by Nathan Jones
Kristof ducked as bullets plinked off the other side of his trucks, ricochets whining harmlessly past overhead or thudding into the dirt beneath the undercarriages. He heard no cries of pain from his people indicating hits, which was a relief; he just hoped the big man below didn't decide to turn the .50 cal his way.
“Easy, guys,” he muttered under his breath at the distant prisoners. “Save your bullets for the actual enemies.”
Curtis barked out an order, and all around Kristof his people opened fire.
He had his own rifle leveled at the driver of one of the farthest ATVs, stitching a line of bullets along the front of its path that worked their way back to hit the driver. The man violently jerked the handlebars, either from surprise and pain or in an attempt to dodge the incoming fire. Either way, the sharp maneuver sent the vehicle into a vicious roll that flung both men on it tumbling like rag dolls.
Neither one got up, so Kristof marked their location to check whether they posed a threat at a later point, then sought out another target.
He was slow about it, since as the officer in charge of his soldiers he also needed to take in the battle as a whole, listen to reports from his platoon sergeant and squad leaders, and be ready to make judgment calls as situations presented themselves.
With his people all close together, the squads would talk to each other through hand gestures or yells, keeping their radio waves clear for more important chatter.
“ATVs down or fled out of range,” his squad leader on the left reported coolly. “Switching to target the bloodies coming in from the east at extreme range.”
That was soon followed up by, “Enemies to the south are pinned down in a crossfire between us and the friendlies. They're hammering the bloodies with the big gun.”
Curtis, not far away peering out around the truck at the scene below, grunted and spoke directly rather than using the radio. “The prisoners are quick on the uptake, stopped shooting at us almost as soon as we opened up on the bloodies.”
The battle was well on its way to being over, so Kristof lowered his rifle and began planning. A quick glance at the four trucks below confirmed his sergeant's report, but what Curtis hadn't mentioned was that the couple minutes when the prisoners had been taking fire from three sides had enacted a bloody toll, and several were down.
He called to Charlie squad's leader, who got two fireteams loaded up in the leftmost truck and peeled out to go after the group of Sangue to the east. But, as he'd hoped, the sight of the other two groups getting taken out took the fight out of them, and before Charlie's truck could get anywhere close to the bloodies they were back in their vehicles and peeling away.
Kristof straightened, slinging his rifle, and glanced at Curtis. “Casualties?”
The grizzled sergeant scowled. “Hopkins in Delta took one to the helmet. Probably concussed, going to need to see a medic sooner rather than later.”
All things considered, that was incredible results for a battle against nearly even odds. Unless of course he counted the freed prisoners, which would've put the odds in their favor. But you never could tell, with civilians.
He nodded curtly. “All right then, judgment call . . . loot the bloodies we took out, take any of their vehicles, that still work, while we go introduce ourselves to our friends?”
His sergeant strode over to Hobbs, who'd stayed on the radio during the entire fight doing a far more important task than firing his weapon. After a quick exchange the specialist shook his head. “More where those bloodies came from, Lieutenant!” he called. “These were just the closest pursuers!”
Kristof had figured as much, but in the war they were fighting they couldn't afford to pass up a chance to capture enemy resources. “Mount up, then!” he called. He made his way to his truck, which the driver had already gotten started, and reached in through his window. “Bullhorn.”
After the man passed it out he climbed up onto the hood, waving a bit of white bandaging at the freed prisoners below, who were still hunkered down, checking their wounded and warily watching their fallen enemies.
And his platoon, he couldn't help but notice.
He raised the loudspeaker to his mouth. “Freed prisoners! We're soldiers of the Northern League, offering you assistance in escaping Sangue captivity. We need to leave before more enemies come, so follow us in your vehicles.”
He heard a few shouted acknowledgements from the big man behind the mounted machine gun, too faint to be heard clearly at this distance. Not bothering to respond, he hopped down and toggled his radio. “Charlie leader, your truck's in the rear. Along with watching for pursuit, keep a eye on our guests . . . they might just decide to light us up out of the blue.”
“After we saved their lives, sir?” the man said dubiously.
What charming innocence. “No good deed goes unpunished, sergeant. If these men were slaves, they've been pushed to the brink and beyond by what they've suffered. We can't be certain of them acting rationally, so better safe than sorry.”
The convoy, now seven vehicles strong, roared back up the little canyon along the barely passable road. Kristof couldn't help but notice that the prisoners' drivers didn't seem as comfortable in their vehicles as his own. Although that was hardly surprising, since this was probably the first time they'd been behind the wheel since the Ultimatum.
If at all, considering how long ago that had been.
They had to slow down to accommodate that inexperience on the occasionally dangerous narrow spots in the road, and he was sure he wasn't the only one sitting tense, waiting for Charlie to report that bloodies in pursuit had caught up to them.
It never happened, and soon they reached a spot where a ledge overlooked the road. Kristof's driver slowed, giving him a questioning look, and he nodded curtly and motioned for him to keep going before toggling his radio. “Wait for Charlie to give the all clear, then drop it.”
