Standing Before Hell's Gate

by William Alan Webb

  “Muskets against M-16s… but your people will fight? They won’t surrender?”

  “We will fight. And then we will die.”

  #

  Overtime Prime

  1513 hours

  Sergeant Schiller glanced at the Chinese guard near his left elbow and knocked on the conference room door. Apparently the sullen man had orders to be his shadow, since he followed him everywhere, including into the bathroom. Schiller had shut that down quick; he wasn’t about to piss while some enemy soldier stood next to him. He didn’t know who had issued those orders, but he guessed it was Adder. The guard refused to leave until Schiller grabbed him by the balls, snatched his rifle out of his hands, and marched him to the exit. Only when he’d finished in the bathroom did he give the man back his gun.

  “I will kill you for that,” the man had snarled, still bent over to relieve the pain of his injured testicles.

  “If the day comes when the likes of you can kill me, I’ll deserve it.”

  The conference room door opened and Colonel Mwangi motioned him inside.

  “Is that the deployment list?” Steeple asked. Besides he and Mwangi at the small table were Colonel Claringdon, Adder, and the newly arrived man identified as Károly Rosos.

  “Yes, sir. The location of every Overtime component, civilian or military, its strength, current status, and mission.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Major. That was quickly done. I appreciate it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Schiller turned and began to leave, saw the guard standing in the doorway, then stopped and turned back around. “General Steeple, if I may?”

  “What?” Steeple looked up from his copy of the list Schiller had brought. “What is it, Schiller?”

  “Sir, I’m being hampered in the performance of my duties by having a guard constantly looking over my shoulder.”

  It was a risky thing to say. He didn’t know General Steeple very well, and if Adder had issued the order for him to be closely watched, he wouldn’t like Schiller speaking up about it, especially in front of others. But he didn’t really want to stay in the Crystal Palace anyway; he wanted a transfer to the field and if that happened, he was fine with it. Serving Angriff had been honorable duty, while serving Steeple wasn’t.

  Steeple looked him over and then spoke to Adder. “Tell your people to leave this man alone.”

  Adder’s eyes narrowed. The hate-filled glare he gave Schiller frightened most people, but not the sergeant major. He returned the expression without blinking. Nobody scared J.C. Schiller. Nobody. Then a vagrant thought made him smile. He was already buried at Arlington, wasn’t he? And there were no cowards in that hallowed ground. His grin made Adder’s face turn red.

  “You, get out,” Adder said to the Chinese soldier. The guard gave the back of Steeple’s head a sullen look and walked away without a word. Schiller followed him a few seconds later.

  #

  Amunet Mwangi pointed to her copy of the deployment list. “I’m worried about the construction crews in area seven. Aren’t there supposed to be Caliphate patrols in that area?”

  “I agree. Until we can formalize relations with the Caliphate, we need to avoid potential incidents. Orders those people back to base ASAP.”

  “We’ve already got an incident, sir,” Mwangi said.

  “What?”

  “The Dennis Tompkins party, trapped in the cave?”

  “I’m not worried about a few old men, but why does that name ring a bell? Ever since I heard it, I can’t shake the feeling that I know this man. Anybody?”

  Colonel Claringdon spoke up. “We rescued him and his friends the first day of activation. They’d been wandering the country since the Collapse.”

  “They lived through all of that? Fifty years?”

  “Yes. General Angriff said that fifty years of active service deserved two stars, so he promoted him to major general, if you can believe it. He said if it wasn’t for Tompkins, he would never have been here.”

  “Tompkins, Tompkins… wait a minute. His first name is Dennis?”

  “It is,” Claringdon said.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I remember him now. Tompkins performed an important service for me when he was still a lieutenant. He’s part of the reason Angriff wound up in charge of Overtime.”

  Claringdon crossed his arms. “Therefore he is our enemy.”

  Steeple’s disapproving glance differed from that of most powerful people. He wasn’t an imposing man, so unlike someone such as Nick Angriff, his expression wasn’t overtly menacing. Instead his eyes narrowed ever so slightly while his face relaxed into a featureless blank. Claringdon’s smug smile showed that he didn’t recognize Steeple’s reaction for what it was, but the instant he heard Steeple’s tone he knew that he’d miscalculated.

  “General Angriff was given this command by me.” Steeple’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “He was personally selected for it by me, and it was me who went to great lengths to arrange the circumstances for him to agree. Do you disagree with my choice?”

  “Err… I probably would have chosen someone different, sir.”

  “Which is one reason you did not do the choosing.” Steeple’s voice softened and returned to normal. After chastising Claringdon, he needed to restore the man’s confidence. “No one knows better than me how difficult General Angriff can be, how intransigent, how old school. To this day, and despite everything he has witnessed, the man still believes in the sanctity of the original Constitution.” When he smiled, it allowed Claringdon to do the same, which dissipated much of the tension.

  “But despite sometimes being a royal pain in the ass, he was and remains the finest combat general we could have leading the Seventh Cavalry. I went to great lengths and sacrificed much to make that possible. Therefore he is critical to the success of this mission, and I firmly believe that he will come around to our way of thinking. If he is restored to command, then you may be assured that he has my full confidence.” Pausing, he sipped water from the squeezer at his elbow. He wasn’t thirsty, but it allowed for them to think his words through. “Does anyone have a question pertaining to this issue?”

