The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time

by Raymond Dean White

  As the man and his tired horse thundered up to their position, Adam and his men burst out of the trees surrounding the startled man, forcing him to halt.

  “Are y’all from the Deseret Defense Force?” the man asked.

  “We are,” answered Adam, coldly.

  “Thank God!” the man exclaimed. “We’re a fightin’ for our lives back there.” He waved his arm behind him. “Raiders! Tons of ‘em. They done burnt the barn. By the time ah got out they was tryin’ for the house.”

  Adam only paused for a second. There was something about this man he didn’t care for, aside from the fact that he was a Gentile and didn’t know how to treat a horse. But raiders were raiders and eliminating them was his business, especially since the attack on Provo.

  “Sergeant O’Malley,” Adam snapped the command to the noncom in charge of the remuda. “Front and center with a remount.”

  “Yes Sir, Colonel!” O’Malley responded, forcing his way through to Adam with a fresh mount. O’Malley had been with the Colonel long enough to anticipate the command.

  “Mister...” Adam paused, looking at the man.

  “Beeman,” the man replied quickly. “Walt Beeman, from...”

  “Texas,” Adam stated, completing the man’s response. Adam generally didn’t like Texans either. “Well, Mister Beeman, as soon as you swap mounts we’ll be heading out.” His tone left no room for argument and Walt Beeman hurried to comply.

  “Scouts out! Flankers out!” Adam snapped the command and the men in question spurred away.

  “Move out! Match pace! Column of fours,” he ordered, then nudged his mount to a lope. “Remain beside me, Mister Beeman,” Adam commanded, adding, “How far to the fight?”

  “Three an’ a half, mebbe four miles, Colonel,” Beeman answered, “An’ Colonel? You can call me Walt.”

  “What sort of armaments will we be facing, Mister Beeman?” Adam was not the sort who thawed swiftly.

  “Waal sir,” Walt drawled, ignoring the rebuff. “They mos’ly got rifles an’ pistols.” He paused briefly before continuing, “an’ a armored personnel carrier with two 50 caliber machine guns an’ a flame thrower.” As Walt turned his head toward Adam he said, “Tha’s how they burnt the barn.”

  Adam looked over at Walt and said, “APC, huh? You like to save the best for last.”

  Walt grinned back, “Ah had tuh make certain-sure y’all were comin’ a’fore ah spilt that partikler bean.”

  For the first time since meeting Walt Beeman, Adam looked at him with something akin to warmth. The man wasn’t as stupid as he sounded.

  “So how did you know we were in the area?” Adam asked, gesturing to include his 120-man complement.

  “Mountain man an’ his fam’ly drifted through las’ night. They said y’all was up thisaway roustin’ raiders,” Walt replied. “When we got hit this mawnin’ ah figgered you was our only hope. Ah surely am glad you was close.”

  “You were lucky we were close,” Adam said curtly, “Your horse wouldn’t have lasted another mile.” He made a mental note to ask his scouts how his company could have been observed by anyone, even a mountain man, without their having noticed it.

  “Yessuh, Colonel,” Walt said and ducked his head at the uncomfortable thought. “Ah had tuh run him hard through some woods tuh get away, an’ ah rek’n ah jist got scairt.”

  Adam looked over at Walt and favored the tall, lanky Texan with a small smile.

  “It can happen,” he admitted. And Beeman did look ashamed of himself. And it was an emergency.

  “You any good with those guns?” Adam asked. A Winchester 3030 carbine protruded from Walt’s scabbard and a Ruger Redhawk .44 magnum hung snug in a holster at his hip.

  Walt shrugged and said, “Passable.” He drew the .44 from his holster, flicked open the cylinder and ejected the cartridges from it into his other palm. He tucked the spent brass into a shirt pocket, to save for reloading and began thumbing in fresh rounds from the belt loops on his holster.

  “Ah fergot tuh reload,” he said sheepishly.

  Captain Cheryl Cummins, Adam’s second in command, a tall woman with short, chestnut brown hair and a spray of freckles across her nose, had almost drawn her own weapon when she saw Walt’s hand start for his gun, but a subtle signal from Adam dissuaded her. Several other nearby troopers also relaxed at that signal. No stranger drew a gun around the Colonel without being covered; but if Walt noticed anything out of the ordinary, he gave no sign.

