The day after: An apocalyptic morning (165 page)

              Paula chewed a large wad of gum nervously as she sighted in on the closer of the men. She breathed deeply and slowly, feeling the familiar sensation of calm that overtook her whenever combat was imminent. Around her, many of her troops were doing the same.

              The group of militia passed over the 300-yard mark and kept coming. No one fired but everyone tensed up. They came closer and closer, passing 250 yards, and still they held their fire.

              "Steady," Paula told everyone, her finger caressing her trigger, her mind marking the spot where the 200-yard mark was. She picked a small group of trees that she figured was about that distance, commanding herself not to be conservative. Though letting them get that close went against every instinct that she had, she knew she had to trust Skip's instincts more than her own.

              Finally the first of the men stepped past her invisible line. She waited until a few more passed over as well. And then, unable to stand it anymore, she gave the order to fire.

              Stinson was getting edgier and edgier with each step that they took forward. They had already gone well beyond the point where he had figured contact would be made with the enemy. Why weren't they firing? He could not bring himself to believe that they were really going to march in without any opposition.

              "Something's not right," he said to Stu, who was about ten feet to his left and slightly behind. "They should have shot at us by now."

              "They're probably..." Stu started, but he never finished.

              From the hills directly in front of them, barely two hundred yards away, a multitude of flashes suddenly erupted, including the repeating flashes of automatics. The range was much too short for there to be a meaningful reaction time and before anyone could dive down, a wall of lead came rolling in, cutting into their ranks like a lawnmower. Screams filled the air as more than fifteen men went down at once, blood flying from their bodies.

              "Get down!" Stinson and Stu and several squad leaders yelled simultaneously. They yelled even as they were doing this themselves. It was an unnecessary order in any case since everyone left at this point in the battle was well versed in the concept of getting their asses in the mud when the shooting started.

              Unfortunately, in this circumstance, hitting the dirt did precious little good. The range from which the gunfire was coming was simply too close, the gunfire itself far too accurate. Before anyone could scramble to cover, another volley of fire slammed into them, riddling those on the ground with bullets. More screams pierced the air as another six or seven were shot to pieces where they lie. Stinson himself had a burst of fire stitch through the mud less than two feet in front of him, spraying dirt and water into his face and temporarily blinding him.

              "Return fire!" Stu screamed, unleashing a burst with his automatic. "Get some fucking fire up on those hills, you assholes!"

              Stinson, like everyone else, ignored him in favor of finding some sort of cover to stop the deadly rain of bullets. He found a large rock that had once been under ground but that the constant rain had exposed due to erosion. No sooner had he pulled his body behind it then more bullets came flying in, this time from the flanks. He looked up just in time to see the flashes from the hills to the left and right of the position from which the original fire had come. "Jesus Christ," he said, terrified. Three more men fell to it in less than five seconds. "Stu," he cried at the leader, who was crouching behind a fallen log twelve feet to the right. "They've got us in a crossfire! We need to pull back!"

              "We're not pulling back!" Stu yelled. He fired one more burst and then looked over at Stinson. "We need to get around on the flank," he said. "We'll leapfrog again, just like before. You lead first and second squad over there, I'll lead the rest. Get ready to go!"

              "We can't flank them," Stinson protested angrily. "Goddammit you idiot, they're on both sides of us and up the fucking middle. They're killing us! We need to pull back!"

              "We'll give you covering fire, just like before!" Stu yelled. "Now get going before they kill all of us!"

              "They're in trenches, Stu!" Stinson yelled back, making no move to get ready to charge. "Don't you see that? Adams was telling the truth! They're firing at us from trenches and our covering fire won't do any fucking good!"

              Stu simply glared back at him, seemingly not hearing this last piece of information. "I gave you an order!" he said. "Get your fucking squad moving right now or I'll shoot you where you are! Do you understand me?"

              Stinson stared back, ignoring another burst of fire that slammed into his rock. He knew that even if he tried to go forward, there was no way in hell that the men would follow him. They had reached the end of their rope. The unit cohesion - while it might have been enough to get them to advance under light resistance - would never hold under an advance against this murderous fire. There was simply no way. Even now, as the first and second in command stared at each other, three more men were shot to death, victims of the crossfire from the right and left.

              "Did you fucking hear me?" Stu yelled at Stinson. "Get your ass moving!"

              Stinson didn't pause to debate what he did next, which is probably why he was able to do it. "I hear you," he said softly. He raised his M-16 up and pointed it at Stu. He squeezed the trigger, holding it down tightly. The weapon was still set on full automatic fire and Stu had time for one quick look of shock and surprise before his face, neck, and body were riddled with an entire clip of ammunition. He flopped, rolled, and bounced, blood flying into the air around him. Even after the action locked open on the empty chamber, Stinson continued to hold the trigger down. Around him the men, who had somehow known that that burst of fire was something different than return fire, were staring at him in shock as the bullets continued to fly in.

              "I'm taking command of this group," Stinson yelled out calmly. "Does anyone have an issue with that?"

              No one answered him, either in the positive or the negative.

              "Good," Stinson said. "My first order is to cease fire. Do not return fire at them. We're pulling back!"

              The looks of relief were unmistakable.

