Chapter Seventeen

 

The wag rolled into Shauna's territory at approximately twenty minutes after twelve.

 

High noon, and the sky overhead was crisp and clear, so clear that objects as far away as a hundred feet still looked as sharp as if they were directly in front of your nose. The air was silent, precisely so, as if waiting in anticipation for the inevitable sudden sound or motion to appear in a rapid onrush to shatter the serenity.

 

The young lookout in the watchtower, flat on her stomach to avoid detection, had spotted the transport well in advance of its arrival. She had signaled the waiting group below with a prearranged motion that the convoy consisted of a single vehicle, just as had been predicted.

 

After the high sign had been given, there was nothing to do but wait. As they took their positions in the trench alongside the dirt-and-gravel roadwaya trench that had been widened and deepened to accommodate the lean and lethal attack forceRyan had to wonder if such a simple plan of battle would work.

 

"Simple's sometimes the best way," J.B. said as he waited with Ryan in the ditch alongside the roadway. The Armorer's eyes wandered over enviously to the ordnance Shauna and Carter were carrying. Earlier Carter had led J.B. and Mildred to a secure place hidden away in a seaside cavern about a quarter mile from the cluster of shacks and tents that made up the commune.

 

From a grease-stained canvas bag, Carter had pulled out twin Calico M-955AS light submachine guns, complete with full shoulder butts and forward hand grips all molded in stark black metal and plastic. The Calico was a unique little weapon that was a cross between a machine pistol and a full-blown rifle.

 

"PDWs," J.B. had said in admiration, his voice echoing slightly in the cave. The cave was a natural formation fortified with large wooden beams jammed every few feet along the walls in a basic yet effective effort to prop up the ceiling and avoid the possibility of having the roof fall down around a visitor's ears.

 

"Pee Dee whats?" Carter responded.

 

"PDWs. Quick-speak for Personal Defense Weapons. They emerged in the predark days right before the nukecaust for nonsoldier types to use, you know; whitecoats, engineers, comm men, techies, drivers. Those guns you have there were made by Calico Incorporated of Bakersfield, U.S.A. First appeared in 1989, by the old calendar," J.B. rattled off with conviction.

 

Carter glanced at Mildred with a cocked eyebrow.

 

"One thing John knows is guns, Carter," she said. "He's probably the greatest weapons expert left alive in Deathlands."

 

"Do tell," Carter said. "I'm smart enough to know these are good guns, but I didn't plan on being quizzed."

 

"The Calico is a modular system, which allows a longer or a shorter weapon to be assembled from interchangeable components. You're got the full package there," J.B. said, pointing at the guns Carter was carrying. "Best of all is the Calico's amazing large magazine capacity. A small mag holds fifty rounds, the large one a hundred. You can always tell a Calico magazine by the shape of the mag."

 

 

"Really," Carter said. "And why is that?"

 

 

"Calico is the only PDW to use a cylinder mag. Either the large or the small will clip down right on top of the gun, storing the cartridges in two helical layers. Ammo feed comes down from the top, while the spent cartridges eject underneath instead of out the side. Sweet little guns."

 

"Glad you approve. These are in good shape, but unfortunately what you pointed out about the ammo is true. We've got a 100-shot load and a 50-shot, and a backup fifty, and that's it. Most of the better stuff was lost the first time a group of us took Poseidon on."

 

"What else you got?"

 

"In guns? Not much." Carter took another of the insulated sacks and revealed the remaining stockpile of hardware.

 

J.B. eyed the rest of the weapons dump. Carter wasn't understating the loss. A few 6-shot Colt revolvers, a rifle that looked as though it was an antique when Doc was still young and an astonishing lack of ammunition.

 

"Might as well toss these in the ocean," the Armorer said.

 

"Don't believe in that around here, Dix," Carter replied. "Guns don't belong in the sea."

 

"Anything else?" Mildred asked hopefully. "Some plastique? We're going to need it to go through with the plan."

 

"Doctor, I wouldn't have brought you all the way out here if I didn't have more,'' the tattooed man said. He flipped up a blanket revealing a green crate he'd been sitting on.

 

"Besides the Calicos, my private stash has one other distinct advantage going for it," Carter noted, pulling it out to the center of the cavern.

