by Nathan Jones
That served as a pointed reminder that there were almost as many recruits still here, waiting for him to impart those same skills to them. He only hoped he was up to the task of getting a bunch of grownups to listen to him. Even if it meant swallowing their pride about the fact that, in this area at least, he was more skilled than people twice his age.
With a sigh, he turned away. He had a lot of responsibility resting on his shoulders while Trapper was gone, and he needed to get started. But first he had to let the recruits know training was on for tomorrow, and the mountain man had left him in charge.
Skyler should've been eager at the opportunity, but the prospect mostly filled him with nervous dread. Not just the training, but the knowledge that if things went horribly wrong with the volunteers these recruits would be Camptown's last hope, and it was on his shoulders to prepare them properly.
He'd try his best, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to.
Chapter One
Patrols
Sangue was coming again.
It had taken them longer than Tom had expected to respond to the complete disappearance of their patrol, the one they'd sent in pursuit of Brandon and the women Skyler had rescued from their camp.
Just over two weeks, in fact. He wasn't sure if they'd simply waited a while for their friends to return, maybe assuming the radio they'd sent with them was out of range or had bad line of sight in the mountains, or if they were distracted by fighting elsewhere and the disappearance of twenty men was a minor issue. It was even possible the patrol vanishing without a trace had spooked them, and they'd taken extra time carefully preparing to find out why.
Either way, they were here now. With a full three squads of twenty men each.
The new force had set out southwards from their camp at Joes Valley Reservoir, on a path that would bring them too close for comfort. Even worse, the enemy wasn't splitting their forces to cover more ground; the squads were keeping within a ten-minute walk of each other, less at a sprint, and they all had radios and were in constant communication.
The only good thing about the situation was that they weren't headed straight for Camptown, the settlement the refugees from Emery had set up in a bowl valley in the high mountains near Tom's summer retreat. Instead, they were searching farther east, trying to follow the circuitous route Brandon had taken leading the women Skyler had rescued to safety.
Which meant it was possible Sangue might miss the bowl valley entirely, keep searching farther south for a while and then eventually turn back, frustrated at finding nothing. But Tom didn't consider himself that lucky, which was why he'd brought out every volunteer Camptown could spare to keep an eye on the enemy.
He'd maneuvered his people to approach Sangue from the north, behind the enemy, and observe them from that direction. There were two reasons for that: first, because the bloodies would be less likely to expect anyone to have gotten around at their backs. Second, and more importantly, he didn't want to advance or retreat from the direction of Camptown, giving the enemy a reason to head that way.
In spite of that precaution, he was afraid Sangue might eventually realize there was a pattern to the volunteers' movements that hinted at where they were staging from. Or, easier to figure out, that there was a big gap on the map where they hadn't searched, and where they kept being attacked when they tried.
The invaders from South America finding Camptown would be beyond disastrous. He'd pounded that point home relentlessly with the volunteers, that their only hope of winning any type of guerrilla war was not giving away their base of operations. Especially when that base had hundreds of vulnerable people in it.
The only saving grace there was that Highway 29 was a good two and a half days' ride on horseback from the bowl valley. Which may not seem like a long ways, but to thoroughly search an area of mountains you could travel across in a day could take weeks, especially if you were being constantly hounded by people who knew the terrain and were determined to defend their home and loved ones.
Tom could only hope that once the enemy did start to figure out where the volunteers were coming from, it would still take them a long time to search the area and fight past ambushes to finally set eyes on Camptown. Ideally, he never wanted that to happen, since most likely Sangue would attack from all sides with overwhelming numbers at that point, forcing the displaced citizens from Emery to flee to safety.
If the bloodies ever did find the bowl valley, he preferred it to be months from now, just before winter set in; the deep snows and harsh temperatures would provide better protection than a thousand volunteers.
Of course, then the trick would be figuring out how to survive winter in the high mountains themselves.
In any case, the priority now was the sixty enemy soldiers combing the mountains looking for their lost squad. If they managed to find Camptown all bets were off, and if it looked like that might happen Tom would be forced to ambush them, either wipe them out or force them to abandon their search.
For the first day things were looking good. The enemy squads stayed closely packed, well east of the bowl valley and looking like they'd eventually pass it by in their slow search. Tom kept the volunteers well back to avoid being seen, while he and his two ranch hands, Brandon and Logan, as well as a few of the more stealthy volunteers, moved closer to track Sangue's movements.
He hated to say it, but his son Skyler would've been useful for that; in the last four, almost five years, Tom had taught the teenager everything he knew. In fact, at this point he had a feeling Skyler was even better at tracking and moving unseen through the mountains than he was.
But Kristy had insisted their son wasn't going out again, and only a fool ignored his wife about something like that. So Skyler was still back at their summer retreat in the bowl valley, watching their herds of horses, cows, and goats, and helping to train the new volunteers Mitchells had recruited.
