The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (10 page)

The soldier had rolled on top of Jim, his knife poised to plunge, when he heard a sinister click. His eyes widened in shock as he glanced up and saw a pistol inches from his face.

Michael shot him in the head without breaking stride and dashed on past, disappearing into the forest. He’d seen the last man, running panic-stricken toward the horses.

The frightened soldier never spared a glance for One-Ear. He snatched up a pair of reins, vaulted into the saddle and kicked the horse into a gallop. Intense pain blossomed in his back. It swelled, like a balloon being blown up inside his chest, larger and larger till it burst, carrying him into blackness.

Michael pulled his throwing knife from the man’s back and straightened up. Now to get the woman.

He gathered up One-Ear and the horses, including his and Jim’s. By the time he got back, Jim had the dead men rounded up and laid out. While they stripped the bodies of anything that might be useful or informative, Michael told Jim what he’d learned from One Ear.

“Okay,” Jim said. “We have a patrol. Now what?”

“Diversion,” Michael explained, hoisting one of the dead men onto a horse. He arranged the body in the saddle and tied it upright. “Ever see that movie where John Wayne and his cavalry are surrounded by Indians and most of his men are dead so he ties the dead men on their horses and charges the Indians?”

“Wait a minute. You got this plan from Hollywood?”

Michael shrugged. “It worked for John Wayne.” Besides, he thought. It was based in deception. Sun Tsu would approve.

Chapter 9: The Rescue

As they neared the staging area, Michael reined his horse around and pulled up next to Jim.

“Think you can make like a mortar?”

Jim nodded yes. He had an even dozen homemade pipe grenades in his pack. The grenades were made from sections of iron pipe, a homemade blasting cap, black powder and fuse cord. The pipe was scored in several places--the better to provide shrapnel. Best of all, he had a 12-gauge shotgun that could launch a grenade more than 200 yards. He could fire them at a rate of one every fifteen seconds. “What’ve you got up your sleeve this time?”

“Another diversion,” Michael replied.

The two men picketed their horses, hauled One-Ear out of the saddle and tied him to a tree, then put their heads together and finalized the details of their plan.

One-Ear sat sullenly, squirming against his bonds, trying to get comfortable, or at least avoid the broken branch poking him in the back. The amused glances the two maniacs occasionally sent his way didn’t help.

“Time to check it out,” Michael said. He pulled on one of the dead men’s uniforms and walked into the darkness. About five hundred feet from the enemy camp he stopped and settled down to adapt to the sounds of the woods at night--the better to blend in with them. Chipmunks, mice and other small ones scuttled about in the pine needles, making faint rustling noises. An owl soared quietly past, his ghostly presence felt rather than seen or heard. Silent death. A grouse called to its mate.

There was a good breeze. Branches rustled and clicked and golden aspen leaves fluttered. In the old days, those leaves would have already been on the ground, but ever since the seasons got back in sync, almost two years after the asteroid hit, Spring had come about a month earlier and Fall a month later. Michael heard a porcupine grunt and whistle as it waddled by. No odd noises. No unusual silences. He grinned. No tigers. He couldn’t wait to get back to the Freeholds and spread that one around.

The sky was clear and bright, filled with dazzling stars; visual poetry. Visibility was excellent. That was not so good.

He drifted among the trees, at one with the forest, studying, listening, feeling, becoming part of the night. The breeze kept him from circling upwind of their horse herd. As he closed on their base he heard a sentry. The man was alert, but fidgeted and made too much noise. Michael slipped past, invisible.

That was how he had operated earlier in the evening--why the enemy patrol had no chance. He became part of the night, undetectable until it was too late. A hundred feet away the sound of urine splashing on the undergrowth told him where another man was posted. Michael was inside their perimeter, just behind the tents. Cooking odors and the sweat-rich smell of tightly packed men wearing aftershave to cover B.O. overpowered the fresh, clean, pine-scented air.

He heard a strange noise and moved away from the tents, tracking the sound toward the horse herd and a small barbed wire compound hidden in the trees. Nearby, two guards huddled over a stump, playing cards by starlight, the cards slapped as they were played. Circling the enclosure Michael counted five forms lying on the ground within. As he neared the wire opposite the sentries, the form nearest the fence stirred slightly and soft words came to his ears.

“Welcome Brother. You move like the wind.” There was a smile in the voice.

