The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (6 page)

“Captain Cummins! Lieutenant Parsons! You gentlemen accompany the Sergeant and me up the ridge,” Adam said.

“Colonel, Sir?” Walt questioned before they could leave.

“What is it, Mister Beeman?”

“Ah know this range purty good, sir. If some’a yore boys foller this here hill around tuh the left they’ll come out behind the raiders,” Walt said, gesturing toward the hill.

Adam glanced toward Sergeant Buell.

“That’s right, Sir,” the Sergeant confirmed.

“Mister Beeman, you may accompany us up the ridge,” Adam stated as he nudged his horse forward.

At the top of the ridge, Adam paused and assessed the situation. The trees were thinner on the south side of the hill, but would still provide some cover as his men sped down and out into the valley floor below. The ranch house was almost a mile away across that meadow. The ridge they were on curved east and south, around toward the house, the smoke from which was clearly visible now. The knob the Sergeant had mentioned was bald and sat atop a steep, rocky, tree-lined slope. The APC was well within range of their 81 mm mortars. On the north side of the ridge, a small valley followed the curve of the hill around to a point half a mile south of the ranch, where it entered the larger valley below.

“Recommendations, Captain Cummins?” Adam rarely missed a training opportunity.

“Sir!” Cheryl Cummins replied. “I’d place Lieutenant Parsons and his mortar battery on the knob where they can take out the APC and provide enfilade and cover fire. I’d take First and Second Platoons around the hill and flank the enemy as Mister Beeman suggested. Once Lt. Parsons blows the APC, I’d sound simultaneous charges from this position and the flank.”

Adam smiled inwardly. Exactly how I would do it.

“Very well, Captain. See to it,” Adam said. Then he leaned close so only the Captain could hear, “And Cheryl, go slow enough not to raise a dust cloud, or you’ll tip our hand. It sounds like those folks below can hold out long enough for us to play it safe.”

Captain Cummins sat a bit taller in her saddle as she turned her horse back down the hill.

Adam’s mind was already adding refinements to the plan as he and Walt Beeman followed the Captain back down to the troops. Sergeant Buell remained behind to keep an eye on the situation at the ranch. Adam was about to speak up when the Captain turned to him.

“Sir,” Cheryl Cummins said. “With your permission, I’ll have Sergeant O’Malley and twenty troopers mount a rear guard position here beside the ambulance wagon. Just in case the enemy has a surprise in store for us.”

Again the Captain had anticipated his thoughts. This time, Adam couldn’t restrain a smile as he nodded permission. He observed the way Cummins reeled off the requisite orders, noting with approval that Lt. Parson’s mortar squad was well along the hill before First and Second platoons were even halfway down the valley.

Adam spread his arms and his troops, those of the Third and Fourth platoons, formed a skirmish line. Swinging his right arm forward and pointing up the hill, Adam led the men up to the top of the ridge.

Walt Beeman noted how the men responded to the silent hand signals and how swiftly they followed orders. He saw that each platoon had a bugler. Hell, he thought, they even have uniforms. He reined to a stop beside Adam.

“Colonel, Sir,” he said, “Y’all have a sure ‘nuff cavalry troop here. Ah been watchin’, an’ mah bet is that you put this here outfit tuhgether yoreownself.”

Adam wasn’t sure whether Beeman was giving him a sincere compliment or just buttering him up. In any event, before he could respond, Walt continued.

“Ah can see you’ve read Von Clausewitz, but ah figger you’ve done some chewin’ on Jeb Stuart and Gen’l Lee too.”

Adam looked at the man with newborn respect. Walt just laughed.

“I wasn’t always a cowboy,” Walt said, dropping his Texas drawl. “Ex-lieutenant Walter Beeman, 101st Airborne, at your service, Sir!” Walt extended his hand to Adam, who shook it.

“I admit to being pleasantly surprised,” Adam allowed, then asked, “Why the corn pone accent?”

“Throws folks off guard ‘til I can size’em up,” Walt admitted with a shrug. “An’ besides, it’s muh nacheral way a talkin’.”

