Hunted (14 page)

Rick Battle left the saddle a micro-second after the slug passed by his head, coming so close he could feel the heat from the lead. On the ground, he yelled, “Hold your fire, you trigger-happy hot dogs! I'm Ranger Battle. Doesn't this hat tell you anything? Who do you think I am, the reincarnation of Sergeant York?”

“Sorry,” came the call. “We thought you were one of them.”

“Who the hell is them?” Rick said, getting off the ground and brushing at his clothing. He began rounding up his spooked horses.

A man stepped out of the brush and walked up to him. “We just got in from the Los Angeles area last night. We were told this entire area is infested with armed radicals and survivalists and dopers.” A dozen more agents left the brush to join him.

Rick was angry to the core. “You people better go easy with those triggers. There are a lot of good people living out here. There are campers and white water rafters. Jesus Christ! Are you going to shoot everybody you see?”

“Hey, Ranger!” the team leader of this particular bunch of feds flared. “We've lost half a dozen agents, at least, during this op. Anyone carrying a gun is suspect.”

“You're crazy,” Rick said bluntly. “Just plain nuts. Most of the people out here are armed. There is no law against it. The boundaries here are ill-defined. Some of this land is private; some is government-owned. A lot of it is leased to timber groups. Other parcels are under a ninety-nine-year lease to private citizens.”

“We've ordered everybody out,” the TL said. “If they don't go, that's their problem.”

“The government's gone crazy,” Rick muttered, swinging into the saddle. He looked at the knot of heavily armed agents. “Let me tell you something, people. A lot of the men and women who live out here year-round are tough as wang leather. You point a gun at them, and they'll kill you. There are paths and trails leading into this area from three directions that you people couldn't cover if there were five hundred times your number in here. This is Thursday; starting late this afternoon, there'll be people from towns all around this area coming in here to fish and camp and boat and relax. And they won't be using the roads you've got blocked. They'll be backpacking and floating in. This is a wilderness area, people. Some of those coming in will be armed for self-protection. You shoot some private citizen, and I will personally come after you.”

“Are you threatening us, Ranger?”

“No. I'm just telling you how the cow ate the cabbage, that's all. Now get out of my way, you assholes!”

Rick rode on, leaving behind him some angry and rather confused federal agents, who really did not know exactly what the hell was going on.

Just following orders.

* * *

Darry took his time getting to where he'd seen Jack and Kathy in the ravine, moving swiftly but carefully, utilizing every bit of cover he could find. He counted a dozen big transport helicopters circling to land as he made his way to the ravine. He was correct as he thought, Some of these agents are going to be shooting each other before this is over.

As the sun dropped to signal mid-afternoon, there were now more than six hundred federal agents in the area, with more coming in.

All of them just following orders.

* * *

“Hello the camp!” Kevin called to the Collier family camped on the riverbank. “Don't be afraid, we're friendly.”

“That would be a novel experience,” Dr. Collier called, his eyes taking in the young people with the group. “Come on down. We don't have much, but we'll share.”

The remnants of the old hippie commune climbed down and introduced themselves. Kevin said, “We're not going to stay here. You'd be in serious trouble if we were found here. But you people better clear out of this area. The damn feds have gone crazy.”

Ray pointed to a log. “Sit down, have some coffee and tell us what's going on.”

“I'm an attorney,” Karen said. “And I have seen just enough to know that our government is out of control. Consider yourselves represented.”

“You might not want to do that once you've heard our story,” Todd said.

“They killed my mother!” Jerry blurted out, once more close to tears.

“That settles it,” Karen said. “Terri, get some cups and pour us coffee.”

* * *

Darry found Jack and the dead agents. He found a pulse and then picked up the man and carried him about a quarter of a mile from the site before stretching him out on the ground and seeing to his wounds. Over the endless decades, Darry had seen and tended to all sorts of wounds, and he did not believe these to be serious; but they did need immediate care. He had a first aid kit back among his supplies, but out here, he more often than not used natural medicines to aid and promote healing.

Darry found a small spring and soaked his handkerchief and the one he'd removed from Jack's pocket in the cold water, then bathed the agent's face, removing all the dried and caked blood. The bullet had cut a groove in the man's head, but Darry could find no bone movement. He would certainly have a raging headache when he did come out of it.

Darry did not want to sling the man over his shoulder to carry him, for fear that would reopen the two shoulder wounds. He took Jack's canteen to the spring, emptied out the tepid water and filled it up with cold spring water, then poured it over Jack's face. Jack moaned and opened his eyes.

“Easy now,” Darry cautioned. “Just lie still while I go refill the canteen. You've lost blood and need water to drink. You also need food in you.”

“Where . . . ?”

“Be quiet. I'll be right back.”

Darry lifted Jack's head so he could drink and then gave him a piece of jerky to chew on. “Don't try to swallow the meat, just chew on it. It isn't much, but it'll give you some nourishment.”

Jack chewed on the jerky and drank some more water. “In my jumpsuit side pocket. A high-energy bar.”

Darry found the chocolate bar and removed the wrapper. Jack carefully took the jerky from his mouth, laid it aside, and bit off a hunk of the high-energy bar.

“It's dried venison.” Darry anticipated the question. He smiled at the man. “You like it?”

“It's . . . interesting,” Jack said, his voice growing stronger. “But I wouldn't want a steady diet of it.”

“You think you can walk?”

“I can damn sure try. What the hell is going on?”

“It's a long story, Jack.”

* * *

Dr. Ray Collier had never seen his wife so angry. She was livid with rage. After Kevin had related all that had taken place, she paced up and down on the riverbank, visibly calming herself down. She returned to the group and sat down on the ground.

