by E. E. Knight
Tracer fire began to seek the recoilless weapon like a probing finger. “Better get going, sir,” the gunner said, throwing a bag over his shoulder. He pulled out a shining new grenade.
Valentine looked up the street and made his dash. He gestured to the gunners, trying to encourage them to hurry. The gunner nodded to the other two and tossed the grenade in with the shells under the tube. The three of them ran.
From the platform Valentine looked at the rail bridge. He saw the tailgate of a pickup, bumping as the tires negotiated the ties. Men walked single file on the pedestrian walkway, crossing over to the north side. Others were setting charges.
“Nail,” Valentine said, as the Bears came up behind him with the recoilless gunners. “It’ll have to be the boat. They’re getting set to blow the bridge.”
Nail nodded, and they turned for the riverbank. A few members of the rearguard were hurrying for the dock. Mortar shells were dropping around the train station.
Nail clapped Valentine on the back. “We really—”
An explosion boiled all around them. Valentine felt a warm hand give him a gentle nudge. He realized he was on the ground. Nail lay facing him, his leg on top of Valentine’s, like two lovers in bed.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” Nail gasped. He started to pick himself up. Neither of his legs moved.
Valentine tried to help him up. “Rain, anyone . . . help!” His voice sounded like a far-off whisper.
“Legs . . .” Nail said, looking up at Valentine. He’d never seen fear in the Bear’s eyes before.
Valentine picked him up in a fireman’s carry and trotted down toward the pier. The barge waited, huge and comforting.
“Cast off, cast off,” the sergeant handling the loading called. Zhao was running between little groups, clapping them on the shoulder and pointing toward the barge. Valentine saw his old marines from the Thunderbolt leave the piled sandbags around the dock—sandbags were easily found around the riverbank—and run up the gangplank to the barge. There was a hint of light in the sky; by it Valentine saw the main deck of the barge piled high with sandbags. The cargo carrier in front was filled with people, mostly prisoners from the camp, and Zhao’s company.
“Bandages!” the sergeant called, looking at Nail and Valentine. “Take him to the foredeck, sir. The wounded are there.”
Valentine boarded, and went forward. Just below the pilot house a man in splints and one of the women lay under blankets next to Beck’s two wounded. Field medics helped Valentine lay Nail out.
“Sorry about this, Nail.” The inadequate words made him want to bite his tongue.
“Don’t feel a thing, sir. Hardly hurts.”
“Shrapnel,” the medic said. “His back’s kind of tore up. I’ve stopped the bleeding—most of it.”
Valentine heard the muttering boat engines gun, and the barge moved away from the dock, heading upriver.
“Can I get you anything, Nail?”
“I want to see.”
“You want to see?”
“The bridge go.”
Valentine looked at the medic, who shrugged. “Let me get this dressing finished. Then we’ll see,” he said. Valentine couldn’t remember giving orders about having an aid station set up on the boat. One of Styachowski or Post’s additions. He heard bullets plinking off the old scow. The side of the boat was an irresistible target for any Quisling with a rifle and a view.
They passed under the old pilings of the railroad span. Valentine heard the distinctive clatter of a Kalashnikov fired from the River Rats’ town.
When the medic finished with Nail’s dressing Valentine pulled a soldier and they carried his stretcher to the back of the tug. The screws were churning the muddy waters of the Arkansas. Behind them they could see the bridge framed against a pink sky. The warehouses were going up, a ground-level fireworks explosion.
“We fucked with them good,” Nail said, his eyes bright and excited. “That sight’s worth getting all tore up over.” The sky was growing brighter by the second.
“C’mon, guys, don’t wait and try and take a few with the bridge,” Valentine said. “Just—”
Explosions ripped across the bridge, and wood and rails spun into the sky.
“What the hell?” Nail said.
The bridge still stood.
“Shit. Didn’t they use enough C-big?” Nail said.
