Baker pulled four rounds from his pouch and started to reload his rifle’s magazine. “Sean, I hear shots from the west!” he yelled.
“I hear it too,” Sean said as he locked a fresh magazine into his rifle. “We have rads right here to deal with first. We’ll sort out the rest once we finish this.”
Baker loaded the last round and slammed the bolt forward and down “Think we’ll stop them?”
Sean yanked the bolt on his rifle to the rear and released it, chambering a round. With hard eyes, he smiled. “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Both Rangers resumed their fire.
. . . . .
Jack stopped. Even though he’d been unable to contact Ranger Hill for some time, he thought he could hear the faint sound of voices over the hissing static. He raised the antenna, moving around to see if it improved reception. He caught a snippet of voice, Ranger Michaels he thought. Another change of position improved things. He could pick out words through the static and pulses of interference, fragments of sentences, then noise, then more words. “—Cooper. Sergeant Traipse… up here… serious trouble… of us tried flanking, but got shot to hell… heavy casualties… out of ammo… more than fifty percent gone… force is left… falling back… Baker, Daley, Sikes… fell behind… anything can help them now… rest escaping west… are dead.” Suddenly the voice was gone, swallowed up in the Blastlands’ strange sounds. Jack keyed the mic in hopes of a reply, but heard nothing in return. He changed positions and tried again, but soon realized contact was lost.
Jack switched the TROG to shortwave. The same interference was there, but it didn’t seem as loud. He tuned in the Geneva Ranger field channel and heard Barlo’s voice.
“—should arrive this afternoon. Message repeats. To our friends in the east, greetings. Be relieved, baked goods are coming soon to a store near you. Many to choose from. Lead the way and share with a favorite uncle. It’s the best of the west and should arrive this afternoon. Message repeats. To our friends—”
He understood the message. It was coded in only the most rudimentary sense, phrased so only someone familiar with the things mentioned might fully understand. Barlo’s message was simple, Flour Power was transporting a relief force due that afternoon and included Art Sierra.
Jack switched back to the CB bands and heard nothing but the same interference as before. Maybe the relief force will be able to help those that are left, he thought. Jack turned to the southwest and grimaced. He fought the urge to run the many miles it would take to reach them. You can’t help them, but you can finish the mission. Whatever it takes, the missile and its warhead stay here. “Even if it kills me,” he said under his breath.
Jack stood and moved into the grass.
. . . . .
19
A Blast from the Past
. . . . .
“Sergeant Traipse, can you read me?” buzzed Jerry Michaels’ voice over the radio as the Rangers near him covered the body-strewn hillside from their positions. Single rifle shots cracked the air every few seconds.
“Sergeant Traipse, can you read me?” Michaels repeated the message a few times before he received an answer.
“Michaels, this is Lieutenant Geiger. We are somewhere to the west of you. Are you in peril?”
“Negative. Was that your fire we heard? We had a rad force attempting to flank us to the west.”
“We hit them from ambush, hard. Corporal Sierra set an ambush that was sheer butchery. They’re done for. What’s your location and status?”
Michaels relayed the coordinates of their position atop the hill. “We’re fine. Some wounded, but nothing serious according to Ranger Cooper. Sergeant Traipse picked some good ground up here. The rads are in serious trouble now. The group east of us tried flanking, but got shot to hell with heavy casualties. The main force charged right into our fire. Out of ammo for the Sixties, but we broke them. I’d bet they are more than fifty percent gone, all told. One of their leaders was trying to rally what force is left, but they are all falling back to the northwest. We keep putting fire on them to keep them running and under pressure. Baker, Daley, Sikes, and Young are putting long-range fire on them now, so you may hear their shots. The rads are moving fast and the leader fell behind. I doubt that anything can help them now. The remaining TGG are scattered. A small group went north and we saw a few escaping west. Most of them are dead.”
“You were trying to speak with Sergeant Traipse before? Where is he?”
“He’s out of radio range, but was headed for the silo designated Lima-Zero-Two. We believe that’s the silo with the missile still inside.”
“How many Rangers are with him?”
“He’s solo, sir. He sent his team members back to help us here. Thank goodness and fortune he did. It was a close thing, despite the lopsided score.”
“Solo… roger, we are en route to your position. Will approach from the west.”
“Roger. We’ll keep an eye out, sir.”
. . . . .
The ground sloped down and then back up again in the distance. Patches and strips of thigh-high grass grew across the area, stiff and resilient, it rustled in the gusting winds and Jack knew it would be difficult to move through without generating similar sounds.
On the distant rise, he could make out structures, canvas roofs, stacks of crates, a metal crane much like John described, and sandbag walls. That’s the silo, he thought. He pulled his bolt-action rifle from its place on the side of his ruck and looked at the encampment through the scope.
A large force of armed men moved north, spread out in a skirmish line. Just south of the camp, a trio of men held a sizable group at gunpoint near a sandbag wall. Jack was confident the men in the group must be Low Ones. The rads must be trying something. It’s Mr. Vaquero and his band paying a visit I’d wager. Hal was right.
