Seasons of Man | Book 2 | Reap What You Sow

by Anderson, S. M.

  “What do you have, Mr. Park?” Skirjanek asked as he approached, coming around the cold firepit. The way Skirjanek looked and moved reminded him of a wolf from one of those nature channel shows. Not a big guy by any means, the colonel’s face was all sharp angles and looked like it had been chiseled out of ice.

  “I think this counts as a threat, sir.”

  The colonel watched over his shoulder in silence for less than a minute before he pointed at the edge of the screen. “Can you pan back northward?”

  The colonel’s finger danced above another line of vehicles moving in on the city from the northwest. “Tell me that isn’t an Abrams, Private.”

  “Can’t do, sir. That is definitely a tank.”

  He watched Skirjanek pull his radio out and then pause. “How much loiter time do you have left?”

  “Just over an hour, sir. I spent a couple of hours close in to us. This thing is just a regiment-level artillery drone; it’s nothing like a Raptor or the big Global Hawks.” He pointed at the ground to his side. “Though I do think we have a Raptor or two somewhere in the basement.”

  “Good work, Mr. Park.” Skirjanek clapped a hand on his shoulder and moved a few feet away.

  “Eagle One, for Wolf One. Eagle One, for Wolf One.” So much for radio silence, he thought. Park kept his eyes glued to the screen as he listened in. The colonel was calling the gunny and that quiet Russian cat.

  “This is Wolf One.” It was the Russian’s voice coming back over the radio, and he wondered immediately why Gunny Bruce wasn’t “Wolf One.”

  Cam listened in to their whole conversation and was looking up at Skirjanek as the colonel dropped his radio to his belt and just stared at him for a moment. “You really checked out on a Raptor?”

  “Ah, hell no, I mean, no, sir.”

  “Relax, Mr. Park, this isn’t the Marine Corps.”

  They were all struggling to get used to Colonel Skirjanek and Captain Naylor going super lax on the whole military thing. The gunny had explained it as the need to integrate the civilians they had with them, even as they trained them up. Gunny Bruce had also shared that the colonel felt it was important that their group of gypsies developed something more than just duty to hold them together. He wasn’t sure what he thought about all that, or the reasons behind it, but he liked the idea of keeping the laid-back way that had developed while they’d been in The Hole. They’d all known the El Tee was in charge, until he wasn’t. Then it had fallen to Gunny Bruce, and now it was Colonel Skirjanek.

  “Sir, I just meant I spent a lot of time playing with the flight simulator; we all did. It killed some hours, sir. I don’t think any of us are like officially checked out on most of the stuff down there. We’re Marines, sir. Everybody knows we don’t get new gear until you Army guys wear it out.”

  The colonel smiled at the old joke, but he could tell the man’s mind was far away.

  “You think they’re friendly, sir?”

  “I think friendly is probably a stretch, Mr. Park. From the few survivors we’ve come across, trust has been an issue. The question will be; are they somebody we can work with or somebody we can’t?”

  “Got it, sir. I’ll shout if I see anything new?”

  The colonel nodded at him and then, as an afterthought, turned fully to face him. “Well done, Mr. Park. I’m glad I’ve got people like you to rely on.”

  “Yes, sir. My pleasure, sir.” This guy was pretty cool. For an officer.

  “Captain Naylor tells me your PT program is progressing well; you certainly are looking better. Stick with it. I’ll be running with your group this afternoon as long as Wolf Team stays out of trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.” Freaking officers, just when you think they’re chill, it’s the old sugar-then-spice sneak attack. “I’ll be there, sir.”

  The presence of the Russian soldier speaking to him was still throwing Gunny Bruce curveballs. He’d heard the story of Skirjanek’s experience in the Antarctic from the man himself; most of Captain Naylor’s submarine crew and a good many of the civilians who helped make up the strange band of survivors who had rescued him and his men from The Hole. He knew on an intellectual level that Pavel, the former Russian Spetsnaz, belonged with Skirjanek as much as any of them did. The end of the world was the only thing that had brought any of them together.

