Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

He was hunting now, cruising each street looking for bad guys, but there were few to be found. Finally, after destroying a pick- up truck loaded with fleeing gang members, he made the call. “Flyby-One to Six… I suspect some of the hostiles are hiding, but the rest are down. Over.”

“Roger that and thanks,” Mac replied. “Return to Contact, rearm, and provide security there. We’ll call if we need you. Over.”

As the helicopter angled away, Mac hurried over to check on the casualties. Like the rest of her Strykers, Roller-Three was protected by slat armor commonly referred to as a “birdcage.” The structure’s purpose was to detonate RPGs and protect the vic within. Even though the explosive charge hadn’t been fired at the Stryker, Mac could see that the steel cage had done its job. The armor was a twisted mess, but the truck’s hull was intact. An excellent trade-off for the extra weight.

But even though the birdcage had been able to protect the soldiers inside the vic, the top gunners hadn’t been so lucky. And as Mac approached the truck, she saw that a half-covered body lay on the ground. Sergeant Poole turned to look as she arrived next to him. “Who is it?” she wanted to know.

“Dinkins,” he replied. “He was leaning out over the side, trying to take a shot with his M4, when the charge went off.”

“Shit. He was a good kid. I heard ‘casualties’ plural. Did someone else get hit?”

“Yeah… Wessel took a bullet from somewhere—but Doc Hoskins says he’s going to be okay. The slug went up into his helmet, circled his head, and fell out! Now Wessel claims that he’s immortal.”

Mac shook her head in amazement. Wessel the Weasel was one lucky son of a bitch. “Sorry to interrupt,” Sparks said, “but we have visitors. Some locals would like to speak with you.”

Mac followed the RTO out to the street, where a three-person delegation stood waiting. A man stepped forward to shake hands. He had a receding hairline, a paunch, and was wearing a Colt .45 six-shooter. “Hello… My name is Henry Wilkins. Carol Tice is on my left—Miranda Ivey is on the right. We’re all that remains of the city council. The rest of them were crucified. Thank God you came! We thought the government had collapsed.”

“I’m sorry to say that it did,” Mac told them. “Our unit was cut off—and we’re operating on our own.”

“Yet you chose to free our town,” Tice said. She had long brown hair and dark circles under her eyes.

“What the bikers did to your town is horrifying,” Mac said. “And I’m glad we were able to help. But we had an ulterior motive as well.”

“And what was that?” Ivey inquired. She had freckles, a pug nose, and green eyes.

“We need Caterpillar parts for our Strykers,” Mac replied. “And we knew there was a dealership in Wells.”

Wilkins pointed a finger at Roller-Three. “Is that a Stryker?”

“Yes, it is,” Mac said. “Who owns this dealership? Could I speak with them?”

Wilkins looked away. “Mr. Vickers owned it. But he and his family were killed early on… Before the crucifixions began.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mac said. “Will you permit us to take what we need from the dealership?”

“I don’t think we could stop you,” Tice said.

“Probably not,” Mac agreed. “But we did take care of the bikers for you… Perhaps you’d be willing to give us some parts by way of a reward.”

“I’m for it,” Ivey said.

“Me, too,” Wilkins put in.

“I guess you’ve got a deal,” Tice said. “So take what you want from the dealership, but nothing more. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Mac replied. “We’ll bring the rest of our vehicles down from Contract if that’s okay… And we’ll put some temporary security in place. I would suggest that you gather up all the weapons that are lying around and organize a militia. Another gang will overrun the town if you don’t.”

“We’ll get to work on it,” Ivey said, “ and on burying the dead. Thank you.”

Mac looked over to where the body lay and back again. “We lost one of our soldiers during the fighting. Could we bury him in your cemetery?”

“Of course,” Ivey said. “We’ll make a special place for him.”

“Thank you,” Mac said. “Sergeant Poole will work with you to make the necessary arrangements.”

Once the conversation ended, Mac turned to find that Sergeant Smith was waiting for her. “We’ve got what we came for, ma’am, two Cat engines and a lot of assorted spare parts.”

“Thank God for that,” Mac said. “We paid a high price.”

Smith nodded. “Yes, ma’am. There’s a problem, though.”

“Which is?”

“We need a vehicle to haul everything with. A tractor hooked to a lowboy trailer would be perfect.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I found what we need a few blocks from here.”

“See if you can buy it,” Mac told him. “Offer some of the stuff we found at Mountain Home. After what they’ve been through, these folks might put a pretty high value on a couple of light machine guns and some ammo. Not too much, though… And it wouldn’t be a good idea to deliver the ordnance until we’re ready to leave.”

“And if they say, ‘no’?”

Mac sighed. One of the reasons she’d joined the army was because the people who belonged to it were trying to do the right thing even if they failed occasionally. That’s what her father claimed, anyway. Now she was up to her butt in moral ambiguity. “If you can’t buy it, then call me. We’d better be ready for a fight if we’re going to take it.”

Smith nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he was gone.

It took the better part of two days for the Marauders to bury Dinkins with full honors, buy the tractor-trailer rig, and catch up on deferred maintenance. Then it was time to get back on the road. Their destination was a base called Camp Navajo, which was located just west of Flagstaff, Arizona. Assuming the information Mac had was correct, a wide variety of supplies could be found there, including fuel for the Apache. The latter was of critical importance because the JP8 truck was running low.

They took 93 south. Then, rather than enter Las Vegas, which was said to be under the control of a warlord, the Marauders went east. After three days of zigzagging across northern Arizona, they wound up on I-40 headed for Camp Navajo. Looted cars lined both sides of the highway, there were crosses on the median, and the overpasses were covered with graffiti.

Rather than show up at Camp Navajo hoping for the best, Mac led the convoy off the interstate north of the base and entered the tiny town of Parks. The Flagstaff area was known for its skiing, but there shouldn’t have been any snow this time of year. The evergreens were loaded with the white stuff, however—and there was six inches of it on the ground. That was a disappointment since the Marauders had been hoping for better weather in Arizona. Maybe it will be, Mac told herself, especially at lower elevations.

About a thousand people were supposed to be living in and around Parks. But they were nowhere to be seen as the Marauders rolled into town and took control of a church.

Evans was busy setting up a security perimeter when Mac went to meet with Esco. “Put the Shadow up,” she told him, “and give me all the intel you can. Meanwhile, I’m going to send Brown and Kho out for a ground-level view of what’s going on. If the situation warrants, we’ll go in. Otherwise, we’ll bypass the base and continue south.”

Once the drone was up, and scouts were on the way, all Mac could do was wait. To pass the time, she made the rounds and paused to admire the small track hoe Smith had purchased in Wells. Evans was right… The machine made short work of digging fighting positions and latrines. That was a definite plus.