by Reed Hill
Oh damn.
Blasts of gunshots.
Callie dived toward the Governor.
Doyle saw the flash of Lopez’s pistol and heard the loud blast of the shot simultaneously with his own, and his bullet hit Lopez in the gut. In the same instant, Doyle saw Lopez’s head snap over so far sideways that his ear just about met his shoulder, and a cascade of dark fluid and bits of flesh blew across the doorway.
Lopez staggered and began to collapse. His hand jerked sending out another thunderous blast as the bullet flew low into the dining room wall. The Texas Ranger appeared in the doorway and put another bullet in Lopez, out of sight of everyone. Doyle could only see his boss’ legs twitching in the doorway as the trooper holstered his .44 magnum revolver with smoke still rising from its muzzle.
Over the ringing in his ears, Doyle heard Callie moaning. He turned to see her lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding from her upper torso, and Doyle dropped the pistol on the counter and moved to her. The Governor sat up quickly, and slid over to Callie just as Doyle got there to cradle her. Blood was pumping from the wound and staining the white undershirt red. Doyle screamed for help. He quickly pulled off his shirt, bundled it up and started to press it on Callie’s chest as he gently set her on the tile. “You’re going to be all right.”
“We need some help here!” the Governor crouched low and looked around.
A bunch of men with rifles and shotguns came through the front door and Doyle reached for the pistol but stopped when he recognized them from the outside briefing. He pivoted back to Callie’s wound, which was pumping blood with each beat of her heart. Her normally rosy skin was turning ashen, and she blinked slowly as she sobbed, looking up at Jeff. We need a doctor.
Several calls went out over the radio in short succession, and more men appeared inside the house, all of them carrying long guns of one sort or another. A clear call came over the radio on the hip of a wiry, older black man holding a deer rifle with a long scope. “Everyone fall back to the courtyard. Come to the northwest corner and the gate on the north side.”
The Texas Ranger from the dining room came in and started helping Doyle with Callie and another appeared from the hearth room along with Mrs. Brodie, who ran to Callie’s side.
Everyone stopped when they heard the rumbles coming from outside, as Callie lay crying in Doyle’s arms, looking more pale with each passing minute.
At that moment, they heard an explosion that rocked the house, as pictures fell from the walls. All movements inside the house ceased.
Callie’s strained panting echoed.
A hellish thunderstorm of gunfire rained down.
*****
Brodie collapsed at Lauren’s side and saw that she was crying as she lay in the dust. He picked her up with one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her knees, and started marching quickly toward the house. His heartbeat was deafening.
Brodie couldn’t hear his boots pounding the dirt over his racing pulse. Then he noticed Lauren’s blood-caked eyelids crack open, revealing her steel blue eyes. She blinked several times and Brodie felt her limp body grow tense as she threw her arm around his neck, “Dad…dad?”
“I’m here baby. Are you hurt?” He stopped and knelt in the dust to look her torso, and didn’t find any pulsing wounds. If was difficult to tell if she was injured or not. “Does it hurt anywhere?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Lauren wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing the red around. “I just passed out I think.” Her lower lip started to quiver as she threw her other arm around her dad’s neck.
“Thank God,” Brodie got up once more and started pacing through the scrub as quickly as he could. “I thought I was going to have a heart attack when I saw you out there.”
She was crying again as they approached the tree line of the apple orchard. He didn’t care about anything else at that moment. He just wanted her safe.
The kids.
Sara.
This place.
He didn’t have anything else in the world, and he frowned at the thought of any of it being taken from him. If I make it through this, I swear to God I’m changing. Really changing.
He saw Haslett kneeling by Finnegan, and the wiry ex-Marine just put his hand on the big man’s chest and hung his head. Brodie peered over and Haslett looked up, shaking his head. Brodie had witnessed the scene many times and knew that Finnegan was gone. He sensed his mind racing back to a far off memory, but he growled as he stepped toward the house, blocking it. I’m not going to be a slave to the past.
