World War III (57 page)

Kye walked through the two-story barn, admiring the old man’s acquisitions. Over the years he’d attained a priceless collection of weapons, uniforms, armored vehicles, and even tanks.

Uniforms from various countries and militaries hung from the walls, framed behind glass. Some of them dated back to the Revolutionary War, while others were more modern. The smaller weapons, such as pistols, rifles and machine guns, were housed in glass cases. Several bazookas were stored in empty stalls, lying in a pile of hay. Most of the tanks and armored vehicles were parked in the center of the barn, but a few prized possessions had stalls of their own.

“This is amazing,” said Kye, admiring the collection. “We could fight a war with what you’ve got here!”

“Perhaps,” replied Sampson, “but a lot of the vehicles need work and some don’t even start. We need to get Rollin and a few mechanics out here working on them.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Kye, as he walked around a large tank, admiring its engineering.

“That’s a Tiger Tank from the second World War,” said Sampson, watching the younger man with amusement. “She still runs and shoots,” he added, proudly.

“She’s beautiful,” observed Kye.

“If you like that, then you’ll love this,” said Sampson, unlocking a large, wooden door and swinging it open.

Intrigued, Kye followed the old man into the dark room. The lights flickered on and his mouth dropped open. There in front of him was a fully intact fighter plane, circa World War II. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “Is that what I think it is?” He asked, in amazement.

“That depends,” replied Sampson. “What do ya think it is?”

“It’s a carrier born, 1943 Fairey Firefly,” answered Kye, walking around the renovated antique, while admiring its beauty. “This fighter was used by the British during World War II, participating in battles with both the Germans and the Japanese,” he added.

“It’s a two-seater, single engine, rounded wing, cantilever monoplane,” he continued. “It was used to attack both aircraft and seagoing vessels. It has a Rolls-Royce Griffon liquid-cooled piston engine, with a three-blade airscrew. It’s designed with a folding wing system for storage onboard aircraft carriers and fielded with a standard array of 4x20mm cannons mounted in the wings. It has a 1300 mile range and exceeds speeds of 300 miles per hour. The pilot sits forward and the additional crew member sits aft.”

“Well,” said Sampson, more than a little impressed, “you know more about the darn thing than I do. I guess the real question is, can you fly it?”

“I can fly anything with wings and an engine,” declared Kye, proudly. “Of course, that’s assuming the old girl can make it into the air.”

“Oh, she’ll fly,” said Sampson, patting the plane lovingly, as if it were a pet.

“Even if we can get her into the air, I don’t see what good she’ll be,” said Kye. “She wouldn’t stand a chance against a modern jet. She’d be a sitting duck.”

“Jeremiah has been up in the mountains scouting the enemy and it would appear they don’t have any air support,” explained the old man. “The airstrip in South Lake Tahoe was destroyed before the enemy took possession and although they’re rebuilding, it isn’t complete.”

“All they’d need to do is call for air support,” replied Kye. “They could have a squadron of MiG-29’s here in a matter of minutes.”

“Then why haven’t they done that already,” said Sampson, undaunted by the younger man’s arguments. “It’s chancy, but worth the risk. Besides,” he added, “I’ll be up there with you.”

“Is it fully armed?” Asked Kye, inspecting the aircraft more closely.

“The 4x20mm cannons are loaded,” replied Sampson, “but I don’t have the bombs, or air-to-surface missiles.”

“The cannons will do some damage,” admitted Kye, “but not much, especially against armored vehicles. Without bombs or missiles, we might as well be throwing rocks down on top of them.”

“I think we can do better than rocks,” said Sampson. “Follow me.”

He led Kye into a nearby stall and pointed to a huge pile of crates, covered with a grey tarp. Sampson removed the tarp and opened one of the crates, revealing a dozen Molotov Cocktails. Each bottle contained a mixture of motor oil and kerosene, making the contents both sticky and flammable. A rag, used to ignite the substance, dangled from the top of each bottle. “I’ve got several hundred,” said the old man. “You get me over the targets and I’ll drop the bottles.”

“Are you gonna be able to, with your wounded shoulder?”

