Those Meddling Kids Chapter 7

by Technomad

Fred Jones

The only other time Fred had ever driven so fast, or so recklessly, was on the day of the invasion, when he'd been pushing the Mystery Machine as hard as he could to try to get himself and his friends away from the Red paratroopers falling out of the sky. He roared down the road, praying that the moonlight would be enough to keep him from piling the truck up. The road was trickier and trickier to drive, and finally he had to slow up. Pausing for a moment, he got out and turned back to look at Pueblo.

The town looked like all sorts of trouble was breaking loose. There were several huge fires raging, and people were running around in all directions. He could see fire trucks trying to get through the streets, without too much success. Robert came up beside him. "Chaos, confusion and catastrophe," said Robert. In the light of the distant fires, his eyes seemed to glow with hellish light. "Our work here is done!" He smiled, the smile of a man who had found his life's work and was ineffably happy with it. Fred looked at Robert and shivered a little.

While he was by no means opposed to giving the invaders all the hell he could think of, Robert took a lot more pleasure in mayhem and destruction than Fred was comfortable with. He hoped that, in the event of Robert surviving the war, he could change gears and become a peaceable citizen. He had heard of cases of people who couldn't.

And, speak of the Devil...Daphne had got out of the truck and was standing next to them. She moved close to Robert, and Fred noticed their hands entwining. "It's beautiful…" she whispered. Her face twisted into a terrifying smile.

"Beautiful it may be, but this place is dangerous! We've got to get out of here, and soon! I wouldn't be surprised to have the Reds after us with choppers and planes!" Fred snapped. Reminded of reality, Robert and Daphne scrambled back into the truck, and Fred peeled out as fast as he dared, heading for the back roads.

Vladimir Bratchenko

Bratchenko awoke, and wished he hadn't. He was lying in a bleak room that he could see had been fitted up as a hospital ward after the Pueblo hospitals had been destroyed in the fighting. His right leg felt as though it was on fire, and when he tried to reach for a buzzer to summon a nurse, but found he couldn't move it far. He shouted, hoping to attract some attention. An American nurse came in. She spoke to him in English, of which he had little command. She shook her head when he demanded to see a doctor, and gave him a shot. He felt himself drifting back off to sleep.

When he awoke, he saw several of his subordinates standing by his bed. "What's going on here? Why am I not in a better room?" he rasped.

"That is not standard operational procedure for one who is under arrest, Comrade," one of them said. At that, Bratchenko jerked, only to find that one of his hands had been attached to a handcuff, which was chained to the frame of the bed.

"What does this mean? Release me at once!" he shouted. "Release me!"

"We're sorry, but that isn't possible. High Command has sent us orders to put you under arrest. Only the fact that you've lost a leg is keeping you out of a cell. Once you've recovered from your loss, you'll be imprisoned until your trial." Bratchenko was a veteran of the Soviet system. He knew what his chances were at a trial. Then what they'd said penetrated the rage and fear he felt.

"You say I lost my leg?"

"Yes, Comrade." His - captors? - looked honestly sorry to break the news. "Your leg was mauled very severely. As if you'd been attacked by a wild animal. They had to amputate."

"Amputate…" Bratchenko's mind reeled. Any way he cut it, even if he somehow beat whatever charges had been leveled against him, his military career was over. There was no place in the Soviet military for a one-legged officer. The best he could hope for was retirement. And, here in North America, that was chancy at best. If the Reds lost, he did not think the Americans would treat wounded or disabled Red soldiers very kindly.

"Yes, Comrade. Amputate. We're sorry to have to tell you. The military police will be here shortly to advise you of the charges against you. You will face court-martial as soon as you are recovered."

"Oh. Go, then. Go away and let me think about this." When they had gone, Bratchenko's mind spun as he tried to think of a defense that a Soviet court-martial would accept for what they would certainly see as a pattern of incompetence and failure. He couldn't think of any, and finally fell back into an exhausted sleep.

