Breathe in...hold it...breathe out... haaaaaa... There we go. Now THIS is what I'm talkin' about. Chapters 27-28 took two and a half months to just jot down; never mind edit, type, and revise. Chapters 28 and 29 on the other hand, just FLEW onto the screen. Something about doing your homework first, then you can play with the fun stuff. So here we are, and what fun it will be! Tighten your equipment straps, top off your mags, make sure your rifle is in working order...it's go time.
. . .
With clockwork timing, the combined State Patrol-Sheriff-City convoy, the Red Terran 1st Police Battalion, set off at six o'clock. MRAP's, Bearcats, up-armored cruisers and SUV's, and several Cadillac Gage Commandos for command vehicles, rumbled through the morning mist in a mile long line. The Sheriff's office lead the caravan, the State Patrol followed, then Philipsburg's force, and Osceola Mills brought up the rear. Plainclothes and unmarked cars scouted ahead; keeping an eye out for ambushes. All the way through Black Moshannon Forest, wisps of wraith-like fog wrapped their fingers around trees and through the branches, transforming the quaint woodland road into a menacing, claustrophobic tunnel. Turret gunners dared not peek their heads above their armor shields, while passengers at gun ports strained their eyes for anything out of place. The journey was undertaken in utter silence, harshly punctuated with regular updates from the scouts.
"We're clear to the next intersection." Hynen was listening in on the scout's channel. "Moving to next crossroads, we'll report in five minutes."
"Roger that, bounding up to your last." The lead vehicle sounded off and the convoy lurched forwards with a burst of speed. With their visibility hindered, most of the time they were crawling along at thirty miles an hour.
"Dude, Hynen. This's fuckin' weird, man."
"What is?" The officer next to Hynen shook his head.
"I was out last Saturday while you were playin' patty-cake with the M.C.C. They sent me and my squad out for raids in Bigler. The entire, way, back… we got shot at. Every dozen yards, someone took a shot at us. Some bastard even shot our turret guy, right in the fuckin' head as we were going full-speed, downhill, on a turn! But now, today? Nothing. All the houses look empty and are dark. There're no cars out, not one shot's been taken at us… even the church parking lots are empty; and its Sunday. That has never, ever happened."
"Your guesses are as good as mine. Maybe they heard we were coming and decided to bug-out or bunker down? We are a mile-long train of armored trucks."
"Nah… they weren't scared of us last week." The officer dissented. "No. Something's wrong. We ain't even seen a dog, cat, a lit porch light, someone in their bathrobe getting the paper…this ain't right."
"Well…just keep scanning." Hynen couldn't think of anything else to say or do. "That's all we can do for now. Just keep scanning…"
. . .
Naota and Rig had gone ahead of the main group. With Rig's leg still in a cast, Naota drove the quad-bike while Rig sat on the equipment rack on the back end. He parked them outside the back door of the house they were going to use. It had been on the market for several months, and no one was supposed be home. The realtor's lock yielded to Rig's bolt cutters and they entered the empty house; their flashlights on low. Nothing appeared in the beams except dust and furniture draped with cloth.
"Top floor, left turn, last room on the right." Rig directed as he unloaded their equipment from the quad and onto the kitchen counter. "I'll be up in a moment. Make sure it's just us here." Wearing his very own plate carrier with its hefty armor, equipment belt and suspenders, and carrying his very own AK-47 and Ruger P90, and all the bells, whistles, ammo, tools and trinkets that went along, every unfamiliar creak, jingle or rustle of Naota's gear sounded painfully loud. He found the house devoid of occupants, and a look out a window showed the front lawn and road were empty as well.
"We're all clear."
"Thank God. Take these." Rig put down the bags on his shoulder and the table he had lugged upstairs, and handed Naota several small green flags on plastic sticks.
"Aren't these the flags we mark underground lines with?"
"The very same, painted 'em green though." Rig unfolded the table's legs. "Put 'em in a line from this house, straight 'cross the lawn to the house across the street. Do one every hundred yards, one right along the road, then same on the other side. Once you're done, come straight back."
"Every hundred yards, line from this house to the other, one on the road, straight back. Got it." On the long, sloping lawn Naota felt terribly exposed. 'Might as well be naked out here.' There wasn't a single tree, bush, or rock for four hundred yards; all he saw was a small grove of scrub trees at the end of a driveway. The only cover he would have, if the police showed up right then and there, would have been the house's mailbox.
'Just focus on counting…get the yards right…' He kept watch up the road, even though it was shrouded in fog. Every time he looked to his front and away from his left, up the road, he swore there were headlights in his peripheral. The police held to their timetable and didn't show up early by the time Naota made it back. Rig had set up his range rifle bench, another for Naota, both of their chairs, Naota's spotting scope, and had tacked a square of dark mesh netting over the opened windows.
"Flags are in place." Naota announced.
"I saw, good man; good man." Rig was adjusting his rifle's rests, and tapped the top of its scope. Naota could see the rifle's bolt was open and no round was in the chamber, but it gave his guts a quick pinch to think of cross-hairs following him across the lawn. "Take a load off, make yourself at home and sit a spell."
"Gladly." After his nerve-wracking walk and climbing back up the lawn, he needed to sit. He rested his rifle against a dresser where it would be well within reach, and sat to Rig's right. The spotting scope was set up on its tripod and he pulled it across the table. Once adjusted for clarity and zoom, he asked what the mesh netting was for.
"It darkens the room, and makes it look empty." Rig adjusted down the forward rest just a hair. "We can still see and shoot out, but they'll have a much harder time seeing in."
"But that doesn't stop them from shooting in and getting lucky." Naota reminded.
"True… but that's what keeps things, uh…exciting."
"Your idea of exciting and mine are on two different wavelengths."
"Fair 'nough." Rig was adjusting the focus and testing the zoom on his scope. "Get your tablet out and check the weather."
