by T W Powell
John gave Bobby Ray a stern glance and mumbled, “Calm your ass down. Grow up.” Then he gave Bobby Ray a slight kick to the shin.
John then slowly handed Bobby Ray the binoculars and spoke in a loud voice, “Yes son, that airfield over there was used by the Fascist, Racist United States to subjugate People of Color across the Pacific Rim.”
As they rode back to camp, Vet began thinking out loud, “That runway is 14,000 feet long. My best guess is that our targets are parked about 10,000 feet northwest of the perimeter fence. That’s two miles Bobby Ray.”
“Why did you kick me in the shin? You’re acting like that fucking Junior!”
John angrily replied, “Listen up you little Prick. You’d be well advised to pay attention to Darius. If you do, you might just make it through all this. Now put that shit aside. What do you think?”
Bobby Ray got his act together, “Those ditches that run across the valley could be of use. One of them runs almost all the way from Grimes Point to the southeast end of the runway. Are they empty, or full of water?” Bobby Ray was beginning to focus, beginning to act like a Marine.
“Before the Revolution, those irrigation ditches were part of the Newlands Irrigation Project. Fallon was once ‘The Oasis of Nevada’, with over 57,000 acres under irrigation. The entire Fallon area was covered with fields of alfalfa, corn, soybeans, and potatoes. Then, The Collective shut off the water. The bottoms of those canals may still be muddy from snowmelt and spring rains, but they are not full of irrigation water. So, we should be able to move on foot through those ditches all the way from Grimes Point to the end of that runway.”
Vet and Bobby Ray made it back to camp by midafternoon. All three men sat down, and Bobby Ray and John drew a map in the sand for Junior, diagraming the irrigation ditch, the runway, and the targets.
Junior perused the map, “Ok, let me get this straight. We hit the irrigation ditch, on foot, about a half mile from Grimes Point. We use that ditch to travel undetected for about a mile and a half. We use our wire cutters to penetrate the perimeter fence. Then we keep low and run fast for about two miles to the targets. We each take out two targets, then run like hell back to the southeast end of the runway and escape through the irrigation ditch.”
John nodded his head in agreement, “That’s a good thumbnail sketch. Which one of us is the best runner?”
Junior came clean, “I can’t run worth a shit since my leg got mangled in Okinawa.”
The Skipper chimed in, “I can run farther and faster than either of you old farts, want to race?”
Vet chuckled, “I’ll take your word for it, son. Here’s the deal. We’ll cut through the perimeter fence, leaving our rifles and extra IEDs right there. Once we’re through the fence, we jog the remaining two miles to the targets, resting in the shadows periodically to keep fresh. We each carry as little as possible, three IEDs, our pistol, wire snips, and two lighters.
“About 100 yards from the targets we’ll break into a run. Skipper hits the Apaches in the turbine intakes, left Apache, then right Apache. I hit the far-left Warthog about the same time that Skipper hits his second Apache. Bobby Ray will then be running like hell back toward the irrigation ditch. As he passes me, I’ll throw my second IED into my right-hand Hog. That’s when Junior will toss his first IED into his left-hand Warthog and meet us at his right-hand Warthog. Once we meet up, Junior will toss his second IED into his right-hand Warthog and we won’t stop running until we hit that hole in the fence, two miles away.
“Junior, you cannot be captured alive. Do you understand, Bobby Ray?”
Bobby Ray slowly nodded his head, “I know what I need to do.”
Junior gave him a big hug, “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Vet continued, “Bobby Ray, if you get captured, your last name is Jones! Understood?”
Bobby Ray smiled, “Mike Jones from Winchester, Kentucky, and I never heard of either Lance Corporal Darius Johnson, or Rambro.”
“Good. Now we don’t fight on that runway, we run. We can each use our extra IED to cover our retreat, but we keep moving. Once we hit that irrigation ditch and we have our rifles and good cover, we can then make a fighting retreat back to camp. Are we clear?”
Junior and The Skipper both nodded in agreement.
“One more thing, if anything happens to me, make sure that you give Vlad to that Jackson boy.”
The Strike Team rested until midnight. By 1 a.m., they were in the irrigation ditch making their way to the far end of the runway. Vet had brought along some old plastic shopping bags they slid on over their socks before they put on their boots. There was some muck in the bottom of the ditch, it was cold, wet, and sticky, but not deep enough to impede their progress.
