by J. J. Holden
Thump, thump, the two rounds arced up and over, then plummeted down into the trees. They exploded in the canopy, and the result was quite satisfying. Huge fireballs in the canopies tore the trees to shreds, leaving stumps of their trunks, and he heard agonized screams from the tree line. “I guess the movies were right.”
Ratbone ran up to him, skidding to a halt. “Boss, we got problems. They’re shifting that light armor from the high school, heading this way. ETA is one minute.”
“Shit. Get our RPGs over there.” Then he called to the mortar crew, “Adjust fire, zone Echo Three. That’s where they’ll come through. Ratbone, get spotters over there.”
“Yes, sir. We only got two rounds for the RPGs, boss.” Then Ratbone sprinted away.
Nestor followed behind, then waited with his soldiers for the coming attack. He only had to wait a few seconds before three Humvees and two scout tanks—Bradleys? He couldn’t remember—burst from the tree line and accelerated across the field. “RPGs on the tanks,” he shouted.
One round streaked out, smashing into the tank’s front armor like a wrecking ball, but the little tank came through the smoke and fire unharmed. “Dammit. RPG, save your last round for a shot at the treads, got it?”
Then the mortar fire came in, landing among the vehicles and doing little to them, but shredding half a dozen Mountain soldiers.
The tank fired its main gun as the other vehicles opened up with .50-caliber machine guns, pouring fire into Nestor’s emplacements. The man with the RPG was torn in half by two of the massive bullets.
Nestor grabbed the long tube and the man’s last round, then ran south. He slid into cover and ducked down as a hail of bullets tore up the cement all around him. When the firing paused, he readied the RPG, popped up and snap-fired it at the tank, which now had its side facing him as it continued west toward the defensive line.
The round streaked toward the tank and smashed into its side. It stopped moving, but its gun didn’t stop firing. “Sonovabitch.” He dropped the tube and sprinted from cover to cover back toward his fighters, shouting, “Fall back, get out of range from that tank!”
The light vehicles were laughing off the small arms fire, although one stood ablaze in the field where a lucky mortar round had wrecked it. The other two hummers and the second surviving light tank were tearing up his troops. His people behind sandbags did okay against the heavy machine guns, but then the tank sent a high-explosive round into them, one after the other, ravaging the lines.
Nestor saw one of his troops, a Uniontown man if he remembered correctly, running toward the immobile tank. It couldn’t move and the other vehicles had left it behind. He approached from the side and they either didn’t see him or couldn’t turn to deal with him. He jumped onto the front “fender,” whatever that piece was called, and shoved something into the short barrel, then jumped down.
The resulting explosions were awesome. The first one peeled the barrel like a banana, but it must have set off something inside the tank because that was followed immediately by a second, larger explosion, and then a third explosion so large that Nestor felt the concussion all the way back where he was. Ammo bay, Nestor thought.
Seeing this, nearly a dozen of his troops from the line near the operational tank sprinted forward, ready to try the same thing, but the enemy infantry accompanying the tank mowed them down. Crap—that must have cost him half a dozen grenades. Those weren’t so easy to replace.
The remaining tank kept advancing, and rolled over the smoking ruins of one sandbagged emplacement. The two Humvees followed its example. Once through the line, they opened up with their machine guns on Nestor’s troops as they fell back, with devastating effect. His people were being slaughtered.
He heard shouts to the east and glanced; from the same tree line from which the vehicles had emerged, another infantry company now moved forward by leaps and bounds, making it hard to see one long enough to get a good shot off. They had waited for the vehicles and supporting infantry to punch a hole in the defensive lines, and now were coming like army ants to sting him to death. Nestor spat.
“Ratbone,” he shouted. A second later, his sidekick slid into cover with him like he was going for home plate.
“Not good, boss,” Ratbone shouted over the din. “Flee or fall?”
Nestor grit his teeth. “Flee. Fall back to the next line, see if we got RPGs or even propane tanks, anything we can use on that tank.”