 

Hidden away inside the big rectangular metal storage container painted olive green was the "advantage." Thick white letters and numerals were stenciled on the sides of the container, which was roughly the size of a traditional footlocker. On the top of the box were smaller letters and numbers, all in a coded jumble beneath a torn red, white and blue decal of the American flag.

 

"These boxes are never the same twice. What's in it?" J.B. asked, recognizing the style of standard military-issue container from his many searches of redoubt supply rooms. The boxes could be used for anything from drab camouflage clothing to the near inedible delight of rations of self-heat cuisine. However, more often than not, the boxes were also dumps for ammunition, grenades or guns.

 

"You're so smart, you tell me," Carter replied easily as he lifted the box and placed it on a makeshift tabletop near the entrance of the cave.

 

"Could be nothing but an empty box, Carter. I've seen the package a thousand times before, but the present inside is usually long gone," J.B. remarked.

 

"Not this time, Dix," Carter said, working the combination of a moldy lock that kept the lid of the container shut down tight. "This time I've got party favors for everybody."

 

Carter lifted the lid with a proud flourish.

 

J.B. and Mildred both leaned over and peered down inside.

 

"Good Lord!" Mildred gasped.

 

"Dark night!" J.B. said.

 

Carter reached inside and removed a silver-and-red concussion grenade. He tossed it lightly in the air over to J.B, who calmly reached down his right hand and caught the lethal egg before it could hit the ground. Mildred involuntarily flinched.

 

"No need for worry, Dr. Wyeth," Carter said. "These things can't hurt anyone until they're armed."

 

"Old as those grens are, they could blow right in our faces!" Mildred retorted angrily. "I don't like taking chances!"

 

J.B. returned the explosive device to the metal and wire rack in the bottom of the steel container. "I count eight. Two burners, one concussion, one frag and four high-ex. Decent mix. Timers seem to be tight and clean. The outsides don't look too badly corroded, either. Last batch of grens we found, they were leaking like hell."

 

"I remember," Mildred said with a grin. "Dean knocked the box over and the entire lot nearly went off in our faces. Did a ten-second run to safety in nine seconds flat to outrun the timers."

 

"This time we're keeping the kid out of the grens," J.B. said.

 

Carter closed the container but left the lock unfastened. He then picked up both of the Calicos and slung them over his left shoulder. The extra magazine went into one of the numerous pockets of the blue jumpsuit he now wore.

 

"Grab one end of the box, Dix, and I'll carry the other. We'll divvy up the grens back at the commune. Shauna and Ryan will probably want to decide which ones we're going to use."

 

J.B. had already known that Ryan would say to take them all.

 

The rumble of the wag they had been warned about shook the Armorer from his memories. The hum of the internal eight-cylinder turbocharged engine was clean and uninterrupted, a muted throb that grew louder as the vehicle approached.

 

The wag was a familiar sight to both Ryan and J.B. From the flat-backed rear-access hatch to the bullet-shaped blunt nose and angled headlights, the vehicle was a near twin of the type they had recently liberated from a cache found inside an underground complex in Dulce, New Mexico. The primary difference was that the earlier wag had been factory new, with barely a hundred miles logged on the odometer. It had been fully loaded, too, with a barricade remover, a Watt-Olsen spotlight and a twin-speaker mounted public-address system.

 

There were no extras on the wag now approaching their hiding place, and the wag was in poor condition. The paint was nearly gone along the sides and front, revealing the thick armor plating that secured the passengers within safely. One side rack of headlights was shattered, a reminder of a past collision.

 

"Hotspur Hussar Armored Land Rover," J.B. breathed. His keen eyes quickly took in the superficial damages to the battered wag. "Seen better days. I'd say she's going about thirty miles per hour. Driver will have to slow up at the curve. I'd take the shot then."

 

Ryan nodded and raised the SIG-Sauer.

 

Originally Mildred had been the one chosen to make the shot, until Shauna had stressed the need for silence for her plan to work. Mildred's aim with the Czech target revolver was uncanny, but the blaster was explosively loud. Ryan had offered the SIG-Sauer to her, but she declined. It wasn't that complicated a shot, and Ryan's familiarity with his own blaster would make him the logical shooter.

 

The plan was indeed a simple one take out one of the Land Rover's enormous rubber tires and make the men inside believe they were the unfortunate recipients of a blowout. With luck, they would all leave the wag to change the tire, eliminating the need for a firefight that would probably end up with casualties and a damaged, possibly inoperable wag.

