He turned his head away from Michael, eyes downcast. “My friends, people I went to school with, called him a baby killer and a murderer. And I was ashamed to admit he was my brother.”
He took a deep breath and got hold of himself. “It was years before we could talk about it and heal the rift between us. I got elected Mayor of Provo and he continued his military career. But then came The Dying Time and there was Adam, teaching us all to be soldiers so we could survive. Defending us against raiders and other murderers until we could defend ourselves.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve spent the better part of the past twelve years fighting to protect my family and my community. And just when things were starting to settle down, when we could think about rebuilding a decent society, this son-of-a-bitch from California launched an attack that killed my children.”
The heat in Bob’s voice fell on sympathetic ears. His back straightened and his head came up.
“I let Adam down once and I swore to myself I’d never do it again. He told me, ‘Bob, you don’t let’em into Provo till it’s time.’ And by God I won’t.”
There was fire shining from his eyes and he looked more like the leader Michael had come to know and respect. Bob stood up and offered Michael his hand.
“Sorry I dumped on you like that.”
Michael shook Bob’s hand, appreciating that the man’s grip felt firm and steady.
“Anytime, Bob.”
The two men walked outside. Bob looked south, towards the enemy.
“Punish them,” he said with conviction, smacking his fist and palm together. “Hit them hard! Hard enough to buy us some more time.”
“We’ll do our best.” Michael turned to go.
“And Michael,” Bob added, stopping Michael before he walked away, “Take the tear gas with you this time. If they have a surprise waiting, it might come in handy.”
Michael nodded in agreement. He’d left the gas behind the day before because he wanted to save it until the King attacked in force. No sense wasting all the surprises, but Bob was right about taking it along this time and the way he put it was more of an order than a suggestion. Michael mounted his horse and headed back to the airstrip.
Able had been busy again. All the ultralights now sported “new” 720 channel VHF radios to facilitate air-to-air and air-to-ground communications.
He looked up as Michael walked into the hangar. “We going after them?”
“Damn right!” Michael said.
“Then we might just find a good use for these,” he said, gesturing toward a pile of flak suits that lay in a corner of the hangar.
“Where in the...”
“Courtesy of Daniel Windwalker and a burned out Utah Air National Guard Base,” Able interrupted. “Just got here about thirty minutes before you did.”
Michael checked the position of the sun. Afternoon clouds hadn’t started building yet and the sun was almost directly overhead, which was where he wanted it during the attack. Nothing like having to squint into the sun on a bright, clear, windless day to spoil a man’s aim.
“When we leaving?” Able asked.
“As soon as we get suited up,” Michael said, pointing toward the flak jackets. “Only, Able...” This was going to be difficult.
“What now?”
“I need you to stay here and look after the planes. You’re the...”
“only aircraft mechanic we have,” Able finished for Michael. “Hell, Michael, don’t you think I’ve already figured that out? I lost my family, not my mind!”
Michael opened his mouth, but Able started talking again before he could speak.
“You don’t have to say anything. I know I’m the only one who can keep our planes flying. And I know the longer I can keep’em flying the more of those... those...,” his voice shook with emotion as he struggled to find a word strong enough to condemn them with, “murderers you can kill.” He paused for a second and pointed a finger at Michael for emphasis. “I’m going to keep’em flying a long time.
“But Michael,” his eyes grew hard, his voice cold, “understand this. When they launch their main attack on us, I’m flying. I don’t care if it’s in a crop duster or an ultralight, or tied to someone’s wing. I’m flying.”
With that off his chest, Able turned and stalked off.
*
Twenty minutes later, Michael and five other pilots were headed for the enemy lines. As they flew over their own positions, Michael was amazed at how much work had been completed since he arrived.
