The Living Will Envy The Dead (27 page)

The thought was galling, in a way.  They had set themselves up as the Big Chiefs, but everyone under them hated their guts.  If they gave up the power and unity they’d used to take power, they would be torn apart…and they had to know that.  It is – was – a common problem around the world’s governing systems.  If you make the consequences of losing too severe – like losing lives, property or freedom – the government is going to do whatever it has to do to remain in power.  CORA had had plenty of time to learn that lesson.  They wouldn’t give in without a fight, unless we could convince them that their lives would be spared…and if they had committed any atrocities, their lives would not be spared.  If we could get them to talk…

“We’ll stop here,” I said, as if I had planned it all along.  That wasn't entirely true.  CORA hadn’t bothered to push cars or trucks out of the road, so our passage was becoming steadily harder and harder.  We had had to pause several times just to have some useless vehicle pushed out of the way.  They’d been their normal depressing sight, with white skeletons sitting behind wheels or nearby, unable to escape, and a grim silence had settled over our convoy as we passed evidence of the war.  There were just too many things to do and too little time to do them in.  “It’s only a twenty minute walk from here to there.”

I detailed a platoon off to guard the trucks – somehow, I was sure that CORA hadn’t bothered to sweep for bandits – and led the remainder up the road at a quick march.  I had considered keeping some of the soldiers back, in hopes of concealing my strength, but if we could intimidate them into surrendering, no one would have to die.  We watched, carefully, for signs of watching eyes, but saw nothing until we reached the outskirts of St. Marys itself, which had been sealed away behind a wall of defences.  The sheer absence of people outside the town was its own message.  We had been seen.

“Interesting,” Mac said, studying the defences through his binoculars.  “That’s an amateur playing defender, or I miss my guess.”

I nodded thoughtfully.  CORA wouldn’t have, I suspected, many if any veterans.  A group like that rarely would, although they had more than their fair share of posers and freaks who claimed to be Army Rangers, or Marines, or Green Berets.  I once ran into a man who claimed to have served in Regimental Combat Team Seven, 1
st
Battalion, 7
th
Marines during the Invasion of Iraq.  Does that sound familiar?  If that had been the case, I should have known him personally…and I didn’t.  He had memorised some of the lingo and, to someone without inside knowledge of their own, would have made a convincing Marine.  He even had muscles on his muscles.

“That's good and bad news,” I said, slowly.  The good news was that they wouldn’t have so many tricks that a regular soldier might have up his sleeve.  The bad news was that they might have unconventional tricks that a regular soldier wouldn’t use or wouldn’t even seriously consider.  The fight could get interesting.  I studied the ramparts, looking for signs of buried mines or other interesting tricks, but saw nothing.  That, too, could be either good or bad.  “Stay here for the moment.”

“Don’t,” Mac said, but I was already on my way.

The defences rose up in front of me as I walked up towards them, spotting eyes watching us with hostile intent.  I kept my hands in sight, looking as harmless as I could, hoping that someone would come out to talk.  If they opened fire, I was a sitting duck, even with Stacy and Patty covering me with their sniper rifles.  A shot at this range, fired by someone with even limited experience, would be very likely to hit me.  We had joked, back in Iraq, that the safest soldiers on the streets were the targets, but the joke had never been very funny.  It was even less funny now.

A man emerged from the barricades and glared at me.  I had an odd sense of
déjà vu
as he stepped forward; I must have looked like that when the gang-bangers arrived to threaten Ingalls.  The man had long black hair, a beard and a haunted, but determined look in his eye.  He wasn't going to surrender easily.  He probably had a lot of faith in his defences, although up close I could spot a series of flaws in them.  A single AT rocket would blow a hole right through the barricade and probably kill some of the defenders into the bargain.

“This is our territory,” he said, without preamble.  The glint in his eye suggested that he wasn't quite sane.  He might not have been a Zombie, but he wasn't stable.  That wasn't good news.  “You’re
not
welcome.”

I smiled.  “I am Colonel Stalker, representing the United States of America,” I said.  It was true enough, if only for a given value of ‘United States.’  I had a nasty feeling that, sooner or later, we would run into competing governments.  We might even end up with a patchwork state like the former Holy Roman Empire.  “I would like to make you an offer.”

“The Government is gone, after blowing up the world,” the man sneered at me.  I couldn’t fault his grasp of current affairs, even though he was holding an entire town in bondage.  “This is our world now.  What do you think you can offer us?”

The glint in his eyes got nastier.  “We won’t join any government of you religious freaks,” he continued.  “You’re not going to get into our town.”

Religious freaks
?  I wondered.  “You are holding an entire town in bondage, a situation we find unacceptable,” I said, as calmly as I could.  My instincts were screaming at me to open fire or retreat as quickly as I could.  A rational person could be negotiated with, but someone who was on the verge of madness was unlikely to listen to reason.  “This is the best offer you’ll get.  Surrender now and you won’t be killed.  You could even join our forces…”

“This is our town,” the man repeated.  “We took it, we claimed it, we run it and we’re not going to let the feds back.  You’ll have to come claim it over my dead body.”

That could be organised
, I thought.  “You’re outnumbered,” I said, instead.  The refugees had agreed that CORA had – at most – fifty men, along with their families.  Assuming that the women could fight as well, not always a sure thing with groups like CORA (which often had an anti-feminist agenda as well as everything else), they had around one hundred fighters at most.  If we hit them hard enough, the remainder of the town’s population might even rise up and hit them in the rear.  That would be costly – for them – but it could guarantee victory without wrecking the town.  I didn’t want to destroy St. Marys while trying to save it.

