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

by Raymond Dean White

  “Mais oui, Cheri,” Jacques agreed.

  *

  It took Jacques and Denise almost a week of subtle sleuthing to find out the crates contained aircraft, including a few ultralights. Try as they might they couldn’t learn anything more about the planes other than that they were all old war birds.

  Their fiddler returned the night after they discovered the existence of the planes. The King’s Army had finally gotten around to issuing identity cards to all civilians within their perimeter, including the members of the band and since Ken didn’t have one, the band hid him for a day to let him rest up. They sent him back out the following night to get word of the planes and the Prince to Provo and the Freeholds.

  *

  “Just where the hell do you get off trying to order me around,” Anthony snarled.

  “Father put me in command,” John shot back.

  “Of the Army. I’m in charge of the Air Force and this is about expanding our air operations.”

  “You know damn well I’m in overall command.”

  “Not of ME, baby brother. I’m still the heir.” Anthony’s perfect teeth gleamed as he rubbed it in.

  John glowered, but he knew Anthony was right. Their father made it a point to never back one Prince against the other. John took another tack.

  “Fine, then, Tony. You go play in the sticks with your toy airplanes. I’m just surprised you want to get so directly involved. Your style is usually to lead from the rear.”

  Bullseye, John thought, as red flushed Anthony’s face.

  Thick-headed asshole, Anthony thought, as he stormed out of John’s office. He hadn’t liked it a bit when John was given command of the invasion force, but now he was furious. After all, he was the heir. His ultralights could scout the guerillas and reveal their traps, allowing him to ambush the ambushers. He’d show John and his father.

  Chapter 21: Betrayal

  Near Pine Crown Peak: Utah

  Late June, 13 A.I.

  Daniel Windwalker dove off his horse and rolled swiftly behind a screen of aspen as gunfire erupted from all sides of the ravine. His horse screamed as it fell, riddled with bullets. All around him his brothers were dying. Pulling his pistol and firing blindly at the sounds of enemy guns, he leapt to his feet and dashed through the woods toward the mouth of the little canyon. Twisting and turning, his long legs churning, his gray eyes sought targets even as he darted from between the jaws of the trap.

  He snapped a shot at a man and missed, then jumped behind a boulder to avoid return fire. He paused to catch his breath and reload.

  Betrayed! Burt Simms, a half-Apache scout who had joined the tribe soon after their victory over the King’s soldiers the year before, had diverted Daniel’s men from their route of march and into this death trap, saying he’d spied a large enemy force approaching.

  The gunshots were settling into a pattern. Shooting from the upper slopes of the ravine was being answered by organized return fire from within the trees at the bottom. Good! That meant some of his people had survived the initial onslaught.

  A thud, like someone dropping a sandbag, came from his left and he spun toward the sound. A soldier had fallen from a nearby tree, an arrow through his head. Raymond Stormcloud stepped from behind a ponderosa pine and glided up next to Daniel, a smile on his face and the light of battle in his eyes. Silent hand signals flew back and forth, Cheyenne battle language. They formed a team, agreeing to scout the enemy positions and eliminate as many as they could before death took them. The thought of leaving their fellow warriors and escaping, saving their own lives, never occurred to them.

  The whump/whoosh of a mortar firing came from over the ridge on their right. The shell burst short of the aspen grove where their friends were forting up. Exchanging a glance, they melted into the woods, heading for the mortar. Stopping the shelling had to be their first priority.

  Daniel holstered his Beretta, unslung and strung his crossbow. Silence would be required. His bullwhip hung coiled from his belt and the haft of a bowie knife protruded from his right boot. His gray eyes had gone cold and steely. Raymond glanced at his friend and leader out of the corner of his eyes and was glad he was not an enemy soldier. Then he looked back toward the trees in which his friends were trapped and wondered if Susan Redfeather had been hurt.

  The two men moved swiftly and silently through the woods toward their destination, skirting a large group of soldiers who were massing for an attack on the pinned down scouts. Mortar shells were falling on their friends and they had to act fast. Someone was acting as an artillery spotter for the mortar but they didn’t have time to look for him. Arriving at the mortar crew’s position they split up, encircling the enemy to catch them in a crossfire. Three men operated the mortar, which was set up in a small clearing.