  Adam noticed the slugs Walt was loading were hollow-points that had been dum-dummed by having an “X” carved across their tips. Such treatment would cause the bullet to shatter when it hit, reducing its penetration but dramatically increasing its shock power. Hit a man in the hand with a round like that and you might just tear his arm off at the shoulder. Hit him in the chest and instead of an exit wound, you’d have four chunks of hot lead ricocheting around inside his rib cage. Lethal.

  “How’d you happen to get away?” Adam asked.

  “Ah was ridin’ herd when they hit,” Walt replied. “Ah heard the shootin’ an’ rode in tuh help, then skedattled when ah saw what they was up against.”

  Made sense, Adam thought. And the story fit with what Adam’s own eyes told him, as well as being consistent with the fact that in recent years some of the folks in this area had started ranching. He had already noticed the coiled lariat slung over the pommel of Walt’s saddle and the brush-marked chaps the man wore. Walt’s hands were large and knobby, callused, cracked and rough-looking. His short, irregular fingernails had dirt under them. His hat was beat up and his green flannel shirt was patched at both elbows and mended at a shoulder seam. Now that he wasn’t fleeing, Walt sat his saddle with the air of one long accustomed to doing so. Whatever else he was, Walt was a working man.

  “Rider coming in, Sir!” Captain Cummins said.

  Adam watched the incoming horseman veer his mount down-slope through some trees, then break out into the open and splash across a small stream before urging the horse to a full gallop. The rider was waving his hat around his head.

  Adam raised his right arm shoulder high, signaling his men to stop, just as the Sergeant in charge of the scouting detail reined to a halt in front of him.

  “Sir!” Sergeant Buell began, “There’s a ranch house under siege just over the rise. Attackers consist of about 60 men with small arms and an old M113 armored personnel carrier mounting twin 50s and a flamer.”

  The Sergeant paused for a second to gather his breath and continued in an amazed voice, “Sir, there’s a for-real moat around the house that’s keeping the raiders at bay. The house is on fire, but it’s built out of big logs and timbers so it won’t burn fast. Resistance from the house appears to be pretty stiff.” The Sergeant snatched another quick breath. “There’s a small knob at the end of this ridge overlooking the ranch. I make it to be within mortar range, Sir,” the man concluded with a smile.

  Adam nodded, accepting the report. If Sergeant Buell said the attackers were within range of the company’s 81 mm mortars, they were.

  “Captain Cummins! Lieutenant Parsons! You gentlemen accompany the Sergeant and me up the ridge,” Adam said.

  “Colonel, Sir?” Walt questioned before they could leave.

  “What is it, Mister Beeman?”

  “Ah know this range purty good, sir. If some’a yore boys foller this here hill around tuh the left they’ll come out behind the raiders,” Walt said, gesturing toward the hill.

  Adam glanced toward Sergeant Buell.

  “That’s right, Sir,” the Sergeant confirmed.

  “Mister Beeman, you may accompany us up the ridge,” Adam stated as he nudged his horse forward.

  At the top of the ridge, Adam paused and assessed the situation. The trees were thinner on the south side of the hill, but would still provide some cover as his men sped down and out into the valley floor below. The ranch house was almost a mile away across that meadow. The ridge they were on curved east and south, arou
nd toward the house, the smoke from which was clearly visible now. The knob the Sergeant had mentioned was bald and sat atop a steep, rocky, tree-lined slope. The APC was well within range of their 81 mm mortars. On the north side of the ridge, a small valley followed the curve of the hill around to a point half a mile south of the ranch, where it entered the larger valley below.

  “Recommendations, Captain Cummins?” Adam rarely missed a training opportunity.

  “Sir!” Cheryl Cummins replied. “I’d place Lieutenant Parsons and his mortar battery on the knob where they can take out the APC and provide enfilade and cover fire. I’d take First and Second Platoons around the hill and flank the enemy as Mister Beeman suggested. Once Lt. Parsons blows the APC, I’d sound simultaneous charges from this position and the flank.”

  Adam smiled inwardly. Exactly how I would do it.