“We have right on our side,” the man proclaimed, now recognisably making a speech rather than talking to me.  “We will not be the slaves of the feds again, do you understand me?  We will serve ourselves…”

I could have pointed out that they had been holding slaves themselves, in fact if not in name, and basically weren't acting any better than their caricature of the Federal Government, but it was pointless.  Groups like CORA see the world through a fundamentally warped point of view, where everything the Federal Government does is designed for evil purposes, such as draining the lifeblood of the American male, promoting a transnational government, allowing corporations to exploit the workers, removing God from the schools and all the other possibilities.  I half-expected him to come out with some crap about the Feds having organised the war in hopes of rebuilding a slave society on top of the wreckage.

“Fine,” I said, finally.  “If you don’t surrender, we’ll come in and take you.”

“Our defences are strong,” he snapped back.  “We’ll crush you like ants.”

I walked back towards the waiting soldiers – expecting to feel a bullet in my back, striking the body armour, at any moment – and briefed Mac quickly.  I had hoped that the man, whoever he was, would lead his forces out onto the field and charge us, but he wasn't that stupid.  He kept the defences manned and waited for us to make the first move.  I couldn’t blame him for that.  We couldn’t keep him penned up indefinitely – we needed the manpower for far too many tasks elsewhere – and he had to know that.  Regardless of what he thought we were, we couldn’t pen him up forever…

“Take him at a run, then,” Mac said, finally.  “I’ll go get the antitank weapon ready.”

“Take care,” I warned, much to his disgust.  “We can’t afford to waste those rounds.”

I studied the defences through my binoculars, comparing them to a map of St. Marys I had found and brought with us, after having marked it with the information from the refugees.  One problem with intelligence is that it has – quite literally – a sell-by date.  Even with the best will in the world – not always a given in the intelligence community – information can become outdated, or the enemy can change their position when they realise that they have been compromised.  The sergeants – who would be leading the assault personally, despite my concerns about losing the veterans – gathered around and I briefed them on their particular objectives.  If everything went to plan…

…But of course it wouldn’t.  No battle plan
ever
survives contact with the enemy.  I couldn’t name a single war when everything went entirely to plan and the results gained were exactly what the planners had anticipated.  War is a democracy and the enemy, that dastardly dog, has a plan of his own.  CORA had its plan to defend St. Marys against assault, from us or anyone else, and if they had surprises up their sleeves…well, all hell could break loose.

“And you are not leading the assault,” Mac finished, when he returned, carrying the M136 antitank rocket launcher.  It wasn’t the model intended for urban operations, much to my annoyance, but it would suffice to open the battle.  He kept it out of sight from the barricades, but we all saw it.  We’d have to keep out of his way as well.  The rocket has an astonishing back blast.  Personally, I’d have been happier with a Javelin or two, but we hadn’t had them in the armoury.  “You’re staying back and keeping command from the rear.”

I was tempted to argue – hell, I
wanted
to argue – but Mac had a point.  I was the Colonel in command – they wanted to make me a Major, but I’d had enough of the Major Stalker jokes back when I was in kindergarten – and I was responsible for them.  I couldn’t throw myself into the fighting like a young man again, even though I was sending twenty-one veterans – not counting Mac – into the fray.  Most of them were, although I hated to admit it, more useful than me.

“Fine,” I said, finally.  I keyed my radio as the soldiers spread out to their starting positions.  I wanted, desperately, to go with them.  I had never understood how the Generals felt until then.  “Stacy, Patty, are you in position?”

“Yes, sir,” the reply came back.  The two girls – of three in the entire force, not counting the two nurses at the rear – sounded confident.  I had faith in the two snipers.  They could have shot a fly out of the air a kilometre away.  “We’re ready.”

“Good,” I said.  We should have been out of range for effective shooting, but I’ve seen snipers hit people at distances I would have sworn were impossible.  The last thing I needed was Mac shot while he took aim.  “You see a sniper, hit the bastard at once.  Don’t wait for orders.”

“Not much of a barricade,” Mac muttered, as he positioned the weapons and took careful aim.  The cars and other junk they’d placed into the barricade should explode nicely, I decided, particularly if they hadn’t drained the tanks or filled them with concrete.  “We should just set up a pair of loudspeakers and play heavy metal at them until it collapses.”

I snorted back a laugh.  Back during the Fallujah offensive, we’d competed with the enemy, pushing heavy metal against the Islamic call to prayer.  The racket had had to be heard to be believed and I don’t know who won, although we cheated.  We used CDs and downloaded music, while the poor bastards on the other side had to recite everything.  Don’t feel too sorry for them.  That wasn't the only racket involved; the Mullahs worked as a criminal racket, while the young men died in hopeless battle.

“Fire,” I ordered.

Mac pulled the trigger.

It is good that war is so terrible, or else we might become too fond of it
.

-Robert E. Lee

The barricade exploded in a spectacular blast.  I felt the wave of heat from the back blast and that was bad enough, but I didn’t want to think about what it must have been like for the defenders.  Clutching their weapons, expecting to see us charging at them across the cleared firing zones – did we look like idiots, I wondered – they had been unprepared for the antitank weapon punching through their barricade and detonating in their midst.  They might have avoided the deadly mistake of leaving the vehicles’ tanks full, but as the explosion turned the cars into deadly infernos and sent red-hot shrapnel everywhere, they found their plans in disarray from the start.