“It’s not that,” Valentine waited, hoping for the structural integrity to fail. The bridge still stood. “They used plenty. They just used it all at the bottom of the bridge, where it meets the pilings. Spread it out too much, too. They tore up the track good, that’s all. On a truss bridge the load is all borne by the joints at the top. If they’d just blown out the tops of the span we passed under, it’d be in the river.”
A mortar shell landed in the water astern of them.
“This boat trip’s gonna get cut short,” Nail predicted.
The barge edged toward Big Rock Mountain. Valentine felt it shudder. The soldiers went to the rail, concerned.
“We’re aground!” someone shouted.
“Shit!” Nail said.
“Okay, just wade, swim, whatever,” Valentine shouted. He ran forward, leaving Nail for the moment.
“Out of here. Over the side . . . just go!” he yelled. “Man-fred, help the women. We need stretcher-bearers. Who wants to carry?”
Part evacuation, part shipwreck, they got the soldiers and some of the supplies overboard. Valentine stayed with the wounded until the stretchers were ashore. The water helped deaden the effect of the mortars; they did little more than create brief fountains of water as they exploded.
“There’s still a lot of cargo on the barge,” Zhao said, dripping from the armpits down.
“Forget it. We need to get up the hill.”
It was easier said than done. The hillside rose two hundred feet at a 3:1 grade, where it wasn’t a cliff. There was an old switchback road going up the side. Valentine sent up the stretcher-bearers in groups so they could replace each other. He stood among the trees at the base of the hill, watching the mortars drop shells into the barge. The Quislings seemed to be taking strange pleasure in wasting shells on the wreck, rather than dropping them on the hillside where they might do some damage.
He heard a heavy tread, and looked up to see a mountain of muscle.
“Good morning, Ahn-Kha,” he said.
“I’m glad to see you, my David. It’s been a long night.”
“For both of us.”
“Post and Styachowski arrive?”
“Styachowski is at the Residence now. Post is still unloading the second run.”
“What’s the TMCC doing about it?”
“At first light I heard some shooting, far to the north. My guess is two patrols ran into each other.”
“So you don’t think they’ve figured out where we are?”
“They’ll know soon, my David.”
“What do you think they’ll do?”
“I leave outthinking them to you. I just try to outfight them.”
“If you had to outfight me right now?” Valentine asked, looking across the river. He could just see the tip of the crane building the Kurian Tower, though he supposed the construction schedule had been set back.
“I’d try you soon, before you could organize. Today, tonight.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to pretend you’re giving the orders across the river. Let’s get up the hill.”
It was full light by the time he approached Solon’s Residence across the bulldozed hilltop. A bulldozer was at work, digging pits into the ground in front of the house beyond the turnaroud. Post stood in front of the entrance, giving orders. A truck pulled up and a team of men hurried to take the crates out and manhandle them inside. With the bed emptied, the pickup turned around and drove back down the road to the station.
Post looked up as Valentine approached.
“The hill is secure, sir. Ella, Daltry and Pollock have their companies north, east and
southeast. We’ve got observers watching the river. Styachowski is holding the station until we get the rest up here, unless they come in force. This is a choice piece of ground. I can see why Solon picked it. Great view.”
“Where are the wounded?”
Post pointed to one of the building shells. “Lower level of that one, sir. The doctors are getting set up in there. There was already a little dispensary for the construction workers, and they’re expanding it. They could use some trained nurses. Dr. Brough’s already bitching.”
“I know of one. Get Narcisse in there as soon as you can.”
“She’s with the wounded at the station,” Post said, shrugging his shoulders the way some men do at a heavy rain that can’t be helped. “Nothing serious, but you know her. If someone’s in pain—”
“I’m glad you had the sense not to stop her. Let’s get the prisoners organized, Colonel Kessey—she’s got an eyepatch, easy to spot—said she had some doctors.”
“I saw her come over the hill,” Post said. “She’s talking to the men placing the guns now.”
“Every company has Quickwood spears, right?”
“Having them is one thing. Getting them to use them is another.”
