William Weber - Patriots

“Brandon, get the camo netting over her, would you?” John turned to the other two. “This is as close as we’re gonna get to a cloaking device.”

“Driving in with camo netting,” Rodriguez said in disbelief. “That’s your plan?”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “No, this is so that when we return, Betsy’s still here waiting for us.”

“Tell me you’ve got something else up your sleeve,” Moss said.

Brandon was leaning over the back seat, pulling the camo netting together. “He usually does.”

“Oneida has a storm drain,” John told them. “It isn’t big, but for our purposes it doesn’t need to be. I spoke to some of the Patriots who once lived in town and they informed me the main pipe releases the excess water into Ponderosa Lake.”

“Oh, boy,” Moss said. “Something tells me I’m about to get my hair wet.”

John leaned over to study the spiky mohawk running across Moss’ skull. “Thank God you don’t have much there.”

After exiting the truck, John went in back and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters. He handed them to Brandon, who slung his shotgun over his shoulder.

“Bring these,” John said. “I wanna keep your finger away from that trigger for as long as I can.”

Brandon opened his mouth in protest, but held back from saying anything. He was happy to be included. John only hoped it was a decision he wouldn’t live to regret.

They made their way through the forest in silence with nothing but a compass to guide them. Before long, glimpses of civilization began to materialize through the trees. Houses, and a collection of low buildings, but no movement. The town looked deserted.

Directly ahead of them was Ponderosa Lake, although seeing it now, John realized it looked far more like a reservoir than it did a lake. At the other end, he spotted the pipe they would use to sneak in.

“You see the entrance?” John asked Moss.

Bringing the binoculars to his eyes, Moss scanned back and forth. “Yeah, I see it, but it looks mighty quiet over there.”

“Maybe they all left,” Brandon offered.

“Nah, they’re there,” Rodriguez said with grim conviction. “The Chairman’s gonna want an audience when they execute Edward and—” He stopped himself. “Oh, I’m sorry, John.”

John waved him away. “No harm done. That’s one party I’m looking forward to crashing.”

The group stayed low, circling around the edge of the lake until they reached the rainwater runoff.

“Bolt cutters,” John called out to Brandon who handed them over.

A concrete opening the height of a grown man stood before them. Covering it was a metal grate sealed with a padlock. John worked the mouth of the bolt cutters while the others kept an eye out.

“Hold up,” Rodriguez whispered. “We got a patrol, east of our position, over by the edge of the lake.”

All four of them remained still, attempting to squeeze into the shallow lip of the storm drain runoff pipe. The lock was still in place since removing it would require room for John to maneuver the cutters. In the distance, a group of men from the town were patrolling on horseback, walking their mounts slowly as they watched the surrounding area. Running alongside them were guard dogs.

“They’re probably part of the same group that nearly finished me,” John told them. “Great to see they have dogs now.”

Moss was nodding. “The kid saved your life back then,” Moss told John. “Not sure if he ever took credit or not.”

“Did you?” John asked Brandon, who blushed.

“Darn right he did. Don’t be so humble, kid. After they heard the shooting, he practically strongarmed that bag-of-bones fella—Gary, I think—to come find us.”

John brushed Brandon’s hair. “Shoulda let the old man get what he deserved.”

“Nah,” Brandon said. “You made a choice. Maybe one that wasn’t so good, but you did it for all the right reasons. I was happy to help you unmake it.”

The men on horseback turned and seemed to stare in their direction. Moss was the most exposed and inched his body further into the concrete opening. Yelping and barking filled the air.

“Think they saw us?” Rodriguez asked.

John peered out and watched as they turned and moved in another direction. “Knowing those guys, if they caught our scent, they’d be on us like flies on—” John’s gaze met Brandon’s as he bit his lip. “Never mind.”

A few seconds later, with the lock finally cut, the four entered the drainage pipe. Murky water sloshed about their feet. Moss pinched his nostrils while his cheeks bulged out. Finally, he couldn’t hold it any longer and pulled in a big lungful of air through his mouth.

After thirty seconds he let it out and swore as he took in his next breath. “I thought this was a rainwater pipe, not a sewer.”

Up ahead, John saw the source of the foul odor. A dead body lay face up, maggots covering its face and chest. The gases released from the decaying flesh were horrible and John plugged his nose as well and hurried past it.

“My science teacher says that when you smell stuff you’re actually tasting the molecules in the air,” Brandon offered.

Moss doubled over and dry-heaved. After a second, he stood and wiped at his mouth. “I wasn’t cut out for this.”

“None of us are,” John said. “But suck it up, ’cause we’re almost there.”

A trickle of faint light shone in from one of the manholes above them. John scaled the ladder that was recessed into the wall. In one of his back pouches was a tiny piece of broken mirror attached to a pencil by an elastic. When he’d decided to enter via the storm drain, he’d gone hunting for a way to peer through the grates without having to lift them up and expose himself to enemy fire. The solution had come from the side mirror of a broken-down car in camp. John slid it through the narrow opening and scanned the world above. They were on a sidewalk, next to a clothing store. Outside, people were walking around, going about their business. That meant Marshall’s forces hadn’t launched the diversionary assault yet. It also meant they weren’t where they needed to be.

“What’s taking so long?” Moss complained.

“This isn’t our stop,” John told them.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we need to keep going and stay to our left.”

“Oh, brother.”

Moss was normally a calm customer, but even the best soldiers had their breaking point. For some that trigger was prolonged cold or discomfort. For others it was as simple as depriving them of oxygen for short periods. For Moss, that trigger was smell. He had a sensitive nose, which was enough to generate a laugh or two in camp among the men, but out on a mission, it could spell doom. John needed them all in tip-top shape. Otherwise the entire mission could fall apart.

The next manhole sat between two abandoned cars. This would provide them with enough cover to exit the storm drain and move to a safe location. Gripping the top ladder rung, John pushed the manhole up and out of the way. After climbing out, he helped Brandon and the others. Moss took a deep lungful as soon as he was clear of the stench they’d just escaped.

“I was losing my mind down there,” he said.

“We could tell,” Rodriguez sniped.

Hunched down beside the front bumper, John scanned the area for threats. Finding none, he motioned to a nearby building. It was a three-story commercial building with a pharmacy on the ground floor and what looked like apartments above that.

“That roof should give us a nice vantage point to begin searching for the likely source of the Chairman’s radio jammer.”