For as long as he could remember he had avoided cities. Soldiers and other bad people lived there. But he had to get the hope disks to the President and where else would the President live?
Dawn found Carl at the beach, digging for clams he could boil for breakfast under cover of a heavy marine layer. The advantage to being judged mental in Joseph Scarlatti’s Empire was not being drafted into the slave gangs. The disadvantage was mentals tended to vanish on feast days. The salty taste of sea spray and the scent of rotting seaweed combined to make his stomach growl. He plunked a couple more clams into his cooking pot, rinsed them off in the roaring surf and moved off toward a pile of driftwood to cook his meal. He hadn’t eaten so well in a very long time and was beginning to think he liked it here.
After eating he moved into the outskirts of the city, pleased to see other people avoiding him. Even soldiers downwind of him moved farther away. He moved farther into the city, where the scent of eucalyptus trees helped mask his odor. Nothing short of a bath, a case of soap and a completely new wardrobe could mask his appearance however and he found it difficult to get close enough to anyone to ask his question.
He paused near a school and watched children playing at recess, a site so disturbingly normal it threatened to split his head in two. Two young girls rocked on a teeter totter, their soft hair moving with a gentle breeze. A group of boys played tag while others climbed on monkey bars or pumped as high as they could go on swings. They were smiling and laughing and having fun and suddenly tears rolled down Carl’s face.
Emotions long forgotten surged within him a boiling froth he couldn’t contain. He sat down on a bench, memory box in his lap, head bowed, sobbing as the memories in the box flowed together.
A young woman approached him, her steps halting and uncertain. When she was close enough she swallowed her gag reflex and touched him on his shoulder.
“Why are you crying on such a beautiful day?”
Her voice flowed over him like a balm, soothing and clean.
Slowly he raised his head and saw the marine layer had burned off leaving a crystal clear, deep blue sky. Date palms and fig trees laden with fruit lined the school yard and bright scarlet roses bloomed in a nearby planter, their aroma blessing his nose. Joyful voices rang in his ears. A banner bearing the face of Joseph Scarlatti hung above the doors to the school
He turned his tear stained face to the angel who asked him and said, “I’m crying because I remembered my name--because Monica is dead--because I failed to save the world.”
He took a deep, shaky breath and said, “I’m crying because I need to stop The Dying Time from happening again and I now know the President doesn’t live here.”
Patricia Benton stood rooted in place. In spite of his appearance this sad, smelly man with stringy white hair didn’t sound insane. That bit about The Dying Time reprising was weird but for some unfathomable reason she wanted to help him. She looked closely and saw that he’d be good looking if he was cleaned up and deloused. Of course that ugly scar on the side of his head...well, a hat would hide that.
Shaking her head, unable to believe what she was doing, Trish held out her hand and said, “Please...come with me.”
Chapter 29: The Air Force
Provo, Deseret
July 21, 13 A.I.
Michael made Provo four days after leaving Lady Di with Adam and the rest of the guerilla force. Enemy patrols were thicker than ants on a picnic basket, especially near Nephi, which had a virtual picket line around it. Between there and Provo he spent nearly an entire day avoiding them. They seemed to be searching for something and Michael wondered if they were still trying to find the Giant. From the number of encampments he guessed it wouldn’t be long before the King’s big push.
Michael shook hands with Adam’s brother, Bob and made his report. He really didn’t envy the man his task. Bob and the troops under him were responsible for defending Provo and the surrounding area. It was the Allies first departure from guerilla warfare tactics and was made necessary by the fact that the Mormons simply couldn’t bear to retreat from Provo without one hell of a fight. Many of the people in and around Provo were devout Mormons and it pained them to even consider abandoning the city to such modern day vandals. It was the center of their religion, now that Salt Lake City was mostly under water. Other religions felt the same way about Jerusalem.