The night was overcast and pitch black which suited Vet and Junior just fine.
John paused to cover his face with some homemade camo paint, “Bobby Ray, we best cover your face too.”
Junior began snickering, “I knew this color would come in handy someday.”
Vet tossed Junior a small jar of off-white camo paint, “That black skin is still shiny, Smart Ass. If I was you, I’d break up that shiny black silhouette.”
Junior took John’s advice.
By 2 a.m. the Strike Team was at the perimeter chain link fence. Junior and Vet cut an opening in a matter of seconds.
“OK, let’s leave our rifles and three extra IEDs right here. Then let’s make just one last check of our lighters and pistols.”
Bobby Ray’s hand was trembling, “Junior, I’m scared.”
“So am I, Bobby Ray.”
Vet added, “That makes three of us. Just keep your head in the game. We’re a Team. We fight for our mates. When we go, don’t run straight. Run erratically. Use what little cover there is and avoid those searchlights. Let’s go…”
Three dark figures ran like desert jackrabbits along the taxiway of the former Top Gun airfield in Fallon, Nevada. Run, pause, hide, dodge, run again. 20 minutes later they were lying prone among some sagebrush about 100 yards from their targets.
John made the Orthodox sign of the cross, “God be with us. Go Bobby Ray.”
Bobby Ray popped up and ran like he was chasing a wounded boar in the Ocmulgee Swamp. Vet was mere seconds behind Bobby Ray. Junior was bringing up the rear and doing pretty good considering his bum leg.
Within seconds, Bobby Ray pulled out his first IED, lit the fuse, jumped up on the stub wing of his left-hand Apache and made a Michael Jordan dunk shot into the right engine intake. Without pausing he ran back toward the remaining Apache and repeated the process.
At the same time, John threw his first IED into the turbofan of his left-hand Warthog.
John and Bobby Ray were now both running toward John’s second Warthog. A small blast was followed by a massive secondary explosion as ordnance mounted on Bobby Ray’s initial Apache blew up. Shrapnel from that explosion peppered Bobby Ray’s right leg, hip, and side. The concussion slammed both The Skipper and Vet face down on the concrete tarmac.
Blood was pouring from Vet’s broken nose as he helped Bobby Ray to his feet. Then the turbofan on Vet’s first Warthog blew apart. Vet lit his second IED and threw it into his second target, then he and Bobby Ray struggled to continue their getaway.
Junior’s first target was blown to smithereens by a secondary fuel explosion about the same time the tail end of Vet’s second Hog was obliterated. All three men then converged on Junior’s second target, their final target.
“Bobby Ray, your second IED hasn’t explode. That Apache is undamaged.”
Vet was right. Bobby Ray’s second target had not been destroyed.
By now sirens were wailing. floodlights had come on, and searchlights swept the airfield. Automatic weapons fire was now whizzing past the Strike Team.
“Junior, destroy your second target, then you and The Skipper get the hell out of here. I’ll take care of that last Apache and draw them off to the northwest. Give me your spare IEDs.”
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nbsp; Junior blew the last Hog all to hell then grabbed hold of Bobby Ray. The Skipper wasn’t bleeding out, but he was a bloody mess. John began running back toward the remaining Apache. He was obscured from view by the smoke and flames from the other burning aircraft. Vet lit the fuse and tossed an IED into the remaining Apache.
As Junior and The Skipper struggled their way southeast along the taxiway, they heard a small explosion followed by another larger secondary explosion. John has taken out the last Apache. As they made their retreat, Junior and Bobby Ray heard 9 mm pistol fire and an IED blast coming from far behind them.
“Junior, that’s John. He’s still fighting. We have to help him.”
“Bobby Ray, you’re in bad shape. We have accomplished our mission. John wants us to escape and that’s what we’re going to do. If any man can survive this mess, it’s John.”
As Junior and Bobby Ray struggled to the irrigation canal, Junior silently prayed, “Dear Lord, please give our friend strength and, if it be your will, help him make it out of here. If not, welcome him into your Kingdom.”