Trenches had been dug and breastworks thrown up along the predicted paths of enemy advance. The enemy’s most likely line of attack would be straight up the valley from Payson. That meant crossing the now-combined flow of the Spanish Forks and Green Rivers. Provo’s first line of defense was established there and enemy artillery fire had already detonated almost half of the mines laid along the Provo side of the river. Machine gun nests connected by trenches and supported by infantry faced the river. Deep pits, lined with stakes and well camouflaged, were constructed to trap vehicles or cavalry. The two light field pieces were emplaced and had been ranged up and down the valley. They, along with a few mortars and three M102 Howitzers, were all the artillery the Deseret Defense Force could muster.
People working below waved their arms and cheered as the pilots flew by.
The flyers climbed to 10,000 feet and headed south in a double Vee formation with Michael and Jason at point. Michael’s wing consisted of Brian Adams, a scholarly looking “kid” in his early thirties whose ambition was to rebuild a paper mill--because, as he put it, “No paper, no civilization,”-and twenty-eight-year-old Faith Gilcrest, a tall brunette who seemed to have a touch of Amelia Earheart in her. Back in the golden days, Faith had earned her pilot’s license when she was only twelve years old, then proceeded to fly solo around the world. She was the only person Michael had ever met whose name was in Guiness. She was already making plans for a long range aerial reconnaissance of the new world, after the Allies “took care of the King.”
Jason had Roy Thomas, a former dealer from Las Vegas, on his left and Dennis White, a journeyman plumber, on his right. Roy and Dennis could have been brothers. Both were six feet tall with thinning brown hair, brown eyes, prominent noses and bushy, graying beards. Both were of medium build and from any distance farther than ten feet, it was hard to tell them apart.
The new flak suits were stiff and hot and the breeze from flying was a relief. Wooded hillsides and canyons rolled by on the left while off to the right they could see the sheer drop of The Fault.
The Fault was one of the more spectacular features of post-Impact geography. If viewed from below (west looking east) it was a six thousand foot tall cliff. From the other perspective, on top, it was like coming to the end of the world, a seemingly endless drop into the Gulf of California (which had inundated most of western Utah and eastern Nevada when it merged with the Great Salt Lake).
The Fault started up near Pocatello Idaho and ran for God only knew how far south and west. There were places, even in Utah, where the Fault dropped down to sea level, but for the most part it remained a sheer precipice, more than a mile high. In addition to providing an awe inspiring view, The Fault protected Provo’s right flank.
Deer and elk were nowhere to be seen and Michael realized the number of men massing for the attack had forced the animals to flee. A glint of light caught Michael’s eye from a low peak off to the east: the sun reflecting off a lens. Jason saw it, too. They notified the others the enemy knew they were coming.
A few minutes later, they were over the largest encampment Michael had ever seen. It wound along the Juab Valley from Payson to Santaquin. Thousands and thousands of men and tons of equipment dotted the valley floor. Either the light had been far too poor the evening before for Michael to see all of this, or the King had tripled the size of the camp in just one day. Of course, Michael and the other pilots had been too busy dodging bullets the night before to do much sightseeing.
Michael radioed a quick report to Provo, then told Jason to swing his flight around and hit them from the rear. The two Vee’s split up and dove to the attack.
Men were pouring out of a row of large tents. Michael’s wing dropped to about 4,500 feet and began dropping grenade bombs. The resulting blasts flattened the tents, tossing bodies high into the air.
Suddenly, a nearby explosion rocked Michael’s Hornet and a piece of metal buzzed past his ear like a pissed off wasp. The sky was being blown apart. His plane bucked like a rodeo bronc. Shards of shrapnel thudded into his flak suit almost knocking his breath out. He followed his instincts and dove. By the time he hit 100 feet he was well below their anti-aircraft fire, so he glanced around for Brian and Faith.
Faith was right on his tail, but Brian, who’d been flying one of the more fragile Chinooks, was nowhere in sight. Michael had no time for more than a quick look because they were in range of enemy small arms fire and bullets were tearing by uncomfortably close. The pair dove again, pulling up just twenty feet off the deck.
