Holding Their Own: The Salt War (13 page)

The chief couldn’t argue with Mr. Gospel’s logic. “I suppose you’re right, as usual. Tomorrow morning, I’ll put another hundred men on the hunt.”

“What about Greyson and his boys?” asked Stan.

“I thought about that, but you know what an asshole that guy can be. I hate dealing with that prick. He doesn’t give a shit about anybody but himself and that damn farm of his. The sons aren’t much better.”

Gospel nodded, “I know. I don’t care for him much either, but they were the best hunters around here before the collapse. They’ve got all those fancy hog-tracking doodads… thermal imagers… night goggles and gawd knows what else.”

The chief grunted, “Yeah, I know. Back in the day, they had better equipment than my department.”

“Offer old man Greyson a reward if he brings in our fugitive. Let him and those boys he’s always bragging about prove they’re the best hunters in East Texas.”

The sign at the end of the long driveway read, “Greyson Ranch: Safaris, Guided Hunts, Hunting Leases, and Equipment Rental.”

The chief pulled his cruiser to the sturdy gate, noting the main house still boasted electric lights. Mr. Greyson hadn’t been forthcoming when asked where he obtained the fuel for his generators.

The speakerphone buzzed, “What do you want, Chief?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you, Greyson. Stan sent me out to talk to you.”

“You don’t say,” came the static-filled reply.

The gate swung open via a humming motor, making the old cop wonder just how much electrical power the ranch could produce… and how it managed to do so.

He continued through the threshold, driving slowly along the winding drive. An image appeared at the edge of his headlights, a sole figure holding a tactical shotgun of wicked-looking configuration.

The chief stopped the car, shaking his head at the old man’s paranoia. “You won’t need that scatter gun, Greyson,” he announced as he exited the cruiser. “I’m here to hire you, not arrest you.”

“Hire me for what?”

The chief relayed the story of the fugitive troublemaker, highlighting that the man was a suspected thief, preying on the poor, nearly starving vendors at the Exchange. In addition, the wanted thug had blindsided a couple of the town’s deputies, assaulting the unaware officers without cause.

Greyson was pessimistic. “More like a couple of your boys got a little forward with the wrong guy,” the old coot grumbled. “No matter. What’s the job pay?”

“What do you want?”

The chief’s host scratched the salt and pepper stubble on his chin. “Well, for damn sure I ain’t interested in any of the monopoly money Standowski prints up. We can always use more ammo though. We need .308 and .338, and of course, a man can never have enough 12-gauge shells.”

“That might be arranged.”

“We’ll take 500 rounds, any mix if we bring him in alive. Our invoice will be 250 cartridges if he’s dead.”

The chief laughed, a pre-rehearsed reaction, no matter what the old man asked for. “Come on, Greyson. You know ammo is in short supply everywhere - they ain’t making it no more. The town will pay 300 rounds alive, 150 dead.”

Back and forth the negotiations went, the two men haggling more for the sake of victory than the actual terms of reward or cost.

When they finally came to an agreement, the chief extracted a map from his front seat. “We think he’s in this area here,” he explained, drawing an outline with his finger. “I don’t have anyone out there at night, so anybody you see is fair game. I’ll hold my boys back until 9 a.m., and then we’re coming in with 400 men.”

Greyson laughed, shaking his head. “My old granny could outfox that plan. She could hear you coming with 400 noisy-ass rednecks a mile away. We’ll get ’em, Chief. We’ll go tonight. You head back into town and get our reward all counted out and wrapped up with a pretty, little bow.”

Nodding, the old cop turned, strolling back to his car. As he reached the door, he heard Greyson call out, “Did you hear that, boys? We’re going hunting. Get your shit in one bag.”

Three outlines appeared, rising out of the darkness like ghouls in a horror flick. All of them sported high-powered rifles and were wearing various forms of camouflage. One of them, outfitted with a straw-colored ghillie suit, was less than 10 feet from the chief’s cruiser.

The old officer had to smirk as he put the car in reverse. “At least he didn’t call out all five of his boys for my welcoming committee.” 

The shallow canyon was really more of a wash than a formation. Shoulder-high from top to bottom, Nick surmised that drainage had sculpted the terrain.

Ridges of sandstone protruded from the north side, one of the flat, shelf-like rocks extending over three feet from the earthen wall of yellowish soil. It was shelter of a sort, large enough to keep dew or rain off his sleeping bag or hide the flames of a small fire.

Using his knife to dig, pick, and scrape, he cleared the soft dirt to excavate enough space to accommodate his oversized body. It wasn’t the Waldorf, but he’d slept in worse places.

Next came the trip wires, barely over an inch above the ground and covered with dead foliage and pine needles. He spanned the primary approaches to his den, attaching the taunt ends to homemade noisemakers.

Standing back to inspect his labors, Nick surmised that only a well trained professional might avoid the web of early warning fishing line.

He gathered a small supply of the driest wood he could find, knowing the odor and smoke trail were risky. His desire for a hot meal and longing for steaming coffee overrode the odds of discovery. He’d keep the blaze small, the duration short. There was a slight breeze to disperse the aroma, and it was unlikely anyone would observe the smoke after dusk.

