One Year After: A Novel (20 page)

“You seem to hear a lot,” John replied.

Dale shrugged. “It’s my job.” There was something about the way he said it, but John let it pass. “It’s a nice asset, John. I’d really like to have access to it at times.”

“You’ll have to take that up with the town council. I’m stepping back from those types of decisions.”

“Oh, of course, but please do mention it to them at the next meeting.”

“I’ll do that.”

Dale stood up, smiled, and extended his hand. “Can I make an official announcement of your decision to serve?”

“For the moment, Dale, let’s just hold on that. I still have to clear it with my family and the town council. So can you ride with that for several days?”

“Of course, John—or should I say General Matherson?”

John did not reply to Dale pinning the title of rank on him before he had officially signed. He sensed the purpose of their meeting was at an end and stood up.

They shook hands. John turned to leave, looked down at the glass with the ounce of scotch still in it, and with “talking turkey” done, he gladly downed the second ounce.

“You can take the bottle along if you want, John.”

John smiled and shook his head. “Wouldn’t think of it. Some people see that and they’ll think it’s a bribe.”

“Okay then. Let’s plan on meeting the middle of next week for an update. Before I forget, I was really impressed with the work your people have been doing with the phone and electrical systems. Could you ask those overseeing the work if they’d mind if they’d come see me and perhaps lend some advice for operations here in Asheville?”

“Will do.”

He was out the door and surprised to see Makala sitting in the dim light of the lobby, head bowed, nearly asleep.

“Come on, sweetheart, wake up.”

She stood up with a start, smiled, and leaned up to kiss him. “What in the hell have you been drinking?” she asked sharply.

“A scotch.”

“He actually had scotch, real scotch?”

He merely nodded. She was silent as they went for the main exit.

“Do you need to pick up your pistol on the way out?” John whispered.

“As if I’d actually obey that one? You are kidding, aren’t you?”

They went to the car, parked outside in the darkness, not commenting to the uniformed guards, who did not acknowledge their passing.

“You still have a concussion and have been drinking, so I’ll drive,” Makala announced, opening the door for him over his objections.

They drove in silence, John scanning intently, shotgun on his lap and pistol by his side, not relaxing until they reached the roadblock into their own territory near Exit 59. Once cleared, he finally relaxed.

“So what happened?” Makala asked.

“I took the job. I felt I had to.”

Not another word was exchanged during the long ride home. And for several hours after they slipped into the house, with Elizabeth, Ben, and Jen fast asleep, John sat alone in the garden by Jennifer’s grave. When he finally went to bed, Makala was asleep, as well.

CHAPTER NINE

DAY 743

This is BBC News. It is 3:00 a.m., Greenwich War Time.

In a surprise move that is triggering comment around the world, the United States administration in Bluemont, Virginia, just announced less than an hour ago that it will release an undisclosed number of tactical nuclear weapons, commonly known as neutron bombs, for use against, and I quote, “indigenous groups in rebellion against the authority of the federal government within the continental United States.” The government official went on to explain that such weapons are in no way intended as a threat or, and I again quote, “a counterforce threat against other nations currently engaged in aiding our civilian population or occupying territory within the United States,” end quote. The announcement stated that if used, such weapons will only be employed east of the Continental Divide and north of the Red River, thereby sending a clear signal to the governments of China and Mexico that such weapons are not intended as a threat against their forces on American soil.

It was also reported today by Radio Free Canada that the American federal forces known as the ANR were dealt a serious setback in Chicago with the reported annihilation of a full battalion of troops, with several hundred taken prisoner by one of the groups in rebellion in that city occupying the downtown area. There is no word yet as to their fate.

