by Paul Kirk
“I know, Scotty,” said Shamus.
“Know what? That they’re probably carrying at least two RPGs in the bunch?” suggested the colonel.
“Ah, yeah, yes, ma’am.”
“It’d be inexcusable if they didn’t, Professor. But thanks for the heads up, Scott.”
“No problem, ma’am. Just saying’.”
Across the bay, GT raised his eyebrow toward Scott, who was smiling, as if to say that he’d clearly not given the colonel enough credit in her tactical assessment.
“Loop around, Professor," said the major, "come at ‘em from the other side. Come straight up the road lining up on the biggest cluster concentration of those horses.”
“Understood, major.”
“Maintain at least 1500 meters separation. I want to make sure we're outta range of those RPGs.”
“Same here, sir.”
The colonel turned in her seat to face the cabin. “Scott, GT, all of you, start searching for rear and advance teams hiding and providing cover as the main force advances.”
“Good idea, ma’am.”
Colonel Starkes turned to stare at Scott. She did not appear happy. “Well, I’m glad that meets with your approval, captain.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Spoke outloud, ma’am. Won’t happen again.”
GT busted into a laugh, before he muted his headset. Shamus laughed outright, before cutting it short. Scott had the grace to blush, ignoring the harsh stare.
“They’re using an advance team. They’ve sent twenty men about one hundred yards ahead of the main force for reconnaissance,” said Major O'Malley.
“Agreed, major.” Colonel Starkes held the binoculars tight, scanning the riders, who were now tracking their approach. Each crewmember studied the scene below, looking for the RPGs. Those devices had the potential to do serious damage to the Superhawk.
“See anything, major? Professor?”
“No ma’am,” said the major.
"Negative, ma'am.
“Search for empty saddles. Track the men nearby hiding on the ground. They got the RPGs,” said Scott.
“Excellent advice,” said Starkes, “Everyone, look for any man hiding on the ground near his horse.”
“I got one!” said Ren, “Shoulder tube spinning toward us! Man on the ground.”
“Good catch.”
“There’s another. With the advance party. Left side of the road.”
“Range professor?”
“2000 meters to the advance team.”
“Hold up. Take stationary position. Remain out of range.”
“Roger that.”
Colonel Starkes turned to Scott, smiling. “Find me another pretty lady, Scott.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Guide it in real nice for me.”
“Will do.”
“Major, do you concur in the use one of the remaining two ladies to slow that charge toward our men?”
“I do.”
“Excellent. Scott, take your best shot.”
“Understood. Readying Hellfire. Professor, line me up…twenty degrees left…slower…drop horizontal five degrees…there…there. Hold. Got the visual…firing.”
The Hellfire roared from the side of the Superhawk in a burst of intense flame. Men below, 2000 meters away caught the launch and scattered, jumping off horses, diving behind cars, and running over an embankment. In seconds, the missile was upon them, taking one rider in the chest before the explosion lit up into a fireball. Inching the helicopter a few hundred meters closer, the devastation point seen below was enormous.
“Give me a live count, major.”
“Working on it…”
“Nice launch, Scott.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Scott stowed the laser guidance system within its protective sheath.
Nicole stared out the window, horrified at the destruction of so many beautiful horses and the men upon them. Mildly shaking, tears formed and she kept her head held in her hands.
Colonel Starkes placed a gentle, reassuring hand to her shoulder. “Sorry, Nicole. I know you’re just along for the ride…but it had to be done.”
“I know,” said Nicole, head still in her hands.
“Ma’am, I’d say we got a soft count of forty men down, about a third.”
“Excellent, that outta slow them up a bit.”
“Indeed,” said Shamus.
“Don’t stop. Kill ‘em all, colonel,” said Amanda, furiously.
Colonel Starkes, Scott, GT and the rest of the cabin stared at her ferocity. Calmly, the colonel unfastened her seat harness and moved to face Amanda. “I feel your fury, Amanda. I do. But we’ll get them all back. And, we’ll do it my way. We now have an expanded window to find our team.”
“But—”
“But nothing! Sitting here taking more pot shots at those riders risks CJ, Nicole, you, my men, and this bird at unacceptable levels. Do you understand me?”
Amanda faced Colonel Starkes with a desperate bloodlust that slowly settled into a softer expression of understanding. Grudgingly, she nodded.
The colonel placed a hand on her shoulder. “Keep your eyes on that window and find our men as we go, Amanda. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Shamus made a half-circle swing around the devastation before pulling away, heading south.
CHAPTER 10.4-The Art of Negotiation
“Mister, that’s far enough!” said the gate guard. All four guards were pointing their weapons at John McLeod.
McLeod stopped forty yards from the massive doors. The gates were more formidable up close. Holding a long stick in his left hand with a white t-shirt tied at the end, he kept calm. His right hand casually held the reins of his horse. He remained confident despite the aggressive posture of the guards. He glanced at the fast-rising sun, estimating the time at around nine-thirty. He quashed his faint feeling of hunger and stayed focused, slipping into what he referred to as his “negotiating mode”.