It was a tremendous relief to unshoulder the pack and remove his chest rig and armor. His endurance, strengthened by years of humping a heavy kit all over the planet, wasn’t what it used to be.
This is why men retire so young from the forces
, he mused, stretching his stiff back and flexing a sore knee.
We punish our bodies until they burn out, and then we’re discarded, useless and old.
      

Unpacking a quick meal and making sure everything was ready to heat, Nick was soon gathering tinder. He didn’t have to go far. In minutes, there was a slight pile under the ledge of his rock shelter. It was going to get chilly this evening, and the residual heat from his cooking fire would make the rock warm and cozy – at least for a short time. The sandstone overhang above the campfire would also help to disburse the smoke.

A few minutes later, the blaze was crackling, surrounded by several baseball-sized stones. He wasn’t worried about the fire spreading, but wanted to heat the rocks in case the air became cold later that night. Without weather forecasts, it was always better to be safe than shivering.

He let the water boil for 15 minutes, using the time to check both ends of his shallow draw. Survival, when being hunted, equated to diligence, caution, and discipline. His meal would be much more enjoyable if he wasn’t worried about armed men stalking his camp.

He took a moment to hang his pack, suspending the ruck with a length of fishing line from a nearby pine. Texas was thick with fire ants and other assorted critters that always posed a concern. The last thing he needed was some nosey possum drawing the wrath of his carbine, an event which would help any nighttime hunters vector in on his locale.

The meal was crap, but then again, fine dining in the field wasn’t often an option. Pulling his secret stash of Tabasco from his ruck, Nick sprinkled a few drops on the salted beef and onion stew concocted from his stores. He’d passed by a small lake a few hours ago, a thick patch of cattails growing on the water’s edge. Taking just a moment, he’d pulled up a handful of the versatile plants. Now the tubers were steaming in the broth.

Even with the ultra-rare sauce, combined with liberal amounts of salt and pepper, it was a dismal meal. He downed a piece of goat cheese that wasn’t moldy yet. No crackers. No bread.

Were it not for the game of cat and mouse he was playing with the locals, the campfire cuisine might have been greatly improved. Despite the lack of operational towers, Nick kept his cell phone in his kit as a small, portable library full of electronic books he’d downloaded over the years. He was sure there was a reference guide covering edible East Texas plants residing in the tiny computer’s memory, but there just wasn’t time to read, identify, and harvest the local foliage. Besides, he hadn’t charged the unit lately and wasn’t even sure it would turn on. 

“Calories,” he whispered, blowing to cool another spoonful. “It’s all about calories and food energy. Just keep telling yourself that and choke it down. Diana will make you some of her world-class pasta when you get back to Alpha. That, and I’m going to make Bishop buy me… no, the whole team, a pizza. A thick one. With extra cheese. Hold the mold.”

Nick judged his campsite sufficiently secluded to do a little housekeeping. His body and clothing were seasoned to the point where odor might give away his position.
I feel like I’ve spent half of my life covered in a layer of dirt and filth
, he thought.
It’s a wonder the muck ever washes off.

Picking up his carbine and an empty trash bag from his pack, Nick made the call to chance movement. A creek gurgled close to his location, the route blocked only by his web of tripwires. He had hurt those hunting him pretty badly, and doubted they’d regroup and risk a nighttime endeavor. Besides, he’d sleep better if he were a little cleaner.

The plastic bag was soon swinging against his leg, the bulging vessel full of water for laundry – no need to boil.

But it would be nice to scrub off the grime with warm water.

After a few moments of consideration, he decided to throw another wrist-sized piece of dried timber on the fire, just enough fuel to heat another container of water. His clothing would have to do with a cold wash.

He stripped down, tossing his threads into the bag. No detergent. No spin cycle.

After sloshing around the bag of garments, he extracted his field wardrobe, wringing out each piece and then attaching it to a line above the smoldering column that was rising from the overhang. The smoke would kill odor-causing bacteria as well as help to dry the duds.

By the time he’d finished with his laundry duties, his bath water was nice and hot.

Just like washing a car, he started from the top down, wishing for a small bottle of shampoo or soap. With a corner of the always-present Shemagh serving as washcloth, he scrubbed and rubbed. The hot water refreshed him, and while the rag-bath was better than nothing, he still longed for a nice, hot, shower.

Rinsing and wringing the Shemagh, he hung the towel-sized cotton cloth to dry with his outerwear. He took a moment to examine the well-worn piece of kit, the number of uses for such a simple item never ceasing to amaze the ex-soldier.

Most people, when visualizing Arab-style head wraps, thought they were purpose built articles like Western hats. That assumption was incorrect.

While the big man didn’t know the full ancestral linage of the Shemagh, he know that people all over the globe used one form or the other of the multi-purpose cloth.

Nick had first been exposed to the article of clothing when cross-training with the British Special Air Services, or SAS. He’d noticed all of UK operators using what he thought were some sort of military issue wraps, or ascots.