The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (37 page)

Chapter 35: The Slick Arrives

Ellen Whitebear’s hair whip-streamed and her eyes watered as she poked her head outside the Huey and glanced at the landscape speeding past below. Rats! Forgot the goggles again. She wiped tears from her eyes. She slid the door shut and shook out her hair. From time to time she thought about cutting it shorter so it would be easier to care for, but Michael liked it long. She took a rubber band out of a pocket and gathered it up into a ponytail so the wind wouldn’t whip it into her eyes, tucked it down the back of her blouse, then leaned forward into the cockpit.

“How much longer, Terrell?”

The ex-chopper pilot and mechanic had finally been able to dig up a tail rotor to replace the one destroyed in the Breckenridge fight. He’d only had the Huey up and running for a couple of days.

“Just a few more minutes.”

Ellen absent-mindedly patted the mini-gun that rested on its swing-out mount beside the door. Garret Haley, a Freehold’s gunsmith, son of Don and Marcia Haley, had salvaged a 20 mm Gatling from one of the downed Cobras and jury-rigged a mount and ammunition feed system. Then he and Iskos Theodoratus, the Greek who ran the Freehold’s machine shop, substituted the new gun for the M60 that was normally mounted in the door. The mini-gun could spew forth thousands of rounds per minute. The increase in firepower was awesome.

Thoughts crowded Ellen’s head as her hazel eyes took in the cargo the Huey was carrying. Lining the hold were boxes of ammunition for the mini-gun and for the Provo Defense Force, who desperately needed the supplies. A few canisters of gas, the product of a hastily concocted chemical warfare lab run by Raoul Garcia, filled most of the rest of the space. “Gypsy” Cioba, the other door gunner, met her eyes briefly then looked away, locked in thoughts of his own.

She wondered if Steven was really old enough to take care of himself and the other children. He was only 15. Was Michael still in Provo? Would she get there in time to see him before the coming battle? How was Denise getting along in Nephi? And what about Jacques in California? She even wondered why soldiers who’d fought in Viet Nam called the Huey a “Slick.”

She hoped Jim Cantrell’s troops were still at their last reported position. She and Terrell were going to rendezvous with them both to warn Sara that the King knew she was in the Freeholds and to drop off a long-range transceiver that would allow Jim Cantrell to remain in contact with Adam Young, enabling them to better time their surprise. Her mind continued to race.

“How much farther?” she asked for the second time in five minutes.

“Jesus, Ellen, you’re worse than a little kid,” Terrell responded. “We’ll be there in about... Holy Shit!” The Huey climbed quickly as Terrell hauled back on the stick.

“What’s up, Terrell?” Gypsy asked. But he and Ellen were already looking forward out the canopy. Both could see what Terrell had seen. Jim Cantrell’s command was being strafed.

“Lock back the doors and get those guns ready!” Terrell screamed. Ellen and Gypsy were already moving.

To avoid unwanted attention, they were flying without navigation lights. By climbing steeply, Terrell hoped to get above the enemy plane without being seen. Swiftly flicking a number of switches, Terrell transferred most of the fuel from the auxiliary fuel pods Iskos had rigged up to extend the range of the Huey into the main tanks. Then he jettisoned the pods.

In a helicopter-against-airplane duel, superior speed, rate of climb and diving speed favor the plane, whereas the ability to make quick, radical turns and spins favored the chopper. Planes usually carried greater firepower, but Terrell figured the mini-gun might tip the balance in favor of the ‘copter if he could manage a surprise attack.

Terrell strained his eyes against the darkness, trying to make out the shape of the nearest plane against the backdrop of fires and explosions it had caused on the shore. It was something old, a prop job. Not a jet thank God.

“Well, well,” he muttered, “A Grumman Hellcat.” They must have picked it up at a collector’s sky-park, or an air museum. Terrell was a bit of a history buff when it came to old airplanes, especially those from the Second World War. The Hellcat’s performance characteristics rolled through his mind: 380 mph top speed at a cruising altitude of 23,000 feet, a range of 945 miles, armament consisting of two 20 mm cannons, four .50 caliber machine guns, plus it could carry up to 2150 pounds of bombs. He couldn’t remember how fast it could climb. Faster than the Huey. He was high enough now. Below and to his front, the Hellcat was in a steep banking turn.