“Roger, boss.” Ratbone seemed to vanish. That man was scary sneaky.
Nestor made his way as best he could toward the fallback positions. He only hoped they were still standing when he got there. If he got there, he corrected.
Bang, he put a round into a Mountain soldier’s back, grabbed the woman’s grenades and ammo pouch, and fled. If the fallback positions fell, he’d have to gather whoever he could and try to head east to Confed territory. The Free Republic didn’t have much left to hide in if Lawson Heights and Latrobe fell.
* * *
Ree nodded with evident approval at the inquisitors’ handiwork. Four civilian workers and two ISNA troops who had let that American into his tea room with a knife, all were brutalized bloody messes and barely still breathing for the moment. Probably not for long, from the looks of them.
Ree turned to his nearby platoon commander who had overseen guarding the victims during their questioning. “Take these six and tie them to telephone poles outside our west gate. A warning to the rest. Try to keep them alive if you can, but you needn’t try too hard.”
The ISNA man saluted in his stupid, sand-eater way, palm out. Their uniforms were disheveled and filthy. Pah. Barbarians, but useful ones. Ree watched until they were out of sight, then returned to his office.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock. “Enter.”
Major Kim stepped through, then bowed low. Too low… Ree frowned.
Kim reddened, then said, “My leader, news.”
“Out with it, Kim.”
“Yes, sir. The platoon you commanded to stake out our inquisitor victims was overrun right outside our very gates. There were dozens of civilians with pipes and even stones. All ten guards are dead or missing. They and our gate guards killed at least a dozen, yet the mob continued to attack until they had killed or taken both the detail and the traitors.”
“You said that already. Quit babbling, Kim. Radio my Colonels and tell them to beware their own workers. I didn’t survive in Korea by ignoring the signs of brewing storms. I sense that a massive storm now comes our way, little brother. Double the guards on the walls and gates, and double my personal guard. And yours. Dismissed.”
Ree then went to his paperwork again as Kim bowed and backed out of the room. Then Ree let out a long, frustrated sigh. These damned Americans! They didn’t have the decency to know when they were defeated, nor did they have any natural ability to work for the good of the People. Only for themselves. Every one of them had their own ideas and refused to bring their wills into alignment with their Great Leader’s. He could only conclude that his Great Leader, safe at home in Korea, was wrong about the American temperament and the source of their obstinacy. Obviously, his advisors had given the Great Leader wrong information, but whatever the cause, this invasion had been a terrible mistake, and Ree was left to deal with the repercussions.
He resisted the urge to shout out in rage. That would be undisciplined. But inside, he seethed. Ancestors help whoever else crossed Ree today. He was in no mood for leniency.
* * *
Taggart grinned as Eagan gave his report. “…and that ought to make him feel the pucker, sir.”
Taggart nodded. “Yes, it ought to. Out of the quarter-million veterans in New York City, it wasn’t hard to find a few Green Berets.”
Eagan grinned right back. “Yup. They may not be as badass as Deltas or SEALs when it comes to a straight combat op, but no one does insurgency like Green Berets.”
“Well, that’s the focus of their training. Go in behind enemy lines and raise
the level of suck for them. I never thought they’d be doing it here, to invaders, using Americans! But they’ve managed to get civilians working in small bands all over the city, both in Ree’s turf and in his colonel territories. And those NoK colonels don’t like to cooperate with one another. They get their stupid honor up in arms, and fall back on policies and procedures.”
“Yes, sir. And we’re learning to take advantage of it. Now we don’t have to attack directly to ruin Ree’s day.”
“Don’t get cocky, shitbird,” Taggart replied with his own cocky grin. Then he grew more somber. “The enemy’s domestic intelligence force is among the best in the world, and there’s enough Koreans to make life hairy for our operatives and the assets they’ve recruited.”
“There’s not enough of them. Our operatives have hit a sort of critical mass. There’s no way the gooks can find all of them now. The rebellion is spreading faster than they can catch up. Hell, they didn’t even know there was a rebellion until we got within inches of assassinating Ree himself.”
