Vengeance

[The Stig]

Copyright 2011 – No Reproduction Without My Express Consent

Vengeance

It was dark and gloomy as the low overcast skies, in an ever changing hue of gray and white, blanketed the landscape.

“Damn,” he thought to himself. “How many more days of this garbage are we going to get?” Back in his homeland the weather, in fact the mood of his entire country, was not unlike the depressing sky above, but he had expected a much sunnier and warm reception in the United States.

Or at least that's what his superior officers had told him.

“Yuri,” hissed the team leader. “Stay focused.” He'd been in command long enough to know when his troops had begun drifting off.

Hours upon hours of patrolling through burnt out homes and the debris of what once had been the suburban sprawl of a major US city had a tendency to cause soldiers to drift off. Coupled with the depressing winter lack of sun and gray days, patrols became more about berating the troops to stay awake then finding enemy soldiers.

Stepping over a pile of concrete and assorted junk he felt the weariness deep in his bones as he willed himself to place one foot in front of another. The city, a moderately sized industrial city, had been flattened during a battle a year and a half ago. The streets looked like a scene out of Berlin 1945.

“Blue element,” the team leader announced sternly, “make your way towards the third house on the left. Red will take the right side of the street.”

Chuckling to himself, he remembered that sometimes team leaders liked to give out orders, even if they didn't change what the soldiers had originally been doing, simply to remind the troops who was in charge. Some guys got angry about it, he just laughed it off as the natural order of things.

Even as he and his fellow soldiers slogged past burnt out homes and abandoned belongings he tired to picture the way the street once have must looked. Tree lined. Children playing in nicely manicured lawns. Music gently drifting across the wind as people grilled in their back yards. It was probably an idyllic time. Far more enjoyable and enforced uniformity and waiting in line.

But that time was before a traitorous former president decided to lead a rebellion to regain the power stripped from him when the American public rejected his polices under the pretext of a sex scandal. It created a rage in him that drove him to destroy those who weren't smart enough to understand his advanced ideas about society.

Now the streets of the town were quiet. Occasionally a stray dog would dart past, or a piece of rubble would tumble down from a broken building, but mostly the sound of nothingness hung in the air.

“It's almost a shame,” he thought. “Then again, capitalism and the pursuit of bigger televisions was destined to lead to the country ruin. At least, that is what he had always been told.”

His element had drifted ahead of the team leaders element by ten yards. Glancing back over his shoulder he watched in amusement as the team leader tripped over a discarded plastic container.

He wondered why officers always seemed to promote the incompetents.

Adjusting the AK74 that was slung over his shoulder he carefully stepped over what appeared to be a child's tricycle. With one hand on the grip of the carbine, he reached down with the other to playfully slap at the handlebars.

Looking back up, he straightened his torso just long enough to regain his balance. It was then that the team heard the loud crack followed by the distinct sound of a rifle round impacting debris and ricocheting off in an unknown direction.

The round had been close, very close. He could almost feel the turbulence created by the passage of the bullet.

Dropping to a crouch he instinctively clutched his AK74 and scanned the horizon for the sniper. The ruins of the city provided a never ending supply of hides for them to ply their deadly craft and the chances of seeing him were slim unless the shooter made a mistake.

Today there would be no mistake.

He never heard the second crack nor was their a ricochet. Instead a large portion of the side of his neck simply exploded under the sledgehammer force of the bullet traveling through flesh, cartilage, muscle and bone.

Never again would he have to worry about the depressing Midwestern winters or the evils of capitalism.



****

“Boy, you've got to be trying to kid a poor old country boy,” said Dink Roberts as he stared in disbelief at the weather forecast. Sure enough, his old friend Webb wasn't trying to pull a fast one. The predicted snowfall was twenty seven inches. Over two feet of snow in one eight hour period.

“That's flat crazy!” he exclaimed as he popped open a can of beer and sank into the overstuffed couch.

Smiling as he continued to surf the internet Webb took delight in poking fun at his old friend. “You know, you think after nearly two years up here you'd have stopped complaining about snow.”

Taking a long drink of from beer Dink contemplated which of many retorts he would unleash on Webb. In the end he chose to give him the middle finger.