Adam nodded. He well understood the need for caution in this day and age and he was pleased Walt had seen fit to confide in him so soon. It showed the man had good instincts and trusted them.

“Mr. Beeman--Walt, if you prefer--I think it’s going to be a pleasure having you around. Or was I wrong in assuming that was your enlistment speech?”

“Oh, ah want tuh enlist alright, Sir,” Walt said. “Ah jist figgered you’d want to see how good ah can fight first, seein’s we got one about tuh pop.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” Adam said.

He nodded at the knoll where Lieutenant Parsons had three mortars set up and was carefully aiming the first one at the APC, which was sitting still in the driveway of the ranch, raking the building with machine gun fire.

Parsons had gained a lot of experience with mortars in the past few weeks, ever since a regiment-sized force claiming to be soldiers of some California King hit Provo and got their clocks cleaned, but not before leveling the school. He figured this group was probably one of the few who survived that engagement. The Lieutenant studied the angles, nudging the mortar slightly to allow for wind. He dropped in the first round personally, then spun and snatched up his binoculars to view the results.

BLAM!

The first shell blew the APC over onto its side.

KAWHANG!

The second one blasted it apart like it was made of tinfoil.

“Enfilade!” screamed Lt. Parsons and watched with pride as his men proceeded to walk a line of shells right down the ditch the enemy was sheltering in.

Back up on the ridge, Adam yelled out, “Bugler! Sound the charge!”

The line of horsemen swept down the side of the hill and out onto the valley floor.

Captain Cummins had issued the same command and her cavalry stormed out of the small valley and wheeled toward the ranch house.

The raiders, desperate to escape the deadly rain of mortar shells and seeing Captain Cummins’ troops first, fled up the valley and ran smack into Adam’s men.

At 5’7” and 145 pounds, Adam was small enough and his horse fast enough, to pull him slightly ahead of his troops. That was as it should be. In Adam’s book, a military commander was supposed to be a leader, a term he took quite literally.

As they raced into a pasture close to the house a mass of mounted marauders exploded around the edge of the moat and came right at them. The fighting was close and fierce.

Adam emptied a pistol into the group, dropping three men, before the rest were on him. He whipped out a cavalry saber and slashed right and left, fighting like a dervish, wheeling his horse about like a madman, charging any enemy within striking distance, lost in the grip of battle fever.

Like any soldier he accepted the possibility of being injured or killed. His purple hearts attested to the wounds he had taken before. Nonetheless, it came as a surprise to him when the bullet punched into his chest. He collapsed over his pommel, the saber slipping from his grasp.

He saw the raider drawing down on him for another shot but couldn’t move to get out of the way. Time stretched out into slow motion as he watched the man thumb back the hammer of the pistol that was now aimed at his head. A single action Ruger .45, he thought, amazed that he could recognize such details.

Suddenly, the man’s head exploded like an overripe melon hit by a sledge-hammer. His body turned to rubber as it twisted in a grotesque, lifeless, ballet and flopped out of the saddle to the ground.

A large rawboned hand grasped Adam’s shoulder, keeping him from following the dead man--a hand he had studied recently for clues to its owner’s character.

“Steady there, pard...Ah mean Colonel, Sir,” Walt said as he fired his Redhawk into the neck of another enemy who ventured too close.

Somehow, Adam remained conscious for the duration of the fight, nursemaided through by Walter Beeman, Ex-Lieutenant of the 101st Airborne and current recruit.

When the battle was over the folks inside the house let down the drawbridge. Walt laid Adam inside on a bed where the rancher’s wife could fuss over him while Captain Cummins brought up the ambulance wagon. Meanwhile, the troops formed a bucket brigade from moat to house and doused the fire, which had done little but scorch the exterior of the thick log walls and hadn’t even singed the slate roof.

Walt introduced Adam to the rancher and his wife and they in turn acquainted him with a Mr. Martin Dinelli, a peddler who had stopped by that morning before the attack.

“That’s his wagon and tools burning out in the yard,” the rancher’s wife mentioned as she cut Adam’s shirt off his body.