“Listen up people,” he roared. “I’m going to drop us in behind him as he goes by. I’ll put our right side toward him.” That was the mini-gun side. “Ellen! I’m counting on ya, baby.”

Ellen had the mini-gun locked and loaded. In the flickering light of the fires below and in the pulsing flash of tracer fire, she could see men dying by the dozen. She stuffed her grief and anger into a small box in the corner of her mind. Icy calm, she concentrated intently on the enemy plane as Terrell dropped the Huey down, springing the ambush. She had practiced with the gun earlier that day, after they left the Freeholds--just enough to know how to work it, but not enough to waste ammo. She hadn’t practiced enough to have confidence in the gun, but she had plenty in herself. Like most instinctive shooters, the thought of missing was foreign to her.

For the briefest instant, the Hellcat was in her sights, its pilot oblivious to the fact he had company. In that brief second, she poured at least five hundred rounds into the Hellcat’s cockpit, shredding everything within it. The plane exploded in an enormous fireball.

“Taking fire! Taking fire!” Terrell screamed as he jinked the copter sideways. Some of the troops on the ground hadn’t yet realized the Huey was a “friendly.” Their panicked firing was coming too close for comfort.

Thwock!

Much too close, Ellen thought, as a hole appeared in the floor by her right foot. It was a miracle none of the gas containers had been hit. The radio intended for Jim Cantrell shattered as another round zipped through.

Terrell spun the chopper out over the water.

Across the lake, the other pilot, flying a P-47 Thunderbolt, realized he had a problem. Circumstance had found him pointed in just the right direction to observe the destruction of his colleague. He was too far away to determine what had shot his buddy’s plane to bits and he wasn’t going to stick around and find out. Besides, his oil pressure gauge had started jumping erratically on his last run and from the number of fires and explosions on both sides of the lake, he was certain the mission had been accomplished. Putting the Thunderbolt in a high-speed turn he bugged out.

Ellen and Terrell both noticed the intensity of gunfire on the far shore slacken. Ellen hoped that meant the other pilot had broken off the attack. Terrell hoped it didn’t mean the enemy plane was climbing and circling for position on them.

Below them, men were frantically scrambling back onto the remnants of their rafts, clinging to anything that would float. Still others emulated Jim Cantrell and Raymond Stormcloud, swimming out to rescue their wounded companions.

Terrell turned on the Huey’s landing lights so he could see those who needed help. The lights illuminated a scene of grisly carnage. Bodies and body parts floated amid the wreckage of boats and rafts. Here and there, an arm waved for help from the pink froth. It was a vision straight out of hell.

“My God,” Gypsy said softly. “The whole lake...” His voice faded as the carnage overwhelmed him.

Ellen and Terrell could only stare in horror.

The rest of the night was a blur as Terrell and Gypsy made countless trips back and forth from lake to shore, rescuing and ferrying both able-bodied and wounded soldiers. Ellen got out on the western shore to organize the rescue effort and set up a makeshift hospital. The ammo and gas were swiftly unloaded to make room for more men. The Huey could take fourteen with a full load of fuel and as its fuel supply dropped it could carry more.

Toward dawn, Terrell set down with the last load of survivors from the lake. Among them were Jim Cantrell and Raymond Stormcloud. No one yet knew how many had died, but it was a disaster and that’s what showed in Jim’s face as he stepped down of the Huey.

Ellen stepped up to him to give him a hug, but stopped. He held himself rigid like he was made out of steel, with no give to him. She sensed that if he gave at all he would go to pieces completely. She looked at his ghostly pallor and his haunted, hollow, guilt-filled eyes. How could she snap him out of the shock she saw settling in?

“Major Cantrell,” she said. She saw something like relief come into his eyes as he responded. Military correctness, discipline--that he could deal with.

“Madam President?”

