Last Stand: Turning the Tide (Book 4)

by William H. Weber

  Brandon’s jaw slackened as his mouth fell open.

  “That’s right, they kept attacking the place until dead Chinese soldiers were stacked on the streets like cord wood. Can you imagine?” Sammy’s voice rose for a moment in jubilation before he caught himself, checking behind him to be sure the guards hadn’t overheard. After that, the smile on his face returned. He bent down on one knee, skimming the weevils off the top of the water. “They’re calling your home town the new Bastogne.”

  Now Brandon was also smiling, but his newfound joy was simultaneously fraught with concern over whether anyone he knew had been hurt or killed. His mother and sister, John… Emma.

  Brandon left after that, a whole slew of emotions swirling around. He passed by the front gate to observe who was on duty and see if he could find out how long they’d been there for.

  By now he knew all the guards’ names and a little something about them. Even North Koreans, cruel as they could be, sometimes couldn’t help divulging little bits and pieces. Information that could come in handy as he, Dixon and others laid the foundations for their escape.

  Marching outside along the fence line were two male guards: Lee Kun-Hee, who Brandon called Pug Face, and a thin older man named Shin Chang-Jae. Lee’s tendency for cruelty was well known, but Brandon had learned that Shin had a weakness for white women and often stood glaring at the girls in camp as they went to and from the fields. The rumor floated around that Shin was even responsible for some of the pregnancies Brandon and the others had seen. Vile as it was, these were the sorts of details Dixon had ordered him to gather and so he had, as faithfully as possible.

  With his discreet observations complete, Brandon was preparing to head back to the barracks when the sound of a plane caught his ear. He planted his feet for a moment, watching as the noise became louder and louder. This wasn’t a jet, nor was it a helicopter. It sounded like a single-engine Cessna and it was coming straight for them.

  A number of the guards had also heard it and were scanning the skies, but they were searching too high. Whoever was flying this thing was coming in low. Then he spotted the plane as it cleared a clump of trees in the distance and closed on the camp. Those around him stood transfixed at it approached, all probably wondering the same thing. Were they about to be bombed or was this poor guy lost?

  Now the prison guards had their AKs poised and ready to fire, but as the plane came within a hundred yards they all saw the colors of the Chinese air force painted on its wings and body. This was one of theirs, which made its strange behavior even more puzzling. Thirty yards from the gate, it pulled up and flew directly over the camp. The door on the side of the plane opened up as someone began pushing what looked like blocks of paper out through the narrow opening. The blocks of paper broke into thousands of tiny pieces, each of them fluttering to the ground. The Cessna flew the length of the rectangular prison camp, releasing its payload, before tipping its wings and veering off.

  All present, guards included, were left scratching their heads at the strange spectacle. But the answer to their question was fast approaching as hundreds of papers seesawed to the ground around them. It was snowing and Brandon hadn’t seen anything so beautiful in a long time. He stooped down and picked one of them up.

  There he found a pamphlet with the picture of a giant fist pushing aside a column of Chinese tanks. Stay Strong, it read. Victory is Close at Hand.

  He’d seen this style before in the scrapbook Emma was often doodling in, but it was only when he flipped the paper over that the air was nearly sucked from his lungs.

  To B.A.,

  Don’t lose faith.

  Love, Emma

  Brandon scooped up a handful of other papers and saw the same message on each. B.A. could only be him, Brandon Appleby, and Emma was the girl he missed so deeply it hurt.

  That was when the guards began shouting at anyone they saw collecting the propaganda leaflets. Shots rang out and two prisoners who were bent on one knee collapsed to the ground. Brandon stuffed as many as he could under his shirt and raced back to the barracks. If he knew the guards, they’d begin by searching every bunk and prisoner for leaflets as soon as possible. There wasn’t a chance he was going to let them tear the hope from his hands and his heart. He would dig a hole and bury them.

  The message from Emma seemed clear enough and Brandon struggled to contain his elation. John and the others were coming to free them. He wasn’t sure when, but they were coming, and when they did, Brandon would be ready.

  Chapter 16

  Following the EMP, the law offices of Stanley & Walton in Oneida had been used as both a storehouse for dried goods and, later, a firing position for an M60 machine-gun nest. Currently, it was serving as the secret headquarters for the special operations team John was putting together.

  Not surprisingly, Stanley and Walton had been among the first to flee the town following the initial strike, but although they hadn’t been gifted with bravery, they had had the foresight to situate their offices far enough from the main strip―Alberta Street―allowing John to keep its new purpose safe from prying eyes.

  The group was slowly assembling in Sam Walton’s old office. Pictures of the rotund man in a variety of daring pursuits still littered the walls. Arapaima fishing along the Amazon, hang-gliding in the Alps. By the looks of it, the man had an appetite for adventure. What a shame he’d tucked tail and run away so early. Especially since the chances were good he’d ended up in a North Korean camp somewhere.

  Soon, most of Walton’s things would be removed and the room transformed into a proper headquarters. For now, the large map of the Eastern and Central United States was all that betrayed its true purpose.