Webb had a point, but the Mississippi boy just hadn't gotten used to the cold weather in the Wyoming retreat since a group of Dink's family and friends had fled the state. For the past two years the country had been tearing itself apart in the midst of a second civil war. In this case, instead of states rights, the central issues was purely political: liberal ideology versus the conservative view point. Some people still wanted to give away other people's money for good causes. Others wanted what they earned left in their pocket. It was along these general issues that the battle lines formed.

The former president, impeached and disgraced, Crutchfield, led his strange coalition of social groups and those not able to flee the Northeastern portions of the country. While initially successful, he had faced a series of major military disasters in Kentucky that had cost him irreplaceable men and material.

Things looked bleak for the traitor and his forces before a string of political victories had changed his fortunes and reinvigorated his desire to punish those who didn't accept the wisdom of his social polices and engineering.

First, the states of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Iowa threw their lot in with his movement and in the process pledged thousands of National Guard troops, and whatever regular army soldiers wanted to join in the cause. Like much of his presidency, Crutchfield used promises of money and financial payoffs to entice the leaders of the states, and the individual groups of soldiers, to lure them into the confederation. Those smart enough to see though the ruse fled southward to areas of the country still loyal to President Alan.

But ultimately, the men and material offset, albeit in piecemeal fashion, his previous losses in terms of numbers, if not experience. As one would expect, entire units were not in tact, however, combining the contributions of all the states resulted in a surprisingly balanced fighting force.

The other change to Crutchfield's fortunes came when foreign forces, who's interests did not include a united and strong America, were loaned to him under the auspices of “peace keeping” and to assist those rebelling against the country. It was a cruel twist of fate that foreigners interjected themselves into America's internal struggles.

Karma affected nations too.

Most of the troops arriving though ports in the North East and Great Lakes were sponsored by the Russian Federation of States. Russian politicos, seeing an opportunity to turn the tables on America and weaken their traditional enemy, was more than accommodating in loaning ground troops, vehicles and supplies to the beleaguered former President.

The infusion of men, and more importantly, combat hardened troops, reversed Crutchfield's fortunes and again gave him the upper hand.

****



“You know, this is the first boys weekend we've had in a coons age,” declared Dink as he inspected the contents of a nearly empty bag of potato chips.

“I don't think Miller knows what to do without his family here,” suggested Webb.

Their friend, Miller had sent his family off with Webb's brother and his new bride, Patsy. She had escaped Mississippi along with Miller's wife and daughter and found love in the strangest of places, a compound in Wyoming. They had flown over to Idaho to visit some of Webb's distant family who lived in a rustic cabin in the hills. Miller's wife Christy jumped at the chance to get to a part of the country she had never visited. Dink's adopted daughter, Maggie decided to tag along at the last minute which cleared the way for three men to enjoy a weekend of male bonding.

“I tell you one thing boy,” drawled Dink. “For all his talents, he seems lost picking up pizza and beer.”

Webb smiled as he pecked away at the computer keyboard, “Not everybody is as skilled at those pursuits as you.”

[bacpacker]

Here we go! Nice start Stig.

[ak474u]

Who has 2 thumbs and wants more? THIS GUY! great start keep it up!

[The Stig]

“Thanks Smitty,” said Miller as he negotiated the oversized pizza box through the doors.

“Damn,” he muttered as he nearly dropped the entire thing into the drifting snow.

Getting into his large four-by-four pickup Miller sat the pizza on the seat next to him as he settled in and turned over the engine of the big truck. For snowy days like this he was glad to have the big truck. He was even happier that Webb and his brother had modified the engine to produce even more horsepower and drive torque.

He negotiated several streets heading back towards the ranch before remembering that his other task was to retrieve the evenings supply of beer.

“I thought beer and pizza was Dink's department,” he said aloud as he wheeled the big truck back around.

The large SUV that was several hundred yards behind him doing the same caught his attention. Experience is something that doesn't leave a man, especially when that experience is honed by the hard reality of life. It may fade over time, but it never fully leaves a man once he's won it.

After nearly sliding though a stop sign, he pulled into the small gas station and convenience store. He'd pay twice as much for the beer, but it beat standing in line at the grocery store. Rationalizing that he was imagining things in the snowy wasteland of Wyoming, he trudged into the small cinder-block building as the snow continued to rain down unabated.

“Hey Miller,” said the store-owner with a smile and wave.

