The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (45 page)

“Anyone else hear me give my word?”

Downcast eyes and a chorus of “No Sire’s” answered the question.

“Good! Now let me tell you something, not that I have to explain myself to such as you.” John shoved the dead officer into the arms of another for disposal. “My word, given to an enemy, especially that particular enemy, is worse than worthless. I will say anything, do anything, to insure victory. Just like that scum out there.”

John spun around to fix his officers with a stare. He waved Mariko’s scalp in front of them, before replacing it on his trophy shelf.

“Do you honestly think he’s coming down here after me?” Several of his men slid their eyes away from John as if maybe they gave the idea credence. John pointed at Edge Mountain on the map.

“He’s cut off up there, surrounded by 500 men. I’m down here, surrounded by an army and I’m supposed to worry about him coming after me. I should be so lucky.” He towered over them, smiling his tight-lipped smile, dangerous and confident. But a corner of his mind wondered who he was trying to convince.

Chapter 43: Retreat and Advance

“We need more shoring, Major,” Earl Baker said as he wiped dirt and grime from his face with a handkerchief that had seen better days.

“Jesus Earl, I’ve got men on the saws around the clock,” Jim Cantrell replied. “We’ve got to have wood for the fortifications too.” His haggard expression betrayed the strain he was under. He couldn’t be late...he couldn’t!

“We don’t finish sinking these shafts, your forts won’t matter.”

“I know, I know.” Jim’s shoulders slumped slightly as he looked over the steadily rising mound of earth and logs that held the Allies’ last hope. Sixty feet wide at the base, forty feet tall, the bunker stretched from wall to wall of the sheer-sided canyon. The only gap in the breastwork was where the river rushed through and even that was well fortified, with coils of razor wire stretched across the water and heavy machine gun emplacements on either side. Tunnels ran its length and width. It was the third and by far the largest of the barricades that Jim’s men had thrown across Provo Canyon. If Adam couldn’t hold long enough... He didn’t want to think about that.

“Okay, Earl, I’ll divert more logs from the fortification,” Jim said at last. He turned to look at the tailings pile from the last of an even dozen shafts Earl and his men had sunk. Jim watched as the squat, bowlegged mining engineer hustled back to work. “Christ, I hope he knows what he’s doing,” Jim mumbled.

“Party coming in!” The call echoed up the valley from a sentry posted below the bunker.

Jim snatched up the field glasses that hung from his neck and jammed them against his eyes. Raymond Stormcloud and Sara? He sighed and his shoulders slumped farther. Four men and a mule train. Barrels were strapped onto the mules. Must be fuel for the Huey. He’d see they had good directions and send them on their way along the lake to Ellen. No sign of Sara, no word of her or Raymond...damn!

Jim had sent over four thousand men on down Provo Canyon to help out Adam Young’s beleaguered army, keeping the rest so work on the fallback plan could proceed in shifts. They’d had a bit of a scare that morning when some enemy planes zoomed over, but almost all of the men had been under cover and the planes hadn’t come back. Still, three of the main shafts had been exposed to view as the men changed shifts...cause for concern.

*

Ellen Whitebear looked back over her shoulder at the Huey down on the beach near the lake. Terrell and Gypsy had patched all the bullet holes and repaired a hydraulic fluid leak. Medics were attending the wounded men in a make shift hospital between her and the chopper. All of the wounded and Doc Merriman’s wagons had been rafted over the night before. The doctor’s people seemed genuinely dismayed that he was a spy. In any event, they were first-rate medical personnel and more than one wounded soldier was thankful for their presence.

Of the twenty able-bodied Freeholders Jim left behind, half were sacked out in the shade and the other half were, like her, manning sentry posts. She’d sent men out to recover the Huey’s jettisoned fuel pods, hoping they could refuel the helicopter that way, but the pods had split open when they smashed into the rocks. She had already decided if a fuel supply didn’t turn up by noon tomorrow she would take half of the men and head for either Provo, or Jim’s forces. She just hadn’t made up her mind which.

Terrell had tried radioing Provo at least once every hour for the past two days with no success. The Huey’s radio could reach the Freeholds, but not even the Freeholds could reach Provo. Either Provo’s communications had been destroyed or it had already fallen and she didn’t want to think about that.

She shifted position and heard the crackle of paper in her breast pocket. Curious, she reached in, pulled out a note and read, “Sweetheart, just a reminder I love you and miss you. You are in my thoughts and in my heart always.” It was signed, “Me.” Her lips curled into a smile and a warm glow filled her. Michael was always doing something sweet and romantic like this. Half a dozen times a year she would find these little love notes and she rarely ran out of fresh flowers when they were in season.