  Already waiting in the spacious room were Moss, Devon and Reese along with a half-dozen soldiers handpicked from various units for their expertise in unconventional warfare. When all twenty-five men were accounted for, John began.

  “I’m sure each of you is wondering why you’re here. As you have probably heard by now, the EMP we detonated over Oak Ridge has severely disrupted China’s ability to ship men and materiel to the front. We’ve even gotten word that Russian forces are also running into major problems. Although their supply lines are greatly diminished, they need to be destroyed. From the group assembled here, fifteen of you will make the final cut.”

  The men looked from one to another.

  “Each of you has been chosen because of a unique skill or ability you bring to the table. Some of you have a proficiency with explosives, others marksmanship. Many of you have served in Iraq, conducting raids and counter-insurgency operations. As you’ll soon see, even this will serve us well. The only thing I don’t have from you yet is your consent. I’ve invited each of you here to make you an offer, to become a member of a team tasked with going behind enemy lines to kill and disrupt the enemy in any way we can.”

  The room was quiet for a moment, although several of the men were smiling.

  “Who can say no to that?” a soldier from the 3rd Infantry Division named Taylor asked.

  John shook his head. “You’d be surprised. But coming along isn’t an order, it’s important you men understand that. In fact, your commanding officers don’t even know we’re having this meeting.” He paused while some of them shifted in their seats. Others looked on without moving a muscle. “The need for operational secrecy here doesn’t mean we’re doing anything illegal.” A handful showed disappointment. “But if you make the final cut and you consent to joining us, then I’ll speak with your commanders about releasing you. There is one prerequisite that isn’t negotiable. Candidates must be able to ride.”

  Taylor put his hand up. “You talking horses, sir?”

  John nodded.

  The soldier’s grin spread. “Where do I sign?”

  But not everyone felt the same way and John could read it on some of their faces. The consent element was important for operations like these. It wasn’t simply about issuing orders and hoping your authority was enough to push
your men along. There was a good chance what they faced out in the field would push them far beyond their comfort zone. He needed men who were daring and willing to risk their lives, but he also needed soldiers who knew when a tactical withdrawal was the best course of action. In other words, he needed people who demonstrated the very creative thinking the enemy lacked.

  A brawny soldier in the front row raised his hand. “When do these selection trials begin?”

  Special forces groups like the SEALs often put applicants through gruelling trials designed to weed out the weak. It was better, they argued, that such cracks were spotted early, rather than on a mission when the lives of fellow soldiers were on the line.

  “They began the minute you walked in that door,” John told them. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have you all move to the office next door. If any of you wish to bow out, now is the time to do so.”

  “I’ve never ridden a horse,” a sergeant with the 101st said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to join you, Colonel.”

  “There’s no need to explain.” John turned to the rest of the men before him. “None of you will be judged for saying no. There’s no shame in it.”

  And with that they stood and moved to the other room.

  Only Moss, Reese and Devon stayed back. “What do you think?” Reese asked.

  “You know all their names?” John asked. “And the faces that go with them?”

  Reese waved a list of names he’d written on a paper. “Sure do. You might be surprised to learn that most snipers that I’ve met were horrible remembering faces. Throw a picture of the target they’d killed into a photo lineup and they’d never be able to ID ’em in a million years.”

  “Really? Why is that?” John asked.

  “Hard to say. My guess is it’s easier to shoot a man if you can pretend he isn’t a human being. You know, like shooting at paper targets. Might be one of the reasons the faces on those things are blanked out. Goes against a man’s innate programming.”

  “What does, killing?”

  Reese laughed. “Nah, accepting the fact that you killed a person and not a monster.”

  John took the list from Reese. “I already know who I want.”

  “Really?” Moss said from the other side of the room.

  “Anyone who flinched when I mentioned that their commanding officers didn’t know about this, they’re the ones I crossed off first. We need men who obey orders, but not someone who’s scared to make a decision on their own.” John scratched off a handful of other names. “Next anyone who seemed uncomfortable when I mentioned the horses.” He ran a line through a few more names. “And finally, anyone whose face didn’t glow at the notion of killing Chinese soldiers.”

  “I didn’t think we were looking for bloodthirsty killers, Colonel,” Devon said.

  “Homicidal maniacs, no. Someone who won’t hesitate to pull a trigger, yes.” Even speaking the words, John couldn’t help thinking of his own issues with taking a life. It was never something to be relished. Probably every major religion in the world condemned killing and yet it was an inescapable reality on the battlefield. The him-or-me mentality one experienced while firing a machine gun at attacking troops was one thing. It was either kill or be killed. But when there was a choice involved, that was another beast altogether. One that still haunted John’s dreams.

  Chapter 17

  Once the selection process had been completed, John had been left with fifteen men, including Moss, Devon and Reese. John himself would be number sixteen. While the selection process had been painless, his conversation with General Brooks asking for their temporary release had been far more difficult. Brooks had wanted to be briefed on the mission they were about to undertake and John had deflected his attempts with all the grace of a punch-drunk boxer. In the end, only a reluctant promise that the general would be fed into the loop as soon as they returned made Brooks finally relent.