Jed Eckert

Jed noticed the truck coming to a stop. "Is there something wrong?" he asked. "No," Fred answered. "It's getting on to daylight, and I don't think we want to be seen in this truck. They'll be looking for it."

"Good point." The Wolverines and the infiltration team all debarked, and stood there looking at the truck for a minute.

"Like, why don't we push it into that gully over there?" asked Shaggy. "That way it might not be found for a while yet!"

"Right!" barked Scooby. The wish was father to the deed; soon all of them were lending their strength and weight to pushing the truck over the edge of the gully. It fell away, crashing through the brush, and ended up tangled in some bushes, upside down.

"There," said Aardvark, "that should throw them off. Maybe they'll think we made a mistake and were all killed."

"Until they start looking for the bodies," Daryl said. "Come on. Let's march. We've got enough cover and we're far enough away from town that we'll hear them if they come after us in a chopper."

"Do they have choppers there?" asked Velma. "I don't remember seeing any signs of helicopters when we were there."

"Don't know," said Danny. "But best not to take too many chances. There's a path over there that'll take us to the Schmidts' place. Let's go, people." With groans of weariness, they set off on foot through the woods, after making sure to discard the ALA uniforms they'd been wearing. Under those, they were dressed like ordinary ranch hands, and even if they were confronted, they had a chance to talk their way out of trouble, if they could ditch their weapons.

Vladimir Bratchenko

Bratchenko awoke to find himself looking into the eyes of a military policeman. Behind him, several other military police stood, staring at him expressionlessly. "Vladimir Andreyevich Bratchenko?" asked the apparent leader. Bratchenko noticed that he wore a lieutenant's shoulder boards.

"Yes, that's me," Bratchenko answered automatically.

"It is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest. The charges are incompetence, counter-revolutionary activity, and failure to perform up to standards. The doctors tell us that you should be up and around shortly, so the trial will be next month."

"May I have a defense representative?"

"Of course. A representative will be here shortly to help you prepare your defense." Bratchenko could see in the policemens' eyes that they thought that mounting a defense, any defense, to the charges was a waste of time. Nonetheless, Bratchenko had been a soldier all his life and was disinclined to just run up a white flag and surrender.

"Very well. Will you leave me?"

"Of course, Comrade. There will be guards on the door and window, though, just in case you suddenly develop an irresistible urge to travel." With that, the policemen left, and Bratchenko began going over possible lines of defense he could use.

Jed Eckert

When they arrived back at the Schmidts' ranch, Jed was very glad to see it. They'd been marching through the rain, and they were all soaked to the skin, hungry and miserable. Mrs. Schmidt took one look at them and began snapping out orders. "Girls, you get into the bathroom and get showered off. After you're done and out of there, the boys can have a turn. Then we'll rustle you up something to eat. We want to hear about what happened in Pueblo. From what we can see, you pulled off something big."

Once everybody was bathed, they gathered in borrowed pajamas and bathrobes in the Schmidts' living room. Mrs. Schmidt bustled in with a heaping tray of sandwiches. "Here. Tuck on in. And tell us what happened."

"Well," Jed started, "we got a chance to get back into Pueblo, and took it. We got some ALA men's uniforms, and managed to finesse our way in without too much trouble."

"How did you get those uniforms?" asked Mr. Schmidt. Everybody looked very innocent, and his eyes went wide. "Oh." Mr. Schmidt was no dummy, and he could put two and two together very well.

"Once we were in," Fred took up the tale, "the rest wasn't terribly difficult. They took our uniforms, and our story about having been transferred in from elsewhere, at face value. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy," he said, shaking his head disapprovingly. "You've heard of the Keystone Cops? Those idiots could be the military version!"

"Not too surprising," Aardvark remarked. "I don't think they had much chance to train them, and a lot of them were cabbaged up where ever the Reds could find warm bodies that wouldn't run away the first chance they got."

"Good point," Mr. Schmidt said. "When I was in the Army, it took training to show me what to do and not to do. And if we'd been attacked in what we thought was a safe, rear-echelon position, we'd probably have not handled it well."