“That mission failed, I remind you. The volunteer died gruesomely, as did his wife and two children. But Ree hasn’t yet figured out how we tick. Every time he puts corpses on display, it makes Americans pissed, not submissive.”
“Well, sir, I figure he’ll learn that lesson soon, according to our agents’ reports. I doubt Ree will survive the lesson.”
Taggart nodded and took another bite of his late lunch—veggies and rice—then dug into the dozens of various reports on his table. Eagan let himself out without bothering Taggart further.
Once he was gone, Taggart gazed out into space, lost in thought. If the rebels in the City won, they’d be faced with still more mass starvation. Reports said Ree was trying to farm Central Park, though. He realized he’d have to send some of his newly trained farming advisors into that mess just on humanitarian grounds, if and when the enemy threat was gone.
He made a note to get a few more people into Cassy’s training workshops. Then he doubled the number, thinking that he might have to do the same with other survivor communities he ran across.
Maybe it was time to just hand recruiting power over to Cassy. He just had too much useless crap to do for him to be micro-managing this sort of thing anymore. “I miss being a sergeant,” he grumbled, then went back to studying reports.
* * *
Cassy got out of the truck and pulled down her goggles. They were necessary because the windshield glass had been removed, but she thought they looked “cool,” intimidating even. She glanced around and saw the two other battlecars to either side of hers were properly arrayed in a V-formation, grilles pointed slightly outward. Visually, they were intimidating.
Up ahead, hundreds of refugees huddled together on both sides of the road that led west from Harrisburg, all staring at her. She saw desperation and even hopelessness in their eyes.
Behind her, the two supply trucks were pulling to a halt, having waited until the battlecars were in position.
Cassy picked up the megaphone from the battlecar’s dashboard and clicked it on. “People of the Free Republic,” she said, her voice amplified to the point of hurting her own ears, “I am Cassandra Shores, Chancellor of the Confederation. I come to help you as best as the Confederation can. Who speaks for you?”
After a few seconds, she saw two men approaching through the crowd, one noticeably taller than the other. Both looked ragged and exhausted as they approached, but the taller had glaring eyes and a jaw set in stone. She’d be wary of that one…
The taller said, “I speak for the majority. What do you want? You’ve killed enough of us.”
Behind him, the crowd shouted in support, but it was half-hearted. They were tired and beaten, these people. She could blame Liz Town for that.
Cassy set the megaphone down and waved the two men over. Whey they got close, the shorter said, “I speak for the minority, who wanted peace. At least, they are the minority now that you people murdered so many of us.”
Cassy nodded slowly, finger on her chin, making a show of carefully considering his words. Then she said, “Majority Speaker, Minority Speaker, thank you for your time and for speaking with me. I hope to resolve these issues, and help however we can.”
“Empty words. Can you resolve our dead?” the taller man said.
Cassy laughed, and both envoys looked shocked. Good. Cassy said, “No, but can you resolve ours? Perhaps the Free Republic has forgotten that the Confederation is independent and not their servants. Certainly the old republic forgot that, until we reminded them.”
The short man’s face turned red. “We’re not the Midwest Republic—”
Cassy interrupted him. “No, but you came with guns, demanding what’s ours, just as they did. You expected Liz Town to just give you all they had and then starve along with you? No, you did this wrong.”
The tall one clenched his fists at his sides. “We were starving, not coming for what we didn’t need or deserve.”
“Ah, but you were,” Cassy replied. “You don’t deserve to take our food by force if we say no. And at the barrel of a gun, we reinforced that much-needed lesson in manners and ownership. Yet I’m still here, trying to help you. Would the Empire do as much? So stop with the self-righteous indignation and ridiculous bad analogies.”
Mr. Tall said nothing, and even took a step backward in shock. Mr. Short said, “So we both have lost people. And you come with promises of help, now that we’re being good little doggies.”
