Fortunately, they had taken the radio equipment set up by ham radio operators from equipment that had survived the Day and moved it to a secondary headquarters, which would now operate out of the basement of Gaither Hall until this crisis was resolved. Basing on the campus was inconvenient for many, but it had the tactical advantage of being in a narrow cove, with plenty of tree canopy for concealment.
John had left his far-too-easily identifiable Edsel in the garage of the house, and there it would stay henceforth, and he stood outside the hardware store waiting for a lift from one of Bartlett’s recycled Volkswagen vans, which had become something of the community’s bus service. Bartlett, being Bartlett, did feel it to be a bit weird that the vans were adorned with 1960s-style peace signs. It was all just too ironic at times.
John stepped back into the hardware store where he felt it was safe to turn on a flashlight and read the note sent from Fredericks.
John,
The decision by you and by those who follow you to refuse the legal order to report for service with the ANR has now placed you—and all those who harbor you—firmly outside the law. I truly regret this. I thought we could work together for the common good of all. The fact that you are reading this note means that you and your followers have gone into hiding. There is no place to hide, and you know that. The deadline to report for mobilization has been moved up to noon today. If you are willing to comply as ordered, I am certain we can still work this out in a fair and equitable manner with all charges against you dropped. I know you are reading this within minutes of the departure of the troops. Since your phone service has been interrupted, raise a white flag at your boundary position at Exit 59 and remove all obstacles at that position at the same time, providing open access for the renewal of all traffic both ways will indicate your intent to end this crisis peacefully. This must be done immediately after dawn.
Don’t make any mistakes here. You are a military man who understands the chain of command and how each of us is a cog in the administrative system of state. It is time to do your part as expected.
He crumpled the note up and was about to toss it. There were a few things in his life that were hot buttons, and to be called a cog was one of them. It had been shouted at him repeatedly by an overly eager DI when going through boot camp, the sergeant taking delight in being able to harass ROTC trainees whom, months later, he’d have to salute for the rest of his life. It was a term constantly used by an officious XO of his division while stationed in Germany in the waning days of the Cold War. It was a term that was lifeless, stating they were all just simply part of some massive, Moloch-like machinery—the state, the company, the organization grinding relentlessly onward, and one either became a cog in that machine or was ground under it.
John stuffed the letter into his pocket and looked at Maury and Kevin. “Full mobilization. Our landline communications are down, but we’ve lived with that before and must again for now. We’ve never drilled properly for it before, but we have discussed what to do if facing an attack from the air. I’m expecting a full-out air-and-ground assault this morning.”
He handed the note to his two friends to read.
“Son of a bitch, calling us cogs. I hate that,” Maury replied.
“I want the entire downtown area evacuated immediately; get that siren going. Noncombatants are to be moved to designated shelters as planned and troops deployed in anticipation of an attack, as well.”
In the months after the Posse attack, John had spent many a night developing contingency plans for a variety of scenarios, from the annoying border raids—which, at times, could turn deadly as several had with the reivers—up to taking shelter if a full-scale thermonuclear war was unleashed. They had given some thought to an aggressor who had managed to snatch a couple of aircraft or choppers. If the Posse had come at them armed with but one Apache, fully loaded, and done a proper air recon first of his deployment, it would have gone very badly for the town.
Never, though, had they thought along this line that they just might be facing not raiders or some gang but their own government, which he prayed was only one rogue administrator with a power complex.
The next eight hours would tell if this was a bluff or not.
Maury and Kevin both saluted and turned to run off, John instinctively returning the salute. Like it or not, formally accept it or not, he was again in command.
His retirement of little more than a day was over, and though in so many ways he hated it, there was, deep down, a certain thrill to it all, as well. He felt in control of his fate again. He absently rubbed his jaw. The tooth still hurt, but there was no time to worry about that now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Rook One to King Three, two Indians and two raptors are up and coming your way.”
John clicked his mike twice to acknowledge receipt of the message and did not reply. Fredericks said they didn’t have cockpit cameras, but they obviously did have night vision and undoubtedly radio-tracking gear, as well. Rook One was his new watch station based up along the parkway looking directly down on Asheville, a position the reivers had created over a year earlier, manned now by three watchers from those former enemies, concealed in a bunker that one could pass within five feet of and still miss.
“Sound the siren again!” John shouted, retreating back to his watch position above the hardware store across from the town square. Everyone in the council, now hunkered down in Gaither Hall, had argued he should be up there, but he felt compelled to witness what was about to happen, praying that Fredericks was just going to make a demonstration of force and nothing more. Surely he did not want a full-scale fight and that this was a bluff to overawe. If Fredericks put some troops on the ground from the Black Hawks and made no further moves other than have the Apaches circle for a while, then even at this late date, some kind of common sense would prevail.
“I think I hear them,” Maury announced, leaning out the second-floor window above the hardware store.
“They can haul ass,” John replied, looking off vacantly. “You’ve gone in aboard them, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. Even though it scares the crap out of you, it’s a rush every time.”
“It’s why kids are willing to get shot at; everything tied into getting shot at is such a rush, and they figure it won’t be them that get it. I pray to God this is a bluff.”
He could hear them now, as well, coming in fast, the thump of the approaching rotors echoing off the empty streets… louder and louder… and then a flash of light raced past the window.
“Jesus!” John barely had time to cry before the first salvo of rockets slammed into the town hall and fire station. There was a sound like tearing cloth, a rippling chaos of noise, another flash of light, and two more explosions tearing into the town hall complex, the concussion from the blasts shattering the windowpanes over John’s head, showering the room with glass. The first Apache zoomed straight overhead so that John instinctively ducked as it roared over the town square, dodging into a hard bank to the right to avoid the billowing clouds of smoke. There was more gunfire and two more rocket impacts into what was left of the complex, the second helicopter peeling to the right, the two weaving, gaining altitude.
In response, there was a scatter of shots from the ground, nearly anything fired from the ground ineffective, even if it hit. The troops were breaking fire discipline, but it was understandable in their rage at such wanton aggression. These were not the vulnerable Hueys of Vietnam; the Apaches were ground-attack helicopters, the best that John’s nation could produce before the war, designed to take nearly any small-arms fire from the ground and just keep on flying.