Standing in the Storm (The Last Brigade Book 2) Read online

  Most of the snipers were on his left, except for Lara Snowtiger, the only female sniper in the brigade. Nobody knew much about her, except she was Native American. Some said she’d been the best shot in the Corps before she went cold. All Sully cared about was that she’d scored second best of all the snipers, missing top score by a single point.

  “Tell me what you see,” he said to Sergeant Lorenzo Piccaldi, the sniper who lay in the dirt to his left.

  Although the distance was only a few hundred yards, Piccaldi’s M40A7 rifle had an advanced combat gunsight he’d bought himself. The scope was so powerful, Piccaldi could have read a newspaper at three hundred yards. Snowtiger used the standard issue scout sniper scope. It was a top-notch scope in its own right, but she shot better using an advanced combat scope. She’d blamed the difference in scopes for why she had come in second to Piccaldi in the shootout.

  “I’ve got four horse-drawn vehicles, Loot. They look like pickup trucks, with improvised canopies and horses pulling them. Canopies appear to be cloth with a metal frame. Nine unknown subjects, two men, three women, four children. I’ve got a donkey or mule, some chickens, goats tied to the back, and a scrawny cow. No weapons I can see.”

  Sully had always been a stickler for military decorum and he hated the nickname loot. But Dog Company was new to him, and he to them. Most of them didn’t know the name of the Marine beside them. The first time it had happened, he’d let it slide in the interest of morale. After a few days, he’d realized it was a term of endearment. They liked him as their commander, and they respected him. So while he still didn’t like loot, it wasn’t a battle worth fighting.

  “Any pucker factor, Piccaldi?” he said.

  “Nothin’, Loot. Lame and tame, but the cow looks suicidal.”

  “Probably gets milked ten times a day,” Company Sergeant Meyers said.

  Piccaldi kept his sight focused on the little band below. “I’d let a chick milk me ten times a day,” he said.

  Sully looked back through his binoculars, ignoring the remark, but Snowtiger spoke up. “You’d have better luck with the cow,” she said, her eye never leaving her scope.

  “After fifty years, the cow’s looking pretty good.”

  In a post-Collapse world where fuel was more precious than blood, functioning automobiles were a rare sight. Most cars and trucks of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries had on-board computers. The nuclear and EMP attacks America had endured during the Collapse had destroyed many of those. But the most damaging factor was age. Modern vehicles had lifespans measured in years, not decades. Hoses, belts, and tires dry-rotted, metal rusted, and gears wore out. And with no replacement parts any more, a simple problem could render any car or truck useless. Essential fluids such as brake, transmission, and oil sparked many fights. Wagons and draft animals became prized possessions to the surviving remnants of society.

  The small group in the bowl comprised four small pickup trucks, three Toyotas and a Ford. Stripping out engines and extraneous parts saved weight. Sheets of corrugated metal covered the beds, reinforced with wood, over which a webbing of metal rods formed a frame. Various bits of cloth stretched over these provided relief from the sun. A team of horses dragged each wagon through the soft soil, staggering in the relentless heat. Women and children sat in the cabs of each truck, while the men walked alongside, one in front and one in back. The last truck sagged under chicken cages and wooden boxes.

  “Radio,” Sully said, extending his hand backward.

  Meyer took the radio from his vest and slapped it into the lieutenant’s hand, like a surgical technician passing a scalpel. The radio check earlier had been perfect, but they had only been two clicks from base then. Now they were eighty clicks out.

  “Overtime Prime, this is Kicker Real. Do you light me?”

  The response was immediate. “Kicker Real, this is Overtime Prime. Go ahead.”

  “Prime, we’re at five three degrees, distance zero eight,” Sully said. He used the simple radio code that transposed numbers from their true order and reversed directions. In fact they were at two-three-three degrees from the base, the exact opposite of fifty-three degrees. “We have eyes on what looks like refugees. Four horse-drawn vehicles, livestock, nine citizens in sight. No weapons visible. Am planning…” He stopped as a PFC ran his way in a crouch, waving. “Prime, please stand by.”