“Turn around and leave, mister. If you leave now, you’ll live.”
“I have information to trade that’s very critical to your town. My men and I would simply like to pass straight through in exchange for this knowledge.” He tired of shouting to be heard and nudged his horse gently with his heels.
“Stop right there, mister!”
McLeod stopped again, waiting patiently. Under prior cover of night, Connor and both advance teams were hiding no more than thirty-five yards behind him. He glanced behind him, knowing where they were hidden at the edge of the cleared killing field, but was again impressed that he did not see them. Marty had remained hidden in the copse of trees further back. John was receiving updates through an ear bud connected to the radio in his inside jacket pocket.
“Snipers inside are now aware of your presence, John, but you’re too close to the gates for them to see. There’s no danger from them until you’re inside. Hang on...there’s a man running with two women from a building in the center of town.” This feed was coming from Marty who had the only position capable of seeing inside the walled community.
The guards continued to discuss John and his mention of other men, gesturing toward the crest of the hill, but despite their discussion, they never took their eyes from John for more than a second or two.
“John, the man with the two women is a good half mile from the gate. It might be a while. He looks important—everyone’s centered on him. He looks like he's issuing orders to everyone. He’s wearing a white shirt with a gun in his belt. He’s got a wild head of black hair. A truck arrived and he’s getting in, six guys, all armed, jumped into the bed. They’re coming your way.”
“John,” interrupted Connor, “if you’re still okay with this, dip your flag forward.”
The flag dipped immediately, a definitive nod to McLeod’s continuing approval of the plan. John sniffed the air, smelling jasmine from somewhere to the left. He waited patiently, his thoughts drifting to his wife and the jasmine soap
beads he’d bought her every year for her bath. He blinked hard, driving those thoughts from his head and focused on the here and now.
Movement at the top of the gate absorbed his attention. A man was being lowered by an intricate pulley system. He was standing alone in a metal basket large enough to hold four adults.
“That’s the guy I saw inside,” said Marty over the radio. “He’s probably one of the leaders or head of security.”
The speed of the basket was quite slow, indicating a high mechanical advantage. The basket reached the ground and the man stepped through the gate and approached McLeod without hesitation. His handgun was now tucked into a shoulder holster and his demeanor unsmiling and stern.
“His weapon is a Colt Python, forty-five caliber. Six shots. He doesn’t look very happy. Are you still good, John?” asked Connor.
The flag dipped again and everyone remained tense, hoping that John McLeod worked his negotiating magic. The man stopped ten feet away from McLeod and appraised him openly, unimpressed. He glanced around the area and up to the crest of the hill. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“Leave,” he said simply. “You’re not welcome here.”
“Alright, I will,” answered McLeod, tugging on the reins. Once his back was turned to the man, he mumbled a few strong words and lightly tapped the horse's ribs with his heels. The horse moved forward toward the north, the way he had come.
“What did you just say?” yelled the man. He stood rigid, evaluating the situation with some confusion. John continued slowly away, ignoring the question. He heard the click of the handgun.
“What did you say to me, mister?”
McLeod stopped his horse, but didn’t turn. “Put that Colt Python down or ten of my men will fill you with holes you could shine a flashlight through.” He turned the horse slowly to face the man and smiled down at him.
“Right,” said the man. “You’re dead too if that happens.”
“Time will tell on that account.”
“You got some stones, mister. You have absolutely no idea who you’re talkin’ to and who I—“
“That sounds very interesting, I’m sure," John interrupted, "but I know who I’m talking to. I’ve seen it all across the country. I’m talking to some backwater governor who won’t open a courteous conversation with a stranger.”
“Fuck you.”
“You see, you’re rude and you’re used to getting your way. You resort to profanity as a self defense mechanism and not even good profanity. By the way, purely for self-preservation purposes, if you shoot me, you die.” McLeod tugged the reins again and turned the horse.
The man began laughing and John reversed the turn to face him again. The man holstered his gun and continued his laughter, sounding somewhat maniacal.
“How many guns are aimed at me right now? You said ten?
“Give or take.”
“How many men you got with you? You got any women?”
“How many people you have in the quaint little town of Perryopolis?”
“You know this town?”
“A man with me does.”
“Where is this man?”
“Probably deciding which of your eyeballs he’ll put the first bullet in.”
“Right. Sure. You know, mister, I've come out here personally to meet every sad sack that’s come this way for the past five years. Except for a couple times, it’s never worth the trip.”
“Wow, and no one’s shot you yet? You must be so proud.”
“A few have tried. I took one in the shoulder a year ago and a couple years before that I took an arrow to the thigh.” He expanded his chest as if his past wounds imbued him with credibility.
“That’s nice to hear,” said McLeod. “I’m glad you survived. Have a nice day.” He began another exit.
“I should let you leave.”
“Yes, you should,” said McLeod. He turned slightly in his saddle and offered the man a small grin. “Let your boss know we had valuable information for you. But you pissed it away. We offered it for no more than safe passage through your town.”
