“It’s Blue.”
“Um . . . your name is Blue?”
Some chuckles from the gathered Marines.
“Yup. That’s what my Momma called me. She named me after the mountain flower.”
More chuckles. Tyce angrily waved the men off. He didn’t expect much trouble from this gentle giant.
Tyce held up the Weatherby. “You do much hunting with this?”
“All my life.”
“You any good?”
“Yup.”
“Look, I can see you are a man of few words. But maybe you’ve seen what’s been happening around us. I don’t need to spell it out.”
Tyce thought about how ridiculous that sounded. After all, with Blue’s heavy accent and soft, dumb looks, maybe he did need to spell it out. He found himself speaking in a slower meter and choosing simpler words almost unintentionally. “Our country has been invaded. By the Russians. And I intend to . . . ah . . . resist.”
“I understand,” Blue said.
“Well . . . then, would you consider joining me . . . us?”
“Thought I already did?”
“What?”
“Your men asked me to come on over.”
“Okay,” Tyce said, not quite sure how the two things connected, but it appeared to Tyce the man was willing to lend his rifle to support the mission.
“So, you’ll join us, and you have no problem . . . um, well, fighting?”
“Killed two Russians already, so I guess not. Wasn’t much harder than downing a cougar.”
Tyce didn’t want to pry much more, and he wasn’t sure he was going to get more than a few words that he couldn’t exactly make sense of in response anyhow. It sounded like the big man was ready, willing, and able, so Tyce just decided to roll with it.
“Okay, here’s your rifle back. You have your own ammo, I’m guessing.”
“Yup.”
Tyce signaled for his men, who had stepped away but remained within earshot.
“Gents, take Mr. Blue here over to the sniper section. Tell the NCOs he’s now a part of their organization. They are responsible for his, um, well-being. They need to ensure he’s cared for, you know, doesn’t get lost in the military . . . system. Could be confusing for some.”
The head NCO smiled. “We get what you mean, sir. I’m sure the snipers will be glad to have another mouth to feed, or two . . . or even three.” At their last words, the men led Blue away.
Tyce tapped his pen against the map, thinking about what a motley crew they were becoming.
Strength in numbers, strength in the diversity of skills, he thought, that’s the American way. Nation of immigrants who wanted to fight for something bigger and better. Someone had once said something along those lines in a U.S. history class. He just wondered if he could get these civilians to work in and among his ranks while he tried to conjure up fight-and-flee plans that would make big problems for the Russians.
CHAPTER 20
Harman, West Virginia
There were plenty of barns—hay barns, tobacco barns, barns for cows, corn, and soybeans—to pick from in the broad valley of Harman, West Virginia. The problem was convincing the farmers and townspeople to let him rig it up to look like a phony combined Army and Marine Corps command post so that the Russians would blow it up. No one believed him when he said he’d get them compensation after the war was over. They were patriotic, but they didn’t put much trust in the government—any government.
Tyce was beginning to realize that maintaining civil order while requesting support from citizens of a state that already had a deeply depressed economy, especially in the middle of winter, was not going to make him any friends. Thankfully, word had gotten out from the town of Parsons that Tyce was a square and honest guy, not to mention the story of how he and his unit had smacked the Russians down to the last man by the river bend near Parsons. Folks had begun treating him a bit like a Robin Hood, a reputation he liked and one he now needed to live up to. At each farm, folks invited him and his men in for hot soup or coffee, then asked him for news about everything. Rumors abounded but with no Internet, TV, or radio, stories seemed to be getting more and more outlandish.
One nice older couple invited all the men in Tyce’s Humvee section inside their front parlor, eager for news. Ignoring the few who courteously offered to wait outside, the couple insisted that everyone squeeze inside their warm farmhouse and wouldn’t let them go until they finished off two whole pots of coffee laced with farm-fresh milk and served with warm biscuits slathered with homemade butter. After three days of military Meals Ready to Eat, or MREs, the home-cooked food was heavenly.