Captain Cummins, in temporary command while Adam was incapacitated, decided the cavalry should stick around for a few days to bury bodies and help make repairs. There were a dozen wounded men to care for, though the cavalry had lost only four killed in the engagement. She also wanted to wait there while Sergeant Buell’s scouts finished tracking down any raiders who escaped. One of the enemy wounded had already confirmed the marauders were part of what he alternately called the “Army of Peace” or the “King’s Army”. Who knew what some of the other prisoners would reveal before being executed?

Martin Dinelli proved to be a valuable ally, repairing the rancher’s Ham radio, as well as a solar-powered pump that supplied the house with water. In chessboard conversations with Cheryl Cummins, he said he’d been an electrical engineer before The Dying Time and Cheryl, a bit taken with Dinelli’s Italian good looks and impressed by his skills, had immediately launched into an extravagant description of how good life could be for a man of such talents in Deseret. That was all it took to convince Dinelli that Provo was the place to be. Ten days later, when the DDF headed back home, Adam ensconced in the ambulance wagon, both Martin Dinelli and Walt Beeman were with them.

Chapter 6: The King

Royal City, California

Mid-August, 12 A.I.

Joseph, aka Joey the Giant, Scarlatti, King of California, strode impatiently into the Council Room. His intense blue eyes noted the presence of his Head Assassin and Minister of State, Jamal Rashid. Jamal was accompanied by Joseph’s twin sons, Anthony, his heir, and John, second to Anthony in all things.

He acknowledged Anthony’s gleaming smile with a nod and glanced approvingly at John’s scarlet beret. A large diamond set in gold flashed whenever John moved his head. It added a touch of dash to his brown military uniform. The King had decided that John, his best military strategist, would command the upcoming campaign. His eyes failed to acknowledge the presence of the naked female table slave who stood submissively beside the wet bar.

He walked to his seat at the head of the table, turned with a flourish and sat down. His purple and gold robe glowed in the rays of sunlight that filtered through the bulletproof stained glass windows of the Council room. The twin Princes, Anthony on his right and John on his left, were next to be seated.

Jamal remained standing, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes darting about as his hands shuffled the papers he held. Even though Jamal was fanatically loyal to the King, he was always apprehensive in the presence of His Majesty. He had seen too many of the King’s tantrums to be otherwise.

“We are waiting,” rumbled the King and the ire in his voice warned that this had better be good.

“Sire,” Jamal said hesitantly. “I have the Roads and Power report you requested and the Commander of the Royal Intelligence Service awaits an audience to impart the latest news from the front, as well as a scouting report concerning His Majesty’s future subjects.”

A gleam of interest stirred in Joey’s eyes. He had come here prepared to be imperiously pissed off at having been pulled away from his favorite pastime, but he was always interested in learning about “future subjects”.

After all, business before pleasure, he thought.

“Let’s hear your report, Jamal,” he commanded.

As Jamal Rashid began, the King allowed his mind to drift. Joey had learned from his reading of the Roman, Vegetius, that in the time of Rome, roads were the key to empire. Back then good roads meant good communications. Now that the Impact had destroyed civilization and ionized the atmosphere, making radio communications over any significant distance unreliable, good roads again meant good communications, enabling him to keep in touch with the farthest reaches of his domain.

He was vaguely pleased to hear Jamal estimate the population of his empire at slightly over two million, counting slaves. Since almost eighty percent of those he conquered ended up in chains, it was good to count slaves. The other twenty percent of the population were members of the privileged class or in the military.

Joey exploited the fact that survivors everywhere longed for the comforts of their lost civilization. He decreed that running water, sewer and electrical power be restored to any people who came under his control. He also saw to it that any marauders, other than his own, were suppressed. These actions, together with his efforts to rebuild and maintain the roads, allowed him to masquerade as a man restoring civilization. He gave his subjects a measure of comfort and security in a world that failed to do so. All he asked in return was that his word be law. Little enough to demand in exchange, he thought.

