With the discussion of the mission over, I dismissed Jinks and Cody to prepare and talk turned to other things with the commanders. Start of a routine day as head boss of the Raiders. I didn’t like it much already.
Chapter 28
Henry sat in Dan’s office, ankle across his knee. He picked at a burr snagged in the lace of his boot. He hadn’t expected a Humvee to be waiting for him when he got into Geneseo. Had expected less to be called into Dan’s office. He hadn’t thought he had screwed up lately. Turned out he had been too efficient.
“You want me to take this squad out and do what?”
“We need long range reconnaissance. All the way to the Gulf of Mexico if you can,” Dan said from his desk. He sat on the edge facing Henry. He may well be sending his troops out to their deaths and he didn’t want to seem like some cold, uninvolved bastard.
“How am I supposed to do this, Boss?”
Dan laid out the plan. They would take three Humvees. The best they had. The rigs would be outfitted heavy: one with an M-60, one with a Mark 19 grenade cannon and one with a fifty caliber machine gun, a Ma Duce. That alone should allow them to blast their way out of what trouble they could get into. They would go out with extra rations and fuel. No doubt they would have to go off road a number of times. The Humvees would do it.
“So, there’s three of us so far.”
“Yes. Finish choosing your squad. Cody knows recon and Jinks is good with a gun and with patching up any holes you get.”
“When do we leave?” Henry stood and looked at the simple calendar on the wall behind Dan. They were made in the small newspaper shop in Princeton.
Dan stood behind Henry; put his finger on the day. “Today’s Tuesday. Think you can be ready to go by Saturday?”
“I think so, sir,” Henry replied. “Does everyone have to be a Raider?”
Dan cocked an eyebrow at him. “No, I guess not. Who do you have in mind?”
“Well, there’s a couple of Cock Blockers and Boilermakers over in Geneseo that know what they’re doing.”
“Not Stacy.”
“Not Stacy. I don’t want her coming along when I don’t have much of a plan and no time frame.”
“It’d be good to be back before she had that baby.”
“Gives me five months. You want me out that long?”
“No, three at the outside. And daily reports, even if it’s only to say there’s nothing to report. I want you to check in so I know you’re safe.”
Henry agreed. With the meeting over, he saluted and headed for the door. He passed some young kids watching a DVD of cartoons as he walked out the door. Both kids were black, but they’d been taken in by the white Mennonite minister in town. Changing face of families.
On the way back to his house, the one he’d just moved out of, Henry sent a text to the people over in Geneseo he wanted to take with him. The message chirped away into space. He had four people in mind. That would give him two more find in town. Most of his squad would be willing, but he didn’t want to take them all. He needed to take people that knew what they were doing and didn’t have a lot of attachments.
His duffle was where he left it just inside the door. His rifle lay on the couch. He slung the rifle over his back as he headed out the back door for his Harley. One of the people he considered lived with the Mennonites. His phone chirped. Two replies; both confirmations. He would pick them up in the afternoon after he told Stacy about the mission.
The bike fired with one hit of the key. A little throttle to get the pipes clear and he headed for Plow Ridge. On the way out of town, he passed Horse’s home. Henry didn’t know much about the man, but had heard he was a biker. The man worked in his new yard shirtless, and with all the ink, grey braid down the middle of his back and full beard, Henry didn’t doubt the info. Horse gave an offhand wave as Henry rolled by and then he was past the edge of the houses.
Once through the first set of gates, Henry gave the bike some throttle as he headed east on the blacktop. Two miles down, a massive metal gate attached to a power pole on either side closed the bridge over a small creek. A tall wire fence ran the length between the creek and road. Another mile and a half south, it met with the fence strung by the Mennonites. He followed the road to the top of the hill.