Nodding back with a smile, Miller said, “Evening Fred.”

“I see Dink has you doing his dirty work.”

Searching the endless see of bottles in the cooler Miller responded, “He does seem skilled at that no?”

As he brought his purchases to the counter, and handed the money to Fred, he couldn't resist and asked, “Fred, you didn't notice a big SUV drive by real slow and then head down the side street did you?”

Counting back the change, Fred looked up. “Yea. Thought it was weird to see a perfectly clean, black truck in these parts. Well, besides the snow and all.” Most of them are covered in mud and junk. ”

“Thanks Fred”

“You boys behave yourself tonight,” was Fred's response as the bell over the door jingled.

****


Tom Saxon was an interesting man. Originally enrolled in university on a football scholarship he quickly became bored of the sport and drifted away from the academic world. Enlisting in the army, he spent his four years rapidly rising through the ranks and demonstrated a natural capacity for soldiering. Despite the Army best efforts, he didn't reenlist and chose to give collage a second try.

The second attempt was less successful than the first. The proliferation of self-important ideologues, and frivolous self-indulgence, along the distinct disdain for anything that projected strength sickened him. He walked away from the university after thrashing a particularly obnoxious film student that fancied himself an artist in the mold of a certain overweight, pompous film maker.

He soon found himself back in the Army, welcomed with open arms by those who didn't want him to leave the first time.

Whispering into his microphone he said, “Second squad, go”.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two Privates, both black, moving from cover to the second objective of their mission: an over-watch position with an expansive view of a large shallow valley. They were good soldiers and had proven themselves in combat many times over.

He was struck by how one of them reminded him of Cuba Gooding Jr, the popular American film-star.

Glancing back over his shoulder he checked to see that his partner was ready to move. Making eye contact, Saxon gave the hand signal that indicated it was time to move to their next position also. Moving in concert, the two men, Saxon and the older one, moved to a position approximately fifty yards to the left of the two privates.

Saxon had to chuckle. The older man had been granted special dispensation to be attached to their group as an “adviser”. It turned out that being friends with the Captain had held weight with someone much higher up the food chain of command.

He was a good soldier. He couldn't carry the weight of equipment the younger men could, or move quite as fast, but he'd clearly been soldiering his entire life. His experience and natural talent outweighed his physical limitations.

Again whispering into the microphone taped to his cheek, “over-watch” was his basic command.

Their mission today was relatively simple. They were keeping watch on a particular road and counting how many enemy vehicles moved down it. Saxon would have preferred to attack the trucks, but it was wiser to get an idea of enemy strength in the area first before charging in blindly.

As they settled in and prepared to spend the day observing, Saxon had to chuckle at his situation. Only he and Dickerson, the other black private, were actual Army. The Captain and two of his men were National Guard troops that had gone AWOL but were mysteriously reinstated in full after resurfacing in Nashville a year and a half ago. Caddy, the older man, had been with them during that time period also.

Their small group had been sent to Southwestern Ohio to harass and interdict Crutchfield's forces in the area. When the large group of upper-Midwestern states succeeded from the Union to join his rebellion, he quickly moved those troops eastward to bolster his strength in New York, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. President Alan responded in kind and moved the bulk of his conventional forces to counter the threat.

For the past year conventional battles had unfolded in the east. Crutchfield had lost two armies trying to invade Kentucky and wasn't about to lose a third while the President refused to weaken his position in the Virginia’s and Maryland. The result was that Ohio and Kentucky faded into a backwater theater of the war.

As such Crutchfield tended to use a mix of a small garrison of regular troops bolstered by Peacekeepers from Eastern Europe to maintain control in the area. The President, equally reluctant to commit any real forces to the area was only too happy to let irregular troops carry the load. He left just enough regular forces in Kentucky to prevent an incursion, but beyond that, any real fighting was carried out by oddly constructed units of fighting forces.

So far the strategy was working. While the main forces bludgeoned each other maneuvering for advantage in the East, Saxon and his band of misfits, engaged in less mainstream fighting in the West.

[bacpacker]

+1

[The Stig]

“You know, you really have gotten paranoid in your old age,” thought Miller as he steered his pickup through the snow and slush covered streets of the small town. Snow had been accumulating for several hours and added to the existing blanket of white powder. Driving wasn't hazardous yet, but it did require extra attention.