The defense of Provo was the one point in Adam’s plan that almost kept the Allies from uniting. Michael and several others felt that since they were out-manned and out-gunned, they should stick to guerilla tactics, saving vigorous defensive efforts for mountain passes and other areas where the terrain favored them. Ellen Whitebear had been hard-pressed to keep the rift from fracturing the allied cause.
The valley in which Provo lay was flat to rolling, land that favored armor. To make matters worse, only the true zealots believed Provo could be successfully defended. Adam took the eventual Allied defeat at Provo into account and, in fact, actually incorporated it into his overall plan. The way was already being prepared for a retreat up Provo Canyon into the Wasatch Mountains, but only a select few knew anything about it.
It was Adam’s depth of knowledge about his own people, as well as the mountainous terrain east of Provo, that led him to conceive the plan of battle the Allied leaders adopted. Even Daniel Windwalker-who all the Tribes had chosen as their war leader and who had held out the longest for a campaign based entirely on guerilla tactics-was left speechless when the final details of Adam’s plan were revealed to him. To Daniel, the plan was both ruthless and brilliant and he couldn’t help but admire the man who came up with such a masterpiece.
Bob offered to show Michael around and get him up to date on the valley’s defenses. An offer Michael was quick to accept. They hopped into a Jeep and began the tour. The first thing Michael noticed was the entire valley was buzzing like a nest of angry hornets.
“Down here at the South end we’re building multiple layers of defensive breastworks,” Bob said. “As you can see, we’ve been fortifying them with junk cars we cleared off the streets here in town.” He pointed off to the West where hundreds of people were digging trenches. “Those trenches will be too wide for tanks to cross and in an emergency we can flood them.”
“You’ve put a lot of thought and an amazing amount of work into defending Provo,” Michael said. “You really think you can hold it?”
Bob Young was silent for several minutes as they drove past line after line of defensive emplacements. Finally, he answered. “I’d like to believe we can, but the intelligence we’ve been getting… No. There are too many men and too much weaponry arrayed against us. We’ll fight like demons and many of us will die, but...no. And before you ask me why, the answer is because Provo is our home.”
“Believe it or not, Bob, but I wasn’t going to ask you why. I just wanted to see if I was talking to a realist or an idealist.” Michael grinned and changed the subject.
“What are those buildings down by the rail-yard?”
“That’s where most of the munitions and armaments are being assembled and stored.”
“How about water and food?”
“We’ve always been good at keeping a one year supply of food. It’s one of the tenets of our religion. Our water comes from the Provo River and from a couple of deep wells, since Utah Lake drained during The Dying Time. Shouldn’t be a concern. And this year we harvested all the crops we could early and have been packaging them as rations. Food could be a problem.”
“That’s where we Freeholders can help,” Michael said. “We’ve grown a surplus of wheat for years and last fall we had a bumper crop of apples.”
“One of your supply trains arrived last week,” Bob said. Then he slapped his forehead. “Oh, man! That reminds me. There was a message for you from Ellen. I’ll dig it out when we get back to my office.”
Bob spun them around and headed back and a few minutes later Michael noticed something he hadn’t seen on the way out.
; “Is that artillery?”
Bob Young grinned widely. “Just a few old 105’s from the National Guard armory. None of the self-propelled armor survived though.”
“What’s your tactical situation if you don’t mind my asking?”
“There’s been increased enemy activity between Provo and Nephi. That’s what convinced Adam to focus his guerilla raids down there. The King’s road-building and repair crews have almost reached Payson, so we have to slow them down.
“Oh, I polled the citizens and turned up eighteen experienced pilots. I’ve had them hunting for planes. There are fourteen men and four women who’ve mostly flown Cessna 180’S and other light planes. Ah, we’re back.” He parked the Jeep right outside his office door, hopped out and darted inside to get Ellen’s message.
Michael slid the envelope into his shirt pocket, delaying the pleasure of reading it till he was alone. “Two questions,” he said.
“You mean two more?” Bob asked with a smile. “Shoot.”
“First, is there a radio or telegraph line or any other quick method of getting a message to the Freeholds?”
