The firing had all but ceased, and John finally stuck his head above the berm and cautiously stood up. He could see his people inside the perimeter, weapons held to shoulders, shouting for the security force to get down on their knees, hands over their heads. Several were up alongside the fourth chopper, weapons aimed at the cockpit, the pilot and copilot coming out with hands raised over their heads.
A burst of explosions erupted, and all ducked, ammunition aboard the first Apache cooking off, and all stayed low for a minute. Finally, they were back up, and John trotted across the road and through a gap in the wire that someone had cut open. The cry was up for medics, wounded being carried out to the side of the road.
John turned to his radio operator, motioning for the mike. “Position secured. Bring up the ambulances. I want our wounded out of here now!”
He handed the clumsy mike back to the ham operator. Malady was shouting orders, calling for all prisoners to be herded to the north side of the compound, wounded from both sides to be carried out to the road for the ambulances, which were mostly pickup trucks, now coming out from the reserve position they had taken back on Highway 70.
A scuffle broke out with the prisoners. John turned and saw two of them being dragged out of the lineup, one of his men—a former student—kicking a prisoner in the groin and then straddling his writhing body and pulling out a pistol.
“You there!” John cried. “Stop!”
The former student ignored him, shouting curses at the prostrate man at his feet, holding his pistol up and then lowering it to aim at the man’s stomach.
“Stop him!” John shouted, and several now rushed in, pulling the young shooter’s arm up. The gun went off once, and the prisoner on the ground began screaming. The more than fifty who had been taken prisoner recoiled back, several of them trying to break free but quickly stopped at gunpoint or clubbed down.
John strode up to the shooter, whom Kevin had personally disarmed. John slapped the young man hard across the face. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“He’s the pilot of one of those damn Apaches. They killed my wife, and damn him to hell, he is going to pay now!”
“I was following orders!” the prisoner gasped, curled up in a ball, his scorched face contorted in agony. “I was following orders.”
John looked down at him with contempt, half tempted to kick him, as well, so sudden was the rage he felt at what this man had done and the words he chose to defend his actions.
John turned away before he lost control.
“All prisoners to be checked for weapons, hands secured behind their backs.” He paused for a brief instant as if to indicate that he was debating a decision, knowing that cruelty should be beyond him. “My people will escort you down the road to the pickup point for transport back to safety. As long as you cooperate, no one will be harmed. Do all of you hear that?”
There were cries of relief, several actually going down on their knees, sobbing with relief, so intense had been their terror. As he gazed at them, he could sense that these troops were barely above the rank of amateurs.
“Are you ANR?” he asked, focusing on a girl who looked to be in her midtwenties with bright twin bars on her shoulders. He motioned for her to come over and pointed at her shoulder bars. “Incredibly stupid to be wearing something like that, especially at night.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I’m not talking to the lamppost behind you.”
“Yes, sir, Army of National Recovery.”
“How long have you been in?”
“Six months.”
“Merciful God,” John whispered, turning his back on her for a moment. Her words had at least deflated a bit of the battle rage with his troops of a few minutes earlier.
He turned to look back at her. The young woman’s dark features were drenched with sweat, and she was actually trembling with fear, almond-colored eyes wide, gazing at him with obvious fear. He stepped forward and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and could feel her shaking. “The fighting is over, Captain. No one is going to hurt you. Are you hearing me clearly?”
She stifled a sob and nodded.
“I want you to help me with your people to make sure there are no mistakes now. Will you work with me on that?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, her voice trembling.
“Where are you from?”
“Plainsboro, New Jersey,” she replied, her Jersey accent obvious.
“I grew up near there,” he replied as an offer of reassurance. “Now tell me why are you here?”
“I was drafted, along with most of the others here. I got to be captain because I had a college degree.”
“In what?”
“Business leadership.”
“Oh, just great.” John sighed. “All right, Captain, what’s your name?”
“Deirdre Johnson.”
“Listen to me, Deirdre Johnson. We don’t abuse or execute prisoners here, and I want you to work with me to keep your people in check as we get them the hell out of here. Can you do that?”
She took his words in wide eyed, and her shoulders began to shake again.
“Why are you crying?”
“We were told that you rednecks—” She paused. “Sorry, sir. We were told you people execute prisoners.” She paused. “That African Americans would be lynched and women raped, so I’m down on two counts.”
He stepped closer, shaking his head. “How they turn us against each other,” he said sadly. “Look at me. Do I look like a racist and rapist to you? How many women do you see in my ranks? How many of African descent? Tell me!” His voice rose in anger so that she recoiled and then lowered her head.
“You really promise none of us will be hurt or killed?”
“I was a colonel in the United States Army, and on my word of honor, I promise you that as long as you listen to my people and do not try to escape, you will be taken back to Black Mountain and there held until I figure out what to do with you—most likely paroled after this is over.” He looked past her to the others. “Did you all hear me clearly?”
There were nods of thanks and several replies of “Yes, sir,” more than a few openly crying.
“Are you the superior officer here?”
She looked around at the group and then shook her head and nodded to the pilot still writhing on the ground. “Major Cullman there. He was in overall command here for the airbase. The helicopters crews and maintenance teams were National Guard units, the rest of us ANR.”
John stepped away from her and knelt down by Cullman’s side, roughly grabbed him by the hair, and pulled his head up. The man’s face was scorched, the scent of burned hair and flesh wafting around him.
“You hear me, Major?”
There was a barely audible reply.
“Are you army? I sure as hell can’t see you flying the way you did with six months’ training.”
“Yes. Six years.”
John leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper. “Personally, I would like to shoot you myself for what you did to us and the reivers. You broke the code, Major, and I detest you for it. But I won’t shoot you, nor will you face trial, because—let me guess—you were only following orders.”
Cullman gazed up at him, eyes wide with terror, unable to reply.
John looked over at Grace. “Make this bastard walk, no matter how badly he hurts. Lock him up in some basement along with his gunner and the other pilots and ground crews if you can find them still alive. Regular army we hold for negotiated exchange after all this is over. Now get him out of here before I change my mind.”
The sad procession started to shuffle toward the gate that the truck had burst open, while out in the street, the first of the pickups converted into ambulances had pulled up to haul away the wounded.