The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade

by Demers, J. D.

  There was no question these men were hardened. I couldn’t tell if any were military, though. Some had ACU pants or shirts or vests, but none were in any type of complete Army or Marine uniform.

  Though these people were now in view, they were still in good cover. They slowly repositioned themselves, inching around the barricades or dirt berms erected on the sides. The rifles they held were steady and threatening.

  “Go limited live,” Dobson whispered through the comms.

  “Seven,” DJ said from the turret.

  “Copy, seven here, too,” Pittman acknowledged.

  They were wrong, though. They had forgotten about the sandbags on the rooftop of a small tire shop right before the bridge. It was too far to get a good look, but I saw movement.

  “Pittman, there’s eight,” I said in a low tone. “Up on that roof, near the bridge. Check the sandbags.”

  Pittman raised his binoculars.

  “Cancel that. Count Eight. Two O’clock rooftop,” Pittman corrected, and then turned back to me. “Nice catch, Christian.”

  I nodded with a frown. Catching the guy on the roof didn’t mean much. He could snipe Enrique and Pittman easily enough and we couldn’t even return fire.

  Big Red rolled to a halt thirty feet in front of the barricades.

  “Armament?” Dobson asked.

  “Small,” Pittman replied, indicating that he saw nothing more powerful than rifles pointed at us.

  One man stood and walked toward the center of the road, still behind the barricades. He was at least six feet tall with tightly cropped hair. The size of his head rivaled Pittman’s, shaped like a cinderblock and probably equally as hard. He must have been fair-skinned, because the Florida sun had turned his skin red as a strawberry. Most likely of Irish decent, I thought. He wore black cargo pants and a military utility vest, each pocket carrying a magazine.

  He stood confidently, lowering his weapon. Slowly, he lifted his hand, much like a police officer would do at a DUI checkpoint. Upon closer examination, I saw a familiar wire leading from his vest to his ear. They did have radios.

  “Fish?” Dobson transmitted.

  “Go,” was the Green Beret’s only response.

  A sense of relief washed over me. Hearing his voice meant that he was still alive, which meant Jenna and Karina were probably safe, too.

  I tried to stay low, but couldn’t help peeking out of the windows. I didn’t see where Fish was, and felt stupid for looking. The man would have died long ago if someone like me could have spotted him.

  Dobson walked up past Big Red toward the man at the barricades. He had his radio activated so we could hear what was being said. It was more for Fish than anyone, but if he gave the signal, we would resort to Plan B. I wasn’t excited about that. Charging through the barriers and praying we made it through just seemed suicidal.

  Dobson spoke first.

  “Is this road impassable?” the Major asked.

  “Depends,” the man with the brick head replied. “Who’s trying to pass?” His accent wasn’t southern, but sounded more mid-western.

  “I’m Major Dobson, United State Air Force,” Dobson said evenly. “My men and I are heading west.”

  Brick head spit on the ground and turned back to the Major.

  “I’m Sheriff Green,” he said, one eye closed as if trying to peer into the Major’s soul. “I don’t think there’s much of an Air Force, let alone a military anymore. And those sure aren’t military vehicles.”

  “I assure you, Sheriff, there is some military left,” Dobson said. If the Major was nervous, I couldn’t tell. He was out in the open and if the shooting started, he would be among the first ones killed. He hid whatever apprehension he may have had.

  The Sheriff leaned to the side and examined the fire truck.

  “Do you have women?” he asked abruptly.

  “Excuse me?” Dobson tilted his head.

  “Women. Do you have any,” the man repeated.

  Dobson hesitated, which told the Sheriff everything he needed to know.

  “Let me see them,” the man insisted, gripping his M4 rifle.

  “Sorry, that’s not going to happen, Sheriff,” Dobson said sternly.

  “Oh, it will happen,” the man growled. Just then, everyone on the side of the embankments fixed themselves into their firing positions. But that isn’t what startled the Major. It was the loud, diesel engine that erupted near the tire shop.

  A Stryker, fully armed with a mounted 50-caliber machine gun, pulled around the building and stopped two dozen feet behind the Sheriff. The camouflage netting that kept the vehicle hidden had caught on one of the side rails and dragged behind the beast. Its machine gun, guided internally, swiveled toward Big Red as it came to a halt.

