Message-ID: <30217asstr$989539802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Aftermath by Al Steiner - Ch 20 (no sex) 1/1
Date: Thu, 10 May 2001 20:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

AFTERMATH
By Al Steiner

Send all comments to steiner_al@hotmail.com
Previous chapters can be found at www.storiesonline.net


CHAPTER 20


"What are we going to do?" Sherrie asked, trying not to let panic overcome
him.  "Is there any way to land this thing without those pedal thingies?"

"Well, there's an auto rotational landing," Brett said, "but that's not
really the ideal solution."

"What's an auto rotational landing?" Sherrie wanted to know, locking onto
that in desperation.  "If it'll get us down, let's do it."

"That means he cuts the power and lets us fall to the ground," Jason said.
"At the last moment, he pulls up and arrests the fall."

Sherrie looked at the two of them as if they were mad.  "CUT the power?" she
said.  "Fall?  Are you insane?"

"Not at all," Brett said, putting the aircraft back in the wide bank that it
had been in a few moments before.  "That's how you get down if you have an
engine failure.  The problem here is that it'll be kind of hard to bring us
down in a specific place.  We might end up in a tree, or on top of a
building.  And you come down rather hard too.  I had to do it once in a
Kiowa in Texas.  It wasn't pretty.  My observer fucked up his back pretty
good and the helicopter never flew again.  This chopper would almost
certainly be permanently disabled if we did that and there's still a better
than even chance that we'd all be killed anyway over this kind of terrain."

"Great," Sherrie said, barking out a semi-hysterical laugh.  "So we're
talking a fifty-fifty chance?"

"If we try THAT," Brett said, wiping the sweat off his face again.  Christ
his knee was hurting.  "There might be another way though."

"Like what?" Sherrie asked.

"Like letting me fly," Jason said.

"Letting YOU fly?" Sherrie said, her eyes wide.  "You don't know how to fly
this thing!"

"I KNOW how to fly it," Jason corrected.  "I've just never done it before."

"And this isn't the time to take over the controls," Brett said.  "Sorry
Jase, but I don't think it would be possible to maintain control if we tried
to switch in mid-air, otherwise I might give it a shot."

"Then what do we do?" Jason and Sherrie asked together.

"You can't fly it," Brett told Jason.  "But maybe you can be my left foot."

"Push the pedal for you?"

"You got it," Brett said.  "Unbuckle and lean over here.  If you put your
foot on the pedal and push it when I tell you to and release it when I tell
you to... maybe it just might be enough to keep us under control.  I can
still work the right pedal, the collective, and the cyclic.  Sherrie?"

"Yeah?" she said doubtfully.

"We'll need your help too.  I need you to come over here and hold onto my
left leg to keep it from moving.  When Jason pushes the pedal down, don't
let my lower leg go down with it.  Got it?"

"I think so," she said, nodding, glad to have something to do.

"All right," Brett said.  "Let's give it a shot.  We'll try to pull a hover
up here again to get the feel for it.  If we can do that, there's a good
chance we'll be able to land."

Sherrie and Jason both got into position.  Jason released his harness and
edged halfway out of his left side seat.  He stretched his right foot out
and over and slid it up against Brett's left boot.  Brett winced a little at
the contact.  Sherrie resumed her position between the two seats.  It took a
little experimentation but finally, by kneeling down at an uncomfortable
angle, she was able to get her hands around his upper calf, just below the
wound, and hold it in place without obstructing either his vision, his hand
on the collective, or Jason's leg on the pedal.  The fit of the three of
them however, was more than a little awkward.

"Okay," Brett told Jason once they were ready, "the important thing to
remember is NOT to push down hard on the thing.  When I say to push it, just
ease it down a little tiny bit at a time, very slowly.  When I say let up,
do the same.  Got it?"

"I got it," Jason said.

"All right, let's give it a shot." He took a few deep breaths and leveled
out their bank once again.  "Slowing up."

He eased up on the power once again, making the airspeed indicator slowly
wind down.  He watched it carefully as it dipped closer and closer to the
point where the torque became a force to be seriously reckoned with.  As
before, it was just under 30 knots when Brett felt the tail starting to
turn.  "Push down just a bit," he told Jason.

Jason applied a very small amount of pressure to the pedal.  It sank down a
half an inch and than another half an inch.  The swing of the tail smoothed
out.  Brett's foot remained just above the pedal, held there by Sherrie's
bloody hands.