As he came near the garden carrying Lauren in his arms, he heard the report of gunfire from within the house. Several shots rang out all at once, followed by another lone shot. Brodie stopped. Where do I take her? Where will she be safe? The boys are in the house. Sara. He turned and raced toward the barn and the stable, now running with her bouncing in his arms.
That was when Brodie heard the call come over the radio.
“We’ve got trouble.”
“We’ve got big trouble. Northwest. This is Duggan,” his voice was quick-paced and firm. “Four, make that five vehicles coming in from the west-northwest, up the canyon. Five or six hundred yards. Looks hostile.”
Brodie panted as he kicked open the door to stable. He shuffled in and lay Lauren down in the first open stall, “Stay here and stay down. Don’t come out unless mom or I come and get you.”
She said nothing, just nodded as the tears rolled down her cheeks, and she brushed them away and pulled her sticky, blood-stained hair out of her face.
He looked into her eyes and caressed her cheek. “I love you, Sugarplum. Stay here. Understand?” Thank God she’s okay.
In a moment, he was back out the door and he saw Haslett running toward him carrying two rifles. As he got close, Haslett flipped one to Brodie, “You left this back there.”
Brodie offered a nod of thanks as the pair ran toward the house. As they passed to the courtyard between the house and the garage, a voice came back on the radio, “They are closing fast, four hundred yards.”
Brodie took the radio from his belt, “Everyone fall back to the courtyard. Come to the northwest corner and the gate on the north side.”
“There’s somebody still out there,” Haslett pointed back behind them. “There’s a guy out there who shot Finnegan from long range.”
Brodie’s mind surged, thinking of tactics and battle strategy. “Counter-snipe. You cover the southwest side over to the west. I’ll get you a couple more men over there, but you watch our backside.”
“Got it,” Haslett was on the move.
“Haslett,” his words stopped the young outcast, making him spin back to Brodie, “thanks for saving my baby girl.” Brodie extended his hand to Haslett.
Haslett stopped and shook Brodie’s hand, looking him in the eye. He said nothing, merely nodded before turning to sprint to other side of the courtyard.
Haslett turned out to be all right. When this is over, I’m going to help that kid if I can. Brodie hit the radio, “I need Simmons and Harris on the southwest and west walls, now.” He paused looking out on the horizon.
“We’ve got enemies inside the wire.”
*****
White House – The Oval Office
Washington D.C., - July 5th, 8:38 p.m.
“I would say move Third Corps out from Fort Hood and send one prong west toward the El Paso front and a second south toward San Antonio to head toward McAllen,” General Marvin Williams leaned back on the couch and glanced at Defense Secretary Jabarra and then to the President.
Secretary Jabarra covered his wireless with his free hand and looked at the President, “I’m on with General Patterson at Fort Benning right now. He says that the uprising in Atlanta has him in a non-operational state for deployment. Hunter Field in Savannah is similarly inoperative as is Fort Stewart at Hinesville. Georgia is basically locked down at the moment.”
“Yes,” the President almost looked bored, as if she were playing a
game of chess with a friend. “What are our other options?”
“You could consider putting the 4th Marines Recon Battalion in San Antonio on alert and tell them to make ready for a local engagement.” General Williams rubbed the back of his hand subtly and adjusted his watch. “They are technically not deployable due to being placed on active status for an Iraq deployment in about two weeks. However, they are largely assembled at present, ma’am.”
“The 75th Ranger Regiment at Lewis-McChord would be an option,” General Marvin Williams sat up and pivoted to the President. “They run an SOF, special operations force, for Special Ops Command out the joint Army-Air Force installation near Tacoma, Washington ma’am. They have an alert battalion ready twenty-four-seven.” The Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs paused, doing some calculation, “We could order the Alert companies to Texas in five to six hours, Madam President. The full force would be ready in ten hours.”
The President looked over at Secretary Jabarra, studying his tan Filipino face, “Opinions, Will?’