  “Lieutenant,” the PFC said. Sully remembered his name was Stazinsky. “We’ve got more company comin’ up fast. Two Humvees and a Bradley, sir.”

  “Where?” Sully said. Sighting through his binoculars, he aimed them where Stazinsky pointed. “Where did they come from?”

  He watched the three vehicles kick up a tower of dust as they sped over the desert, and keyed the radio mike again. “Overtime Prime, be advised, we have U.S. military vehicles on scene and closing on refugees. Two Humvees and one Bradley. Urgent you advise if friendlies are in our sector. I repeat, are these ours?”

  1339 hours

  Nick Angriff could not help gaping. He stood on a mid-level catwalk circling a chamber so vast he could not see the far end. From far over his head to hundreds of feet below, level upon level of long troughs were filled with nutrient-enriched water and growing plants. A combination of artificial lighting and natural sunlight lit the chamber via an intricate system of shafts and mirrors. Each level of hydroponic tanks was accessible by the ubiquitous metal walkways. As he stood on the narrow platform, Angriff could feel the warmth of the lights. Under his coat, sweat soaked his undershirt.

  “Our first crop is probably five weeks away,” Dr. Sharon Goldstone said. “We’re really hoping to have some fresh tomatoes by then. But in the short term, everything seems to be going more smoothly than we could have imagined. We’ve already been able to start planning outside crops, and planting for spring could begin within a few months. That will be an exciting day.”

  “Dr. Goldstone, I am almost speechless,” Angriff said. “And those who know me would tell you that’s rare. This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. You’re going to be able to feed us all fresh produce? On a regular basis?”

  She laughed, and Angriff noted how young she sounded, despite being close to his age. “Oh, yes, General Angriff. We will supply this base with more green vegetables than most of these young people have seen outside of their nightmares. Potatoes, corn, and grains do better in soil, so those will come later. We even have plans to grow barley and hops.”

  Angriff leaned on the railing and smiled, trying not to be too obvious about staring at her. “So tell me about yourself, Doctor. I—”

  “Pardon me, sir?” Walling said.

  “What is it?” Angriff said, annoyed.

  “Sir, you wanted to be informed if a lurp encountered hostiles or IPs,” he said, holding out a pair of headphones for Angriff to take.

  “Who found something? Details, man!”

  “Kicker, sir. The Marines came across a small group of refugees with some sort of wagons. They were about to investigate when three vehicles came on the scene… United States military vehicles.”

  “How is that possible? Who else do we have out there?”

  “Nobody should be within four hundred clicks of their position.”

  Angriff took the headphones and listened for a few seconds. “Nobody’s on the horn.”

  “Kicker was going to investigate, sir. They’re probably off the air.”

  “Let’s get to the Castle A-sap,” Angriff said. He turned to Dr. Goldstone and shook her hand. “I’m sorry, Doctor. We’ll have to finish this another time.”

  Chapter 6

  My wanderings you have noted;

  are my tears not stored in your flask,

  recorded in your book?

  Psalms 56:9

  1350 hours, June 30

  Slick Busson stood on the passenger seat of the lead Humvee, reveling as wind blew through his hair. It also cooled his sticky skin, one of the few pleasures of life in the desert. The yellow tint of
his scratched goggles made the glare worse, but they kept dirt out of his eyes and that was the most important thing. The elbows and knees of his uniform had worn through, and the sergeant’s insignia on his sleeves were more of a faded outline than an image.

  Riding in a Humvee over open terrain was bumpy in the extreme. After so many years, Busson was like a sailor in a rough sea, so used to the jolts that he compensated without noticing them. Any discomfort was more than offset by the rugged machine’s ability to scoot through the desert. In particular he loved hunting down refugees who wandered the wastelands in search of a mythical safe haven. That was likely the story with the small group ahead. Resistance was not a worry. His men had plenty of firepower, including the 30mm chain gun on the Bradley, although it was short of ammo. But all six carried M16s.