 

Ryan wanted the wag intact. He wanted the way inside to Poseidon.

 

"Trojan horse," Doc had said when told of the plan. "A proved winner for centuries, Ryan. I see no reason why it should not work again."

 

As the wag rumbled past, Ryan took careful aim between the armored flanges protecting the rear right wheel well, and squeezed off a single silenced 9 mm shot. He was rewarded with a loud popping sound, not from the pistol, but from the rubber tire exploding as the bullet hit home.

 

"Hope they brought a spare," Shauna murmured.

 

"Hell of a good time to bring that up," Ryan whispered.

 

"Here they come," J.B. said. "Side door's sliding back."

 

The blown-out tire had achieved the desired effect. Two sec men, their rifles down, stepped out of the wag onto the packed dirt and gravel of the road. They were dressed in identical mirrored sunglasses, steel blue helmets and what appeared to be old-style bulky exterior bulletproof vests.

 

"What's with the uniforms?" J.B. asked.

 

"Sec teams that go off the base usually suit up," Carter whispered. "Intimidation and safety."

 

"No chest shots," Ryan said tightly. "Aim for the faces."

 

So far, the two sec men had no reason to suspect an ambush. In their minds, at least for now, this was only an inconvenience, not the beginning of an assault.

 

"What do you think?" Carter whispered to Ryan. "Hit them now?"

 

"I think we should let them go about their business of changing the tire," the grim man replied.

 

"Sure you want to wait that long, Ryan?" Mildred asked. "What if they find the bullet?"

 

"They won't. Not unless they're looking and not until they have the wag jacked up. I figure might as well let them do the work for us." Ryan checked his gun. "Once the wag is off the ground, we'll introduce ourselves. No way they can get rolling again before they put on the spare."

 

"How many you think are inside?" Mildred asked.

 

"Don't know. Those Land Rovers are big bastards. They can hold eight men in the rear," J.B. mused.

 

"Not this one," Shauna countered. "That thing could seat twenty and it wouldn't matter. Poseidon keeps them lean. He's got to have ample room for the food he takes back."

 

"Like I said last night, my guess is four men. That was typical standard operations back when I ran with his men," Carter agreed. "It's also the same lineup as the last three times Poseidon's sent a transport out here by land. A driver and passenger up front, two others in the back. A pair to stay alert and watch for trouble, and a pair to use their backs to help load up the booty."

 

"So let's find out," Ryan said, watching as a third man joined the duo in removing the blown tire. "But whatever you do, don't let them get back inside the wag."

 

As planned, Shauna left her weapon behind and made her way down to a far end of the ditch, far enough down to where it would appear she had merely been walking down the road and come upon the wag's unfortunate predicament, just an innocent encounter with a pedestrian.

 

Shauna stepped into the open and jauntily walked toward the downed Land Rover. "Need a hand?" she asked, granting them a dazzling smile. Mildred noted the woman had unzipped the front of her jumpsuit even more than usual.

 

"She's going to fall right out of that thing if she's not careful," Mildred whispered.

 

"So much the better," J.B. replied.

 

"Get ready," Ryan said.

 

Two of the men whirled toward Shauna with their AK-47s held ready when she spoke. The third man outside of the Land Rover was occupied with the jack.

 

The leader, a veteran sec man named Martin, relaxed when he recognized Shauna. He knew from experience she wasn't there to cause any trouble. Still, it was odd for the commune leader to be showing up so far down the road from the settlement, and why was she alone? Martin decided to let his partner handle the questioning. That way, he could let his eyes enjoy the view of Shauna's exposed breasts without having to play the heavy.

 

"What are you doing here, little lady?" the other armed man asked, voicing Martin's own concerns.

 

"Stealing your wag," Ryan's voice said from behind them.

 

To their credit, the sec men didn't surrender without a fight. However, Ryan and the others had the advantage of surprise. The firefight was succinct and to the point. All remembered Ryan's words about aiming for the heads, more specifically, for the faces.

 

Mildred's Czech target pistol fired once, and the large caliber bullet entered Martin's left eye, felling the man with a single shot. A red torrent spewed down his cheek as he fell forward, the bullet continuing to move through his skull and brain tissue, exiting the back of his head and finally stopping dead at the interior of the helmet he wore. Martin convulsed for a few seconds, his hands clawing in the dirt and gravel until he died.