“Are you gonna be able to fly, with your busted leg?” Countered Sampson, glancing at Kye’s crutch.

“Look at us,” laughed Kye, “a pair of cripples, itching to get into the fight.”

“Speak for yourself,” grumbled the old man. “I may not be able to hold and aim a rifle until my shoulder heals,” he admitted, “but I can sure as hell drop these babies. They may be rudimentary, but they’ll get the job done.”

“Alright,” said Kye, feeling rejuvenated and given a sense of purpose, “let’s get Rollin and some of the other fellas out here working on these beasts. We don’t have much time and there’s a lot that needs doing.”

*******

Riding with packs of nitro strapped to their backs, Shiloh, Mason and Cleo sped up the mountain, dodging in and out of pine trees. They were almost to Cave Rock Tunnel, when Shiloh pulled his snowmobile to a stop, on a ridge overlooking the lake and killed the engine.

“That’s it,” he said, pointing to twin tunnels, carved into the mountainside. “We’re on foot from here,” he added, slipping on a pair of snowshoes.

After covering the snowmobiles with snow and branches, they set off following a game trail in single file. The trail led them down a small slope, ending on top of Cave Rock Tunnel. They arrived just as the sun was setting. Glancing over the edge of the tunnel, they found two guards posted at each end.

“How should we do this?” Asked Shiloh, relying on the expertise of Mason and Cleo.

“We eliminate the guards,” stated Mason, as if the answer was obvious.

“Okay,” agreed Shiloh. “How do we get down there and do it without them noticing?”

“Quietly,” whispered Mason, as he removed his pack of nitro and handed it to Cleo, “very quietly. You two take the guards at the north end and I’ll take the two at the south,” he added, before turning and climbing over the southern edge.

“Come on,” whispered Cleo, leading Shiloh to the north end of the tunnel. She gently placed Mason’s pack on the ground, before removing her own. Opening the pack, she withdrew a long, black rope and tied one end around her waist, before handing the other end to Shiloh. “Lower me down and don’t drop me,” she whispered, withdrawing two, small knifes.

Shiloh quickly removed his pack and added it to the pile, before wrapping the rope around his waist. He watched Cleo step over the ledge and felt the weight of her body pull against his. Holding tight with both hands, he continued feeding her rope, as she slowly descended on the guards below.

Hanging upside-down, Cleo could see the tops of the guard’s helmets. The soldiers were standing side-by-side, talking about home while smoking cigarettes. They were completely oblivious of the woman dangling overhead, until it was too late. Hovering a few inches above, with a knife in each hand, she reached out in one fluid motion and slashed their carotid arteries. Choking on blood and unable to scream, the guards dropped their guns and clutched their throats.

Cleo quickly unfastened the rope and swung down, landing in a crouched position, her gun drawn and ready.

Afraid he’d dropped her, Shiloh peered over the edge and was relieved to see Cleo alive and well. He watched in silence, as she dragged the soldier’s bodies to the side of the road.

Mason was a few feet above the guards posted at the southern end of the tunnel, when one of them turned and shouted, pointing to Cleo at the opposite end. The soldiers lifted their guns and took aim, as Mason jumped, gripping a large, serrated knife. He landed on top of them, before either guard could fire a shot. He grabbed the nearest guard and in one swift motion, slit his throat, before throwing his knife at the other. The blade struck the second guard’s throat and he dropped his rifle, grasping at the hilt of the knife.

“Lower the packs,” whispered Cleo.

Shiloh retracted the rope and tied all three packs to one end, before carefully lowering them to the ground below. Cleo immediately grabbed the packs and disappeared into the tunnel, while Shiloh secured the rope to a boulder and climbed over the edge. With his feet planted firmly on the ground, he glanced at the bodies of the four guards, lying in a heap, a pool of blood forming beneath them. He quickly turned and entered the tunnel, where Mason and Cleo were busy, drilling holes into the rock wall. “Can I help?”

“Keep watch,” instructed Mason, as he gently inserted a bottle of nitroglycerin into one of the finished holes.