“We’ve got today, at least. They won’t hit us with Reapers until dark. Carry on, Will. Lieutenant Nail’s been badly wounded by shrapnel. Hit in the back.”
“Damn. You know, I don’t think anyone’s been killed yet? On our side, anyway. Who ever heard of that?”
“Maybe our luck’s finally turned,” Valentine said.
To the extent that there were still MDs, Major Brough deserved her title. She was a field surgeon with ten years experience in the Guards, and had seen everything metal could do to the human body.
“I’m not hopeful, sir,” Dr. Brough said, when Valentine asked her about Nail. “Tore open his back. One kidney’s gone, the other’s probably damaged enough so it might as well be gone, too. His back’s broken, and there’s massive nerve damage. I’m surprised he was even coherent when they brought him in.”
“He’s a Bear. They’re tough.”
“I’m a surgeon. Lifeweaver mysticism isn’t my field.”
Valentine absorbed the news. Dialysis machines had gone the way of the dodo, as far as he knew. Nail was dead, it was just a question of how long.
“So he’s still conscious?”
“I gave him a shot. I expected him to drop right off, but the morphine just relaxed him. He’s in some kind of wide-awake shock, low blood pressure, fast heart rate, eyes a little dilated. Lots of perspiration.”
“Mind if I have a word?”
“Go ahead. Sir, I have a request.”
“Shoot, Doc. Anything for Nail.”
“No, it’s not that. I understand there’s some kind of housing up here. If they’ve got a cookhouse, could you look for a refrigerator or a freezer? Without somewhere to store blood and plasma, wounded turn to corpses a lot easier. Your men have been stockpiling food and bullets. If it’s going to be a fight, I’m going to need to do the same with blood. Some kind of donation schedule would help.”
“Any coolers we find go to you.”
“Thank you.”
“If you need anything else, ask myself, Post or Styachowski. You’ll get priority. But I hope you’re very bored down here.”
“Save the cheerful hero stuff for the troops. Years of amputations have made me a cynic.”
Valentine walked over to Nail, who was resting on a folding cot. Nail’s gear had been placed beneath the cot. Valentine picked up a tube he couldn’t identify. It looked a little like a metallic zither. A wastebucket with a blood-soaked dressing lay next to it, and the coppery odor brought back memories of the headquarters cellar. He didn’t want to think about that for a while.
“They have you comfortable, Nail?”
“Yesss, sssir,” Nail slurred. “Damn sorry I’m out of commission for a while.”
Valentine lifted the canteen lying beside the bed.
“Water?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.” He sipped. “I could use a meal. Been running around since the meeting.”
“I’ll see about it.” Valentine wobbled the tube in his hand, like a baton.
“You like that, sir? You can have it. Brass came up with the idea.”
“What’s it do?”
“Gimme.” Nail took it from him, aimed at the ceiling, and pushed a button. A dart flew out and buried itself there. Dr. Brough gave him a dirty look. Nail stifled a snicker like a schoolboy caught shooting spitballs.
“There’s a real serious spring inside. The winder’s on the top, and you turn it clockwise to ready it. There’s a safety at the front you need to flick off . . . To fire it you just push the button. I’ve got some Quickwood darts for it in my bag. I won’t be needing it for a while. I hate being fucked-up and useless!” He pounded an unoffending blanket.
Nail wasn’t speaking like someone with a shot of morphine inside him. Valentine had heard that Bears were hard to settle down after a fight.
“Lieutenant, I need your help. We might have some Reapers in our laps tonight. Do you think it would be better to space your Bears out with the companies to steady them, or should I keep them back here, and commit them when I know where the attack’s coming from?”
Nail thought it over. “They’re used to working as a team, sir. Keep them back. Chances are the Reapers will just try to claw through your guys to get to the rear where they can do more serious damage. My team’ll clobber ’em.”
“Thanks, Nail.”
“Just give me a few days, sir. A week, then I’ll be back. Rain can run the team until then. If . . . if . . . I don’t, give him my bars. He’s earned ’em.”