  “Very well, Captain. See to it,” Adam said. Then he leaned close so only the Captain could hear, “And Cheryl, go slow enough not to raise a dust cloud, or you’ll tip our hand. It sounds like those folks below can hold out long enough for us to play it safe.”

  Captain Cummins sat a bit taller in her saddle as she turned her horse back down the hill.

  Adam’s mind was already adding refinements to the plan as he and Walt Beeman followed the Captain back down to the troops. Sergeant Buell remained behind to keep an eye on the situation at the ranch. Adam was about to speak up when the Captain turned to him.

  “Sir,” Cheryl Cummins said. “With your permission, I’ll have Sergeant O’Malley and twenty troopers mount a rear guard position here beside the ambulance wagon. Just in case the enemy has a surprise in store for us.”

  Again the Captain had anticipated his thoughts. This time, Adam couldn’t restrain a smile as he nodded permission. He observed the way Cummins reeled off the requisite orders, noting with approval that Lt. Parson’s mortar squad was well along the hill before First and Second platoons were even halfway down the valley.

  Adam spread his arms and his troops, those of the Third and Fourth platoons, formed a skirmish line. Swinging his right arm forward and pointing up the hill, Adam led the men up to the top of the ridge.

  Walt Beeman noted how the men responded to the silent hand signals and how swiftly they followed orders. He saw that each platoon had a bugler. Hell, he thought, they even have uniforms. He reined to a stop beside Adam.

  “Colonel, Sir,” he said, “Y’all have a sure ‘nuff cavalry troop here. Ah been watchin’, an’ mah bet is that you put this here outfit tuhgether yoreownself.”

  Adam wasn’t sure whether Beeman was giving him a sincere compliment or just buttering him up. In any event, before he could respond, Walt continued.

  “Ah can see you’ve read Von Clausewitz, but ah figger you’ve done some chewin’ on Jeb Stuart and Gen’l Lee too.”

  Adam looked at the man with newborn respect. Walt just laughed.

  “I wasn’t always a cowboy,” Walt said, dropping his Texas drawl. “Ex-lieutenant Walter Beeman, 101st Airborne, at your service, Sir!” Walt extended his hand to Adam, who shook it.

  “I admit to being pleasantly surprised,” Adam allowed, then asked, “Why the corn pone accent?”

  “Throws folks off guard ‘til I can size’em up,” Walt admitted with a shrug. “An’ besides, it’s muh nacheral way a talkin’.”

  Adam nodded. He well understood the need for caution in this day and age and he was pleased Walt had seen fit to confide in him so soon. It showed the man had good instincts and trusted them.

  “Mr. Beeman--Walt, if you prefer--I think it’s going to be a pleasure having you around. Or was I wrong in assuming that was your enlistment speech?”

  “Oh, ah want tuh enlist alright, Sir,” Walt said. “Ah jist figgered you’d want to see how good ah can fight first, seein’s we got one about tuh pop.”

  “Well, you’re right about that,” Adam said.

  He nodded at the knoll where Lieutenant Parsons had three mortars set up and was carefully aiming the first one at the APC, which was sitting still in the driveway of the ranch, raking the building with machine gun fire.

  Parsons had gained a lot of experience with mortars in the past few weeks, ever since a regiment-sized force claiming to be soldiers of some California King hit Provo and got their clocks cleaned, but not before leveling the school. He figured this group was probably one of the few who survived that engagement. The Lieutenant studied the angles, nudging the mortar slightly to allow for wind. He dropped in the first round personally, then spun and snatched up his binoculars to view the results.

  BLAM!

  The first shell blew the APC over onto its side.

  KAWHANG!

  The second one blasted it apart like it was made of tinfoil.

  “Enfilade!” screamed Lt. Parsons and watched with pride as his men proceeded to walk a line of shells right down the ditch the enemy was sheltering in.

  Back up on the ridge, Adam yelled out, “Bugler! Sound the charge!”

  The line of horsemen swept down the side of the hill and out onto the valley floor.

  Captain Cummins had issued the same command and her cavalry stormed out of the small valley and wheeled toward the ranch house.

  The raiders, desperate to escape the deadly rain of mortar shells and seeing Captain Cummins’ troops first, fled up the valley and ran smack into Adam’s men.