“I’m afraid not… yet. We’ve got an electrical engineer--great guy named Martin Dinelli--working on radio communications. He thinks he can have something up within two weeks.”
Michael shrugged. It was what he’d expected. “Okay, now where are my pilots and support staff?” He wished Terrell Johnson was here. He could use the master mechanic, but Terrell was also a helicopter pilot and Ellen kept him in the Freeholds to repair and fly the Huey.
Bob drove Michael over to Brigham Young University and introduced him to the pilots.
Michael greeted them each with a handshake and a smile, but it was obvious his reputation had not preceded him. Their underwhelming response left him wondering if he had something stuck in his teeth. Well, he wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here either. Why the hell had Ellen wanted him in this job anyway? Did he have the stuff to lead these people effectively? He looked around the classroom at faces that varied from uncertain to hostile.
“Let’s get to work,” he said brusquely as he walked to the blackboard and picked up a piece of dust-covered chalk. Asking a few for correct spellings, he listed their names on the board.
“Now,” he said as he finished writing. “Have any of you ever flown an ultralight?” A chorus of “no’s” and shaking heads answered him. “The reason I asked is because the King has started using them against us,” he explained.
An uneasy murmur rippled through the group. Word of the attack on Daniel Windwalker’s scouts had not yet become public knowledge.
“Next question. Do any of you have any special talents or ideas about contributions you can make?”
A pair of hands went up immediately and Michael checked the blackboard: Angus and Charity Kirkwell. They were both short, wiry types, possessed of an inexhaustible supply of energy. Charity had carroty-red hair, pale blue eyes and connect-the-dot freckles, while Angus sported dark brown hair and eyes and the sort of good looks that could have made him a lady-killer in the old days.
“Yes?” Michael prodded.
“We have a balloon,” Angus volunteered.
“A balloon,” Charity repeated.
“A rip-roaring beauty of a hot air balloon,” Angus exclaimed.
“A beautiful balloon,” Charity echoed.
“And well maintained,” Angus added.
“We thought we could be aerial observers,” Charity said, finally proving she was more than an echo.
“Great idea,” Michael said. “How soon can you get it in the air?”
They put their heads together. “Tomorrow morning,” Angus said.
“If we start now,” Charity added.
“Then get on it,” Michael said, motioning toward the door. They vibrated with barely contained enthusiasm as they hustled out. By dawn of the next day, they would be up in their tethered balloon equipped with telescopes, binoculars and radios, reporting on any enemy troops in the area, vectoring defenders to intercept them.
“Anybody else?”
“I’m a mechanic,” said a short, muscular man from the back of the room. A bald spot showed through his thin sandy hair. His faded blue eyes mirrored a sober, wary, slightly withdrawn personality. His voice seemed strained and distant, as if he was in pain. Michael had noted him earlier, sitting off by himself--a loner, possibly a problem, definitely someone to be watched. Able Emery, Michael thought, as he connected the man’s face with the name on the board.
Able Emery the mechanic, Michael amended and placed the man in charge of analyzing any aircraft the search teams found. Able accepted his assignment with a curt nod, then sat back down and climbed back inside himself, retreating from the rest of them, a bit stiff and obviously ill at ease.
Next, Michael’s eyes were drawn to Jason Banda, a medium height black man on the thin side, with close-cropped graying hair, curious, pale brown eyes and a slightly detached, perhaps amused, air of confidence. Jason acknowledged Michael’s stare with a nod, then stood and addressed the room.
“Most of you know me and most of you know I should be leading this outfit.” He turned to face Michael. “Lieutenant Jason Banda, United States Navy. In the last war I flew F-18’s off the Enterprise.”
Michael was under fire, but he suppressed his instinct to shoot back. “So you have aerial combat experience?”
“Yes. Do you?”
Ouch. This guy was out for blood. “Only against ground troops,” Michael said. “You’ve done some dog fighting?”
“Four confirmed kills...”
“Good,” Michael interrupted. “Anybody here think they know more about dog fighting than Jason?” People shook their heads.