She sighed. People didn’t really know him. They thought of him as fierce and fearless, a cold, hard killer. But she knew the fears he hid from others. She also knew he was the same kind-hearted, gentle, caring man she’d fallen in love with so many years ago. He’d only become a killer because the times demanded one.

It was the same with his flying machines. He’d always loved the things, in spite of his fear of heights. That fear was why he insisted on flying. He’d once explained to her that fear was the deadliest killer of all, because it murdered the spirit even if the body survived. Michael was one of those men whose need to maintain control over himself was such that he refused to allow fear to stand in his way. It was part of him, one of the reasons she loved him so much. She just wished he wouldn’t take so many risks.

Part of her motivation behind forcing Adam to place Michael in charge of the Air Force had been her belief that Michael was more likely to survive this war as a pilot than as a groundhog.

Her smile widened at that thought. Here it was, a war and she didn’t want him taking risks. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be her Michael.

She read the note again, lingering over the sentiment as she carefully folded it and tucked back inside the pocket nearest her heart. She might be President, but Michael always remembered she was a woman first.

She forced her attention back to the wooded slopes above. Nothing she could do now but wait. Wait for fuel. Wait for noon tomorrow. Wait for word from Provo. Wait to be attacked. She wondered why more attention hadn’t been paid to the fact that “wait” was a four-letter word.

*

Adam Young sat with his head in his hands, massaging his temples. He couldn’t wait any longer. Too many brave men and women had died. Slowly but surely, the enemy had widened the breach in the defensive lines until his position was no longer tenable. That one load of bombs from the B-17 had blown a huge hole in his defenses and not even heroic measures by Major Cheryl Cummins, who arrived in the nick of time with Cantrell’s reinforcements, could seal it. With a weary sigh, he gave the order to fall back to Provo.

Adam looked twenty years older than he had a few months ago. His hair was now the stark white of an old man. There were new lines in his face. And though he moved as vigorously as ever, he seemed somehow frail at first glance. The sheer pain of the constant retreat was getting to him. It showed in the way he spoke and the way he moved, as well as his appearance.

“We might have held if it weren’t for those damn planes,” he muttered. Well, no we couldn’t, he admitted, crumpling the decoded message he’d just received from his cryptographer. Not with an enemy force behind us, now. He thanked God Ellen Whitebear had talked him into trusting the Lachelles.

*

Prince John was on the radio to General Carswell, the commander of his flanking force. His eyes gleamed at hearing the General’s report.

“You’re certain they don’t suspect your presence?”

“No, Your Highness. We surprised their outpost at Camp Williams and took them before they could get a warning out. It was nothing but a rifle squad. They didn’t even have a functioning radio! One of them was trying to fix it when we captured them.”

It was clear from his tone Carswell was well satisfied with the way things were progressing. He had good reason to be. From the moment his men had set foot on the ships in Nephi, to their landing, north of the ruins of Salt Lake City, things had gone very well indeed. Even the arduous climb up the face of The Fault, which dipped to within 500 feet of the water at that point, had gone without incident.

“Very good, General. Now, here’s what I want you to do. Tomorrow at dawn, hit their airport. It’s a small strip located just northeast of Lehi. I don’t want any more surprises from those bastards. I think we got all of their planes today, but I want to be certain. And try to take their pilots alive. The King needs good pilots and if what I’ve seen them do with inferior equipment is any indication, their pilots are exceptional.”

“Consider it done, Your Highness.”

“Then I want you to advance to Orem, seal off Provo Canyon and hit them with everything you’ve got. Your surprise attack should collapse their defenses. Above all, I don’t want them escaping up Provo Canyon. I want to finish this tomorrow.”

“Your wish is my command, Your Highness.”

“I know it is, Carswell. HQ out.”

The Prince sighed as he signed off. Carswell was such a toady. Normally John encouraged brown-nosers, but Carswell laid it on so thick it almost made him sick. If only the King hadn’t purged General Westerman. There was a man who not only knew how to command an army, but also knew his place.

The darkness was filled with threatening shadows as John and his escort walked back to the Command Center. For a moment, John wondered why he felt edgy, why he couldn’t simply enjoy his coming triumph, but he wasn’t given much to self-analysis. Too uncomfortable. Besides, a small part of him knew the reason he was uneasy, but that part wouldn’t let him admit it to himself.