"Won't the weather be slightly off compared to right here?" Naota asked as his new and official (meaning encrypted and tamper-proof) O.W. touchscreen booted up.
"It will, but it'll give us a good idea of what we're dealing with."
"Okay…weather for Philipsburg. Overcast, cool, foggy, no shit, light and intermittent breeze."
"Temp?"
"Forty-five."
"That's Fahrenheit, right?"
"It is. Forty-five Fahrenheit." One of the hardest parts of training with Rig all Saturday had been overcoming a lifetime of metric system use.
"Humidity?"
"Seventy-percent, and expected to climb. Rain is forecasted later; a ninety percent chance."
"Great…" Rig scowled. "It's been a while since I shot in the rain. This first shot might be… it's gonna be, iffy."
"As long as it doesn't pour, just showers like they say, I can spot your shots."
"I'll hold you to it. I'm gonna call Tommy and let him know we've made it, are in position and the area is clear. Then everyone else can all get set up and ready. While I do that, open The Calculator and update it please."
"Got it." Naota began updating the data fields for Rig's ballistic program, 'The Calculator' or 'Dial-A-Shot' they called it. Based on the bullet weight, caliber, muzzle velocity, wind speed and direction, temperature, humidity, the round's ballistic coefficient, barrel length, sighted dead-on range at a known distance, atmospheric pressure, and over long enough distances, the curvature of the Earth and the Coriolis Effect, it could tell them exactly where to aim to hit anything, at (in theory) any range. They had not yet used the last two fields, but it was comforting to know they had the option available. After updating The Calculator's information, Naota called Rig's adjustment. "Drop has increased four inches at our zero of two hundred yards."
"Scope's dial is one quarter of an inch per click…" Rig opened the cap for the scope's vertical axis. "At four inches, that's sixteen clicks. We'll go up to twenty, then back down four." With a dime in the turret's slot, Rig turned the elevation up five inches, twenty clicks, down for four clicks, one inch, then he tapped the turret lightly with the dime to ensure the adjustment had set. "Elevation's set. What's our wind look like?"
"Wind is…" Naota watched the three flags in the lawn, the fourth on the road, then the other four across the road. 100 yards was still, 200 yards was still, 300 fluttered slightly, and the rest were still. He would have to eyeball the wind at 300. "Two miles an hour at three hundred yards."
"Two miles at three hundred…" Rig scratched on the notepad he'd put next to the rifle's front rest. "Round's shooting at twenty-two hundred feet per second. Three feet to a yard, seven-three-three-point one. Air's denser than when we calibrated, so knock off a little…and it's a cold barrel…so call it, seven thirty even. Two miles an hour, five-two-eight-zero feet per mile, times two, over three, gives thirty-five-twenty yards… over thirty six hundred seconds, that's zero point nine-seven-eight yards per second. It'll take…seven thirty over one hundred…zero point three, three, three…repeating, seconds to cover the last hundred yards. So, zero point nine-seven-eight yards per second times zero point three-three-three…is…"
"Zero point…"
"Don't rush me."
"Sorry."
"Zero point zero four yards. Times three for feet is zero point one two feet, then by twelve for inches…one point four-four inches."
"Correct." Naota had logged the adjustment into Dial-A-Shot and it had given them a 1.44 inch adjustment at the tap of ENTER. Rig took thirty seconds to arrive at the same. "Dial-A-Shot got it right again."
"I still don't fully trust it. Maybe after a few dozen more tests. Anyway. Got that adjustment written down?" Naota copied the adjustment "1.44 IN at 300yd 2 MPH wind". They spent the next three hours ranging their zone of coverage, and figuring adjustments for different winds at different angles and speeds. With their range card filled, Naota stowed the tablet.
"Time for an update with Tommy." Rig raised the mike on their mobile base station radio. If they had to move outside the five mile range of their personal radios, the station radio would let them talk at over twenty miles. "Papa-Actual, Papa-Actual, this's Pointer. Do you copy?"
"Pointer, we copy." Tommy answered. "Go ahead."
"All still clean and clear. Advise on R.O.E."
"R.O.E. are hold unless ordered or acted on. Continue to observe and report. Copy?"
"Hold, look and listen until otherwise. Solid Copy."
"Good luck, Pointer. Papa-Actual out."
"Same to you. Pointer out." Rig put the mike back on its cradle. They watched through their scopes as Tommy's S-10, and three other trucks following, came up the road and stopped at the small grove of trees; four hundred yards forward and one hundred yards to the right of their immediate front. Several of Pike's men disembarked and set up a small roadblock with their trucks and the barricades they'd brought. Meanwhile, Tommy set up a lawn chair in the middle of the road, and in front of it a card table with some pens and large manila envelopes on it; then two other chairs across from him. Satisfied with the roadblock behind him, and the table in front, he sat down in his chair, took tobacco, spat, and settled back to wait. Now at 0620 hours, they had about ten minutes before the police were supposed to show up.
"You ready?"
"Yes. No. As I can be." Naota could barely sit still with his jitters. "I'm probably gonna puke at least once, but otherwise I think I'll be okay."
"That's all anyone can ask." Rig had settled onto his rifle and was perfectly still; statuesque. He looked like he'd been stuffed and mounted in his shooting position. "May God, Allah, Buddha, Shiva, and the Flyin' Spaghetti Monster lend their protection, and may the Force be with us…'cause here they fuckin' come."
. . .
"Star-Actual, Scout-1 reporting."
"Go ahead."
"Sir…there's a, roadblock, of some sorts ahead."
"Have there been any shots, any hostility?"
"Negative." Everyone in Hynen's MRAP strained to catch each word on the radio. "There are several squads from Pike LP here with guns, and they've blocked the road with their trucks. Also, Tommy Carson's in the middle of the road and says he's some kind of 'Overwatch Captain'; said you'd know what that meant. He wants to speak directly with you, Sheriff."
