Hard Rain Falling (Walking in the Rain Book 3)

by William Allen

  That caused another rumble of laughter after Carmichael responded, “Well, we kinda figured the Kid had his in his pocket. If not, he might just get the idea in his head to shoot me and take mine!”

  That was another thing. These soldiers, the ones at the armory, had gotten to know me well enough by this point to start trying to hang me with a nickname. It was juvenile, something that would have fit in fine in a high school setting, and I laughed along with the names. As a kid, elementary and junior high anyway, I’d bounced all over the country as my dad followed the whims of the Marine Corps. I knew how to fit in as the new kid.

  So, over a period of days, they tried out Skywalker, Vader, and Anakin. Easy ones. Then they went with Cool Hand and Machete, and then for some inexplicable reason, settled on the Kid. For every one, I just grinned when they tried it out, never letting my smile waver. That was the secret. Don’t react to a bad one, or bang, it stuck like the Super Glue I used to seal up that gap in my head. For me, the Kid wasn’t so bad. I’d put up with worse.

  For these men, I took the nickname as a sign of respect. Barlow had seen me doing the job, and one of the other men, a black guy named Weeks that I didn’t recognize, had been along on Sergeant Jenkins run to link up with our convoy up on I-40. He didn’t talk a lot as a rule, but whatever he said about the scene there made most of the guys accept me on a provisional basis.

  Barlow was cool about getting us the training and about loaning us the machine gun for the Humvee once he realized Captain Devayne wasn’t pulling his leg. A colonel actually wrote out a receipt for the Humvee in question for our use.

  After killing a slew of gang members as well as at least forty men tentatively identified as Homeland Security agents, the unit was flush with ‘salvaged’ M-240Bs. That made me stop and wonder. Where were they getting the manpower? And the ordnance? Camp Gruber likely had a stockpile of some ordnance, but those Javelins are hot ticket items and limited in availability. All questions for another day, I decided. Anyway, we got one of those for our Humvee and several boxes of belted ammo. For self-defense, Sergeant Barlow stressed.

  He was riding in the second Humvee from the front of the column, and he would oversee the rest of the movement from that spot. The lead vehicle was a five ton made over into a badass ‘technical’ with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted over the cab and two of the M-240Bs pintle mounted, one on each side. Trailing Barlow’s Humvee was our SUV, with Lori and Scott in our Humvee behind us. Strung out behind were the third Humvee and finally, the second five ton with a rear mounted M-240B to act as a stinger.

  Barlow rode convoys like this in combat before, and the evening before kickoff, he gathered us all in the expanded motor pool to go over scenarios and to game plan for the next day’s objectives. The newly promoted staff sergeant was detail oriented and focused on the mission. After he completed his briefing, he sat listening as the men groused about not going on the much rumored but little discussed ‘Big Mission’.

  “Are you guys for real?” he finally asked; his voice cold and hard. “You all don’t even know where that crew is headed, but you’d rather be there. Let me ask you guys this question—why are we taking the five tons?”

  “Because someone thinks we need the firepower,” one of the soldiers responded.

  “Really? Why not take a Stryker? Or one of the MRAPs? Specialist Weeks, do you know why we are taking the five tons?”

  Weeks gave the staff sergeant a wry grin before answering.

  “Because they don’t run, Staff Sergeant. So we are stuck with the old war wagons.”

  “Gee, Specialist Weeks, what is the purpose of the objective?”

  “Staff Sergeant, the Red River Army Depot fixes wheeled vehicles for the U.S. Army. The place is also a holding point for repaired vehicles waiting to go back to their respective units, Staff Sergeant.”

  Weeks spoke in a weird cadence, which was something I finally recognized as the way recruits answered drill instructor questions at boot camp. Or at least how they did in the movies. I figured out quickly that Barlow was using Weeks to educate the rest of the men.

  “Oh, is that all? Hmmm. That sounds like a lovely place to help ease our mobility issues, don’t you think, Specialist?”

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant,” Weeks nearly barked. The other men finally allowed a few chuckles to trickle out as they saw the performance for what it was.

