The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (32 page)

“Alice,” Ludmilla said. She laid a hand on the General’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “We know you’re doing everything you can, but you’re talking about facts and this is an emotional issue.”

Alice raised her eyebrows and Christine said, “Most of us spend a lot of time at Li Chin elementary school teaching the children, surrounded by them. The youngest ones buoy us up with their laughter and energy, but the eldest are rapidly approaching puberty. If you think you have a problem now wait ‘til the hormone bombs start popping.”

That comment brought smiles in spite of the severity of the situation.

Chapter 30: Air Raid

The King had been broadcasting propaganda over a small portable A.M. radio station he’d rebuilt in Nephi. The messages were all pretty much the same. “Resistance is useless. We are better armed, better trained and much more numerous. A New Order is rising. Surrender now and you will join a great Empire whose subjects enjoy running water, electrical power, garbage collection and free medical care. Fight and you will all die!”

That kind of drivel was amusing, in an annoying sort of way, the more so because the station dubbed itself K.I.N.G. Most of the pilots listened in whenever they could because the enemy had taken to broadcasting Troubled Land Band concerts live and everyone enjoyed their music, even though Denise Lachelle was getting a reputation as the Tokyo Rose of Utah.

The Band’s last radio concert had consisted exclusively of several old Jefferson Airplane tunes, making Michael wonder if Jacques and Denise were trying to send a message. The Kirkwells, up in the hot air balloon, were instructed to be especially watchful for enemy aircraft.

The weather had settled into a pattern the locals called seasonal: clear mornings with afternoon and evening showers, which limited the ultralights to just a few hours flying time a day.

For the past week, attacks on Provo’s outlying defenses had been escalating. The King had moved almost ten thousand of his troops up from Nephi to Payson, where they’d forted up and from where they’d been giving Provo considerable grief, including lobbing a few random howitzer shells into the city. It certainly wasn’t a full-scale artillery barrage, but the occasional lucky hit made it more than just an annoyance.

Bob Young decided it was time to make the King’s Army feel welcome, so Michael and Jason planned a sortie and the Air Force flew out in their ultralights and strafed and bombed the camp. For bombs they pulled the pins from hand grenades then carefully inserted them inside mason jars. Drop the jar. The jar breaks, releasing the safety lever. Three seconds later, BOOM!

These worked well against fuel and ammo depots, but weren’t so hot against dug-in troops; when a grenade explodes on the ground, most of the force of the explosion is directed up and out. So for troops in foxholes and trenches, the flyers pulled the pins and dropped the grenades without jars from an altitude of about two hundred fifty feet. The grenades would blow about twenty feet off the ground, driving shrapnel down into the enemy’s foxholes and trenches. Of course, it was a bit hairy flying that low and slow with everybody in the world shooting at them, but they managed to hurt the enemy without losing any planes or flyers.

The following morning on K.I.N.G., there was a message for the pilots.

“Congratulations on your ingenious air force,” it began. “Such ingenuity deserves a reward. Your fearless flyers are invited to try again.”

It didn’t take long for Jason and Michael to agree on an appropriate response, but when Michael first went to Bob Young with a proposal to accept the challenge, Bob looked at him like he was nuts.

“Michael, we’ve only got six of those little planes and too few pilots to waste them on kids’ games,” he said, thinking, this is exactly the sort of stunt Adam warned me you might want to try.

“Yeah, but if they’ve come up with an effective counter to our aircraft…, well, Bob, we’re better off finding out now than during their main offensive,” Michael said.

Bob said, “I can see your point. I just think it’s too risky.”

The strain of the past several months showed clearly in his hollow eyes and drawn countenance.

“But it’s a risk we have to take,” Michael continued. “We know they have tanks and other armor, howitzers and light field guns. My God, we even know they have ultralights and some other aircraft-but we don’t know what kind of planes they have, or if they have some other defense against air strikes.”

Michael paused for a moment, watching Bob shake his head. It occurred to Michael that maybe Bob was thinking he’d already sent too many men and women out to die. He didn’t look like he’d been sleeping very well.

