by James Tarr
The candlebearer led them around a corner, and there in a smaller room, formerly an office, was another man sitting on a folding lawn chair, a second candle at his elbow. The second man was in a t-shirt and jeans, no weapons visible, and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of George’s weapon-mounted light.
“Jesus, there goes the night vision,” he said cordially. He did his best to look past his hand at the members of Theodore crowding the doorway. “You guys looking for the family reunion?” he asked.
“Who are you?” Quentin asked.
“The welcome wagon. You want to shut that off? Maybe use a handheld or something that’s not quite as bright as the sun?”
Ed produced a small handheld tactical flashlight and clicked it on as he nodded to George. The 25 lumens of his handheld seemed pitiful illumination after George extinguished his light, but it was still more light than the two candles were putting out, and after waiting a few seconds for their eyes to adjust, the room still seemed reasonably well lit.
“There some reason you’re sitting in here?” Ed asked the two men, neither of whom he recognized. Both of them were in their early thirties and seemed in good shape.
“It’s the only spot with a view,” the man in the chair said pointedly. “The thinking was most if not all of the invited guests would take a look around the neighborhood first and stop by here before heading in, see what they could see. And that’s pretty much been the case.” He peered at their faces. “Nobody was due tonight. Are you early, or late? No, wait, don’t tell me. Early. You seem the cautious type.”
“You don’t,” George said. “You don’t know who we are, and you’re sitting here with no weapons.”
“Looking innocent as the wind driven snow,” the man agreed. “No guns, no armor, just the sweet love of Jesus in my pretty blue eyes.”
“Aardvark,” Ed said abruptly.
The man in the chair smiled. “Buckaroo,” he responded. Ed relaxed significantly at the correct codeword response, and nodded. “We’re all friends here, Bill,” the man in the chair called out loudly.
“Roger that,” the men of Theodore heard from somewhere behind them. A few turned to look, but saw nothing.
“I’m Conrad. This is Seattle,” the main the lawn chair said, indicating his partner. “Bill’s our guardian angel, back there behind some tires, just in case you weren’t dogsoldiers but rather miscreants. He has both armor and a gun, but a sweet disposition.”
“Miscreants?” Quentin said.
“Ne’er do wells?” Conrad tried. “Blackguards? Hooligans? How about rapscallions, that’s a good one.”
“Fucking English teachers, I swear,” the man known as Seattle said. “How about I take you to see Uncle Charlie?”
Both Ed and George jerked at his comment. “He’s here?” Ed said in surprise. Nearly five years decoding messages from the man but he’d never actually met him. Ed, in fact, suspected that “Uncle Charlie” was several people, just a code name for some intelligence cell inside ARF command.
“This is all hands on deck,” Seattle told them. “You’ll see.”
“We just gonna walk across the street?” Weasel said.
Seattle wiggled his eyebrows at them and moved to the rear of the small room behind Conrad and his lawn chair. He pulled a section of dirty rug and a warped sheet of stained plywood off to the side, revealing a hole in the concrete floor. “Not exactly,” he said.
The men of Theodore stared at the rough-edged black oval in the floor. “There’s a ladder,” Seattle assured them.
“I’ll go,” Ed announced. He turned to George. “Pull Early in and post him at the door where Renny can see him.”
“You had a sniper covering your approach? Excellent!” Conrad exclaimed.
Ed carefully followed Seattle down the ladder and disappeared from sight.
“Villains!” Conrad said cheerfully. “I’ve always loved that word. Sounds better with a British accent, though. Ooh, how about knave?”
“Let me guess, you taught English lit,” George said drily.
Conrad bowed his head. “Hence my assumption of this nom de guerre,” he told George. “Always loved teaching Heart of Darkness. Never thought I’d actually be living it.”
Ed returned fifteen minutes later, poking his head out of the hole. His eyes were wide, and his face was flushed. “Somebody go grab Renny and Jason.” A huge smile split his face. “You’re not going to believe this.”
PART III
HAVE A PLAN TO KILL EVERYONE YOU MEET
It (violence) solves almost everything. It’s why we arm the police, and it’s why we still have wars.
Roses Are Dead
Loren D. Estleman
The only true war crime is losing.
Testimony
Scott Turow
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The tunnel led to the basement of the sports complex across the street. The men of Theodore weren’t surprised there was a basketball court, indoor hockey rink, or swimming pool in the large complex of buildings; they were surprised by the light, the crowd of people, and the unexpected plenty in the sizable basement. There were crates of canned food nearby, cases of water and power bars, fresh batteries, even new boots, socks and underwear. A dozen battery-powered LED lanterns kept the space bright.
The man who identified himself as Uncle Charlie was in his late forties, with a compact build and a balding head, his graying hair trimmed to stubble. He wore a plaid shirt over khaki cargo pants. He shook hands all around, then regarded the men of Theodore.
“I appreciate that you’re early, but it complicates things,” he told them, flashing a quick smile. “Well, not complicates, exactly, but we need to wait to see who else shows up. How many bodies we have will directly impact the plan, and the mission.”
“So what’s the mission?” Mark asked.
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t want to go into details yet. Let’s just say it’s high risk, for very high reward.”
