The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (33 page)

Michael radioed a quick report to Provo, then told Jason to swing his flight around and hit them from the rear. The two Vee’s split up and dove to the attack.

Men were pouring out of a row of large tents. Michael’s wing dropped to about 4,500 feet and began dropping grenade bombs. The resulting blasts flattened the tents, tossing bodies high into the air.

Suddenly, a nearby explosion rocked Michael’s Hornet and a piece of metal buzzed past his ear like a pissed off wasp. The sky was being blown apart. His plane bucked like a rodeo bronc. Shards of shrapnel thudded into his flak suit almost knocking his breath out. He followed his instincts and dove. By the time he hit 100 feet he was well below their anti-aircraft fire, so he glanced around for Brian and Faith.

Faith was right on his tail, but Brian, who’d been flying one of the more fragile Chinooks, was nowhere in sight. Michael had no time for more than a quick look because they were in range of enemy small arms fire and bullets were tearing by uncomfortably close. The pair dove again, pulling up just twenty feet off the deck.

Twisting and weaving, they began strafing those below, tossing grenades every few seconds to allow their gun barrels to cool. Jason and his group zipped by going the other direction. Michael sent a hail of lead into an artillery emplacement and men crumpled to the ground. He followed up with a grenade. There was a huge explosion and the cannon overturned.

A pile of boxes, partially covered by a large tarp, exploded off to Michael’s left. Secondary explosions followed closely. Faith had hit an ammo dump.

Michael bounced a grenade under a tanker truck and was rewarded by an earth-shattering explosion that flattened everything within a quarter mile. The force of the blast would have slapped the ultralights out of the air if they hadn’t veered up a small ravine, sheltered by its rock walls. They darted back out of the canyon and headed downtown, dodging around trees and buildings, sowing death everywhere, tearing through the King’s camp like twin tornados. Michael had just thrown his last grenade into an anti-aircraft emplacement, when his radio blared to life.

“Wire!” Jason’s warning cry was cut off abruptly.

Faith followed him in a swift banking climb. Farther up the valley Dennis and Roy were circling, providing cover fire for Jason, who was in serious trouble. His Waco lay in ruins on the ground. Michael could see him struggling to get out of the wreckage as he and Faith closed in. Their combined firepower pinned the enemy down while Jason used his knife to hack his way free of the wire net ensnaring him. He wrenched his machine gun free of its mount, snatched some ammo belts and a satchel of grenades and ran for cover. Bulky flak suit, weapons and all, he ran like a deer. He flopped into a shallow depression, gave a thumbs up sign and started shooting.

No way Michael could fly off and leave a fighter like that behind. He rattled off a plan to the others as his machine gun hammered a mortar crew into the ground. He cut away and dumped his entire bag of tear gas canisters into a trench full of infantry who were about to mount a charge, then banked sharply, cut his speed and bumped down as close to Jason as he could.

Michael let go of his gun and started peeling off his flak suit. He glanced over at Jason and saw him doing the same. Michael pulled the securing pin and tossed his machine gun over the side. The box of unused ammo belts followed. They had to be as light as possible or his little bird would never get them off the ground. He remembered from the manual the Hornet could carry 425 pounds into the air, but the lighter they were the quicker they’d get airborne. The Hornet’s normal takeoff roll was 70 feet. With two men aboard, it would probably take more than twice as far.

In the air above them, Faith, Roy and Dennis darted about frantically, trying to kill or pin down anybody shooting at the two men on the ground. Even so the air was thick with bullets and most of them seemed to Michael like they were headed his way.

Jason burst from cover, sprinting for Michael’s plane.

“Go, buddy, go!” Michael yelled.

Halfway there, Jason stumbled. He staggered a few steps and sprawled on the grass, then raised himself on one arm and waved Michael off. Michael jumped out of his Hornet and darted to Jason’s side. One look told him Jason was hit in both legs. Bone from a compound fracture jutted through Jason’s left thigh.

“Get the hell out of here!”