Jack looked to the northwest. He saw movement, another group of people partially obscured by the terrain, moving east toward the same stand of trees the GGs were. Despite the distance and limited view, Jack knew they were rads. He could see they were led by a man wearing a large tan sombrero. Pretty smart, that Hal. Ought to be a Ranger, Jack thought with a smile. The smile quickly faded. He may be dead right now.
Despite the dark thoughts that passed through his mind, Jack recognized the opportunity. With far fewer eyes to spot him and the trio of guards dividing their attention between the Low Ones and their comrades moving north, this was the time to close. He stayed low and ran northwest as fast as he could, stopping often to make sure he was out of sight.
A few minutes into his move, a shot rang out from the north, then a flurry of gunfire. Jack guessed the three guards would be looking toward the fight, so he risked taking a more direct route to the silo by cutting through the grass at a sprint. He covered a hundred and fifty yards before he slowed. The gunfire petered off to silence, and then a few seconds later exploded into a full-blown firefight again. Jack moved slowly, working his way to the west of the silo. At one place he caught a glimpse of the people held at gunpoint. It gave him a reference point and he could see he was southwest of the encampment.
He scanned the areas visible to him: wooden structures covered in canvas; a pair of tanks labeled FUEL OIL; a large-wheeled cart for transporting the warheads west; the crane, a substantial metal contraption with swing arm, block and tackle, and a come-along connected to chains and ropes hanging down onto what he assumed to be the silo lid. He saw the pointed tip of something protruding upward…. Jack knew what it was. It was the upper part of a Minuteman II intercontinental ballistic missile, the reentry system housing a reentry vehicle containing one W56 1.2 megaton nuclear device. They’ve cracked the silo lid! he thought. You don’t have much time.
Time. Jack’s thoughts went that way for a moment. If we’d been one or two days later getting here, TGG would be gone. It might have been better if we had been slower. You can’t change the past. You can’t get your team back, but you can keep TGG from taking the warhead.
The gunfire to the north ha
d diminished to sporadic shots.
Jack wondered if he could hit the warhead from his current position, and then thought of the Low Ones and their proximity to the silo. If I could set off the explosives in the warhead from here, they’ll be irradiated. He looked at the tip of the missile and then to the Low Ones and their guards. I’m responsible for enough avoidable deaths today. Give them a chance, then blow the warhead.
He moved to his left and found a shallow cut in the earth caused by water runoff. He followed it up the gentle slope until he could catch glimpses of the encampment. He slipped his AKM over his back onto his rucksack and crawled through the grass until he could see the Low Ones through his riflescope. There were nearly twenty of them chained at the ankles in groups, their guards paying them little mind as they looked to the north.
Jack moved forward a few more feet until he had a clear line of fire at all three GGs. Two were but a hundred yards away, the third beyond the captives and standing on a sandbag wall with his hands shielding his eyes.
One GG turned and looked at the Low Ones. His head came apart with Jack’s first shot. The guard near him instinctively went into a crouch and turned, his head snapping back and forth. Jack fired again, hitting the man high in the middle of the torso. He sat heavily and dropped his rifle, staring across the open space toward Jack, but never seeing his killer before he toppled over onto his side.
The Low Ones were startled by the first shot, but by the time Jack dropped the second GG, many already saw the chance for escape. They urged those who didn’t realize what was happening to action. Jack caught but a glimpse of this as he sought the last man.
A group of captives fled, running almost straight at Jack. The remaining guard brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired a long burst at the group a hundred and fifty yards away.
Jack didn’t hear the bullets pass by overhead, they were high and wild and he was occupied with settling the reticle of his scope on the man’s head. Once there, he fired. The man fell and disappeared from sight behind the sandbags.
Jack saw those who were fleeing, fumbling and struggling with their chains. He was pleased to see the guard’s wild shots scored no hits. He stood, halting the group. They cowered, not knowing his intentions.
“Did the guards have the keys to your chains?” he said.
No one answered.
Jack raised his voice. “Did the guards have the keys to your chains?”
“Yes,” said a voice from those closer to the encampment. Jack saw a dark-haired man standing over the second GG he’d shot holding a set of keys over his head.
“Get free, get food and water, and get the hell out of here,” Jack shouted to the man. “You need to get a good twenty miles west before you’re clear of the radiation zone. Go southwest and find the Freelands.” The man waved and nodded.
“Who are you?” someone said.
“Just a Ranger who doesn’t get along with The Greater Good.” He gestured in the direction of the battle. “It sounds like the fight up there is over. You don’t have much time.”
Jack turned to the north. A bullet buzzed past his head, followed soon after by the report of a high-powered rifle.
“Move!” he yelled as he brought his rifle to his shoulder. He saw the man who fired at him, standing in grass 250 yards away bringing his rifle to his waist to cycle the bolt. Jack moved to target the man when another rose into a kneeling position a few yards to the man’s right.
He switched targets and his view through the scope showed the man was sighting him as well. Jack fired first, his bullet passing just to the side of the man’s scope, hitting him where the bridge of the nose and eye meet, punching through his head in a cloud of gore.