"On your last, you said an Overwatch Captain, and that it is Tommy Carson? Can you confirm?"
"Affirmative, Actual. Our Sunday softball team plays against his; I'd recognize him anywhere. It's either him, or a clone."
"Wait one." Sheriff Sarabyn ordered his Cadillac Gage Commando to double back and meet with the other commanders. This conversation could not go out over the radio. Hynen watched the black armored car rumble by his view port. Five minutes later it re-assumed its position at tenth from the front of the line. "All Scouts, pull back and form up with the column. Tell Captain Carson I will meet him, and end this sideshow of his. All other vehicles, forward!" As the trees gave way to open fields, Hynen now agreed with his gun port neighbor's worries. They were terribly exposed in a long, single line, along a sunken road, with no cover in sight. Maybe running the roadblock would have been a rash call, but stopping dead in the open didn't sound better to him by any measure. Sure, nothing looked out of place, there were no signs of anyone hostile, and everything appeared normal. And yet…
"Keep your eyes peeled, guys." Hynen said to an on-edge passenger compartment. "If they're gonna hit us anywhere, it'll be here." Then their MRAP lurched as it came to a stop. All they could do now was blindly wait for orders, or to get shot at.
. . .
"What is the meaning of this, Carson?!" Sheriff Sarabyn marched forward, flanked by four deputies. "You are obstructing official police operations, and are wanted to boot. Surrender now, and have these trucks moved immediately!" He pointed over at the side of the road, then jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "Or we will force our way through!"
"Good morning, Sheriff Sarabyn." Tommy stood and extended a hand for Sarabyn to shake. "Please, have a seat."
"Who do you think you are to order me around?" Sarabyn's focus was divided between Tommy and the two dozen rifles and shotguns aimed at him. He'd never faced superior firepower before, and found he didn't care for it. Tommy's outstretched hand was ignored.
"Captain Thomas Carson of Earthen Overwatch Section Two-Sixty-Two, and I.P.A. commanding officer; that's who. And it wasn't an order, but a request. Now I am ordering. Have. A. Seat." Sarabyn squeezed himself into the chair and shot nervous glances left and right. He should have brought more than four deputies.
"Okay, Captain. I'm sitting. Now what?"
"Where's your Boss? The Man in Black?"
"If you're going to talk nonsense the entire time, this conversation's over." Sarabyn dismissed, wondering how much Tommy knew. Probably too much. "A Man in Black? Nonsense, utter nonsense. What are you talk…"
"Here he comes. Good morning, Operative."
"Good morning to you, Captain. And to you as well, Master Sergeant Shaufner; I see you hiding back there!" The Man's cheerful demeanor sounded like he was having the time of his life. He and Tommy shook hands, then he looked at the empty chair next to Sarabyn. "May I sit?"
"Please."
"And sorry to be a bother with so many questions, but would you mind if I smoke?"
"Not at all."
"Thank you." The Man sat, igniting a Camel 99.
"Chojnacki told me you said smoking was a vile and disgusting habit; that it's banned under The Red Star?!" Sarabyn whispered to The Man.
"I said that? Did I really? Hmmm…" The Man ignored Sarabyn's confusion and stared at Tommy over his cigarette. "You…look familiar. Have I met you before?"
"You might have. I cannot tell one Operative from the other; no offense."
"None taken. Ah, I remember now! Captain Carson, once a Lieutenant of the Interstellar Immigration Bureau, yes? One of my Brothers encountered you, twelve of your Earth Years ago. Strictly business you must understand, nothing personal; I assure you."
"He was professional about it all, circumstances considering."
"Are we done?" Sarabyn interrupted. "Can we get this over with, whatever it is?"
"I suppose, since you're in such a fired up hurry." Tommy picked up an envelope. "Sheriff Sarabyn, I'm only going to say this once. Please pay attention."
"I'll try."
"Behind me are the several thousands of the Irregular Pennsylvanian Army; then the hundreds more of the I.P.A. Volunteer Reserves. I requested to speak with you specifically because, unlike Chief Strong and Warbug, and Captain Chojnacki, you were elected by the men behind me; not appointed by a mayor. They trusted you. And by throwing in with him…" Tommy nodded at The Man, who sheepishly grinned and shrugged. "You have broken that trust, forever, and they are very, very pissed off at YOU. They are ready, capable, and willing to kill every one of your deputies, all the troopers and officers as well, and are willing to die if needed if their sacrifice means your end is dancing at the end of a rope." Tommy slid the envelope across the table, sending a pen after it. Sarabyn picked it up and emptied the envelope of a single sheet of paper.
"Now, that does not have to happen. Give the order for everyone to disembark their vehicles and lay down their weapons, and that'll be the end of everything. You, or any of your men, or any of your families, will not be mistreated in any way. You and yours, and yes even you Operative, will get the fairest trial in the Galaxy. Cross-examination of witnesses, cross-examination of evidence, discovery, a lawyer if you can't afford one, a jury of your peers, the right to appeal, and a partridge in a pear tree. Your families will be processed of course, but unless something warranting an investigation is found, they'll be released free and clear. These terms are all spelled out on that paper." Tommy pointed to the paper Sarabyn was perusing. The Man meanwhile, dropped ash, returned his cigarette to his teeth, and twiddled his thumbs in absent-minded disinterest.
"However... however, if you refuse these terms and do not surrender right now, all that goes out the window. When, yes, when, we catch you there will be a court martial. You will be found guilty, your deputies, officers, and troopers will be found guilty, and the mayors, city councils, and county clerks too. Your men will be executed by firing squad, your families will be sent to be worked to death on an Industrial Planet penal colony, and YOU will be hung by the neck until dead. And as that rope goes around your neck, you will know that it is all your fault. That's why I requested to speak with you. You were elected by the Will of the People, you have betrayed those people, and by those People, you will be undone. So… either avoid all that and sign… or we will make the Saturday Raids look like a friendly game of paintball in comparison to today."
