Ray nodded reluctantly.
“Then put them to good use. I know Diane won’t mind diverting the ones she has from farming for an emergency. Besides, the last thing we need is an epidemic breaking out in our midst when foreign armies are only a few hundred miles away.” He turned to Dr. Coffee. “So you’ve got the infected quarantined?”
“Those who’ve come forward with symptoms, yes. We’ve also set up special beds to deal with the effects. Cholera’s a messy disease, as you can imagine. But I’m afraid it’ll put a big dent in your work force if the problem isn’t addressed immediately.”
John nodded, noting the urgency in Dr. Coffee’s voice. Oneida was currently a town of over two thousand people living in conditions comparable to the American Civil War. It was hardly a shock that cramped living and working conditions, mixed with fatigue from eking out a subsistence style of living, would eventually take their toll on people’s health.
“What are you using to treat it?” John asked.
Dr. Coffee’s eyebrows rose. “Right now, an antibiotic called tetracycline. It seems to be doing the job. I expect to run out of it within the next forty-eight hours, after which I’ll move to three hundred milligrams of doxycycline. These people are losing fluids fast. If we don’t get some clean water moved up to the hospital, folks are gonna start dying.”
John was about to leave to issue orders when he remembered something Dr. Coffey had said at the beginning of their conversation. “You mentioned before that human waste might be leaking into the drinking water,” John said.
“I did.”
“But it sounded as though there could also be another reason for the outbreak.”
Dr. Coffey shifted, adjusted his lab coat, which was covered in patches of discolored fabric. “There might be, John, but the likelihood is so remote that I decided to bite my tongue.”
“Don’t hold anything back. The information could help save lives.”
Reluctantly, Dr. Coffey agreed. “Well, if sewage isn’t mixing with the water supply it does leave one other possibility.”
“Which is?” John asked impatiently.
“Sabotage.”
Chapter 30
Back at the front, Brandon and Dixon busied themselves loading 5.56 rounds into magazines. The Chinese had launched three successive waves of armor at the American position and each time they’d been beaten back thanks in large part to the defending artillery and Abrams tanks. The few who’d managed to run that gauntlet and survive were taken out by Javelin missiles or the last line of defense, the AT-4 shoulder-fired anti-tank missile. Though not nearly strong enough to defeat the frontal armor of a main battle tank, they were more than enough to knock the treads off or destroy a Chinese ZBD-08.
The ground on either side of the river was littered with burned-out vehicles and dead bodies. As for the Chinese paratroopers who had landed behind enemy lines, when the frontal assault failed, they had found themselves cut off and were quickly destroyed by Humvees mounted with .50 cals.
The skies were relatively quiet now. The anti-air defense, a combination of M1097 and M6 Linebackers along with the older, but still lethal M163, had done their part keeping bombs from dropping on their heads.
The all-clear hadn’t been given just yet, since it still wasn’t known whether there would be a fourth wave, nor how the other sectors had managed to hold up in the face of the stubborn Chinese assaults. All they could do now was reload and prepare for the worst.
Dixon wasn’t saying much as he snapped bullets into his polymer mag. The death toll was rising with every fresh attack and even Brandon knew this part of the line would need reinforcements before nightfall or the enemy would break through. But that wasn’t all that was bothering Dixon. He’d told Brandon he was worried about the lack of American armor. The last of the Abrams near the front had been destroyed during that last attack. Even the Bradley Fighting Vehicles, largely designed to provide infantry support, had been thrown in to fill the gaps and were quickly knocked out. That meant the only thing keeping the enemy armor at bay were the Javelins and AT-4s.
“One more push and we’ve had it,” Dixon murmured to himself. He glanced up at Brandon and threw him an extra mag. “I didn’t know someone your age could shoot like that.” He was referring to the way Brandon had taken out a squad of Chinese troops as they disembarked from their troop carriers on the near side of the river.
Brandon couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve had a fair amount of practice, I guess.”
Gregory came in then, lugging another ammo can, breathing heavily.
“Bring those to Keller’s M249,” Dixon told him.
Gregory did so and, when he returned, collapsed with exhaustion.
“You’ve done a great job,” Brandon commended him.
“He’s running out in the open to fetch our ammo,” Dixon added. “That ain’t no small thing.”
If Gregory liked the kind words, he wasn’t showing it.
A shout rang through the trench, only partly muted by the gaping hole in the roof where an enemy artillery shell had made a direct hit. “They’re building up.”
Brandon sprang to his feet and peered out across the river where a fresh formation of armor was amassing.
“Don’t these guys ever run out of tin cans?” Dixon said, swearing under his breath.
If they managed to hold off this attack it would be by the slimmest of margins.
“Here they come,” Keller shouted, pulling the bolt back on his M249.
The sound of chaos and explosions rang out from the rear. Dixon scanned the approaching armor, appearing mystified by what he was hearing.
“They haven’t fired yet,” he said. “Where’s that coming from?”
Over by the trench entrance, Gregory stood frozen. Brandon sprinted over to see what had stopped him in his tracks.
When he arrived, the sight he found was utterly terrifying. Dozens of Chinese Type 99s were roaring in from the rear. They had broken through somewhere further south and were now encircling America’s last line of defense.
When Dixon saw what was coming, he reached into his pocket and calmly pulled out a cigarette. “I’d offer you one, kid, but I don’t think we’ll live long enough for you to enjoy it.”
The sight of so many American soldiers throwing up their hands in surrender made Brandon’s eyes fill with tears. Wet, hungry and exhausted after days of fighting, for many the choice was a simple one. Death might have seemed the more honorable solution, but living to fight another day was infinitely more practical.
Chinese soldiers ran toward them, aiming their QBZ-03 assault rifles and shouting instructions no one could understand. One of their officers appeared and motioned for the men to lace their fingers behind their heads and form a line. Similar scenes were playing out all along the trench.
Already, Chinese army engineers were laying the pontoons for the improvised bridge they were building across the Mississippi.
“Efficient little buggers, aren’t they?” Dixon observed.
The Chinese officer heard Dixon speak and stormed over. His insignia, a single chevron with a pair of crossed rifles above it, designated him as a sergeant. Thin, with the fresh face of someone Brandon guessed was in his early twenties, the soldier shouted and then buried the butt of his rifle into Dixon’s gut.
The American let out a loud moan and sank to his knees. The sergeant kicked him in the face and was preparing for another blow when Brandon stepped between them.
Other soldiers rushed forward, weapons drawn. The sergeant sent the back of his hand across Brandon’s face before shoving him to the ground as well. Salty blood oozed from Brandon’s lip. The sting was ferocious and Brandon’s heart was pounding in his chest, but the sergeant must have felt as though he’d made his point, because he turned away and stormed off.