Tyce finally extricated himself and his men and moved on to the next farm while the rest of the men gathered in the forest, cleaned weapons, handed out three rounds of rifle ammo per man, and traded Russian knives and pistols. They were three quarters of a regiment, near completely out of ammo, living like vagabonds, with the Russians sure to come looking for them any day now.
It was getting toward dusk, and Tyce was almost ready to give up. One more farm. One more ask. Near the northern edge of town, the old farmer finally agreed. They could rig up his barn as long as they found him another place to live. His assumption was the Russians were going to blow up his barn, so what was going to stop them from blowing up his house?
“Here’s the way I see it, Major,” said the old farmer. “This house isn’t a family heirloom, but I have ten head of cattle and two horses and twenty-eight acres of good land. If I move the livestock, I’m going with them.”
Car headlights in the distance informed Tyce that his men, stationed on all roads leading into the valley, were coming to check on his progress. After Parsons, his HQ posted men on all quadrants of the compass as lookouts without being told to do so. As the two vehicles pulled up to the farm where they were negotiating, Tyce recognized the lead Humvee as Gunny’s but didn’t recognize the big Ram 3500 pickup in the back. He shouldered his weapon, told the farmer he’d find him a place right away, tasked SSgt. Diaz to continue listening to the man’s lengthening list of requests, and walked out to Gunny’s vehicle.
“Hey, sir,” Gunny said, hopping out of his Humvee. “How goes it? Anyone willing to let the Russkies blow up their barn for freedom and democracy?”
Tyce grinned. He needed that. To Tyce, ever since their slow retreat from Morgantown things felt as if they slowly deteriorating, and he’d have to think seriously about saving the men’s hides instead of trying to go on the hunt. Gunny always had an easygoing attitude, as if to say, “It’s all fucked, but we’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah, well, I just asked SSgt. Diaz to take over negotiating, if that tells you where we’re at.”
“Shit. It’s so bad that you gotta call in the Latina Rottweiler herself, huh?”
“We might be about there, but we’ll see.”
“Okay, sir. I brought you someone. Or, more like someones.”
“Who?” said Tyce, looking inquiringly back at the Ram pickup. “I was just coming over to see who was driving into our little trap.”
“You’re not gonna believe me, but I’ve got a full-blown army general in there.”
“What? Are you serious?” It would be too much to ask for him to be a Marine general, he thought, but anyone of high rank and combat experience would be good. Then he could slip back to the role for which he thought he was best suited: second-in-command, or maybe running operations. The pressure that had been building seemed to be lifting and, for a moment, Tyce’s heart lightened.
“Well . . . he’s not that kind of general,” said Gunny, as if sensing Tyce’s thoughts.
Tyce looked sideways at him.
“Uh . . . it may be best if you follow me, sir.” Gunny led him back to the pickup.
Tyce came up to the passenger’s-side window. The door opened, and Tyce saw two men inside. The driver spoke first, in heavily Native American–accented English. “I’m Bill Degata, and this is General Lawton Custis.” He pointed to
the passenger, a short man with a half-crown of grey and a flat top that ended in a big bald spot. He stepped out of the vehicle still carrying his back bolt upright, looking fit for an older gentleman.
When he crossed into the Humvee headlights, everyone took a half-step back. It was the general’s eyes: stark-white pupils with no visible iris. The surrounding skin was reddened, inflamed, puffy, with watery lines trailing out from his eyes.
“He’s blind, by the way,” said Bill, seeming to relish the shock his late remark caused the gathered troops. “He looked straight into a nuclear blast down at the city of Danville, Virginia. We keep the bandages on them, except in the cool air. He says it soothes his eyes a bit.”
“The Russians nuked Danville?” Tyce asked, incredulously.
This time, the general answered. “Let me guess, you boys have been holed up in the mountains since this thing kicked off, and you don’t know much of what’s going on?”
“No, sir, we don’t,” said Tyce.
“You don’t gotta call me sir, Marine. I retired a while ago. But that doesn’t mean I can’t lend you all a hand. I understand you got Russian soldiers breathing down your neck, and you want to shake ’em.”