Glancing in his rear-view mirror he again spotted the black SUV that had seemingly been trailing him. They had been hanging back after his stop at the store and then, as he approached the edges of town, felt the need to fall in behind him again.

“Ok slick, time to see how nuts you've become,” he muttered under his breath as he suddenly slung the wheel of the big truck to the right forcing the big truck to slide, more than turn, around the corner.

He planned on using one of the oldest techniques known to a particular set of defensive drivers who felt they were possibly being tailed by individuals of unknown intentions: four right hand turns around a city block.

If a suspected car made the first turn with you, it could merely be coincidence. Statistically speaking it was highly common for other drivers to be on routes that only appeared to mirror yours.

As he let off the accelerator pedal, and the truck slowed, he saw the black SUV start to make the first right turn just as he prepared to make the second.

The statistics started to turn in favor of being followed if the car made the second turn. However, there were a still a host of innocent explanations to explain away the coincidence in less nefarious ways.

It didn't necessarily follow that if another driver made the same two turns you did that they possessed ill intentions.

As Miller's truck approached the third stop sign he coaxed the big truck to a full stop. He wanted the other driver to close the gap between their vehicles, without letting get completely behind him. If they did plan to attack him, they may chose that moment to strike leaving Miller in the position of having to accelerate quickly, on snow covered streets, to have a chance to escape.

The black SUV, now having made the second right and approaching the middle of the block, was as close to Miller as it had been yet. He could clearly see it didn't have any snow on it's roof despite the rapid pace at which it was accumulating all around it and the amount of time it had appeared to be outside.

Gentling guiding the big truck forward, Miller turned the wheel to make the third turn. Now was the moment of truth; if the driver made the third right hand turn the odds of it being a coincidence plummeted. In a massive metropolitan area, however, there still existed a chance that the other driver simply happened to be going the same way you were.

Miller tried to look at the positive side but one thing bounced around his mind: this was a small town in rural Wyoming, not Kiev.

Looking up, Miller watched as the other driver hesitated, then proceeded to make the turn.

****

“What are you talking about boy?” asked Dink. Webb turned from the computer just in time to see Dink's puzzled look and furrowed brow.

“I know it sounds crazy Dink,” replied Miller. “But I'm telling you they just made the third right hand turn and have been following me for a while before that.”

“I don't know man, this is East Jesus Nowhere, Wyoming. Who's going to come up here to play spy games with you?”

Webb's ears perked up at the mention of the words “spy games”. Miller hadn't told them much about his past, but he'd seen enough to know that Miller had led a very colorful past life. Between the reference to Miller's particular skill-set, and Dink's growing concern, Webb began to realize something wasn't right.

“Alright son, calm down,” advised Dink, “How many are there?”

“Unsure, but the roof of the truck doesn't have hardly a lick of snow on it. Front and back. I'm guessing at least four, maybe six.”

Rubbing his chin Dink mused, “four to one are long odds, let alone six. If they make that last turn you better come back here pronto. Or do you want us to come meet you?”

A few seconds drifted by before Dink was forced to ask, “Miller, you still there?”

“Yea,” came the reply. “Looks like I'm losing it. They just drove straight through the last turn. I guess I need a boys-weekend to unwind....I'm seeing things.”

Dink laughed, “well, ya, it happens to the best of us. Which way you coming home?”

Miller paused before answer, “I think I'm going to take the scenic route. Don't really want them knowing where I'm headed just yet.”

“Thought you said they didn't make that last turn?”

“You're right. Still could be a coincidence,” said Miller. “Then again.....it could also mean they are pros.”


****


Watching the line of GAZ-3937 Vodnik 4x4 multipurpose vehicles navigate the winding road on the valley floor was not unlike watching ants march across a log in search of an unsuspecting picnic. As the convoy of three Vodnik's and several Humvee's wound through the passage it struck Saxon as odd to see the mixture of ostensibly American vehicles mixed amongst the Russian's.

Clearly these were Peacekeeping forces supporting Crutchfeild's troops.

