William Forstchen - One Year After

In a gesture John thought nothing less than surreal, the elderly woman first reached out with her good hand and gently stroked Makala’s cheek, telling her that she was a beautiful woman whom she would pray for. Makala actually leaned against her for a moment, beginning to sob again. The woman saw John, and he recognized her as an old friend who had worked in the bank and then disappeared into retirement some years earlier.

“John, I hope you are well,” the woman said in a soothing voice. “I think your wife needs a good hug before you go running off again.”

Her tone so startled John that it actually did take him aback. He smiled, thanked her, and put his hands on Makala’s shoulders, turning her around.

“Sweetheart, I have to go now. And you have to do your job. I love you.”

She hugged him tightly, then exhaled deeply, drew in another breath, and stepped back.

It was mostly just acting now, but for the moment, she had regained some control. The shock, the nightmares, the waking up screaming in the middle of the night, that would come afterward, as it did for so many veterans, but for the moment, she could still do what she was trained to do.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Be safe.”

“And you too, John.”

As he turned to go back out into the madness, the old woman looked at him and smiled. “God will watch over the two of you,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on her, John.”

That nearly broke him as he came back to kiss her on the forehead and then went back out into the fight.

He found Maury with his Jeep, tucked into a side road a couple of blocks to the south of the Assembly Inn. As he climbed into the Jeep, he heard more gunfire and looked back to see one of the Black Hawks circling high, undoubtedly to avoid small-arms fire, pouring a long stream of tracers and incendiaries into the campus, igniting numerous small fires.

“All right, let’s try to divert that son of a bitch,” John announced, Maury grinning at him as he reversed the Jeep out of the driveway of a private home.

“Where to?”

“Right down Montreat Road, but get ready to break up a side road.”

“Sure thing.”

They turned out onto the main road in and out of the cove, most of it well covered with trees. Once the gate was in sight, John told Maury to slow down while John stood half up and kept a very close watch overhead. It sounded like the Apaches had finished up their third run over Black Mountain and were most likely heading back to Asheville to rearm. But one of the armed Black Hawks was still up there, and though John wanted to be seen, he definitely did not want to get the last surprise of his life by a Black Hawk suddenly rearing up from behind some trees and unleashing on him and his friend.

The observation Black Hawk remained, slowly circling above Montreat for another half minute while Maury guided the Jeep through the stone gate and continued on the main road into town. The circling helicopter swerved slightly and turned south.

“Okay, get us the hell under some cover!” John shouted, and Maury pulled into the camp just south of the Montreat gate, the forest-canopied hiking paths and bridle trails the perfect place to hide from eyes looking down from above. John prayed they didn’t have infrared, as well, because if so, the hot block of Maury’s engine and exhaust could be their death signature.

A Black Hawk suddenly came swooping in from the east and banked up sharply. It was a tense moment, as if they were probing, trying to flush game, John feeling like a terrified rabbit that knew it must remain absolutely still even though the hunter was but a few feet away. The helicopter then leveled out, continued on a few hundred yards, and hovered for a moment, shooting up an abandoned convenience store farther down the road before continuing on with its search.

Continuing along back lanes, the two pressed back into town. Parking in an alleyway on the north side of State Street, John and Maury slipped across the road and back into John’s first observation post above the hardware store. A fair part of the downtown had been shot apart, a dozen or more buildings aflame. The Posse had never gotten this far, the damage of that battle confined to the east end of the town. It was heartbreaking to see the devastation wrought by two helicopter air strikes. Though shops had been long closed, their owners who were still alive were desperately trying to contain the flames to salvage what little they had left.

His firefighting teams were under the strictest orders not to mobilize out except for fires that threatened shelters and hospitals. Several residents of Cherry Street, seeing John slipping along a back lane and into the rear of the hardware store, called out to him for help. He paused.

“God forgive me, we can’t help you!” he cried. “Any crowd right now will draw fire from those bastards up there!” No one argued further or cursed him as the bringer of this doom, a curse he half felt he really did deserve.

Once back in this reserve position, he took in the sight of the wreckage, the smell of wet, charred wood, and the stoic gaze of the two old radio hams who were monitoring traffic.

“News?”

“Three choppers are back on the ground, according to our observer up on the parkway. They also report it looks like their fuel bladders are running low.”

John nodded at that. They certainly had been profligate these last two days, burning more fuel than he would ever dream of allocating for months of productive labors. With a regular army unit of Apaches going into action from a forward deployment, there would be enough fuel, ammo, and rockets on hand to support several dozen sorties before calling up the chain of command for additional support. In Desert Storm, an entire brigade of airborne—the largest air assault since the Second World War—had gone in with scores of helicopters and set up a forward base inside Iraq with dozens of the new fuel bladders and had torn the hell out of the rear lines of the Republican Guard. It was the first full demonstration of air/ground warfare that had been refined in the long years after Vietnam.

Fredericks was most likely operating on a short leash, and he had to gamble on that one now. A strike against the reivers, with four aircraft or sorties. Upward of a dozen more sorties now against him since early this morning. Surely he was beginning to come up short on fuel and ammunition. Hopefully the air attacks were finished, at least for now.

“Report coming in that a fourth helicopter is coming in to land,” one of the hams announced.

John nodded. “You still have the frequency they are operating on?”

The ham nodded.

“Switch to transmit.”

“John, they’ll track us the same way they tracked that forward recon unit.”

“He’s on the ground or just about down. Now’s the time to send him a message, and then we move this unit down south of the railroad tracks.”

The ham smiled, nodded, and handed John the mike. “Fredericks, do you read me?”

There was a moment of static and then the click of another radio coming online. “Who is this?”

“You know damn well who it is.”

A pause.

“You drag out your response to more than thirty seconds, and I shut down,” John replied sharply.

“You called me,” Fredericks replied.

“Just to tell you this, Fredericks: I’ll not be satisfied now until I see you dead, and I hope your people are listening to me. Your alleged leader has violated the most fundamental laws of humanity, of warfare, and of what our country and Constitution stood for. Refuse to obey his orders, and you’ll be spared. Comply further, and you are as guilty as he is, and in the eyes of the world, you are no longer any part of what America was and will continue to be.”