As soon as he reached his office he turned to the latest recon and intelligence reports. The enemy seemed to be pulling back from Springville in what looked like their typical orderly, fighting retreat. Still, after encountering that defensive minefield above Spanish Fork, he was reluctant to order rapid pursuit. Why push it? He’d finish them tomorrow, as planned. He was pleased he’d controlled his impatience.

He still hadn’t decided how soon to relocate his headquarters to Springville. It would take a few hours for his troops to finish mopping up. He would probably move it up then, since he wanted to lead the charge into Provo personally, but that decision could wait. He flipped the page.

There were reports of desertions and men rendered combat-ineffective by some strange event in the forward sectors. Evidently, some crazed Allied pilot had jumped out of a burning plane and smashed a platoon leader into jelly. It made quite an impression on several nearby troops, who swore the pilot was not only alive and conscious, but actually seemed to aim himself at the sergeant. Must have been the same bastard who shot down the B17. Damn! Another precious and irreplaceable plane lost. As for those deserters, maybe he should make a personal visit to that company and kick some ass.

He turned another page. Still no word on Whitebear’s capture. God! How many damn men did he have to send up that mountain anyway? Against his better judgment, he’d detailed another battalion to the search. He simply didn’t see how anybody could hide from that many men. He sure couldn’t. His reverie was interrupted by a private with an urgent request that he return to the radio room.

Whitebear? The Prince rushed out, a flame kindling in his eyes as he constructed a fantasy of revenge. John wanted Michael Whitebear alive and would keep him alive until he could capture the man’s entire family and kill them before his eyes. All except for Michael’s wife. John knew a man like Whitebear would suffer more if he saw his wife turned into a sex toy. The scalpel sharp, branding iron images that danced in John’s imagination caused a stirring in his loins. And when he was through with her, he would cut off her head and beat that bastard Whitebear to death with it. He would teach that insulting bastard the true meaning of agony.

Chapter 44: The Hunted

Michael Whitebear opened his eyes as the chill of the evening penetrated the pile of pine needles and squirrel-chewed pinecones he’d buried himself in. Generations of squirrels, chipmunks and chickarees had contributed to its formation at the base of a tall spruce. Michael had sought shelter in it when the search got too hot in his area, taking the opportunity to grab some sleep. Now, it was time to move.

He rolled out of the pile, stood and brushed remnants of pine cones and needles from his clothing. Now he not only looked like part of the forest, what with the leaves and branches woven into his helmet, he smelled like part of the forest. Of course, most of the small animals were too terrified by the trampling hordes of men to sound any alarm, but every little thing helped. Dozens of times that day, he had been within arm’s length of searching soldiers. Most of them he spared, but on three occasions they had been observant enough to spot him. Those three died swiftly and silently.

He stood there until his eyes, ears and nose located the nearest concentrations of enemy soldiers. It was a moonless night and they were congregating in camps. Campfires and lines of sweeping flashlights marked their positions. Odors of wood smoke and cooking wafted through the air. His stomach growled softly as he headed for the nearest camp. First he needed a prisoner and then some food.

He drifted through the darkness, seeking, circling one campfire, ghosting through a line of pickets and toward a larger blaze. This one looked promising. There was a meeting of officers near the fire. He settled down to wait.

Michael was good at waiting--especially at night, in the woods, surrounded by enemies. He’d been introduced to the art of waiting by his Blackfoot grandfather. Marine drill instructors had refined his skill and a Zen Buddhist priest he’d befriended had polished it to a sheen.

The meeting was breaking up. Pairs and trios of officers were leaving the fire. He wanted someone with sufficient rank to have access to the knowledge he needed, yet not so high up he would be missed quickly. He preferred someone with a radio, deciding to have a little fun. As his grandfather used to say, “If you can’t enjoy it, don’t do it.”

Michael grinned at the memory.

A Lieutenant and a pudgy Captain were heading out into the darkness. The Lieutenant carried a radio; the Captain had a flashlight in one hand and a pair of thermos bottles in the other. Perfect.

Five minutes later, Michael stepped up behind the Lieutenant. A hand to the mouth, a knife through the brain stem and the man was dead. Michael lowered him to the ground, snagged the man’s radio and stepped close to the Captain.

“Bruce?” The Captain peered quizzically at the shape beside him. His flashlight started to swing toward it. A sharp knife pricked his throat. He froze.

“If you want to keep breathing, act like nothing’s wrong,” Michael whispered softly into the now-rigid Captain’s ear.