  Busson was pretty sure he knew these people. Reports said a family lived in the foothills near Apache Junction — a mother and father, one married son, his wife and their three children, and a widowed daughter with one or two children of her own. He and his men had searched for months but hadn’t found them until two days ago, when they’d happened upon a homestead hidden in the fold of a mountain. But the people were gone. Busson knew they could not have gotten far and the deep tracks left in the soft ground had made following them easy.

  The family had been raising chickens, goats, horses, and maybe even cattle. The animals were also gone by the time Busson found the homestead, which meant the family had taken them. The chickens would be a nice dinner for his men. The only fresh meat they ever ate was what they killed, and chicken was a delicacy. The goats he might or might not keep for their milk, but the horses he would take back with him. The General could barter them for a lot of fuel, and he could barter the General’s gratitude for a promotion. And if there were young girls in the family, as he suspected, he could name his price and the General would pay it. Even mature women brought high prices.

  Within fifteen minutes of spotting them, they caught and surrounded the little wagon train. Busson’s Humvee stopped beside the lead truck. A wiry man with gray hair and beard watched him with obvious hate. Busson strutted toward the weathered man with the arrogance of a triumphant Roman general. His M16 never pointed straight at the old man, but never pointed away, either. He circled the man twice, like a slaver judging his newest merchandise. For his part the man stood still, careful not to make a threatening move. He was well aware of the weapons pointed at his family.

  Leaving the father, Busson moved down the line of trucks. He considered them already his and inspected his newest acquisitions. In the third one, he flipped back the curtain to reveal the grandmother huddled with three children under ten, two of them girls.

  “Now here’s something worth finding,” he said, smiling.

  “Come near these children and I’ll cut the blood outa you,” she said. She held a knife in both hands as her grandchildren tried to scoot behind her.

  Without blinking, he leveled his M16 and fired.

  The rifle shot echoed across the desert. Lieutenant Sully tried to see details, but the distance was too far.

  “Piccaldi?”

  “There’s a few tears in that canopy, Loot. I see some little kids and an old lady; looks like she’s trying to protect them. I can’t see if anybody got hit. What do I do, Lieutenant?”

  “Those look like our guys, Loot,” Meyer said. “They’re in Army drag, driving Army slag. For all we know, they’re more leftovers and those are legitimate jimbangs they’re hassling.”

  Sully slid down the hill and called the platoon together, leaving the snipers focused on their targets.

  “I’m going down there to unfuck whatever this is. I’ll leave my radio mike open. If I say dragon, snipers open fire and take out everybody except that sergeant. Start with the guy on the chain gun. Clear?”

  “Clear, sir!”

  “Get that thumper—” mortar “—up here, but don’t fire without my order. Get the rest of the company back here pronto. Everybody thumbs-up? Good, let’s go. Meyer, you drive.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Now move it.”

  The grandmother trembled in shock. The bullet had struck her upper left arm and blood streamed from the wound. Even injured, she held her spot in front of the children, knife still raised.

  “Big man needs a gun against an old woman,” she said, grimacing.

  Busson laughed. “You can’t shame me, you old hag. I’d as soon put a bullet between your eyes. But I’ll bet you’re a damned good cook, and if you’re dead I can’t sell you.”

  She did not reply. The pain in her arm made it hard to concentrate, but her grandchildren pushed even closer against her.

  Busson kept the M16 aimed at her chest with his right hand and gripped the canopy frame with his left. He intended to climb in and drag out the children, but a cry from behind stopped him.

  The chain gunner, a man named Wolfeater, pointed up the hill to the west. Busson blocked the sun with his left hand and saw another Humvee headed towards them.

  “Who the fuck is that?” he said. “Everybody out, form a line. Wolfeater, that Humvee looks brand new, so don’t you shoot it to shit, you got me? You only shoot if they shoot first.”

  He forgot the refugee family. With his men spread out on either side, Busson propped the butt of his rifle on his right hip and waited. He motioned the driver of the Bradley to get out and watch the family. Satisfied, Busson aimed his M16 at the newcomer.

