The sheriff’s state of mind had kept Jim from talking to him about his plan to destroy the power plant. Jim wasn't certain if the sheriff would have participated anyway, the action potentially being too lawless for a career law enforcement officer to participate in. Deputy Ford had no such reservations, having given his life in service of the mission. Jim didn’t know how much the sheriff knew about the operation. They’d never discussed it. Despite Jim’s appreciation at the sheriff joining them in the valley, there were certain things he withheld from the lawman. In this time of moral ambiguity he could not be certain where the sheriff’s allegiance stood. Was it to the obsolete laws he’d promised to uphold or was it to the wellbeing of the community that faithfully voted him into office?
The sheriff’s house stood a good distance back from the road. When he approached, Jim spotted Ford’s empty mobile home in the distance. He’d tried to convince Hugh to move in there but he refused. He liked maintaining his separateness. He liked living on the fringe of the wilderness, high on the Clinch Mountain range.
Jim shouted a greeting from the gate, waving an arm to show he was friend and not foe. He called until the sheriff walked around the house and waved back, then slipped through the gate and closed it behind himself. Although there was no livestock on this property, it was good country etiquette to close the gate back if that was the way you found it. He slipped the rusty link of chain back over the bent nail that secured it.
It took Jim two or three steady minutes of plodding up the gravel lane to reach the sheriff, who stood in the driveway leaning on a spading fork. Mud caked his shoes and pants legs. Overalls would have been more appropriate for his task but he still wore his sheriff’s uniform, clinging to that one thread of normality. For him, it was the workday and that was what he wore to work.
"Gardening?" Jim asked.
"Trying.”
“Was there at least an old garden to start with?”
“There was. We burned it off and I'm trying to turn over the soil some. It’s hard going."
Jim pointed to the spading fork. “It is with that. You should've come to the meeting we just had about gardening. I left a message in your box about it. There are some areas where being a team player is helpful and gardening is one of them. We’re trying to coordinate our effort to get the best yield. This is an area where we can’t afford to fail. This isn’t gardening to show off your pretty tomatoes at work. This is gardening to keep your ass from starving to death next winter."
The sheriff leaned forward on the handle of his gardening tool. “Yeah, I started to come. I’ve been in a rut since my mother died. I knew her death was coming but dealing with every single aspect of it ourselves was challenging. I mean, you plan for the funeral but you don’t plan for cleaning and wrapping the body these days. Most people gave that up a generation or two ago.”
"I guess we’re used to other people taking care of the more unpleasant aspects of it," Jim said. "The process has been sanitized and we just show up to grieve."
The sheriff stood up straight, turned to the side, and spat. "For your sake, I hope things are back in order by the time you have to deal with this. Shitty time to bury people you love."
"Somehow I doubt things will be back in order anytime soon."
The sheriff appeared uncomfortable at that statement. He got that way anytime people suggested this might be a prolonged event. "Did you need something in particular or did you just come by to make sure I hadn’t gone off the deep end and killed my family?"
"The latter,” Jim admitted.
The sheriff adopted a smug demeanor, his suspicions confirmed. "I appreciate your concern but we’re fine here."
"Listen, it’s not my place to tell you how to take care of your family but I can tell you that engaging with the rest of the folks in this valley will improve your odds of survival. If you’re going to live here, you might as well take advantage of the help that's available to you. Pops is helping people plan their gardens. We even got a gas tractor running and we’re using it to prepare the soil. Those are resources you can take advantage of. Have you even found any seeds?"
"I found a few things in a junk drawer in this house. I figured I’d grow what I found and count on trading it for other things to round out the pantry."
Jim dialed it back a notch. He was pushing too hard, trying to make the sheriff see things that were obvious to him. "Look, I already learned the hard way that going it alone is not possible. If I learned anything from this experience that was it."
The sheriff held up a hand, warding off further debate. "I get it. If Pops is willing to come around, I'd appreciate his insight."
Jim was never much for small talk and he was already tired of talking. He wanted to visit Lloyd and have a sip of moonshine. “I’ve got to go see Lloyd. I’ll send Pops by tomorrow. You might as well hold off on working that dirt until you talk to him.”
The whole time he was talking, Jim was already walking away, speaking back over his shoulder. He only made it a few steps before the sheriff spoke.
"Jim."
Jim stopped in his tracks. Something about the sheriff’s tone concerned him. He turned to face him.
"I was planning on coming and seeing you before the day was out, anyway. I had a visit this morning from a couple of men in town."
That irritated Jim. They’d become slack over the winter about manning their guard posts. They’d gone weeks at a time with no visitors and people decided it wasn’t worth it to sit there. They’d convinced Jim to let them lapse. This was the result. Men walked into the valley and visited the sheriff and he had no idea it had happened. "About what? They want to buy beef?"
"That came up but that wasn't the reason for their visit."
"That right?”