“Indian?” Michael questioned.

“Ute,” the man answered. Proud.

“New recruit?”

“So they say,” the Ute replied and the amusement in his tone spoke volumes.

“You want out?”

“Not alone,” the Ute gestured toward the others.

Michael made the decision instantly, trusting his gut. He slid his spare sheathe knife, silenced pistol and an extra clip through the wire and into the Ute’s waiting hands, keeping only his bowie and .357 for himself.

“Wait till dawn. Escape in the confusion,” Michael whispered; then asked, “What do you know of the woman?”

“Only that she is brave and that she is kept with the Captain,” the Ute said.

Michael turned to go.

“Wait!” the Ute whispered. “I am Minowayuh. Who honors me with this debt?”

“What debt?” Michael responded. “I’m Michael Whitebear, from the Freeholds. Visit us sometime as a friend.”

Minowayuh’s gold tooth gleamed in the starlight as he smiled and nodded his assent, but his final words still reached Michael as he faded back into the trees.

“Thanks for the pistol and the chance to die like a man.”

Michael made his way back among their tents. Walking openly, as if he belonged, he crossed the camp, noticing everything, the location of the latrine and mess tent, their relative distances to the Captain’s tent, how far it was from the tents to the woods, the location and types of tools laying about.

Behind the Captain’s tent he paused to check that she was there, sniffing the acrid copper of fresh blood. His reconnaissance complete, his route planned, he disappeared into the trees and circled quickly back to Jim’s position.

“We’ll have some help in the morning,” he announced as he hunkered down by Jim and peered through the darkness at the camp below.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Some prisoners are going to escape.”

Jim saw the starlight glinting off his friend’s toothy smile and responded in kind, knowing the kind of mischief Michael could make.

Michael stood up and stretched, then walked over to One-Ear and loosened the man’s gag. As he did so, he looked back at Jim and said, “I think it’s time to let this one in on our little plan. Let him get used to the idea.”

“Aw and I was saving it for a surprise,” Jim said.

“Wh-What plan?” One-Ear asked as soon as he got his voice working. He wondered if they were close enough to the camp to risk a scream. Then he noticed the big bowie in Michael’s hand. Maybe not.

“Well, in about an hour,” Michael checked the eastern sky, “Yep, about an hour, you and your friends over there,” he gestured toward the dead men, “are going to charge the camp.”

One-Ear snorted. “Are you crazy? They’ll kill me!” Maybe screaming wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He took a breath.

Michael clamped a hand over One-Ear’s mouth, stifling the yell and sliced off the man’s other ear. “On the other hand, No-Ears, you could always stay here with me.”

Jim’s poorly stifled chuckling was the final straw. No-Ears nodded his head, giving in. These guys were crazy. He was fresh out of ears and didn’t even want to think about what that gold-eyed bastard might carve off next.

Michael shoved the man’s gag back in and walked off into the woods. The terrified look in the man’s eyes bothered him, but dammit, he didn’t have time to be gentle. Whatever works, be strong enough to do it, was the motto he’d lived by for twelve long years. It was several minutes before he returned.

No-Ears sat against the tree, staring at Michael with a mixture of fear and hatred. Then he heard Jim mention the Freeholds and his blood froze.

Memories flooded back of a probing raid gone sour. His company had set up a howitzer, ranged it carefully and blown hell out of an isolated homestead. Then, before they could start in on the other places, a crazy man attacked flying some odd-looking little plane and killing more than a dozen men before being shot down. He glanced at Michael again. No doubt about it, this was the same guy. He shivered, dreading they might somehow connect him with that attack.

He’d been one of only six men who’d made it back from that raid. He decided he would tell them anything they wanted to know, as long as the conversation didn’t turn to that day.

No-Ears shuddered slightly and tried to be inconspicuous. Those gold cat eyes scared him almost as bad as the knife. He could hardly wait to lead that charge tomorrow.

*

It was time.

Michael grabbed his Uzi and a uniform for the woman. He flowed back through the woods until he was well inside their perimeter and made himself comfortable. It was all over now but the waiting. And, of course, the doing.

He glanced at the eastern sky: half an hour till first light. He should have been tired, but he wasn’t. He heard the men in the camp beginning to stir. Early risers.

