“They won’t be very accurate, but we just won’t use them for precision stuff. Didn’t the old warplanes have machine guns, too?”
Michael nodded. “Yes, but I have no idea how they got the bullets to go between the spinning propeller blades without just shooting off the propeller. Had to be a timing thing. I’ll ask Ethan if he can find something about that, but I can’t imagine there’s much of the internet left.”
Cassy frowned. That was a weird problem. Dean could probably figure out how they used to do that, but he was too busy on more important preparations and if she brought it up now, he’d grumble and mumble. Plane-mounted machine guns weren’t the top priority, so she dismissed the idea. Maybe Ethan would find something. “At least we can put some semi-auto rifles up there with the pilots so they can shoot down at any easy targets.”
Michael rubbed his jaw, thinking. “Yes, we should do that. Definitely. But I wonder if we could somehow strap weapons to the wings, too, far enough out so they don’t spray the propeller, and then rig up a single trigger in the cabin. There would be no way to reload, but we could get one good strafing run per sortie. Better than nothing.”
“Taggart’s soldiers had a few belt-fed machine guns, right?” If they could be persuaded to give a few of those up, some of the planes might make multiple strafing runs…
“Yes,” Michael said, “but they’re more useful with those soldiers on the ground than stuck on an airplane we probably aren’t going to use much after the first fight. We only get one shot at the surprise advantage. And besides, those are squad support weapons, not the big fifty-calibers. I think we should bring the planes out early in the war, not wait for a best moment, and then use them throughout the war, even after the surprise in the first fight.”
Cassy shook her head. He had a point, but so did she. “No. If we use them too soon, they’ll adjust their tactics to make our planes less effective and then, when the critical moment comes, our air force might not be able to get the job done. Or worse, the Empire might go find some old planes of their own. They have more resources than we do, for making war anyway. It’s what they do.”
“Very well,” Michael said, shrugging. He clearly didn’t agree, but he would follow her orders on this matter at least. Besides, they were both right. Cassy just had more strategic considerations to work with than Michael. It was the old “big picture” deal and that view was hers.
“So how are the Night Ghosts we found wandering around, and the two who found us?”
“A couple died. A dozen remain. There’s two dozen unaccounted for, including Nestor. The enemy just vanished—they’re on bikes, and they leave no trail or clue on pavement. They must be using the roadways to break up their trail. It’s an excellent light cavalry strategy.”
He almost sounded admiring.
“We have scouts out, like I asked?” She knew they did, but wanted to hear it from Michael.
“Of course. I have a dozen two-man teams from the Clan, Taj Mahal, and Taggart’s troops. They’re on horseback, they have most of our binoculars and maps, and they have strict orders to find Nestor or the raiders and then let us know.”
“They know to go to an ally with a radio, if that’s faster?”
Michael looked away, and his jaw clenched briefly before he said, “Of course, Cassy.”
She heard irritation in his voice and knew she deserved it. Why did she feel like she had to manage everything herself? She had capable people whom she trusted. “Sorry, I know you know how to do your job. I guess I just like to hear our plans unfolding, sometimes.”
“I give you reports,” Michael commented, his voice deadpan.
She hadn’t meant to insult him. “Sorry, Michael. I didn’t mean to jostle your elbow. It’s not you, it’s me,” she added, putting on a mock soap opera voice as she emphasized the last part.
He laughed at that, and the tension was broken. The rest of the trip had more pleasant conversation.
* * *
Choony stoked the small fire as they prepared to eat some more pemmican and dried fruit rings. They hadn’t eaten much else since leaving Clanholme this time, but Choony had discovered that if he boiled a small amount of water and then mixed in chunks of pemmican, they’d dissolve into a meat-and-grease gruel. Adding some of their flour allowed him to fry it up almost like grits. Meat grits. Okay, not for gourmets, maybe, but at least you didn’t have to chew it for hours.
Sitting on a rock next to the fire, Jaz munched her plain pemmican bar. “Just eat the damn stuff, Choon. You know it’ll never be, like, good. It’s still just meat and fat. Whether you eat it on a stick or in a bowl, it’s still crap.”