Tyce glared at Gunny, who shrugged. Tyce was going to have to make up some rules for the men on what information they shared, and with whom. His troops were likely to be in close contact with civilians, and they needed to watch what they said. At the very least because it could endanger the civilians’ lives. In war, information could be just as valuable as a fistful of ammunition or a suitcase worth of explosives.
“That’s about it, General,” said Tyce, continuing to use the respectful term. He figured there was no reason a retired general couldn’t give them a few pointers.
* * *
The general sat—ramrod straight—in a wooden chair in the old farmer’s barn, listening to Tyce describe the lay of the land. Dr. Remington finished placing specialized chemical bandages over both his eyes, then taped them on gently. Tyce watched her work as he spoke. She moved fluidly, deftly, with the skill and precision of someone who had done things like this a million times before.
Where in the world did she treat blast- or flash-burned eyes? He thought. Then the realization hit him: she’d been treating wounded Marines, badly burned in combat by roadside bombs. Her stock went up a full measure in Tyce’s eyes, and he vowed to tolerate her short temper a bit more in the future. It was clear she was a very good doctor.
Above them, Marines and soldiers crawled among the rafters and wired radio cable to men on the roof, who were cutting holes and installing radio antennae.
“So tell me again. The valley is shaped like an upside-down Y?” asked the general, patting Victoria on the arm as she finished trimming the ends of the tape.
“Yes, basically. Broad valley in between,” said Tyce.
“Farms all around—mainly livestock, or some grains or fruits?”
“Both. Mainly livestock.”
“And the mountains? If I remember my geography of the Monongahela National Forest in the Allegheny Mountains, we’re near the tallest peak at . . . Spruce Knob. I think I remember it’s about 4,800 feet above sea level. Vegetation is pretty much all coniferous trees?” the general asked—or at least, it sounded like a question, but Tyce was pretty sure he already knew the answer and was just confirming his facts.
Tyce glanced at the Michelin map, confirmed the altitude, and agreed. “Yes, 4,863 feet to be precise, and mostly pines.”
The general tapped his chin and pulled out a pipe bag. By feel, he filled and lit the pipe and started to puff. Tyce smiled a bit. He was already starting to like this guy.
“Have you ever heard of the Battle of Kings Mountain?”
“No. No, sir,” said Tyce, a bit puzzled about where the general was going with this.
“Okay, sit a minute.”
Tyce leaned against the edge of the barn table on which the maps were spread out.
“On October 7th, 1780, American patriots defeated a larger British force by goading them into an ambush in a large valley, then retreating before British General Lord Cornwallis could arrive with reinforcements.”
“You think we can pull off another ambush? We survived the last one unscathed—but only with a bit of luck and by the hairs on our collective asses. We lost a lot of time trying to prepare the last one, too, then got caught flat-footed. I was hoping to just do a hit-and-run.”
“Well, as Vernon Gomez always said, ‘I’d rather be lucky than good.’”
“That’s a pretty good quote. Another one of your dead generals?”
“Nope, that was Vernon ‘Lefty’ Gomez, the pitcher for the New York Yankees in the 1930s. But I think he was on to something. Planning alone can’t solve all your problems, Major.”
Tyce smiled. At least the general had a good sense of humor. “I was thinking of just using the radio ruse and getting the hell out of here and deeper into the woods. Live to fight another day and draw them farther away from Parsons.”
“You have reasons for not wanting them in Parsons, I assume? Made a deal with the locals, I guess? Keep them relatively out of harm’s way?” asked the blind general, puffing on his pipe. The sweet scents of black coffee and whiskey filled the air.
“Yes, but I think we’re running out of time. I don’t imagine the Russians will wait long to mount a search for their missing company.”
“Attack is the secret of defense; defense is the planning of an attack,” Lawton said cryptically, then added, “Ever read any Sun Tzu, the ancient Chinese guy?”
Tyce cleared his throat uncomfortably. He had read Sun Tzu, the ancient Chinese military strategist and philosopher, but couldn’t remember any of it just now. “Not in quite some time, General.”