“Hold up a second. What’s your name?”
“Don’t tell me you’re trying to make friends now?”
“What’s your name?” There was an edge to the man’s voice at his second request—he was accustomed to having his questions answered without hesitation. John turned his horse yet again, draped the reins across the saddle horn, and eased down to the ground.
“You first.”
“Hey! You’re good at this you know that? Seeking control. Did somebody teach you control’s a factor in any negotiation?”
“How about that. An educated man beneath that crude exterior.”
“What’s your name? I won’t ask again—trust me on that.”
“How about that...a man with a three-strike rule.”
“I repeat, I won’t ask again. When the dust clears, you’ll be dead and I’ll make it back inside.”
They stared as John waited for the man to introduce himself and the man waited for John’s next move.
“Are we done yet?” asked the man, impatient at the impasse.
“I’m still waiting to be properly introduced.”
“Right. Usually when two people meet, the approaching individual—in this case, you—coming into my town provides his name first.”
“I would agree. Usually, it’s good practice for that same man you are illustrating to leave when told to leave and that he's not welcome.”
“That’s true that I said that. I’m changing my mind.”
“Well then, I’ll introduce myself. My name’s John McLeod.”
“I’m Commander Del Re.”
“Del Re? That means ‘of the king’ if I’m not mistaken. It’s nice to be introduced.”
“It’s impressive, Mr. McLeod, that you know that little piece of surname history.”
“Is that your real name or did you make it up?”
“It’s real.”
“You said ‘commander’. You run this town?”
“I do.”
“You’re not blowing smoke—you’re in charge?”
“I am.”
“Excellent. My estimation of you has increased exponentially.”
“That makes my day,” said Del Re sarcastically.
“I meant it sincerely.”
The commander waved away the compliment, but did seek to explain his actions. “I learned to never send a man out to do something if you wouldn’t do it yourself.”
John McLeod smiled and nodded. “I’d like to shake your hand and start negotiating a trade, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay. But hold on a second.” He raised his left hand, signaling the men at the gate with a fist before tapping the top of his head twice. “Your turn,” he said to McLeod.
“I’m gonna reach into my shirt pocket—there’s a radio there.”
“Go for it.”
McLeod slipped his hand into his coat and pulled out the radio. “We’re good for now, Mac.”
“Copy that, John. We’re standing down and awaiting further instructions.”
“Mac?” asked Del Re.
“He’s my commander. I insisted he take a back seat on the introductions. I’m better at it than he is.”
Commander Del Re laughed again. “You’ve been the most entertainment I’ve had in a long time. Welcome to Perryopolis.”
“Thanks, commander,” he said, approaching Del Re with his hand extended. The two men shook, pleased to be beyond the awkward and tense beginning.
“C’mon in and we’ll find you something to eat. How many men do you have with you?”
John smiled but then grimaced at the inquiry. “Back to that, huh? Here’s where it gets a bit squirrely.”
“What?”
“It comes back to the same issue. Can I trust you? Do I simply bring everyone in? What if what you’re offering is a trap? There’s all kinds of strategic and tactical questions here.”
John waved at
the skeletons hanging on pikes on each side of the road. Commander Del Re smiled.
“Each of them had it coming, trust me. But, I see what you mean. We need a way to build trust.”
“Exactly. I’m thinking you're a person I can trust, but how can I be sure?”
“How do we build trust? I have just as much reason not to trust you,” said Del Re.
“True. Maybe you could have those two sniper nests inside stand down and bring ‘em out onto the street for our team to see.”
“Your guys spotted them?”
“Yep. At least the two on this end. We’ve assumed two more on the south end. Nice job by the way.”
“Hmm, will you show four of your men in exchange?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s you and I walk closer to the gate so I don’t have to yell my orders.”
“That’s fine,” said McLeod. He spoke into the radio. “Proceeding toward the gate to confirm stand down position of the four snipers.”
“Copy that.”
They stopped fifteen feet from the gate. “That is one impressive gate,” said John.
“Yes, it’s done its job on a number of occasions.”
“The evidence of that is written all over this thing.”
Commander Del Re instructed one of the gate guards to have the four snipers stand down. He turned to McLeod. “Where you want ‘em?”
“Outside the buildings they’re in would be fine.”
“Your men would have visual confirmation from that far up the highway?” he asked, pointing north along Route 51.
“Many of my men are closer than that. In fact, they may be close enough to hear your voice.”
“No way. I figured you were bullshitting me before about ten men being close.”
“Nope, it’s true, commander. Though it’s more like six or seven men. Most are Special Forces of some type or another.”
“I see. I got two people assigned to each gate besides the guards. Their job is to watch this road for anything out of the ordinary."
“What’s the length of a single shift?”
“Eight hours.”
“That’s much too long," said McLeod, "visual surveillance greater than two hours becomes less effective. After four hours, efficiency drops almost fifty per cent. Limited change in scenic view in a kill zone or limited engagement activity over less than week’s time helps efficiency plummet another ten per cent.”