“Now tell me the truth, all of you,” Karen said, looking at each member of the old hippie commune. “Do you grow or sell marijuana?”

To a person, they shook their heads. Kevin said, “No, ma'am. None of us. Not in years. When we got out of the service and moved out here, we used to smoke. We all had our little patches of grass. But when the kids were born, we quit. I'll bet you it's been a good fifteen years since any of us toked on a joint. And Jody Hinds, to my knowledge, never used drugs of any kind. Tom Sessions—he used to be the ranger around here, before he became head of the district—he checked us all out. Then when he was promoted and Rick Battle took over the station, he checked us out.”

“We never minded that,” Todd said. “We know we live a lifestyle that is very different from what others live. But we've never bothered a living soul. All of us were shot up pretty bad in 'Nam, and we all draw disability checks. Out there”—he jerked a thumb—“it wouldn't be enough to live on. But it's plenty in here. We grow a lot of our food, and we all hunt and fish. Our wives are college graduates and have teaching certificates . . . that's how we could get by teaching our kids at home. And they've received a good, balanced education. The older ones have all gone to college and graduated.” He smiled as he looked at his wife. Betsy picked it up.

“They're not geniuses,” she said. “Although we all like to think that of our kids. But they all graduated with three-point-two and three-point-three or -four averages. And they're all working now and paying taxes and so forth. Helping to pay the salaries of those who attacked us,” she added bitterly.

“And killed my wife,” Vince's words were softly offered.

“And wiped out Jody's family,” Kevin added. “But we sure wasted some of the bastards. Excuse my language.”

“That's all right,” Karen said. “I certainly understand your feelings. After they knocked my husband to the ground, I can share a little bit of your emotions.”

Paul was looking at the weapons the men and women had brought with them. The weapons were not new, by any means, but they were well cared for. Mini-14s, he thought, with twenty- or thirty-round clips. The kind of weapons called assault rifles. And at that moment, the boy—almost a man—knew why there was such a great hue and cry to disarm the American public: unarmed citizens could not fight back against government excesses and brutality such as these people in camp had faced. And Paul also thought, as he studied the men and women, that the government better be very wary of men and women such as these, for their spirit of independence and self-reliance was strong, and not likely to be broken. If enough men and women like Kevin and his friends could get together, they could force the government to toe the mark. That's why the government was coming down so hard on men and women the media called survivalists. They were scared of them.

Paul didn't realize it yet, but he had just become a survivalist.

* * *

“Spotters report an entire team down and dead up here,” the agent said, pointing to a spot on the map. “Ten agents. Eight men and two women. Their weapons and personal gear taken by whoever hit them.”

Max Vernon threw his tin coffee cup to the ground. “All right, people. We've sealed this area off . . .” Not true. Several dozen hikers and campers and fishermen (excuse me, fisher-persons) and nature lovers were now in the area, and they did not have the vaguest idea they had walked into a free-fire zone. It would take two full divisions of troops to seal off over a thousand square miles of wilderness; and even then, someone would probably slip through. But Max Vernon was impressed with his gold badge and government-authorized near-dictatorial powers, so he was too stupid to realize that. He had attained his position by ass-kissing and carefully placing himself in the right places at the right times. And never having the courage to question directives or orders. Just following orders. Don't blame me, I'm just following orders. “... we've evac'd everyone who isn't aligned directly or who we think doesn't secretly support these terrorist bastards . . .” (Anyone who didn't blindly follow the Washington party-in-power's dogma like a bunch of lemmings to the sea. They used to be called free thinkers—but now they were referred to as terrorists, traitors, much-to-be-feared survivalists, seditionists, separatists, or whatever else some of the elected nannies and ninnies could hang on them.) “. . . so it's shoot-to-kill time, people...”

A number of those agents standing close to Max exchanged very wary glances at that remark. Those looks held one unanimous and silent comment: they would shoot only if they were shot at, and if Max Vernon didn't like that, he could go suck an egg.

“... those orders are being radioed to all teams. Draw equipment and provisions. Let's secure this area, people. Move out!”

* * *

A dentist from Boise and a schoolteacher on spring break from out of state were to be the first real outsider casualties of the American government's armed and dangerous Thought & Speech Police. Both of them had entered the wilderness area the day before, and were only a few miles from the meadow where the mercenaries had done battle with the federal agents. As Darry was helping Jack to the cave, the dentist and the schoolteacher met on one of the many trails leading into the wilderness area. They chatted for a few moments, then walked on. A half hour later, the dentist was dead, shot through the head by a government sniper. The woman's left arm had been shattered by a bullet, and she was running away in a blind panic, believing she had been set upon by outlaws.

Just about the same time the dentist and the schoolteacher were ambushed, Mike Tuttle and his mercenaries sprung the trap on a five-man team of federal agents. The mercenaries took no prisoners and left no one alive. One member of the team did manage to get off a short radio message before he died, giving position and status, which was grim.

“The whole area is filled with highly trained and motivated paramilitary troops!” the agent frantically radioed. “They're armed with automatic weapons and sure as hell know how to use them. We've had it, Max. I—”

The radio went silent.

Max's face turned hard as he realized what had happened to that team of agents. “Get the word out to all our people: the password is ‘tails,' response is ‘wagging.' Anyone who doesn't know the correct response is to be considered an enemy. Shoot to kill. Send that out in code, by burst transmission. The enemy now has our radios, and they'll be able to listen in on open transmissions. And get word to Washington that it looks like this area is the central hotbed for insurrection. I want federal marshals in here to completely seal off the area. No troops. That would tip off the press.” He turned to a map and using a grease pencil marked the hot area. “This area. Get it done right now. No one in, and no one out unless they are with us. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”