 

In the same instant, twin pairs of mirrored sunglasses shattered like dropped china cups as the faces of the other two men dissolved from the auto fire of J.B. and Carter.

 

While his friends engaged the trio of sec men, Ryan had made his way around the back to the open side door of the wag and shoved his SIG-Sauer inside, aiming at the driver.

 

"Your pals are dead. You're next, unless you want to come out of that seat quietly."

 

The driver raised his hands.

 

"Good. I hate cleaning up brains off a windshield."

 

The spare was then placed on the wag without fanfare by the captured driver, under Ryan's close supervision. J.B. and Carter dragged the bodies into the former hiding place in the ditch while Ryan questioned the driver.

 

"What's your name?"

 

"Edgerton."

 

"You enlisted or merc?" Ryan asked, recalling that Carter had said enlisted men were the chosen elite in Poseidon's farcical attempt at a navy. Hired men were always more easily swayed. Bought loyalty was only worth as much as the highest bidder was willing to pay.

 

"Edgerton, Ray, sir! Enlisted man."

 

"Great," Ryan said.

 

A spare helmet and pair of sunglasses had been discovered in a storage drawer inside the wag. Ryan would wear the outfit and ride shotgun with the surviving member of the sec squad while J.B., Mildred and Carter hid in the back. Once they were on the base, the second part of the operation would be carried out with the grens and any other explosives they could scrounge up on-site.

 

Carter, Mildred and J.B. would play delivery boys. Ryan and Shauna were going in search of Poseidon.

 

But Ryan had one final stop to take care of first.

 

 

 

"I'M GOING WITH YOU, Dad."

 

"No, Dean, you're not." Ryan said.

 

"I'm not a kid anymore! You need me"

 

"I need you right here," Ryan said firmly, cutting the boy off in midprotest, "with Doc. He's still too weak to go off into a firefight. Somebody has to stay with him."

 

"Doc can take care of himself."

 

"Usually that's true. Not this time. Besides, he needs somebody to watch his back."

 

"But, Dad"

 

"Enough, Dean!" Ryan's voice was as unyielding as an iron bar. When Dean heard that tone used, he knew enough to back off.

 

"One of Trader's rules was to never split your forces. 'If you've only got half your men, you've only got half your power,' he'd say. Course, the older I'm getting, the less inclined I am to always agree with everything Trader told me. We've already lost two people to this Poseidon. Jak was like a son to me in many ways, and Krysty was my soul mate." Ryan took a hand and mussed Dean's hair. "I'll be damned if I'll risk losing another loved one to that bastard."

 

"Jak was my friend, too," Dean said. "And I loved Krysty."

 

Ryan softened. "I know, son. Believe me, I understand. But I'm not asking you to stay here as a father. I'm telling you to stay as a leader. You don't want to be treated like a kid? Fine. Then act like a man and do what I tell you."

 

"Not fair," Dean said.

 

"Life seldom is."

 

Ryan stepped away and paused at the doorway of the tent.

 

"How long before you're back?" Dean asked.

 

"Not sure. No way of knowing. Half day there in the wag, according to Carter. Half day back if the wag's still running after we get inside the base. I'd say we'll be back here in a couple of days, unless something goes bad wrong." Ryan shrugged. "If the plan goes south on us, then I guess it doesn't matter."

 

"Two days, Dad. Two days, then I'm coming after youeven if I have to carry Doc on my shoulders."

 

Ryan nodded. "Should be long enough. Two days, then."

 

Dean was shocked into silence. He'd never imagined his father would agree to letting him come out in search of the advance party, even with a wait of forty-eight hours.

 

The one-eyed man held up a hand, gave a little wave to his son and walked out of the tent.

 

Before Dean could also exit, Ryan stepped back inside.

 

"Dean?"

 

"Yeah, Dad?"

 

"If you do end up carrying Doc around, remember that he's heavier than he looks." The attempt at humor was strained, but Dean still appreciated the effort.

 

"I won't forget."

 

What Dean didn't know was Ryan would have done exactly the same thing himself at Dean's age. He also knew the boy wouldn't be able to wait any longer than two days, which was fine.

 

In two days' time, Admiral Poseidon would be a dead man, and his so-called empire would be a ruin, even if Ryan had to die himself in the process.