Copperheads - 12 (34 page)

“Where in the hell did those come from?” he asked April.

“They’ve been working on them in the big maintenance barn for months,” Julio responded in English. “My dad said they found them at a deserted military base. The trucks from the United States brought enough parts to repair them.”

While he hadn’t been privy to the Alliance’s plan, Butter had a pretty good idea of what was happening in the hills above the plantation. A battle had been waged, and it didn’t matter if it were tanks from Fort Hood or some other Alliance force trying to take control of the valley – those armored personnel carriers that had just rolled past the barn were going to be a problem.

Butter also understood that the column was heading for the bridges. It didn’t take a tactical genius to figure out that those war machines were going to cause a lot of Alliance troops to go home in a body bags.

Julio saw his own opportunity, jockeying for an opportunity to leave the plantation. “Señor, please take my family out with you. My father and the other men in our barracks will fight with you. I swear it. So will the men in the building next to ours. We can help you. Please, sir, take us with you.”

It was almost too much for Butter to comprehend. May was barely able to walk, and he still didn’t trust April. He didn’t know what was going on with the Alliance or the convoy. All of this was compounded by the fact that he wasn’t even near 100%, his body and mind still suffering from the beatings and poor quality nutrition. After all, the plantation’s finest cuisine had not been reserved for the man who was expected to swing by a rope anyway.

“I don’t think your father and his friends can do much against tanks,” April said, trying to intervene after sensing the big man’s uncertainty. “I think all of the workers would be safer if they stayed in their barracks and waited until the Texans arrived.”

“But I know where the armory is!” Julio spouted, upping the ante. “A lot of the workers were in the old Mexican Army. They have had training. They know what to do! If they had guns, they would fight! I know it!”

“Armory?” Butter asked, his attention perked.

“With your gun,” the boy continued, pointing at Butter’s carbine, “You could shoot the guards, and then the men from my barracks could fight. Please, Señor. I beg you. If we stay here, we will surely die. We must leave this place.”

May’s groaning interrupted the hushed conversation. “She’s dehydrated and weak,” April stated, rushing to comfort her sister.

“Don’t get me wrong. I understand, but we have got to keep the noise down,” Butter countered. “If somebody hears her, we’re going to have the entire security force coming down on our heads.”

“Take her back to my barracks,” Julio suggested. “You can meet my father. You will see that he is a brave man. We can help.”

After exchanging looks with April, Butter agreed, “I can’t come up with a better plan. Let’s go before someone figures out we’ve escaped.”

With May hefted onto Butter’s shoulder, Julio led them out of the barn and along a zigzagging route back to building #19.

Nearly identical to the layout of April’s home barracks, the group entered to find a sea of frightened faces huddled in small groups.

“Julio, what have you done?” a male voice called from the masses.

“This is my teacher,” the boy answered with an unwavering voice. “The giant gringo from the jail and her sister have escaped. It is their friends fighting Castro. They need our help.”

A lantern appeared, held out by a middle-aged man who focused immediately on Butter’s carbine and the pistol in his waistband. “What do you want?” he asked the big kid in passable English.

“I want to go home,” Butter responded honestly. “Your son said that a lot of you wanted the same thing.”

A murmur arose from the throng, half of the voices frightened by stranger’s punishable words, but many expressing support. The father’s words silenced them all, “We all want to leave this place, but Castro’s men have weapons; we do not. They are young and strong; we are old and worn down.”

“He can kill the guards at the armory,” Julio spouted, “There are dozens of weapons housed inside. You could all have guns. This is our opportunity at life … at freedom.”

The child’s treacherous suggestion set off another round of whispered debate, many of the gathered residents inhaling sharply with fear. Even speaking of such things could bring down the enforcers and result in the skin being whipped off the offender’s back.

For his part, Julio’s father didn’t speak, instead turning his lantern to study the faces of several other males in the room. Butter spotted many of the men nod their support. “It may be our only chance,” whispered one of the older slaves.

“How many will come?” the father probed loud and clear. “Step forward if you will fight. Go back to your bedsheets if you are too frightened or feeble.”

Initially, April was stunned at the number of men and women who came forward. A moment later, she understood. There was excitement, plenty of fear, and another emotion she hadn’t seen in a long, long time. The lantern’s dim glow exposed hope in the faces of the people around her, a beaming optimism that the teacher hadn’t experienced since the apocalypse.

“Okay,” Butter nodded. “Where is this armory?”

“This way,” Julio declared with glee.

The motorcycle’s reflector gave Grim the first hint that the scout had returned. “Stopping here,” he broadcast to the truckers behind him. “Maintain your spacing.”

A few seconds later, Grim was out of the pickup and jogging to hear a report.

