William Weber - Warlords

“And a half?” the passenger noted, amused. Three chevrons on his shoulder told them he was a sergeant. His name tag read Burns. “Well, I need you and Mr. Twelve and a Half here to head to Dyersburg State Community College.” Burns threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Keep following the 51 and then make a right on Lake Road. It’s a mustering station for new recruits.”

Brandon nodded, swallowing hard, but doing his best not to betray the fear inching into his heart. Maybe on account of his age, Gregory wasn’t nearly as good at hiding it and his voice squeaked as he thanked them.

“Don’t thank us yet, little man,” Burns shouted as the sports car pulled away.

An hour later, after following the sergeant’s directions, they arrived. The green space hugging the campus along Lake Road was dotted with artillery and anti-aircraft positions. Men and women in army fatigues of all sorts were manning the weapons, scanning the horizon and digital readouts for signs of approaching enemies.

It had been a while since Brandon had seen a computer display screen that was anything but black and lifeless. Cutting across the lawn, they headed for the main building, protected by layers of sandbags and gabions.

A single thought kept racing through Brandon’s mind. When John found out what they’d done, he was going to kill them. If the Chinese or Russians didn’t get the job done first, that was.

But surely John would understand why they’d been motivated to serve, whether or not they were the proper age to do so. Hadn’t John told Brandon about the thousands of soldiers who’d signed up for all branches of the military after 9/11? They’d wanted to do whatever they could to serve their country. Many of those same volunteers had filled the ranks of the unit John served with, so if anyone should understand, it would be him.

Inside, the building was dimly lit with emergency lighting, presumably powered by diesel generators outside. Figures darted past them at dizzying speed. Everyone knew their job and what they should be doing.

“New recruits?” a soft female voice asked.

Brandon’s eyes widened when he saw her. A shock of red hair under a marine’s cap, alabaster skin. She was beautiful, if out of place. Not that he had much right saying so. At least she was of age.

“We came to serve however we can,” he answered. “But our train was attacked…”

“Yes, we heard. I’d say I’m sorry, but you’re gonna see more of that sooner than later.” She glanced from her clipboard to Gregory. “This one’s too young for combat. Desperate as we are, even we have limits.”

Brandon spotted her name tag and rank. “PFC O’Brien, where are you gonna send him?”

She fixed Brandon with a stony glare. “Trains from the east have been pouring in all day long. If I had a nickel for every prepubescent boy who stowed away to play soldier I’d be a rich woman.”

“What’s pretusesent?” Gregory asked.

“It means brave,” Brandon lied.

“Oh.”

“We might be able to squeeze you in,” she said, “but your little brother’s gonna have to head back on the next transport east.”

“Please,” Brandon pleaded. “We’ve come this far. There’s nothing left for us to go home to.” That last part was a lie, of course, but helping at the front sure beat Gregory being killed on the way home by a Chinese gunship.

O’Brien didn’t look convinced.

“There must be something he can do.”

Her eyes fell to a stack of thirty-pound ammo cans by the entrance. “If your brother can lug those cans around, then there might just be a job for him at the front.”

The Chinese pilot sat handcuffed in the Oneida sheriff’s department interrogation room, looking defiant, face smeared with dried blood from the crash.

John, Moss, Vice Mayor Ray Gruber and a handful of others stood in a darkened room, behind a two-way mirror.

“What about the gunner?” John asked, studying the prisoner’s grey jumpsuit, which was torn but nondescript. As startling as it was to have an enemy combatant as his prisoner, that wasn’t what surprised John the most about his new guest. The biggest shock had been that the pilot was a woman.

She’d been unconscious when Moss and his men had gone to retrieve her and she’d come awake less than an hour ago.

“We found the gunner still strapped to his chair, dead. Looks like a broken neck from the impact, but we can’t be sure.”

“Doesn’t really matter,” John told him. “Where’d you put the body?”

“Left it at the coroner’s office, boss,” Moss replied. “There ain’t no real way to keep it on ice, so we may end up burying him within the next day or two. I think the real problem we have is the crowd that’s gathered outside. A bunch of ’em are calling for a trial and a hanging.”

“Not that you can blame them one bit,” Ray added. “I’d be tempted to do the same myself.”

“But you’re the vice mayor,” John reminded him sternly. “And you’re expected to lead these folks with your head, especially when they’re being pulled by emotion.”

“I was just saying that I can see why the crowd wants blood.”

After a moment of tense silence, John’s attention returned to the pilot. She had pale, soft skin and a round face. Her hair, which was long and dark, was tied back in a pony tail, a curious contrast to how dishevelled the rest of her looked.

“Has she said anything yet?” John asked.

“No, boss. None of us have been in to see her yet. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to ask. I’ll be more than happy to get in there if you want.”

John smiled. “I’ll keep you posted. I know you have a thing for Asian girls. First, bring me something to eat.”

“You didn’t have breakfast?”

“Not for me. It’s for her. Sometimes getting the information you need is easier with a smile and a warm meal than it is with a fist.”

Moss left with one of his men. When the door shut, Ray turned to John.

“What’s the plan, John? Don’t you think we’re endangering the town by holding this prisoner?”

John shook his head. “What do you think will happen if we let her go? Besides, Moss has some of his people clearing away the wreckage. We may be able to salvage some of the weapons onboard. The 30mm chain gun as well as the knockoff Hellfire missiles.”

Ray cocked an eyebrow. “Knockoff?”

“Don’t be so shocked. Most of the aircraft design has been lifted from other platforms. Namely the Italian Augusta attack helicopter. I suppose it’s one of the ways they’ve been able to keep up. America and other Western countries do most of the innovating and China steals the plans.”

“I was about to say that imitation is the best form of flattery,” Ray began. “But I suppose this is a case where it’s bitten us in the rear.” He paused. “Have you figured out what you’re going to ask her?”

“I’m working on that.”

“U.S. intelligence would surely like to get their hands on her.”

“They will, Ray, but not until we’re done.”

Moss returned with a plate of rice, canned ham and a plastic cup with filtered water. “I figured you two would have a big laugh over how bad this looks. See, I know they like rice, but I couldn’t figure out what meat to throw on. We don’t exactly have crates of orange beef or General Tao hanging around.”

John burst his bubble. “Those are Chinese-American creations.”

“Well, here ya go. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, she’s lucky to be getting anything at all.”

John made his way to the door before he stopped short. “You’re a real charmer, Moss. Don’t go far. If the nice-guy routine doesn’t get her talking, I may need someone to play the bad guy.”