Choony glanced to the top of the hill, where they had stopped in the lee for lunch. It was rocky, which made it less comfortable but also easier to defend. “With the flour it’s more like gravy.”
“Crap gravy with an essence of orange, yum,” Jaz said, rolling her eyes.
Choony set their cast iron skillet over the fire, resting on some rocks he had set up for the purpose. As his “gravy” heated, he looked down the hill and out over the little valley. “More like Dutch apple pie,” he said, and got lost for a moment savoring the memory of that particular treat. Jaz looked wistful for a moment, too.
“Come autumn we’ll have more apples than we know what to do with. And more hard apple cider,” Jaz said, her voice rising at the end with excitement.
There was a glint down below, like metal or glass in the sunlight. “Did you see that?” Choony asked, straightening to a more alert posture.
Jaz dropped her pemmican for an answer and fell off the rock she had been sitting on, grabbing her rifle even as Choony sat taller. Crouched low now, she rested the rifle on her rock and peered through the scope. “Where was it,” she asked quietly.
“From you, eleven o’clock.”
Choony, realizing he had become a target sitting tall on his rock, squat-walked to another rock next to Jaz and opened the satchel she had dropped in the dirt next to her. Ten full magazines in this one, but they were the small five-round magazines that her semi-auto hunting rifle used, not the massive thirty-round magazines of the M4s and AKs. “Ready,” he said. This had become routine, now, though he often wished a routine wasn’t needed. See something, take cover, get ready to feed his warrior princess fresh magazines. Most of the time it turned out to be a broken bottle, or maybe an old license plate. Sometimes it was just a traveler. But once in a while, it was someone dangerous.
“Got it,” she said. A moment later, she added, “Two men and one woman. Three AKs. Bikes in the dirt nearby. Backpacks on the bikes. They’re eating. Looks like Empire.”
Choony nodded. The bikes didn’t mean they were Empire scouts or raiders, but it sure did raise the odds. The Empire raiders didn’t have a standard armament, though—they used what they could, from AKs to M16s to bolt-action hunting rifles. He had seen one with a crossbow, even. Choony began smothering the fire with dirt—water would make too much steam and smoke. “Maybe they won’t see us.”
Jaz didn’t take her eye from her scope. “That’d be awesome. I’m tired of getting shot at.” Jaz froze, and remained silent. A second later, she fired her rifle.
“Shit shit shit. They saw us. One down, two coming.” She fired again, but cursed.
“They saw you, you mean,” replied Choony as he pulled out one of the small magazines, keeping it ready for a quick reload.
“Whatevs.” Bang. Bang. Bang.
He handed her the magazine, and she had the expended one dropped and the new one inserted in less than two seconds. Down below, Choony heard the enemy keep up a steady rate of fire, but the ricochets were all over the place. “Good thing they have AKs,” Choony said.
“At this range. Not so much good if they get closer.” Bang. Bang.
Choony looked into the pouch to grab another magazine, but then Jaz let out a cry of pain. He looked up and saw her spin, landing face-first in the dirt. He felt his world shrink to a pinpoint and decided that if
she died, he would go with her. But as soon as sound and time rushed back around him, he grabbed the rifle and brought the barrel over his own rock. He wasn’t sure how critical Jaz’s wound was but in order to save them both, he had to at least postpone their enemies’ charge. He fired three rapid shots over their heads—it got them to crouch down, stopping their sudden rush which bought him little time to think of a plan. Then he heard Jaz cry out.
“Give me that shit,” snarled Jaz as Choony reloaded. She had risen to her knees again, but had a growing red bloom over her left shoulder. His heart soared—she was alive.
He handed the rifle to her without a word and marveled at her toughness. Shoulder wounds weren’t like in the movies, he knew. They could be some of the worst injuries with the longest recovery times, even if the victim didn’t bleed out from a pierced major artery. They were dangerous. But Jaz seemed to have gotten lucky.
Jaz snatched the weapon and raised it to the rock one-handed, sighted in, and fired once. She grunted in pain and tears streamed down her face, but she didn’t waver from her position. Bang. “We’re gonna get overrun,” she said matter-of-factly.