“Now that you’re being good little guests, yes.” Cassy’s gaze didn’t flinch. “We do understand your predicament, your motives. You aren’t our enemy, and we aren’t yours, unless you continue to wish it so.”
Tall said, “Not our enemies now that you aren’t shooting at us.”
“Yes, that’s right. Now that you aren’t storming our gates with guns and knives, we can go back to being allies. I suggest to you that your real enemy is out there,” Cassy said, pointing west.
The two men stared at her in silence.
Cassy continued, “In the trucks behind me are sacks of rice, quinoa, wheat. Barrels of vinegar and apple cider. As many nuts as we could gather. And more. You should know that, because of this help we freely offer, our coming winter will be a hungry one, but we’ll survive. If you take our gift, then you will too.”
“What’s the catch,” Mr. Tall said, his eyes narrowing. “Nothing’s free in this new world.”
“Nor in the last one,” Cassy said with a faint smile. “The catch is, the Mountain King is coming with what’s left of his Empire lapdogs. The simple truth is that if we don’t kill you, they will. What, may I ask, do you two leaders intend to do about that?”
Tall said, “We’ll fight to the last. We’ll die free people, if we can’t live that way. As Americans.”
Mr. Short nodded, then shrugged. “We have few other options.”
Cassy looked up at the sky. She put her right hand on the back of her neck and rubbed it, then looked Tall and Short in the eyes, each in turn. “You have one other option.”
Mr. Short shook his head. “It’s too late to talk of—”
Tall Guy interrupted him, cutting through the air with the edge of his hand, saying, “What option? I speak for the majority here.” He shot a glowering look at the shorter man. “I’ll hear you out before we decide who we’d rather have killing us, Empire or Confederation.”
Cassy nodded. “Fair enough. My idea is simple. You leave everyone who can’t fight in our care. The rest take up guns and wander out west in groups of fifty, or a hundred, and harass the Mountain King’s supply lines. Raid the Empire’s loyalists. Slash and burn. When it’s over, whoever survives comes back for your loved ones and either settles in the Confederation or goes back to their Free Republic homes and starts over.”
The tall man frowned. “Long odds on seeing them again when this is over.”
Cassy nodded. “Yes. But shorter odds than trying to run roughshod over us again, or facing the Mountai
n alone.”
Short let out a long breath and his shoulders slumped. “So you’d have us join the Night Ghosts to earn our loved ones’ keep.”
A jolt ran up Cassy’s spine. Had she heard that right? “I’m sorry, join who?”
Tall replied, “Night Ghosts. The guerrilla army who fought the Midwest Republic, and now fighting them and the Mountain’s troops both. I don’t reckon the Free Republic would have been born without their help. The leader is a legend. They say he’s two people in one. One leads, the other fights.”
Cassy fought the urge to leap with excitement. Nestor lived! After all that time, how was it possible? She kept her voice even. “Yes, I know the Night Ghost leader. His name is Nestor. Join him in spirit, if not in person. Your kids and anyone else who can’t or shouldn’t manage months in the wild as a guerrilla… they may stay with us, under our supply and protection. Fighting the Mountain… That’s the deal, and it’s a good one.”
Mr. Tall nodded, and Cassy saw that he ignored the shorter man, who glared at him. “Best deal we’re likely to get. And I would rather fight those bastards than y’all, if I must pick one. We’ll need guns and ammo and the like. I figure we can spend the next couple days getting all our ducks lined up straight, while you get us the guns we’ll need.”
Cassy nodded. Then she held out her hand, and he shook it. She smiled, since people were watching and must have seen it. Good. Now it was time to put the cherry on top and seal the deal.
She raised the megaphone toward the trucks in the rear. “Break out the food, people. Hungry people want to eat.”
She spent the next several hours helping to pass out food allotments and water bottles, smiling at the refugees as they came up, shaking as many hands as she could. She hated doing this to these people, but when survival was on the line, it was time to get cold-hearted, and quickly. Most of these people would be dead come spring, but at least they’d die fighting the Mountain instead of the Confederation.