A year past, he had stumbled in to Plow Ridge before he found Snareville. He had been a walking skeleton at the time and it took a couple of weeks to get his health back. Why they hadn’t shot him on sight was a mystery. Boss Connie, wife of Jacob Yoder, was in the garden that day. She said it was because zombies couldn’t climb fences and he had, otherwise, he wouldn’t have been laying there eating green beans off the plant.
He rolled into the checkpoint at the edge of Plow Ridge. Even though he had seen the men in straw hats, bib overalls and thick, full beards with no mustache carrying AR-15 rifles many times, the sight was still odd. He chatted briefly with the men before he passed through the gate. They told him Mart was in the squash garden. Henry parked his motorcycle at the main house and walked back through the fields.
As he passed through the growing corn and beans, his phone chirped twice more. Two more confirmed they would go with him on this trip. His crew was almost full. He figured he better get over to Geneseo after this and tell Stacy. He wanted to move her here until he got back, but he didn’t know if she’d leave her home. That was the reason he had moved from Snareville.
At almost the furthest field out, he found Mart. A black girl, all of twenty years old, dressed in a long blue cotton dress, straw hat on her head, bent over the squash vines. She was in the process of lining the vines out in rows so they just didn’t grow randomly across the field.
“My, my,” Henry said, “Don’t you look domestic. All you need now is a kid in a backpack to make the picture complete.”
“Well, if you’d have done your job right, I’d have that kid.” Mart straightened, rubbed the small of her back. “Hey, Hawk.”
Henry gave her a lingering hug. “Hi ya, Mart.” A year ago, he’d been stuffing beans into his pocket, as well as his mouth. Mart didn’t have strength left to climb a fence. He figured to take some to her, until they were found.
They pulled away, looked into each other’s brown eyes. “Offer still stands, Henry. I’ll share you with Stacy.”
Henry grinned. “I don’t know that I could handle you both. We’ll have to talk about that later. I’m up here for something else.”
“Not trying to get under my dress?”
“No, trying to get you out of it.”
She cocked an eyebrow.
“How ’bout I get you back into a uniform?”
“I burned the one I had when I decided to stay here.”
“I know. So’d I. We got something else going on.” Henry explained the mission. He had two slots to fill on the team. He wanted her to go with him. “You were demolition in your old unit,” Henry said. “I could use someone who knows about explosives.”
Mart considered it. Asked a few questions. Wondered how easy it would be out there in the wild country. Henry tried to assure her as best he could they would be alright. He was to make contact at Fort Knox as part of the trip. That would give them a few days of safety and rest. She asked for details of armament. He told her about the heavy armed Humvees.
“What about Stacy?” Mart asked finally. “She’s gonna be pissed you takin’ me instead of her.”
“Stacy’s too far along to go out in the field. We’ll be back before she has the baby. Ninety days, outside.”
Mart thought for a few moments more. “Alright, I’m in.”
Henry grinned. “Come down this afternoon and we’ll get you geared out, Specialist.”
Mart returned the grin. “I’m goin’ as your explosives expert, not your comfort woman. Remember that.”
“Yes Ma’am. I better let you get back to work. Them squash wait for no one.”
She gave him a dismissive swat as he turned and made his way back through the fields. One last posit
ion to fill.
Chapter 29
Stacy didn’t take the news well. Henry tried to explain to her he was under orders. If he didn’t go, they’d send someone else. Someone less qualified, who would get them killed. He tried to assure her he had a good team. They were armed to the teeth and everyone knew what they were doing. He tried to put his arm around her to give her comfort and she yanked herself away. Blond hair cascaded over her shoulders as she hung her head to cry. Her roommate, Vanessa, who sometimes shared their bed, pulled Stacy to her so she could cry herself out.
“I think you better go now, Henry,” Vanessa said. She didn’t look up. Henry knew the girls shared a bed while he wasn’t there. He hadn’t realized until then where Stacy’s feelings lay stronger.
“I’ll be back before my baby gets here,” he said quietly, “I promise that.”