“Then you’ll be my second in command. Beginning immediately, you are in charge of flight training and flight operations.” There was some nervous laughter at that announcement. Michael held up his palms. “When we get some planes,” he added. “Until then, you will organize the search for repairable planes.”
Jason nodded and seemed somewhat mollified, cooperating during the rest of the meeting as the search teams were assigned various areas and sent out. By the time they broke for lunch he was wearing a smile. While they were eating, Michael questioned Jason about the other pilots, focusing on Able Emery.
“He stumbled into Provo a couple of days ago,” Jason said, “ranting about how his family had been killed. He’s still in shock. I didn’t know he was an aircraft mechanic. Hell, I’m surprised he even bothered to attend the meeting.”
“Anybody know him from before the invasion?”
“You’re about as subtle as a missile alert. A couple of folks remembered his family from down near Mount Pleasant, but no one knew him. Course, that’s not unusual these days. Guess you’ll just have to put him under the lights, maybe cut off an ear.”
Michael did a double-take at Jason, who said, “I met Jim Cantrell when he was here this spring. He told me all about you, including how you strafed that battalion from an ultralight.” Jason sat back with a satisfied smile and propped his feet up on the table. “Got shot down on that one didn’t you, Mister Hot-Shot. Learn anything?”
Michael grinned back and stroked his beard. “I learned to take plenty of ammo--and to stay high.”
Jason laughed. “Maybe you’ll do after all. Just don’t pull any of that Kemo Sabe shit around me, okay?” Only Minowayuh had called Michael that, so Jason must have known the Ute too.
Michael looked him in the eye. “There anybody you don’t know?”
“Yeah,” Jason said without humor. “Able Emery.”
*
By nightfall, three days later, the area between Provo and what was left of Salt Lake City had been scoured for useable aircraft and weapons to mount on them. There were none. In the years since The Strike every plane had been damaged or destroyed. Those left outside suffered from gale force winds, lightning, hail, fires and floods. Those parked in hangars were crushed or otherwise damaged when the
buildings collapsed during the quakes. Any plane that wasn’t totally demolished had been stripped of all useable parts by the search teams, just in case there was no alternative to building the planes the Air Force needed. A few planes appeared to be fixable, but Able pronounced them all junk, saying he would need good parts, a month of uninterrupted repair time, plenty of experienced help and elaborate repair facilities to fix even the best of them. And he claimed to be an optimist.
One of the searchers turned up an undamaged and apparently uncontaminated five thousand gallon tank of aviation fuel in an underground reservoir. Now if they could just find something to use it in.
That was when Michael told them to forget about planes for a while and concentrate on finding old ultralights, or anything else that would fly, even hang gliders. Nobody looked too enthusiastic about that idea until he told them about how Aaron Goldstein demolished a Cobra gunship with one. Able Emery looked intrigued when Michael described Aaron’s kamikaze dive into the Cobra and that was Michael’s first clue that the idea of dying held more than just a little appeal to the man.
The next day with the help of an old phone book they hit the jackpot, tracking down a relatively intact ultralight and gyrocopter shop called Flyers at the Lehi-Cutler Skypark. Inside were several ultralights of various types. The pilots went through the store and the attached hangar like kids in a candy store and tallied the inventory in stunned disbelief. There were two Birdman Enterprises WT-11-B Chinooks, two bi-wing Waco II’s (Michael noted with delight they both were the Super Deluxe versions, equipped with 52 hp Global engines), two bi-wing Hornets from SR-1 Enterprises, both equipped with 62 hp Kawasaki engines and one Eipper MX II (a two-seater Michael figured the folks at Flyers had used for training flights).
At first Michael was puzzled, though elated, that all the ultralights were aerobatic models capable of loops, rolls and other radical aerial maneuvers. But then he read some of the literature lying around the shop and discovered Flyers had fielded an ultralight stunt-flying team that had toured the country appearing at Oskosh, Sun-N-Fun and various other air shows.
The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time Page 30