Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

As darkness fell, Mac moved the perimeter over to include the helicopter, ordered the unit to dig fighting positions, and told Evans to establish OPs all around. With Strykers on three of the corners and a pickup on the fourth, she felt reasonably secure.

Mac took the first watch, hoping to get six hours of uninterrupted sleep after that. But her plan went to hell in a handcart when a soldier was sent to wake her at 0512. It seemed that Private Wessel, AKA “the Weasel,” had dozed off and allowed Fitch to slip away.

Mac was pissed at Wessel since falling asleep constituted a serious dereliction of duty but was secretly glad to rid herself of Fitch. So she told Evans to place Wessel on latrine duty for five days. And being up, she chose to stay up and prepare for the day ahead.

Mac had been looking for a chance to pull her officers and NCOs together for a command conference. And with no immediate threat on the horizon, and relatively good weather, that morning represented a good opportunity.

So Mac put out the word, and all of the people E-5 and above gathered at 0730. Many had mugs of coffee, and some were eating breakfast. The moving van made a good windbreak, and a fire offered some warmth.

The participants included Evans, Company Sergeant Ralston, Supply Sergeant Smith, UAV operator Esco, Medical Officer Hoskins, and both of the Apache pilots. Mac began by saying that the conference was long overdue—and that she planned to hold one a week from that point forward. The purpose of the sessions would be to facilitate communications, identify potential problems, and devise solutions before the shit hit the fan.

“So,” Mac began, “let’s talk about the next segment of our journey. The way I figure it, we’ll get on I-84 and follow it down to Salt Lake City.” Much to her surprise, a hand shot up. Company Sergeant Ralston had joined the unit in Pendleton, and Mac was still getting to know him. “Yes, Sergeant… Do you have a question?”

Ralston was a burly man and famous for the nonreg walrus-style mustache he wore. An affectation that Mac had been careful to ignore. “Not a question so much as a comment, ma’am… Salt Lake City is the obvious way to go, I get that, but it might be best to circle around it.”

Mac felt the first stirrings of annoyance—but knew better than to let her emotions show. “Okay, why would we do that?”

“Because the Mormons run Utah, ma’am,” Ralston replied. “That includes local government, the fire departments, the police departments, and so on. Plus each family has three months’ worth of food on top of what the church has stored away. So while I don’t know this for a fact—it’s reasonable to assume that there weren’t any food riots in Salt Lake City. And by now it’s quite likely that a church-sponsored militia is guarding the city. If I’m correct, they’ll be looking for looters, bandits, and mercenaries.”

Mac felt stupid. Not only was Ralston correct, most of his points were glaringly obvious. Yet she had failed to think of them. Yes, she’d been busy… But that was no excuse. It would have been nice to save face somehow—but Mac couldn’t think of a credible way to do it. “Holy shit, Ralston,” she said. “That didn’t occur to me. Thanks for speaking up… There’s no point in walking into what could be a buzz saw.

“Scratch what I said earlier,” Mac said, as her eyes roamed the crowd. “What we need is a route that will take us around Salt Lake City as efficiently as possible. Fuel being a serious concern.”

Another hand went up. This one belonged to Sergeant Smith. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“I have a suggestion, ma’am. If we follow Highway 93 down to Wells, Nevada, we could do some shopping at the local Caterpillar dealership. Then we could go east and connect with the freeway south of Salt Lake City.”

It took a moment for Mac to catch on. The Strykers were powered by Caterpillar engines. And it was only a matter of time before the unit would need to replace one of them. Plus, a dealer would have lots of spare parts, too.

Were Ralston and Smith double-teaming her? Both were from Pendleton after all. Probably… But that’s what senior NCOs do. Often, but not always, for the betterment of their unit. Savvy officers knew when to listen and when not to. “I like it,” Mac said, “but let’s say we capture some engines. How would we move them?”

Smith didn’t have a ready answer but was quick to improvise. “The dealership will have a forklift,” he predicted. “As for transport, well, we’ll have to liberate a semi from someone.” Mac thought the plan was a bit vague—but what else could he say?

The conference continued for half an hour and covered everything from the need for field showers, to the maintenance issues related to one of the U-Haul trucks, and the need for Vitamin D supplements. “We aren’t getting enough sun,” Hoskins told them. “And that means we can’t make enough of our own Vitamin D to stay healthy. So please be on the lookout for supplies that we can buy, borrow, or steal.”

The convoy was on the road by 0900. After twenty minutes on I-84, they left the freeway for secondary roads that led them around Twin Falls to Highway 93. The surrounding countryside was flat for the most part, unrelievedly brown, and boring.

Thanks to the open terrain, and the fact that the Shadow was out in front of the column, Mac felt she could put Evans on point and ride in Roller-Twelve. The Stryker was the last vic in the convoy, and it was nice to shoot the shit with soldiers from her old platoon.

The first hour passed without incident. Then Esco put out a call for Mac to look at what he said was “some interesting video.”

So Mac ordered the column to pull over, authorized a bio break, and went to visit the Humvee. Esco’s gear was set up in the back. “Take my seat,” he suggested, “and watch the screen. The Shadow is circling Wells.”

The Humvee’s well-worn interior smelled like the men who rode in it, and Mac wrinkled her nose as she sat down and eyed the screen in front of her. Wells was a small town, and the streets were laid out grid-style. As viewed from above, the town’s most prominent features consisted of a well-watered park and adjacent sports field. “Okay,” Mac said. “What’s so interesting?”

“Zoom in,” Esco said. “Tell me what you see.”

Mac was surprised by what she saw. The streets were filled with motorcycles! There were hundreds of them. Some were parked in tidy rows—while others were racing down one of the main arterials. “That’s Sixth,” Esco told her, as he put a grubby finger on it. “See the ramp? Watch what happens.”

The ramp was located in the center of town in front of what might be a café or bar. As Mac watched, two motorcycles raced up the ramp, flew into the air, and landed hard. One wobbled and crashed. The other pulled a wheelie and continued on. “So a motorcycle gang took over the town,” Mac concluded.

“That’s the way it looks,” Esco agreed. “And they aren’t likely to welcome us with open arms. Of course, Peters and Omata could take them out in fifteen minutes.”

Mac could imagine how easy it would be for the Apache to chase the gang members down and grease them. But what if appearances were deceiving? What if the citizens of Wells liked having the gang there? Maybe the bikers were better than whatever the alternative was. She said as much to Esco. “I don’t think that’s the case, ma’am,” he replied. “Aim the camera at the athletic field and zoom in.”

Mac winced as the scene appeared. Rather than shooting down from directly overhead the drone’s camera was at least a mile to the north. That allowed Mac to see the crosses, two rows of them, each with a body tied to it. “It’s my guess that the bikers crucified anyone who objected to their presence,” Esco said.