“I would have the Third Corps deploy in the two-pronged movement and put the 75th Rangers on ready status.” Jabarra looked at General Williams. “They would be able to launch wheels up out of Tacoma within one hour, is that correct, Marv?”
“Yes, from making the call to boots on the ground in Texas would be about five and half hours using the C-17s.”
“Other options?” the President tapped a silver pen on the desk, examining the gold eagle paperweight, before looking up at Jabarra and Williams.
“The next best would be the 10th Mountain out of Fort Drum, but as you know, we had them on the shortlist for Chicago, if the situation disintegrates further there.” Jabarra noted coolly.
“Another consideration for the 10th is that they are supposed to be recuperating from a fifteen month deployment in support of Operation Lasting Liberty in Iraq,” General Williams gave Jabarra a raised eyebrow. “They were promised six months home station before taking another rotation.”
“If their country needs them,” President Denton put down the pen and picked up the golden paperweight examining the eagle closely, “they will go.”
“We have the National Guards of New York, New Jersey and Massachusetts all available,” Jabarra noted with a raised brow. “Those governors have been very cooperative in federalizing their troops, and have committed them to us. We just need to give them twenty-four hours’ notice.”
The Oval Office was silent for some time, and General Williams and Secretary Jabarra inched forward on their respective seats, looking at each other and then to the President, who remained preoccupied with the eagle. “You know, when the eagle looked like it was going to go extinct, there was a huge effort to protect it. Within a couple of generations, the eagle was flourishing. Now, it’s not even considered a threatened species.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s interesting.” Secretary Jabarra sat with a puzzled look.
President Denton put the paper weight back to her desk and glared at Jabarra, “The point is, Will, that our national symbol is resilient. When threatened it can come back to flourish. So can we. Times may look tough now, but we’re going to move forward and thrive.”
“Yes, Madam President,” Jabarra nodded and scribbled something on his file.
“But what are your orders, ma’am?” Williams gave her a very deliberate, if dispassionate look. “What should I tell the Pentagon?”
“Send out Third Corps west and south, put the 75th Rangers on ready status, and communicate with the 4th Marines that they may soon have a local fight.”
“Yes, Madam President.” The two rose and headed for the door.
“Oh, and Will?” the President leaned back in her desk chair and spun to face Jabarra, who had stopped at the door.
“Yes, President Denton?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
*****
Three Eagles Ranch
Outside of Hunt, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 8:40 p.m.
The crack of a rifle shot made Brodie spin, but he couldn’t see who had fired it. It came from the courtyard area where some of the guys were already gathering at the half-wall. Brodie heard the hum of the quads before he saw them, and as the marauders’ trucks moved closer he saw the quad darting ahead of them, and a second coming from the northeast. Kirk!
It was Kirk Thompson with the Duggan boy on his back, hanging on for dear life. Jinking his ATV back and forth, Kirk sped the quad away, but was only perhaps one hundred and fifty yards ahead of the criminals, a couple of whom held pistols out the window of the lead truck. From the puffs of smoke and cracking sound, they were shooting despite the truck’s bouncing over rocks and low spots.
The second quad appeared to the west of them, Charlie Duggan driving and Mooch Dimucci bouncing up and down straddling the ATV as best he could behind Charlie’s girth. They were making good time, and Brodie was a little relieved when he saw how well even a novice could maneuver the ATV at a good pace. It gave him a shot of optimism, since he had ridden dozens of times with Kirk Thompson, and he knew that Kirk could really handle the machines.
The angry hiss of bullet and the bending noise of a ricochet made Brodie duck down to the wall, as the quads came near the main gravel driveway. Come on! Hurry! The ATV teams were almost here, but the trucks weren’t stopping. Brodie counted five of them, coming in a column now on the ranch’s gravel lane, maybe three hundred yards out. He saw one or two thugs in the beds of the trucks, as well as multiple foes in the cabs. Opposing force: twenty to twenty-five insurgents.