"Don't look at me." The Man said as Sheriff Sarabyn looked to him for guidance. "He's talking to you. I'm only here to carry out my orders, and have invited you and your fellows to come along. If you have decided you don't want to assist me anymore, then there's no stopping you from leaving."
"What's it gonna be, Sheriff?" Tommy asked. "What you, Chojnacki, Strong, Warburg, and all the rest, what you're doing is wrong. And all of you know it. So I'm begging you, please. For your sakes, your deputies and officers, your families, your planet…please let it end here. We've buried too many Pennsylvanians already. Don't make me get out my backhoe and bury hundreds more."
"Well…Mister, Carson…" Sheriff Sarabyn smugly folded the surrender terms into a small square and tossed it back to Tommy. "I'm afraid I'll have to refuse, and call your bluff. There's nothing you can offer that'll stack up to the wonders of The Red Star; and my place in it. A civilization tens of thousands of years running smoothly; not even the Romans compare. Everything managed expertly, the correct decisions all made by the correct people, and the good of ALL mankind guaranteed. And all you can offer to me is a fair trial in a flawed, inept, and broken system? While I have been promised a place befitting my office, in a system that actually works; and has for thousands of years. Surely, you must agree that our world's order is fouled up beyond all repair? We can't rely on the average person to make good decisions; have you see Walmart's customers lately? Just give the parking lot a good look. This planet's going off the rails, and The Red Star is finally going to be the adult in the room, and has chosen us to help in setting things right. But the likes of you…" Sarabyn stood and gloated down at Tommy. "Call yourselves Freemen, Minutemen, Libertarians, Sovereign Citizens, or whatever…the likes of you are no better than a kid throwing a tantrum because they don't like being told what to do; even when it's for your own good."
"Lord, have mercy upon them, for they know not what they do…" Tommy sighed and stood as well, fixing Sarabyn's eyes with his own. "And for I shall give them none. So be it, Sheriff Sarabyn; if that's your choice. You have doomed your men. But what's a few more bodies on the mountain of corpses sacrificed to failed ideologies? Just remember, and don't complain when this catches up to you: you could have stopped all of this, and it is all your fault. Goodbye, and good riddance."
. . .
My Remington 760, the Standard Issue Rifle of the State of Pennsylvania, (or the 'Amish Automatic' if you prefer) I had left at home that morning. It is a great rifle for on the move shooting, especially offhand while standing, walking, running, using unconventional rests like tree trunks, and while shooting at moving targets. But shooting a pump action off a bench for an extended period of time is not ideal; you have to resettle the gun after every shot. So I was behind a different rifle, a Remington 700 in 0.30-06… and that's where the similarities to the average of America's most popular rifle ended.
Remember those Rem-700 M40's that Agent Griggs got for us? Tragically, one suffered tremendous damage during… well, could've been during loading, or transport, or offloading, who can really say? At some, indeterminable, point an M40 underwent damage that rendered it unfit for field use, and it was disposed of accordingly. And I have no idea what happened to it, that'll be enough questions, this press conference is over, thank you very much, and I bid you good day sir; I said GOOD DAY. SIR.
You don't believe a word of that, do you? Between y'all and Naota, I swear…
SO… I'd picked up one of the M40's as my own and set about making it truly so. First I took the action and barrel out of the wood stock, coating the metal with an oil and grease mix, then put the action and barrel back into the stock. I'd remove both again and sand off all the black spots. Those black spots were where the barrel was touching the wood, and I sanded until no part of the stock touched the barrel. This lets the barrel vibrate freely under its natural frequency, rather than being pressed on or warped by the stock. Speaking of, the stock I'd sanded end to end and then treated to twelve coats of marine/ocean grade varnish. Now, like on a foggy, rain-spitting morning where the humidity has changed, the stock won't warp. A stock warping by a thousandth of an inch can throw your aim off by six inches at one hundred yards. Alternatively, I could sight the gun in every time the weather changes…but believe it or not, I've got other shit to do.
Lastly, I've always found rifle scopes on bolt actions sit too high above the gun. I like a cheek weld that has half my face lapped over the stock's crown, so I can never get a good weld between my face and the stock, AND see through the scope at the same time. In fairness, most models of bolt action rifles were not designed with scopes in mind, and are meant to be shot with their iron sights. So I took the top hand guard of an SKS I have spare parts for out the wazoo, lying around and collecting du…what? Why do I have so many spare gun parts lying around I can hack them up and slap them on other guns whenever I want? Well… why don't you? Hmmm, yeah, didn't think of that, did'cha? Anyway, I took that SKS top hand guard and put it on top of the stock's cheek rest, epoxied it into place and filled and shaped the voids with Bondo. It also was treated with the twelve coats of varnish, then painted to match the rest of the stock. To hell with debating between red dot/holographics/ACOG or a cosmetic, and irresponsibly useless, skin for your poodle shooter, THIS my friends is how you customize your rifle.
"You doin' okay?"
"Yeah…" From my peripheral, I could see Naota was as locked onto his spotting scope as I was onto mine. "You? How's your leg?"
"Sore. Feels like someone parked a truck on it." You old timers, with your arthritic joints that can feel a storm coming, aren't kidding. "Pressure drop's let it swell, and the cast doesn't flex."
"You're still good to shoot, right?"
"I'll be fine. Might have to bitch and moan about it from time to time."
"That goes without saying. I read somewhere that being a whiny, little bitch about your injuries is part of the process."
"What process?"
"The process of being a little bitch." Naota sure was serving up the sass. I could see him grinning on the edge of my right eye.
"Ah-ha-ha…ha. Up yours. Mister Freaks-out-every-time-he-gets-a-headache."
"The day robots fly out of your big toe is the day you can give me any kind of shit about my head."
