Last Stand: Turning the Tide (Book 4)

by William H. Weber

  She asked around and no one had seen him yet this morning. The vice mayor wasn’t normally one to oversleep and so Diane set off to find him, doing her best to ignore the nagging concern wiggling its way through her belly.

  She weaved her golf cart through Oneida’s zigzagging back streets. In several places the rubble and burned-out hulks of Chinese military vehicles had been left in place to tie up any armored assault launched by the enemy. In others, small paths had been opened about the width of a golf cart to allow thin lines of traffic to pass. But the inconvenience did more than threaten to tie up a fresh batch of Chinese invaders. The mornings and evenings saw long lines of congestion Diane had thought they’d left behind them.

  Rodriguez was on his way to the radio room when she drove past him. She pulled to a stop and asked if he’d seen Ray, explaining why it was important. She didn’t go so far as to say she was worried something had happened to him. Ray’s knowledge of wind power and AC/DC power conversion made him a prime target for any Chinese agent they might have missed. Not that she needed to spell things out to someone as intelligent as Rodriguez.

  With that, Rodriguez hopped on board and they sped toward the house Ray was staying in, a bungalow a short ways off Alberta Street. They arrived and knocked several times only to find the house empty.

  “I’m sure he’s somewhere around town,” Rodriguez said, perhaps trying to placate Diane’s overactive imagination. “He’s probably at the mayor’s office, giving General Brooks an earful of bad jokes.”

  “I came from there on my way to the greenhouses and I didn’t see him anywhere around.”

  Rodriguez sighed as the two made their way around the house into the backyard. Like many of the homes in town, the grass had been left to grow to nearly two feet high. Diane went to the sliding glass door and squished her face up to the cold surface, cutting the glare with a cupped hand. She scanned around inside without finding anything out of place.

  “You hear that?” Rodriguez asked.

  She did and it sounded like static and mumbled voices. It took a few seconds to figure out that it was coming from the brown shed in the corner of Ray’s backyard.

  They approached and slowed as they drew closer. The voices coming from inside got louder, clearer.

  “Please confirm you received my last transmission, over.”

  It was Ray all right and Diane couldn’t help wondering who he was talking to. Most of the communication from Oneida was being performed by Henry or Rodriguez from the radio room in the mayor’s office.

  But the next thing she heard from inside the shed took Diane’s breath away.

  “Red Dragon, this is Phoenix, please come in.”

  Chapter 48

  It was nearly 1800 hours by the time John and the five men who had joined him on this mission reached the outskirts of Lenoir City on horseback. Accompanying him were Moss, Devon, Reese, Heller and Gardner, Bravo’s squad leader. They’d been in the saddle since the early dawn hours, skirting enemy checkpoints and troops concentrations. Heller and Gardner would prep and plant the IEDs on the train tracks while John, Devon and Moss provided security. Reese was their insurance policy. A water tower on the edge of town would provide him with a clear field of fire over the entire area of operation.

  After the sniper split off from them, John made one final radio check to ensure their communications were still operational.

  “You’re our eyes out here, Reese. Call out any approaching threats. This may be our only shot at stopping that supply train and any others coming up behind it.”

  “I’m on it, Colonel,” the sniper said, huffing as he used a Dumpster to climb onto the roof of a nearby store. The thirty-pound Barrett .50 caliber rifle he’d brought for the job could cut a man in two, although this was the kind of mission where having to use it meant you’d already failed.

  Before long, John and the others came to the sharp turn in the track. He pointed to an area five meters before the curve. “This is where I want you to plant those IEDs,” he told Heller and Gardner. They led the horses into the forest nearby and tied them securely to several trees. With care, they removed the improvised explosive mortar rounds, the pressure plates, two spades and a sledgehammer. The latter was what the two men would use to pop the spikes and position the bombs; the work would be loud for a moment or two, but hopefully not enough to draw any unwanted attention.

  John and Devon positioned themselves along the southern treeline while Devon found a clump of bushes north of the tracks. Once security was in place, Heller and Gardner got in place and went to work. Two loud whacks with the sledgehammer made John wince.

  “How’s the coast?” he asked Reese over the radio.

  “Still clear. Wait a minute.”

  John’s heart froze in his chest. He signaled for Gardner and Heller to stop and drop down. “What do you see?”

  “Hmm, maybe nothing. I got a group of women about two hundred yards west of your position. Looks like they’re carrying buckets of water up from the river.”

  “River water near a big city,” Moss said. “I guess that’s one way to kill yourself.” He leaned into John’s walkie. “Do they look hot?”

  Reese snickered. “Negative. Unless you’re into women who look like men. Either way, they’re gone now, so tell Moss if he wants a shot at them he’ll need to give chase.”

  “All right,” John said, giving the two on the tracks the all-clear. “Maintain radio silence unless you see something.”

  Gardner and Heller were digging gravel out from under one of the rails when a series of shots rang out. Rounds thudded into the ground around Heller and Gardner, dinging off the gravel and the railroad tracks. Then came what sounded like a stick smacking a wet rag as a bullet struck Gardner in the temple. Blood and bone sprayed Heller, who was kneeling beside him.