“Save your breath.” Michael slung Jason over his shoulder and headed back at a run. Bullets buzzed through the tall grass around him, hitting the sandy soil and blasting pieces of gravel into his legs. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as his adrenaline kicked in and started working overtime. His eyes darted about searching for danger. He knew he was running, but it felt more like trudging.

A man rose up out of a foxhole and aimed his rifle at them. Michael’s right hand flashed in a quick-draw and the man’s head erupted as the .357 spoke. Another man popped up nearby, fired too quickly and missed. He grabbed his shoulder and spun away when Michael shot him.

As they reached the Hornet, a line of men burst from the trees on Michael’s right, screaming and firing as they ran. Somebody had ordered a charge. Michael dumped Jason into the seat, jumped in on top of him and gunned the little machine forward, emptying his pistol at the charging men as the little plane started to roll.

Suddenly, Faith dove past, raking the men with her street sweeper. They withered like dry grass in a prairie fire.

The Hornet picked up speed slowly, the 62 h.p. Kawasaki straining its guts out. Faith and the others were mostly keeping the enemy too busy to bother Michael and Jason.

After an eternity of bumping along uneven ground, Michael finally felt the little lurch that told him they were airborne. As they gained altitude and distance from the camp, he looked back. Clouds of smoke and columns of fire dotted the valley floor. Dead men littered the ground like shell casings at a shooting range. This time, the Allied Air Force had delivered a hard blow.

On the way back to their own lines, Dennis radioed he’d seen pieces of Brian’s Chinook in the trees near where Jason went down. Brian must have taken a direct hit from enemy anti-aircraft fire. Michael hoped someone else would take up the dream of revitalizing the paper industry.

Jason, who had passed out when Michael threw him into the plane, came to and began squirming around underneath Michael trying to plug the holes in his legs. It made controlling the Hornet difficult.

“If you don’t stop that damn wiggling, I’m gonna ask you to get out and walk,” Michael said.

“I’m bleeding,” Jason complained.

“Poor baby,” Michael shot back. “They didn’t hit an artery so you won’t bleed to death before we get behind our own lines.”

“Jesus! See if I ever hitch a ride with you again,” Jason griped as he poked his head out from behind Michael and grinned up at him. “Seriously, man, could you shift your butt off of my broke leg?”

Jason’s grayish pallor and the sheen of sweat on his forehead spoke volumes. Michael gently eased his weight over onto Jason’s other leg.

“Sorry,” he apologized. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted anyone sitting on his leg when it was broken.

“Hey man, no problem,” Jason gasped, his grin weak and sickly. “Weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be around to bitch about it.”

“What happened to you back there?”

“I was down on the deck strafing when this big damn net shot up in front of me too close to avoid.”

Only his low altitude and the strength of the Waco’s frame kept him from dying in the crash.

After getting Jason to the hospital, Michael went to Bob Young’s office to report about the air strike. When he arrived, it looked like someone had stepped on an anthill. Adam Young was there. He’d pulled most of his guerrilla forces back inside the defense perimeter.

But the big news, as far as Michael was concerned, was a satellite communications link with the Freeholds had been established. He could call Ellen!

After briefing Adam and Bob about the mission, Michael sped over to the A.T.&T. building, where, after practically having to shoot Martin Dinelli (who jealously guarded access to the transceiver) Michael talked to Ellen for almost an hour. He floated from the building wearing a “happy-face” smile, even though Ellen spent part of their phone time crying.

*

Luna City

Commander Clark Kent barged into General Alice Anderson’s office without knocking.

“You aren’t going to believe this,” he said as she looked up in surprise. “Someone in Utah just pinged a communications satellite and they’re using it to make radio phone calls to people in Colorado and California.”

Alice looked up from her laptop. His smile and the bounce in his step conveyed plainer than words how he felt about the news, but...

“It’s not that Cannibal King from California, is it?” Reports had come in from rotating crews on the ISS that the King had invaded Utah.

“No, it’s from the folks in Provo who are fighting him,” Commander Kent said. “The main thing is we can take an Aurora over to the Comsat and talk to them.”

General Anderson frowned, closed her laptop and brushed her hair back behind her ears.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said.

