William Johnstone - Phoenix Rising

“You’re right,” Karin said. “As a matter of fact there was nothing left even before the hospital was abandoned. For the last two months, the strongest thing we had was aspirin.”

“There are others like us out there,” Julie said, happily.

“I’m sure there are,” Deon said.

“No, I mean for real, like us,” Julie said. “We heard them on the radio.”

“Did you?”

“They call themselves the Brotherhood of Liberty,” Julie said.

“They’ve asked us to join them,” Karin added.

Deon and the others looked directly at Jake. “Are we?” Deon asked.

“Are we what?”

“Are we going to join them?”

“Maybe, someday,” Jake said. “If they are legitimate.”

“Why would you think they would not be legitimate ?”

“The way I look at it there is a fifty–fifty chance that it is legitimate. It could either be set up by the SPS to reel in the revolutionaries, or it could be legitimate. When the time comes, we may check it out. But this is not the time.”

Wednesday, August 8

Because the helicopter had been flyable when it was put on display in the museum, work on it proceeded much faster than it had on the original Blackhawk. They had a little trouble with the drag brace because, as it turned out, the chord of the blade was a little wider than they thought, which meant the drag brace was a little longer, so they had to compensate by repositioning it slightly.

They replaced the drag brace and a couple of hanger bearings on the tail rotor driveshaft. In addition, they removed every gasket, seal, and filter, soaked them all in solvent, then oil. In that way they were able to reconstitute all but two. And those two they were able to replace by reworking gaskets they found on the helicopters that were still out on the airfield. Finally, they found a battery from one of the helicopters on the field that they were able to install, with some adjustment, into the Huey.

Finally they had everything put back, and were about ready to use the positioning wheels on the skids to roll the helicopter out of the hangar when a call came over the radio from Deon.

“Yeah, Deon, go ahead,” Marcus said.

“We’ve got company coming,” Deon said. “And it doesn’t look like any social call. They came up on motorcycles, but they left them on the other side of the field. They are armed, and they are moving toward the hangar in combat advance.”

“How many are there?” Marcus asked.

“A shitwad load,” Deon said.

“That many?”

“At least.”

“Alright, grab your weapons. Let’s get outside and into position,” Jake called to the others. He took the radio from Marcus. “Deon, stay alert, but keep out of sight as much as you can.”

“Roger.”

Jake and the others rushed outside, then took up positions behind the V of sand barrels. “John, you take the right end of the V. Willie, you take the left end. Marcus, you and I will have the point. Ladies, one of you on each side,” Jake directed.

Jake waited until everyone was in position; then he raised his head just above the barricade and brought the bullhorn to his lips.

“Those of you coming across the field. Turn around and go back. Do not come any closer,” he said over the loudspeaker.

“What have you got in the hangar?” someone shouted back.

“Nothing that concerns you. Turn around and go back.”

“You got gasoline in there?”

“ No.”

“You’re lyin’! Let us take a look.”

“ No.”

“I don’t believe you. I think you’ve got gasoline in there, and we’re going to take it.”

“I told you, we don’t have gasoline. Look around out on the field, take what you want, but do not come any closer. This is your last warning. If you come closer, we will shoot.”

The answer this time was a rifle shot. The bullet whistled by just overhead, then punched through the hangar wall.

“Turn around and go back!” Jake said over the bullhorn. “There’s nothing here for you.”

This time two of the scavengers fired.

“Jake, I have the shooters in sight,” Deon said. “Permission to fire?”

Two more shots were fired by the scavengers, and one of the bullets hit the top of a barrel, and sent a little shard of steel into Marcus’s face.

“Damn, I’m hit!” Marcus said.

Jake looked at him, then laughed. “You’ve cut yourself worse, shaving,” he said. He picked up the little radio. “Deon, fire at will,” he said.

Deon opened up with the M-240 from the top of the control tower. Jake could see the tracer rounds slashing down, and he heard one of the scavengers let out a yell of pain.

This time there were more than a couple of rounds fired—several scavengers opened fire, and some had M-16s, as evidenced by the automatic fire. They started maneuvering toward the hangar and as they worked their way forward, Jake counted at least twelve.

The Phoenix group was outnumbered, but they had position, and with Deon and the M-240, superior firepower.

The firefight was intense for several minutes; then it died off. It was quiet for a moment. Then Jake and the others could hear the motorcycle engines start. A moment later, they could hear the Doppler effect of motorcycles riding away.

“They’re gone,” Marcus said.

“Maybe,” Jake replied. He leaned his rifle against one of the barrels, then pulled his pistol. He thumbed the magazine out, checked it, then slid it back into the handle. “But I’m going to have to find out.”

“You going out there alone?” Marcus asked.

“Yes, no sense in risking more than one of us.”

“You’re not going out there alone,” John said. “If something happens to you, we’re all up shit creek. You’re the only one who can fly this thing.”

“John’s right,” Deon said. Deon had come down from the tower to join the others. “We can’t risk you. I’ll go out.”

“You can go out with me,” Jake said. “But I’m going out.”

“Pulling rank on us, are you— Major ?” John asked, coming down hard on the last word.

“I told you, we don’t have rank,” Jake started to say; then he paused. “All right, mea culpa. Deon, do what you have to do.”

“Want company, Deon?” John asked.

“No. No offense, but you are a wrench turner. I can do better if I don’t have you to worry about.”

John smiled. “Okay, Rambo, fine by me. I was just putting on a brave front for the ladies.”

Deon came back after about fifteen minutes with his report. “Six dead, one wounded.”

“How badly is he wounded?” Karin asked.

“He was hit in the thigh, but I don’t think he’s going to die.”

“He could if he gets an infection. Or at the minimum, lose his leg. I’d better go take a look.”

“Why?” John asked. “Half an hour ago the son of a bitch was trying to kill us.”

“He’s probably a soldier, John, just like us,” Karin said. “If the situation was normal, you would pass him in the PX and never blink an eye.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” John said.

“I’d better go with you,” Deon said.

“Wait until I get my kit.”

The wounded scavenger looked to be in his late twenties. He was wearing BDUs, but there was no rank visible. He was sitting up, holding a belt tourniquet around his leg.

“No,” Karin said. “You don’t want to use a tourniquet unless you are unable to stop the bleeding by direct pressure. Otherwise you could get tissue damage. Let me take a look.”

“You a doctor?”

“What difference does it make to you who she is?” Deon asked. “Half an hour ago you were trying to kill her. Now she’s here to help you, though why she is willing to do that beats the hell out of me.”