“Bad news, sir,” Cord began. “The main bridge is a mile up the road, and I spotted at least one of those damn armored cars rolling toward the crossing. There’s already a bunch of infantry all around the other side of the ditch.”

“Shit!” the convoy commander erupted. “Any chance we can get across before their heavy weapons arrive?”

“Maybe … if we hurry … I don’t know how long it will take them to get into position.”

Thinking to rush back to the pickup’s radio and order the convoy to make a mad dash for the bridge, Grim was halted by the arrival of the second scout. “That APC and about 100 men are coming up behind us fast. They’re less than two miles back and hell bent for a piece of our ass.”

“Damn it!” Grim exploded a second time in less than a minute. His worst nightmare was coming true. He and his charges were going to be stuck between a rock and a very hard place. “We have to get across,” he snarled, turning to run for the truck and its radio. “No other option.”

“Let’s go!” he began shouting into the mic the moment he bounded into the cab. “All out. Full speed ahead! We have to get across that bridge before the bad guys get there. Move! Move! Move!”

Spacing no longer mattered, the pickups spitting dirt as their wheels spun in acceleration. “Use your headlights,” he ordered into the radio. “They already know where we were. We need to make some time.”

Illumination facilitated the convoy’s speed, the long line of 18-wheelers now rolling down the uneven lane toward the valley below. Grim ordered the machine gun-equipped pickups to the front of the line, hoping they could slow the defenders who sought to block the bridge.

“We need room to maneuver,” he whispered. “We need buildings to hide behind,” he continued, the list of things necessary for their survival growing by the second. “We need God’s help,” he finally surmised.

While runners dashed to the neighboring barracks to spread the word, Julio and his father led dozens of men through a large field of avocados and over a hill. As Butter and his new friends negotiated the neat rows of crops, more and more people joined them, seemingly approaching from all directions.

After nearly two kilometers of hiking, they finally arrived at their destination. There, isolated on three sides by irrigation ditches, was a stout-looking concrete block building.

Butter studied the complex, noting the razor wire and high fence surrounding the facility. There was a heavy gate across the dirt path leading to the only entrance. The Texan could identify two tall guard towers, as well as a sandbagged nest on the roof. The place reminded him of a federal prison.

“How many men protect this place?” Butter asked, sizing up the defenses.

“As many as a dozen … as few as six,” someone answered.

“How deep is the water?”

A man stood and held his hand shoulder high, “Like this, Señor. In most places.”

It was clear to Butter that the armory’s security had been designed to repel an attack launched by a large mass of unarmed men. The two, elevated guard shacks were poorly placed, both on the front gate’s side of the complex. The fortified post on the roof wasn’t even manned, but probably would be at the first sign of trouble.

In less than a minute, Butter had made up his mind. Drawing the two pistols from his belt, he handed one to Julio Sr., the other to a capable looking comrade. “Do you both know how to use these?”

“Sí, Señor,” they eagerly responded.

Using a small rise to hide their huddle, Butter drew a quick diagram in the dirt as another man held a small candle close to the ground. “I want the two men with pistols here and here,” the kid instructed, stabbing the ground with his stick.

After scanning the faces of his troops and confirming understanding nods all around, Butter continued, “The rest of you come with me. When Julio’s father is set up here, he will shoot at this guard tower. The other pistol shoots at the second tower. You don’t have to hit anything, just keep them occupied. I’ll take care of the rest. Understood?”

Again, the Texan received a hardy round of nodding heads.

“Okay, let’s go.”

It took the revolting slaves just over five minutes to get into position. Butter took cover behind a low berm, less than 100 meters from the armory’s perimeter. Behind him, ready to charge on his command, were at least 150 men.

A single pistol shot rang out, quickly followed by another, and then several more. Alarmed voices sounded from inside the armory as a sentry fired an AK.

Butter thanked the bright moon, flipped the safety off his carbine, and loosed a volley at the left tower, and then another group of rounds at the right. Before the last piece of ejected brass had landed in the soft soil, he was up and charging the gate.

A man was screaming in pain from the left target, so Butter concentrated his wrath on the right. He fired three shots, ran ten steps, and then cut right. Five more shots, then cut left. Rinse. Repeat.

A screaming body fell from the right tower, and now Butter was the object of the guards’ attention.

Despite his size and lack of cover, Butter was a difficult target in the darkness. His aim was deadly, and the towers were simple plywood structures with thin walls. No one had ever thought to provide any sort of bullet stop. After all, the slaves didn’t have guns.

When he was within 50 meters, Butter flipped his blaster to full auto and slammed home a fresh magazine. Taking a knee, he sprayed the right tower with a potent blast, and then directed his lethal discharge to the left.

Waving for his comrades to rise and follow, Butter screamed, “Hit them! Kill them! Charge!” Without further ado, he pivoted and charged the gate full out, praying that no one was left alive in the towers.