Tom had been half afraid his son would ignore them both and go off on his own, like he had been doing more and more lately, but he'd been surprisingly obedient since the fight with Sangue. Perhaps the young man had seen the fallout of his rash acts, being forced to fight Sangue and watching his friend Lisa and her family leave to head to safety in the north.
A harsh lesson in consequences and humility.
Hopefully, that lesson had only shattered the false perception of invincibility all youth held, and inspired caution, and not broken the boy's spirit entirely; he'd been unusually quiet and moody of late. In fact, he'd barely even argued about not being allowed to go out with the volunteers for this latest encounter with Sangue.
In any case, Skyler was safe at home, and Tom had his work cut out for him with the sixty enemy soldiers they faced.
Observing Sangue didn't do much for his peace of mind. Watching their movements only drove home the point that they were well trained and disciplined, coordinating seamlessly over radio and leaving no stone unturned in their search for their missing squad. They rolled across the landscape like a juggernaut, and Tom was having trouble seeing how his smaller force of volunteers was going to stop them if they unexpectedly turned towards Camptown.
The second day trailing the enemy brought both bad and good news.
The bad news, unfortunately, was that they did turn farther west, closer in the direction of the bowl valley. But thankfully, the good news was that they did so by splitting up to cover more ground, the three squads of twenty steadily growing farther and farther apart as the day progressed. Only one posed a real threat to Camptown.
That left Tom with a dilemma about whether to try to ambush the westernmost squad.
They weren't going to have another easy fight like Gerry's Ravine, where they'd ambushed and destroyed that first squad pursuing Brandon and the rescued women. Sangue was wary now, sending scouts in all directions and avoiding potential ambush spots. Even though they showed no sign of being aware of Tom and his volunteers in the area, they acted as if enemies might be lurking behind every rock and tree.
&nbs
p; Against enemy soldiers who'd spent over four years fighting an aggressive war in the United States, and who knew how many more conquering South and Central America, catching them off guard when they were expecting trouble was going to be a tall order. Even the advantage of knowing these mountains, and having trained and prepared to fight in them, wouldn't guarantee victory moving forward.
But there was no help for it, now.
The current situation was a bit more ideal now, since Sangue had split up to search more ground. Unfortunately, the nearest squad was headed in a direction that would take them worryingly close to the bowl valley, and they might be tempted to scale one of the nearby peaks to get a better view of the area.
At which point Camptown would be easy to spot. With the enemy's radios, the moment that happened they could alert the rest of their forces in the area and the jig would be up.
So Tom couldn't let it happen. He eased back from his observation spot to where the rest of the volunteers waited, joining Sheriff Mitchells, Camptown's leader, who was waiting with Brandon Gerry and the other informal volunteer leaders. “We're going to have to hit this group.”
Neal, formerly the bartender of Emery's only drinking establishment and house of ill repute, cursed. “Figured it was heading that way when you dragged us all out here.”
Brandon ignored the man, grimly intent on the situation. “We outnumber them almost two to one as long as they're separate from the other two squads. How do we want to play it?”
Tom hesitated, no liking what he was about to suggest but not seeing a better option. “We wait on the other side of the ridge they're about to pass, then slip in and hit them from behind on the slope above them.”
Mitchells sucked in a breath through his teeth, crumpling his beat up old cowboy hat in his hands. Along with the heavy leather duster he wore in spite of the early July heat, it was part of his sheriff getup, one he wore whenever he was on the job. Which, these days, was pretty much all the time.
He seemed to be feeling the burden of being responsible for the Emery refugees more than ever right now, facing a potential fight with an enemy that outnumbered and outgunned them and had by far more combat experience. “We hit them from behind, that puts us that much closer to the nearest other squad. Maybe close enough to get caught between them if things go wrong.”
“The only other option is attacking from the direction of Camptown,” Tom replied grimly. “Assuming we want to do it from a position that lets us win this fight.”
The sheriff didn't seem to have a good argument for that. He hissed a breath through his teeth again and mashed his hat onto his head. “Guess we better win fast and get out of here, then.”
As a start. Tom had a feeling they might have to prepare for the next fight the moment this one was over, as the other two Sangue squads swarmed the area searching for whoever had attacked their people. And he could only hope they won this one, although it was counterproductive to think that way.
Over the next ten minutes, he led the volunteers into position behind the ridge. There he separated them into two groups, leading one himself and having Mitchells lead the other, with Brandon and a lot of his other steadiest volunteers accompanying him. He left that group behind in the first position he'd selected and prepared to move his group out to the second, making a few final plans to coordinate timing on the attack.
That would be easier on the part of Mitchells's group, since they were farther back and would be moving out first to circle more directly behind the enemy squad. That would leave them exposed for longer, but they'd also be in a safer position when the bullets started flying.
Tom hoped.
Before leading his group away, he gathered them and Mitchells's group together for some final cautionary words. “At this point, I don't need to tell you why we're doing this, or what the stakes are if we fail,” he said solemnly to the men and women around him. “Stay sharp out there, people. Gerry's Ravine was an ambush. We were in concealed emplacements and the bloodies didn't expect trouble. They didn't even know we were there until after we started firing at them, and it took time for them to realize what was happening and respond.”