He waited and as he sat there he thought of Ellen, wondering if he would ever see her again, or if he was going to get himself killed trying to free a total stranger. He also wondered why he was allowing his thoughts to drift so dangerously. Normally in situations like this he was what he called focused and what those who knew him well called intense-with-capital-letters.

Suddenly, he understood. The courage, strength of character and forceful presence the woman projected reminded him of his wife. He smiled, knowing now that he wasn’t attempting to save this woman just because she was brave, or because she had information he and his friends might need, but because he could see a lot of Ellen in her. And he could never turn his back on that.

A slap and muffled curse sounded some fifty feet to his right and behind him. The breeze had died down and the bugs were out. Stupidity! Far better to leave the mosquitoes alone. They drink less blood than my blade, he thought, then turned away quickly from any thought even remotely connected to drinking. His bladder was demanding his attention, even though he had relieved himself before approaching the encampment earlier. Nerves. He ignored the building pressure. The sound of urine splattering, or its acrid smell in the still morning air could give him away.

The sky was brightening and the pulse of the camp was quickening. Men were moving among the tents. He should enter their camp now, before the sky got any lighter. He checked that the lookouts behind him were actually looking out, instead of in towards the camp, then stepped from the bushes that concealed him. Four quick strides took him behind a barracks tent.

He brushed stray pine needles and dirt from his uniform, pressed a few wrinkles out with his hands and straightened his cap. Deciding he looked as presentable as most of these guys he walked from behind the tent and joined a line of half-awake men stumbling toward the latrine. His bladder was bursting. He hastened along in the slightly hurried, pigeon-toed walk men use when they have to go. He avoided eye contact, grumbling whenever he brushed against someone. No one paid him any attention at all.

As he stepped from the latrine a squad of about twenty well-armed men on horseback loped past on their way out. Probably going looking for the lost patrol, he thought.

He merged with the tide of men who were now making their way toward the mess tent, toying with the idea of grabbing a quick bite before deciding he didn’t have enough time. He sidled along the side of the tent to the spot he’d selected earlier, picked up a shovel and started digging a hole.

Michael Whitebear’s rule number one for infiltrating an enemy camp: Nobody ever questions a soldier with a shovel, a clipboard, or a paintbrush in his hand. Digging also loosened muscles that had tightened and tensed as he waited in the bushes just outside camp. He was less than sixty feet from the Captain’s tent. Soft, pink dawn glow brushed the mountain tops.

Ten minutes later the assembly whistle sounded and Jim launched the first grenade into the crowd emerging from the mess tent, killing and wounding several.

The effect was electrifying! Everybody froze briefly, in shock, then dove for the ground. A few seconds later, as there were no more explosions and the wounded began to shriek, heads started to pop up. Somebody suggested that maybe the cook-stove had blown up. Another wit added they should be so lucky.

The second grenade exploded about fifteen feet above the far side of the formation doing God only knew how much damage.

The surest way to spread panic is to act panicky. Michael screamed, “Mortars!” and bolted for the woods. Dozens leaped up and followed. Sure enough, everyone who wasn’t frozen to the ground fled. The Captain and the Sergeant were running around screaming orders few were listening to and threatening to shoot those soldiers who were running.

Good luck, Michael thought. Right now they wouldn’t have enough bullets.

It only took Michael a few seconds to reach the bushes he had hidden in earlier. He scooped up his Uzi and daypack, which contained extra clips of ammo and “her” uniform and dashed to the rear of the Captain’s tent.

Grenades were raining down with ever-increasing speed.

Michael’s bowie parted the canvas wall and he stepped in, meeting the woman’s angry eyes with his own.

“Michael Whitebear, ma’am. I’ve come to get you out.” He slashed her bonds and threw the uniform at her. “Disguise--hurry!”

“Sara Garcia,” she answered as she recovered from the surprise, “and thank you.”

A dim thundering reached Michael’s ears, growing by the second. Darting to the front of the tent he peeked out. He could only stare in amazement as Minowayuh and his friends stampeded the enemy’s horse herd right through the middle of the camp, shooting anything that moved and trampling anything that didn’t.

“I’m ready,” came from behind him.

He turned to lead her to safety but his inner alarm went off. He was spinning back toward the door when the Sergeant barged in, collided with Michael and sent him sprawling, his blade slipped from his fingers and skittered across the floor. He reached for his other knife before he remembered Minowayuh had it.