"Good job," Brett said, starting to think that this just might work after
all.  Though having his leg suspended was increasing the pain considerably,
it was nowhere near the white-hot agony of his first attempt at slowing.
"Get ready to do it more.  The more I adjust the collective, the worse the
torque is going to be.  It's a constant adjustment as we slow."

"Right," Jason said, shifting a little in his seat.

Brett continued to reduce airspeed and Jason continued to gently push down
on the pedal to compensate for it.  The needle dropped below 20 and then
below 10.  There were a couple of moments when they swung back and forth,
when Brett had to push a little on the right and Jason had to ease up on the
left, but these swings, although jerking, were almost gentle, nothing like
the violent spinning of before.  Brett barked out commands - up or down - as
they were needed.  Finally the needle dropped to zero knots of forward
speed.  The back end tried desperately to swing and actually was able to in
small increments, but the up and down of the pedals with two different feet
upon them were able to counter it.  They hovered in space, 2000 feet above
the ground.

"We did it!" Jason yelled excitedly.  "Goddamn Brett, we did it! We're
hovering!"

"Thank god," Brett said, smiling in spite of the pain.

"Does this mean that we're going to live?" Sherrie asked from her kneeling
position.  Her hands were cramping from the effort of holding Brett's leg.

"It means our odds got a little better," Brett said.  "Now lets bring it
back up to forty knots or so and then we'll head on down.  Get ready to push
again Jase."

Slowly Brett built up airspeed once more until they were past the critical
point.  Jason kept the proper amount of pressure applied to the pedal.  Once
they were relatively stable Brett let everyone back away from him in order
to stretch their fatigued muscles before the big event.  Brett also had
Jason contact Paul on the radio to tell him what they were doing and to have
him clear the parking lot.

"We're going to land on the far side of the lot," Jason explained, "but be
sure everyone stays well clear until the skids hit the ground.  There is a
chance that we might... you know... have a loss of control and we wouldn't
want anyone else to get hurt."

"Copy," Paul said slowly.  "We'll be standing by.  Good luck to you."

"Thanks," Jason said.  "We'll need it."

Brett banked the helicopter back around in a wide circle, bringing them
around so that he could approach from the north, which would lessen the
chances of them accidentally hitting the community center building if they
lost control at the last second.  This course put them out over the canyon,
which was still about a third full of raging floodwaters rushing down from
higher in the mountains.  As he passed over the northern rim Brett began to
descend and slowed his airspeed to 35 knots.

"Okay," he said as the altimeter approached 5000 feet above sea level,
"let's get back into position and we'll start slowing down."

Jason and Sherrie both quickly resumed their respective places at Brett's
side.  Brett had to stifle a scream as Sherrie grabbed his leg a little too
hard and then another as Jason's boot nudged his foot.

"Are you all right?" they both asked, looking at him anxiously.

"Yeah," he breathed, biting his lip a little.  "Everyone ready?"

They assured him that they were as ready as they were going to get.

"Then let's land this thing," Brett said.

He continued to descend, letting the helicopter take a gentle angle
downward.  They passed over the hills between the town and the canyon and
then over the southern wall itself.  The rooftops and winding streets of the
subdivision grew bigger and bigger in their field of view.  Ahead of them
and slightly to the left, the park and the community center could be seen,
including the large parking lot that was their landing zone.  Brett eased up
on the airspeed a little more, keeping them just above the point where Jason
needed to actively intervene.  He banked a little to the left and then back
to the right, putting the landing zone directly in front of them.

"Okay," he said once they were lined up.  "We're on final approach now.  I'm
going to slow up some more.  Get ready to do your stuff."

"I'm ready," Jason said, chewing his lip a little.

"Remember," Brett said as he pushed down a little more on the collective,
"once we get into the ground effect, you're going to have to ease up.  The
blades won't be biting into the air as hard and the torque is going to
suddenly lessen."

"I'll remember," Jason said, his eyes watching out the windshield in front
of them.

They passed the outer edge of the park, still descending, and Brett dropped
the airspeed past the critical point.  "Down a bit, a bit more," he said,
and Jason pushed down on the pedal.  The back end, which had been trying to
swing, stabilized for a moment until the speed dropped even more.  "More,"
Brett said.  "Just a bit more."

They passed over the baseball diamond at a little over a hundred feet above
the ground, still slowing, the tail swinging spastically back and forth
about three feet in both directions.  Brett continued to slow them up and
Jason continued to apply pressure to his pedal.