  Daniel was sighting his crossbow on one of the shell handlers when a fourth man, an officer, entered the clearing. He finished speaking into his walkie talkie and signaled the men on the mortar to cease fire. Daniel figured the group of enemy soldiers he and Raymond had bypassed must be launching their attack.

  It was time to act. Get the ones near the mortar first, he thought and Stormcloud shared that thought; as a bolt from Daniel’s crossbow caught the man on the left in the head, killing him instantly, an arrow from Raymond’s bow dropped the one on the right. The one in the center scrambled for his rifle, but Stormcloud’s second arrow pinned him to the ground where he writhed like a bug.

  The officer froze for an instant, stunned at the swift, silent death, then turned to run. A bullwhip snaked through the air, wrapping itself around the man’s legs and tumbling him to the ground. Daniel stepped forward and snapped the butt of his crossbow against the base of the man’s skull knocking him cold. An officer whose first instinct is to run might be persuaded to tell all he knows, Daniel thought, though such a one might not be trusted with much of importance. He disarmed the man and snatched up the walkie talkie.

  Daniel and Stormcloud raced to the mortar, raising it so its shells would fall short of their friends.

  “Spot for me,” Daniel said.

  Raymond nodded and dashed back up to the top of the ridge. Soon Daniel could see his friend’s arm waving from a tree.

  Daniel dropped in the first round, which arched smoothly through the sky, exploding in the midst of the attacking enemy. Stormcloud’s arm thrust skyward, fist clenched. Daniel dropped in shells as fast as he could load.

  The radio blared. “Zebra One to Zebra Two...What the hell’s going on? Cease fire! Cease fire!” the voice screamed, as Daniel walked shells around the enemy position. “You’re hitting us! Oh, my God! You’re killing us! Cease fire! Cease...” The sound of a shell burst interrupted the transmission.

  Daniel grinned as he broke open a new box of shells. Hell, with that idiot on the radio giving me an on-the-spot report, I didn’t need Stormcloud to sight in. Just then, Raymond waved his arms frantically and pointed to the ridge on the opposite side of the valley. A shell burst nearby, showering Daniel with dirt and pine needles.

  Tank! Daniel shifted the mortar and let fly. He watched as Stormcloud signaled, “Too long, back seventy.” Another shell blasted into the ground so close it jolted Daniel off his feet. He sprang back up, wiping a red smear from his face, noting the enemy officer was dead. He adjusted his aim point and dropped in another round.

  “North twenty,” Raymond signed.

  Daniel fired off another shell and was rewarded with the clenched fist of success. He sent three more rounds into the same place until Stormcloud was satisfied the target was no longer a threat. Daniel stroked his medicine bag, thanking Ma-hay-oh for giving Raymond such great depth perception.

  Stormcloud was signaling again, pointing up in the air. Daniel looked up and saw a small plane diving on him. He zigged left as bullets from the ultralight kicked up dirt nearby and dashed toward the trees, but the little plane whipped around in an impossibly tight turn and came at him again. Daniel fired his pistol at the plane as he ran, knowing
he didn’t stand much chance of hitting it. Guns twinkled from the ultralight and hot pain lanced through Daniel’s left arm. He jumped right, did a tuck roll and came to his feet running again. He glanced at his arm. Just a crease. He was almost to the trees.

  A rifle spoke from across the ravine and the pilot of the ultralight lurched forward over his joystick. The small plane tilted downward, almost clipping the trees, then recovered and banked away.

  Daniel caught a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye and saw Susan Redfeather waving her rifle from the opposite ridge. When she saw she had his attention, she pointed urgently down canyon then disappeared down the far side of the mountain.

  Needing no further hint, Daniel raced back to the mortar and was swinging it around when a blinding flash of pain exploded in his head and he fell to the ground. Distantly, he realized he’d been shot. Never heard it, he thought and somehow that seemed amusing. A blurred form stepped from the trees and Daniel struggled to focus his eyes.