  “Get back,” John yelled as he depressed the actuator on his walkie. “Reese, we’re coming under fire. We have a man down and no visual on the enemy.”

  Heller’s chest exploded in a red mist as he turned to flee. Blood dribbled from his lips as he slumped over the train tracks. Now Devon was opening up to the west, presumably the direction from which they’d been fired on, but the truth was, in the chaos it was hard to tell what was coming from where.

  Moss jumped up and charged out to grab hold of Heller. John edged out from the wood line and peered through his scope. A group of men in black fatigues were hugging the wall of a nearby building as they moved toward them.

  “Reese,” John called out over the walkie. “I’ve got three tangos on your three o’clock, red-brick building. South side.”

  Reese didn’t answer, but his Barrett did. The distinctive boom of his sniper rifle sounded just as John was laying down his own covering fire. The .50 cal round impacted the first two men, who were standing in a line, painting their insides against the wall next to them. The third soldier ran for cover. A second blast from Reese’s Barrett killed the third man. Although the sniper’s fire was helping to suppress the enemy, the deafening percussion was threatening to give away his position.

  Moss pulled Heller back to the tree line as more fire came in, this time from the east.

  “They’re all around us,” Moss gasped, checking for signs of life.

  “What about Gardner?”

  “He’s gone. Took a direct hit to the head. Didn’t feel a thing.”

  John called out to Devon to cover the east.

  “We don’t get out of here soon, boss, we never will.”

  John nodded, scanning through his ACOG for the source of the fire they were taking.

  “Colonel,” Reese said, “I’m taking fire from somewhere west of you. My position’s been compromised.”

  “Don’t wait for us, Reese. Soon as you’re off that roof, hightail it back to Oneida. We’ll meet you there.”

  “Affirmative,” the sniper said, the sound of rounds pinging off the metal siding before him nearly drowning out his words.

  “We’re gonna need to m
ake a break for it,” John told Moss. “You grab the horses while Devon and I lay down some covering fire.” He turned to tell Devon to cover the western approach when a round went straight through the young soldier’s neck. Devon’s eyes grew impossibly wide as he dropped his weapon and clamped his hands down over the wound. The next shot was fatal and Devon fell face forward into the brush.

  The human part of John wanted to scream. The blond young man had started as a member of Moss’ security team and had become something of a surrogate son to John. Staggering back on legs weakened with disbelief, John untied his horse and grabbed the reins of another. They would need to leave one horse behind. He and Moss charged out from the forest’s edge, without any covering fire. The rounds came as soon as they hit the train tracks. The brown mare John was holding with his right hand took a hit, whinnied and dropped. Bullets seemed to be coming in from every direction as he and Moss leapt over the tracks and into the woods beyond. For a moment the firing stopped as the gunmen gave chase.

  With three of his best men lying dead and their own fate yet to be decided, one thing was clear. This hadn’t been a case of bad luck. Someone had been waiting for them.

  Chapter 49

  Knoxville, one hundred and sixty days before EMP

  “You mentioned looking for a job, John,” Tom Bukowski, his VA counselor, said. “How’s that going?”

  John removed his 278th Armored Cavalry ball cap and rested it on one knee. “Pretty good, I’d say. I’ve always been pretty handy, so I guess it seemed natural to start a small general contracting business.”

  “That’s great. And what about the drinking?”

  Nodding, John rubbed his lips with the tips of his fingers. “Some days are better than others. I haven’t touched a drop in weeks. But I don’t think alcoholism was ever my problem.”

  “Really?”

  “Drinking was an easy way of numbing the pain. Could as easily have been oxycodone if I’d been more seriously wounded, like some of the men I served with.”

  Tom nodded and smiled.

  Nearly seven months before, after Diane had confronted him about his drinking, John had taken her advice and paid a visit to his local Veterans’ Counseling Center. He’d explained that he was having trouble readjusting to civilian life. After a short wait, they’d introduced him to one of the counselors: Tom Bukowski, a former Army intelligence officer who’d been deployed to the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia and Bosnia as well as North Africa. He was round-headed and quick to smile. John had taken to the man. They’d even served in some of the same theatres of operation, which had helped to put his mind at ease.

  John’s greatest reservation about getting help had been being labelled a coward and letting down the men he’d served with. Although he had known on some level that something inside wasn’t right, he’d never had a name for it. He hadn’t spent more than a few minutes describing the feelings plaguing him before Tom had suggested he might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. During the Civil War it was known as the soldier’s heart; in World War I, shell shock; and in World War II, battle fatigue. Differing names aside, the symptoms had largely been the same. Lack of sleep, loss of concentration, increased irritability, drinking and drug use and in some cases violence or suicide.

  The explanation had made him think immediately of his former JTAC Christopher Lewis. Had his friend gone to seek help? John doubted it. If he had, he would likely be alive today. Struggling, as most frontline combat veterans were, but alive nonetheless.

  The two men sat on soft folding chairs facing each other in one of the session rooms when they spoke. It was meant to be relaxed and informal.

