The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (22 page)

During the days in which the battle plan was being formulated, the Lachelles approached the Whitebears in private with a proposition. They volunteered the band’s services as an intelligence gathering network. The ability of the band to infiltrate the camp followers that were gathering around the King’s army was indisputable.

Musicians enjoyed well known and almost universally respected neutrality. They were welcome everywhere that maintained even the thinnest veneer of civilization and as for their capacity to gather and disseminate information, well, that was one of the reasons they were so welcome. They were an unofficial news and postal service in a news-starved world.

In spite of some initial distrust by Adam Young, Ellen pushed hard and successfully, for acceptance of the band’s offer. Only the Whitebears, Adam Young, Jim Cantrell and Daniel Windwalker knew about the Lachelles. Others, particularly Daniel’s scouts, who would relay messages from the Lachelles, would be told if and when the need arose.

Ellen and Adam held a brainstorming strategy session at which they listened to everyone’s ideas and incorporated the best into the final plan of action. The first priority was to slow the enemy’s march on Provo. To that end, as many Allied fighters as could be spared would leave immediately with Adam and buy as much time as possible for the rest of the Allied forces to get organized, get there and get into positions from which the King’s army could be surprised and destroyed.

Adam had several brilliant ideas on the subject of defeating the invasion force. As Lt. Beeman put it, “They’s more’n one Texas-sized idea in that man’s head.” The fact that Walt Beeman and Michael hit it off so well, both being a bit irreverent was not lost on Adam, who silently chalked up another point in Michael’s favor.

It took another week of hard work to come up with a plan that best utilized the terrain and strengths of the Allied Army. It was a simple strategy--classic guerilla warfare. In the words of Mao, “When the enemy attacks, we retreat. When he halts, we harass. When he withdraws, we attack.”

Using modified U.S.G.S. topographic maps and all that was currently known about the enemy’s troop dispositions, Adam laid it all out. He called for confronting the main enemy force with a series of small static defensive positions stretched across natural choke-points, such as the mouths of ravines. The Allies would defend those places as long as possible, then fade back into the woods and mountains to regroup and fight again.

Meanwhile, the remainder of Adam’s forces would split into small squads, slowing the enemy advance by erecting barriers across his lines of movement, rigging booby-traps in his path, ambushing his scouts and patrols and executing hit-and-run raids on his supply lines.

Michael listened carefully to Adam as the man explained the plan. “We will dash in and nip at his heels, then dart away before he can recover. And like a wolf pack worrying an old bull elk, whenever he turns to confront us he will expose his rear to a new attack.

“We will snipe his camps at night, disrupting his sleep, making rest impossible, impairing his ability to recuperate from the daily grind. We will harry him until he is exhausted from chasing shadows. And finally, when our reinforcements have arrived, we will put him down hard.

“Of course, we can’t predict exactly how the enemy will react, but in military terms, the keys to successful counterinsurgency are intelligence, mobility and interdiction. He has to be better than us at all three of these things in order to stop us. That being the case, our job will be to expose his spies, disable his methods of transport--even if it means destroying those few roads and bridges still intact--and ambush or evade any attempts to surround us.”

As plans went, Michael liked it and he was impressed by Adam’s delivery. The man was forceful, but not overbearing. It was risky, but risk is the essence of war.

The allies main problem would be communication between the different guerilla groups and the main body of troops under Adam. Also, effective communication between the Deseret Defense Force and the flanking Allied Army, under Jim Cantrell, was essential.

Radio messages were of limited effectiveness, due to unreliable atmospheric conditions and the possibility of being intercepted. Couriers were slow and subject to death or capture. Heliographs, signal-fires and other such methods were limited to line-of-sight, or left a chain of messengers that could too easily be broken.

Nevertheless, the Allies had no alternative but to utilize a combination of all the above methods. At least that is what went out to the public at large and whatever spies were among them. Unfortunately, it was largely the truth. Ellen had Chad Bailey and others working in secret to restore satellite communications and though they said they were close, so far it was just a hope.