  “So, Daniel, it was you spoiled my little surprise.” Burt Simms said. “I should’ve known.”

  “Why, Burt?” Daniel asked, as he sat up groggily.

  “Not that it matters, Windwalker, but I like being on the winning side.” Burt cocked his pistol and aimed it at Daniel’s head.

  “Then you’re on the wrong side,” growled Daniel, fixing Burt with a gray-eyed glare.

  “Don’t try that scary eyes shit on me, Danny boy. I’m the one with the gun, remember?”

  “I won’t be the only one who remembers, Burt,” Daniel snarled, putting a different spin on Burt’s words. “Some of my scouts escaped and we all know who led us into this trap.” Daniel’s hand snaked slowly toward his holster. He wanted to keep Burt talking, distracted. “Probably more than one of them on your trail already.”

  Burt wasn’t buying it. “Not likely. Not with those tanks and APCs rumbling up this little gorge.” He gestured toward a clanking noise. “Well, I’d like nothin’ more than to hang around and chat with you all day, Danny, but I ought to get a move-on. Sure hate to see it end like this, old son.” Burt smiled as his finger tightened on the trigger.

  A shot rang out and Daniel flinched as hot metal burned into his flesh. He rolled to one side and leapt to his feet, pistol in one hand, whip in the other. Burt was staring dumbly at his bloody hand--the hand which had held his pistol.

  Raymond Stormcloud stalked into the clearing, the smoking muzzle of his rifle pointed at Burt’s midriff.

  “What shall I do with this thing, Daniel?” he asked, cocking his head as if staring at an oddity.

  “Bind up its hand,” Daniel replied. “Then we’ll tie the mortar on its back and make it useful. It has things it wants to tell us.” His cold gray eyes slid over to Burt who, this time, cringed away, certain in the knowledge that what little time was left to him would be extremely unpleasant.

  “Several of our boys made it out after you killed the tank,” Raymond said calmly. “I saw Mitch Stonehand and Susan Redfeather leading parties over the crest on the other side of the canyon. I signaled them to meet us at Hill Top Station.”

  Daniel nodded and Raymond went on with his report. “Looks like twelve, maybe fifteen of our guys made it out, counting us.” His dark brown eyes flashed murderously at Burt. “This thing owes a debt.”

  “It will pay,” said Daniel and once more his soulless gray eyes examined Burt like the man was dog puke on a fine carpet.

  Daniel began stripping the pockets and packs of the fallen enemy soldiers for anything resembling intelligence information. By the time he was done, Raymond had Burt packed up and ready to go. Taking one last quick look around, they headed out.

  Before they had gone ten feet, Stormcloud asked, “What if this thing tries to slow us down?”

  Without even glancing over his shoulder Daniel replied, “Cut out its eyes, hamstring it and leave it for the animals.” Suddenly Daniel stopped and spun around, grasping Burt by the throat, locking his flat gray eyes onto those of the terrified man. “Not that you deserve such kindness, old son, but if you cooperate, I’ll give you a swift death when the time comes.”

  Burt was a traitor, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew a good deal when he heard one. Besides, he figured as long as he was alive he had a chance.

  Four days later, Daniel and his scouts were ready to head for Adam Young’s last known position to tell him about the ultralights. Raymond Stormcloud had been dispatched to contact Jim Cantrell and the relief army. Everyone would have to keep their eyes open for the tiny planes.

  As Daniel touched off Burt’s funeral pyre, the man screamed at him. “You promised me a clean death, Danny. I told you everything I know. This ain’t right.”

  “I said I’d give you a swift death, traitor,” Daniel replied. “I said nothing about painless.”

  *

  Prince Anthony spurred his horse to a gallop. He was still smarting at the Indians’ escape. He’d been so certain he had them. Damn!

  At least the pilot was only wounded.

  He had ordered the armor back to Nephi. It made too much noise to catch guerillas anyway and the mission wasn’t a total loss. He’d scattered an enemy force and he’d learned that ultralights were better as scouts than as combat aircraft.