"Doing good, doing good," Brett said, feeling sweat dripping down his face,
feeling his heart pounding in his chest.  He slowed some more.  "A little
more, a little more."

They passed over the southern edge of the parking lot, still slowly
dropping, still moving at about twelve knots, the back end still swinging
back and forth as Jason's control movements lagged just behind Brett's voice
commands.

"Coming up on the LZ," Brett warned, slowing them even further.  "Here's
where it really gets tricky."

"Bring it on," Jason said, wiping his own face, watching with intense
concentration as the white lines of the parking spots grew larger and
larger.

Brett dropped a little further, until they were about six feet above the
ground.  "We're going to hover now," he said, bleeding off the rest of the
speed.  The tail swung out a little wider as Jason struggled to keep up with
the maneuver.  For a moment it seemed they were going to spin wildly but it
was only a moment.  He pushed down a little more and arrested it and then
overcompensated just a little, forcing Brett to counter his move.  At last
the airspeed stood at 0 knots six feet above the ground.

"Good job," Brett said with a little sigh of relief.  "We're almost home
free.  I'm gonna drop us down now.  Get ready for the ground effect.  As
soon as we start to swing, let up on the pedal slowly and I'll give a little
push on mine.

"Let's do it," Jason said.

Brett let them drop down a little bit more and, at three feet, they were
firmly in the ground effect, where the air from their own rotor was bouncing
off the ground and pushing them back upward.  The helicopter suddenly didn't
need as much power to keep aloft and in order to get them the rest of the
way down, Brett pulled back on the collective considerably more than he
would have to make the same adjustment at altitude.  As such the rear end
tried to swing around since the force of torque was equally reduced.

"Ease up, ease up!" Brett barked, feeling the swing.

Jason eased up a little faster than he had been, countering the action.  The
rear end stabilized.

"Out of sight," Brett said, dropping them the rest of the way down.  There
was a thump from beneath them as the skids touched semi-gently down on the
asphalt.  It was almost anti-climatic.

"We did it!" Jason yelled, feeling the wonderful sensation of being back on
mother earth.  "We're down Brett!  We did it!"

"We're down?" Sherrie asked.  She too had felt the thump of landing but was
having trouble believing that they were really safe.

"We're down," Brett said, neutralizing the collective and turning the
throttle back to idle.  The whine of the turbine engine, which had been
screaming a moment before as it held the helicopter at a hover, died down to
a soft, almost gentle hum.  The rotor blades began to slow down.  "It wasn't
the prettiest landing I've ever participated in, but goddamn if it didn't
feel the best once it was over."


+++++


Now that the immediate crisis was over and the adrenaline had a chance to
slack off some, Brett's leg began to seriously scream at him for the abuse
that had been inflicted upon it.  The pain swelled up like a balloon,
traveling up and down his body in sickening waves, commanding his attention.
He had never imagined that a simple gunshot wound could be so freaking
painful.  Hadn't he been told once that they were almost painless?  What
moron had pulled that information out of his ass?  Obviously someone who had
never been shot in the knee before.

"Are you all right Brett?" Jason, still quite elated at the fact that he was
actually alive and not a burned up, smashed up corpse, asked.  He didn't
like the way that Brett was leaning back in his chair with his eyes squeezed
shut.

"I think..." he said, "that you... you better do the shut-down checklist for
me.  Do you mind?"

"I'm on it," he said worriedly.  He gave his mentor one last glance and then
began the process of disengaging the rotor and shutting down the engine.

Sherrie meanwhile, jumped out through the missing door on the side and fell
to her knees on the wet asphalt.  She leaned down and put her lips to the
ground, kissing it several times.  "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she
said, over and over again, presumably to god or Jesus or whatever entity she
believed in.

Across the parking lot the door to the community center opened and Paul came
out, followed by two of his medical team.  They had a wheeled table with
them - a makeshift gurney that had been constructed by Steve Kensington a
few days before.  They reached the helicopter before the blades were even
able to stop turning.  Paul ripped open the pilot's side door and looked in.

"Hey Paul," Brett groaned, trying a grin on for size and doing a miserable
job at it.  "What's the good word?"

"That was some kind of fucked up looking landing," Paul said, his eyes
dropping down to the bloody bandage on Brett's knee.  He also took note of
the blood, now congealing, that had dripped down to the floor.