“Roger that,” Curtis said. The vehicles rumbled on, going up a switchback that allowed them to see the ledge and the road below. Kristof was able to watch as the rear vehicle passed the ledge to a safe distance, then the carefully placed charges his demolitions specialist had planted on the overhang went off, dropping a modest load of rubble across the road.
He was fairly satisfied by the results. It wouldn't provide much of an obstacle if Sangue was determined to clear the road, probably no more than a day or so of delay. But for all intents and purposes it eliminated the possibility of enemy pursuit for the moment.
So long as the bloodies didn't radio to other units and send them along nearby mountain roads, to get onto a network Kristof had seen almost no evidence of the enemy even being aware of, let alone using, his platoon was safe.
“Burning our bridges behind us,” Curtis said over the radio.
He snorted. “No worry there . . . the bloodies are always so diligent about keeping roads clear if we ever want to use this one again.”
The sergeant actually laughed. “Going to be hard to do, considering all their slaves ran off.”
Kristof could appreciate the grim humor of the statement, but they both knew that Sangue always had more prisoners. So many, in fact, that they'd long since begun indiscriminately slaughtering the people they attacked instead of capturing them; if they started to run low again, they'd just quit doing that until their workforce was replenished.
Unless, of course, the League stopped them. He cleared his throat. “Speaking of the prisoners, now that we've got some breathing room let's pull over and have a chat with them.”
* * * * *
The narrow road didn't make for many good stopping points, but after a half hour or so it passed through a steep meadow the trucks could roll off onto.
Kristof wasn't surprised, but thought it worth due concern, that the prisoners pulled their trucks into the meadow on the other side of the road in a defensive posture. Or an aggressive one; he hoped they were just being cautious about their rescuers, but he had to prepare for the possibility that they might try to att
ack his platoon to steal their gear and vehicles.
He had his squad take a defensive posture as well, arrayed behind the cover of their trucks, while he and Curtis walked out to talk to their new friends.
It struck him as a good sign that the prisoners' mounted machine gun was left unmanned. In fact, it was the big man who'd been using it who came forward, alone, to meet them. The closer the guy got, the more impressive he looked: easily six and a half feet, with a massive frame even in spite of the malnourishment and hardship he must've endured during his time in captivity.
He looked like the sort who might've led a group of loggers or miners or other workmen before the Ultimatum, and solved internal disputes by cracking skulls. Easy to see how he'd come to be in charge of the prisoners.
“Thanks for the assist,” the big man called. “You folks the Estadounidenses?”
Kristof blinked, then frowned. That was what Sangue called them, all right. “How would you know that name?” he demanded.
The big man shrugged. “Hablo espanol, hombre.” His expression grew bitter. “The guards never bothered to watch their tongues around us, since what threat did we pose?”
“Yes, we're soldiers of the Northern League,” Kristof replied as he stopped ten feet away from the escaped prisoner; aside from being a good distance for this sort of parlay, it kept him well out of reach of those huge mitts.
“Whew, the bloodies hate you,” the big man said with a chuckle. “Of course, they tend to hate everyone.” He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his ragged, too-small coveralls. “Name's Tanner.”
“Lieutenant Kristof, 26th Company,” he replied, then nodded to his platoon sergeant. “Sergeant Curtis.”
Tanner gave them both a neutral nod. “Well, Lieutenant, what now?”
That was the question, wasn't it. “Well first off, how about you give us the rundown on your situation? We overheard Sangue radio transmissions talking about you escaping from a slave camp along Highway 29, but I'd like details.”
“Not escaped, sprung,” the big man corrected firmly. “Guy by the name of Brandon Gerry and a dozen or so of his people, claiming to be part of a larger group farther south working out of a place called Camptown. They smuggled in guns for us, a lot of guns, cut us out of our cages, and blew up a bunch of tents as a distraction to help us get away.”
Kristof raised an eyebrow. That suggested a well thought out and carefully prepared plan, not to mention serious resources and even more serious guts. “Where's this Gerry now?”
What might've been guilt briefly flashed across Tanner's blunt features. “He led most of the other slaves south from the camp. I saw a better opportunity in the trucks and led my boys back in to take them.”
Curtis's disciplined expression betrayed a hint of disapproval at that. Kristof had no judgment for people trying to survive whatever hell they'd been through. “Well, Mr. Tanner,” he said briskly. “My platoon will lead you back to 26th Company's main camp. We've been recruiting locals to fight the bloodies, and since you've already got weapons and vehicles we could probably fold you in as a full platoon with little fuss. If you decide you'd prefer to do something else, you'll be free to go after a full debriefing.”
“Fair enough.” The big man hesitated. “Is it possible the 26th might go to the aid of the other freed slaves? They're slogging south on foot, and if the bloodies chased us this furiously they'll probably be just as keen to catch them.”
So Tanner was happy to ditch his fellows for a better option, but he was still willing to speak up on their behalf. “If we did, would you come with us?” Kristof asked, mostly out of curiosity.
The prisoners' leader shrugged. “If we could be of any help, and it looked as if we wouldn't all get killed trying it.”
Not a particularly surprising answer. “Load up, Mr. Tanner. Let's get out of here before Sangue gets their act together and finds a way to chase us.”
