“Why did they deploy troops up there?” Maury asked.
He had not really thought about that up to this moment. Did Fredericks known more than he’d let on about what had happened between John and Burnett and for the time being was cutting communications between the two? Was there a plot within a plot on this one?
“I have no idea,” John replied. “Perhaps they saw some of the reivers posted up there and went for it.” He looked around at the group, which remained silent for several minutes.
Finally, it was Maury who spoke up. “Let’s just keep it in here for now. There are a lot of conflicting issues to think about with this. Folks are still not settled on the draft, John, though most assume you are taking the commission to help out at least half the families, and there is a lot of gratitude for that. Regarding the reivers, everyone knows about what happened, and everyone is assuming a vengeance raid is coming. What is your suggestion?”
“For right now, we put all our reaction squads on full standby and move one up to near the reservoir to help keep an eye on the Stepps and their property. Other two squads here. Rest of our formations at the college, here in town, and in Swannanoa on notice for immediate mobilization. If I was Burnett, saw our plane, saw the troops up now at Craggy, I’d assume that we had shafted them over and it’s time for payback. I just pray that he sees our signal and asks for a parley first.” He looked around the room, and there were nods of agreement. “Okay, let’s get moving on this. I’m heading down to the old Ford agency. You can call me at the hangar, which is just a few yards away.”
He went out to the Edsel, Makala insisting that she drive, and once the doors were closed, the tension that had been between them since the dinner meeting with Fredericks let go. John sat silently as she roundly cursed Fredericks, John’s decision to accept a commission, his foolishness for going into a combat area in a plane not yet fully tested out, and finally back to the point that it seemed like he was going through with the commission. There were less-than-veiled implications that she thought that the concussion really had addled his thinking.
They were parked by the flagpole for a good half hour before she was finished with the chewing out. He had learned that at such moments, silence was best until she was finished.
He didn’t get time to reply, as Billy came running down from the hangar shouting there was a call from the town hall. John actually felt relief that he was getting out of the Edsel, and then he followed Billy up to the hangar and came back less than a minute later.
“Makala, would you mind driving me up to the reservoir?”
“What?”
“There’s two men there, sent by the reivers. Forrest Burnett survived the attack and wants to meet.”
“And you are crazy enough to go personally up to meet him?”
He leaned across the seat and kissed her on the cheek, a gesture that she did not respond to. “Am I supposed to send someone else in my place?”
She gave him a sidelong glance and then continued to stare straight ahead even as she started the car. “They damn near busted your skull, you still have a concussion, and you almost got shot by them this morning and nearly shot again by those stupid pilots. How in the hell do you think I’m supposed to react, John Matherson?”
He forced a smile. “Just saying you love me would be sufficient for now. We can argue about the rest later.”
“You can be a manipulative bastard at times,” she snapped. With tires squealing, she turned on to State Street, heading west, and a moment later, her hand slipped into his.
John stopped at the border watch station, which was positioned at the face of the reservoir dam. The two young guards gestured up the path.
“They came out about thirty minutes ago from right there. One had a white flag; the other handed me this, sir.”
The young man, just a few years earlier a freshman in one of John’s history classes, handed him the message streamer he had tossed out of the plane. Just below his scribbled message was a one-line reply: “Meet today, now. Otherwise, all bets are off. Forrest.”
“Anything else?”
“They backed off. I tell you, sir, I feel like I’m in a crosshairs if I stick my head back up, and so are you.”
John was glad he had convinced Makala to wait back with the car and had told the reaction forces to stay there, as well.
“You did good, son.” John took the streamer, waved it above the top of the sandbagged watch station, and then just stood up.
“Sir? They can drop you. I swear they’ve got us scoped in.”
John tried to smile, stepped out the back of the bunker, remaining upright, and started to walk up along the west shore of the lake along the old maintenance road. Barely out of sight of the bunker, he heard a rustling, and two young men—lean, tough looking, one cradling an M4, the other a deer rifle with a high-powered scope—came out from hiding and wordlessly pointed for him to continue up the road. They walked thus for a half a mile or so, passing the north shore of the lake, the road turning, getting steeper.
“If you guys are proposing I walk all the way back to your territory, I hate to say it, but it’s not going to work. My head is killing me, and I just don’t have the wind I once had.”
They didn’t speak, just gesturing for him to continue on.
Have I just made myself a prisoner again? he wondered. For that matter, the two could have been a couple of survivors who had gone rogue and decided to kill for vengeance, and he had just walked into their trap. Burnett had most likely been killed in the raid, anyhow. If so, he truly felt a fool. Makala was right; of late, he was taking too many risks, and he wondered why he had lost an earlier sense of instinctive caution.
And then he reached a bend in the trail and stopped dead.
It was a caravan of half a dozen four-wheel-drive vehicles, all of them painted in camo pattern. How they had managed to negotiate the long-neglected fire road was beyond him. As he approached the lead vehicle, he saw Forrest sitting in the front seat, face ghostly white.
“Forrest?”
“Yeah, Matherson. I don’t have time to bullshit around. I need a favor, a big favor.”
“What is it?”
“Take a look in the beds of these trucks.”
John nodded and realized he didn’t need to look; he could hear them—children crying, the moaning of people in pain, the all-so-familiar sounds of this world they lived in.
John looked into the bed of the truck that Burnett was in. Half a dozen kids were crammed into it, all of them wrapped with bloody bandages. Several were sobbing, looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes. A boy of about twelve or so, yet another victim of war, just gazed at John. He was cradling a toddler, and the way the little girl hung limp in his arms, John could see that the child was dead. Blood was dripping off the open tailgate of the truck.
John did not even bother to go look at the other trucks. He pulled open the passenger door.
“Move over, Forrest.”
“Yeah, but give me a second. I got one in the gut this time, damn it.”
John grabbed hold of him and saw the bloody bandage—thank God on his left side; at least his liver was intact—and helped him ease over. He looked at the driver, who was gazing at him coldly.