Commander Kent cocked his head and knitted his brows as he considered why she’d think it wasn’t a good idea. Then his expression cleared.

“You don’t want the King to find out we’re up here,” he said.

Her lips twitched in a quick smile. He’d always been quick on the uptake.

“If we call them, he’ll find out and the fact we’re up here, equipped with modern technology, will get out,” she added.

Clark shrugged. “So?” Now he was playing Devil’s advocate and she knew it.

“So there may be missiles down there that can reach us and he’s nuts enough to use them.”

“You really think any silos survived?”

“Do you think we should take that chance?”

“Well, I’d like to let those folks in Utah know they aren’t alone--and get some first-hand accounts on what it’s really like down there.”

“So would I,” she said. “But is that worth risking all our lives? Besides, they are alone. There’s nothing we can do for them. It’s not like we can help them if they need it.”

He shook his head and said, “But it takes more than missiles. They’d need a properly trained launch crew, someone who can do ballistic calculations...”

She cut him off. “Have you seen how he’s rebuilding roads, hydroelectric power stations and waste water plants? He has cities lit up all over his realm.

“Hell, if it wasn’t for his cannibalistic orgies and using slave labor, I’d say he was doing good work. My point being, if he can do those things he has people who can launch at us.”

Commander Kent took a moment to think, then said, “I think Leila was right when she said they already know about us. Anyone with a telescope can see us moving from the moon to the ISS and back.”

“And as I’ve said before, I agree with you. But knowing we’re up here and actually talking to us...” She shrugged. “Two different things. I think it’s best we keep our distance for now.”

*

The Freeholds Observatory on Farnum Peak

A cool breeze rustled aspen leaves and pine tree branches. Overhead, the Milky Way glowed like white stripe across a jeweled sky. One of the jewels was moving.

Raoul Garcia pressed the plunger on the camera repeatedly as the eight-inch Celestron telescope tracked the ISS across the sky. He’d seen something rendezvous with the ISS on several occasions now, stay for a few days, then leave.

“Is it them?” Elizabeth Town and Leona Perry asked in unison. They were bundled up against the evening chill. Liz in a neon green North Face ski parka and Leona in a dark brown, hooded, wool overcoat. Their faces glowed in the starlight and their eyes gleamed in anticipation.

Raoul had reminded them about the Genesis project, but he’d held out little hope the astronauts had survived.

“It’s definitely the ISS, but it’s orbiting slower than I remembered.” He snapped his fingers. “Of course! They had to move to a higher orbital track to escape debris from The Impact.”

“So, it is them,” Leona repeated.

“Well, I seriously doubt it’s little green men; though how they managed to survive up there all these years is beyond me.”

“We shipped them up tons of supplies,” Liz said. “I remember watching launches on TV and wishing I could stow away and join them.”

“Yes, well, supplies are one thing but living this long in zero gee – no one thought it was possible.”

“Then either everyone was wrong, or they aren’t living in zero gee,” Leona said.

They all looked at each other, eyes wide and exclaimed, “The moon!”

On the way back down the mountain Raoul decided he needed to somehow set up communications with the astronauts. They could be the key to saving the world when Havoc’s Twin returned.

Chapter 31: The Fiddler Plays No More

Ellen Whitebear strode along the path that led from the new Radio Shack to her home. Her eyes were still red and puffy from the tears she’d just shed, but her smile lit up the whole valley.

Michael was alive!

She’d heard the sound of his voice. Thank God!

Ever since Steven saw that terrible vision more than a week ago, she’d feared he was dead. That monstrous man, choking the life... She shuddered. Then her joy dispelled the horror.

He was safe! Her man was alive and safe!

She had to tell Steven. Though she felt he already knew. Her son had approached her the day after the vision. He told her Minowayuh had come to him in a dream, showing him a different vision, this one of a huge white bear standing atop a fallen giant. Steven said it clearly meant “Dad” had survived. Ellen envied him the strength of his conviction. She, herself, had been up crying all night.