  “You know how important it is to stay active,” Tom told him, clicking the end of his pen. “In the months we’ve been meeting, you’ve opened up about the guilt you carry around over the death of men under you. That feeling might never go away completely, but it’s important, at least for now, that you keep pouring your energy into something positive.”

  John reached behind and produced a white plastic tube. He unplugged one end and removed a rolled-up piece of paper. “Funny you should mention that. I’ve been sketching out some plans I’d like you to have a look at.” John handed the rolled paper over and Tom opened it, studying the image.

  “What is this?” Tom asked.

  “It’s my pod.”

  “Your what?”

  “I’ve got some money set aside and decided to take your advice about funneling my energy into more constructive pursuits. You’ve been around the world, so I don’t need to tell you we live in a country that’s been largely sheltered from civil unrest. Everything we have is built on a precarious foundation that could come crashing down if the economy goes belly up or the lights are ever shut off for good.”

  “You’re talking about an apocalyptic scenario,” Tom said, looking uncomfortable.

  “Call it what you want,” John replied. “I’m not one of those guys standing on street corners with drool down my chin prophesising the end of the world or anything. But if I learned anything in the military it was that redundancy is key. You know how they say, ‘No plan survives first contact?’ Well, through our sessions I’ve come to understand why I’ve had such a difficult time readjusting. I’d adapted.”

  Tom looked at him quizzically. “Adapted? In what way?”

  “I’d adapted to an environment in Iraq where threats were constant and unpredictable. There was no safe hiding place and that had me always on edge. And once the threat had dissipated, I found it was impossible to turn that survival mode off. It was a winning state of mind in Iraq, but a losing one back home.” John rubbed the scar that ran across the palm of his hand. “The pimply kid packing your groceries probably isn’t a threat, neither is your son’s grade-school teacher, but when you apply the mindset which saved your behind in Iraq to the folks back home, you start looking crazy.”

  Tom looked pensive. “So you feel that channeling those feelings into helping to protect your family in a worst-case scenario has helped?”

  “No question,” John replied. “The trick is to not become paranoid about it. Could be that after it’s built I never need that pod or the cabin we have up north, but I’d rather be prepared than worried about how I might look to my neighbors.”

  “And what about the nightmares?” Tom asked. “Have they begun to fade?”

  John shook his head, staring at the ground. “No. Those will always be a part of me, I know that now. Sometimes when the pressure gets to be too much, I still wake up in a cold sweat. I guess there’s some part of me that still wishes I could go back and change things. I’ve made mistakes, I won’t lie, and at some point I’ll have to answer for what I did. That I can live with, Doc, but the hardest part will be answering for what I failed to do.”

  Chapter 50

  Oneida. Present.

  Returning to town, John felt like he’d reached a new low. The mission had been one of his worst personal failures of the war. Heller, Gardner and Devon, three top-notch men, were dead and it was beginning to look like they’d been sent headfirst into an ambush.

  The entire trek home, none of the men had said a word. Each was wrapped up in their own thoughts. What went wrong and who had tried to have them killed? For John, one person kept popping up, someone who had more likely than not never expected them to make it home to voice their suspicions.

  Ray Gruber was an integral part of Oneida’s administrative team and a man who’d proven himself time and time again. This entire mission was based on his suggestion, his intelligence. But suspicions weren’t proof and John knew that drawing those kinds of conclusions when emotions were running high led to vigilante justice.

  The streets were practically empty as they entered town. John, Moss and Reese exchanged curious looks. Up ahead, the vague outline of a crowd took shape. They seemed to be shouting.

  “The heck’s going on?” John asked no one in particular.

  Moss unshouldered his M4 and laid it acro
ss his lap as they rode down Alberta Street. “Hard to say, boss, but angry mobs are never a good sign.”

  “Looks like they’re gathered in front of the jail,” Reese said.

  The closer they got, the clearer the crowd’s chant became. “Lynch him,” they were shouting over and over.

  “What’s this all about?” John asked a man in overalls who stood stiffly, hands planted on his hips.

  “Caught another one of them Chinese spies,” the man told him. “And you won’t guess who it is.”

  John bet he did, but let the man tell him anyway.

  “The vice mayor,” he said, jabbing an accusing finger at John. “Your right-hand man. I could understand that drifter David Newbury, but Ray Gruber?”

  Dismounting, John passed the reins of his horse to Moss and pushed his way through the crowd. Not surprisingly he found the front door to the jail locked and banged three times. Rodriguez answered and John struggled to get in past the clamoring crowd.

  “Can you believe those people?” Rodriguez said. “I didn’t see them getting bent out of shape when David was caught.”

  “Maybe because to them he was a nobody,” John said. “These people trusted Ray. Saw him every day. Thought he was one of them.”

  “Hey, how did the mission go?”

  “Not now,” John cut him off. “Bring me to Ray.”

  “He’s being held in a cell with two guards. They got him on suicide watch. Your wife and I caught him sending messages to his Chinese contact.”

  John looked him right in the eye. “Was he using his radio?”

  Rodriguez nodded.

  “None of us knew he had one before that last meeting,” John said. “We were all so focused on the intel coming in we didn’t think anything of it.”

  The two men made their way upstairs to the holding cell area.