“Nail, now that you’ve got some downtime, you want to write some letters? You have family, a girl?”
“I’m a Bear sir. My only family’s rooting through that supply dump out front looking for chow. If they find something to eat, have ’em remember me in here, laid out and hungry.”
Bear appetites were notoriously hard to sate. Valentine had seen them chew bark from the trees on the march through the Ouachitas after leaving Martinez. “I’ll see that you aren’t forgotten. It’s a promise.”
Valentine, exchanging a look with Brough, wondered how it’s a promise would look on Nail’s tombstone.
Chapter Ten
Big Rock Mountain, March of the forty-eighth year of the Kurian Order: Viewed from above, the outline of Big Rock Mountain looks like a cameo of a Regency buck, or perhaps Elvis Presley done during his last Vegas days. The Arkansas River flows west into the King’s forehead, complete with lock of hair hanging down, where it’s stopped by the cliff face of a quarry and turns south. After the small bulge of the nose the river passes a protruding jaw. The hill curves off east, gradually leaving the river, into an oversized collar tucked into the hair flowing down to North Little Rock. What was Interstate 40 runs up the base of the north side of the hill.
It’s a picturesque prominence, named “La Grande Roche” by Bernard de La Harpe in 1722 as he traveled among the Quapaw Indians. The climb up the 580-foot hill is worth it, for the view west and east along the two gentle bends the Arkansas makes as it flows into Little Rock. Or so it must have seemed to the man who built a luxury hotel upon it for the swells of the Gilded Age. But hotels are a chancy business; the hilltop property became Fort Logan H. Roots, when men trained for the Great War in the swampy ground of Burns Park north of the hill.
Following a progression so logical that it verges on the sublime, the fort became a Veterans Administration Hospital for those shattered in the staccato series of twentieth-century wars. It became a warren of buildings, from elegant Grecian structures complete with solemn columns to the smallest maintenance shack and pump house, surrounded by parks full of oaks and a hilltop lake, memorials and green-ways.
That was before the Blast. The twenty-megaton airburst, part of the nuclear fireworks that helped end the reign of man in the chaos of 2022, w
ent off at ten thousand feet somewhere in the air between the Broadway Street and Main Street bridges over the Arkansas. It left nothing but foundations ten miles from the epicenter, barring reinforced concrete construction.
And a limb-shorn oak that had seen it all, like one of the shattered veterans of the former VA hospital.
The men were gathered beneath the grandfather oak. The tree, perhaps because it was partly sheltered by one of the great buildings, had survived the blast and the fires that came with it. It had the tortured look of a lightning-struck tree, scored on the southeast side and shorn of older branches from two o’clock to four, and from seven to ten, though knobby amputations showed where the once-leafy limbs had been.
Valentine looked at the expectant faces in the afternoon sun. They were haggard, unshaven, tired. Post and Styachowski had pushed them to the extreme of what could be expected of soldiers, and then beyond. The former POWs were mixed in with the men he’d brought away from Martinez—though they looked better, strangely enough, than when they first arrived.
Almost anything is perferable to being inside barbed wire.
Post has assembled a list of operational specialties from the prisoners. The hilltop redoubt was well supplied with ration processors—women and men who were experienced canners, food dehydrators, pickling and drying specialists. There were no herds to slaughter or bushels of fruit and vegetables to puree and seal. “If they come up the hill, we’ll just can the AOT troops like sardines,” Post said with a fatalistic shrug. Valentine had almost a whole motor pool from Pine Bluff; invaluable to Southern Command with their wrenches and hoists, but they would have to put rifles in their hands and cartridge cases around their waists.
In this he was blessed, as Southern Command had a tradition of rotating men between front line and support duties, allowing the freehold to rapidly convert support units to combat operations. All of them had heard bullets fly and shells land in dreadful earnest. He wished he had more time to get to know them. Post and Beck would have to rely on volunteers to put together an NCO grid.