William Weber - Turning the Tide

All present, guards included, were left scratching their heads at the strange spectacle. But the answer to their question was fast approaching as hundreds of papers seesawed to the ground around them. It was snowing and Brandon hadn’t seen anything so beautiful in a long time. He stooped down and picked one of them up.

There he found a pamphlet with the picture of a giant fist pushing aside a column of Chinese tanks. Stay Strong , it read. Victory is Close at Hand .

He’d seen this style before in the scrapbook Emma was often doodling in, but it was only when he flipped the paper over that the air was nearly sucked from his lungs.

To B.A.,

Don’t lose faith.

Brandon scooped up a handful of other papers and saw the same message on each. B.A. could only be him, Brandon Appleby, and Emma was the girl he missed so deeply it hurt.

That was when the guards began shouting at anyone they saw collecting the propaganda leaflets. Shots rang out and two prisoners who were bent on one knee collapsed to the ground. Brandon stuffed as many as he could under his shirt and raced back to the barracks. If he knew the guards, they’d begin by searching every bunk and prisoner for leaflets as soon as possible. There wasn’t a chance he was going to let them tear the hope from his hands and his heart. He would dig a hole and bury them.

The message from Emma seemed clear enough and Brandon struggled to contain his elation. John and the others were coming to free them. He wasn’t sure when, but they were coming, and when they did, Brandon would be ready.

Following the EMP, the law offices of Stanley & Walton in Oneida had been used as both a storehouse for dried goods and, later, a firing position for an M60 machine-gun nest. Currently, it was serving as the secret headquarters for the special operations team John was putting together.

Not surprisingly, Stanley and Walton had been among the first to flee the town following the initial strike, but although they hadn’t been gifted with bravery, they had had the foresight to situate their offices far enough from the main strip―Alberta Street―allowing John to keep its new purpose safe from prying eyes.

The group was slowly assembling in Sam Walton’s old office. Pictures of the rotund man in a variety of daring pursuits still littered the walls. Arapaima fishing along the Amazon, hang-gliding in the Alps. By the looks of it, the man had an appetite for adventure. What a shame he’d tucked tail and run away so early. Especially since the chances were good he’d ended up in a North Korean camp somewhere.

Soon, most of Walton’s things would be removed and the room transformed into a proper headquarters. For now, the large map of the Eastern and Central United States was all that betrayed its true purpose.

Already waiting in the spacious room were Moss, Devon and Reese along with a half-dozen soldiers handpicked from various units for their expertise in unconventional warfare. When all twenty-five men were accounted for, John began.

“I’m sure each of you is wondering why you’re here. As you have probably heard by now, the EMP we detonated over Oak Ridge has severely disrupted China’s ability to ship men and materiel to the front. We’ve even gotten word that Russian forces are also running into major problems. Although their supply lines are greatly diminished, they need to be destroyed. From the group assembled here, fifteen of you will make the final cut.”

The men looked from one to another.

“Each of you has been chosen because of a unique skill or ability you bring to the table. Some of you have a proficiency with explosives, others marksmanship. Many of you have served in Iraq, conducting raids and counter-insurgency operations. As you’ll soon see, even this will serve us well. The only thing I don’t have from you yet is your consent. I’ve invited each of you here to make you an offer, to become a member of a team tasked with going behind enemy lines to kill and disrupt the enemy in any way we can.”

The room was quiet for a moment, although several of the men were smiling.

“Who can say no to that?” a soldier from the 3rd Infantry Division named Taylor asked.

John shook his head. “You’d be surprised. But coming along isn’t an order, it’s important you men understand that. In fact, your commanding officers don’t even know we’re having this meeting.” He paused while some of them shifted in their seats. Others looked on without moving a muscle. “The need for operational secrecy here doesn’t mean we’re doing anything illegal.” A handful showed disappointment. “But if you make the final cut and you consent to joining us, then I’ll speak with your commanders about releasing you. There is one prerequisite that isn’t negotiable. Candidates must be able to ride.”

Taylor put his hand up. “You talking horses, sir?”

John nodded.

The soldier’s grin spread. “Where do I sign?”

But not everyone felt the same way and John could read it on some of their faces. The consent element was important for operations like these. It wasn’t simply about issuing orders and hoping your authority was enough to push your men along. There was a good chance what they faced out in the field would push them far beyond their comfort zone. He needed men who were daring and willing to risk their lives, but he also needed soldiers who knew when a tactical withdrawal was the best course of action. In other words, he needed people who demonstrated the very creative thinking the enemy lacked.

A brawny soldier in the front row raised his hand. “When do these selection trials begin?”

Special forces groups like the SEALs often put applicants through gruelling trials designed to weed out the weak. It was better, they argued, that such cracks were spotted early, rather than on a mission when the lives of fellow soldiers were on the line.

“They began the minute you walked in that door,” John told them. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have you all move to the office next door. If any of you wish to bow out, now is the time to do so.”

“I’ve never ridden a horse,” a sergeant with the 101st said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to join you, Colonel.”

“There’s no need to explain.” John turned to the rest of the men before him. “None of you will be judged for saying no. There’s no shame in it.”

And with that they stood and moved to the other room.

Only Moss, Reese and Devon stayed back. “What do you think?” Reese asked.

“You know all their names?” John asked. “And the faces that go with them?”

Reese waved a list of names he’d written on a paper. “Sure do. You might be surprised to learn that most snipers that I’ve met were horrible remembering faces. Throw a picture of the target they’d killed into a photo lineup and they’d never be able to ID ’em in a million years.”

“Really? Why is that?” John asked.

“Hard to say. My guess is it’s easier to shoot a man if you can pretend he isn’t a human being. You know, like shooting at paper targets. Might be one of the reasons the faces on those things are blanked out. Goes against a man’s innate programming.”

“What does, killing?”

Reese laughed. “Nah, accepting the fact that you killed a person and not a monster.”

John took the list from Reese. “I already know who I want.”

“Really?” Moss said from the other side of the room.

“Anyone who flinched when I mentioned that their commanding officers didn’t know about this, they’re the ones I crossed off first. We need men who obey orders, but not someone who’s scared to make a decision on their own.” John scratched off a handful of other names. “Next anyone who seemed uncomfortable when I mentioned the horses.” He ran a line through a few more names. “And finally, anyone whose face didn’t glow at the notion of killing Chinese soldiers.”