  “We need the wheels. Only thanks to our friends in the Arkansas National Guard do we have some of our Brads back online, and who wouldn’t like more? Like getting those fucking Strykers up and running. If we can get additional transport, we can do more good for ourselves and our people here.

  “So, we are going to travel quietly, open a dialog with whoever is left there, and see if we can work out a trade with these men. That is the plan. And tomorrow, we are going to proceed along Highway 270 east to Wister and take the bypass to highway 259 South. From there, continue on down south to Texas, and arrive at New Boston; hopefully before sundown. We will then recon the facility the next day and proceed accordingly based on what we find.”

  I looked at the map in my hand and wondered if we could really make it that far in a single day of travel. We were taking spare fuel and enough rations to last us three, maybe four days. I was still adjusting from the world of walking everywhere and hiding from the least noise. This motorized travel thing had a whole host of new dangers, and I paid particular attention to everything Barlow said in the briefing.

  That night, I held Amy close as we lay in our own barracks tent, surrounded by our new friends. The two of us made no excuses as we laid out our bedrolls side by side, and I noticed Scott and Helena copied the move without hesitation. The ten was what the military called a ten man tent, but the nine of us made for a snug fit, and that was with little Rachel and Kevin in the mix.

  “Is this really happening?” Amy whispered in my ear, her arm carefully draped across my chest to avoid any inappropriate areas. No, not that. She was being considerate in not to putting any pressure on my still stitched wound.

  “I know, right?” I paused, thinking how to answer her question honestly. “Yes, I think so. We’ve been through so much shit, and seen so many bad things happen, I can hardly believe it myself. But, tomorrow we will be heading out into unknown territory. Head on a swivel, love.”

  “Head on a swivel,” she whispered back, and stuck her tongue in my ear.

  ***

  “What are you thinking about?” Lori asked me, jolting me back to the present. She was still fuming about being separated from Summer but trying to be a good sport about it.

  With my silence, Lori looked over briefly and caught my blush. Then she started laughing, and suddenly her bad mood was gone. Amy, sitting in the back seat behind me, leaned forward to see what was so amusing.

  Lori didn’t wait to spill the beans.

  “Whatever he was thinking about must have been pretty good, given that red face. Want to share with the rest of the class?’

  “Well, I would except we have little ears in the car,” I stuttered out.

  “Oh, come on,” Kevin complained, “I won’t say anything. I just close my eyes when I see my sister and Scott sucking face.”

  We had Kevin and Rachel in with us, much to Connie’s chagrin. She took it in good grace when she realized the booster seat we scavenged for Rachel would not work in the Humvee. I also assured her the Suburban might look stock, but the armor was at least as good as what was found on the up-armored Humvees.

  And Kevin would not be separated from his new little sister. There was something sweet about how the kid doted on the little girl, and I think it was because he had been the baby for so long that he wanted to have someone to help.

  Rachel, still a little scared about everything in the world, accepted the assistance with good spirits anyway. Every time I looked at the little girl I wondered if she remembered me from the wild killing spree, the one where I likely gunned down her parents. I refused to feel guilty about how it al
l went down, but seeing her reminded me of something just out of reach; maybe to be more careful next time.

  “No thanks, Kevin,” I finally managed to retort, “that’s okay. I was just thinking about something else.”

  I was looking back and right on cue, Amy proved once again she could read my mind by sticking out her tongue. Not like a little kid on the playground. No, this was way different. Suggestive. I whirled around in my seat quickly and made myself pay attention to our surroundings.

  “Alright, kiddies,” Lori announced, “that’s our friends at Krebs Avenue coming up so be prepared to stop.”

  We had only gone a few miles, but beyond this last outpost would be the unknown I’d warned Amy about.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Once we cleared the roadblock on Krebs Avenue, the convoy steered back onto Highway 270, then continued on past the turnoff for the Thompson’s now abandoned home. We’ll cleaned out the last of their survival food and gear, stacking most in boxes and pails in the back of the SUV but splitting supplies so the Humvee was likewise stocked.