As they squeezed through the perimeter fence, Junior’s prayer was acknowledged by two more IED blasts, followed almost instantaneously by the massive explosions of two fuel storage tanks on the northwest end of Top Gun.
The Assault Plan
Tom knew that sometime in the next few days a convoy would head down NV 376 bound for Round Mountain. He agreed with Delvin’s general plan of attack. When the convoy made its’ return trip from Round Mountain, the main Resistance force would interdict it somewhere near Kingston. Simultaneously, two smaller forces would cut NV 376 to the north and to the south of Kingston to prevent reinforcements from reaching the besieged convoy.
The northern force would cut NV 376 at Gillman Springs. Fortuitously, four volunteers from Gillman Springs had just arrived in Kingston. Tom decided he would send those four men back home along with Juan and a couple of men from Juan’s squad. Gillman Springs was just within walkie-talkie range. When the main force attacked the convoy, Tom would give Juan the word to cut the road. Juan’s orders were implicit. His force was merely a blocking force. They would delay any reinforcements from the north, then run like hell.
The southern force would cut NV 376 somewhere close to Stonewall Ranch, but within radio range of Kingston. Tommy and Adam immediately saddled up and headed back to the ranch. They carried written orders to their Grandpa, who would command the southern blocking force. Future communications between Stonewall Ranch and Kingston would be vastly improved by the walkie-talkie they were carrying. The two boys were accompanied by three men from Dawg’s squad. Together with Carlos and Gramps, that would bring the southern force’s strength up to seven men. Grandpa John’s orders were identical to Juan’s. Once the convoy passed on its’ return trip from Round Mountain and was out of sight, NV 376 would be cut south of Kingston. Several junk vehicles were prepositioned and would be moved onto the roadway delaying Collective reinforcements as long as possible, then the southern force would run like hell and disappear into the Toiyabes.
Tom’s major concern was air cover. If the Strike Team succeeded, there would be no Collective air cover. On the other hand, if the Strike Team failed, Warthogs could catch all three assault groups out on the open valley floor, strung out along NV 376. It would be a massacre.
The main force would dig in at a gravel pit just off NV 376 due east of Kingston. Both Type 91 shoulder launched heat seekers would remain with the main force along with the BAR.
The CAT dozer would be pre-positioned at the gravel pit. The CAT would be used to block NV 376 and halt the convoy. Since Juan would be at Gillman Springs, Ray would drive the CAT. All told, Tom would have 25 men and women in the main assault group. Doc Williams and his nurse would act as medics. Once the convoy was spotted heading south to Kingston, everyone would take their positions and wait.
Tom made this very clear, “Don’t shoot the Black guy driving the green truck. Capture the two Vietnamese American doctors, their little girl, and the White Nurse. If in doubt, ask them how’s Miss Daisy?”
The Getaway
By first light, Junior and Bobby Ray had made it back to Grimes Point. Peoples’ Militia were running around Fallon thicker than fleas on one of Jo’s bluetick coonhounds. Smoke was still billowing from the two fuel storage tanks and aircraft burning on the Top Gun tarmac.
Junior kicked in the door to the men’s washroom at the Grimes Point Visitor’s Center. He washed Bobby Ray’s wounds and used his own shirt to bandage those wounds as best he could. Bobby Ray needed medical attention. There was no way Bobby Ray could make that return hike through the Toiyabes. Without Vet, Junior doubted if he could even find his way through those mountains.
They were back at the abandoned clay mine by dawn. At least their horses were still there.
Junior knew that the Peoples’ Militia had thrown a dragnet over the Fallon area, “We have to lay low today. At sundown, we ride east on US 50. I think we should head straight for Austin and go see Miss Stormy and Vince.”
Junior was talking to himself; The Skipper was unconscious. Bobby Ray and Junior dozed for most of that uneventful day. Toward evening, a helo made a low pass over the clay mine.
“We’re cool Bobby Ray. He’s looking for us, but that ain’t no Apache.”
Tom Jackson did know horseflesh. Buttermilk and Petunia were two well behaved mounts. That couldn’t be said for Vlad. Junior used Vlad as a pack animal since neither he, nor Bobby Ray would even think about trying to ride him.
At sundown, they mounted up and headed east. At midnight they stopped at the Sand Springs Pony Express ruins. After a brief rest, they continued riding east. They rode hard and by dawn they were at Middlegate. They rested there under some scrubby trees until noon.