Through the view of his high-powered binoculars, Saxon also noticed Hilux vehicles, one leading and one following the processional. These Hilux pickups, however, had been up-armored to include ballistic protection for the passengers and body panels, heavy duty roll cages, run-flat tires and lights. The snorkel equipment allowed them to traverse deep bodies of water while the two mounted 7.62 machine guns gave the vehicle an offensive capability.

While no match for any real armored vehicle, they were very effective for dispatching small units of troops like Saxon's. One unit had been ripped to shreds when several Hilux's appeared amidst their position.

“That's the second convoy like this we've seen today,” whispered Caddy.

Nodding his head in agreement, “They're pouring resources into that outpost east of the city. What do you bet that some of these vehicles stay behind to add firepower to the camp?”

Both the Vodnik's and Humvee's had heavy machine guns mounted in turrets atop the vehicle. Some even had small missile launchers in place of the machine guns. The units with machine guns could also rapidly deliver eight heavily armed troops while providing supporting fire.

All in all the convoy, while chiefly tasked with hauling goods to the new fire-base Crutchfield was constructing east of the city, packed a heavy arsenal against unsupported ground troops.

Leaning back towards Caddy, “the first convoy should be heading back about now. Let's see how many vehicles are missing from the return trip.”

[The Stig]

The sun finally slipped below the horizon, covering Saxon and his group in a blanket of darkness. Having seen the return of both the first and second convoy from the eastern outpost, and noted several vehicles had stayed behind, Saxon felt it was time to begin maneuvering out of the area and back across the river.

While he always enjoyed the more action oriented missions more, they had gathered solid information regarding the movements of the convoys supporting the eastern outpost. Number of vehicles, times, routes, even how many vehicles didn't return. The Captain had decided that outpost would pose to great a risk to their operations and at some point would need to be destroyed. The information Saxon and his team gathered would aid in that effort.

Saxon's base of operations was actually just across the river on the Kentucky side. This provided them a relatively safe position from which to plan and execute their missions, but did require traversing the occasionally treacherous Ohio River, and then maneuvering to their final destination.

Currently Saxon and his men were only about fifteen miles from the river, but they'd have to move at a steady pace to have a chance of crossing before sunrise. Otherwise, they'd have to spend another day on the Ohio side before attempting the crossing. Besides the obvious dangers of crossing a river in broad daylight, the Captain was didn't want his opposition to know that his teams were moving freely through their backyard.

So shortly after full darkness had settled in, both teams started backing out of their observation posts and began the phase of the mission least popular to most fighting men: walking.

****


John Miller had met Dink Roberts and Webb shortly after he moved to Mississippi in search of a quieter, more peaceful life for his family. His life since the move could not be described as anything of the sort.

When the problems in the North erupted, a Senator used the opportunity to seize power of a group of states and formed what most referred to as The Southern District. Attempting to create his own empire, the Senator inflicted his tyranny in millions of people and in the ensuing chaos, Miller's family was forced to flee the area. He and some friends then began fighting back against the various goons attempting to exert the Senator's will.

At various times Dink and Webb both returned from the safety of the Wyoming ranch to assist Miller's efforts. What neither of them knew, despite the strong friendship that had developed between them, was that Miller had experience in fighting back against tyrannical governments.

While in his first hitch in the Marines, Miller had caught the eye of the leader of a shadowy government organization. The man, a swashbuckling character of immense physical build, was universally referred to simply as “Papa” by the men who inevitably came to revere him. With graying hair and beard he bore an uncanny appearance to the television pitchman for a particular brand of Mexican beer, only taller and larger in stature.

Some say he cut his teeth helping the Mujahedin fight the Soviets in Afghanistan, others told tales of him running spy rings in eastern Europe during the late 1970's. There were some whispers of him being on the ground in Central America during the Reagan administration while commonly accepted opinion was that he actually held rank in Manuel Noriega's army.

Fact was, the only thing known about Papa was that he ran a group of clandestine shadow warriors so secret that their existence was known to only a handful in the upper circles of power in the Federal Government. What was also known was they had been so successful that funding, despite whatever the current economic situation of the country, was never in question.

Soon after catching Papa's eye, Corporal Miller found himself undergoing an unorthodox apprenticeship program that transformed him from common rifleman in the US Marines to a solider more comfortable working behind the scenes and in non-traditional ways on behalf of his country's political goals. Unlike most of his contemporaries who went to the Middle-East, most of Miller's time was spent in Eastern Europe, split between more James Bond like spying in several of the sprawling metropolitan cities and straight field work in the rural areas. While there, he'd work with local groups of insurgents or rebels, not unlike a CIA field officer.