  “I got something to say,” said Adder.

  “Yes?”

  “If you think you’re gonna play Saint Nick like a piano, you’re out of your fucking mind.”

  #

  Colonel Claringdon’s eyes widened, but he fixed on a joint of two stainless steel panels across the room and stared. Rosos smirked. Colonel Mwangi only raised an eyebrow, more curious to see how Steeple would react than fearful about that reaction.

  “Thank you for your first-hand observation,” he said after a brief pause. “We all know that you served under General Angriff. I would only submit to you that I… arranged the circumstances that put Saint Nick, as you so quaintly refer to him, here in the first place. I trust that I can once again make it clear where his best interests lie. Now, let’s get these deployments ironed out—”

  “If I may interject,” Rosos said, “the Chinese were adamant they want liaison officers with all of your units. They indicated this was not negotiable.”

  Once again Steeple swallowed his anger. He’d dealt with the Rosos family for years and knew their rudeness and arrogance better than anyone. “Thank you, Károly. I see no problem with such an arrangement. In fact, since the First Mechanized Infantry Regiment will soon be in close proximity to Sierra, and you tell me that a Chinese force is headed for the same destination, then we should start there immediately. Amunet, can you see to arranging that?”

  “I can do it easier,” said Adder.

  “Very well, Colonel, I’ll leave the matter in your hands. Now, since we are speaking about Sierra, I see no useful alternative to our acquisition of this potentially critical source of weapons and munitions.”

  “What if General Fleming and the paratroopers resist?” Mwangi asked.

  “I believe my previous statement covers that contingency. Moving on to the next item, I want all forc
es to immediately stand down from any actions or movements that might provoke combat with potential allies. This includes the two Marine companies north of Yuma, the infantry companies in Las Vegas, any air missions in support of Tompkins and his people, and especially the two Marine companies in New Mexico. They are to stand in place and do nothing that might bring them into conflict with forces of the Caliphate.”

  “Can they shoot back if attacked?” Mwangi asked.

  “Not without specific permission from me.”

  “That could take time and cost lives.”

  “Fighting the Caliphate will cost a lot more lives. If we have to sacrifice a few people to have peace, it is a lamentable but justifiable price to pay. Now, tell me about this so-called Marine battalion in Prescott.”

  Claringdon cleared his throat. “Well, they were members of the so-called Army of the Republic of Arizona who passed the psych tests and made it through boot camp. Training was conducted by Major Strickland, who went on to become their commander.”

  “Strickland is a good man, but were you considered for the job?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I realize that a commanding officer from a different branch of service would seem odd, but those men could just as easily have been an army battalion, could they not?”

  “They could.”

  “So this was General Angriff playing favorites?”

  “That’s how I see it.”

  “Amunet, I want the word Provisional added to this unit’s designation. Fitz… may I call you Fitz?” he said to Claringdon, who nodded assent. “I want you to go to Prescott and evaluate the readiness of this battalion. Tell Colonel Strickland he is to give you all cooperation. Now, as to Comeback, Colonel Schiller is currently in command there and he is a very loyal and competent officer. Are there any reasons not to leave him there? No? Is there anything else?”

  “One thing,” Adder said. “There’s four Zombies still here at Overtime, not counting Green Ghost’s psycho sister. I ordered them out on a lurp because I didn’t feel safe having them around. If you’d rather I do something different, I will.”

  “Why not simply imprison them?” Mwangi asked.

  “It’s cool with me, but remember, they’re four of the best special ops people who ever lived. Seems kind of a waste not to use ’em.”

  “That is in your house, Colonel,” Steeple said. “They’re under your command now. Do as you think best. The same holds true for any SEALs you might think are a danger.”

  “What about other special forces, such as MARSOCs?”

  “Hmmm… thoughts?”

  “I wouldn’t remove them from Marine control,” Mwangi said. “I can’t imagine anything that would negatively affect their opinion of you as their commanding general more than permanently separating them from their parent regiment.”

  “That’s exactly why it’s a good idea,” Adder said. “They’re dangerous as hell and we need to keep tight control of them.”

  “The only people who can keep tight control of Marines are other Marines.”

  Steeple held up a hand. “I agree with Amunet on this point. If we encounter problems, then we can revisit the issue.”

  “Whatever you say, Preacher. You’re the boss.”

  Steeple squinted. “I beg your pardon? Preacher?”

  “That was your code name.”

  “I see. Well, you may call me General Steeple.”

  Adder shrugged. “Whatever you say, General Steeple.”

  #

  Chapter 68

  Battle is an orgy of disorder.

  Lt. General George S. Patton, Jr.

  Near Jemez Pueblo

  1524 hours, April 30

  Standing in the commander’s hatch, General Ahmednur Hussein Muhdin stroked his beard as his command Bradley rumbled past the burning Catholic church. Less than a mile behind him, a small wooden Baptist church likewise belched fire. Both had showed signs of recent use.