Dr. Merriman immediately volunteered to take his hospital with Jim to provide medical services. As soon as she heard about Jim’s new command, Doctor Sara Garcia volunteered also. Jason Merriman was delighted to add such a fine surgeon to his staff.

*

Jim slammed the door hard enough to rattle dishes in the cabinets and Sara flinched. She’d known he wouldn’t take her decision well but...

“Sara?” Jim shouted, “You home?”

“In here,” she said from the kitchen and went back to selecting surgical instruments from those she had arrayed on the table and countertops. She’d decided on two bags, one to keep with her at all times--a sort of battlefield medic kit--and one for the hospital tent where more difficult surgeries would be performed. The tent, rolled and stowed on Merriman’s wagon, would be set up as a MASH unit during combat operations when a suitable building wasn’t available.

Jim stepped into the kitchen and stopped, hands on his hips. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m preparing med kits,” Sara said, picking up an assortment of scalpels and placing them in a mason jar filled with bleach. She’d wiped down the table and countertops with bleach earlier.

“That’s not what I mean,” Jim said.

Sara screwed the top onto the jar, wrapped it in a clean dish towel and set it inside one of her bags. Then she straightened up and faced him.

“Then why don’t you tell me what you do mean,” she said, knowing perfectly well.

“Volunteering to be on Merriman’s surgical staff. Leaving the safety of The Freeholds. Not discussing this with me fir--”

“Stop,” she said, color rising in her cheeks. She pointed her finger at him. “And while you’re at it, stop fuming. I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears.”

“But--”

“Shut. Up!” Now her dark brown eyes sparked with fire. She poked him in the sternum with her finger so hard he backed up a step.

“And while you’re shutting up, take a deep breath and think very carefully before you say another word.” She picked up forceps, dilators and clamps, placed them in a different bleach filled jar and capped it.

As she wrapped a towel around the jar, she watched him carefully, seeing the cloud of anger clearing from his face.

He opened his mouth, closed it, thought some more and opened it again.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said.

She nodded. “I know that. If I thought you’d come stomping in here, slamming doors to bully me into changing my mind I’d have beaned you.” She hefted a jar of retractors and gave him a dark look.

“But now that you’re using your head you can see I’m doing the right thing.”

He started to open his mouth and Sara said, “Am I the best surgeon in The Freeholds?”

He ground his teeth and said, “Yes.”

“Then, since we have a fight brewing, I should be where I’m needed most, right?”

His shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. “Yes,” he said, defeated.

She stepped forward and hugged him. “Besides,” she murmured into his chest, “if you get hurt I’ll be there to sew you up.”

*

By mid-June, when he’d been off crutches and canes for two weeks, Michael decided he was fit enough to ride along with the next supply train headed for Provo and join the Allied forces there. But first he had to talk to Ellen.

“Sweetie?” He wasn’t looking forward to this conversation, wasn’t quite sure how to begin.

Ellen looked up from her desk and saw him standing there, looking guilty as a schoolboy caught passing notes. A lump formed in her throat. She had dreaded this day and considered arguing that he needed more time for his leg to heal, or that his scavenging talent could benefit the war effort if he’d just lead one more expedition into Denver, or that...

No, she thought. I can’t do that to him. He already feels guilty that he isn’t out there fighting and equally guilty he has to go and leave me here. She swallowed the lump and gave him a smile. Might as well let him off the hook.

“It’s okay, Michael,” she said. “I understand.”

Michael saw tears forming in her eyes and blinked his own back as he leaned down to kiss her. This time he really didn’t want to leave. This time he had a premonition that if he left he might not see her again. Nonetheless, he had to go.

“I’ll miss you,” he said.

“You’d better.”

“Say bye to the kids for me?” Steven was out with a scavenging party and the others, including Mary and Jimmy, who they had adopted, were in school.

Ellen nodded, then stood and hugged him with all her might while tears streamed down her face. So many of her friends had already left for the war.