  “That changes things,” DJ grumbled from the turret. “I’ll be the first one to get shredded.”

  Before another word was said, Fish chuckled over the airwaves.

  “Don’t worry Major, I got this.”

  “Glad your friend thinks this is funny,” Pittman called back to me.

  Out of the bushes, two figures emerged. The man walking in front was gagged and had his hands bound. Close behind him, Fish walked with his .45 pointed at the back of the man’s skull. Fish had positioned himself so his hostage was a human shield.

  Weapons from the men around the embankment briefly lowered, but quickly snapped back up.

  “You took our man,” the Sheriff said angrily.

  Fish grinned as he walked up behind the Major. “I took both your so-called snipers in the south woods.”

  “Where’s the other one?” the Sheriff asked through clenched teeth.

  “Insurance,” Fish glowered. “These meet and greets can be testy. We have to be careful.”

  The Sheriff ground his teeth and then cracked a grin.

  “This is funny to you?” Fish snarled.

  “Heh, well, let’s just say you didn’t get all of our snipers,” he said pleasantly.

  Fish reached down, pulled his earphone out of the radio, and hit his transmit button.

  “Jenna, do you have him?” he asked.

  “Indian red scarf, set back twenty feet from the Sunoco Gas Station,” Jenna’s voice replied through Fish’s radio.

  “Your buddy out there doesn’t happen to have a red scarf, does he?” Fish inquired. “And we have more where that came from. You think you have us, but you don’t.”

  Sheriff Green chewed on his lip.

  “If this goes bad, our Stryker will still shred you and your trucks,” he said with fleeting confidence.

  “You mean the Stryker I fixed with a claymore?” Fish reached into his pocket and pulled out a detonator switch.

  The Sheriff faltered, as if unsure what to do or say next. Suddenly, he grabbed his earpiece.

  “Say again?” the Sheriff barked, eyeing Fish carefully.

  “We’re not looking for trouble, Sheriff,” Dobson said, ignoring the fact that the Sheriff was listening to someone else on his radio. “If you would just let us pass—”

  “Are you Reaper?” Sheriff Green asked Fish, cutting off the Major.

  Fish didn’t answer at first, but instead glared back at the Sunoco Gas Station.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “He wants to know who’s asking,” the Sheriff said to the unknown person on the other end. After a moment of silence, he turned back to Fish. “Nomad.”

  “Well, kick me in the balls,” Fish grumbled. “You tell that good-for-nothing shit digger to take me out of his crosshairs.”

  Just then, two HUMVEEs and an MRAP Armored Personnel Carrier pulled up to the opposite side of the bridge. Sheriff Green called them on his comms, telling them to stay put.

  “Does this mean you’re backing down?” Dobson asked the Sheriff cautiously.

  “Depends on what Luke has to say,” he responded, still eyeing Fish. He listened to his earpiece again. “He asked if the woman with the rifle would kindly stop aiming at his temple.”

/>   “Jenna, stand down,” Fish barked.

  I heard a sigh of relief before she responded. “Standing down,” she replied.

  A figure emerged from beneath low-lying trees behind the gas station. He was over six feet tall and lean. His face was covered in black and green camouflage and though it seemed he was walking at a normal pace, he still quickly covered the one-hundred-meter distance to the bridge.

  “Jenna, bring in your package,” Fish said as he eyed approach of the one called Nomad.

  Dobson cut his transmission. We could no longer hear what they were talking about.

  The man that was referred to as Luke, aka Nomad, walked up to Fish and gave him a nod. Fish returned the gesture. The group of men began talking and the tension among them relaxed.

  Five minutes later, Dobson radioed us and told us to stand down.

  I exited Big Red. Enrique stayed in the driver seat, but Pittman and Preacher joined me and Boomer as we approached the growing crowd at the barricades.

  “I’ll take your word, Luke, but they need to be cleared by the General first,” the Sheriff was saying as I came up to them.

  Boomer was anxious, investigating the pant leg of the Sheriff. He undoubtedly smelled the dogs from their compound.