Twisting and weaving, they began strafing those below, tossing grenades every few seconds to allow their gun barrels to cool. Jason and his group zipped by going the other direction. Michael sent a hail of lead into an artillery emplacement and men crumpled to the ground. He followed up with a grenade. There was a huge explosion and the cannon overturned.
A pile of boxes, partially covered by a large tarp, exploded off to Michael’s left. Secondary explosions followed closely. Faith had hit an ammo dump.
Michael bounced a grenade under a tanker truck and was rewarded by an earth-shattering explosion that flattened everything within a quarter mile. The force of the blast would have slapped the ultralights out of the air if they hadn’t veered up a small ravine, sheltered by its rock walls. They darted back out of the canyon and headed downtown, dodging around trees and buildings, sowing death everywhere, tearing through the King’s camp like twin tornados. Michael had just thrown his last grenade into an anti-aircraft emplacement, when his radio blared to life.
“Wire!” Jason’s warning cry was cut off abruptly.
Faith followed him in a swift banking climb. Farther up the valley Dennis and Roy were circling, providing cover fire for Jason, who was in serious trouble. His Waco lay in ruins on the ground. Michael could see him struggling to get out of the wreckage as he and Faith closed in. Their combined firepower pinned the enemy down while Jason used his knife to hack his way free of the wire net ensnaring him. He wrenched his machine gun free of its mount, snatched some ammo belts and a satchel of grenades and ran for cover. Bulky flak suit, weapons and all, he ran like a deer. He flopped into a shallow depression, gave a thumbs up sign and started shooting.
No way Michael could fly off and leave a fighter like that behind. He rattled off a plan to the others as his machine gun hammered a mortar crew into the ground. He cut away and dumped his entire bag of tear gas canisters into a trench full of infantry who were about to mount a charge, then banked sharply, cut his speed and bumped down as close to Jason as he could.
Michael let go of his gun and started peeling off his flak suit. He glanced over at Jason and saw him doing the same. Michael pulled the securing pin and tossed his machine gun over the side. The box of unused ammo belts followed. They had to be as light as possible or his little bird would never get them off the ground. He remembered from the manual the Hornet could carry 425 pounds into the air, but the lighter they were the quicker they’d get airborne. The Hornet’s normal takeoff roll was 70 feet. With two men aboard, it would probably take more than twice as far.
In the air above them, Faith, Roy and Dennis darted about frantically, trying to kill or pin down anybody shooting at the two men on the ground. Even so the air was thick with bullets and most of them seemed to Michael like they were headed his way.
Jason burst from cover, sprinting for Michael’s plane.
“Go, buddy, go!” Michael yelled.
Halfway there, Jason stumbled. He staggered a few steps and sprawled on the grass, then raised himself on one arm and waved Michael off. Michael jumped out of his Hornet and darted to Jason’s side. One look told him Jason was hit in both legs. Bone from a compound fracture jutted through Jason’s left thigh.
“Get the hell out of here!”
“Save your breath.” Michael slung Jason over his shoulder and headed back at a run. Bullets buzzed through the tall grass around him, hitting the sandy soil and blasting pieces of gravel into his legs. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as his adrenaline kicked in and started working overtime. His eyes darted about searching for danger. He knew he was running, but it felt more like trudging.
A man rose up out of a foxhole and aimed his rifle at them. Michael’s right hand flashed in a quick-draw and the man’s head erupted as the .357 spoke. Another man popped up nearby, fired too quickly and missed. He grabbed his shoulder and spun away when Michael shot him.
As they reached the Hornet, a line of men burst from the trees on Michael’s right, screaming and firing as they ran. Somebody had ordered a charge. Michael dumped Jason into the seat, jumped in on top of him and gunned the little machine forward, emptying his pistol at the charging men as the little plane started to roll.
Suddenly, Faith dove past, raking the men with her street sweeper. They withered like dry grass in a prairie fire.