Shiloh stepped to the southern edge of the tunnel, where he had a clear view of the road below and watched for any sign of movement. They’d finished the first tunnel and were working on the second, when he saw a convoy of trucks, snaking toward them. “Someone’s coming!”

“Who?”

“An entire convoy,” he said. “They’ll be here in a few minutes. We need to go!”

“If we don’t place all the charges there’s no guarantee it’ll blow,” replied Mason. “I just have one more hole to drill. You two get going. I’ll be along directly.”

“We’re not leaving you,” said Cleo.

“Go! I’ll be right behind you!”

“You’d better be!” Cleo turned and ran down the tunnel, with Shiloh following close behind.

Mason could feel a slight vibration in the ground, as the convoy drew closer. He held his breath and plugged the last hole, hoping the vibration wouldn’t ignite the nitro. With all of the charges set, he quickly ran a trip line across the tunnel’s southern opening and gently slid the remaining nitro into his pack. He ran to the north end of the tunnel, where Shiloh and Cleo had left the rope dangling and began climbing, when a voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

Mason froze for a second, before lowering himself to the ground. He turned around slowly and was shocked to find a dozen, Chinese soldier’s standing on the road, their rifles pointed directly at him. Thinking quickly, he greeted the soldiers in Russian, slurring his speech and acting drunk. He staggered around, as if off balance and began singing an old, Russian Navy song.

The officer in charge yelled at Mason in Mandarin, demanding to know who he was and what he was doing here in the middle of the night.

Mason spoke fluent Mandarin and could understand every word, but pretended not to. Although the soldiers recognized the Russian language he was using, it was obvious they didn’t speak a word of it, and confusion was exactly what he wanted.

He rested his rifle against the rock wall and smiled, while slowly removing his backpack. Reaching inside, he grabbed hold of the last bottle of nitro and was pulling it out, when the officer lunged forward, screaming. Mason withdrew his empty hand carefully and held it to his mouth, pretending to take a drink from an imaginary bottle. “Vodka,” he said, pointing to the pack.

Understanding the gesture, the officer lowered his weapon and instructed one of his men to check the bag. A soldier stepped forward and snatched the bag from Mason, who cringed in anticipation of an explosion. The soldier reached inside and withdrew the bottle of nitro, tossing it to the officer.

Mason pointed to himself and the officer, while saying, “Comrade.” He pretended to stager and fell to the ground, inches from his rifle.

Believing Mason to be drunk and harmless, the officer lowered his weapon. He glanced skeptically at the bottle in his hand, but even he recognized the words vodka and comrade. He held the bottle up and shouted joyously, before removing the cap with his teeth and taking a large gulp. The nitroglycerin descended into his intestines, burning his innards and causing him to gasp, as he clutched his throat in agony. Enraged by the deception, he cursed and threw the bottle to the ground.

Anticipating the officer’s reaction, Mason dove for cover behind a large log. The bottle hit the ground and exploded in a thunderous roar, causing the earth to shake and chunks of snow and dirt to rain down upon him. When the blast was over, he climbed to his feet and glanced around. The opposite side of the log was scorched and with the exception of a few limbs, the soldiers were gone.

Peering down the tunnel, he noticed the enemy convoy approaching from the south and quickly scurried up the rope. He reached the top and abandoned the rope, following the same game trail as before.

“What happened?” Shiloh asked, when he saw Mason, running up the slope toward them.

“I ran into an enemy platoon,” explained Mason.

“It looks like you’re wearing them,” observed Cleo, removing a piece of flesh from Mason’s shoulder.

“Oh that’s just gross,” replied Shiloh, examining Mason’s blood-stained clothes in disgust.

“We’d better get going,” said Mason, brushing remnants of the platoon from his jacket.

Two bullets whistled passed Cleo’s head, striking Mason in the chest and knocking him to the ground. Shiloh spun around and reached for his gun, but it was too late.

A man dressed entirely in white emerged from a mound of snow, where he’d been lying in wait. In his hands he held a high-powered rifle, pointed directly at Shiloh’s chest. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said, staring at Shiloh, with dark, cold eyes.