One Year After: A Novel (30 page)

“John?”

He half opened his eyes, saw Makala looking down at him, and smiled as she leaned over to kiss him on the forehead. He yawned and half sat up.

“The meeting.” She chuckled. “Glad you weren’t there.”

“Why?”

“You were called everything from a traitor worse than Benedict Arnold to a hero.”

“I don’t care about that. What about the decision regarding the draftees?”

She smiled. “Six. Exactly six are reporting for duty.”

“What?”

“Six, John.”

“You sound happy about it,” he gasped. “Do they realize what they are going up against?”

“Maury Hurt and Danny, both veterans, laid it out clear enough. Danny, as you know, was drafted for service back during Vietnam. He said that back then he hated the damn hippie draft dodgers, but after all he learned afterwards about the filthy politics behind that war, he wished he had dodged it, as well. Maury, who was in Desert Storm, spoke about the difference between a professional army in peace time—like we had even when fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan and on the day we were hit—and a draftee army. He closed saying he would refuse to be drafted into this ANR. They really helped to tip the scale.”

“What about reaction to that BBC broadcast during the night?”

“That really threw things into turmoil,” Makala replied. “Some said that if this Samuel character is anything like the Posse leader, then nuking him was too humane. Others see it as you do—a step back to the very brink. Most, though, were focused on the fate of that lost battalion of ANR troops.”

John’s feet were on the cold flagstone floor of the sunroom. Jen was still fast asleep. He could hear Elizabeth out in the kitchen, and she and Ben chattered away to each other in the language of mothers with their toddlers; the two understood every word exchanged, while the rest of the world just listened, smiled, and didn’t understand a single word of the happy gibberish. He motioned for the door leading out to the garden, and Makala followed.

“Do they clearly understand what it means? In two days, failing to report, they will all be declared deserters and face execution.” He sighed and sat down on the bench next to Jennifer’s grave, lowering his head and covering his face with his hands.

“I never thought it would come to this. Fredericks will not sit back and let this go unchallenged. He’s a climber, and he doesn’t give a damn who gets in his way. I saw too many like him in the Pentagon and elsewhere, especially in the last couple of years of service. Friends of mine like Bob Scales were becoming a bit of a rare breed who would not hesitate to put their careers on the line if they felt the order was morally wrong.

“I suspect Fredericks will report my refusal back to Bluemont, and they’ll seek to make an example of me. But as for all the others? How does he report that over a hundred have already told him to go to hell? That means failure, and in his game, especially if it is public and not hushed up, that means he loses his job and gets shunted off to one side. He’ll force the issue before they find out, and from four hundred miles away, he can write the after-action report any way he wants, especially if there is no one to report differently.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’ll attack.”

“Attack us with those black-uniformed goons? How many does he have at most? A hundred, maybe? They wouldn’t last an hour against what we have.”

“You know that means casualties on our side,” John replied quickly, and she looked at him and then nodded.

“Yes,” she whispered. “But I have to say the lesser of two evils. From all that you said about this ANR, if those kids go off, how many do you think will be back by Christmas as they promise? Or—let’s get realistic—how many will still be alive five years from now?”

He lifted his face from his hands. “A suggestion, Makala.”

“A suggestion? They voted for you to return as military commander during the current ‘crisis,’ as it was declared.”

“I think it best I not accept. They vote me in, I accept it, the entire town is then culpable in the eyes of Fredericks.”

“That’s what Norm Schiach said—remember, he was a lawyer once with the army, so he is up with these kinds of issues. Nevertheless, he then voted for you to resume command of military operations if Dale makes an offensive move against us. But anyhow, what is your suggestion?”

“Clear the hospital, whether you think they can be moved or not. We always looked at the old Assembly Inn up here as a fallback position as a hospital if forced into a last stand and we lost control of Black Mountain. At least Montreat is highly defendable.”

“Why?”