  Pavel’s story, delivered by Skirjanek himself, seemed even crazier. He and his fellow Russians were a very long way from home and had, for the time being, given up on an effort to get home. He understood the whole “Everyone is dead—what does it matter where you are?” sentiment. During their two-man patrol following a state highway west towards the interstate, there’d been bodies, some scavenged down to skeletons; others were masses of rot and clothing covered in bugs. In the small town they’d just passed through, there’d been a reminder every few paces of the simple fact that the world had moved on from people. That said, he couldn’t help but think if he were a Russian, or an Italian for that matter, he’d want to face the future at home, wherever that happened to be.

  “I know the colonel seems like a good guy and all,” he said as he watched a hawk or a small eagle dive on a rat the size of a house cat and then struggle for altitude. At least rats weren’t the only thing making a comeback; they’d seen more birds of prey in the last two days than he imagined could exist in any single area. It was like watching nature’s air show conducting bombing runs all around them. The rats were so numerous they were oblivious to the threat from above and wouldn’t even register a response until one of their brethren was already airborne, squealing in the grip of a raptor. “I would have thought you and your countrymen would try to get home.”

  “I’m not a sailor.” Pavel shrugged, watching the same bird struggle for altitude. “You did not see the survivors we encountered in Cuba or Miami. It is same everywhere. Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Rostov-na-Donu would be no different.”

  “Rostov . . .?”

  “Na-Donu, it means next to the Don river. It is where I am from.”

  “It’s a nice place?” Gunny Bruce had no idea what to say; he was just trying to be friendly, and if he was being honest with himself, it was a relief to talk to anyone who wasn’t a member of his own unit. By this time, he knew details about his fellow Marines that he’d just as soon forget. There was no sane reason to explain why he should know that Elliot’s family opened their presents on Christmas Eve, except for the nice one that was held back for the actual day. But he did know; that and a thousand other details about all of them.

  “I have not been there for many years.” Pavel stopped walking at the intersection they’d been working their way towards, pointed at the road signs, and then looked at him expectantly.

  “I think this is why the colonel selected the two of us for this patrol.”

  “Sorry? You just lost me.”

  “Which way to go?” The Russian spread his arms, indicating the T intersection. “Who decides? You or me? We are both senior enlisted men. I think the colonel hoped we would come to an understanding while we are out here.”

  He’d been worrying about how to think of Pavel. Was he a comrade in arms? Part of Skirjanek’s inner circle? Or just another survivor wondering where he fit in? The Russian, and apparently Colonel Skirjanek, were way ahead of him.

  “I’m just a gunnery sergeant,” he answered. “We were always told senior enlisted in the Russian Army were more like our officers.”

  “I believe this is true,” Pavel answered, “because many of our men are still drafted and not good soldiers. The ones who stay for a career are the best soldiers. But we are not in Russian Army.”

  “What was your rank?”

  “I was a starshy praporchik.”

  “Starshy pra . . .?”

  “Starshy praporchik; Captain Naylor tells me this is like your chief warrant officer in rank.”

  “Then you have me beat by a mile.” He indicated the intersection. “You decide.”

  “You would take orders from me
?”

  “We still talking about which road to take?”

  “This is not what I meant.”

  He caught himself grinning and realized it was a relief to have a fellow NCO above him to screw with. “Look, I trust the colonel. He seems squared away, and he trusts you. That’s good enough for me. You clearly outrank me, so unless you give some bullshit order that fucks with my Marines, I’ll follow your orders.”

  Pavel accepted this with a nod and then looked at him strangely. “My English is still improving, so I may have made mistake in understanding the colonel.” Pavel pointed to the two of them. “I believe this was his desired result.”

  “I’m sure it was,” he agreed. It made sense to him as well.

  “Why would the colonel not just order it so?”

  “You heard his little speech to my guys, whatever he’s putting together here; the Gypsies? He doesn’t have the authority to order any of us to do anything—”

  “But, that is no way to run a ship,” Pavel interrupted.