  One of his other planes had sighted an enemy squad leading one of John’s companies toward an ambush. By rushing ahead with a seven man team he hoped to take out the squad, regroup his platoons and turn the tables on the ambushers.

  As darkness fell, Anthony thought of another way to use his ultralights. Flying high, at night, they could spot enemy campfires and vector his ground troops in on them. Maybe he could use the black ultralights as night fighters.

  California

  “Your highness, we simply need more high tension wire than we have,” Richard Kazinsky, said. Richard, formerly John Scarlatti’s aide de camp lost his left arm in the Washington campaign and King Joseph had taken him onto his staff and promoted him to Minister of Energy when he discovered the man had been a power systems engineer before The Dying Time.

  “With all the overhead lines left lying on the ground after the Impact, you claim you’re lacking for wire?” Joseph was not amused.

  “Much of it was melted into slag by the fire falls or buried under tons of debris by mudslides during the Noah Rain. What I’m trying to say, Sir, is we’ve used up all the easy pickings.” Richard Kazinsky was one of the few people Joseph allowed to address him as Sir.

  Joseph Scarlatti, bent over the map of his empire displayed on the war room table and pointed to eastern Arizona.

  “What about the Morenci mine?” It was the only major copper mining operation to survive the catastrophe relatively intact--most of the rest now being located under the Gulf of California.

  “We’ve got it back in limited operation, Sir. Enough so the problem isn’t copper production, it’s our lack of manufacturing capacity. We simply don’t have anyone who knows how to build a high tension wire production facility and that leaves us with scavenging as our only alternative.” Richard pointed to a couple of blue pins stuck into the map, one in the Columbia River and another in the eastern edge of the Gulf of California.

  “We’re salvaging the hydroelectric generators from the Grand Coulee ruins and with the cooperation of the Navy, I have dive teams attempting the same at Hoover, but the only good news from there is the abundance of power line wire from all the transmission high lines that ran from the dam.”

  Joseph nodded and asked, “How deep?”

  “Anywhere from sixty to one hundred feet for the stuff we can get at. Anything deeper...well the generators at Hoover are more than nine hundred feet under water. We can’t reach them, Sir.”

  He slammed his hand onto the map, shaking his head.

  “It’s chickens and eggs, Sir. We can’t restore heavy industry without power and we can’t restore power without heavy industry.”

  “So, it’s the same for wind farms and tidal generators?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, Sir.”

  “I suppose Solar is too high tech,” Joseph said, knowing some of the materials needed to produce photovoltaic panels and rechargeable batteries were no longer available.

  Richard simply raised his eyebrows at the suggestion.

  “Then we have to stick with hydro,” Joseph said. He thrust one large index finger at a cluster of yellow pins in the map. “Start the new dams. I’ll have a word with the Minister of Industry.”

  Later that evening, as the King read battlefield reports from his sons, he wondered why rebuilding civilization was so damned hard.

  Chapter 22: The Sax Player

  Nephi, Utah

  July 7, 13 A.I.

  Chris Herrera, the Troubled Land Band’s sexy saxophonist, wiped her sweaty palms against her thighs. Now, what was she going to do? She’d been dating one of Prince John’s intelligence officers for more than a week, fending him off for the first several dates, whetting his appetite. Finally, tonight she had consented to accompany him to his place, only to have this happen.

  She stared down at his dead body. A pool of blood seeped from the man’s head and a wave of revulsion shook her. She leaned down and pulled the dagger-like tip of her high-heeled shoe from the man’s temple, carefully cleaned the blood off the shoe in the man’s bathroom, then slipped into it. She gathered up the papers, stuffed them into his briefcase, lifted his I.D. and tip-toed out his door. She had to get the briefcase to Denise and Jacques. They would know what to do with it.

  As she walked down the street, her mind went back over the details. The evening had started decently enough with a standard dinner, dancing and champagne-at-my-place type seduction. She had been willing to go along. The pillow talk might prove interesting. Besides, the man was attractive enough, if she ignored the fact something about his eyes bothered her.