"You were in the Army?" asked Fred. "I've heard that veterans are targeted for 'removal' by the Reds."

"I'm also a rancher, and they need us," Mr. Schmidt explained. "They'll probably come for me eventually, but as long as I'm more useful where I am than I would be on a road gang, they'll leave me alone." A silence fell. Everybody there knew people who'd disappeared. The Wolverines and the recon group had seen Red forced-labor camps, and regretted that they were too strongly guarded for a raid against them to be feasible with the numbers and arms they had.

"All we can do is keep on keepin' on," Fred finally said. "The sooner we win, the sooner those poor people will be free." Everybody nodded solemnly.

"I have your radio hidden out in one of the outbuildings," Mrs. Schmidt said, trying to change the subject. "You should probably report in, Sergeant Jones."

"We will," Fred answered, "but we'll take the radio out of here before we do."

"So far, the Reds haven't been able to find us with their radio detectors, but we'd rather not draw their attention here. You've been good to us, and we don't want the Reds coming down on you." said Velma.

"True," said Mr. Schmidt. "I'd forgotten about that. Stay here for a little while, and when things are quiet again, you can move on out. If the Reds come, we can explain you as extra ranch hands, just like we did before."

"Sounds like a plan. Right now, we're all but dead on our feet, though," said Jed. "Where can we sleep?" Soon, the Wolverines and the recon team were tucked up in one of the outbuildings, snoring away on improvised bed. Across the foot of Shaggy's bed, Scooby-Doo slumbered, growling in his sleep. On his muzzle, bits of General Bratchenko's blood could still be seen.

For the next few days, they lay low at the Schmidts' ranch. While they were there, they worked around the ranch. If anybody was watching, it would bolster their story of being temporary ranch hands, called in for the busy season. They hauled stuff from one place to the other, fed animals, worked on buildings that needed repair, and painted nearly every building on the place.

After a week, it looked like the search for them had died down. They'd been overflown several times by Red helicopters, but they'd apparently taken no interest. "Guess that stunt we pulled with the truck worked, people," said Jed.

"We'll be sorry to see you go," said Mr. Schmidt, as they got ready to trek out, with the sun setting behind the mountains. Mrs. Schmidt sniffled, hugging every one of them goodbye.

"You've been a life-saver for us," Jed assured them. "After the war, we'll see to it that you get recognized for what you've done."

"What we've done?" Both Schmidts were nonplussed. "We just did what anybody decent would do!" "There's not as many decent people around as you might believe," Fred said, shaking hands with Mr. Schmidt. "People like you, though...that's why we fight." As the Wolverines and the recon team trudged off into the darkness, Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt stood at their door, wiping away tears. Jed noticed that some of his people were also sniffling, but tactfully chose to say nothing.

Fred

It was a long, tough hike to a place where they could set up the radio without too much danger of being traced. Finally, they were on top of a barren rise, miles from Pueblo, and Velma was raising the radio's aerial.

"Meddlers to Candystore, come in, please. Over."

A crackling voice, distorted by the frequency jumper and a distant thunderstorm, off on the horizon flickering lightning. "Candystore here. You're coming in fine, over."

"Authentication, Candystore. King's Bishop to King's Rook Three, over."

"Authentication, Meddlers. Queen's Knight to Queen's Bishop Three, over."

"Beginning report." Speaking quickly, to minimize the threat of being traced, Velma described what they had done and what they had brought out. When she was done, there was a pause from the other side. Finally, the answer came.

"You've done extremely well. Return to your vehicle and get back to our lines. We suggest going south. A light motorized cavalry regiment is at Sector F-29."

Daphne pulled out a map. "That's down by Raton. Shouldn't be too much of a trip."

The radio crackled again. "Meddlers, please extract the Wolverines as well. They're long overdue for some R&R, and we want to debrief them about what they've seen and conditions in the occupied zone." At this, the Wolverines' eyes all went wide, and only the stern discipline that had kept them alive for so long prevented them from breaking out in cheers.