He had loved his time working for Papa, but after finding wife and starting a family, he felt a more traditional means of employment was in order. Miller had been one of the few members of Papa's organization to retire and leave the life. Most agents either worked until their age prevented field work, at which point they often transitioned into support

But his life working for Papa had never been far from his mind.

****

“Have another beer Miller,” teased Dink. “I think all this snow is warping your common sense.” The snow had continued to fall at a rapid pace and the tracks Miller's truck left in the snow had already started to disappear.

Smiling, Miller replied, “Dink, you're the duck out of water here. A good old boy like yourself being stuck in a Wyoming snow-storm for two years?” He paused to take a long pull on his beer, “Mercy. I'm surprised you hadn't cracked yet.”

Webb interjected, “Don't think that he hasn't.”

Miller, digging into a slice of pizza of his own, continued, “look, it was probably nothing but something wasn't right. A big black SUV from out of town, clearly full of men and suddenly just happens to be traveling the same route as little old me? Come on.”

“Who the hell would want to follow you up to this boring place and deal with the snowpocalypse?” Attempting to coax an errant piece of cheese from a slice of pizza into his mouth, Dink continued, “Now Miller, I'm not saying you were imagining things but your wife has been away for two weeks and that tends to make a man a little...well...antsy.”

Webb nearly choked on his beer while Miller teasingly taunted, “well that ought to make you BSC then”.

With a mouth full of pizza Dink looked at him quizzically. Miller smiled and replied, “Bat Shit Crazy.”

****

Their card game continued well into the night. Like most card games among male friends it was replete with taunting, jibs and copious swearing. There was some story telling and boasting but mostly it was three friends enjoying each others company during a rare time uninterrupted by the responsibilities of life.

As the cigars were lit and the cards transitioned into a casual game of pool in the game-room, the pace of the evening started to wind down.

“Miller,” said Dink, seemingly unaffected by the copious quantity of beer he had consumed, “you may have been all super-spy at one point in your life, but you flat stink at billiards.”

Miller was about to return the taunt when the evening was rudely interrupted by the crash of a metal object falling to the ground somewhere out in the compound surrounding the main house.

All three men froze as they processed the noise.

“That sounded like it came from the animal barn.” said Webb.

“I thought you moved the animals out of there?” asked Dink.

“I did,” responded Webb with a hushed whisper. “They are out in the pasture barn while the main one is being repainted and cleaned out.”

Dink, stating the obvious said, “So that probably wasn't a horse knocking a bucket over in his stall.”

Glancing at each other they suddenly realized one thing: Miller had been right. The truck following him had been full of professionals who had decided to come back to finish their job.

[bacpacker]

Uh-Oh!

[The Stig]

Military command centers, especially those in the field, are rarely considered bastions of tasteful decor or posses an inviting atmosphere. Crates and ammunition canisters re-purposed as tables, sandbags serving as walls and yards and yards of canvas meant this particular command center was no different. Down to maps spread over makeshift tables and rucksacks and rifles standing at the ready, this was clearly the epicenter of a military organization.

The small encampment, in the basement of an office building, long since burnt out and abandoned, was the current headquarters for Tom Saxon's unit. The Captain, the commanding officer, moved the headquarters location every few days to avoid it's detection and possible artillery attack or airstrike. Although the odds of that happening were unlikely, since Crutchfield had moved most of those assets eastward and his desire to attack across the River had evaporated after the previous disasters.

“Oh crap....” said the Captain as he leaned back on the uncomfortable crate that served as his chair. He had been studying the reports from his various field teams and they were not promising. The so-called Peacekeeping forces were busy building outposts around the city that would make his efforts that more challenging. More worrisome was they could also serve as stepping off points for cross-river incursions, not unlike his own.

“Captain, here's the data you requested,” said the young solider, his aide. He had been assigned to the Captain's unit recently but had already learned to anticipate his commanding officers needs.

Without looking up, the Captain replied, “Thanks Jones. Get yourself something to eat and get some bunk time. Saxon's team will be in before dawn. I'll need you for the debrief.”