  The topography on either side of Highway 4 began to rise as they approached the Jemez Mountains. Three ambushes had already killed nine of his men, with no known losses among the infidels. The number by itself did not trouble him. With more than 6,000 men available, the loss of nine was trivial. The real problem was that his men had begun grumbling about ghosts and curses and traps. Not loud, and not in his presence.

  Not yet.

  Muhdin positioned himself closer to the front troops. With the rolling hills closing in on both sides of the road, and vegetation increasing, he ordered the infidels brought forward. The column halted while the hostages were dragged into position. Dirty, emaciated, and all with bleeding feet, the only ones who had survived the long march north from Texas were a hundred or so younger women and children, the youngest being six or seven. The old and the very young had died along the way and been thrown into hastily dug pits.

  Earlier in the march, the children had cried and clung to their mothers, but now all of them were too exhausted to do more than shuffle one foot in front of the other. As they stumbled and trudged past his vehicle, Muhdin called out to one of their guards. “Hurry them up. If they cannot do it, they are of no use to us. Shoot them.”

  Ten seconds later, one woman who had fallen and twisted a knee fell with a bullet in her brain. The others jumped at the sudden noise. Adrenaline flooded their emaciated bodies and they picked up speed. The Sevens waited until they were fifty yards ahead of the column before following.

  Muhdin spotted the danger before any of his men did. A clump of boulders sat atop a sheer hundred-foot-high ridge near the highway, precariously balanced in an unnatural way. From his position, he couldn’t tell for sure, but the human shields appeared to have moved past the danger point, while his men… his men were directly under the rocks.

  “Retreat!” he yelled. “Retreat! Get those men back from there!”

  Men looked back at him, and it took a second for the warning to sink in. Then the word was shouted up the line to get back, retreat. The leading men turned at the shouts just as an explosion sent rocks raining down on the highway from the ridge. The boulders rocked, held in place for a long moment, and then rolled down toward the hundred or so men staring up at them from the highway.

  There was no time to run backward, but on the far side of the highway was an unusually deep ditch. A few men tripped and several more were hit by flying debris, and the huge rolling boulders crushed all of those who fell to bloody paste. But most made it across the road to the ditch and crawled to the bottom. None of the boulders rolled that far and as the pebbles quit rolling and the dust settled, they appeared to be safe.

  None of them heard the low hiss of the black match fuse burning its way across hundreds of feet of desert until it was too late. One man stood to run, and then hundreds of pounds of tightly packed black powder under the entire length of the ditch ignited and erupted in a huge explosion. Sharpened rocks spewed out and cut down every man within thirty yards.

  Muhdin could only watch in anger as tibs ran to help the injured. Once again he had fallen for the infidels’ trap. Once again they had bled his army while getting away unscathed. And once the dust settled enough to see, he realized that his human shields were gone.

  #

  Abigail Deak heard the distant blast and hurried to find Johnny Rainwater. She ran him down farther to the south than she’d expected, standing atop a ridge with a clear view all the way to the Catholic church on Highway 4. Four armed men stood nearby.

  Binoculars up to his eyes, Rainwater heard her coming. “I wish you could have seen that, Abigail.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I could tell by the sound your shoes made on the stone.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He laughed and lowered the binoculars. “I saw you coming. Here, take a look.”

  Focusing the binoculars, she stared for nearly a minute. “What’s going on, Johnny? I mostly just see dust.”

  “You know that rock trap, with the ditch on the other side
loaded with powder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They fell for it hook, line, and sinker. We probably nailed a hundred of them.”

  “That should put the fear of God into them.”

  “You would think so.” He accepted the glasses back and took another look. A few seconds later he tensed.

  She sensed something had gone wrong. “What is it?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “They’re coming on without stopping. They aren’t stopping!” Jumping to the ground, he began to run along a path between giant rocks toward the south. “Get everybody ready, Abby! They’re coming!”

  #

  Muhdin’s first instinct was to pull his men back and proceed even more cautiously up the highway to defeat any more traps or ambushes. After all, the previous year he’d thrown in attack after attack at the Americans and lost a third of his soldiers for no purpose. It wasn’t the deaths that bothered him; it was wasting them by achieving nothing. Nor was it him who’d become angry after such temporary setbacks; it had been the Emir. Muhdin had been entrusted with command of the Sword of the Prophet and failed once already.

  And here it was, happening all over again.

  Not this time!

  #

  Sitting beside his LAV, Lieutenant Hakala felt guilty about eating his beef ravioli MRE. Although some people preferred the chili and macaroni and others the meatballs in marinara, he’d never met anybody who didn’t like the beef ravioli. And like any good field commander, he’d allowed all of his men to pick their meals first. The fact that they’d left him the beef ravioli damned near made him cry.

  He’d downed the ravioli in six bites, followed by the crackers and jalapeno cheese spread. The orange drink powder — aka bug juice —he mixed in his mess kit cup and drained after the spread, which to his taste was hot. Most people skipped the toxic-orange, gluey paste, but Hakala liked it. He liked the concrete cookie, too, which was a very hard oatmeal cookie. Finally came a minty caffeine candy he knew from experience would kick away any after-lunch sleepiness.