Later in this program, we’ll have a panel of experts joining us to discuss the nature of these weapons and the political ramifications of this announcement. Colonel Peter Ramsey, professor of strategic warfare studies at Sandhurst, was reached by this reporter for clarification as to the nature and use of so-called neutron bombs. He explained that they are low-yield nuclear weapons developed during the 1970s for tactical battlefield use and are by no means to be confused with the type of weapons used two years ago to trigger electromagnetic pulses. A neutron bomb is designed, at the instant of detonation, to release a highly lethal dose of radiation out to a very limited distance but with a very low blast area, damaging buildings only within several hundred yards of the point of detonation. The high radiation yield, however, can kill out to a mile or more, often within minutes. It is a weapon designed to kill but not physically destroy urban areas, and the federal government is threatening to use them in light of its frustration in suppressing rebellions in nearly every major city.

This now for our friends in Budapest and Prague: “The languid sobs of the violin wound my heart deeply.” I repeat, “The languid sobs of the violin wound my heart deeply.”

*   *   *

As
John parked in front of the town hall, he dwelled on the fact that he had an appointment to see Doc Weiderman and finally get the tooth out—that and the word phoned in by Ernie Franklin, who claimed to have heard a BBC report regarding something about the feds announcing they were going to release tactical nukes for use inside the continental United States. There had been plenty of rumors over the last two years about further use of nukes, and indeed, in the days after the attack, North Korea and Iran had been blanketed in retaliation, while India and Pakistan finally escalated over the edge, and most of their major cities were gone, as well. But here, against ourselves? Insanity. It had to be a rumor.

Before he even managed to get out of his car, Ed was out of the office, running to meet him. “John, we’ve been trying to find you for the last twenty minutes. Where the hell have you been?”

“Do I have to report in every time I stop to go to the bathroom and walk around for a few minutes before coming in?” He didn’t add that he had stalled for a few minutes just inside the Montreat gate, nerving himself for the dental visit.

“Don’t you hear it?” Ed shouted.

“Hear what?”

“That!” Ed pointed up toward the Mount Mitchell range.

Damn it, not another raid.
John cocked his head but heard nothing. “Perhaps I’m not over the concussion yet, but I don’t hear a damn thing.”

Ed stood silent, turning to face the mountain, and John saw a crowd gathered where street traders had set up their booths down on State Street for the twice-weekly market, looking up toward their beloved peak, several pointing excitedly.

“There it is again!” Ed cried, but John heard nothing. “An Apache—and it’s shooting the crap out of something!”

“What?”

“Started about a half hour ago. I think they’re hitting the reivers up along Craggy Pass.”

John gazed at the mountain for a moment and finally caught a glimpse of a helicopter soaring up sharply over the pass and then turning to dive back down the far slope, disappearing from sight.

“Call Billy Tyndall now,” John snapped. “I want the plane ready to go immediately.”

“John?”

“Ed, just please do it; I’ll explain later. And once that’s done, I want you to go down to the big flagpole at the car dealership. Find three American flags and run them up the pole, one above the other.”

“What?”

He repeated the order, falling back into the older routine of making decisions quickly, passing the order, and expecting it to be done without debate.

“Ed, just please do it.”

He drove the half mile down to the hangar, which was open, fortunately with Billy already running through a preflight check.

John jumped out of his car. “Can you take me up now? I mean right now?”

“Sure, John, but what’s the rush?”

“Get me up over Mount Mitchell. I want to see what the hell is going on over there.”

Billy looked out the hangar door, his eyes going a bit wide. “It’s a bit gusty out there. Turbulence over the mountain can get wicked for a small plane like this.”

“You telling me it’s unsafe?”

Billy hesitated. “How serious is this, John?”

“Could be damn serious.”

“Okay, we’ll go, but grab a barf bag out of the back well before we go up, because you’re going to need it.”

Billy called for Danny to help throw the prop as the two climbed in. Billy ran down the short checklist, shouting for Danny that mags were hot and to clear prop, and seconds later, they were taxiing across the Ingrams’ parking lot, down a short stretch of Main Street, which was kept well clear for passage of the plane, and then up the exit ramp. Billy stopped for moment to check mags again and to be sure that John was strapped in with seat belt tight, and then he throttled up. John could hear him muttering curses over the headset as they rolled far past where he had lifted off on their first test flight.