“Well . . . I suppose you boys needed to fight counterinsurgency, and some of these old quotes wouldn’t have helped you. You all had a tough fight over there. I may know a few things, but your knowledge of the insurgents you fought in Iraq and Afghanistan is how we’ll eventually beat the Russians.”
Although he felt off guard in the general’s presence, oddly, the general’s wise tone and his all-seeing but blind eyes gave Tyce a great deal of comfort. Lawton seemed not only judicious, but worldly, and maybe even a bit fatherly, too. For a moment, Tyce imagined him like Colonel Potter from the TV show M*A*S*H. Tyce understood that Lawton had probably forgotten more about military tactics and history than Tyce had ever known.
Time to shut my mouth more and listen, he thought.
The general cast his blind, bandaged eyes up at the men working aloft and puffed some more.
“It’s all clear to me. All war is based on deception, and we’re gonna need plenty of that.” He turned to face Tyce. Then, realizing he might be tossing out too many quotes, he went on a little more conscientiously, “More Sun Tzu, I’m afraid . . . but you can learn a lot from brilliant men who conducted war hundreds or even thousands of years ago. Though the weapons may have changed, the battle of wits and human behavior haven’t changed much.”
“What do you propose, General?”
“What do I propose?” Now it seemed the general’s turn to be caught off guard. “Well, I might just have some ideas, but Major Asher, you are the one who needs to make the decisions. You know these men and women better than I. What they are capable of and what they’ll do under pressure.”
“Hardly. We’ve only been working together for a short time. A few months.”
“A lifetime,” said the general. “Did you know that at the battle of New Market during the Civil War, Breckinridge defeated Franz Sigel with less than two-thirds the forces? Breckinridge’s men were mostly raw recruits. Boys from the Virginia Military Institute.” The faraway tone of his voice made it sound like he was reliving a distant memory. “Breckinridge was just better at leadership and rallying the men. He didn’t have a better strategy or even better ground. He just used what he had to his advantage.”
“They may have won the battle, G
eneral, but last time I checked, the South still lost the war.”
“Well, let’s just count on changing some of the parts of those equations. Learn from what worked and avoid what didn’t.” He reached out and patted Tyce on the arm, somehow sensing his distance from him perfectly. He smiled. “Also, I think I can help. I heard you were a little short on ammo and firepower.”
“That’s an understatement, General. I really don’t think we have the ammo to engage what I assume will be a larger unit this time. We expended a lot of our ammo just taking out a Russian platoon. And while I’d love to hear more ideas on tactics, all of those battles you mentioned, at least the two sides had equivalent weapons. If the Russians arrive with anything larger than they had last time . . . I don’t have anything that can even deal with a single BTR, let alone anything heavier.”
“Oh, no,” said the general. “They won’t bring armor. Not yet, at least. It would take them two days to get it up here, even if they weren’t searching for traps behind every rock. No, no. They will send fast, light, and experienced infantry. Well led, too, I imagine. Mixed with a few BTRs. Yes . . . if we’re to defeat a reactionary force, this is the place.” He puffed on the pipe and looked around as if he were looking through the walls of the small barn and surveying the entire valley before him. “We’ll defeat them with their own human nature and add in a healthy dose of deception. And, as I was saying . . . I just might be able to help in the firepower department.” The general’s face broadened into a knowing smile.
He leaned in closer to Tyce. “To be honest, I do have a few projects to suggest. But it’s your leadership that will win in the day. No battle was won with even the best equipment if the men didn’t trust their leaders, and the men seem to trust you implicitly. Keep your men setting up this radio flytrap; it will be the center of our deceit. But we’re going to need a bit more if we’re to get inside the enemy commander’s mind. It’s inside his head that we will eventually win. I have a list of things we need, from Molotov cocktails to fuel bombs. I think I smelled a gas station on the way up here. In these backwoods, fuel may be your most abundant resource—let’s use it. Plus, a few of the enemy dying a horrendous, burning death tends to make commanders a bit jumpy. You’ll see.”
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