At first, many of his newly conquered subjects rationalized their loss of freedom as a just exchange for added security and comfort, ignoring Benjamin Franklin’s advice that, “Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.” For as soon as the King’s agents infiltrated them in numbers sufficient to prevent the formation of an effective resistance movement, things changed. The King’s demands increased dramatically, as did his slave drafts. Joey knew the power to tax was the power to destroy, so he carefully maintained their standard of living at a level just high enough to allow them to be bled indefinitely. Even so, it wasn’t long until many of his subjects, especially women, were wishing for the good old days of anarchy.

Who would believe being a King could be such a bore, Joey thought, as Jamal droned on about newly repaired roads and power plants. The news was important, but it just didn’t excite him anymore. His mind continued to drift.

Before the asteroid hit, he was Joey the Giant, minor mobster, major freak. Anyone as big as Joey was a freak, of course, but there were other reasons people called him that, reasons he had kept hidden then.

As a child, Joey learned that people do judge books by their covers. Small, balding guys with skinny legs and glasses are computer geeks or accountants. Large men are big dumb jocks, the bigger, the dumber. Joey, as his nickname implied, was big enough to be thought stupid, a misconception he was quick to exploit.

He quit high school before he got his diploma, but only because he was ambitious. They weren’t teaching him what he wanted to know, which was how to control people. Joey joined the Mafia as an enforcer, something his abnormal strength and Sicilian name made easy. The mob knew how to control people. The mob had real power. He decided to learn what he could from them and from the books he read when no one was watching. Soon, using his twin sons as enforcers, he had carved out a small territory in which drugs, prostitution and gambling were the staples.

He was smart enough to keep both his brains and ambition well hidden from his superiors. If his competitors and bosses bought the act, they would underestimate him. He practiced the phrase, “Gee boss, I dunno,” and used it a lot around higher-level wise guys, smiling inwardly while they rolled their eyes and explained things he understood far better than they.

The Mafia taught Joey that patience was the right hand of ambition. One day he knew he would be the Godfather; but it would take time and more money than he could ever accumulate playing by the Family’s rules. He established a highly profitable gunrunning business, keeping its existence from his superiors, never sharing the profits, hoarding money, guns and manpower against the time he would be strong enough to make his move.

Murphy’s Law caught up to Joey before he was ready. An ill-conceived raid on an Army convoy coupled with being sold out by a spy he had planted in his boss’s organization led to his downfall. His boss, furious at having been duped, decided to make an example of him. Joey and his sons were taken into the desert and were literally looking death in the face when the asteroid hit. The confusion enabled them to kill their captors and escape. Joey owed his life to the rock that killed civilization.

It was a turning point and he called it the Day of Divine Revelation; the day God revealed to Joey his destiny. His guns and men came out of hiding. Within a couple of months Joseph, as he now insisted on being called, was organizing the gangs that were forming. He was well-read enough to know that, in Medieval Europe, this was how kingdoms were born.

It took Joseph Scarlatti and his sons seven years to conquer California and another five to annex Oregon and what was left of Nevada. He still had men fighting in Washington, but it would soon fall. Twelve years after The Dying Time he had an empire and was addressed as Your Majesty, or King Joseph. But Joseph’s ambition could not be sated. It grew with each victory. Now he wanted the world.

His greatest pleasure came from adding new lands and people to his empire. By contrast, he hated administration. Paperwork bored him, so he appointed Ministers and other flunkies to handle it, knowing a few of them would intrigue against him. Just as he couldn’t avoid all the “clerk work”, he couldn’t avoid all the risks entailed in delegating some of his power; but he could minimize both. He escaped his boredom and instilled great fear in his followers by rewarding informers and by indulging his most depraved appetites. His lips twisted into a smile. He still remembered when...

He gave a slight start as he realized Jamal had finished speaking and that all eyes were upon him awaiting a reply. What was it the man had said last? Oh, yeah, something about in conclusion, blah, blah and should he now summon the Commander of the Royal Intelligence Services.

“Send him in,” Joey said, as he returned to being The King.

Massive oak doors at the end of the room opened and a large, swarthy, well-dressed man stepped through. At six-feet-four, two hundred-fifty pounds, Nicolo Bonetti would have dwarfed most men, but compared to King Joseph and his sons he looked like a child. He walked briskly to the end of the table and bowed.