  “Cleared?” Dobson asked.

  Luke turned to the Major.

  “He means before you guys carry weapons into our base, the General needs to give the okay.”

  “We’re not disarming ourselves,” Dobson said. “And we don’t even want to enter your base. If you let us continue west, we’ll be fine.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Luke said dryly.

  “Why not?” Fish asked.

  “You won’t make it a half mile.”

  “Best you come to our camp,” the Sheriff said, waving to his men to move the barricades. “We can explain what the situation is around here.”

  Campbell finally made it up to us. Dobson turned to him and the two stepped away for a minute, talking in whispers.

  Sheriff Green motioned to Fish.

  “Since we’re all friends now,” he said sarcastically, “mind removing the claymore from our truck?”

  Chuckling, Fish reached into his pack and pulled out a claymore. He handed the thick, curved rectangular mine over to the Sheriff.

  “Son of a bitch,” Sheriff Green muttered. “You bluffed me.”

  Fish grinned at Luke, who had a smile of his own, and then at the Sheriff. “I was too busy eliminating your snipers to notice the Stryker. Call it a last minute improvisation.”

  The Sheriff frowned as he handed the mine to one of his men.

  “I also disabled four others along that tree line,” Fish said, pointing to the south.

  “We’ll go to your camp,” Dobson said as he and Campbell rejoined the group. “But we can’t stay long. You say there is a General here?”

  “Yes,” Luke replied. “Well, sort of…”

  “This ought to be good,” Fish murmured.

  Jenna drove up in the F350. Sitting in the passenger seat was a very defeated looking man. Behind him was Karina, holding her MP5 to the back of his head. When the truck stopped, the three exited and walked our way.

  The two bound and humiliated men crossed over to join the Sheriff. The tension seemed to be nominal after that. It helped that Luke and Fish had a history, though even they seemed to be cautious of each other.

  I was able to get a better look at the Sheriff’s men. They were rugged and worn. Most were thinner than I thought they should be and everyone seemed to have a tired, beaten look on their faces.

  Once the barricades were moved we loaded up and followed the Sheriff back to their camp.

  Fish rode in Big Red, replacing Preacher who saddled up with Jenna.

  “So, you know that guy? Nomad…or Luke?” I asked Fish.

  “Yeah,” he sighed, “met him about ten years ago in the sand box. Decent guy. Kinda like you, kid. Do-gooder, boy scout, ya know?”

  I wasn’t sure if he was insulting me or Luke. I’m sure it was me. Deciding it was better not to respond, I changed the subject.

  “How did you know where their snipers would be?”

  “Easy, kid,” he said. “Like I said yesterday, it was straight out of the handbook. I already guessed a few locations where they would set up snipers. Found the claymores first, then found a few pre-fortified hides. Once they saw you guys, they went to take their positions. Captured the two right off. Gave one to Karina to take to Jenna’s hide, and waited.”

  “So, you never saw the Stryker,” I pointed out.

  “Nope, didn’t have time. But I was able to pick Nomad’s spot out and send the location back with Karina. If things had gone south, that Stryker would have eaten us alive. We were lucky Luke was there.”

  I will admit, Fish’s swift improv was wickedly intelligent.

  I wasn’t a grunt, but I do remember practicing with Claymore mines in Basic Training. The ones we used had to be connected to a switch or some sort of trip wire. Sheriff Green, who was probably relatively new to the use of claymores, clearly wasn’t aware of their limitations. The ploy that Fish had booby trapped the Stryker was ingenious. I needed to learn to be more like that. If I was ever in a tight situation, a convincing lie or bluff may save my life.

  We followed the Stryker into a large parking area. The fence surrounding the dirt field appeared to be something that they had recently installed. The barrier was a mishmash of different heights and quality, though the construction was sound.

  A few people were mulling around the improvised motor pool. Most seemed to be PMCSing the vehicles. That’s a military acronym for Preventative Maintenance Checks and Services, which was a clear sign that there was some sort of military leadership there. PMCSing vehicles was one of the basic routines of the Armed Forces, ensuring everything was either combat ready or at least in the process of being repaired.

