William Forstchen - The Final Day

John sat up, rubbing his chin, surprised with the realization that he was freshly shaved and his mouth did not feel sticky and taste rancid.

Scales set the lantern down on the table pushed to the corner of the room, pulled a chair behind it, and placed another across from him, motioning for John to sit down. “I trust Sergeant Bentley saw to your needs and treated you well.”

“A good man. You know how to pick them, sir.”

“Fine. He told me you behaved okay—no tricks—and kept to the code, not revealing anything. Sorry about lacing that coffee with whiskey. In part, it was to get you to just relax, but yeah, we both know it’s an old trick.”

“Figured that one, of course, though it was tempting. So, when does the court-martial start, or are you really transporting me up to Bluemont for trial?”

Bob sighed, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes. “You got a good eight hours of sleep, John, I’ve been at it nonstop since midnight, and it’s just past six here.”

John waited for him to continue.

“We’ve orders to pull back to Roanoke and before we leave to take down everything you have here.”

Even as he spoke, John glanced out the window and saw that several floodlights powered by a loud generator had been set up around the perimeter where the Black Hawks and Apaches were parked, crews busily at work.

“And that is it?” John said coldly. “Why?”

“Those were my orders, and don’t you dare to try to throw the line at me about ‘only following orders.’”

He knew better than to do so and raise that infamous moral argument.

“The attack we were supposed to be staging for to move on Atlanta has been put on hold. We don’t have the assets to do it.”

“Bob, if what I see parked outside is everything you’ve got, there is no way in hell you’re ever going to secure Atlanta.”

“What I was trying to tell them all along. I actually did pass up what you suggested—of course you can understand I did not peg your name to it—that we need to sit back through the rest of the winter at least, let them tough it out a while longer, and perhaps be more tractable come spring. They weren’t happy up in Bluemont with that. They tried to push it. I said it was impossible. and they just got back to me to pull back to Roanoke but to take down whatever you’ve built here first.”

“It means they’re going to do it. They’re going to pop an EMP. That’s the real reason they want you to give up what you’ve just gained.”

Bob looked over at him and said nothing.

“Anything else?” John asked.

Again silence.

“I assume I go with you.”

“Something like that.”

“It’s what I figured.”

Bob went up and looked out the window as a Black Hawk’s engine started to turn over, was revved up for a minute, and then shut down. A light snow was falling, and once out of the sleeping bag, John could feel that the temperature in the room had dropped by quite a few degrees.

“Among everything else, John, the fact that you are still alive and managed to dodge that hit squad has made life even more complex.”

“So it was Bluemont?”

Bob simply nodded.

“You suspected they would pull it; that was what you were warning me about.”

“You twisted a lot of tails up there the way you took out Fredericks and then several days later talked with the BBC about it. They had to brand you as an out-of-control terrorist.” He sighed. “And yes, I had orders to summarily execute you as a renegade. I didn’t dare to try to contact you directly with a warning. There is someone in your ranks that was infiltrated in—most likely by Fredericks, who I guess gave a GPS of your house and your routine. I was able to bullshit my way around that you had slipped by me and that trying to take you out would trigger a full-scale riot. So they decided to act on their own with, as used to be said, ‘extreme prejudice.’”

John took all that in, and there was an inward relief at last. He believed him, at least for now.

“And a huge subtext as well, John. They hit you, everyone will believe I did it, and it will trigger a regular civil war. It was a stab at me as well.” Again he sighed and looked down at the floor. “One of the final acts that is triggering what happens next.”

Bob stood, went back to his bunk, opened a briefcase, and pulled out what John recognized as an aviation map. Bob spread it out on the desk, anchored one corner with the Coleman lantern, and just stared at it for a moment. “So in your service, you never heard of Site R?”

“It’s some place out in Nevada, isn’t it?” John asked, but then he paused as Bob placed an old-style aviation slide rule on the map. The circular part was mounted in the middle of a rectangular sheet of metal, a foot long and four inches wide, one side hashed off with lines like a ruler, which John recalled could be used to measure distances on an aviation map.

Bob was not trying to hide anything as John came around the table to look over Bob’s shoulder. John could see lines already penciled in, originating in Asheville and then tracing north by northeast. He leaned closer. To an untrained eye, the map was a nearly insane jumble of circles, numbers, and symbols for airports, some surrounded with air-controlled demarcation zones, the surface color shaded to indicate ground altitudes, inverted V-like symbols of such obstacles as antennas.

He focused his attention on the penciled lines that crossed into an area bound by Washington, D.C., on one side and extending westward for a considerable distance, all of it colored over in light gray.

Bob saw where John was focusing his attention.

“All that gray area was heavily restricted to air traffic, even more so after 9/11. It is just under 350 air miles from here.”

John followed the line that Bob now traced out on the map and then looked up at him in surprise.

“My birds down there have an operational radius of just under 350 miles. I’m having my people mount some extra fuel tanks to extend that. It is eating up nearly every gallon I have left. We’re lifting off in a couple of hours.” He looked over again at John. “You’re going with me.”

“To hand over to Bluemont?”

Bob glared at him. “I’m leaving some of my personnel behind for this. It will be a handpicked team that goes with me. I don’t think I need to tell you when it comes to really trusting everyone who is with me in this command, I know who I can count on, who might hesitate, and some just might jump the other way. My Major Minecci is one of them, so he stays behind. I can carry ninety with me in the Black Hawks.”

He continued to stare at John. “I want you to pick half a dozen of yours to go with us.”

“In heaven’s name, why? So they can be executed too?”

“I want them as witnesses,” Bob replied sharply, obviously insulted by John’s accusatory response. “I want civilian witnesses who are about to learn the truth. I want you to pick six people that you trust.”

“And that means trusting you, General.”

“Yes, it does. Again, I leave the decision to you.” Bob turned away and looked out the window. “You can walk out of here now, and no one will stop you. I publicly arrested you to protect you, because I had orders to either give you a speedy trial and execution or take you to Bluemont for the same. I am not going to do that. I had reason to believe another unit might be sent to visit you—or, for that matter, just drop a fuel-air bomb on that beautiful valley of Montreat to finish it—and let me take the blame. Arresting you as I did bought a little extra time, but Bluemont is expecting me to deliver you alive or dead before the day is out. Knowing that, you are free to go if that is your decision, but get your people evacuated now, today.”