  We all had our packs close to hand and filled with all the essentials necessary to see us through to our destination even if we had to abandon the vehicles and proceed on foot. I asked Scott to help scrounge up components for eight new rocket stoves and then talked him through the process of constructing them. He thought these were cool, but he absolutely loved the design I gave him for the new wire snares. With these, we could more likely feed our group if we had to head out into the wilds. Of course, I didn’t tell Scott that Amy and I had still almost starved to death off what we could catch. He needed the confidence boost anyway.

  I still had my CETME, but was willing to abandon it in favor of the M4 carbine if we had to scoot. Yes, I’d come to value the rifle, something others referred to as a trash gun, but sentiment got you killed. I would drop it without a second thought if that was necessary. Okay, I would pull the bolt first; if I couldn’t use it, nobody else could either.

  I wanted us all on the same ammo, with interchangeable magazines for our rifles. Pistols were all still .45 ACP or 9mm, in deference to the ladies. Because I wanted Scott to have something that could be set to automatic fire, I gave him the UMP45 I’d never claimed but never even fired. It was a match for the ones Amy, Lori, and Summer carried attached to a strap on their packs, and I thought Scott was going to kiss me for it. I got him to settle for a manly handshake.

  So, enough about the weapons. We were set.

  The next few hours passed as the lead truck stopped frequently to push stalled vehicles out of the way. The boys in the shop back in McAlester built a cowcatcher style plow to mount on some of the trucks, and this one had the attachment. Not quite bulldozer or train, the blade still allowed the drive to shove large cars and trucks off to the shoulder. Sometimes a Guardsman needed to dismount and shift the bigger vehicles out of gear, and that was when we went to full defensive mode.

  Since the super secure radios were compromised and we didn’t want to advertise either our location or mission, Staff Sergeant Barlow made use of old Citizens Band radios and a simple codebook of phrases we could easily digest.

  After this many hours on the road, I was disappointed when we saw so little sign of people. We blew through Heavener, and then Smithville, and other than a few watchers perched on now useless water towers and billboards, I saw no one. Smoke rose from a few neighborhoods, but whether it was cooking fires or a home ablaze, we did not take the time to check. The Ouachita Mountains circled our route and though they weren’t towering peaks, I was still drawn to the high places. Maybe one day I could came back and explore, I thought, until the real world came crashing back. Hiking and backpacking for fun were no longer viable pastimes. Now it was all about surviving.

  We were just south of Broken Bow, re-entering the western arm of the Ouachita National Forest when the convoy came to a stop once again. Barlow had radioed ahead about a stopped semi jack knifed in the middle of the narrow two lane road, so while we slowed down to halt while maintaining our intervals, we were all on edge.

  I felt like we had eyes on us, and I made sure Amy and Lori had their UMP45s handy. If we came under small arms fire, crack the door and spray. Heavy weapons, the plan was to slam the SUV in reverse and egress the area. I was unwilling to see if the armor would stand up to a fifty caliber round.

  As for me, I had my own plans. Despite the wound burning a hole in my gut still, I was now mobile and could bail out the door as needed. If the shooting started, that is what I would do. It worked once for me, so why not roll the dice again?

  As the lead five ton crept up to the blocking truck, I tensed for action. Instead of a hail of bullets though, I was surprised to see a white t-shirt hanging from a branch come over the side of the road near the front of the big rig.

  I’m sure the .50 caliber gunner on the five ton nearly squeezed the butterfly trigger out of reflex; I’m sure I would have had I been in his shoes. This soldier, PFC Ramirez, was made of sterner stuff and resisted the urge. The rest of us tensed and I nearly rolled out of the truck at that point anyway, anxious to get clear. Because, nice as it was to have a bullet resistant ride, the Suburban didn’t offer a lot of offensive choices. I guess the theory was to get the agents where they were going in safety, and then they were on their own.

  After a moment, Barlow came over the CB and instructed the convoy to hold steady, and then I saw his door swing open. Don’t do it, I wanted to shout, but I held my tongue and waited for the shooting to start. I heard Amy whispering to the children in the back seat, probably trying to calm their nerves. Or her own.