Captain Mike DeMetrie truly cared for the men in his command.

A decorated war-hero from battles in the Middle-East, DeMetrie, was originally tasked with helping enforce order in one of the southern towns in the Southern District when all the countries problems unfolded. He soon found himself hunting down an innocent man to prevent an injustice and ultimately joined forces with him to fight back against the tyranny the maniacal Senator had hopped to instill.

For his part in quashing the Senator's plans he had been reinstated in the National Guard and awarded yet another medal for his valor. Between his service in the middle-east, and his role in turning over the traitorous Senator, he was also offered the pick of his next command.

To anybody who knew DeMetrie, picking an assignment running special operations in a backwater theater of the war made total sense. Some of the higher ranking brass had been puzzled when he didn't chose a more glamorous assignment. Nonetheless, he had been granted command of a unit tasked with intelligence gathering and more non-traditional missions Southwestern Ohio.

His benefactor in the highest echelons of military power also gifted him one of the rarest and most precious of military commodities: autonomy.

The arrangement folded neatly into President Alan's wishes to move the conventional fighting back eastward and use non-traditional assets to deal with the problems in Ohio and Kentucky.

For the past year DeMetrie had been both monitoring the activities of Crutchfield's forces across the river along with harassing them whenever prudent or necessary.

Looking at his watch he decided he too should grab some shut-eye so he'd be ready when Saxon's team returned.

****

Miller, Dink and Webb, realizing they likely had little time to respond to the threat outside the house, sprang into action without communication. It was as if they had rehearsed such an attack and prepared how they'd respond in advance.

Webb doused the lights while Dink killed the power to the television set. While this served to telegraph their location inside the house, it also made seeing them from outside much more challenging. While Webb and Dink moved, Miller retrieved the 12ga shotgun kept atop the bookshelf and quickly racked the slide to chamber a round. Contrary to popular misconception, the sound of a shotgun slide racking did little to deter the hit-squad outside your home.

“We're dead if we stay here long,” whispered Dink. Suddenly producing a pistol from beneath his t-shirt. Webb had magically produced one as well. They wouldn't be effective against rifles, but would at least provide them some protection if the attackers hit before they could move to a more advantageous position or obtain higher powered weapons.

Without speaking the three quickly moved from the play room, though the short hallway, back into the living-room. There they repeated the process of dousing as many sources of light as possible along with retrieving an AR15 rifle hidden atop the television entertainment center. Webb quickly chambered a round and ensured it was fully seated.

“How many you think there are?” Webb asked aloud.

While attempting to peer out a window, without presenting himself as a target, Miller whispered back, “Hard to say. We have to assume at least six men, but if they went to get reinforcements, who knows.”

“Come on ladies, lets move,” whispered Dink as he maneuvered behind a thick sofa. It would be scant protection against rifle rounds but at least offered some concealment should bullets start flying. That he was the only one without a long gun also factored in his tactical decision making process.

“Give me thirty seconds,” called out Webb who swiftly disappeared down the side hallway.

In what promised to be the longest twenty-two seconds in history, he returned with a a rifle for Dink and several odd shaped goggles. Tossing one each to Miller and Dink he quickly donned his own pair of night-vision goggles while Dink chambered a round in his carbine.

“We know there's a threat left-side, possibly near the animal barn. Unknown what we're walking into gentleman.”

Miller's statement laid bare the situation. They could chose to stand their ground, engage in a gun-battle and hope to survive. The odds were in favor of the attackers and chances were good at least one of them would be injured, if not killed. The alternative, also not promising, was to attempt to rapidly leave the house. However, in that case they would be storming out, into the face of an unknown number of attackers, coming from unknown positions.

Whichever course of action they chose, they had to chose it quickly. The animal barn was only seventy five yards from the house, and it had been nearly a full minute since they first heard the crash of an unknown object falling to the ground.

“I ain't going to die in no Alamo,” called out Dink. “But running out of here like rabbits is a sure way to get killed. They're too close already.”

“Stand and fight it is.”

With that, the power to the entire house gave out. What little light still being produced in the room by various electronic devices was quickly extinguished bathing them in near total darkness.

Miller smiled to himself. The hit-squad had made their first mistake.

[Stg1swret]

This is getting real interesting. love the pace, Stig. keep it coming.