He felt a hand on his shoulder as Mac Harris moved past him and took up a position on the wall with his AR-15 ten feet away. His son joined him a moment later, poising his own AR-15 on the wall. Joe Calderon dashed, feather dancing behind him, down the wall from Harris, with a Mini-14 at the ready and his riot gun draped over his shoulder with a two-point sling, and Frank Martin was by his side with the big elk rifle and twelve-gauge semi-auto trap gun Brodie had lent him.
Brodie checked his AR-15. It was good to go. He felt the two spare magazines, one in each of the back pockets of his jeans. He was squared away. He heard the hum of the ATV being driven toward the courtyard Glen Tucker, with Ben Murkowski hanging on at the rear. Brodie watched them dismount and come running, while Dennis Evans showed up at the wall to Brodie’s left. We’re outnumbered, probably two-to-one.
Brodie watched as the trucks picked up speed down the dirt and gravel driveway. From the velocity it looked like it was a blunt entry. At least they’re stupid. Brodie swiveled his head left and then right, and saw nothing but the tall stands of bald cypress, live oaks and cedars, bee brush swaying in the cooling breeze. No flanking forces were present. So much for tactics.
The sight of the SUVs rolling toward them made Brodie’s psyche tug hard on his consciousness, begging him to tumble into the oblivion of memories, but Brodie focused on Kirk Thompson’s determined, cursing face as he slid the quad to a halt by the gate and helped the Duggan boy to get to the wall.
He had to resist.
God, help me focus. Help me forgive if not forget.
He fought to resist that waltz with the devil, that clever old demon who would come so sweetly to him, innocently whispering lies. Cloyingly extending a hand to him for a moment of peace, enticing him to be a companion on a lonely tour of hell.
Brodie had seen that determined look Kirk Thompson was wearing in so many who had been wounded or killed, and Brodie vowed to not let that happen that day. His friends were here. His wife and sons were in the house, and his daughter was huddled in a stall in the stable hoping no more marauders would come to take her away. These people needed him, and Brodie couldn’t slide into that deep hole to escape his pain. Not this time.
No more.
No more lies. No more solitary, disengaged sleepwalking through life.
Sara needed a husband.
The kids needed a real father, not some listless, lonely shell of a man.
Another crack of gunshot h
it the wall twenty feet to his left, making Dennis Evans dive low behind one of the taller pillars which held a faux iron lantern box about every thirty feet in the old stucco barrier. A second bullet near Evans pinged off the decorative metal lantern, breaking the old amber glass, making the shards fall down around Dennis as he huddled beneath it , clutching the twelve-gauge pump shotgun.
Brodie felt the buzz of a bullet fly by as the trucks raced toward them down the lane. He glanced over the men at the walls. These were good men – all had responded without asking questions, rather wanting to help him and their Governor. He hoped God would protect them – their cause was just and their beliefs were honorable. He prayed that would be enough. “Everyone get ready! They’re coming in! Keep your heads and don’t fire too soon!” God help me in this fight.
*****
“They need us on the other side,” the older black guy yelled to Haslett as he motioned to his son and rose to head across the courtyard. “You coming?”
“You go,” Haslett didn’t take his eye off his scope, rather he painted the horizon with the barrel, not unlike an artist using a brush on the canvas before him. “I’ll watch the rear. Take your boy and do some good over there.”
Without discussion, the old black man and his son ran behind him toward the front of the house.
Haslett didn’t trust that the rear was secure. The bastard that sniped Finnegan was still out there. He steadied his weapon the top of the wall next to one of the pillars that held the fake lamps. It was good cover and provided very good protection from the trees and garden where he thought he would hide and hunt him, if he was the enemy. From the shot on his big friend, the enemy was pretty damn good and probably not stupid neither.
Haslett swept the field of fire from far to the southeast and all the way back across the garden and orchard to the southwest. Everything was quiet. Haslett kept coming back to the trees and overgrowth, since that was where his greatest vulnerability was. Any sniper worth half his salt would be in there somewhere.