and learned he was inside the med center checking after the wounded Rangers from Teams 2 and 3.

  “Tell him I’m headed over to ops,” Jack said after leaving Tig and the M60 in the care of Rangers.

  Jack led the horse to the operations center and tethered it in front of the building. When he stepped inside he discovered the room was full of Rangers in the midst of a heated argument.

  “I’m telling you we got him, Commander!” Sergeant Wright said angrily.

  “You saw this?” Straily asked.

  “No, Commander. Sergeants Norman and Traipse said he was dead, and that’s good enough—”

  “Well, if Ranger Traipse said it was so, it must be. If—” Straily stopped speaking and glared when he saw Jack enter the room.

  “About time you showed up. Looks like you got chewed up and spat out, Traipse. You lost three men out there with you and two more Rangers on the diversion got killed also, not to mention who knows how many wounded. That’s five dead Rangers because of your plan,” Straily said as Jack shook water from his clothes. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Jack glared back at the commander. “I’d say those deaths will bother me till my last, Commander,” he said ruefully. “We succeeded, and it wasn’t the plan that made it happen. It was Rangers doing what they do best.”

  “You succeeded? I don’t see a head. I told you I wanted his head. I think you are full of shit, Mr. Traipse. You got a bunch of Rangers dead or shot up, so you make up a tale to cover your ass.”

  “Commander, you are out of line!” Anne Anders said forcefully. “A Ranger doesn’t call a fellow Ranger a liar unless they know it to be true.”“Bull, Ranger Anders. If I want your opinion on—”

  Jack slammed his heavy rucksack onto the map table, interrupting Straily with the noise. “The head is outside, attached to a body draped behind a saddle. You said you’ve been face-to-face with the man. Go look and see if it’s him,” Jack said wearily, his voice tinged with a bit of anger.

  Commander Straily walked outside to the horse—followed by most of the Rangers in the room—and lifted the head of the corpse up by its dripping hair. Looking at the face he said, “I’ll be damned. You win some, you lose some, Joe Crow. Tell me what Hades is like next time we meet.”

  He turned and looked at Sergeant Norman, who had just left the medical center and was standing near the horse “What was the response when Crow went down?”

  “I didn’t know at the time what caused it, but once word got ‘round, panic and confusion. Especially among the non-Cuervo raiders. They’re a mess right now.”

  “Good! Get every available Ranger ready to move. We’re going to scatter some birds!” He turned and saw Jack in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He pointed at him. “Traipse, I’ll talk to you when I get back. We’ll settle up!” he said as he headed for the corral grinning.

  Straily strutted up the street and clapped his hands. “Hell, yeah!” he exclaimed.

  Jack watched the Rangers mount up and ride out, then retrieved his rucksack from the table and slowly limped his way through the rain to his quarters, the few Rangers he encountered gave him a wide berth. Exhausted, he dropped his ruck, LBE, and BDU top by his bunk then carried his rifles and pistol to the small table near the window to tear them down and do a basic cleaning.

  That will have to do for now, he thought when he finished. He turned the chair away from the table and rested his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.

  “Jack?” Sergeant Norman said, leaning in the doorway. “You okay? You don’t look so hot.”

  “No, I’m not okay, but I will be. You don’t look too spiffy either,” Jack said with a bit of a smile.

  Sergeant Norman laughed. “You did well out there, Jack. You made a few hundred new friends today, counting the folks in Kings Town and all the Rangers here.”

  “There’s also five families that will hate my guts for getting their Ranger killed, and rightly so,” Jack said bitterly.

  “Maybe, but I wouldn’t count on it. Things could have been a whole lot worse. You saw to it that it didn’t get worse. We lost five Rangers today, but we stopped the problem that’s been plaguing this place for months. You know how many Rangers we’ve
lost in those months? A lot more than five. We traded five good men for getting rid of a scourge that has affected thousands of people. That’s a trade Rangers will take any day. You know that. Get some sleep and you’ll feel better.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant Norman,” Jack replied.

  “Name’s Ed, Jack. That’s what my friends call me. I’m one of those friends you earned today. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  . . . . .

  Early the next morning Jack arose to discover the weather had cleared. On his way to the chow hall nearly every Ranger he passed greeted him warmly, many stopping to shake his hand. From them he learned that most of the Ranger force was still out pursuing the increasingly disorganized raiders. The tide had definitely turned and the road south from Tishomingo was once again open, as were the bridges across the lake. Relief was coming to Kings Town.

  While Jack ate breakfast, a messenger told him that Ranger Commander Straily wanted to see him in the operations center as soon as possible. Jack hurriedly shoveled what food remained on his plate into his mouth and gulped down a cup of tea then picked up his rifle and left the chow hall.

  As he exited, the familiar voice of Jennifer Lewis sang in his ears, “Jack Traipse. A moment if you please.”

  Jack turned and smiled when he saw her walking toward him, her dark hair shining in the morning sun. “I was on my way to see Commander Straily, but I suppose I can make some time, if you insist, Miss Lewis.”

  “Oh, I do,” she replied with a smile. “Are you okay? You’re limping.”

  “I tweaked my knee yesterday. I’ll be all right.”

  “Did a medic look at it?”

  “No... but based on the tone of your voice I’ll bet I will be having it examined in the very near future.”

  “Just as soon as you get finished with the commander,” she replied pointing her finger at him.

  “Okay, consider it done. You’re back. I’m glad.”

  “We heard what was going on and I was going to get over here as soon as I could, but we received so many wounded last night I couldn’t make it until now. Is it true this was your idea, going after Joe Crow?”