Daniel Windwalker was among the first to go, along with Adam Young and that character Walt Beeman and Susan Redfeather, Raymond Stormcloud and Dan Osaka. The Lachelles had left weeks ago with the Troubled Land Band: now Michael. Please God, she prayed. Keep him safe, keep them all safe.

Chapter 20: The Troubled Land Band

Nephi, Utah

June 15, 13 A.I.

Denise Lachelle opened her eyes and smiled. She stretched, sighed and snuggled back down beneath the covers. The Troubled Land Band had arrived in Nephi the week before and staged an impromptu concert. The King’s soldiers, starved for entertainment, had cheered wildly. Everything had gone well for the band--perhaps too well. They had established themselves as performers of notable talent and had been invited to dine with the local commander, or Governor, as he preferred to be called. He even insisted the band members be housed in the military district, to which he had restored electricity and running water, so that “the ladies can enjoy the amenities of the King’s civilization.”

Governor Proctor, had quite an eye for the ladies and the band, some forty-three members strong, was almost half female.

We’re living pretty high on the hog for a bunch of spies, she thought, as she hopped out of bed and headed for the shower. Three days ago, five ships had arrived and began disembarking troops down at the makeshift docks. She and Jacques estimated more than 5,000 fresh soldiers had marched down the gangplank into Nephi.

One of the ships had been unloaded at night, under tight security. The following evening she and Chris Herrera, the band’s beautiful and sexy sax player, buddied up to a couple of the dock workers. After more than a few local brews, they discovered the secret cargo consisted of twenty-two main battle tanks (M48A3 Pattons), fourteen light tanks (M551 Sheridans), six self-propelled howitzers (M107s) and thirty armored personnel carriers (M113s). The tanks and APCs were antiques from the Vietnam War era and she wondered why there were no M1A1 Abrams in the mix. One of the dock workers even admitted that after the armor had been unloaded all of the regular dock hands had been ordered away, while a specially picked group of elite soldiers had unloaded several more crates, huge mysterious crates that had disappeared without a trace before daylight.

Denise was no military strategist, but she realized the King could use his tanks to spearhead a drive to and through Provo. As to what was in the big crates, she would just have to find out. Meanwhile, the information had to be dispatched to Provo and the Freeholds. The rumors about the King’s armor and Navy had proven true. Since the attack on the Freeholds there had been no sign of aircraft so his alleged Air Force remained undetected, but if what she suspected was in those crates was true...

Meanwhile, even Jacques admitted she was developing a knack for intelligence work--which she attributed to being “just naturally nosy.”

“Move over, James Bond,” she muttered as she stepped from the shower and paused for a second to examine her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “‘Course, James Bond didn’t have equipment like this. Make that move over Mata Hari.”

She stood five feet two inches “short” as she put it. Her body was curvaceous, though not as full in the chest as she might have liked. Her cafe-au-lait skin was still smooth and taut, free from wrinkles, lines, or blemishes. Her lustrous black hair, without a hint of gray, fell in soft waves to her shoulders. An oval face, high forehead, well-arched brows, long-lashed, dark brown eyes, delicate nose and small mouth graced with full, pouting lips, completed a picture that attracted wolf whistles, usually to her annoyance. Still, looking closer to twenty-eight than forty-two had its advantages.

Too muscular, she critiqued. Especially her legs. Dancer’s legs. But those muscles hadn’t been developed by dancing, but by long hours practicing Savate, the French foot-fighting martial art she learned from her father while growing up on the Caribbean Island of Martinique. Of course, the thousands of miles she had walked and ridden horseback since then hadn’t hurt either.

She had just finished dressing when her husband, Jacques, returned.

“Civilization agrees with you, Cheri,” he said cheerfully.

She gave him a grin back, asking, “How did it go?”

Jacques gave an exaggerated look around the room while pressing an index finger against his lips to remind her that their rooms were probably bugged. With his other hand he signaled okay, indicating that violinist Ken Bilardi, who preferred to be called a fiddler, was safely on his way to warn Provo.

“Tres bon, mon coeur,” he enthused, “We have anozzer gig to play for de Governor an’ some V.I.P. he call Prince John.”