  I saw Barlow standing with his back to us, and I could tell by their body movements the two men were suddenly deep in conversation. I got out my binoculars and studied the other man’s face. He had a dark complexion and a fine tracery of wrinkles around his eyes and what looked like laugh lines bracketing his mouth. He wasn’t laughing now, but he also was not radiating anger either. I saw an initial confusion and then a little bit of dawning comprehension light up those dark brown eyes.

  Barlow turned and sprinted back to his Humvee, and again I braced for combat that did not come. Instead, the staff sergeant got on the CB and ordered everybody to prepare for movement. Just then, the supposedly disabled eighteen wheeler jolted to life and the tractor began easing forward and pivoting the trailer out of the way. With the road clear, the lead five ton wasted no time hitting the gap and the rest of us followed.

  Beyond the blockage, I saw signs of habitation down to the left side of the road, over near a dogleg in one of the many creeks and rivers running through the national forest. Camp fires and a hastily evacuated tent city could just be glimpsed through the trees as we tore off down the road.

  “WTF?” Lori asked, and Amy answered first.

  “Somebody must have come through recently to get them all so spooked. Or, they had sentries further up the road to warn them of the columns’ advance.”

  Five miles later, Barlow signaled a break at a conveniently placed turnout in the road. I pegged this as a scenic overlook location, but no one other than the security overwatch that was set bothered to check. Whatever Barlow had to say, he didn’t even want to broadcast over the CB radios.

  I waddled up to the command car and stood while the staff sergeant pulled out a map spread it out on the hood of the vehicle. He started talking without preamble, and Amy proved to be correct on both her guesses. Somebody had come through recently to scare the hell out of the campers, and they had scouts about a half mile up the road to give warnings.

  “Those folks have been camping out in the woods since just after the event. Some squabbles with other locals but nothing too severe until yesterday when an armored column came roaring up to the road block. Their head man, who I know as it turns out, figured whoever was coming would eat them alive. They left the truck in place and bugged out to the deeper woods. They were just moving back in and here we come.

  “So, they were just about
to head out again, and maybe permanently relocate, when their scout signals that we were flying the state flag. So that was why Herm was waiting for us. Imagine my surprise… anyway, he tallied six armored scout vehicles and two of the new seven ton trucks running hard and headed south.”

  “Could they be some of ours? Or maybe from Fort Chaffee? Luke said they had more armor up and running than we do,” Carmichael said.

  “Maybe… but Herm is a former cavalryman himself and he got a look at the scouts. He said it was three LAVs and three Strykers. That’s an odd mix. He also said two of the LAVs had the 25 mike- mike turret, but the third was something else. Maybe a mortar setup.”

  “Shit,” Carmichael muttered and when he saw my confused look he gave a thumbnail summary.

  “We don’t usually use the LAV. That’s a Marine Corps scout vehicle. It’s not written in stone, but it’s unusual to see the two together. However, the DHS has plenty of toys and no rival when it comes to getting funding.”

  “And,” Barlow continued, taking over for his subordinate smoothly, “If they came down Highway 2 and crossed over on 3 from Antlers to Broken Bow, that puts them on a direct course for the depot.”

  I groaned. “A day ahead of us.”

  Barlow nodded. “We’re a day late and more than a dollar short. They likely outgun and outnumber us.”

  I got it. The McAlester Guard was counting on picking up more vehicles. This trip was at a considerable risk of their already functioning transport in hopes of securing more and better. They already used transport trucks as gun wagons because their traditional armored vehicles were mostly inoperable. That Captain Bisley had eight Bradleys up and running was the only way he could have risked losing these assets on a long shot like making a deal at the depot.

  On the other hand, if these guys were from Camp Gruber, then the state troops under Lt. Colonel Forshe would not have to face all that much firepower when they attacked. Those odds might change the outcome of the battle to come. If I understood Barlow, though, we couldn’t touch them either. Most likely, these armored scouts came from some type of secure storage since they still ran despite the more advanced electronics. I knew most Guard Strykers were still down, anyway.