“Fredericks knows where the hospital is now. He has air assets. If they pull a raid on us as they did with the reivers, I want the downtown area evacuated beforehand. He lost face with not taking Burnett; I think that is where he’ll try to take us first—a night raid to snatch Burnett. Catch us by surprise and make it a show of force. He’ll argue he is not going directly against us but against a former enemy we are harboring. That divides public opinion in the town the following morning if he successfully drags Burnett and some others off. He then turns around and says the issue is settled, all is forgiven, so why fight any further. Yeah, there’ll be some casualties on our side even with that, but then he blames it on me being such a recalcitrant bastard and suggests the rest come into line as long as I give myself up for leading everyone astray.”

He paused, looking off.

“Crafty bastard,” Makala said, sitting down by John’s side. “But Maury, Ed, and others are on the same page with you regarding that. We’re already evacuating the hospital.”

He smiled. Of course they would see it clearly, acting already.

“The suggestion was made by some that you go into Asheville and make one more try.”

“What do you think?” he asked.

“You’ll be hanging from the courthouse steps ten minutes after you arrive.”

He did not reply.

“Are you honestly thinking of turning yourself in?” she cried.

“It’s crossed my mind. Strike a deal even now to reduce the draft. Once in Bluemont, see who is there—maybe some friends I knew before the war. I want to believe my old friend Bob Scales got out of D.C. alive and is out there somewhere. Even now, if I could serve with him in the regular army, I’d do so. If that was the case, I could make a difference.”

“Like hell you will. He’ll string you up in front of the courthouse as an object lesson and then break whatever agreement you made the next day. You even think of going into that city ever again while that pompous ass is in charge and I’ll have Ed lock you up. In fact, it was made clear that if you try to go to Asheville, your friends will arrest you.”

He could not reply. They were putting their lives on the line for him, and it made him decidedly uncomfortable. He sighed, shaking his head. “May I suggest, my dear, you get moving on getting the hospital cleared? It’ll take a lot of work, and we don’t have much time. I really should have suggested it earlier. I’m not officially accepting the offer to take command again, but maybe if Ed and a few others came by this evening, along with Kevin Malady and the other company commanders, we could share a few ideas.”

*   *   *

The
attack did come in precisely as John had predicted; the two Black Hawks swept in at just after three in the morning. The watch post John had suggested be pushed forward and concealed within spitting distance of the mall, which had been converted into Asheville’s helipad, had warned of the liftoff ten minutes earlier.

The two helicopters touched down, seconds apart—one in the parking lot in front of the town hall, dropping its troops and then lifting off, and the second coming in thirty seconds later with a second squad. The second chopper remained on the ground, rotors turning at idle, while the other circled. Half of the first squad stormed into the town hall, weapons raised. A number of shots were fired, and at that same instant, the phone receiver John was holding, his link to the Swannanoa road barrier, went dead.

“They shot out our phone, damn it!” John snapped.

The second squad to land spread out in a skirmish line and raced toward the hospital … and found it and the town hall empty.

John, with Maury Hurt and a couple of the members of his first company mobilized down from the college, sat concealed in an abandoned apartment above the old hardware store, which looked straight out at the hospital and town hall. At least for the moment, they tried not to laugh, though the fact that some shots were fired as the assault team stormed into the town hall told him that their orders did carry deadly intent.

The assault unit that had charged into the hospital with weapons raised came out, and even in the dark, he could sense their confusion by the way they moved. He prayed that it ended this way, that confused and cursing, they’d get aboard their chopper, lift off, and the second one that was circling would pick up the rest, and they’d be gone. Maury had argued against John’s plan, saying that if ever there was a time to capture one or maybe both of the Black Hawks, it was now. He did balk, however, at John’s repeated query about whether he was ready to gun down the troops that had landed and whether he realized that even before they could snatch it and move it, chances were the Apaches would be on top of them in retaliation.

He wanted a message sent back to Fredericks, not the first shots of a full-scale war unless Fredericks ordered it first.