“High risk is just walking around outside,” Weasel told him.
“Yeah, you’re not wrong. I thought the stories I heard about the city were exaggerated. This is as bad as I’ve seen it anywhere.”
“Where’d you come in from?” Quentin asked him.
Charlie gave him a flat stare. “Somewhere else.” Then he relented. “Look, I know you’re probably tired. We’ve got food and water and more. Get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow, after everyone else shows up, we’ll have a briefing. Trust me, it’ll be worth your wait.” He reached down to a nearby stack of boxes and tossed one to Mark. “Brought these as well. Thought they might be appreciated.”
Mark looked down at the container in his hands, then up at Uncle Charlie, then back down. It was an unopened box of unscented baby wipes. “How many can I use?”
“As many as you want,” Charlie told him. “We brought a couple cases, so there’s a box for everyone. And we’ve got packages of new socks over there too, if you need them.”
Mark looked around at the squad. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to go have a religious experience,” he announced, and left with the baby wipes.
“We haven’t had showers in forever,” George said with a laugh.
“I’m aware,” Uncle Charlie said pointedly, but without any malice.
The five men and one woman who seemed to be Uncle Charlie’s staff all looked competent. They also looked bathed and well fed, and wore clean clothes. Ed thought he and his squad looked like heavily-armed homeless people next to them. They were all still carrying their rifles.
“Everybody, get something to eat and drink,” Ed told his crew. “And clean up, too, as best you can, we smell like that sewer pipe.”
“Using the sewers to travel?” Charlie inquired, as the squad wandered off. Ed and George remained in place. On a table behind him was a small crank-operated radio softly playing music, which meant it had to be tuned to the local state-run station, as there were no other stations broadcasting.
&
nbsp; “When we can. Which isn’t very often. Only a certain percentage of the pipes are big enough to fit through, and the Army blocked most of them off years ago.”
“How many are you expecting?” George asked.
“Irregulars? Well, I staggered the dates. You’re with the second group. Another six squads. Well, five with Franklin gone.” They’d given him that news.
“How many are operating in the city?” Ed didn’t really expect an answer, and didn’t get one.
“I called in everyone, so I guess you’ll see. Get some rest, you look like you’ve earned it. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Ed glanced at George, then back. “We’ll get our people squared away and cleaned up, then give you two bodies to share the watch.”
“My people can handle that.”
Ed glanced at George again, letting him know to take the lead, and George smiled at Uncle Charlie. There was no warmth in it. “Sorry, but just because your men knew the code words and you say you’re Uncle Charlie doesn’t mean shit. We don’t know you or your fucking people, and if you hadn’t taken a sip out of that water bottle I pulled at random out of that case and handed to you we wouldn’t be drinking or eating anything you’ve brought, either. We’re all assuming this is a potential ambush or Tab intelligence false flag op and are wondering when the shooting’s going to start. Until it doesn’t. So we’re going to stay hot, and our people will assist with perimeter security.” Then he recited one of his favorite quotes, words he lived by. “Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”
Uncle Charlie paused briefly before responding. “Roger that. We’re happy for the help.” Then he smiled, and it was warm and genuine. “Glad you made it. You’ll be glad too.” Then he moved off.
The men of Theodore slept in shifts, but nothing of note happened until just after dawn, when the next squad came crabwalking through the tunnel.
They emerged slowly, blinking in the bright LED light, looking around uncertainly. Four men and two women. “Barker! That you? You growing that ‘fro out so you look taller?” they all heard, and turned. Weasel was sitting on top of some horizontal six-inch pipes that fed the cold boiler, his MP5 across his knees and a Power Bar in his hand. He’d barely stopped eating since they’d arrived.
A squat black man long overdue for a haircut squinted in his direction. “That you, Gopher?”
Weasel snorted and jumped down from the pipes as Barker stepped closer. “You with a new squad?” Weasel asked him, looking over the short man’s shoulder. He didn’t recognize any of Barker’s squadmates. One of them was a short, skinny redhead who looked like she wanted to kill everyone.
Barker glanced behind him, and when he turned back around his expression was dark. “No, I’m just the only one left from Kermit. Walked into an ambush last year, lost five people, and after that two more said fuck it, they’d had enough. Rizzo was in a safehouse last fall and apparently got ratted out. They got rocketed by two Kestrels, killed everybody in the squad but two people, and they were injured and out of the fight for a few months. I wrapped them into Kermit and recruited a few new faces over the winter. And then we fucking lose two to a sniper on the way in. This better be fucking worth it.” He paused. “It worth it?”
Weasel shrugged, noticing the dried bloodstains on Barker’s sleeves. “Remains to be seen. But there’s water and food and enough baby wipes to make even you smell tolerable.” He nodded past the new arrivals. “Go check in with Chuckles over there, and I’ll talk to you later.” He smiled at the murderous redhead. “How you doin’?”
Barker looked to see who Weasel was talking to. “Petal, Weasel. She was in Rizzo. Petal, since you’ve got a heartbeat, that means he wants to fuck you.”
Petal scowled at Weasel from underneath her unevenly cut bangs. “How would that make him different from everybody else?”