Fred understood completely. While he was determined to see the war through, he felt the strain every minute he was behind enemy lines. He couldn't imagine how much worse it had been for the Wolverines. He noticed, with a carefully-suppressed smile, the way Robert and Daphne were suddenly looking at each other. In the field, there was no privacy, and little energy, for whoopee. Behind the lines, in a rest area, though…

He wished Robert and Daphne all the best. From what he could see, Robert had been a heroic fighter ever since the Wolverines had been forced to take up arms. And Daphne was very like him. He thought they'd make a good couple.

The trek back to where the Misery Machine waited was fairly routine, and the big car had enough room for everybody, as long as they didn't mind being squeezed in very tightly. The drive out was also uneventful. Apparently, the Reds had enough to deal with closer to Pueblo than where the Wolverines and recon team actually were.

Outside of Raton, they ran into an impromptu roadblock. Two armored cars, looking like small tanks with wheels, were parked so as to stop all traffic. Their turrets were turned toward the Misery Machine. "All right, halt right there! Who are you?" Two men came forward. To Fred's eyes, they looked as tough and piratical as his own companions.

"I'm Sergeant Fred Jones, and this is my recon team. With us are the Wolverines. You might have heard of them."

"Really," said one of the men. "Well, you can call me Shovelhead, and this is Ray-Ray. We're in the 13th Light Motorized Cavalry." He paused, and then grinned. "Our whole club joned the Army the minute we heard about the invasion." Fred nodded. He noticed that the armored cars had emblems painted on them that weren't exactly regulation. One motif they shared was a stylized skull in a helmet, in profile, with huge wings coming out of the back. He knew what that meant, even without the clues of "HAMC" and "81" here and there. Both of the men who'd met them were tattooed heavily, and their hair was longer than Army regulations would normally allow.

One of the armored cars came along with the Wolverines and the recon team, into Raton, while the other remained on guard. Once they were shown into a half-ruined church, they were met by a man Fred recognized. "Yes, these are the people you were told to expect. You've done well. Return to your post," he said, and their escorts saluted rather clumsily and walked out.

"Good to see you again, 'Candystore,' Fred said, with a grin.

"Good to see you, too, Meddlers. And I see you brought your friends. We've got soft cots, hot baths, food and clean clothes all waiting for them." At that, everybody perked up. Fred thought, with an inner smile, that before the war, he'd have thought that soldiers particularly wanted medals and glory. He'd have traded all the medals in the world for a good meal, a hot bath, and some clean clothes. Uninterrupted sleep sounded like bliss beyond measure.

Velma came forward. She handed over the computer discs and documents they had captured in Pueblo. "Here you go, sir. We figure that the Intelligence boys should see these, fast."

"You have been busy, haven't you?" marveled Candystore. Velma smiled. Soon, they were dismissed, and herded efficiently off to where rest and relaxation awaited.

Vladimir Bratchenko

"The prisoner will rise and face the court," intoned the bailiff. Vladimir Bratchenko hauled himself painfully to his foot, balancing himself on the crutches he'd need until he got a prosthetic fitted, if that ever happened. He had fought valiantly to put his case to the court-martial, but he was afraid that the verdict was pre-determined. He had lived in the Soviet system all his life.

The three generals who sat in judgement looked down at him sternly. "Comrade Vladimir Bratchenko, it is the verdict of this court that you are guilty of negligence, incompetence, and failure to perform your duty to your utmost. The sentence is that you shall be stripped of your rank, and as soon as transportation to the Motherland can be arranged, you shall be sent there to serve a sentence of ten years. Due to your injuries, you will not be required to do hard labor."

That was a small mercy. Bratchenko knew that ten years' hard labor in a Soviet prison would be the death of him. As it was, he'd have a hard time surviving, but at least he had a chance. The chief judge went on: "Do you have a statement to make, Comrade?"

Bratchenko looked down to where his no-longer-present leg was paining him. Gritting his teeth, he snarled: "I would have been successful in all I did, but for those meddling kids-and that dog!" END