Choony reloaded for her after the fifth shot and handed the rifle back to her. That’s when he noticed that the enemies’ shots were now bouncing off the front of Jaz’s rock instead of all over the place like earlier, and he realized they had gotten dangerously close. If Jaz tried to pop up to shoot, she might get one, but the other would mow her down.
Choony made a snap decision and it felt right. Things were as they were, and he would live or he’d die. He jumped to his feet, arms over his head, and screamed at the enemy. He saw they were a mere twenty yards away or so, now.
As their barrels whipped toward Choony, Jaz fired two shots and he saw one’s head snap back as he toppled backward, but the other dove prone and Jaz’s second shot missed. Had she not been injured, she might have got them both. She yelled, “Get the fuck down!”
Choony dropped down to sit on his heels again and handed Jaz a fresh magazine. “If it’s stupid and it works, it isn’t stupid,” he said. “That’s what the Marines say.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jaz replied, and fired again. “Just don’t do that again. You may not be so lucky next time,” she said as she reloaded, but Choony noticed it took her a heartbeat longer than before. Her injury was slowing her. Then she popped up and fired again, ducking as a round came back at her from the remaining raider. Her jaw was clenched tightly, and her hair was matted with dirt and sweat. But it was the sheen of moisture on her face and arms that alarmed him. She was beginning to look pale, colorless. That’s when Choony realized she was going into shock, and there was nothing he could do about it right now.
Jaz reloaded again, bobbed her head three times as she stared at the ground, and then she bolted upright and snap-fired two shots. A cry from just downhill announced her victory. “Got you, fucker,” she said.
And then she collapsed. Choony grabbed her as she fell and lowered her gently to the ground. He whipped his military field kit out of its belt pouch, took out the EMT scissors, shears, whatever those were called, and began to cut away Jaz’s torn and bloody shirt. “Stay with me, Jaz,” he said as his voice cracked.
Choony was definitely not centered.
* * *
General Ree sat in his tiny work center office, filling out paperwork. It was the bane of a combat general, but even as the world faded into a new Dark Age, he couldn’t escape it. Without printers and scanners, it took even longer. For the thousandth time, he cursed the Americans for using EMPs on targets across the globe. The last gasps of a dying empire had plunged the world into darkness—including Ree himself.
Across the desk, in a simple swivel office chair, sat Major Pak Kim, who managed the day-to-day operations of the People’s Worker Army. Some blind fools called them slaves, and maybe in some degenerate sense they were, but if so, it was for their own good.
“Big brother,” Kim said, using the familiar-but-respectful honorific, “your forces in the City grow hungry. They aren’t starving yet, but we need to get a lot of food to them and quickly. Your loyal troops have quelled some unrest already.”
Ree could understand the feeling. Although his rank entitled him to food in plenty, he had cut his own rations in half. Every sandwich he ate could keep a member of the Worker Army alive for another day. He hadn’t told anyone of his noble sacrifice, of course—the approval of his ancestors was reward enough—but eventually questions about his health began and he had to tell people.
He didn’t mind the accolades he received for his selfless sacrifice, but worried that soldiers might follow his example. They had to stay strong to fight, to guide the Worker members, so Ree was thinking of issuing an order that all troops eat their full allotment.
“Of course. I appreciate your commitment to your duties,” Ree said, putting his pencil down and folding his hands. “Let me ask you something. Should I commit another quarter of my forces to the journey to resupply New York? Let me hear your thoughts.”
“No. I think another loss like that will be the end of us.”
“What, then?” Ree asked. That hadn’t been the answer he expected. The major was not the brightest man, outside of organization skills, but Ree would never overlook a good idea just because of the source.
“Sir, it seems to me that we are the trout swimming upstream in the Taedong River. We may make it to our destination, but we will struggle to do so and success is not guaranteed. Perhaps the General would consider an alternative.”
“Perhaps. Share your thoughts, Kim. Let us see if your intellect is in harmony with that of the Great Leader.”