He jerked his thumb at the ridge behind him, and the squad off enemy soldiers making their way along the valley on the other side. “This time, almost none of that applies. This is still technically an ambush, since they don't know we're here, but we're going to need to get into place before we can start firing at them. That increases the chance of their scouts spotting us and raising the alarm, and we might get caught out of position when the fight starts.
“If something does go wrong, and Sangue spots us before we're ready, you make for the nearest cover and you start shooting. Hit them fast, hit them hard, and keep shooting until none of them are moving or shooting back, and even then assume some are pretending to be down and don't let up your guard.”
He paused for emphasis before continuing. “Remember your training about staying behind cover while someone's shooting at you, and letting your fellow volunteers take out the threat while you're drawing fire, or relocating if that's not possible. Remember never to come out of cover at the same spot to fire at the enemy if you can avoid it. Remember to aim at the exposed areas around their body armor where possible, and find a balance between making sure you have a good shot and staying exposed for too long.”
The volunteers were a sea of resolute faces in front of him, and Tom felt a surge of pride in them. In their hard work and determination. They were ready, he hoped, but he wasn't taking any chances.
So he turned to Brandon, Logan, and the others to whom he'd entrusted grenades looted from the Sangue they'd taken out at Gerry's Ravine. “Don't hesitate to throw the grenades I gave you if you get a good opportunity, especially if the enemy's clumped behind cover . . . with luck we can replace what we use from the soldiers we kill, but they won't do us much good if we all get killed waiting for a good time to use them.”
His ranch hands and the other volunteers with the extra firepower nodded grimly, a few touching pockets or their belts as if reassuring themselves they still had the grenades and could get at them quickly.
With a final look around, Tom motioned to his group and eased away along the ridge, moving swiftly but quietly and fairly satisfied with how well the people behind him moved. They'd had plenty of experience navigating these mountain slopes by this point.
A few minutes later he reached the forward position he'd picked out. He glanced at Logan, who'd been counting down in his head to when it was time to move; it was the best the two groups could manage in the way of coordination on short notice, but it was better than nothing.
The young man raised six fingers. Tom nodded and left the group behind to cautiously peek over the ridge, checking the enemy forces below.
They were still moving, almost past his group at this point. Mitchells should already have his group moving around to get behind them. Tom glanced back at Logan, who raised four fingers, and he motioned to his volunteers to join him at the top of the ridge. They crept up to him with commendable silence, and he spread them out in a line of four-person teams with hand motions and then led the way up and over.
They kept behind the cover of trees as they made their way towards a spot where a steep grassy slope gave them a clear line of fire to the Sangue squad below, while still giving them the cover of dense spruce and fir trees and deadfall.
So far so good. But unfortunately, not perfect.
Either Logan's count was off, or Mitchells jumped the gun, because Tom's group was still twenty or so feet from the slope, out of position and with no time to find good cover, when the sharp report of gunfire from farther east marked the other volunteers opening fire on the enemy.
He cursed and ducked behind a large tree that gave him at least some view of the soldiers below. Around him his team sought their own trees, and he heard the cracks of breaking twigs and branches as the rest of his group rushed to find their own cover.
He ignored them for now, r
aising his scoped AK-47 to find a target. He'd originally captured the rifle from Sangue bandits almost five years ago now, when he'd saved Kristy and Skyler during the invaders' attack on Simon's convoy to Newpost. And while at this distance he sort of wished he still had his trusty, if less combat-suitable, bolt action hunting rifle, it was hard to argue the value of a weapon he could switch to automatic fire if needed.
The bloodies below were already in motion, almost as if they knew this attack was coming, so swift and coordinated was their response. Those closest to cover immediately sought it, then began raking the ridge and the slope the volunteers were on with a hail of bullets to cover those still out in the open as they also retreated to safety. Even more impressively, as more and more of the enemy soldiers found cover, at least from one angle, they began covering those in only partial cover from the sides they were exposed on.
Within an impossibly short time, a seemingly vulnerable squad of soldiers had become a bristling hedgehog of automatic weapons fire. And although they couldn't see the volunteers who'd ambushed them, or at least not well Tom hoped, they were able to pour out so many bullets that they were bound to get lucky eventually.
Which they did; he heard a scream from higher up the hill near him, then cursing and cries for help.
Unfortunately, in the heat of battle those shouts only brought more bullets aimed towards the source of the noise. Tom thought he'd trained his people better, but panic and adrenaline were tough to ignore when you'd just been shot, or seen a friend hit.
He grit his teeth and focused on targeting any flash of motion he could within the trees and undergrowth below. There was a lot more of that going on than when the bloodies had first found cover, and with a growl of frustration he realized they weren't just fighting, they were staging an ordered retreat to the southwest, covering each other as they withdrew.
They were getting away, and his volunteers had barely managed to account for a handful of them with those initial shots.