"Any landing that you walk away from," Brett quoted, "is a good landing.  I
learned that in flight school.  I think they laid that one on us the first
day.  It's right up there with the old, bold pilots saying."

"Well, it was a good landing then, I'll agree with that," Paul said, "but it
don't look like YOU are going to be walking away from it.  How bad is the
injury?  Give it to me straight."

"It went in below my kneecap and went out just above it," Brett told him.
"I saw bone fragments and tendons sticking out of the exit wound.  I can't
move my leg at all."

"Do you mean you PHYSICALLY can't move it, or do you mean it hurts too much
to move it?"

"Both," Brett told him.  "It's agony to even try, and it won't move even
when I do."

Paul nodded.  He reached down and began unlacing Paul's left boot.  "I'm
going to check and make sure you're still getting blood flow down there," he
said.  "How's the pain?"

"Horrible," Brett said honestly.  "I had a kidney stone once and I thought
that THAT was bad."  He shook his head.  "That felt like a blowjob in
comparison to this."

Paul laughed a little, taking the laces all the way off.  "You have a way
with words Brett," he said.  "You oughtta be a writer.  Are we gonna be able
to get the wounded to El Dorado Hills?"

"Yes," Brett said immediately.  "We'll get them there."

"Are you gonna fly there the same way you landed?  With Jason pushing one of
your pedals and Sherrie holding your leg up."

"There's no other way," Brett said.  "Just shoot me up with some of that
morphine to take the edge off of this.  We'll make it."

Paul looked up at him.  "Shoot you up with morphine before you fly a
helicopter?  Isn't that just a little unwise?"

"It's the only way," Brett said.  "Don't give me enough to put me out.  Just
give me enough to make it tolerable."

Paul gave him a doubtful look and then began trying to pull Brett's boot off
of his foot.  The moment he moved the leg in order to accomplish this, Brett
screamed as the pain flashed white-hot once again.

"Brett," Paul said softly, "I can't give you enough morphine to make this
tolerable.  That much will put you out like a light."

Brett panted for a few moments, wiping a fresh sheen of sweat from his face.
"Give me what you can," he said.  "There's no other way to do it.  We have
wounded that need to get there, don't we?"

He nodded.  "Yes, we do.  Lucy and John are both dead - we did everything we
could for them but... well, it just wasn't enough.  Susan, Lori, and Sandy
will need to get there at some point for treatment but they can wait for a
while.  Sarah, Rhonda, and Megan all have pretty serious wounds however,
particularly Megan.  They need to get to the doc right away, like within the
next twenty minutes."

"Then it's settled," Brett said.  "I was the one that went against common
sense and got myself shot up.  I'm the one that'll just have to deal with
the consequences.  Give me as much dope as you think I can tolerate and then
lets get those casualties loaded up."

"And what if you pass out from the pain while you're in flight?" Paul asked.
"Or what if you pass out from the dope?  I'm not a doctor Brett.  I'm not an
expert at medicating people.  That shit could happen.  What will you do
then?"

"Then we'll crash," Brett said, not mincing words.

Paul looked at him sternly, shaking his head hopelessly.  "What a
clusterfuck," he said.  "Is that really our only choice?  What about Jason?
Do we have the right to ask him to risk his ass on this screwed up mission?
If you crash, you'll be taking him with you."

Both of them looked over at Jason, who was still sitting in the observer's
seat, following the conversation.  "Well?" Brett asked him.  "What do you
think Jase?"

"I'll go no matter what," Jason said.  "My place is in this chopper.  But...
maybe there's another answer."

"Another answer?" Paul asked.  "What do you mean?"

"No," Brett said immediately before he could even say it.

"I could fly this thing to El Dorado Hills," Jason said, ignoring him.

"Absolutely not," Brett said.  "This is not the time to learn to fly.  Not
with casualties on board."

"Brett..." Jason started.

"I said NO," Brett said.  "That's final."

"I can do it," Jason said defiantly.  "I've been watching you fly this thing
for weeks now.  You've taught me every system, every control, everything."

"Jason, you can't just jump behind the controls of a helicopter and start
flying," Brett told him.  "It doesn't work that way, no matter HOW much you
think you know about it."

"Is that any riskier than flying the damn thing all shot up with morphine,
with one foot on the controls and a woman holding the other foot?  And
there's not even room for Sherrie and the casualties anyway, even if we
could talk Sherrie into climbing back in here."