A hundred voices sounded from behind the Texan as the slaves rose, their throats filled with a pent-up bloodlust that had simmered for years.

Almost reaching the heavily fortified gateway, Butter observed the outline of two human shapes exiting through the armory’s door. Puffs of dirt erupted as bullets thumped into the path at his feet. He rolled hard to the right, coming out of the desperate dive with his weapon pointing at the defenders and loosed another volley.

The wave of surging workers passed Butter, screaming battle cries at the top of their lungs as they rushed the entrance. They began to fall as the few remaining guards tried to stem the tide.

A wall of humanity hit the front gate and fence, as men pushed, climbed, and scrambled to get inside the perimeter. More of them fell bloody to the earth, but that didn’t seem to matter.

Butter laid back, pumping lead into the reinforced nest of the roof, hoping to keep the defenders down and minimize the damage they could inflict.

The metal barrier collapsed inward from the weight of the crowd, the now frothing mob raising their voices of fury to a new pitch. They were motivated by the realization that their lives and the fate of their families, depended on a single event. They had to take the armory – any other outcome meant a horrible end to their existence.   

It was all over in less than two minutes, the few remaining guards torn limb from limb as they were overrun by the shouting, vicious throng of slaves.

Butter strolled through the entrance, his body weakened by the exertion and a week of brutal captivity. Still, there was energy in his step as he watched dozens and dozens of rifles being hauled hand over hand and distributed to the growing number of rebellious workers.

Soon after, two wagons arrived, and the rebels began loading cases of ammunition and more weapons. A sea of torches appeared on the surrounding hillsides, hundreds more revolting slaves coming to get their weapons and their revenge.

Standing and watching as hundreds of guns were passed out, Butter wondered how many of the revolutionaries would survive the night. It didn’t matter, he decided. They would die free men, struggling for a worthy cause. Compared to all of the SAINT missions he’d been assigned, Butter experienced a higher sense of fulfillment than he had ever realized. That warmth was only heightened when he felt a tug on his khakis and peered down to see Julio’s smiling face beside him. “Thank you, sir,” the boy earnestly beamed.

Smiling, Butter patted the child on the head and then glanced up to see a ring of anxious faces surrounding him. No one said a word as more and more armed men joined the circle. It took the Texan a moment to realize that they were all waiting on his orders.

“Where do we go?” Julio’s father asked. “What now?”

Butter was about to respond when the sound of another battle rumbled through the fields. His head snapped to scan north, realizing that he’d forgotten all about the column of armor that had rolled by the barn. “Oh shit,” he whispered. “I sure do hope the Alliance brought plenty of firepower.”

The front, up-armored semi swerved, sparks and slivers of metal flying from the truck as the driver drew his last breath behind the wheel.

Across the dark line of water cutting through the moonlit field, Grim spotted hundreds of twinkling, white flashes erupt.

As his foot slammed on the brake pedal, the driverless truck ahead jackknifed, the trailer arching into the air as a blizzard of hot lead shredded the diesel fuel tanks and engine block. A huge fireball turned night into day as trailer tumbled and rolled across the field.

They were too late.

With his pickup still skimming across the roadside dirt, Grim pushed the microphone’s button, “Circle the wagons!” he screamed. “Circle the wagons!”

Not that it was going to do them any good.

Dirt, blacktop, smoke, and lead filled the night air as the plantation militia unleashed a deadly barrage of fire at the convoy. Grim could feel the rounds smacking into his pickup’s sheet metal as he dove from the cab. One of the convoy’s gun trucks erupted in a fireball, the machine gunner’s flame-engulfed body shooting across the night sky as the doomed truck somersaulted across the field.

Grim fast-crawled to the ditch alongside the road, his gut instinct telling the old trooper to get his weapon into the fight … to return some of the hell that was raining down on his men … to do something.

Survival instinct prevailed a moment later. He was in command. His people were dying by the second. He had to lead.

The truckers were doing better than expected given the wall of death that slammed into their ranks. From his prone position, Grim watched as the semis assumed a defensive formation. Kevin was firing from his position on top of a trailer. A few others had managed to get their weapons into the fight.

Darting low from position to position, Grim did his best to maintain control. “Conserve your ammo,” he shouted to one group, “Let’s make them come in and get us.”

The driver of the second gun-truck had watched his twin die and was playing it smart. Racing across the field, he managed to make it to cover behind one of the crippled trailers as the man working the belt-fed blaster sprayed round after round back across the water.

As drilled, the drivers jumped from their cabs, armed with an assortment of rifles and shotguns. Scrambling for wheels, low spots in the dirt, or anything that would provide refuge from the relentless hailstorm of lead, the rate of return fire released from the beleaguered convoy gradually began to rise.