Holding Their Own: The Salt War (9 page)

It was almost two minutes before suitable terrain came into view. There was a cluster of trees ahead; four or five good-sized pines huddled together at the top of a slight ridge. He’d have cover, concealment, and the high ground. Another quick glance over his shoulder told the ex-Green Beret that no one was right on his heels.

His body celebrated the end of the run, tingling zips of recovery expanding through his limbs as he dove prone into a nest of trunks, pine needs, and low vegetation.

His M4 was equipped with a magnifying optic. He quickly dialed in the highest zoom level and began scanning for pursuit. He didn’t have to wait long.

A flush of disappointment blew through the big man’s mind, a tinge of embarrassment that the three men emerging from the forest didn’t seem to be struggling to keep up with his pace. “I’m spending too much time in a chair,” he thought, noting that his antagonists weren’t even breathing hard.

As the trio approached, Nick experienced a minor ego boost – they were young. The oldest of the trio was probably 20 years old… tops.
Old age sucks,
he thought.
Just my luck I’d run into the local track team.
  

And they weren’t unskilled.

Nick watched as the three entered a less-dense section of the forest, either instinct, training, or leadership making them spread apart and maintain a respectable amount of spacing. The lead man held his rifle high and ready, the following duo moving off to shore-up his flank.
This isn’t going to be easy,
he considered.

Their body language indicated they were listening, standing stock-still with heads tilted, probing the woods for audible sign of their prey’s scurrying footfalls. “I’m not running anymore,” Nick grinned, watching his pursuers exchange puzzled glances. “Where did I go?”        

Acknowledging that he wasn’t going to outrun the three sets of younger legs left only one option. He’d have to discourage their pursuit.

There was a checklist engrained in Nick’s mind – a sequence of steps to be executed before engaging any foe. He scanned the circle of his perimeter, verifying he wasn’t being cut off or flanked. Next, he plotted his egress, making sure he knew exactly where to run. When he opened up with the carbine, it was going to send a loud, definite invitation to anyone in the area, and he didn’t want to hang around to see how many showed up for the party.

For a moment, he pined for a noise-canceled weapon. He’d used what most people called a “silencer” on multiple continents, but the application of such technology was limited. Canned rifles required sub-sonic ammunition to optimize the sound reduction, and that meant far less range and stopping power – a great option for close quarters black ops, but not the best for fighting on open ground.

Next came the most critical decision, a choice he wanted to finalize now, rather than trying to make up his mind when the lead was flying. How long would he engage before breaking contact and heading off?

The list of prerequisites was processed in mere moments, a lifetime of training, discipline, and experience allowing cool calculations and mechanical execution. His analysis became robotic.

Distance to target?
210 meters
.

Wind?
Calm.

Bullet drop?
Two inches.

First target?
The leader, of course.

He centered the red circle of his optic on the man’s thigh, applied a fingernail’s worth of digit to the trigger… and gently increased the pressure.

The 5.56 NATO carbine barked, a gentle, familiar shove against Nick’s shoulder. He knew the rifle’s muzzle would be pushed high and right by the recoil – naturally moving into the next target.

As anticipated, the men on his tail hesitated for just a second, the human startle reflex overriding conscious mental thought. It didn’t last long, but it was enough.

Nick’s second shot was on the way just as his foes began to recover from the surprise. The man’s head started to turn, but his body hadn’t moved. The 64-grain bullet slammed into his leg at over 3,000 feet per second.

Striking bone, the soft-nosed projectile fragmented into a dozen pieces, each tearing flesh and sinew as it tore through the victim’s limb. Two of the larger hunks of burning lead headed higher, shredding tissue before exiting the buttock.

The third target reacted quickly, diving for the ground as he watched both of his comrades fall. Luck was with the young hunter, a clump of grass and dead wood blocking Nick’s line of sight. By the time the lone survivor had recovered enough of his wits to check on his friends, Nick was moving.

He could have easily killed with the first two shots, but sending dead young men back to their mothers wasn’t what the Alliance was all about. That aside, Nick’s mercy wasn’t primarily due to the tracker’s youth. While he judged them to be only 17-20ish, that was obviously old enough to carry a rifle and hunt men.
I’ve had much younger combatants try to kill me on battlefields all over the planet,
he thought
.

No, Nick intentionally sought merely to disable for tactical reasons. A wounded man drained resources from the enemy. Injuries required assets for care and transportation, and ultimately, they result in almost as much discord and grief as a death. For weeks, healthcare would have to be administrated, including feeding, bathing, changing bandages, and checking for infection. Over time, the adversary would pay a much higher price for a hospital bed than a grave.      

Most men would have broken contact and moved off, content with removing two out of three complications from their lives. Not Nick. Not today. Not on this mission.

While his friends withered and moaned in pain, the unharmed pursuer belly crawled toward his leader, calling out his friend’s name. The downed body of a comrade was within reach just as Nick’s charging bulk enveloped the kid’s line of sight.

Already near panic, the young man’s eyes opened wide with terror as he realized the hunter was now the hunted. His brain was firing commands for his arm to raise his weapon, but the limb was frozen stiff with fear. When he spotted the muzzle of Nick’s carbine center near his nose, the hapless fellow squinted shut his eyes and lowered his head to accept certain death.

But the bullet never came.