"Mmmm-hmmm. Range to that second vehicle in line? The MRAP with a gunner on the roof."
"Four hundred and fifty-eight yards. Updated wind will push the round…two inches left." There was no hesitation in his answer. He was a natural at this. "Adjusted drop of…now four and one quarter inches. And don't change the subject."
"Whatever do you mean? Looks like the wind is picking up."
"Just a riffle on that five hundred yard flag, no wind changes. The subject of your complaining about your leg and being a drama queen about it."
"Oh? I'm the drama queen of the two of us? Really?"
"Really."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Really?!"
"Really!"
"Pointer, this's Papa-Actual. Pointer come in, how copy?"
"Solid, Papa-Actual." Naota answered the radio while I stayed on the rifle.
"Did you hear everything Sarabyn said?" Tommy had taped his mike's push-to-talk key down and broadcast the conversation to everyone. We'd heard it all.
"Loud and clear."
"Good. Now you know what we're dealing with; don't forget that. Make ready, they'll be moving out soon." The roadblock packed up in a hurry and sprinted back to the safety of the trees and our front line. Sarabyn, his four escorting deputies, and The Man mounted back up, then the whole police column slow-rolled forward.
"Ready? They'll hit the battery in thirty seconds."
"I'm gonna wake up any second now…" Naota took his eye off his scope, rubbed it and blinked out any blurriness, then went back on. "And I'll be in my bed, and it's already Christmas break. You and I spend the day playing songs, writing our own songs, lyrics and licks, your Aunt makes us hot chocolate…"
"That sounds rather nice, actually." I had to agree. "But I think, if it is Christmas break, we'll be out hunting. Flintlock season starts on the twenty-sixth. I'll compromise though, we can bring a thermos of that hot chocolate along."
"That's fair."
"Okay, ten seconds." The lead MRAP was almost on top of the battery we'd buried. Controlling my breathing was fairly easy, especially since I had been sitting perfectly still for over three hours. It was getting settled a chirping and thudding heart that was difficult. Steady…breathe in…hold…breathe out…steady…you will only get one First Shot. Make it count. Steady…breathe in…hold…breathe out…
. . .
Anyone that has welded on a newer modern vehicle knows how easy it is to accidentally fry a control computer; the device that dictates all of a vehicle's functions. On a Cougar MRAP and Lenco Bearcat, their control systems are grounded to the chassis. This means an electric current can travel back up the ground wire and into the vehicle's computers.
The lead MRAP driver did not see the two thick gauge wires poking out of the asphalt. He also had not noticed the Pike LP trucks had switched lanes to avoid the wires as they drove away. He drove his lumbering truck right over the buried Prius battery and the wires on its terminals made contact with the MRAP's steel frame. With no load on the battery, it discharged in a matter of amp milliseconds. Tools to work on hybrid cars must be heavily insulated; an unprotected steel wrench dropped across the contact points will turn to liquid in a flash. The 144volt battery applied the same to the MRAP, overloading and destroying the MRAP's electronic control modules.
Several things went wrong at once. First, the MRAP's engine stalled. Second, the transmission, with its control module fried, shifted itself into reverse. The 32,000 pound vehicle came to an immediate, gear-grinding stop. Third, with no power going to its brake lights, the MRAP behind it received no warning, and the second vehicle plowed into the stalled first one at forty-five miles an hour. Last, the first MRAP's main radio no longer responded. For several confusing and agonizing seconds the column waited for any updates in utter silence.
"Star-Actual to Star-1, come in." Sheriff Sarabyn tried to raise the lead vehicle. "Star-1, why are we stopped?"
"Actual, Star-1-2. Star-1 is having some kind of mechanical or electrical failure. They're dead in the water and we just smashed into them."
"Why aren't they responding?"
"Can't say. Requesting permission to disembark and investigate."
"Star-Actual, Patrol-Actual." Captain Chojnacki wanted an update of his own. "Why have we halted? What's going on?"
"Star-1-2 hold one Mike."
"Roger, holding."
"Patrol, Star-1 has mechanical problems, and Star-1-2 rear-ended them."
"We're wasting time, and are exposed here." Chojnacki liked the field and sunken road as little as Patrolman Hynen did. "Can we move around 1 and 1-2?"
"I don't know. The ground is soggy, we might get stuck in the mud. I'll have 1-2 check it out. Hold for updates."
"Roger, Patrol is holding."
"Star-1-2, Star-Actual."
"Go ahead."
"Disembark and assist Star-1. If they cannot get moving, see if the ground on either side is firm enough for us to go around them. How copy?"
"Solid copy. We're disembarking to assist." The back hatch of Star-1-2's MRAP swung open and eight brown and khaki clad deputies climbed out. It was apparent the two vehicles were stuck together. Nothing short of an acetylene torch and a pair of trucks pulling in opposite directions would separate them now. It also was clear by the pounding and muffled yelling the rear hatch was jammed shut.
"What the hell happened?" The sergeant from 1-2 had walked around to the driver side door.
"I, I dunno Sergeant!" A flustered deputy tried once more to start his vehicle. Turning the key did nothing, just the soft click of the key block rotating. "The damn thing just up and died on me! One second I was fine, then it just…stopped!"
"Bullshit. Something ain't right here." The sergeant knelt down to look under the truck. "What…in the fuck…are those?"
"Did you find something, Sergeant Parr?"
"Yes Lieutenant, I did." The Sheriff Lieutenant from Star-1-3 had been sent forward to supervise and get an update. "Look under here."
"What…in the fuck…are those?"
"Exactly, sir. Wires, thick ones. Some kind of booby-trap, I think."
"Bastards. This's what we get for trying to be civil with these backwards idiots. Well, if it could be a booby-trap, we have to stop and bring up the Bomb Squad to look at it. Let's start by getting the guys inside out, and then find a way around. You four, help the guys inside get out. The rest of you, look for a way around them." The squad separated to carry out their orders. Four began working out how to climb onto the roof and pull the trapped squad out through the gunner hatch. The others checked the roadside for solid passage.