“Please come with me,” she said and set off along the lakeshore with him in tow. Get him moving and get some privacy. This was going to be rough.

“I need a report on the condition of your men, specifically how soon they can resume the march,” she said, seeing the pain flare in his eyes and reading his thought: his men were shot to shit and half dead. She turned to him and laid a hand on his arm. “Jim, time is our greatest enemy now. I know the men are in terrible shape and I know they have to rest, but every minute counts.” His arm was as cold and as hard as a tombstone.

He pulled away from her. Having led his men into this disaster, how could he continue to lead? How could he ask them for any further sacrifice?

Ellen sensed him withdrawing into himself, knowing he was filled with self-doubts, knowing she couldn’t allow that. Using her knowledge of him, gained through years of friendship, she hit him where she knew it would hurt most, hating herself even as she admitted the necessity. “We can’t afford for you to be late again, Jim. Do you want me to take over?”

He stepped back, shocked and torn. A part of him wanted to give up, to just this once take the easy way out and let her assume command, but mostly he despised himself for even considering her offer. He had accepted the job and all that went with it. Responsibility, duty and honor were more than just words to Jim Cantrell. After The Dying Time, they were the principles he’d built his new life around.

“No, Madam President,” he said. “I’ll have the report in two hours.” He spun on one heel and walked back toward his men. The final tally showed more than six hundred dead or missing.

Three hours later, having established walkie-talkie contact with the survivors on the eastern shore of the lake, the scope of the defeat took on an even greater magnitude when they learned that Sara Garcia, Doc Merriman and one of his assistants were all missing. A search of the good Doctor’s personal quarters aboard his wagon revealed a cleverly hidden and thoroughly smashed shortwave transceiver. Jim and Ellen knew one spy had revealed himself and they also knew why he had taken Sara with him.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much they could do about it just then. Immediate pursuit by any sizeable force was out of the question. Jim’s first thought had been to use the Slick to track them down but the copter had exhausted its fuel supply rescuing men from the water. From depths he had never suspected, Jim found the strength to deal with his men’s problems and to ignore his own breaking heart. He had to get his troops organized, re-equipped and in position to help Adam Young and that was what he was going to do, by God.

“Major?” Jim looked around to see Raymond Stormcloud and four other scouts approaching. He nodded.

“We’d like to go after the spies,” Raymond said, coming straight to the point. “See if we can get Doctor Sara back.” Raymond was the best tracker available and though he ached to get back to Provo and see Susan Redfeather, he was a Cheyenne warrior. And to him part of being a warrior meant protecting women. Besides, Dr. Sara was good medicine.

“They’ve got several hours head start on you,” Jim said, choking back the desperate hope that threatened his self-control. He had to be realistic in spite of his pain. “Do you really think you can catch up?”

“To a fat man and a woman who’s resisting them every step of the way?” Raymond arched his eyebrows.

“They’ll probably have her drugged,” Jim said.

“Then she’ll be even more of a burden to them. Ever led a horse with someone tied to it?”

Jim nodded, recalling the difficulty he’d had leading No Ears and the dead patrol through the trees on the night he and Michael rescued Sara.

“Then you know what I mean,” Raymond said. “Besides, they’ll be heading for Nephi and that means they have to either cross the lake or go around, so we can cut the corner on them.”

Jim stared hard at Raymond and the naked hope in the man’s eyes wasn’t easy for Stormcloud to bear. “We’ll get them. I promise,” he said, extending his hand to Jim.

The men shook hands and Jim said, “Godspeed.” Sending them was the best he could do for her right now.

Meanwhile, Ellen tried to use the Huey’s radio to order a fuel delivery from Provo for the Slick, but she couldn’t raise them. As she watched the relief army march off North along the lakeshore, she wondered if this was the beginning of the King’s big push.

*

Lunar Solar Arrays

Linette Laverne had just finished soldering mesh into the final hole of the current panel she was working on when a meteorite the size of a grain of sand hit her suit, punctured her left foot and tore a hole in the sole of her boot on its way out. She lost her balance as her boot collapsed. Then the pain of explosive decompression ripped a scream from her and she passed out.