"No," Brett repeated.

"I can do it," Jason said, staring at him.  "Brett, I CAN.  I know I can."

"No!"

"I'm not a kid Goddammit!" Jason yelled, leaning closer to him.  "You're
sitting there thinking that I'm talking out of my ass because I'm fourteen
fucking years old and I don't know any better.  I'm NOT Brett.  I know
exactly what I'm saying.  It might be a little rough at first, it might take
me a few minutes to get the feel of the thing, but if you help me, I can fly
this helicopter.  I know what I'm saying and I know what the risks are.  I
wouldn't tell you this if it wasn't true."

"Jason..." Brett started.

"You need to trust me Brett," Jason told him.  "You've always been the one
to treat me like I was a man, even when I wasn't acting like one.  You
treated me that way from the very start, back when I was crying over my mom
and dad next to that camper and I really was just a kid.  You stood up for
me in front of Jessica, in front of the other women in town, in front of
everyone.  Don't start treating me like a baby now."  He leaned even closer,
his voice softening.  "Let me fly this thing," he said.  "If you help me, I
can do it.  We might crash, but I think we stand a better chance with me
doing it than having both of us try to monkey the damn pedals together."

Brett looked at him, at the serious expression on his face, in his eyes.
Jason wasn't even old enough to shave yet.  He hadn't even reached his full
adult height yet.  But was he a man?  Was he old enough to give a subjective
assessment of his own abilities independent of the desires of youth?  Was
he?

"Brett, I can do it."

Brett let out a breath, letting his head hang down for a minute.  He looked
back up.  "Get this thing refueled and get Steve to put the doors back on,"
he said.  "And then, while Paul is loading up the casualties, you can help
me over to the other chair.  We take off in fifteen minutes."

Jason could not prevent the grin from spreading across his face.  "You got
it Brett," he said, standing up.  "We'll lift off in fifteen."  He hopped
out and began sprinting towards the fuel truck and Steve's shack.

Paul and Brett both watched him go.  "Do you really think that's a wise
decision?" Paul asked carefully.

"No," Brett said, shaking his head a little.  "But he made a very good
point.  His way is about the safest option that we've got."


+++++


Stu was looking at the trench that his forces had just managed to capture.
He couldn't help but be impressed by it.  "This has got to be the work of
our friend Brett," he told Stinson, who was tagging along just behind him.
"No bitch would have thought of something like this.  Only someone with
military experience could have supervised the construction of this thing."

"I suppose," Stinson said almost shortly.  He had been through a little too
much in the last hour to be concerned about WHO had built the trench.  "They
surely pounded the shit out of us from here though."

"Yes," Stu said with a nod.  "It all makes sense now.  He put trenches at
the first line of defense to keep the bitches that are shooting at us safe
from fire.  He probably hit on the only fucking way there was to keep them
from bolting the first time we shot back.  Even so, they fled like the wind
once we started to close and take some of them out."

"How many did we kill?" Stinson asked.

"Three bodies in the trenches that we took so far," Stu said.  "There's also
one towards the front that Lima's people hit when they were in that
stupid-ass shootout with the group that was running away."  He shook his
head in disgust.  "I still can't believe that he stood there and shot at
them when he could have just gone around the other side of the hill and hit
them from close range.  I'm gonna demote his ass for that.  Make him a
goddamn private again and put him on point."

Stinson looked at him with unmasked contempt.  "I wouldn't be too hard on
him," he said.  "Sometimes its kind of difficult to make rational decisions
when people are shooting at you and killing your men.  Especially as tired
as we all are."

Stu wasn't buying this.  "That's what our job is," he said.  "And I expect
better decisions than that.  First he loses his golden oppurtunity, and then
he gets half of his fucking men shot by that goddamn chopper.  Jesus, what a
moron."

Stinson dismissed the subject of Lima, having passed the point where he
really gave a shit.  "What about the chopper?" he asked instead.  "What do
you think was up with that weird shit it was doing?"  They had all seen the
Garden Hill helicopter climb up to altitude and go into a very wide circle
around the battle area and the town.  After circling for several minutes, it
had straightened out and then tried to hover, but had not been able to.  For
a moment it seemed that the thing was going to spin out of control and come
crashing to the ground.  But then it had sped back up and began to circle
again.  Finally, it had slowed up once more, going into a shaky looking
hover for a few moments, and then had turned to the south and disappeared
from sight.