That afternoon, the band practiced several of their old pre-Dying Time hits as well as rock selections ranging from the Eagles to Fleetwood Mac (Denise did a dynamite Stevie Nicks). They brushed the dust off a few folk songs by Carole King and Country ballads by Jim Hunter, then swung into a couple of hot Calypso numbers before finishing up the rehearsal with a couple of Waltzes by Strauss and some Benny Goodman Swing.

The Lachelles truly enjoyed the versatility in their music that came from having more than forty band members. In addition to guitarists, drummers and keyboard players, they had just the right mix of brass, strings and woodwinds to perform like a small symphony orchestra. A few of their folks could even do crying-in-your-beer Country music when it was requested, not to mention Square Dance and Polka. The only form of music they weren’t well-versed in was Opera and that was neglected solely for lack of proper vocal talent.

Their performance that evening was rewarded by a thunderous ovation. The Governor pulled Denise and Jacques aside and introduced them to Prince John. The Prince was so taken with their performance that he actually smiled at them, something he rarely did in public since it exposed his rotten teeth. He invited them to return to California with him in a couple of months, after he’d brought the poor deluded fools in Utah and Colorado into the Realm, so the band could perform for his father, King Joseph the First and enjoy the benefits of Royal society. They accepted graciously.

On the way back to their quarters, Jacques, could barely contain himself. “Mon, dis Prince John, he have to be de Giant dat Ellen and Michael talk about. No way two mons be dat beeg.”

“I agree, Cheri,” Denise replied. “And he’s the King’s son no less. Must have really ticked him off when the Freeholders pulled the rug out from under his little raid.”

“Yeah! Mon lak dat, he no lak to fail. Be lak sore tooth. Bodder heem ‘til he feex eet.”

“Honey, from what I could see and smell he doesn’t bother getting his teeth fixed.”

“You know wat ah mean,” Jacques said, then shifted subjects. “Wat about dis California t’ing? You really wan’ to go?”

“Man of mine, if Prince John clobbers Provo and the Freeholds, we got no choice,” Denise said with a worried frown.

“We gots to get de word out dat ‘Prince John’ ees for real; not jus’ a, how you say, nom de...”

“Nickname,” Denise supplied. “I agree. It could be important for our friends to know. If they captured him, they could use him as a bargaining chip, but we can’t send out anybody else until our fiddler gets back. They might not miss one of us, but they’ll surely know something’s up if two or three of us vanish. Besides, we still have to find out what’s in those mystery crates and where they disappeared to.”

“Mais oui, Cheri,” Jacques agreed.

*

It took Jacques and Denise almost a week of subtle sleuthing to find out the crates contained aircraft, including a few ultralights. Try as they might they couldn’t learn anything more about the planes other than that they were all old war birds.

Their fiddler returned the night after they discovered the existence of the planes. The King’s Army had finally gotten around to issuing identity cards to all civilians within their perimeter, including the members of the band and since Ken didn’t have one, the band hid him for a day to let him rest up. They sent him back out the following night to get word of the planes and the Prince to Provo and the Freeholds.

*

“Just where the hell do you get off trying to order me around,” Anthony snarled.

“Father put me in command,” John shot back.

“Of the Army. I’m in charge of the Air Force and this is about expanding our air operations.”

“You know damn well I’m in overall command.”

“Not of ME, baby brother. I’m still the heir.” Anthony’s perfect teeth gleamed as he rubbed it in.

John glowered, but he knew Anthony was right. Their father made it a point to never back one Prince against the other. John took another tack.

“Fine, then, Tony. You go play in the sticks with your toy airplanes. I’m just surprised you want to get so directly involved. Your style is usually to lead from the rear.”

Bullseye, John thought, as red flushed Anthony’s face.

Thick-headed asshole, Anthony thought, as he stormed out of John’s office. He hadn’t liked it a bit when John was given command of the invasion force, but now he was furious. After all, he was the heir. His ultralights could scout the guerillas and reveal their traps, allowing him to ambush the ambushers. He’d show John and his father.