“Just go, Hawk. Do your duty thing,” Vanessa said. Stacy sat on the couch, face buried in the brunette’s chest. She didn’t move or offer a goodbye.
Henry straightened. “Okay then.” He turned, left the house.
He drove through town to collect most of his team. In the Cock Blockers’ section of town, he picked up Boss Jessie and Vickie, the redhead who had helped him at the gate. Vickie had proved herself under fire and he could use someone on a full auto gun that had the control this girl did. Jessie, he still didn’t fully trust, but he didn’t want her staying here and stirring things up between the two groups. Her head was mostly back together at this point and her thought processes seemed to be clear.
He also picked up two of the Boilermakers: folks from Kewanee who survived their civil war after the zed outbreak that had relocated to Geneseo to keep it from being used as a scavenger base. Johnson was a tall black man, well over six feet tall. He had been a mechanic in the Army based with the Reserves in Kewanee. He was a good soldier and he could fix anything the military had with a motor in it.
Beno was as short at Johnson was tall. Spoke both fluent English, which he had been born to and Spanish, which his parents still used. Picked up a little French in high school as well. He was a little rough. Most kids from his area of Kewanee were, but he was smart and could scrounge anything. Best yet, he had good instincts. Henry had taken him on patrol a few times and the kid proved that he could make decisions and fight as well as anyone who had been trained. Better than a lot of them.
Henry loaded the four in the Suburban he picked for the trip, along with what little gear they would bring, and headed back for Snareville. They would get outfitted at the supply house in Snareville. After that, it was a simple matter of waiting for the time to go and finding the last person for the team.
Next morning, Henry got his crew outfitted. They all had weapons that were standard issued to the military and to the Raiders. They loaded spare ammo and magazines into a trailer hitched behind a Humvee. Each was issued three Raider uniforms. These were the green camo uniforms the military had used right up to the Gulf War. The difference was there were no names or rank insignia sewn on them. On the right shoulder was stitched an American flag, on the opposite, was the Raider patch: a blue background with a gold horse shoe around the edge, gloved hand gripping a cavalry saber, crossed with an M-16.
Each of the squad found a place to spend the night. They headed off to friend’s homes, or took an offer from one of the group homes. It would be a couple more days of preparation and then the start of the trip.
Next morning, Henry wandered down to the armory himself. He had his issue rifle back at his house. His two pistols were in holsters around his hips. The building had been a company that built concrete pipe and parking curbs. It was constructed of concrete itself. When the little warehouse the Raiders originally used as the armory got too small for their needs, Kenny picked this place. It was big, solid and wouldn’t burn. You could lock it down and nothing short of a tank could get into it.
A red bike leaned against the outer wall. Henry knocked on the door.
“What’s the password?” a voice shouted.
“Thunder,” Henry shouted back.
The door swung open. “I’m s’posed to countersign ‘flash,’ but I saw you comin,’ Hawk. C’mon in.”
“Mornin’ Charlie.” Henry grinned.
Henry stepped into a gun-lover’s paradise. Racks had been built into both long walls. Rifles were sorted to makes and models. The American made AR family along the wall immediately inside the door, Soviet made AK’s and SKS’s along the wall opposite. Racks on one end were built to hold fully automatic weapons such as the Squad Automatic Weapons, M-60’s and a couple of tripod mounted Browning .50’s that needed a crew. One mini gun was nestled in with its cousins. On the floor closest to them were crates of guns that were still in cosmoline. Some of them were older World War II battle rifles, some were the M1A1’s the Marines loved so much. Pistols and other assorted guns occupied another room in the building. Ammo was stored in the room that used to house cement components. It was dry and had a stable environment.
“What can I do ya for this morning, Henry? You was here yesterday getting your group all rigged out.”
Henry pulled the pistols from his hips, dropped the magazines and cleared them. Slides locked back, he laid them on the counter that ran halfway down the room. “I need some cop guns.”
“What you mean?”
“I love these forty fives and I love my AR, but I need something I can feed from the countryside.”