Early had his big hands in his pockets and was leaning his shoulder against the wall. The hallway corridor was wide, the walls basic cinderblock but covered with so many thick layers of paint it looked—and felt—like plastic. Just like the high school he’d gone to, all those eons ago, in Decatur, Georgia. They were positioned just back from the lobby of the complex. Through the tall windows—nearly all intact, which itself seemed a minor miracle—they could see the parking lot and beyond that a sea of tall grass waving in a light breeze.
“So what’s your story, young lady? What was it, Sarah?”
He turned his head. On the other side of the corridor was the lone female member of Uncle Charlie’s team. She looked to be in her twenties, although Early had observed that the older he got the less accurate he was estimating ages of youngsters like her. She was short and stocky, with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. As he studied her he realized the thickness came from muscles. She was a serious weight lifter. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d exercised just for the sake of exercise. It had probably been before she kissed her first boy. He eyed her thick arms. Or girl. Whoever.
“Mission support staff. Logistics,” she said tersely.
“I weren’t after your name, rank, and serial number, or even your favorite color, I was mostly jes’ interested in how you came to find yourself in our urban paradise.” He waved a hand.
For appearances, to anyone who peered through the windows or wandered into the lobby, his M1A was leaning out of sight in a doorway a few feet behind him, as was his plate carrier. He was wearing the suppressed .22 in a shoulder rig, but to see that someone would have to be inside the building, and by then he would know whether or not he needed to grab his rifle. Sarah had some sort of fancy suppressed short-barreled carbine, the magazine pouches on her vest stuffed with spares, and she’d set all of it in an alcove six feet to her rear.
“Just lucky, I guess.” She gave him an intense once-over and he didn’t shy away from her gaze. Instead, his eyebrows crept up his tanned forehead and he waited, expectantly. He had a big frame and wide shoulders, and in another life might have been fat, but like almost every Irregular she’d seen so far he looked half-starved. It was hard to doubt their motivation when it seemed they had to struggle just to feed themselves. Not that the rest of the country wasn’t having a rough time of it, but still. “You mind me asking you some questions?”
Early shrugged expansively. “Ask away.”
“I’m surprised at how old some of you are. War is a young person’s business.”
Early smiled. “That’s not much of a question, but I get ya. And you’re right, it certainly is. Every aching inch of my old body agrees with you. But I like to think we bring some perspective to this thing. We can remember better than most, certainly better than anyone your age, what it was like before things all turned to shit. So, hopefully, when this is all over, we can find our way back.”
“How long have you been fighting?”
“When they declared martial law, started shutting down media groups for broadcasting the truth, arrestin’ folks who dared to criticize politicians and asking cops to kick down doors looking for stuff that had been legal the month before, that’s when I knew it was serious. But I thought it would blow over, bunch of fatmouth politicians making wind as usual, things would go back to the way they’d always been. But they didn’t. They got worse. Still, I always had faith things would work out, that even the idiot politicians would figure it out, if we all raised our voices enough. There was a civil rights rally at the local state house. A peaceful protest, with a lot of families, wanting their voices to be heard.” He shook his head. “The police fired tear gas and waded in with batons. Then somebody fired a shot, no one will ever know who, and the cops mowed down a couple dozen people before cooler heads prevailed. The rest got thrown in jail, no bail, charges of terrorism and incitement to riot, just for being there and wanting to exercise freedom of speech.” He sighed. “That was when I realized I’d been lyin’ to myself how bad it really was, and that it was time for the fourth box.”
“Fourth box?”
“You’ve got four boxes to defend your country from within, darlin’. Soap, ballot, jury, and ammo, in that order. You can debate, vote, and go to court to right wrongs, and you pray to God you can fix everything that way, because once you go ammo box, there’s no going back, there’s just going through.”
Sarah thought for a while on that. “You’re right, I don’t really remember what it was like before. The war started when I was in junior high school. I was raised in Wyoming and taught right from wrong, and I could see that what they’re doing was wrong. That what we’re fighting for is right. We’re fighting for freedom, and justice. Not just for us, but for everyone. That’s why I joined up, as soon as I got out of high school.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Someone your age—no offense—you should be home, playing with your grandchildren, not having to fight a war.”
Early nodded. “I don’t disagree, Miss, but my only baby girl died on those capitol steps before she could bring anyone into the world.” He licked his thin lips. “So there’s that.”
Yosemite arrived mid-day, one of the squad in severe pain from injuries he’d suffered two days before. He’d fallen through some rotted stairs inside a house, and been stabbed in the thigh and forearm by splintery shards of wood. The bleeding had stopped but the wounds were warm and probably infected, and the squad was out of medical supplies. One of Uncle Charlie’s people was a medic and professionally cleaned the wounds, stitched and redressed them, and gave him some antibiotics.
Flintstone arrived in early afternoon. They came in through the tunnel, six men, everyone in the squad sweating from heat and apprehension. They were surprised at the crowd inside.
An hour later Early was back at his post in the main corridor when a busty woman about fifty appeared, wading through the thick grass in front of the building. She strode confidently across the parking lot to the front door, then, after peering through the glass for a bit, tried the handle.