"This ground's pretty soupy, Sir." Once off the pavement, the deputies were up to their ankles in muck.
"Try…try looking over that way." The lieutenant pointed to a higher and slightly dryer looking patch. "Then swing that way…" He waved his arm in an arc, curving his hand and making a 'C' shape. "And look further uphill too." He pointed again, across the road and up the hill.
"Got it, LT."
"Sir, Sarabyn wants an update." The deputy assigned to carry the Lieutenant's long-range radio, two foot long antennae and all, held out the mike.
"Actual, this's 1-3 with an update…"
. . .
"Oh yeah, he's definitely an officer." Naota confirmed what I was watching through my scope. "Just like you said a typical officer would act. Pointing, waving his arms, has an assistant following him around to carry his radio, is standing around and directing and supervising… all he's missing is one of those silly Napoleon hats."
"Call Tommy and ask if I am cleared."
"Papa-Actual, Papa-Actual. Pointer has ID on enemy officer. Is Pointer cleared?"
"Pointer, wait one."
. . .
Tommy was ten yards away from Papa Company's M2 machine gun, watching straight up the road. To his left and right, dug in behind and among the trees, were three hundred men on their rifles with the safeties off and ready to fire. Pike had instructed his men well on digging their fortifications. Walls of logs and rocks were stacked in front of their holes three feet thick, more logs and dirt above their heads gave two feet of overhead protection, firing slots were cut into the walls to provide assigned lanes of coverage and interlocking fire, and even shelves for spare ammunition, elbow rests, and grenade sumps had been dug. And each position was camouflaged with a sprawling layer of leaves, sticks, and replanted bushes and saplings to make them seem more natural and blend in.
"We are ready on your go." The M2's crew whispered to Tommy. Their gun was trained on the lead vehicle and the dozen deputies walking around to it.
"Just a little longer." Tommy said, looking left for a positive signal from the Digger machine gun crew. Halfway down the line, they waved the 'A-OK' sign. With many of Pike's crew having previously served and seen combat overseas, they were as prepared as they could be; with what training, equipment, and time they had.
"Papa-Actual, Papa-Actual. Pointer has ID on enemy officer. Is Pointer cleared?" The receiver on Tommy's radio broadcast Naota's voice into his ear.
"Pointer, wait one." Tommy felt like there was something missing, that he had surely forgotten something, or a 'what if' question had not been asked. 'Too late now. We are as ready as we can be. Uncle Emory, George…Dad. If you two're listening, lend me a little of your strength. Okay…okay…let's do this.' He cleared his throat, then pressed the talk button. "Pointer, Papa-Actual clears you. Godspeed, and good luck."
. . .
*Thud-thud*… Breathe in… *Thud-thud*… Hold… *Thud-thud*… Breathe out… *Thud-thud*… Do not let your eyes focus on the target, you will blur out the cross-hairs. *Thud-thud*… Breathe in… *Thud-thud*… Don't tense up. Relax. *Thud-thud*… Hold… *Thud-thud*… Right hand grips tightest with pinky and ring finger. Thumb lies parallel to barrel, on top of stock, not over it. Otherwise grip exerts twist on gun. *Thud-thud*… Breathe out… *Thud-thud*…Cheek is perfectly welded to stock, scope is perfectly clear. *Thud-thud*… Breathe in… *Thud-thud*… Hold… Use the last pad of your finger. Squeeze trigger slowly. Take your time. *Thud-thud*… Breathe out… *Thud-thud.*… There is no hurry. *Thud-thud*… Breathe in… *Thud-thud* Scope is adjusted. Hold dead-on. *Thud-thud*…Hold…Squeeze trigger slowly. Take your time. *Thud-thud*… Breathe out… *Thud-thud*…Hold…Squeeze trigger slowly…*Thud-thud*…Hold…Squeeze trigger slowly… BANG.
. . .
The boat-tailed and hollow-pointed round left Jeff's rifle at 2,200 feet per second, covering the four hundred yards to the road in half a second. It struck the Sheriff's Lieutenant one quarter of an inch from where Jeff was aiming: just behind and below the Lieutenant's ear. Hitting the man's skin and muscle below, the bullet's hollow nose peeled open, widening as it went along and dumping its energy into its target. As it mushroomed, its path took it through the top of the spine and bottom of the medulla oblongata; smashing and tearing into both. Instantly the Lieutenant was incapacitated, all independent and voluntary muscle control ceasing. The bullet dragged bits of vertebrae with it as it burst out the other side of the man's head, throwing the ragged pulp and blood onto the khaki side of the second MRAP. With a heavy Clang! The bullet broke into pieces when it hit the MRAP's armor. The Lieutenant crumpled, having totally lost control of his movement and seemed to melt into a puddle without a fuss, his helmeted head bouncing as its back smacked into the pavement; already dead before he'd hit the ground. Another half a second later, the report of the rifle caught up with a dull Thmmp! Hearing the Lieutenant fall, and then the report of the rifle, the deputies froze in shock. An invisible hammer had struck their lieutenant, exploding the back quarter of his head in a bloody, bone shard mess, and the shot coming from seemingly out of nowhere. So sudden and drastic from normal was the event, their minds lagged while trying to process what had happened. Then three hundred yards down the road, Tommy raised his hand.