“Ah, gotcha.” Charlie walked to the back room, came back with two square, blocky looking black pistols. “Glock nine mil. Got a half-dozen double stack mags for you. That’ll give you almost a hundred rounds before you run ’em dry.”
“What about long guns? I’m taking my AR, but want something for up close and personal.”
“C’mon.” Charlie waved him through to the room he had retrieved the Glocks from. They stepped inside a room with a collection of eclectic firepower. Modern MP-5’s rubbed shoulders with Thompson’s and BREN’s. Three Browning Automatic Rifles were racked against the south wall. Cases of pistols of every caliber were organized on the north wall. Near the center of the room, he found something that caught his eye.
“Where’d you get these?” Henry asked as he lifted the silver shotgun from its case. He worked the pump and the action slid open. Inside, the guts of the thing sparkled chrome.
“When the Navy put out from Great Lakes, they sent everything they had in their warehouse. Some of it’s here, some up at the Arsenal. That there is a Mossburg 500 twelve gauge. Stainless steel construction, chrome lined barrel and mechanicals. The stock and forearm are polymer. They’re one hundred percent waterproof and have a nine round capacity.”
Henry grinned. “I’ll take two.”
“I figured you’d like ’em.” Charlie smiled. “You want I should wrap ’em up, or you want to take ’em with?”
Henry laughed. “I’ll take ’em with.”
They walked into the back room so Henry could stock up on ammo. He’d come later with the trailer to load things up. He signed out the weapons, slung one shotgun over his back, dropped the pistols into the holsters and stepped outside, shotgun in hand. It wasn’t a far walk to his house and it was a nice morning.
Coming down the street toward him was the grey haired man he had seen on his way out to Plow Ridge. For someone who looked to be in his sixties, the man moved pretty well. They met in the parking lot of the convenience store.
“You’d be Henry Hawk then?” the older man asked.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Horse.” He held out his hand. Henry took it in his. “My name was Bill Heffernon, but from my first day in country, it became Horse. Been that ever since.”
“Nice meeting you, Horse. What can I do for you this early in the morning?”
Horse looked Henry up and down. Took in the new guns; the crisp uniform. “You’re going out?”
Henry cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Take me.”
Henry looked at t
he man: long grey hair pulled back in a braid, full beard, face seamed by years on a bike, thick barrel chest. He didn’t look like the type who’d do well on a month’s long patrol. The surprise and doubt must have registered on Henry’s face.
“I know I look like hell. I look like I couldn’t make it across my yard, let alone out in the boonies for any length of time. But a lifetime ago, you could drop me off in the bush a hundred miles from base and I’d walk back in with a dozen scalps on my belt.”
“Okay, tell me.”
Horse told him about his tours in Vietnam. His first week in country saw the launch of the Tet Offensive. He hadn’t even been sent to his firebase and he had to help retake Saigon. He watched people he’d flown in with get shot to ribbons because they didn’t know what to do. A month at his base and he’d been on two patrols who were shot up because they didn’t know the lay of the land and had walked into ambushes. He told these things quietly, not with arrogance. A tear fell silently from his eye from time to time as he told how he transferred to a unit who sent him out as a LRRP: Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol.
“I got tired of good men dying because they didn’t know what was out there, so I went huntin’ Cong. I was good at it. I know how to observe and make reports. I hear tell you was out for a year and a half before you found this place, Sergeant. I’ve been out for three. Before that, I was an outlaw for twenty. You can use me.”
“I’ve been in Baghdad and Kandahar. I’ve done my share of killin’ and given my share of orders, Horse. I expect them to be followed. If you can do that, I’ll take you along.”
Horse snapped a rusty salute. “Yes, Sergeant, I believe that I can.”
Hawk handed the old warrior a shotgun. “Good. You ride point with me. Let’s get you fully geared out.” They turned back to the armory.
Snareville II: Circles Page 16