Instead, the slightly built, young man felt a vice-like grip clutch his hair. The force that jerked him from the ground was more powerful than any sensation he ever experienced from contact with another human being. He struggled to gather his legs, desperately scampering to take his weight off the screaming follicles in his scalp and put it on his feet where it belonged. When he finally managed to stand, he was staring into Nick’s glaring eyes. He was reminded of a great wolf he’d once seen in a zoo.

“How many are chasing me?” growled the huge man.

“I… I… I don’t know,” came the choking, high-pitched response.

Nick, still holding a handful of the kid’s locks, lifted his victim off the ground and shook him like he was trying to shake crumbs out of a napkin.

After a whimpering, tear-filled session of sniffling had passed, Nick asked again. “How many are chasing me?”

“Seriously, I don’t know. A lot… they’re calling everybody in… more than a hundred, I guess.”

Nick realized the kid probably didn’t know much more than that. “Look at me!” he ordered.

The prisoner did as he was told, raising his bowed head to make eye contact. Nick’s fist snapped the young fellow’s head back, the blow lifting his heels completely off the ground. He was out cold before his body bounced across the soil. “Sorry, kid, but that beats getting shot like your buddies.”

Nick took their weapons, slinging two hunting rifles and an AR15 across his already burdened shoulders. He’d find a good spot to stash them later.

One of the wounded men reached for a pistol, the effort rewarded with a broken wrist as Nick’s boot crunched the bone before it launched the sidearm nearly 20 yards away.

He patted them down, taking anything of value. The now unconscious leader had prepared for the mission, carrying AR ammo, some homemade bread, and a two-way radio. “Plunder,” Nick remarked, stuffing his pockets with the bounty.

Pivoting to disappear into the woods, he stared down at the first man he’d dropped. The guy was bleeding out, probably due to the bullet striking a main artery. “Fuck,” he grunted, scanning the surrounding underbrush for any threat.

In less than a minute, he pulled off the injured hunter’s belt and applied a tourniquet.

Then like a ghost, he melted away into the forest.

Terri relaxed somewhat, relieved no one had tried to take away her firearms. The sleepless night, combined with the stress of worrying about Bishop, had fouled her mood. But she couldn’t show it, Hunter at an age where he mirrored his parents’ moods.

On the ride to the Culpepper ranch, Terri learned that one of the men with her was the second in command. After they had ridden down into the flatlands, her two escorts loosened up and began talking.

“I was in Meraton over a year ago,” announced the one named Whitey. “I was passing through, trying to make my way down here to the ranch. Mr. Culpepper was a friend of my father’s, and I thought he’d take me in. I was living in Amarillo at the time, and the entire town went nuts when everything fell apart. I didn’t have any place else to go.”

“A lot of people found themselves in a similar spot,” Terri replied. “Bishop and I lived in Houston back then. I lost count of the number of times we were almost killed while traveling across Texas. Those were bad times, for sure.”

“I remember people talking about your husband when I was in town. As I recall, he’d shot it out with a bunch of bank robbers.”

Terri grunted, the rush of memories transporting her back to a time when life was so uncertain… the future so unknown. “Yup,” she replied. “That’s my Bishop. Winning friends and influencing people wherever he goes.”

The next question from the cowboy took her completely by surprise. “Have things gotten any better… back in the world?”

They have no idea about the Alliance
, she realized.
They don’t know who I am, or that people have regrouped.

Terri thought to bring her co-riders up to speed with current events, but then stopped. She was a woman alone with a child, keeping company with people she didn’t know and right in the middle of a war zone. She decided to keep her mouth shut for the time being. “Maybe a little,” she replied with a neutral tone. “Bishop and I have spent quite a bit of time at his small ranch. It’s very isolated, kind of like this area around here.”

Her answer seemed to satisfy the two men. Before long, they were approaching a group of structures – the Culpepper ranch.

There was a main house, a single-story affair that wouldn’t have been anything special in most big city neighborhoods. Two dominant pole barns, several corrals, a handful of outbuildings, and a long row of house trailers met her eye. It was obviously a less prosperous outfit than Mr. Beltran’s massive operation, but an impressive spread nonetheless.

After signaling the lookouts, Whitey had ordered Reed to escort Terri to the main house. The foreman had ridden off, obviously in dread of delivering his boss the bad news about the ambush. As far as the two men knew, they were the only survivors.

Reed escorted Terri around to the back door where an older Latino woman was hanging clothes on a line to dry. “Chita,” Reed greeted, tipping his hat. “This is Terri and Hunter. They are Mr. Culpepper’s guests.”

The woman nodded, smiling sweetly as she moved to hold Hunter while his mother dismounted. Unaccustomed to spending much time in the saddle, Terri’s legs and butt were stiff from the rocky ride.

A series of stretches and bends followed, Terri mumbling, “How do they do that all day long? They should do a ‘Buns of Steel’ infomercial.” Finally getting comfortable with the concept of using her limbs, her next priorities were related to having spent the night in the desert without facilities. Hunter was fussing, no doubt wondering where his breakfast was.

Chita appeared friendly enough, inviting Terri into the ranch house and showing her to a spare bedroom. The lingering aroma of scented candles permeated the structure, several half-burned examples grouped here and there. The home was neat and tidy. There was running water, courtesy of a windmill driven pump she had noticed on the ride in.