“You...You...You’re him aren’t you,” the Captain squeaked in a suddenly dry voice. “The ghost we’ve been chasing all day.” He tried to keep from trembling and failed. The man holding the knife at his throat was a stone cold killer! Almost twenty men had died at his hands this day, dozens of others injured or killed by friendly fire. He wondered if Bruce was dead, then decided he didn’t really want to know.

“Just walk with me like everything’s okay,” Michael said. “Cooperate and I give you my word I won’t hurt you.” He pulled the Captain off into the night.

Sure, the Captain thought. He wanted very badly to believe it though. From his friends in intelligence he’d heard whispered, frightened rumors concerning this man. A Sergeant Peters, who everyone called No-Ears before he got killed on the Freeholds raid, told the worst ones. No-Ears had actually been captured and tortured by this very man who was holding a knife to his throat. Another friend had told him this Whitebear had gone one on one with Prince Anthony and not even broken a sweat. Feats he hadn’t believed until now. But what else had No-Ears said? Oh, yeah, “He’ll do whatever he tells ya.”

The Captain grabbed at that straw. He decided to cooperate. If nothing else, it would buy him time.

“Anybody challenges us, you tell them whatever story keeps them from getting suspicious.” The Captain understood what would happen if anybody got suspicious. Michael guided him farther and farther from the fires.

The Captain tried desperately to think of something convincing to tell a sentry and finally fell back on the fact that he was an officer who could do practically anything he wanted. They weren’t challenged.

Michael led the Captain to a secluded spot.

“Turn off your flashlight.”

The Captain flicked it off.

“Damn things ruin a man’s night vision,” Michael said. “Only an idiot would use one.”

“Our sentries have orders to shoot anything that moves if it doesn’t have one,” the Captain volunteered.

“I know,” Michael offered. “I was listening.”

The Captain digested that for a moment.

“You mean what you say about not hurting me if I cooperate?”

“I give my word, I keep it,” Michael said. “Now put those thermos bottles down and give me your pistol and your belt.” The Captain dropped the bottles, took out his pistol, taking care to touch it only with his fingertips and handed it and his belt to Michael. He knew this man could kill him at any time and yet, for some reason, he believed the man would keep his word.

“Now, strip to your underwear.”

Slowly, awkwardly because of the knife at his throat, the Captain complied. His jacket and shirt went first. He carefully unstrapped the sheath and knife he kept strapped to his leg and threw the whole thing onto his growing pile of clothes. He’d glimpsed Michael’s combat knife. By comparison, his own looked neither deadly nor well used. He wasn’t going to do anything to provoke Michael into using it. He removed his boots, let his pants slide down his legs and slowly stepped out of them, then hooked his pants with a big toe and pushed them toward the rest of his clothes. He shivered.

“You can put this on,” Michael said, handing the Captain his own jacket, which the man slid into.

“Good! Now, put your hands behind you.”

Michael bound the man’s hands with the belt.

The Captain was beginning to wonder if Michael’s knife would ever leave the vicinity of his neck.

As if he’d read his mind, Michael pulled the knife away and moved around in front of the Captain. He was still far too close for the man to even think about making a move. Especially with his hands tied together. The Captain congratulated himself often on being no fool and he knew that on the best day of his life he wouldn’t stand a chance against this man.

“Sit down,” Michael ordered, indicating a small boulder that lay up against the foot of a tree. As the Captain did so, Michael stepped in close; bent and secured the man’s feet with a belt he’d taken off a dead man that afternoon.

“Okay, now let’s have a little talk. How many of you are up here looking for me?”

It was always best to start out with something relatively harmless.

“More than eight hundred men at last count.”

“Fine. You know my name. What’s yours?”

“Captain Allen Hoffman.”

Michael was examining the Captain’s clothes as he talked. He held the Captain’s jacket up in front of him and pointed to an insignia he’d never seen until today.

“What’s this mean?”

“Royal Quartermaster Corps.”

“You get to dispense the goodies, huh? What’re you doing up here?”

“Following orders,” the Captain replied ruefully.

Michael smiled understandingly and said, “Okay, Allen, I asked for that one. But seriously, what’s a quartermaster doing on a manhunt?”

“When the Prince ordered General Marsh to send a whole battalion to look for one man, the General about had a fit. But he didn’t get to be General by being stupid enough to argue with Prince John, so he picked us. He sent men from the Motor Pool up later. Leastways that’s the scuttlebutt.”