The sheriff sighed, dreading this conversation. "They said there were a lot of folks in town who had planned on utilizing those comfort camps the government was setting up. Widows, the elderly, families with children, all kinds of folks. A lot of them hiked down there together, prepared to camp outside in the cold until the camps officially opened and they were allowed entrance. Turns out when they reached the comfort camps there was a big sign announcing that all recovery efforts in the region had been canceled due to insurgent activity."
Jim’s gut knotted up. He didn’t have to ask what that meant and why this conversation was being directed at him. He was pretty sure he had a good idea. "Why were these men here to discuss that?"
"It was kind of an informal thing. They said they represented a group of concerned citizens of the county. They wanted to know what I, as the chief law enforcement officer of the county, was doing to arrest the aforesaid insurgents."
"Well, technically, I'm not even sure the power plant is in your jurisdiction. Isn’t it over the county line?"
"I mentioned that," the sheriff said. "You know what their response was?”
“Surprise me.”
“They said that it was my jurisdiction if the insurgents were based out of this valley."
Jim shook his head bitterly. It took him a moment to reply. “Where did they get the idea that this valley was the source of insurgent activity?”
"They didn't say exactly, but I got the impression it was Wimmers talking to more Wimmers. The valley Wimmers talking to the town Wimmers. I'm not certain that's the only way that the story got legs but it's made its rounds. They told me the people in town accept it as fact."
“Accept what as fact, exactly?”
The sheriff hesitated before replying. “That you were behind that attack on the power plant.”
"I’ve heard that same rumor."
"What was your response?" the sheriff asked.
"I may have threatened to kill the person who asked me about it. I may also have mentioned that they had faulty information."
The sheriff became pensive. "I don't think you can kill men fast enough to stop this rumor. It’s spreading like wildfire."
"I guess the thing I need to know is whether you i
ntend to do anything about it," Jim stated. "We’re telling folks it was an ice dam under the bridge that flooded. If they hear enough contradictory information no one will know what is true."
"That might be a believable story if it wasn't for the gunshots and the fact that the residents of low-lying areas around the plant were warned of the flood risk in advance. They said a woman and two young men were waking people, shouting warnings that the river was backing up. Now I know I'm a sheriff and not a detective, but their descriptions sounded an awful lot like Randi, Pete, and Charlie."
Despite the sheriff’s questioning look, Jim gave no visible reaction to that piece of information. "What’s your official position on this?"
"That I will look into it."
"Unofficially? Between us? Do I need to watch myself around you now?"
The sheriff shook his head. “No. Law enforcement is pretty low on my priority list right now. I just want to keep the rest of my family alive."
Jim nodded. "I'm not sure we've seen the end of this.”
"I'm afraid you're right."
“My advice would be you warn them not to push me.”
“If I see them, I’ll pass it on.”
“You do that,” Jim said, starting back down the long gravel driveway. He definitely needed that drink.
11
Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling (JBAB)
Throughout his recovery Boss trained obsessively. It connected him with his old life. Regardless of who he was embedded with, regardless of the assignment, that was what special operations folks did. They worked every day to make themselves the best at what they did. It wasn't about vanity. It wasn’t about gym muscles or appearances. It was about survival, endurance, and being the baddest man on the battlefield. It was about being able to annihilate anyone who got in the way of your mission.
Recovering from the initial surgery to clean up the amputation, he focused on cardio because he couldn’t put direct pressure on the wound. The doctors didn’t want him doing anything at all. He was supposed to take it easy for several weeks, but not doing anything would impact his conditioning in a way he just couldn’t accept. Besides, for Boss, running a half marathon before breakfast every day was taking it easy. There were no weights, no sandbags, and no combatives. He wasn’t getting bruised, tossed, punched, or face-planted in the dirt so he considered it an easy day.
When the wound appeared to be healing properly, closing up with no infection, Boss broadened his workout routine. He added sit-ups and worked his core. He worked the medicine ball with his left hand, trying to develop the reflexes on his left side that he’d had a lifetime to develop on his right. In his practical way of thinking, he didn’t see the loss of his right hand as his biggest problem. It was that his left hand didn’t have the reflexes of his right.
Like every career gunslinger, he’d trained for offhand shooting. Everyone understood that there could be a time when their strong hand, their dominant hand, became injured and they’d have to defend themselves with their offhand. He was already proficient with aiming and shooting with the left hand. He knew all the tricks for offhand mag changes and transitioning the weapon.
However, he’d only treated those techniques as backup measures. He’d never approached left hand shooting as if it might become his primary means of doing his job. That had to change. Left-handed holsters and ambidextrous weapons would be the easy parts. It was the retraining that would be difficult.
With that goal in mind, he spent hours at the range running drills. He ran through every function of his handgun. He did hundreds of mag changes every day, cleared jams, loaded magazines. It felt weird. Even moving with a gun felt weird when he was relying on his left hand to do all the work. He wished the machinists could make him a handgun attachment for his gauntlet system. Even if they could, they had no way of enabling him to fire it without using a second hand. He would just have to suck it up and become as proficient as he could.