“C’mon, Bob, that’s not something we can afford to be guessing about when they start rolling those tanks at us.”

“I’m really starting to hate this, Michael,” Bob said with a haunted look in his eyes. “I mean I’ve been in fights before. God, everybody who survived The Dying Time has fought battles. But this is my first war.”

Bob shifted his chair around so he could look at the battle map that hung on the wall of his office. Michael moved around beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Back during the Vietnam War I was a student in college,” Bob said, gesturing at a globe. “Adam was already over there fighting, making a name for himself. Mom and Dad told me to stay in school. ‘One hero is enough for any family,’ they said. So I stayed here, nice and safe and eventually, I joined the protesters.” He paused and swallowed, trying to contain his emotions. His eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“You weren’t the only one, Bob.” Michael spoke softly. “Besides, that was a rotten war fought the wrong way. We knew better by the time Gulf wars one and two rolled around.”

“That’s what Adam told me...” Bob’s voice faded out, then came back a little stronger. “Anyway, there I was, a long-haired, brain-washed, slogan-shouting pacifist when Adam came home.”

He turned his head away from Michael, eyes downcast. “My friends, people I went to school with, called him a baby killer and a murderer. And I was ashamed to admit he was my brother.”

He took a deep breath and got hold of himself. “It was years before we could talk about it and heal the rift between us. I got elected Mayor of Provo and he continued his military career. But then came The Dying Time and there was Adam, teaching us all to be soldiers so we could survive. Defending us against raiders and other murderers until we could defend ourselves.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve spent the better part of the past twelve years fighting to protect my family and my community. And just when things were starting to settle down, when we could think about rebuilding a decent society, this son-of-a-bitch from California launched an attack that killed my children.”

The heat in Bob’s voice fell on sympathetic ears. His back straightened and his head came up.

“I let Adam down once and I swore to myself I’d never do it again. He told me, ‘Bob, you don’t let’em into Provo till it’s time.’ And by God I won’t.”

There was fire shining from his eyes and he looked more like the leader Michael had come to know and respect. Bob stood up and offered Michael his hand.

“Sorry I dumped on you like that.”

Michael shook Bob’s hand, appreciating that the man’s grip felt firm and steady.

“Anytime, Bob.”

The two men walked outside. Bob looked south, towards the enemy.

“Punish them,” he said with conviction, smacking his fist and palm together. “Hit them hard! Hard enough to buy us some more time.”

“We’ll do our best.” Michael turned to go.

“And Michael,” Bob added, stopping Michael before he walked away, “Take the tear gas with you this time. If they have a surprise waiting, it might come in handy.”

Michael nodded in agreement. He’d left the gas behind the day before because he wanted to save it until the King attacked in force. No sense wasting all the surprises, but Bob was right about taking it along this time and the way he put it was more of an order than a suggestion. Michael mounted his horse and headed back to the airstrip.

Able had been busy again. All the ultralights now sported “new” 720 channel VHF radios to facilitate air-to-air and air-to-ground communications.

He looked up as Michael walked into the hangar. “We going after them?”

“Damn right!” Michael said.

“Then we might just find a good use for these,” he said, gesturing toward a pile of flak suits that lay in a corner of the hangar.

“Where in the...”

“Courtesy of Daniel Windwalker and a burned out Utah Air National Guard Base,” Able interrupted. “Just got here about thirty minutes before you did.”

Michael checked the position of the sun. Afternoon clouds hadn’t started building yet and the sun was almost directly overhead, which was where he wanted it during the attack. Nothing like having to squint into the sun on a bright, clear, windless day to spoil a man’s aim.

“When we leaving?” Able asked.

“As soon as we get suited up,” Michael said, pointing toward the flak jackets. “Only, Able...” This was going to be difficult.

“What now?”

“I need you to stay here and look after the planes. You’re the...”

“only aircraft mechanic we have,” Able finished for Michael. “Hell, Michael, don’t you think I’ve already figured that out? I lost my family, not my mind!”