The troops headed back to their helicopter. No one in the town had night-vision goggles, but in the shadows cast by an early morning waning moon, he could see that the men were confused by the results, and several stopped alongside the small public bathroom in the town square to talk.

“Come on. Get back aboard and get the hell out,” John whispered.

It was far tenser and more dangerous at this moment than the men who had come in realized. He had pulled everyone out of the town hall; it was too obvious that they might hit that first to try to take prisoners, but in the perimeter around the town hall and hospital across the street, he had over a hundred troops concealed, and they were trained killers. Survivors of the fight with the Posse and close to a score of small-scale skirmishes since—several of them with the reivers—they had stood many a cold, lonely night’s watch at the hidden locations guarding the approaches into their valley. Their weapons varied from hunting rifles to what before the war were rather illegal automatics, a number of the weapons taken from the Posse dead. He had an RPG that had been captured from the Posse; a second RPG, a homemade affair, he entrusted to his best small unit, a group of Afghan and Iraqi vets.

Their orders were strict: no one was to fire unless directly fired upon or he popped off two green flares—green because they were the only two left in the entire supply of the town. But he knew from many bitter experiences and history itself that orders were one thing, but the tension of a moment like this another. A weapon accidentally discharged by either side … someone undisciplined or even drunk and pissed off … anything could happen when you put this many armed men and women with ever deepening antipathy in close range of each other.

The rotor of the copter on the ground began speeding up, the always distinct thumping echoing across the open plaza. The troops loaded in, and it lifted off. Even as it cleared the parking lot, the second chopper came back in from the west, flared, and settled down, troops loading in. As they left the town hall, there was more gunfire, and just as the last man loaded in, the door gunner unleashed a sustained volley into the building. Then the chopper lifted off into the darkness and was gone.

John breathed a sigh of relief and then sat back to wait. A standard ruse was for an enemy to come back into the same place fifteen minutes or so later. They undoubtedly had night vision, and he did not. He would not relax until his forward scout reported that all four aircraft were back on the ground, a report that did not come back for nearly a half hour. With the telephone switchboard in the town hall apparently shot out, it was a long wait until he heard a moped puttering into the town plaza, its driver circling several times, obviously a bit confused as to where to go, until John finally leaned out the window and shouted for the driver to come over. He then received the report from the courier that all four choppers were back at their base.

He shouted for an all clear. Kevin Malady stepped into the town square and repeatedly blew a whistle. Only a few appeared out of hiding; the rest remained concealed as ordered. A paranoia John had developed while waiting for this move was that maybe Asheville had more air assets than he knew about. More could be concealed on the far side of town or even called in from Johnson City or Greenville. Bureaucracies being as they were, he knew it would take a lot of wheeling and dealing to borrow more assets, but he was not going to bet anyone’s life on that. He had passed the word that they had to assume that the sky above was now unfriendly and indeed watching.

He stepped out of the hardware store, looking up and feeling a bit naked. The first indicators of dawn were approaching as he walked up to Kevin, nodded, and shook his hand.

“Good job,” he said, and then he headed for the town hall. It was Kevin who shouted for him to stop and to not open the door, and John inwardly cursed himself. They just might be capable of setting a claymore or IED on the way out, and Kevin shouted for a couple of his Afghan vets to come and check things out first. It was a long, tense fifteen minutes, the sky to the east shifting from blackness to a wash of indigo and deep gold before the two came out and said the building was cleared, but they were grim faced, angry.

John went in and stopped at the town’s small telephone exchange.

“Son of a bitch.” The switchboard had been blown apart, at least a couple of magazine loads poured into it. They had shut down most of the town’s communications with this one wanton act of destruction, and John suddenly felt that the clock of their progress had been pushed backward.

His office had been ransacked, filing cabinets torn open, papers missing. Almost amusingly, they had taken the long-defunct computer, which had rested on a side table gathering dust.