Junior inspected Bobby Ray’s wounds. Things didn’t look good.
“Bobby Ray, we have to get you some medical attention. If we ride hard, we can be in Austin by midnight. We’ll just have to chance it and ride in the broad daylight this afternoon.”
Junior and The Skipper rode hard that afternoon following US 50 but staying out of sight from the road. A couple of times they thought they heard a chopper and quickly ducked into gullies and scrub, but luckily those were false alarms. By 2 a.m. the following morning they were approaching Austin.
Bobby Ray was barely able to stay in the saddle, so Junior tied him into the saddle and led both Vlad and Petunia by their reins. Junior stuck to the backstreets and made his way unnoticed to the rear of the National Café. Junior tied the horses and knocked hard on the back door. A floodlight came on, then Vince opened the back door still in his PJs.
“Darius, what in the hell are you doing here this hour of the morning?”
By now Miss Stormy had gotten out of bed to see what was causing all the commotion.
“Vince, it’s Bobby Ray. He’s hurt pretty bad.” Junior was desperate.
“Calm down Marine. Where’s the boy?”
“He’s out back there on Petunia.”
“Stormy, go upstairs and get Room 2 ready. We’ll bring the boy up.”
Before the Revolution, the National Café was known as the National Inn & Cafe. There were four guest rooms upstairs, but Vince and Stormy no longer rented out those rooms. Not enough tourist, or other business.
Vince and Junior put The Skipper to bed and Miss Stormy began tending his wounds, washing them and applying topical antibiotics and bandages. She poured Bobby Ray a glass of orange juice and gave him some amoxicillin tablets from her medicine stash.
“Darius, Honey, your friend here still has several pieces of shrapnel in his right hip, side, and shoulder. They have to be removed. You look like hell, but you must go get Doc Williams. You need to go now.”
Vince gave Junior a thermos of hot, strong coffee and some caffeine tablets.
As Junior walked out the back door. Vince shook his hand, “Sempre Fi!”
Junior replied, “Oorah!” Then did the unthinkable. He mounted Vlad
. The stallion reared up, shook his head, and immediately broke into a canter.
“OK, Count Dracula, our buddy needs a doctor. I need you to get me down to Kingston fast.”
Vlad descended the long grade down from Austin with the nimbleness of a bighorn sheep. When he hit the level ground of the Big Smoky Valley, he broke into a full gallop. Junior stuck to the wide, smooth, gravel shoulder along NV 376. It was the middle of the night and he had to get to Kingston fast, stealth be damned!
It was all Junior could do to stay in the saddle. He grabbed a handful of Vlad’s mane just to hang on. As Junior rode on, he began to get the feel of Vlad as the horse and rider gradually became one. Instead of holding on for dear life, Junior was now coaxing Vlad for ever more speed. Vlad willingly answered the call. A Black man, on a black horse, raced through the blackest of nights.
The lookout at Gillman Springs raised Kingston on his walkie and reported hearing a horse and rider flash by heading south on NV 376. 15 minutes later, horse and rider approached the north roadblock.
The sentry yelled out, “Rider, how’s Miss Daisy?”
Without breaking Vlad’s stride Junior replied, “Ornery as ever!” then continued up Kingston Canyon.
The sentry cried out a warning, “Remember to stay away from town!”
By now Doc Williams and Thomas had been alerted and rode out to meet the mystery rider.
Junior breathlessly implored Doc Williams, “We need you up in Austin right away. Bobby Ray’s hurt pretty bad.”
“OK, Darius, first let’s get you back to the Aid Station and get Vlad some feed and water. Then I’ll be on my way.”
When Thomas saw Junior riding Vlad, he knew something was terribly wrong, “Junior, where’s Vet?”
“Tom, we blew the hell out of four Warthogs and two Apaches, but Bobby Ray got hit by the concussion and shrapnel from a secondary explosion. He’s up in Austin at Vince’s place.”
“Junior, Where’s Vet?”
“One of the IEDs failed to detonate. Bobby Ray was wounded. So, John went back and blew up that last Apache. He saved our asses by decoying the Militia off to the northwest while Bobby Ray and I escaped to the southeast. I don’t know if he made it.”