              Skip watched out the window of the chopper at the slaughter taking place below. Already he could tell that the militia would not be able to hold on for more than another minute or so before they went fleeing in terror back the way they had come. And when they did that the troops in the trenches would keep up the volume of fire on them, perhaps dropping half of the survivors as they retreated. And then, when the ones who survived that gathered in the rear to lick their wounds, he would direct Jack and Sherrie to drop the napalm canister on them. It was not something he was looking forward to, but it was something that would have to be done.

              "It's almost too easy," Jack said, obviously less than happy about the slaughter as well. "They don't have a chance."

              "They were given a choice," Skip said. "I didn't make it for them."

              "I know."

              Skip noticed now that there was no longer any return fire coming from the militia positions. What was up with that? Surely they hadn't killed everyone down there. And surely they weren't out of ammunition yet.

              The answer came a moment later when the CB band, which they were routinely monitoring, came to life. "Garden Hill command," said an unfamiliar voice. "This is militia command. Do you copy? Request immediate communication!"

              "What the hell?" Jack said.

              "Who was that?" Sherrie, who had heard everything through her headset, asked.

              "That wasn't our friend Stu," Skip said. "That's for sure."

              "Are you going to answer him?" asked Jack.

              Skip nodded and reached forward to turn the transmit frequency back to the militia channel. He keyed up. "This is Skip Adams," he said. "Go ahead militia commander. And please identify yourself."

              "This is Sergeant Stinson, new commander of the militia," said the voice. "I'm requesting an immediate cease fire."

              Skip and Jack shared a look with each other. Skip keyed up again. "Why should we do that?" he asked. "And where is Covington? Has he been killed?"

              "I killed Covington," said Stinson. "I did what should have been done a long time ago. I realize that we have crossed over the line that you drew in the mud down here, but I would like to accept the offer that you made earlier. We will surrender, drop our weapons, and go home right now if you cease fire."

              Skip didn't hesitate a bit. "We accept your terms," he said. "Hold in place and I'll contact my commanders. I'm warning you though, if you fire so much as a single shot towards us, if you so much as take one step in any direction but back to the highway, you will all be under a death sentence."

              "Believe me, Adams," Stinson returned, "the last thing in the world that anyone of us left down here want is to be shot at any more. We'll put down our guns as soon as the firing stops."

              "Stand by," Skip said. "I'll be right back to you. Don't move until I tell you to."

              Sherrie seemed a little concerned. "Could they be trying to trick us?" she asked.

              "They could be," Skip said. "But I don't see what good it would do them. They're beaten. I think they're probably on the up and up." He reached forward and turned the frequency knob on the radio again, bringing him back to the VHF frequency. "Mick, Christine, Paula," he said. "The militia is surrendering. Cease fire immediately. I repeat: cease fire immediately. It's over. Please acknowledge."

              It was perhaps the longest minute of his entire life. After Adams told Stinson he would be right back with him, the bullets had continued to fly in. Two more men were killed and one injured as shots hit them. They all itched to pick up their rifles and shoot back at their tormentors, but none of them did, everyone knowing the consequences. All they could do was lie there behind their rocks and their trees and hope that they could live long enough for the communication channels of Garden Hill to work.

              Finally, after an eternity, the last groups of bullets came rolling in, hitting trees, plunking in mud, and whizzing through the air. The sound of the gunshots that had sent them lasted another few seconds as they trailed behind the projectiles. The last crack of a rifle echoed away into the distance and then, at long last, there was quiet, broken only by the sound of the rain and the groans of the wounded. The war was over.

              "Stinson, are you there?" came Adams' voice on the radio.

              "I'm here," he answered, rolling onto his back and sighing in relief. No Micker what else happened, he was at least alive.

              "The cease fire is now in effect," Adams told him. "Our troops are watching you very carefully of course, and they still have their weapons trained upon you, but they will not fire upon you unless you fire at them or you start forward."

              "Thank you," Stinson said. "Thank you very much."

              "Don't thank me," Adams said. "Thank yourselves. And remember this moment the next time talk in Auburn turns to conquest of Garden Hill. We don't go quietly."

              "No," Stinson agreed. "You certainly don't. For what its worth, most of us didn't want to come here in the first place."

              "But still you did," he answered. "We have free will as human beings. You folks came here and you caused the deaths of not only many of your people, but many of ours as well. And for what? For nothing. Had you taken our town you would have captured a few men, a few women, a few children and some food supplies. Was what you suffered really worth all of that? Don't bother answering me, I'm not up here to converse with you, just to get you out of here so we can go back to existing. I expect you to start your pullback to the highway immediately, without your rifles. We have two more hours of fuel in this helicopter and by the time we have to land to fill up the tank, I want you and your people back on the freeway and past the border sign that you encountered on the way in. On your return, you will follow the freeway lanes wherever possible. We will be watching you."

              Stinson looked around at the men that had been shot. Many of them were dead but more than a few were merely wounded. And then there was the group of wounded back at the original jump-off point. "What about our wounded?" he asked Adams. "What should we do with them?"

              "Those that can walk, take with you," Adams replied. "Those that cannot, you can either carry them on litters or leave them where they are."

              "Will you treat them if we leave them?" Stinson asked.

              "They will be killed where they are," Adams told him coldly. "We don't have the resources to care for enemy wounded; we have enough problems caring for our own. Sorry. Again, this goes back to the choices you made when you started marching this way."