Boss was running through an especially challenging drill when he felt like he was being watched. He whipped around to find a short, white-haired man with a bushy handlebar mustache watching him. He made no effort to hide that this was what he was doing. Already uncomfortable with his performance and more than a little frustrated, Boss was not in the mood to be providing entertainment to some old codger. He felt like he was being evaluated and that pissed him off. Who did this guy think he was to be watching him that way?
“Can I help you?” Boss growled, attempting to express all of his aggravation in his question. His tone would have sent most people scurrying if the death stare didn’t get them first.
The old man was nonplussed. “No, just watching.”
“I don’t like being watched,” Boss said. “Fuck off, you old buzzard.”
“I might be able to help you.”
Boss snarled. “I’m not in the mood for coaching, Grandpa. Beat it before you piss me off.”
The old man came closer. Boss was surprised by his audacity. Could he not take a hint? Did he not sense the danger in ignoring Boss’s warning?
The old man gestured at the gun in Boss’s hand. “I see you’re a fan of the 1911 platform. Me too. Totally wrong choice for you, though, considering your impediment.”
Boss glared at him. “I don’t remember asking your opinion, but my duty assignment allows me to choose my own sidearm. I prefer a .45, thank you.”
“You need to minimize mag changes. With a few changes you could reduce how much work you have to do to run a handgun.”
“What do you know about it?” Boss growled. “Range Safety Officer? Appleseed instructor?”
“I’m a Marine, asshole. When I was on active duty I was an armorer. Depending on the mission I was probably embedded with every kind of special operations unit you’ve ever heard of and probably a few you haven’t. For some damn reason they brought me back when the attacks hit. I’m not sure if it was because they needed me or because someone felt like they owed me a favor. Either way, here I am.”
“What a sweet story,” Boss muttered. “All heartwarming and shit.”
The armorer didn’t react to Boss’s sarcasm. Maybe he was senile. Perhaps he’d dealt with special ops egos before. “I could set you up with a better handgun. Something more suited to your particular needs. I think you’d be impressed at the difference.”
Boss had a fleeting moment of indecision. As much as he was irritated by the intrusion into his training, perhaps he should listen to him. It was like using the machinists to build special gear for him. He should chill his attitude a second and listen. He might actually know what he was talking about. “Okay, I’ll play your game. What would you recommend?”
“A Glock 17.”
“Why a Glock?” Boss asked. He was not a fan of “the block.”
The old man shrugged. “Availability of aftermarket accessories. You should have an extended slide release. We could put a magwell on the Glock that would make rapid mag changes easier by funneling the mag into the grip. We can outfit your mags with extended base plates so they’re easier to grip. There’s even an extended charging handle available for the Glock that would make it easier to rack with one hand. No more fighting to snag the sights. Hell, you could even run thirty-three round mags if you wanted.”
Boss considered the information. The old bastard had persisted in trying to help him even when he was being a jerk. Boss saw value in everything the older man suggested. He definitely knew his stuff.
Boss walked toward him and extended his hand. “Sorry I was an asshole.”
The old man took it and shook. “Son, you’re not going to hurt my feelings. I’ve worked with all kinds. I’ve been cursed in more languages than you’ve even heard. What do I call you?”
“They call me Boss.”
“They call me Gabby.”
“I’d like to try a Glock set up like you’re talking about,” Boss said. “This is a struggle under ideal conditions. It’ll suck worse in combat. Throw in some sweat, blood, and adrenaline a
nd it could turn into a shit show.”
“Not to be nosy, but are you going to be around base for a while?” Gabby asked.
“I’m temporarily reassigned here until I get a medical clearance for field work.”
“Then give me a couple of days to pull together the supplies I need. Have you considered a rifle setup?”
“I wasn’t sure if there was an option for that,” Boss said. “I hadn’t really considered it.”
“When I get the Glock set up, I’ll meet you here to test function. I’ll bring a couple of bullpups. You aren’t one of those guys who hates a bullpup are you?”
Boss nodded.
Gabby smiled at that. “I love changing attitudes. A bullpup is going to be your best friend.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
From the range, Boss headed for the racquetball court at the base fitness center. He was almost embarrassed to be seen going into a racquetball court. He’d always associated the sport with assholes, but for him, it was about one thing—reflexes.
He didn’t like playing with other people. In general, he didn’t like the kind of people who played racquetball. Sometimes folks banged on the clear wall to inquire if he wanted a partner. His murderous glare sent them on to the next court. He wasn’t interested in making friends. He was interested in teaching his left arm to lash out without him having to think about it. The high speed environment created by batting the ball around the small room was the perfect way to build that skill. In his mind, it wasn’t a racquet he was wielding but a combat knife.
After he sweated out his demons, he took a quick shower and headed for his next destination. It was late evening and hot. Even though his apartment had functioning air conditioning, he’d much rather be out in the field. It was where he felt at home. He desperately wanted back in action but had no idea how long it might be before that happened.
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