  “Exactly.” He was about to continue when the Russians words caught him. “You’re not a Navy guy, are you?”

  “Stalin’s balls! I am Army. Navy is perfect for getting you to a fight or maybe for rescue from a horrible death in a frozen wasteland, but a real soldier . . .”

  “Right, OK, I’m glad we agree on that, because I was about to reassess our pecking order. But you get it, Skirjanek’s right. He can’t rely on authorities that don’t exist, flags that no longer fly. There has to be something else holding us together. We trust the colonel’s judgment. You and I have our professionalism, I guess you would call it.”

  “Professional respect?” Pavel offered.

  “Exactly.”

  Pavel pointed at the road sign again. “So, which way? These signs make no sense to me.”

  “Left to the interstate.”

  They walked for nearly ten minutes under the trees that lined the road before Pavel turned to him. “Your Marines are subservient to your Navy, yes?”

  He thought he could see the laughter in Pavel’s cold blue eyes.

  “Not anymore.”

  It was an hour later when the colonel radioed them.

  “Wolf One? That’s you.” He smiled and handed the radio over to Pavel.

  The conversation was short, and he listened in, raising his eyebrows at what the colonel reported he was seeing via the drone over Richmond. Skirjanek asked that they hold in place and wait for transport that would bring Farmer and Nathans to them as well as additional supplies.

  “Rough count of between five and eight hundred militia on the offensive, circling city in an arc from northwest to southeast, driving southwest towards city and river on far side of city. They have assorted APC, and technical support, and at least one, I repeat, one Abrams tank. No sign of air support. Defensive force is holed up so far. We have no count, but resistance appears to be ineffective.”

  The surprise on Pavel’s face mirrored his own.

  “Please repeat, Eagle,” Pavel asked. “Confirm number of troops on offensive.”

  “Offensive force appears between five and eight hundred, rough count.”

  “Understood, Eagle One. Holding position.”

  Pavel snapped the radio to his own belt as they just stared at each other.

  “That is the largest concentration of survivors we have encountered,” Pavel said.

  “By how much?”

  “We saw one group of perhaps one hundred people outside Miami. They were on the shore watching us as we sailed past. They were armed, and we did not make port.”

  “If this group has eight hundred shooters, how many people you think they’d have to have?”

  Pavel just looked back at him for a moment before answering. “We can assume many more.”

  Skirjanek’s Gypsies had access to equipment that could handle just about any contingency. The problem was they had a grand total of thirty-three personnel with military backgrounds and a roughly equal number of civvies, most of them glorified meteorologists with PhD after their names. They couldn’t begin to use the gear they had access to. Now, it sounded like Poy’s drone had found what Skirjanek had been looking for. It would be up to them to figure out if this was what the colonel had been hoping for or fearing.

  Pavel just looked at him for a moment before moving farther off the road, taking a knee, and spreading out the map he had. “What do you know of this Richmond?”

  “Not much, it’s a small city about twenty miles west of here. A buddy of mine got married there a few years ago . . .” He noted the legs of another corpse lying out on the shoulder of the road ahead of them. Most of the torso had been reduced to the skeleton. “I’m guessing it’s not the place I remember.”

  “No,” Pavel agreed, following his eyes to the corpse.

  *

  “What the hell? This is more of a cattle drive than a battle.” Lucas “Farmer” Hanson had the team’s best pair of binoculars at the moment and had the best view of what was happening along the Richmond riverfront. Pavel had made the decision to set up on the south bank of the river, and it had proven to have been a fortuitous choice. Whatever was happening in the city had come to them. The city’s defenders had been driven to a large riverfront plaza backed by two tall office towers.

  “Tell that to the poor bastards who didn’t run.” Trey Nathans was lying prone with his sniper rifle. He had a much tighter, clearer view of what was happening through his scope than that provided by the binoculars. Gunny Bruce was having a hard time putting a label on what they were seeing, but he more than understood Nathans’s anger. There were perhaps five hundred people down there. Civilians who had “escaped” the assault.

