The truck came to a stop and all four got out. A narrow path that cut through the brush led to a fortified firing position. Draped around it was camo netting and additional branches and leaves. From Oneida, even a pair of high-powered binoculars would only see a row of shrubs.
A Patriot sat on a chair with a cigarette between his lips, peering through the scope of a Remington 700.
“This is Reese,” Marshall said. “Spent eight years with the French Foreign Legion.”
Reese glanced over and nodded.
“I’ve heard more than a few stories about the FFL. What was that like?” John asked.
“Hell,” Reese replied, pulling on his Marlboro. “We were the ultimate group of expendables. Doesn’t help that those Frog COs are a sadistic bunch.”
Marshall stood over him, surveying the view. “From here to the center of town’s about half a mile,” the commander told him. “If the wind conditions are right, someone with a steady hand could really do some damage down there.”
The faint glimmers of that monotone voice drifted up at them from below. John stopped, trying to make it out.
“That’s the public service announcement,” Moss spat. “‘Please be advised. We are in a state of martial law. By provision C19 of the local charter, the ownership or transport of firearms within the city limits of Oneida is strictly forbidden. An evening curfew of seven pm is mandatory for all residents. Failure to comply with regulations will result in switch punishment.’”
“Sounds like something out of 1984,” John whispered.
“What happened in 1984?” Moss asked.
Sometimes John forgot not everyone was his age. “A book by George Orwell, where he envisioned a world that looks and sounds very much like Oneida.”
Almost on queue, a group of armed men on horses rode through the middle of town. Even with the naked eye it was easy to see the defensive points they’d set up. The flat rooftops of buildings were reinforced with sandbags. There wasn’t a ring of them as much as they were spread all around.
“Defense in depth,” John said. After a quick glance, he saw the others weren’t catching on to what he was saying. “The Russians perfected the strategy during the Second World War. It was meant to wear down an attacker and cause mass casualties rather than stopping him at the gates, so to speak.”
The set of train tracks that ran through town led to a yard about half a mile away. Its location would eventually make Oneida an important supply junction for getting the country back on its feet—once the trains got moving again, that was.
“Over there,” Marshall said pointing to a row of white eighteen-wheelers approaching the city from the north. There were maybe three of them. John peered through the binoculars, noticing the black UN decal on the front and sides.
“At least one town’s getting resupplied,” he said.
“That’s the confusing part,” Moss told him. “We’ve managed to use the radio to make contact with a handful of neighboring towns, some twice as big as Oneida, and none of them have received any aid yet.”
“There’s FEMA and the UN for you,” Sullivan said.
“Maybe,” Marshall responded, “but we know this isn’t FEMA and I’m not sure it’s the UN either. And one of our contacts tells us some of these shipments may contain more than just bread, purified water and medical supplies.”
“Weapons?” John asked, remembering the men he’d seen at the checkpoint outside Oneida.
Marshall nodded. “For the last few weeks we’ve been gathering intel and drawing up a battle plan to assault the town. This morning, Rodriguez received a report over the radio from our contact in Jefferson City, Missouri. Says there’s a convoy moving east along Interstate 64, headed for Oneida. A large one. And at least one of those trucks is rumored to be filled with all the firepower we’ve been waiting for.”
Chapter 17
After arriving back at camp, the men assembled in the command tent. Rodriguez was by the radio, waiting for them.
“The ETA on that large convoy is five hours and counting,” Rodriguez told them as they entered. “My contact tells me ten trucks in all.”
“We saw a handful roll into Oneida earlier today,” John said, “but they looked like rigs to me. Will this batch will be military vehicles?”
“Negative,” Rodriguez replied, tapping the pencil against his knee. “According to our man in Jefferson City, they should be the same UN type that’s been rolling in these last few days.”
Marshall drew in a deep breath, which pushed his belly out another few inches. “What do you make of that?” he asked Moss. In spite of Moss’ mohawk and quick wit, it seemed as though Marshall valued the younger man’s counsel.
“We’ve put enough money into the UN over the years,” Moss said. “It’s about time we got something out of it.”
Marshall was smiling as John turned to Rodriguez and asked: “Did your contact in Jefferson City say whether the convoy had an armed escort?”
Rodriguez shook his head. “He didn’t mention any escort. I’d get on and ask him again, but we only communicate once a day. Even with all our precautions, we can’t risk the wrong people zeroing in on our signal.”
“Best to assume an armed escort is shadowing them then,” John offered. A map of the area was on the table and he tapped a finger on a spot north of Oneida. “If you want my two cents, I suggest we create a roadblock here, just inside Daniel Boone National Forest along route 27. Lay down some spike strips in case they try and break through.”
“Attack the convoy before they reach the town,” Marshall said, scratching his bearded chin. “Good idea. How many men do you think it’ll take?”
John looked up with cold determination. “At least twenty, maybe thirty to be safe. We’ll need to strike with overwhelming force, while also keeping enough people to drive all the vehicles back to base. Just keep in mind, there may be casualties if they put up a fight.”
“I think twenty’ll be more than enough,” Moss countered. “And besides, what’s all this ‘we’ talk? You’re the new kid on the block and now you’re telling us when and how to attack. Last I remember, Sullivan and I were saving your hide from becoming target practice for the Chairman’s men.”
“I’m not here to tell you folks how to run your business,” John said. “But every indication we have is that our loved ones are being held in Oneida. And only God knows what horrors they’re enduring. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I intend to do whatever it takes to get them back.”
“We’re all on the same side here, John,” Marshall said, weighing in, “even if it sounds like some of us aren’t. Every soldier we lose on a mission is someone’s father, someone’s husband. We all want what you want. We don’t mind you coming along and helping out, but what Moss here’s trying to make sure of is that you remember who’s in charge.”
There was a tense moment of silence as John let Marshall’s words settle in. You didn’t make it in the military if someone in your face got you all riled up. He also understood their point. John was in a focused state and sometimes men took that to mean he thought of himself as their boss. But nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing would make John happier than if none of this had happened: the EMP, the battle with Cain and now the loss of the ones he loved most. The thought of breaking off and going it alone wouldn’t get him very far. His ill-fated attempt to infiltrate the town had brought that home loud and clear.
Through the small group of men assembled around him, John saw Brandon and Gary standing anxiously by the truck. Gary was biting his nails and Brandon had his arms crossed, his hands buried up into his armpits. Splintering from the Patriots now would only set them further back from their goal.