  With that behind them, the newly formed special forces unit met once again at their new headquarters.

  “We’ll be heading out in two teams,” John explained. A table had been brought in and the map from the wall laid over it. “The first team will be only four men—Taylor, Phillips, Jackson and Campbell. Two of you have explosives training, the rest are on fire support. Your mission will be to lay IEDs along the stretch of Interstate 40 between Nashville and Knoxville. According to our sources, it’s become one of the main Chinese arteries for supplies coming from the west.”

  Heller, another explosives expert, looked uncomfortable. “So you want us to become glorified Iraqi insurgents? We were fighting those guys overseas.”

  “Every bullet and grenade, every loaf of bread and ball bearing that reaches the front represents more American soldiers killed.”

  “I get that, sir,” Heller replied. “I’m just saying it feels weird to be on the other side of things now, is all. I wish we could hit them head-on like we’ve always done before.”

  “You’re right,” John admitted. “America’s talent has usually been to charge our enemies head-on and tear them apart if they ever dared to stand up to us. But that wasn’t always the case. Have you ever heard of the Minutemen?”

  Heller suddenly didn’t look so sure of himself. “I think so. Didn’t they fight during the Revolution?”

  “That’s right. They were sharpshooters from Kentucky, known for their long rifled muskets and the deadly accuracy with which they used them. Their specialty was picking off British officers in order to sow fear and confusion amongst the Redcoats. I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise to hear the British hated this tactic—they called it ungentlemanly conduct on the battlefield. Maybe the Kentuckians wondered themselves if they were breaking some sacred code. But guess what, it worked, and if I need to adopt the tactics and strategies of our enemies in Iraq to save our country, then I’ll do it without batting an eye.”

  Heller grew quiet.

  “We’re about to become guerrillas, folks. And not the hairy kind.” John looked at Moss, anticipating some lame joke that never came. “I know that’s what you were thinking, don’t lie. Guerrilla is Spanish for ‘little war’, a term coined for the small bands of men who stood up to resist Napoleon’s invasion of Spain. But this isn’t about the past, gentlemen. This is about the future. The four of you will set off as soon as this meeting is done, work your way on horseback down to I-40 and destroy as many convoys as you can.”

  Another hand went up. Specialist Santos. “But won’t the Chinese start to redirect troops to protect the roads and stop us?”

  “We pray they do. Every unit pulled off the front lines brings us a little closer to our objective.” John turned back to the map. “The rest of us, twelve altogether, will make our way to Paragould, Arkansas. With most of their transport trucks useless, the Chinese have been conducting a desperate search for older vehicles. Our mission will be to hit that depot and destroy as many of those vehicles as we can.”

  Reese was leaning over John’s shoulder when his finger plopped near a map marker indicating the depot. “That’s less than ten miles from the Jonesboro concentration camp,” he said, surprised.

  John’s eyes glazed over for a moment with the thought of his boys and the suffering they were surely experiencing. “I know it is,” he replied, choking down the agony that was bound to come from being so close and yet so terribly far.

  Chapter 18

  “If you’re putting yourself in harm’s way,” Diane told John as she closed the notebook before her, “it’s better you don’t tell me anymore.”

  They were back at their residence. John had come by to tell her he was leaving for a little bit.

  “I think you’re right,” he agreed. “These days we can’t be too careful.” He glanced down at her notebook. “How are the greenhouse repairs coming along?”

  She nodded. “Fine.”

  “Tell Ray I expect those windmills to be up and running by the time we get back.”

  “I’ll pass the message along, but you
know what he’s gonna say.”

  “‘Those Chinese really banged us up good.’ Yeah, he’ll make a joke out of it, the way he makes a joke out of everything. Just pass the message along and I’ll deal with it when I get back.”

  John hugged her and turned to leave. He stopped, certain Diane was about to say something.

  “I’m making a list of suspects,” she finally admitted.

  John pursed his lips, still staring down the hallway. “You know how I feel about that.”

  “You’re only trying to protect me, I know,” Diane said. “But I may have an idea on how to catch Phoenix.”

  “Just promise me you won’t do anything rash. Remember what happed with The Chairman. You nearly got yourself killed.”

  She agreed and John hoped she wasn’t simply telling him what he wanted to hear.

  He left the mayor’s office and made his way to the town newspaper. Inside on the main floor were a man and two teenaged girls. Each of them was using giant paper guillotines to cut out leaflets. The drop over Jonesboro concentration camp had been a huge success and they were already planning drops on other camps behind enemy lines. The teenagers pointed John downstairs, where he found Emma, a thin layer of perspiration on her brow and arms as she cranked the printing press lever.

  “That’s tough work,” he commented with surprise.

  His presence startled her and she gasped. Her expression shifted when she saw he was wearing his tactical gear.

  “Don’t ask,” he told her. “Your mother and I have already been over it.”