William Forstchen - The Final Day

He wanted to shout back that it was Bob who was starting it with this surprise assault coming in at dawn.

“John, they’ve got us,” Maury said softly, and John finally nodded.

“Reverend. Tell Dunn to stand down, disarm, and surrender. Get on the phone to all locations, tell them not to fire, to stand down, and await word from me later. Repeat, do not resist. You got it.”

Reverend Black sighed. “John, you’re making the right move.”

“Yeah, I know,” he replied bitterly. “Maury, get outside, tell those darn kids to get back inside. Find Kevin Malady, tell him everyone is to return to their rooms, stack weapons, and show no resistance. Got that?”

Maury could only nod and went back out the door as John picked up the mike and clicked it.

“Okay, Bob. We surrender on your word that my people are to be treated with respect, no reprisals or arrests. It’s got to be the code we once lived by, sir.”

“Agreed.”

“Wait fifteen minutes so I make sure the word is out. There’s a baseball field above the campus; you can set down there.”

“Fifteen minutes, then. Bring your jeep up to meet me, John. Make sure your people do not fire. If they do, you know what I have to do in reply.”

“Understood.”

He could hear Bob click off.

I should have expected this, he thought bitterly. But then again, what could I do differently? After two and a half years of successfully managing the defense of his community, to be caught like this was galling.

Frustrated, he threw the mike down and walked outside.

Therotor of the Black Hawk came to a stop, John at last able to lower his hands from his face as the swirling snow settled down. Three Black Hawks had landed, troops piling out of the first two, weapons raised, forming a defensive perimeter, while overhead the three Apaches continued to circle. Their nose guns were turned away, outward, and not in toward the campus—a smart gesture on Bob’s part—but their presence was menacing nevertheless, the sounds, the sights, and smells taking John back to the desert of Iraq so long ago.

John stood by the jeep, Maury at his side. The world felt cold, empty. Could he trust Bob? Or was this all a ruse? He’d grown used to winning, to always somehow pulling the chestnuts out of the fire. And now after two and a half years, the game was up. Whatever it was that Bluemont wanted, they now had it. How brilliantly it was done, to send in a man John once served under, had trusted, respected, and considered to be his friend.

It was all up to Bluemont now. He had defied them because of Fredericks, the type of man who across his years of military service he had learned to hold in contempt. The quintessential bureaucrat, the type where in the face of all logical argument, at times with the lives of men in the balance, would smile that disdainful smile, implying that an Ivy League degree in public administration trumped reality in the field.

Was that what Bob was serving? If so, regardless of the promises made minutes ago, John could see what would follow. Local community control was finished, the high talk back in the spring of a reaffirmation of the Constitution, of their expanding out across the Carolinas, bringing at least some semblance of a technological infrastructure back online to themselves and their neighbors… gone.

There would be no fight now. Perhaps the first gesture to smooth things over would be a bribe of reassurance, some truckloads of MREs brought up from the coast, perhaps even already packed along with the column invading up from Greenville, South Carolina. Then? A new administrator? Another Fredericks? And with him new rulings? The logic that a local militia was no longer needed for self-defense now that the regulars were here, but the young men and women of his community would be needed elsewhere and an order given?

He could see it all so clearly, even as he felt a surge of emotion as the side door of the third Black Hawk slid open and Bob Scales alighted, behind him a detail of eight well-armed men, some in desert camo, others in winter uniforms, who joined the defensive perimeter.

John did not make the gesture of going forward to meet Bob, waiting as he struggled alone through the knee-deep snow, moving slowly.

Bob stopped half a dozen feet away from John and gazed into his eyes, saying nothing.

“Sir, if you are expecting me to salute this time, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

A flicker of a smile creased his old friend’s features. “At least present your sword as a token of surrender, and I’ll return it graciously,” Bob replied.

John kept his features fixed. Memories flooded in of his year with Bob at the War College, participating in the traditional staff rides to Gettysburg, the hours spent together analyzing the battle while walking the fields with the rising young officers who were their students and getting a lesson not only about the battle itself but also the traditions of the military in which they served. That they would fight ferociously for the cause they believed was right and to which they had sworn their sacred honor, but could as well show compassion and share the last drop of a canteen with a foe who had tried to kill them but minutes before.

“Okay, forget the sword. But can we at least get out of the cold?” Bob suggested.

“Can I request that you call off those Apaches overhead? They’re making my people extremely nervous. Last time we had Apaches here, they shot up our chapel and hospital and killed dozens.”

Bob nodded. “You can assure me that where they set down no action will be taken?”

“If they land back at the airport where we met, there is no one there, close enough to cover you if needed, far enough away to ease things here a bit.”

“Your word of honor on that, John?”

“Yes”—he hesitated for a few seconds—“on my word of honor… sir.”

“By the way, I already have a team there,” Bob announced.

“Why there?”

“Seemed like a good staging area, and besides, they’re looking for a lost Black Hawk. Figured it might be stashed in one of the hangars. All right, I’ll order them back to that airport.”

Bob turned and shouted an order. One of the troopers deployed on the security perimeter around the choppers nodded and went to the pilot’s window of the Black Hawk Bob had come in on. Seconds later, the three Apaches turned sharply to the southeast and began to climb out of the valley.

“Satisfied?” Bob asked.

“It helps.”

“Now can we get in out of the cold?”

John nodded and pointed to the jeep. Bob climbed into the passenger seat. The trooper who had passed his order to the pilot shouted a protest and started to come forward, weapon not pointed toward them directly but raised to the ready.

“It’s all right, Captain!” Bob shouted. “Wait here.”

“But, sir!”

“I’m with friends. Order the men to keep perimeter and wait. I’ll be back in one hour.”

The captain nodded reluctantly, saluted, and turned away.

“He gets a little too nervous about me at times,” Bob said.

“I hope he doesn’t get nervous while we’re gone. Not a threat, sir, but there are well over a hundred heavily armed people down there.” He nodded back toward the campus.

“I trust you. Just make sure they stay away from where the choppers are waiting.”

John did not reply.

“You do know that if I am not back in an hour, things can quickly grow ugly.”

“Are you doubting my word”—he paused—“General?”

Bob looked back at John, who was climbing into the narrow backseat, smiling but glance firm. “I trust you. We both have to trust each other now.”

Again John did not reply. “Take us to Gaither, Maury,” John said to Maury, who switched the jeep’s engine on and put it in gear.