When he’d seemed a bit subdued, Ellen had asked him what else he’d seen. Her big, strong, almost-a-man, son had cried when he told her he thought Minowayuh was dead.

Ellen had wanted desperately to believe that Michael was alive but Steven’s vision had haunted her, denying her peace of mind, tormenting her.

“I always felt I’d know it, if he died,” Ellen muttered to herself, “But I never thought my son would see it happening. God, that was awful.”

She shook her head and skipped a couple of steps, happier than a schoolgirl bringing home a report card full of A’s. Her man was alive!

The only thing that took a slight edge off her happiness was Michael’s warning that there was definitely a spy in the Freeholds. Well, she’d been expecting that since the War Council. She had already drawn up a list of people who stayed on after the Council. She decided she’d have to add the names of every newcomer for the past two years. Those names would be a good place to start the investigation, but she realized she couldn’t automatically exclude Freeholders who’d been around for years. Not everyone was happy with the way she ran things, though her political opponents had kept a low profile since her popularity rocketed after the raid on the Freeholds.

Her smile slipped slightly as she considered another urgent priority. Since Michael had told her the King knew the Garcias were in the Freeholds, she had to send someone to warn Jim Cantrell and Sara. Ellen decided she would go herself, after she told Raoul.

*

“How much Goddamned longer do I have to wait?” Prince John screamed into the microphone. “Those bastards are killing me with their pissant ultralights while my air force is being assembled by a bunch of butterfingered numb-nuts!”

“Try asking your brother!” Jamal Rashid snapped back. He normally wasn’t so brave, but dammit, the delay wasn’t his fault. Anthony’s men unloaded the crates containing the aircraft and stored them in secret locations all over the damned town. Then Anthony and seven of his key people had disappeared. And they were the only ones who knew where all the crates were located. Just finding those crates had taken Jamal almost two weeks. And now John was jumping down his neck because the planes weren’t in the air. It just wasn’t fair!

On the other end of the connection, in Payson, John was taken aback by Jamal’s tone. It was a rare thing when the skinny little bastard stood up for himself. And while John would usually kill anyone who was so insubordinate, Jamal was one of his father’s favorites. John reminded himself the man could also be dangerous. He took a deep breath, biting off the angry curses he almost showered on Jamal, deciding to placate the man for now.

“It’s okay, Jamal,” he said, for once forbearing the use of the nickname the man obviously hated. “I didn’t mean to blame you. But build a fire under some asses down there in Nephi. I need those planes.”

“Yes, Sire,” Jamal replied stiffly.

As John replaced the microphone, he wondered where the hell his brother was.

*

Ken Bilardi was in serious trouble. He lay unmoving at the bottom of a ravine where the rockslide had carried him. He could turn his head, but try as he might couldn’t move his arms or legs and he didn’t know if they were just pinned under the rocks or if his back... There was no real pain and it would hurt if his back was broken, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?

His mind veered away from that line of thought. He strained with all his might and will, but couldn’t move or feel anything. Not a finger. Not a toe. How was he going to get out of this? How was he going to deliver his information to Provo?

His eyes followed the line of shadow down the shale and limestone wall as the sun rose higher in the sky. Soon it would be on his face, drying him out, warming the rocks, increasing the terrible thirst building within. Water!

His imagination, always too active, took over. Visions of dried, cracked, raisin-burned skin and seeping sun-scalds filled his mind. Already his tongue was beginning to swell. This is not how he would have chosen to die. He hoped Jacques would take good care of his fiddle.

Two days later he opened his mouth to life-giving rain. Blessed water, that soothed his thirst, cooled his crisped skin and the scorching rocks that made the bottom of the ravine an oven out of hell. Cruel water, that dazzled him with hope, then betrayed that hope as runoff trickled and swelled and lapped at his chin. Damned water, that replaced the torment of dying of thirst with the fear of drowning.

He thought he was hallucinating when first one man, then others, slid down into the ravine and began digging him out. Tears filled his eyes and he swallowed convulsively. He tried to think of something he could say to convey his gratitude. Then the hallucination became a nightmare when his eyes finally focused on their brown uniforms.