  After parking the trucks and dismounting, we gathered near Big Red. Dobson stopped Sheriff Green and Luke before they approached our group.

  “Let me have a minute with my men,” Dobson requested.

  Sheriff Green stopped and smirked

  “Alright, Major. I am going to alert the General that you are on your way. Luke will bring you inside. You can stay armed, but keep your weapons holstered or on your backs. Insurance, you know?” he grinned, mockingly.

  Dobson gave a slight nod, waited for the Sheriff to leave, and then returned to us.

  “Thoughts?” Dobson asked, glancing at Campbell, Fish and DJ.

  “Luke gave me his word. Good enough for me,” Fish said as he rotated his .308 rifle to his back.

  “I don’t know these assholes from Adam,” DJ grunted, but added, “It’s your call, Major. Just remember, they asked about our women.”

  DJ’s caution had merit, but I had another idea why they asked if any females were in our group.

  They didn’t know anything about us and perhaps that was their way of testing the morality of those they encountered. The condition of women would say a lot about the men who were their escorts. So much for modern social progress.

  “I have to agree with Fish,” Campbell stated. “Besides, we’re already here. They could have easily taken us out if they wanted.”

  DJ scratched his beard. “They might have been waiting for backup. That MRAP showed up twenty minutes after they spotted us.”

  “If they were bandits, there was plenty of opportunity to hijack us before now. And they let us keep our weapons. Why would they do that if their intention was to rob us?” I asked. DJ’s face soured.

  “Twenty minutes is a long time,” Campbell said, agreeing with me. “The QRF didn’t have far to travel and at that distance, should have been there in no less than ten minutes if they were serious about coming after us.”

  “Either way,” Dobson said reluctantly, “we are here now. But we should be cautious. Campbell, Doctor Tripp and Fish will come with me. Everyone else, stay with the vehicles. If somethin
g nefarious happens, you bug out.”

  “I want to go,” I said, eyeing the Major.

  Fish jumped in before he could respond.

  “The kid can stay with me. Nothing’s going to happen to him,” he said confidently.

  Dobson contemplated a moment.

  “Okay, Christian can come.” The Major’s voice reverted to a whisper. “Christian’s immunity stays a secret for now. There is no telling how they will react. Someone may think they can come up with the cure all by their damn self. We will only tell them about our mission to bring Doctor Tripp to Hoover Dam.”

  Everyone nodded. I had no desire to have some random doctor attempt to dissect me in an effort to come up with a cure for the M Virus. I trusted Doctor Tripp and had faith that if there was a facility that could come up with a vaccine, it was at Hoover Dam.

  “Pittman,” Dobson continued, “get in the turret. I think we will be okay, but if things go south…”

  “Got it, sir,” Pittman grunted. He grabbed an MRE from the back of Big Red and climbed on the back of the fire engine.

  “Karina, you’re on dog detail. Everyone else, keep your wits about you,” Dobson said as he mimicked Fish and strapped his M4 to his back. “I’ll stay in contact, DJ.”

  “Roger that,” DJ nodded and lifted himself into Big Red’s cab.

  Enrique and Preacher dragged out a thick, black hose that was connected to Big Red and began to refuel the vehicles. Meanwhile, Karina and Jenna walked Boomer near the fence.

  We all properly stored our weapons and I gave a Boomer a quick pet and ruffled Karina’s hair before I joined the reception party.

  Luke led us away.

  As we walked, I examined the defensive perimeter around the storage center. It reminded me of our old Ace Hardware compound. You could see parts of the original fencing, but most had been double and triple reinforced by sheets of corrugated metal, cross beams of wood and steel, and rebar.

  I could see the distress in the eyes of the few people we passed in the motor pool. A middle-aged woman, clothes covered in grime and grease, walked within a dozen feet of us. She carried a small tool box in one hand and an electrical meter in her other. Her hair may have been dirty blond, but days, perhaps weeks of dirt and filth made it appear dark brown. Her eyes were sunken and it was evident that she was malnourished. Our eyes briefly made contact. She seemed concerned but kept to herself, giving us a wide berth as we walked past her.