"Ready…" He had been waiting for Jeff's shot. Once the rifle's report echoed to him, he dropped his hand. "GO!" The M2 opened up on the deputies around the lead MRAP's, the rest of the line joining in once the M2 started. A barrage of rounds swept the front half of the column, pummeling and raking the vehicles with a firestorm of jacketed lead. Only the machine guns fired in fully automatic, and then in short bursts. Everyone with an AK had set it to semiautomatic, while shotguns, personal rifles, and those given Remington M40's all fired slowly and took careful shots. Everyone was targeting vehicle windows, tires, view ports, turrets, and any exposed or under-armored areas they thought looked vulnerable. Meanwhile, the M2 concentrated on the front of the line. The deputies of Star-1, 1-2, and 1-3 were caught in the open and shredded by the heavy machine gun fire; only two managed to hide behind their vehicle but were hopelessly pinned down. The rest of the column shook off their initial shock and began returning fire from their gun ports and turrets. For the moment, their vehicle's armor could take the beating. But it would not hold forever.
. . .
"Holy Jesus H. Fuckin' Christ, what the fuck is going on out there?!"
"Where the fuck did these guys come from?!"
"Why aren't we moving, get us the fuck outta here!"
"God-fuckin'-damn, I can't hear shit! Shit, that's loud!"
"What're you doing in here?! Shouldn't you be up in your turret?!" Rounds were thudding against the armor of Patrolman Hynen's MRAP in such ferocity and frequency, the vehicle was vibrating. The noise was incomprehensibly harsh, no one had imagined so much sound could be generated at once. Bullets clunked and clanged against the armor, and shattered and cracked their windows and view ports. Exposed in the top turret, the gunner had dropped out of his sling seat onto the cabin floor and was refusing to go back up.
"And get my fuckin' head blown off?! No-fuckin'-thank you!" He looked at Hynen with abject terror. "The shield plates are only quarter inch thick! Rounds're goin' right through them, I'll bet they look like goddamn Swiss cheese! The two-forty's prob'bly shot up by now anyway."
"We can't shoot forward from here, only to the sides!" The gun ports did not allow them the angle needed to shoot at the bulk of where the rounds were coming from. "YOU are the only one that can shoot forward, unless we move! So get your ass back on the gun and put down some fuckin' fire!"
"No way man, no fuckin' way am I…" KER-Thunk-Thunk-Thunk! Four shots from a heavy caliber machine gun hit their truck's right side at a shallow angle and ricocheted off. They left four bulges in the steel, on the crew's side of the wall. "Oh holy shit, those rounds almost went through!"
"Shit, that was fuckin' close!"
"Did you feel those hit?!" One trooper had been leaning against the wall where a round hit. "Like someone slugged me, man that hurts!"
"Hey, move us! Get us the fuck outta here!" Someone yelled forward to the driver compartment. "We can't stay here, why aren't we moving?!"
"No one's told me to maneuver!" The driver, petrified white, shouted back. "I'm not supposed to leave my place in the column! And the ground's mush, we'll get stuck!"
"All call-signs, attention all call-signs!" On the general channel, Sheriff Sarabyn was attempting to rouse the column out of its shock and surprise. "We are advancing forward in Wedge Formation. Patrol and Mountie will take left, Star and Mills will take right. Move out!"
"We're gonna get stuck, we're gonna get stuck, we're gonna get stuck…" The driver muttered as he put the MRAP in low gear and engaged all six wheels into drive. Now that they were a moving target, the hits on their vehicle dropped off. Rounds still buzzed by, the reports of hundreds of guns drowning out even private thoughts, and the truck now bucked and pitched across uneven ground instead of smooth asphalt.
"I'm not gonna ask again…" Patrolman Hynen seized the gunner by his vest and hauled him standing. "Get back into that turret and put down covering fire, NOW."
"Fuckin' hell Hynen, okay man…oh God, what am I doing?" The gunner settled onto his seat, then stuck his head up. "Gun's still up!"
'He sounds disappointed.' Hynen screamed in his own head just so he could hear his own thoughts. The gunner began firing his M240. Spent shells and links from the disintegrating belt dropped down into the crew compartment. The floor quickly filled up with the brass casings and small pieces of metal. Anyone walking or trying to stand did so at their own risk of slipping on the rolling casings or uneven links. The plinks of falling links and planks from spent shells only added to the din; to say nothing of the M240 and their own M16's.
"Star-Actual, Mountie is in formation." The Philipsburg Police were ready.
"Star-Actual, Mills is ready." The Osceola Mills department was in place.
"Star-Actual, Patrol is set."
"Star-Actual, all Star-Victors are a-go."
"All call-signs, advance on my mark!" Sheriff Sarabyn spun his view port periscope left and right to confirm everyone was where they ought to be. "Ready…and…MARK."
"Here we fuckin' go." The driver put his foot down and the four lines, two up front, two following, charged forward. Hynen couldn't see directly forward, but could see off to their side, and judged relative to that how close they were to the tree line. They had about five hundred yards of open ground left before getting out of the field. And with no slackening of incoming founds, it felt like a mile.
. . .
"Keep it up gentlemen, keep it up!" Tommy encouraged as he dashed up and down the line, scrambling from foxhole to foxhole while rounds cut nicks in his uniform. "Take your time, make your shots count! Only hits count, close does not!"
"We're gonna need more ammo soon!" One of the four men assigned to the Digger grabbed at Tommy's arm as he passed. "I sent Floyd to get some, but he hasn't come back!"
"I'll get some sent over." Tommy had a feeling Floyd was never coming back. "How's the gun shooting?"
"It's not the Two-Forty I carried in Iraq…" The gunner remarked as one of the crew pulled out a spent cloth ammunition belt and began loading another. "But it hasn't quit on me yet!" The loader reached forward and pulled back and down on the charging handle twice, loading the gun. The gunner resumed firing, the M1892 plodding along at its slow and steady pace. Tommy continued down the line, giving words of encouragement, redirecting fire, and sending runners back to bring forward more ammunition.
"Where's that goddamn medic?!" Pike swore as he clenched his hands around one of his men's neck; blood spitting from between his fingers. "Hurry up, hurry the fuck up!"
"Can I do anything?" Tommy asked as he dropped into the waist deep hole. The three other men in the fighting position behind him and Pike continued firing, making conversation difficult.