“I'm all for that.” The big man nodded to them both again, then turned and trotted back towards his trucks.
Kristof turned back towards his vehicle as well, Curtis falling into step beside him. “What're you thinking, sir?” his sergeant asked quietly.
“I think what we've heard warrants taking a more serious look south.”
“Like you've been suggesting for weeks now,” Curtis pointed out, deadpan.
Kristof scowled. “Because we're hearing more and more about serious rumblings coming from the area south of Highway 29. Bloodies ambushed and massacred, Emery raided and burned to the ground, and now this prisoner camp liberated. The enemy's turning serious attention down there, and we should be too.”
The grizzled soldier nodded. “Sure does seem like that's where the folks we were sent to look for in the first place are operating.” He shrugged his shoulders casually. “Too bad Captain Raleigh's ordered us to stay in the mountains north of Highway 31. We pushed beyond the edges of our patrol area with this little skirmish here.”
All too true. Under his own discretionary initiative, the company's commander had thrown himself fully into the work of mobilizing the locals in the mountains of Northern Utah. By his reasoning they were closer to League territory, and his efforts there would be more useful to the wider war effort.
Meanwhile Kristof's platoon was always deployed the farthest south, probably as a nod to his continued requests to the captain to locate this group that was giving the bloodies such headaches. He had to endure the maddening frustration of hearing constant reports from the locals he contacted about serious Sangue activity just a stone's throw south of his patrol territory, at least where vehicles were concerned. Had to listen to the chatter his radio operator picked up constantly referencing what looked to be a full scale war, if one small in scope, in the mountains north of Interstate 70.
All the while, he had to sit on his hands and do nothing. The people down there were probably nothing more than untrained but determined refugees, using their knowledge of the terrain to hang on by a thread against the overwhelming force Sangue could bring to bear. It was a miracle they'd held on this long, and managed to seriously bloody the enemy's nose more than once in the process.
But they couldn't last forever.
It was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed. And while it happened, Raleigh would still be dicking around up north, carving out his little fiefdom and setting up trade agreements with League resources and training guerrilla fighters to harass an area Sangue was barely paying attention to.
It was more than a shame, it was a waste. Considering how effective these folks down south had been already, how much more so would they be if they were backed up by a full company of the League's finest, with vehicles and far more firepower than what a bunch of people hiding in the hills had access to?
Kristof fully intended to press the issue of Tanner's fellow escaped prisoners and their desperate plight. It might be just the pretext he needed to get Raleigh to agree to head south in force, at least long enough to help the group. And if he could get in contact with this Brandon Gerry in the process, learn more about Camptown and their activity to the south, he might be able to convince his captain to let his platoon seek the place out so he could act as liaison on behalf of the League.
It was a nice thought, but deep down he had a feeling it would take more than that to get his superior officer to act. Probably a lot more.
Chapter Thirteen
Rush
The kid, Jared, had snuck off in the night.
Brandon wouldn't have expected him to even be up for walking ten feet, let alone disappearing into thin air. He wouldn't have had an issue with it, except of course to be worried for Jared's safety, but when the kid left he took Brandon's blanket, the pistol he'd given him, and some food. The little-
Feeling a bit guilty, he struggled to rein in his irritation. Considering everything he knew about what Jared had gone through, it seemed selfish to begrudge him taking what he needed to survive.
He just hoped the poor kid somehow ma
naged it.
They set off as soon as it was light enough to see. Brandon felt bad about not even taking time to bury the two men who'd died of their wounds during the night, and it was painful to see the obvious suffering of the wounded at the prospect of having to push forward, even those who had a horse to ride. Everyone else was still exhausted and weak from what they'd been through, in spite of their brief rest and a chance to get food and water.
But it couldn't be helped. At least the freed prisoners kept pace without complaint, determined to move at their best possible speed since the alternative was being caught by their pursuers.
Assuming the bloodies hadn't managed to get ahead of them while they slept.
Ideally it would've been better to have everyone who could walk unaided helping the wounded and those whose captivity with Sangue had left them weaker than most. But considering the situation, Brandon had to divert almost a third of the strongest in the group to scouting, especially to the north, while the rest he had Ray keep ready to quickly move to either help during an attack or flee in the opposite direction.
He was on edge for the first hour of their continuing flight south, expecting pursuit to catch up to them at any minute, swarming them with dozens of furious soldiers. He ranged out farther and farther from the rearguard, wanting to give advance warning of any trouble headed their way.
Then another hour passed, and finally a third. At that point Brandon began to feel anxious that maybe the attack was coming from a different direction after all, and decided he'd better head back to the group to check.
Before leaving, he climbed up to a likely ridge to look northwards through his scope, carefully panning the slopes as far as the eye could see. His frown deepened as he saw no hint of a threat, even from this vantage.
Where was the pursuit? He'd expected bloodies to chase them from the camp, and they'd certainly come during the night with plenty of fury, if not much in the way of numbers of coordination. But he'd also expected the camp guards to call in the cavalry, and that by dawn hundreds of soldiers would be swarming these mountains with horses and dogs to hunt down and kill or capture their slaves, as well as those who'd been so audacious as to help them escape.