Jack dove to the ground, not waiting to see anything more. He knew the other shooter had all the advantages just then. A bullet buzzed overhead, clipping the nearby grass as he hit the dirt. Setting aside his empty Savage .308, he pulled the sling of his AKM over his head and slipped his rucksack from his shoulders. He rotated the AKM’s safety lever to its stop at the bottom of the receiver and crawled to the left. He stopped after covering a distance of ten feet and turned to face the direction where he thought the remaining shooter might be.
“Peter, you with me?” a voice yelled.
Jack tried to gauge where the man was.
“Peter!” There was a pause. “No. Apostles help me avenge.”
Jack shot up into a kneeling position and saw the other rifleman walking toward him, closer now and rifle at the ready, looking over the top of the scope. It was a contest Jack chose, one of iron sights versus riflescope, of who could put sights on target and fire an accurate shot first. Jack won, his round striking the man high on the left side. The man staggered backwards two steps before a second bullet punched through his chest. He fell into the grass and out of sight. Jack could hear the rattle of grass caused by the man’s thrashing and moved toward the sound, then stopped and sneered. TGG’s fight with the rads was over, evidenced by the band of men walking out of the tree line to the north. They saw him.
He turned and ran to the spot where his bolt-action and ruck lie. Shots rang out as he sought concealment in the grass and recovered his gear. He crawled westward, down the gentle slope to where the grass thinned, putting the ground and grass between himself and the GGs. A few hundred yards away he saw the people from the work party, now free of their chains, running to the southwest and fading into a stand of trees. Jack noticed the grass between himself and the newly-free Low Ones whipping sharply in the wind, the gusts now quite strong.
Cross slinging his bolt-action across his back, he moved north-northwest, trying to keep the slope between himself and the closing TGG men. He could hear their voices, but they were still too far away for him to make out what they said. Jack moved slowly over the ground, doing his best to leave no tracks, dragging the padded bottom of his ruck to obscure any marks he did see.
He changed direction and crawled into the grass toward the sounds, moving slowly and deliberately until he could make out an occasional word, the tones of the men denoted anger. He cupped his hands behind his ears.
“—they go?”
“The tracks say that way, but we need Scout Peter if we wish to follow the Low Ones. He is the most skilled.”
“Peter is dead. His passing was mercifully swift. The force that attacked here killed him along with the others. We should hunt them down if any remain alive.”
“First Joshua, now Peter. We have no more Scouts. Peter was our best.”
“Yes, and he kept the heathen from the silo. We’ll replenish the ranks of the Scouts with those in our group here upon our return to the Homeland. We need to recover the reentry system and leave this place as soon as we can. We can wait no longer for the team we sent to the launch control center. Without the Low Ones we face a difficult challenge. Perhaps we can gather a work party from settlements to the west, but first we deal with our tribulations here.”
“Well thought, Hab. What would you have us do?”
“Take twelve men and form search teams. Comb this cursed place and find these men if any live. I will take the rest and get the reentry system out of the silo and secured on the cart. If we can manage, we’ll take one or two other warheads with us. Join us as soon as you can, John.”
“What of the other warheads we recovered? We labored so hard to draw them from the earth.”
“We leave them for the radiation worshiping heretics as a trap. We use the remainder of our demolitions to send the heathen to their false gods should they return and attempt to take possession. If they do not, perhaps one day we return and make them our own. Quickly, may the Apostles and the Lord grant us a swift departure.”
Jack could not see the men who spoke, but based on their conversation, they still had quite a force if they could spare a dozen men to look for him. He decided to move west and find a place from which to fire.
“You four,” said the man called John, “go west. You three are with me. Sam, take those thr
ee south. Work methodically and swiftly. Do not assume they fled. Kill any you find, we’ve no time for prisoners or proselytizing.”
The sound of footfalls told Jack the men were on the move. The rustling of grass grew louder. He made himself as flat as he could, placing his rucksack to the side. The group drew closer and Jack consciously breathed deeply and evenly, remaining calm while trying to locate the men hunting him. He caught a brief glimpse of movement directly north of him headed west. He rose up enough to see them as they walked away and saw they were moving in single-file column. A quick look at the other two teams revealed they were moving south and southwest respectively, but in a line formation to cover more ground. He could not see the silo from his position.
He crawled toward the path the file of men had crushed into the grass, trying to leave little of the same sort of evidence of his own passage. When he reached the path, he found some of the large blades were already righting themselves. A quick peek showed the four men still headed away.
“Hey,” came a yell from behind Jack. He froze, resisting the urge to move to cover. “Spread out.” It was John’s voice. One of the men to the west acknowledged.
Jack considered moving on northward and risk being seen if the men turned before he was clear, but he decided to wait until the team nearest him made another pass and moved westward once again. A few minutes later they returned, headed east this time in a line formation like the others. He stayed still and saw the leftmost man in line would pass uncomfortably close to him. Suddenly they stopped.
“The grass is matted here,” one of them said.
“You see anyone?”
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about it. We’re looking for heathen, not holes in the grass. Unless you got tracking, who knows how long ago them holes been there. You got tracking?”
“No.”
“Then let’s get this done and get headed for home.”
The team moved on. A couple of minutes later, they passed by again, farther away and headed west again.
The Blastlands Saga Page 67