  The Humvee bore a two-tone camouflage pattern of desert tan and canvas. It was spotless. Busson could not even see chipped paint. His own Humvees had worn to bare metal. Grime turned them a dirty gray-brown color, streaked with stains.

  The intruder coasted to a stop about twenty feet from him. There were only two men in the vehicle, which seemed suspicious. Busson followed the Humvee’s tracks and scanned the crest of the hill, but saw nothing in the midday glare. As a thin man in a new uniform emerged from the passenger seat, Busson realized they might be the same size.

  “Is it Christmas?” he said, grinning at the idea of new clothes.

  Meyer kept his hands on the steering wheel, as instructed. With three M16s and the chain gun pointed at him, it was all he could do not to run for it. Sully had ordered him not to do anything aggressive and he was happy to oblige. The whole thing was nuts anyway. If these were Army guys, or even if they were not, why not signal them from a safe distance? Their platoon had four LAV-25s and the mortars, so firepower was not an issue. But Sully was platoon commander and he wanted this recon done face to face.

  As Sully walked around the front of his Humvee, two rifles followed him. He stepped in front of Busson and stopped. “What’s your name, Sergeant?”

  Busson almost giggled; was this some sort of joke? “You can call me Slick, Lieutenant. As in slicker than goose shit.” He could not stop grinning, and his men started laughing. None of them recognized the small radio clipped to Sully’s belt.

  “Is that right?” Sully said. Starting at his boots, he inspected Busson as he would his own men on parade. “Well, Slicker Than Goose Shit, my name is Lieutenant Sully, USMC. If you really are a sergeant in the United States Army, then I order you to come to attention right now!” He said this as only a pissed-off Marine could say it.

  Chuckling, Busson raised his rifle barrel and aimed at Sully’s chest.

  “The United States Army? Lieutenant, I don’t know where the fuck you came from, but there ain’t been a United States anything for a long time, and there sure as hell ain’t no army! Now here’s what we’re gonna do—”

  Sully interrupted him. “Are you telling me that you are not in the United States Army, Slick? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Busson did not like people cutting him off in mid-sentence, like he was nobody. His temper flared and he jabbed Sully with his rifle. “I was in the army, but that was a long time ago, when there was a United States to have an army to belong to. That ain’t been true for decades. Now I’m in the General’s ar
my. You got that, Lieutenant Marine? I take orders from General Patton and nobody else. Now here’s what’s gonna happen. You and that guy in the Humvee are gonna take off those uniforms, boots, belts, everything. And then you’re gonna give us that Humvee. And if you do all that without pissing me off more than you already have, then maybe I’ll let you walk back to wherever you came from.”

  “And if we don’t?” Sully said.

  “Lieutenant, you don’t look like a stupid man. You’ve got to know the only reason we ain’t shot you yet is ’cause we don’t wanna mess up them pretty uniforms you’re wearing. But we will if we have to.”

  “What about the civilians?”

  “Huh? Who gives a shit? They ain’t your concern. Now, are you gonna do as I told you, or get shot?”

  “You’re a tough guy with a gun in my chest.”

  Busson smiled, nodded, and raised his rifle to point skyward. “There’s two more aiming right at your head.”

  “I’m not worried about them,” Sully said.

  “Oh?” Busson said. “Why’s that?”

  “I have a dragon.”

  Snowtiger had a clean head shot on the chain gunner, while Piccaldi had the man to Sully’s left.

  “Alpha Mike Foxtrot,” he said, and squeezed the trigger at the exact same instant Snowtiger fired.

  The other three snipers were only fractions of a second behind. Piccaldi’s target staggered backward with a hole in his throat. Snowtiger’s round struck Wolfeater above the left eye, drilled through the skull, and exited the occipital bone below the lamboid suture in an explosion of blood and brain matter. He toppled to one side like a sack of flour. Less than a second later, all three remaining gunmen fell to the ground. Two required a second shot before they stopped twitching.