Kim bowed, hands together. Then he leaned back in his chair and said, “Perhaps the General has been thinking of returning our entire army, and half of the People’s Worker Army, to the safety of New York City. In this way, you may believe that we would all be safer from Taggart and allow him to starve without our supplies to steal to ease his burden.”
Ree’s eyes narrowed as he evaluated Kim. He looked relaxed, the perfect picture of calm. So then, he wasn’t questioning Ree’s plans. That was good for Kim’s health. And the idea had some merit, though it created new questions in his mind. “I may have had that thought. If I had, little brother, how do you think I would plan to feed our army and our people?”
The corners of Kim’s lips twitched upward for just an instant. He was no doubt pleased to believe that his thoughts were in line with what his leader had been thinking. “Sir, I know that it has occurred to you already that the Americans will eat one another, if they are hungry enough, and that it would be a simple matter to gather citizens of the City to feed the loyal Worker Army. Perhaps even presented in stew to make it easier on their consciences.”
Ree nodded. That was indeed true. His workers wouldn’t even need to know where the meat came from. They would guess, but they would also choose to believe Ree’s official explanations. “And what of the vegetables and fruits? What of the nuts? How do you imagine I plan to bring those with us and then grow them in the City?”
Kim shifted in his seat, eager. Ree didn’t show his displeasure, of course. But that lack of discipline was disgusting in an officer of the glorious Korean People’s Army. Ree said, “Be calm, little brother. Tell me.”
Kim nodded and said, “I know little compared to you, my leader. All I can think of is that we could easily bring all of our seeds and seedlings with us, and use Central Park as our new farmland. We could use rooftops and balconies, as well, because even without power, most of the City has plenty of water pressure. Most of the City gets its water from aquifers at higher elevation.”
Ree favored him with a smile, and nodded. “You are not wrong, Kim. I have had such thoughts. I would of course need to rely on my favored administrator to organize such a massive migration.”
Kim stood and bowed, holding the position until Ree waved his hand. Kim said, “I thank you. Such a compliment brings me honor in the eyes of my ancestors.”
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“Yes, yes,” Ree replied. “You may leave me now. I need to return to considering how best to move so many people safely, if I do decide we should return.”
Kim briefly bowed again and then headed toward the door. He grabbed the handle, but then turned around. “Sir… it occurs to me that we could bring all of our pigs, as well. They eat whatever is given to them, just like the People’s Worker Army. I know you had the thought as well, but I would fail my duty to you if I didn’t mention it.”
Kim left, closing the door softly behind him and leaving Ree alone in the office. Ree leaned back in his chair and looked up at the foamboard ceiling. Could the answer really be so simple? Had stupid Major Pak Kim solved the dilemma Ree faced? The more he thought about it, the more the idea seemed like a solid solution to his problem.
Once safely back in New York, he could use up as many Americans as he needed to feed his workers. Pigs would provide meat, at least for some—such as for him and his officers—and could be carefully raised and bred for the future, as well. Central Park had plenty of open space, and even trees for lumber.
Ree thought of the many fruit and nut trees throughout his area. Branches could be cut and the ends kept alive in damp soil, in buckets, and he could plant those to create new food trees in the City. They could take the place of the useless ornamentals currently in the park.
Yes, this could work. Would Taggart dare attack Ree’s entire force? He would need to use his entire army to do so and would probably lose such a battle. It would be all or nothing for Taggart, and he doubted his adversary would be so reckless.
Once in the City, Ree would be bottled up, but that was nothing. He’d have the island. Central Park. Fishing. It would be easy to raid across the river, putting that damned Taggart on the defensive for once. And with all the Worker Army gone, all the gear and equipment and seeds and food gone, Taggart would have to fend for himself instead of expanding at Ree’s expense.
Another thought struck Ree. The Americans’ delusional general, who thought himself their Commander-in-Chief, would have simple, direct access to Taggart once Ree’s troops were no longer blocking them. Ree allowed himself to smile for a moment. “Taggart, you are the mouse. One shouldn’t be friends with a cat, if one is the mouse…”
Dark New World (Book 5): EMP Resurrection Page 22