The Hornet picked up speed slowly, the 62 h.p. Kawasaki straining its guts out. Faith and the others were mostly keeping the enemy too busy to bother Michael and Jason.
After an eternity of bumping along uneven ground, Michael finally felt the little lurch that told him they were airborne. As they gained altitude and distance from the camp, he looked back. Clouds of smoke and columns of fire dotted the valley floor. Dead men littered the ground like shell casings at a shooting range. This time, the Allied Air Force had delivered a hard blow.
On the way back to their own lines, Dennis radioed he’d seen pieces of Brian’s Chinook in the trees near where Jason went down. Brian must have taken a direct hit from enemy anti-aircraft fire. Michael hoped someone else would take up the dream of revitalizing the paper industry.
Jason, who had passed out when Michael threw him into the plane, came to and began squirming around underneath Michael trying to plug the holes in his legs. It made controlling the Hornet difficult.
“If you don’t stop that damn wiggling, I’m gonna ask you to get out and walk,” Michael said.
“I’m bleeding,” Jason complained.
“Poor baby,” Michael shot back. “They didn’t hit an artery so you won’t bleed to death before we get behind our own lines.”
“Jesus! See if I ever hitch a ride with you again,” Jason griped as he poked his head out from behind Michael and grinned up at him. “Seriously, man, could you shift your butt off of my broke leg?”
Jason’s grayish pallor and the sheen of sweat on his forehead spoke volumes. Michael gently eased his weight over onto Jason’s other leg.
“Sorry,” he apologized. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted anyone sitting on his leg when it was broken.
“Hey man, no problem,” Jason gasped, his grin weak and sickly. “Weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be around to bitch about it.”
“What happened to you back there?”
“I was down on the deck strafing when this big damn net shot up in front of me too close to avoid.”
Only his low altitude and the strength of the Waco’s frame kept him from dying in the crash.
After getting Jason to the hospital, Michael went to Bob Young’s office to report about the air strike. When he arrived, it looked like someone had stepped on an anthill. Adam Young was there. He’d pulled most of his guerrilla forces back inside the defense perimeter.
But the big news, as far as Michael was concerned, was a satellite communications link with the Freeholds had been established. He could call Ellen!
After briefing Adam and Bob about the mission, Michael sped over to the A.T.&T. building, where
, after practically having to shoot Martin Dinelli (who jealously guarded access to the transceiver) Michael talked to Ellen for almost an hour. He floated from the building wearing a “happy-face” smile, even though Ellen spent part of their phone time crying.
*
Luna City
Commander Clark Kent barged into General Alice Anderson’s office without knocking.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” he said as she looked up in surprise. “Someone in Utah just pinged a communications satellite and they’re using it to make radio phone calls to people in Colorado and California.”
Alice looked up from her laptop. His smile and the bounce in his step conveyed plainer than words how he felt about the news, but...
“It’s not that Cannibal King from California, is it?” Reports had come in from rotating crews on the ISS that the King had invaded Utah.
“No, it’s from the folks in Provo who are fighting him,” Commander Kent said. “The main thing is we can take an Aurora over to the Comsat and talk to them.”
General Anderson frowned, closed her laptop and brushed her hair back behind her ears.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said.
Commander Kent cocked his head and knitted his brows as he considered why she’d think it wasn’t a good idea. Then his expression cleared.
“You don’t want the King to find out we’re up here,” he said.
Her lips twitched in a quick smile. He’d always been quick on the uptake.
“If we call them, he’ll find out and the fact we’re up here, equipped with modern technology, will get out,” she added.
Clark shrugged. “So?” Now he was playing Devil’s advocate and she knew it.
“So there may be missiles down there that can reach us and he’s nuts enough to use them.”
“You really think any silos survived?”
“Do you think we should take that chance?”
“Well, I’d like to let those folks in Utah know they aren’t alone--and get some first-hand accounts on what it’s really like down there.”
The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time Page 32