“Your Majesty,” Nicolo began, his voice full and rich. “I have the great honor to announce that your realm now extends over Washington. The Spokane settlements fell last week and for all intents and purposes that puts Washington within the Empire.”

He paused as he noted the beginnings of a smile on the King’s face. It’s always best to begin with good news, he thought and wished that was all he had to deliver. “There are still a few isolated bands of resistance in the eastern part of the state and several communities in Idaho are well fortified, but they pose no serious threat to the establishment of the Pax Royal.”

“What about the raiding parties we sent into the other states?” Prince John asked. Several regiments had been dispatched to Montana, Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico to launch probing attacks on the population centers there. Prince Anthony believed there was nothing like a swift surprise attack to test the mettle of an enemy. John had disagreed, but their father let Anthony have his way.

The smile vanished from Bonetti’s face.

“Mixed results, Your Highness,” he reported. Leave it to John to bring that up. Nicolo hated being the bearer of bad news. More than once the King had killed the messenger. “There are some fairly well-armed militia groups in Montana, but they haven’t united and it should be relatively easy to pick them off one at a time.”

“The Arizona force, under Colonel Janko, took Flagstaff. According to our agents and scouts that and the seaport of Kingman are the only towns in the state with more than three thousand survivors. The rest of the population is scattered among ranches, small towns and nomads.”

“Nomads?” King Joseph questioned.

“Mostly Indians, or gangs of criminals, Your Majesty,” Nicolo explained. “There are several bands of nomads roaming those mountain states. Militarily, they are of no consequence.” The King nodded, satisfied for the moment.

“Colonel Janko reports he’s mopping up a few pockets of resistance, but aside from the Kingman seaport, which is well fortified, Arizona can be considered secure. In Wyoming, our men took Sheridan and Laramie, then attacked a large tribe of Indians...” He paused to take a sip of water. He was coming to the hard part. The King and both Princes could hear a “but” coming.

John couldn’t wait. “But?”

“They were defeated.” Nicolo shrugged helplessly, knowing that he had only delivered the appetizer. He really wasn’t looking forward to the main course.

“How?” King Joseph demanded.

“The reports are confused, Your Majesty,” Nicolo began. “Some of the men say the main body was wiped out in a landslide, but others say they were being beaten badly before then.”

Silence descended over the room while the King and his sons digested this. There would have to be reprisals.

At last the King spoke and there was steel in his voice. “Who was in command?”

“A Colonel Reynolds, Your Grace.”

“Was he among the survivors?”

“No, my King.”

“Then have his family put to death. I cannot allow such incompetence to go unpunished.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Nicolo scribbled a note on a pad he carried. So far, so good. At least the Royal Temper hadn’t focused on him yet.

“What about Utah and Colorado?” John asked.

Nicolo swallowed hard. This was the main course. He hoped it would go down as easily as the appetizer.

“We haven’t heard from the Utah battalion. None of their messengers met the last ship. In fact...”

“And Colorado?” John smelled blood.

“Our forces were, uh, destroyed,” Nicolo gulped. Best get it over with.

“WHAT?” The King shouted. He slammed his massive fists onto the table, causing it to jump.

Nicolo flinched, but stood his ground. Not so much from bravery. He was just too scared to move. When he found his voice he loathed the quiver in it. “We just don’t know what happened in Utah, Your Majesty. And so far only one man has made it back from the Colorado raid. He says our men were strafed by tiny planes and helicopters. He wasn’t very clear on the details, Sire, just that they had an air force.”

“What place were we attacking in Colorado?” the King asked. From the menace in his tone and the red flush on his face, it appeared his temper was approaching critical mass.

“The Freeholds, Your Majesty.” Nicolo pointed to a map. “Southwest of Denver.”

“And you say they have planes and helicopters?”

“Well, uh, not real planes, like those Your Majesty commands. That is, they weren’t any kind of planes our man had seen before.”

“And why didn’t we know about these planes before we attacked?” Off to the side, Jamal Rashid and Prince John exchanged pleased glances. Nicolo wasn’t a special favorite of theirs and it was good to see him taken down a notch or two.