"Put your hands here, here. Lots of pressure." Tommy put his hands where Pike's had been, covering the gash on the right side of the man's neck. "You're not gonna strangle him." Pike assured as he opened his medical kit and took out the quick-clot bandage. "Move your left hand." Pike pressed the palm sized square onto the man's neck and into the half inch deep and three inch long hole. "Put it back, same pressure. Talk to him, keep him awake and lucid."
"What's your name, man?"
"M-M-Mark…"
"Mark? Mark who?"
"S-S-S-Sartin…" Pike lifted Mark's head to tightly wrap another gauze pad over the quick-clot and bind both with a bandage.
"Mark Sartin, hey, I know you! You play on Sandy Ridge Lutheran's Softball team; don't you?"
"Yeah, I do…" Mark sputtered, blood flecking his lips.
"What position do you play?"
"Third…third base."
"Hey! Where the fuck have you been?!" Pike yelled as a medical team approached. "Hurry up, hurry up!"
"Dealing with head wounds, Mister Pike." Four medics, one Tommy recognized as Pike's Safety and Emergency Coordinator, jumped down into the hole. It was getting crowded. "It's been heads, necks, hands and shoulder wounds, mostly heads; and nasty ones." Wilson, the Safety and Emergency Coordinator, checked Pike's bandaging job. "The police're using five-five-six NATO; rounds are fragmenting."
"I remember over in the Sandbox. Shot a lot of bad guys with five-five-six; does nasty shit. Sucks being on the other end."
"Papa-Actual, this's Pointer. Come in." Naota's nervous voice crackled in Tommy's ear.
"Papa-Actual, go ahead."
"Enemy vehicles are organizing into some wedge formation and are…" BOOOM! Rig fired a shot while Naota still had the mike key down. "And are looking like they're going to charge."
"Roger that, I'll pass the word along. Keep at your post, you're doing a great job. Keep Rig firing, and keep me updated."
"Will, will do. Pointer out."
"All Papa call-signs, all Papa call-signs!" Tommy went out over their general channel. "It looks like the police are going to charge our line. Hold your positions, hold! Do not let up on your fire! Make them pay for every inch!"
"Let's get him outta here." Wilson and his team had loaded Mark onto a stretcher. "Lift on three. One, two, THREE." They hefted him up and out, jumped up out of the hole themselves, then sprinted away with their patient.
"Pike, they're gonna charge us." Tommy pointed to the field, where the fleet of MRAP's, Bearcats, and their supporting gallery of armored cars had massed into a formidable wedge.
"And there ain't much we can do to stop them." Pike admitted, poking his own head up to take a look. "If they get within one hundred yards, we'll have to withdraw. We don't have anything that can punch through that armor; and we're not going to fare well in close-quarters against MRAP's."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, but tell your foremen to get their guys ready to bug out." Tommy ordered and Pike nodded in agreement. "I will not have them driving over us. When we retreat, our fallback line is at the Abundant Life Church. Victor and Kilo will act as our rear guard to give everyone cover. Then everyone mounts up and heads back to G&R."
"Roger that, we'll make it happen." Pike picked up his own radio. "Papa-Foremen, Papa-Foremen, this's Papa-1. The cops are going to charge our line. If they close, we are going to fall back. Fall back point is the Abundant Life Church. I say again, fall back is Abundant Life Church. Do not leave anyone or anything behind. No man leaves his position until given the order. How copy?" As Pike coordinated with his foremen, Tommy made his way back to the M2. The beastly gun still thudded, chugged, rattled and clanged away; punching holes in vehicle armor plates and Plexiglas windows.
"Are we pulling back?" The M2 crew chief asked as he dropped another belt of ammunition for the loader. "We're gonna need some advance warning to break down the gun, pack it up, and the tripod too."
"There won't be time for an advance warning." Tommy said and looked around for the truck that had hauled the gun and its crew to the field. "Where's your truck?"
"Behind that rock." Behind them, a house sized boulder shielded the crew's pickup truck from incoming fire.
"Okay, when we have to fall back, here's what you'll do." Tommy made up a plan on the spot to save one of their seven M2's. "Get the truck, put it in reverse and drive right up to the gun. Have your four guy's pick the gun and tripod up with those logs under it, throw it in the bed and head straight for Abundant Life Church. Don't bother breaking it down or packing it up, just get it out of here. And if it's too heavy to lift both, leave the tripod. We can make another of those, but we can't build a new M2."
"Okay, we can do that. Alright guys, here's what's up." The M2 chief relayed the new plan as Tommy sprinted across the road to the other half of the line. Once across he sent a pair of runners with belts of ammunition to the Digger, then updated Voyze and King on the situation and what their roles would be when the front line had to fall back. Satisfied they understood, he signed off and continued down the line. Then through the din of noise, Tommy heard several curious sounds: K-Th-Schooop! K-Th-Schoop! K-Th-Schooop!
"Smoke! Smoke!" Someone yelled. "They're using smoke!" The sounds had been grenade launchers lobbing smoke rounds. Plumes of grey clouds billowed over the already foggy field, obscuring the police vehicles from view. Tommy's heart sank and he feared the horde of vehicles would come charging out of the smoke, an un-stoppable mob bearing down on them. He put his hand to his radio and readied to give the order to fall back. Light infantry with small arms rarely prevails against a motorized heavy infantry and vehicle charge. But the charge didn't come. Seconds ticked by. Nothing. What was happening on the other side of that smokescreen?
. . .
And we'll be right back, after these messages. So sorry to cut things off right in the middle, but these are sacrifices made so you don't have to endure 15,000+ word chapters at a slog. That and suspense, tension, cliff-hangers and all that jazz. So, since there are no songs, and I am testing a new translation system, there isn't much else here to say; except for hit the Next Chapter button and thank you all for sticking it out through the foundation setting to get here! Thank you all so very much!