William Weber - Turning the Tide

“Don’t worry, we’ll get him out of here,” Diane said, removing the .45 from her holster. They left in a hurry then for fear there might be others hiding in the building who weren’t quite as dead.

Diane and Emma emerged to find Vice Mayor Ray Gruber pushing a wheelbarrow full of cinder blocks. He stopped, the smile plastered on his face fading. “You ladies all right?”

“We’re fine,” Diane told him, dusting herself off. She explained what they’d seen.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, in the warm, gentlemanly way that often set Southern men apart. “I’ll speak with General Brooks right away about having these buildings swept again.”

Nodding, Diane couldn’t help noticing Rodriguez looking down at them from the battered second story of the veterinarian hospital. He had a strange look on his face, as though he were taking mental notes, a sight which stood out in contrast to the bustle of manual labor going on around her. Who would be sneaking around taking notes? Suddenly, a warning light went off in her head followed by a string of red flashing letters. The name that it spelled made her scalp feel three sizes too small.

Phoenix.

“Diane?” Ray asked, reaching out to touch her arm. He glanced over his shoulder, without finding the source of her disturbance. “You don’t look well.”

She slid an arm around Emma, trying to shake off the nauseating fear that the traitor in their midst had found a way to leak the details of John’s mission to the enemy. “Any word from John yet?” she asked.

Ray shook his head. “No, but spotters positioned on the water tower did see a flash in the sky, so my guess is they managed to get that A-bomb aloft after all.”

No sooner had Ray finished his sentence than the air was filled with the sound of a prop plane engine. Diane’s pulse began to quicken. The workers around them stopped and searched the sky, their hands propped over their eyes to block the late-afternoon sun.

Within minutes a Cessna swooped low over Oneida, dipping its wings to the roar of soldiers and citizens cheering their return. A group repairing the dentist’s office broke into an impromptu rendition of America The Beautiful .

Emma hesitated. “You think they all made it back?” There was a touch of desperation in her daughter’s voice.

Diane couldn’t help being caught up in the moment. “I’m sure they did, honey,” she said. The jovial celebrations up and down Alberta Street were still going strong. All except for Rodriguez, who tucked away a notebook and disappeared.

The conference room was far too warm and brimming with excitement. At one end of the table were John, Moss, Reese, Devon and Ray Gruber. On the other were General Brooks, Colonel Higgs and the rest of the general’s military staff.

No sooner had Billy Ray set down at the Scott Municipal Airport than a Humvee had showed up, tasked with bringing them back to the mayor’s office for a debriefing. Not surprisingly General Brooks wore the expression of a man who was about to eat his hat.

“First off,” Brooks said, “we’re glad you all made it back.”

Reese’s fingers went to his pocket before he clenched them into a fist.

“I’m sorry to say not all of us made it back,” John told them. “Jerry Fowler was killed shortly after we released the balloon. We flew out of Oak Ridge right as the enemy was overrunning the place.”

“An unfortunate, but necessary sacrifice,” Higgs said with sincerity. The colonel was looking older than usual, in spite of his short-cropped silver hair.

“Without his background in meteorology,” John added, “this operation would never have gotten off the ground. At some point down the road, when all this is behind us, it might be nice to erect a memorial for all the folks of Oneida who have laid down their lives.”

“That would be nice,” General Brooks said. “Although starting a monument might be a touch premature. Our first task is to win this war.”

“When we arrived,” John explained, ignoring Brooks’ jab, “Colonel Porter’s men were loading a steam train bound east with what looked like nuclear material and important documents. My hope is that they kept as much as they could out of enemy hands.” John paused for a moment. “What about those Faraday cages? Did they hold up all right?”

“Most of them did,” Higgs said. “A few weren’t sealed properly and everything inside got fried. Some of the telephone and old power lines also began emitting a strange glow, but that couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds. All in all, I’d say we weathered that storm rather well.”

“Thank God,” John said. “When we’re done here, I’ll have Wilbur deliver a brief status report to General Dempsey via carrier pigeon. But we’ll need to monitor things for the next few days to keep an eye out for any adverse effects caused by the EMP. We were only able to get it thirty miles into the atmosphere.”

“I’ve already got a team in place doing just that,” General Brooks told them. “There are a few items on the agenda we need to discuss first.” He glanced down at a dozen sheets of handwritten notes strewn before him. “I’ve organized work groups tasked with clearing those streets. Anything salvageable, such as high-caliber weapons, will be removed and used to bolster the town’s defenses. We’ve also collected a few hundred QBZ-03 assault rifles we can add to our weapons arsenal.”

“General, if I may,” John said, raising a hand. “I suggest you call off those teams you set to clear the streets and reassign them.”

A deep frown formed across Brooks’ brow. “Pardon me, Colonel?”

“Clearing away dead enemy soldiers and stripping vehicles is fine, but the rubble in the streets is a natural tank obstacle. Sure, we need to navigate through town, so perhaps some of the inner roadways can be cleared, but anything that stops a tank or an APC from breaching our inner perimeter is a good thing.”

Brooks glanced at Higgs, who agreed.

But John didn’t need to see that exchange to know he was right. Before leaving he’d felt an almost blinding compulsion to tell Brooks to stop making decisions unless he was consulted first, but needless to say that wouldn’t have gone over very well. Sometimes in the military, as in life, rank trumped common sense.

Brooks let out a long sigh. “Fine. Was there anything else you wanted to add, John?”

John fought the smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, in fact there was. Has anyone gotten an update from Dr. Coffee on the cholera outbreak?”

This time Higgs responded. “Yes, the situation has stabilized. No new patients have been reported and the number of deaths has gone down.”

“Good,” John said. “What about Huan?”

“Our POW?” General Brooks asked. “What about her?”

“Well,” John said, “I believe we’ve gotten everything we can out of her. Can she be used as a bargaining chip somehow? As it is, she’s just another mouth we need to feed.”

“And have her divulge everything she’s seen?” Brooks spat. “Don’t be foolish.”

“Has she really seen all that much?” John wondered out loud. “I mean, we’ve kept her locked in a room since we captured her. I doubt there’s all that much she could reveal. At least nothing more than those Chinese troops saw when we chased them out of town.”

“If she’s really served her purpose,” Brooks said, “then maybe it’s time we execute her.”

The suggestion caused an immediate knot in John’s belly. Sure, she was the enemy. But killing for killing’s sake was never a good policy. If anything, it only threatened the lives of their own citizens caught behind enemy lines or in some cases in North Korean concentration camps. A sickening image of Gregory and Brandon starving and pleading for help flashed before him.