  Driven through the city, they were now surrounded by the invading force that ringed the plaza with a weird combination of Bradleys, five-ton trucks, commercial “technicals” sporting what looked like M-60 machine guns, and one very conspicuous Abrams tank. Armed invaders worked through the crowd in small squads, disarming everyone.

  The characteristic whine and rattle of other Bradleys operating out of sight within the city could still be heard from their vantage point on the south side of the river. At this point, the remaining gunfire was sporadic or seemed to be for show. It was a strange calm after every defensive position they’d been able to see had been overrun. In almost every case, for the defenders, to run was to survive. Those defenders who had stayed behind their guns had all been killed. The one exception had been a group that had managed to knock the tracks off a Bradley before plastering it with Molotov cocktails. The survivors from that group had been gunned down as they ran to their next position.

  They’d only had direct eyes on that one firefight. If it had been indicative of other actions they could hear throughout the city, the defenders who had stood and fought had exacted their own price on the attackers, whoever they were.

  “They are not very good soldiers,” Pavel added, sounding a lot more clinical than most of the comments that had been put forth over the last few hours.

  “They aren’t soldiers,” he replied. “I think they just got to the gear first.”

  “They are organized,” Pavel replied. “They are staying with the units they arrived at the river with. They are following someone’s orders.”

  He’d seen that too. It hadn’t rained in the week since they’d emerged from The Hole. The river separating them from the city was spotted with hundreds of islands of exposed rock. There appeared to be some deep channels between the rocks, but they were deceptive. From their position, it almost looked like someone would be able to walk across.

  “Same could be said for my old Boy Scout troop,” Farmer replied.

  “Your Boy Scouts do much in the way of mechanized assault?” Nathans fired back.

  “Guys! Get your counts.” He raised his voice an octave. “Get as much intel as you can.” If he didn’t stop them, especially Nathans, the arguing wouldn’t end.

  “All carrying your M4s,” Pavel noted. �
�They are . . . what is the word? Homo . . . ?”

  “Homosexual?” Nathans asked. He had to suppress a smile. Nathans wasn’t being a smart-ass. He was confused.”

  “Homogeneous, Trey.” Farmer didn’t take his eyes away from his binoculars. “Means same as standardized.”

  He thought he could see Nathans shrug in response, but their marksman remained glued to his scope.

  “Now that you mention it,” Lucas added, “they all look to be carrying the same tac radios. These guys hit the surplus store hard.”

  “You are certain these are not military personnel?” Pavel asked them all, his own eyes glued to a smaller set of binoculars.

  “I watched that tank struggle to stay between the buildings,” he answered. “Whoever is driving it is a civilian. Those guys manning the M-60s in the backs of those technicals look as likely to shoot their own guys as they are the people they’ve been fighting.” Bruce shook his head. “But I think you’re right, Pavel. I think we’ve got a soldier running a clown show.”

  A clown show that had probably killed a hundred or more people over the course of the day. They’d know more if Poy had been able to refuel and get the drone back up. Once they returned, they could replay its camera footage over and over and compare it to what they’d been able to see firsthand for analysis.

  “Another group being pushed down that main road,” Nathans reported.

  He picked the group up as soon as they cleared from behind a salmon-colored office building. It was a small squad of seven defenders who looked like they’d been through a meat grinder. They were disarmed, and most of them had been wounded. One woman in particular was being held up between another woman and a man, almost being dragged between them. A newish-looking Army JLTV rolled behind them, flanked by another dozen or so armed attackers on foot.

  They watched, as did the gathered crowd of civilians, as the large truck pushed slowly into the crowded plaza. Whoever was riding shotgun in the JLTV hopped out, and climbed up on the hood of the truck as soon as it pulled to a stop. He was shouting at his men, who moved the seven prisoners to the river’s edge atop the stone river walk. They could all see the man on the hood of the truck, shouting at the crowd with an occasional arm raised in the direction of the river. The man couldn’t have known it, but he was also pointing at them hidden within the foliage of the opposite bank.