  At 5’7” and 145 pounds, Adam was small enough and his horse fast enough, to pull him slightly ahead of his troops. That was as it should be. In Adam’s book, a military commander was supposed to be a leader, a term he took quite literally.

  As they raced into a pasture close to the house a mass of mounted marauders exploded around the edge of the moat and came right at them. The fighting was close and fierce.

  Adam emptied a pistol into the group, dropping three men, before the rest were on him. He whipped out a cavalry saber and slashed right and left, fighting like a dervish, wheeling his horse about like a madman, charging any enemy within striking distance, lost in the grip of battle fever.

  Like any soldier he accepted the possibility of being injured or killed. His purple hearts attested to the wounds he had taken before. Nonetheless, it came as a surprise to him when the bullet punched into his chest. He collapsed over his pommel, the saber slipping from his grasp.

  He saw the raider drawing down on him for another shot but couldn’t move to get out of the way. Time stretched out into slow motion as he watched the man thumb back the hammer of the pistol that was now aimed at his head. A single action Ruger .45, he thought, amazed that he could recognize such details.

  Suddenly, the man’s head exploded like an overripe melon hit by a sledge-hammer. His body turned to rubber as it twisted in a grotesque, lifeless, ballet and flopped out of the saddle to the ground.

  A large rawboned hand grasped Adam’s shoulder, keeping him from following the dead man--a hand he had studied recently for clues to its owner’s character.

  “Steady there, pard...Ah mean Colonel, Sir,” Walt said as he fired his Redhawk into the neck of another enemy who ventured too close.

  Somehow, Adam remained conscious for the duration of the fight, nursemaided through by Walter Beeman, Ex-Lieutenant of the 101st Airborne and current recruit.

  When the battle was over the folks inside the house let down the drawbridge. Walt laid Adam inside on a bed where the rancher’s wife could fuss over him while Captain Cummins brought up the ambulance wagon. Meanwhile, the troops formed a bucket brigade from moat to house and doused the fire, which had done little but scorch the exterior of the thick log walls and hadn’t even singed the slate roof.

  Walt introduced Adam to the rancher and his wife and they in turn acquainted him with a Mr. Martin Dinelli, a peddler who had stopped by that morning before the attack.

  “That’s his wagon and tools burning out in the yard,” the rancher’s wife mentioned as she cut Adam’s shirt off his body.

  Captain Cummins, in temporary command while A
dam was incapacitated, decided the cavalry should stick around for a few days to bury bodies and help make repairs. There were a dozen wounded men to care for, though the cavalry had lost only four killed in the engagement. She also wanted to wait there while Sergeant Buell’s scouts finished tracking down any raiders who escaped. One of the enemy wounded had already confirmed the marauders were part of what he alternately called the “Army of Peace” or the “King’s Army”. Who knew what some of the other prisoners would reveal before being executed?

  Martin Dinelli proved to be a valuable ally, repairing the rancher’s Ham radio, as well as a solar-powered pump that supplied the house with water. In chessboard conversations with Cheryl Cummins, he said he’d been an electrical engineer before The Dying Time and Cheryl, a bit taken with Dinelli’s Italian good looks and impressed by his skills, had immediately launched into an extravagant description of how good life could be for a man of such talents in Deseret. That was all it took to convince Dinelli that Provo was the place to be. Ten days later, when the DDF headed back home, Adam ensconced in the ambulance wagon, both Martin Dinelli and Walt Beeman were with them.

  Chapter 6: The King

  Royal City, California

  Mid-August, 12 A.I.

  Joseph, aka Joey the Giant, Scarlatti, King of California, strode impatiently into the Council Room. His intense blue eyes noted the presence of his Head Assassin and Minister of State, Jamal Rashid. Jamal was accompanied by Joseph’s twin sons, Anthony, his heir, and John, second to Anthony in all things.

  He acknowledged Anthony’s gleaming smile with a nod and glanced approvingly at John’s scarlet beret. A large diamond set in gold flashed whenever John moved his head. It added a touch of dash to his brown military uniform. The King had decided that John, his best military strategist, would command the upcoming campaign. His eyes failed to acknowledge the presence of the naked female table slave who stood submissively beside the wet bar.