“How much do you weigh, John?” Billy shouted. “I should’ve asked that before we took off.”

“One eighty-five.”

“Ah shit. Okay, just hang on.”

They rolled another five hundred feet before the ground started to drop away, climbing slowly, and once above the trees flanking the interstate, Billy gently banked the plane to almost due north.

“You’re my first passenger in this plane, John. I’d prefer somebody lighter for that.”

“You want to back out of this?”

He knew it was the wrong way to ask the question; it came out as a challenge to play chicken rather than an offer to follow Billy’s best judgment.
Dumb thing for a commander to do at such a moment,
John thought, but as he looked over Billy’s shoulder, he caught another glimpse of a helicopter, this one a Black Hawk sweeping low above the old Blue Ridge Parkway, flaring and settling to land.

The plane bounced as they passed Allen Mountain to their right, the turbulence catching John by surprise. As an officer in the army, he had spent hundreds of hours in choppers, but this was actually his first flight in a small aircraft like this since childhood, and he was beginning to regret his rash decision to take a personal look. But he was committed now.

“Look, Billy, if you think the turbulence is outside what this old bird can handle, turn back at your discretion.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a bit of a chuckle. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. We’ll have to circle a few times; with you in the backseat, climb rate is only several hundred feet a minute, and it’s nearly five thousand feet straight up.”

Fifteen minutes later, by the time Billy had completed the second full turn, circling over the North Fork Reservoir, John was firmly clutching the barf bag and wiping the sweat from his brow. He knew he was about to let go, but at least the air at six thousand feet was actually chilly this morning, which helped a bit. Coming out of the long, sweeping turn, Billy announced they were just above the level of Craggy Gap but that he’d like to get another five hundred feet altitude before venturing closer. The turbulence was indeed bad, and John could sense Billy tensing up with each sideways, up-and-down jolt from unseen winds that rattled the plane, at one point lifting John out of his seat and then slamming him back down a second later.

“Well, we’re certainly shaking out the G stress-load testing for real,” Billy gasped after one hammer-like shock. “Just did it with sandbags piled up on the wings when on the ground before. Guess we’ll find out for real if that replacement wing will fold up.”

“Thanks for sharing that,” John gasped, as he sealed up the barf bag he had just used.

They were running a mile or so south of the gap, and John could clearly see black-clad troops on the ground along the parkway, the helicopter that had carried them lifting off and heading back toward Asheville.

There were people on the ground other than the ones in black uniforms, half a dozen at least, and as they flew closer, John could see they were down, not moving, and then the realization hit. They were dead.

“Damn it,” John whispered.

“What? Reivers? So what?” Billy responded in the casual tone of someone who had seen bodies and fighting before. For that matter, all of them down to four years old had seen bodies lying prone and motionless like that, twisted up into impossible contortions with blood pooling out beneath them. The troops on the ground, a team of eight from the looks of it, gazed up at them, one of them raising a weapon to his shoulder and pointing it in their direction.

“Don’t shoot, damn you,” Billy said, and a second later, he nearly stood the plane on its starboard wing, in an evasive turn, zigzagging back and forth.

Someone was by the side of the man who had raised the gun, motioning at the plane. The weapon was half lowered but still poised toward them.

“Go over the gap, down there!” John shouted, pointing to the north-side slope of Mount Mitchell where, half a dozen miles away, the two Apache helicopters were circling in a long oval pattern, lifting up at one end in a near-vertical turn, coming about, and then sweeping back down.

“They’re shooting the crap out of something down there,” Billy announced and pointed, but John did not need to be told. He could see the trail of gun smoke streaming aft of the helicopter. He had seen it often in their mad rush into Iraq during Desert Storm, driving past the twisted, torn wreckage of a convoy of Iraqi vehicles, bodies within cut to shreds by the deadly twenty-millimeter rounds of the chin turret and side-mounted miniguns.