Michael opened his mouth, but Able started talking again before he could speak.

“You don’t have to say anything. I know I’m the only one who can keep our planes flying. And I know the longer I can keep’em flying the more of those... those...,” his voice shook with emotion as he struggled to find a word strong enough to condemn them with, “murderers you can kill.” He paused for a second and pointed a finger at Michael for emphasis. “I’m going to keep’em flying a long time.

“But Michael,” his eyes grew hard, his voice cold, “understand this. When they launch their main attack on us, I’m flying. I don’t care if it’s in a crop duster or an ultralight, or tied to someone’s wing. I’m flying.”

With that off his chest, Able turned and stalked off.

*

Twenty minutes later, Michael and five other pilots were headed for the enemy lines. As they flew over their own positions, Michael was amazed at how much work had been completed since he arrived.

Trenches had been dug and breastworks thrown up along the predicted paths of enemy advance. The enemy’s most likely line of attack would be straight up the valley from Payson. That meant crossing the now-combined flow of the Spanish Forks and Green Rivers. Provo’s first line of defense was established there and enemy artillery fire had already detonated almost half of the mines laid along the Provo side of the river. Machine gun nests connected by trenches and supported by infantry faced the river. Deep pits, lined with stakes and well camouflaged, were constructed to trap vehicles or cavalry. The two light field pieces were emplaced and had been ranged up and down the valley. They, along with a few mortars and three M102 Howitzers, were all the artillery the Deseret Defense Force could muster.

People working below waved their arms and cheered as the pilots flew by.

The flyers climbed to 10,000 feet and headed south in a double Vee formation with Michael and Jason at point. Michael’s wing consisted of Brian Adams, a scholarly looking “kid” in his early thirties whose ambition was to rebuild a paper mill--because, as he put it, “No paper, no civilization,”-and twenty-eight-year-old Faith Gilcrest, a tall brunette who seemed to have a touch of Amelia Earheart in her. Back in the golden days, Faith had earned her pilot’s license when she was only twelve years old, then proceeded to fly solo around the world. She was the only person Michael had ever met whose name was in Guiness. She was already making plans for a long range aerial reconnaissance of the new world, after the Allies “took care of the King.”

Jason had Roy Thomas, a former dealer from Las Vegas, on his left and Dennis White, a journeyman plumber, on his right. Roy and Dennis could have been brothers. Both were six feet tall with thinning brown hair, brown eyes, prominent noses and bushy, graying beards. Both were of medium build and from any distance farther than ten feet, it was hard to tell them apart.

The new flak suits were stiff and hot and the breeze from flying was a relief. Wooded hillsides and canyons rolled by on the left while off to the right they could see the sheer drop of The Fault.

The Fault was one of the more spectacular features of post-Impact geography. If viewed from below (west looking east) it was a six thousand foot tall cliff. From the other perspective, on top, it was like coming to the end of the world, a seemingly endless drop into the Gulf of California (which had inundated most of western Utah and eastern Nevada when it merged with the Great Salt Lake).

The Fault started up near Pocatello Idaho and ran for God only knew how far south and west. There were places, even in Utah, where the Fault dropped down to sea level, but for the most part it remained a sheer precipice, more than a mile high. In addition to providing an awe inspiring view, The Fault protected Provo’s right flank.

Deer and elk were nowhere to be seen and Michael realized the number of men massing for the attack had forced the animals to flee. A glint of light caught Michael’s eye from a low peak off to the east: the sun reflecting off a lens. Jason saw it, too. They notified the others the enemy knew they were coming.

A few minutes later, they were over the largest encampment Michael had ever seen. It wound along the Juab Valley from Payson to Santaquin. Thousands and thousands of men and tons of equipment dotted the valley floor. Either the light had been far too poor the evening before for Michael to see all of this, or the King had tripled the size of the camp in just one day. Of course, Michael and the other pilots had been too busy dodging bullets the night before to do much sightseeing.