It figured. That way, the General kept his best combat troops for the assault. It also explained why the weapons of two of the men he’d killed had their safeties engaged. Mechanics and supply clerks: Jesus! But what about those other guys he’d seen, the ones with the bloody dagger insignia. They sure as hell weren’t in the motor pool.

“Anybody else?”

Allen shifted uncomfortably on the rock.

“I haven’t seen them but...well, there’s supposed to be a couple of companies of Rangers up here.”

Michael picked up one of the thermos bottles the Captain had been carrying and started unscrewing the cup that formed the lid.

“Got any food?” The aroma wafting up from the thermos answered his question. “Chicken soup?”

“I thought I might get hungry,” Allen replied in a slightly wounded tone. He was sensitive about his weight.

“Hey, no offense.” Things were going smoothly with this guy and Michael didn’t want to treat him any rougher than he had to. “It’s just that I haven’t eaten since this morning and I was surprised.”

Michael took a sip of soup. “Good stuff.”

“Glad you like it,” Allen said and was surprised to find he meant it. Anything he could do to ingratiate himself to this particular man couldn’t hurt. Besides, the man’s fearlessness impressed him. He’d often wished he, himself, was more like that. One thing was certain. Right now, this killer would make a better friend than enemy. Scratch that, Allen thought. At any time this guy would be a better friend than enemy. For the first time, Allen wondered if he was on the wrong side. He’d known little but fear and bullying in the King’s service.

“There’s hot chocolate in the other one,” Allen said, wishing he could offer Michael a steak.

“Thanks,” Michael said. The sincerity behind the word surprised Allen. Maybe this man wouldn’t kill him.

“Look, Allen,” Michael said, pausing for another swallow of soup and again it was like the man had read his mind, “You’re doing just fine. Keep this up and all you’ll have to show for this experience will be a cold night in the woods.”

Michael finished the soup and started on the hot chocolate.

“You know, Allen, you don’t seem like such a bad sort. How did you end up in the King’s army?”

Michael sensed the easiest way to get accurate information from this guy was to buddy up to him. Allen was obviously the sort who would fold completely if Michael got too rough. If that happened, the man would tell him any lie he thought Michael wanted to hear. Anything to avoid the knife. With some types of men, like No-Ears, Michael could tell they were lying because they would look him straight in the eye and bluff. But with the more craven sort, they’d tell a lie so convincingly it would sound like the truth. They developed a kind of sixth sense for saying the things people wanted to hear. Michael decided to trust his gut and stay with the “buddy” system for the time being.

“I didn’t really have much say in the matter,” Allen began. “One day, the King’s army rolled into town, I ran a farmer’s market back then, and the next day I was a quartermaster. Most of the rest of the folks were dead or slaves. I always have had a talent for organizing things. They spotted that. At least they had the good sense not to try to turn me into a front line soldier. This is the first real action I’ve seen and I campaigned all the way through California, Oregon and Washington.”

Michael almost smiled at Allen’s idea of “real action”, but he kept it in and slurped down the last of the hot chocolate instead. The size of the King’s empire was interesting, though.

“So the King controls all of the west coast states?”

“Oh, yes and parts of Idaho and what’s left of Nevada and Arizona. I think he intends to rule the world.” Allen shook his head as if he simply couldn’t imagine such ambition.

“Well,” Michael said dryly, “unfortunately for him the path to world domination leads through my home.”

Allen’s eyes were well enough adjusted to the dark now to see the chilling smile on his captor’s face. The more he thought about it, the less he figured Michael was joking.

“So, Allen, did you come up from Payson or Spanish Fork?”

What Michael wanted was a line on the Prince.

“Neither. We were ordered up from Nephi.”

Of course, Michael thought. Quartermaster stores would be somewhere near the docks. If he’d have thought for a second he would have known that.

“Do you know where Prince John’s headquarters is located?”

For the first time, Captain Allen Hoffman hesitated. So that’s where this was leading. Now he was truly afraid. If it ever got out he’d helped this maniac in any way, especially by telling him where he could find the Prince...Allen shuddered.

“He moves it around,” he answered evasively.

Instantly the knife was back in Michael’s hand and Allen didn’t like the look of it at all. He suddenly recalled he was much more afraid of this man than he was of the Prince.

“You know, Allen, I thought we both understood the ground rules here. Now we’ve been getting along pretty good up to this point,” and Michael emphasized the word “point” by pointing the knife at the Captain, “and I’d just as soon we continue that way. So I’m going to explain the rules so there’s no misunderstanding about what I mean when I say I want your cooperation.” Michael’s tone was reasonable, almost compassionate.