"I think that one of Lima's guys managed to hit it," Stu said.  "Obviously
the thing was having some sort of mechanical problem that they were trying
to deal with.  Maybe the tail got hit or maybe one of the controls is out.
Either way, it looked like they were having a lot of trouble keeping the
thing under control.  They might not have even been able to land it.  My
guess is that that chopper is out of the fight whether it landed or not, and
good fucking riddance.  We'll have a much easier time taking that town if
they don't have a means of seeing us when we advance or dropping that napalm
on us."

"Taking the town?" Stinson asked.  "You still think we have a shot at that?
I lost 28 men charging this trench.  How many did Lima lose?"

Stu shook his head again.  "That asshole lost 38, including the five that
the chopper took out.  That leaves him with 18.  Obviously we'll have to
combine forces into one large attack."

Stinson did some mental addition - something that wasn't terribly easy
considering his fatigue level.  "That means we have 46 men to make an
assault," he said once he had the figure.  "That's less than I had to take
this one trench."

"Don't forget the ten able bodies from my covering platoon," Stu reminded
him.  "That brings us back up to 56 again.  That should be more than enough
to take the town now that we've cleared the trenches out.  The rest should
be pretty much a cakewalk, especially considering the fact that they won't
have the chopper any more to help direct them."

"You don't think they have any more trenches?" Stinson asked doubtfully.

Stu scoffed at the very notion.  "It takes time to build a trench like
this," he said.  "Especially if your workers are gonna be a bunch of
bitches.  What do you think they did, spent the last month digging fucking
trenches on every goddamn hill around the town?"  He shook his head
condescendingly.  "No, they only could've done this on the first line on the
most likely approaches.  We just made the mistake of advancing through the
easiest area.  That's the disadvantage to not having air assets - you can't
recon shit like this."

"So we're going forward again?" Stinson asked.

"Of course we are," Stu said forcefully.  "There's no other option.  And now
that that chopper is damaged, there's a good chance we might be able to
capture it and our friend Brett intact.  If we're lucky, the chopper will be
repairable and we'll be able to use it for ourselves."

"If we're lucky," Stinson echoed, sighing as he said it.  "What about the
men?  They've been through an awful lot.  I'm not sure they're... well...
motivated to try this again."

"They'll do what the fuck they're told or they'll be shot on the spot," Stu
said roughly.  "Now let's start shifting everyone over to here.  We'll
reorganize again and then we'll start to move in ninety minutes from now.
And just to show everyone that the worst is over, I will personally lead
this assault."


+++++


It took Steve about ten minutes to put the doors back on the helicopter -
about five minutes faster than it usually took Brett and Jason working
together to do it.  While he was doing that Jason drove the fuel truck over
and filled up the helicopter's tank with fresh jet fuel.  Brett continued to
sit in the pilot's seat while all of this was going on.  His knee was still
screaming at him quite loudly but he tried his best to ignore it as he
talked on the radio to his field commanders.

"The last look I got of them," he told them on the VHF band, "they were
still scattered around pretty good.  They were in possession of the two
outside trench complexes but the original group near the rear was still back
there.  You guys mauled them pretty good, probably fifty percent casualties.
It'll be at least an hour, maybe more, before they can regroup and try
again."

"I copy Brett," Matt, the commander of the ground forces, replied.  "We're
all in position now and we're expecting our replacements out here soon.
Confirming they're on their way?"

"They just left five minutes ago," Brett assured him.  "Chrissie's squad
lost two of their weapons during the final pullback so I only sent out
enough to cover every gun.  I loaded them up with extra ammo though."

"Good," Matt said.  "We should be all right as long as they attack us on
somewhat the same path as before.  We're pretty well spread out here.  It
would be nice if we could get you back in the air for us before that happens
though.  It's not real fun down here not knowing what they're doing."

"We're going to be leaving for a wounded run in just a few minutes," Brett
assured him, leaving out the part about how Jason was going to be flying.
"With any luck we'll be back within forty-five to an hour.  That should get
us overhead again before they can make their next attack.  If not, you're
just going to have to wing it.  Do you think you're up for it?"

"I guess I'll have to be," Matt said.  "I'll talk to you when you get back."

"Good luck to you," Brett said.  "Not that you'll need it."

Before he could sign off, Chrissie came on the air.  "Brett," she said.
"How are YOU doing?  How's your leg?"

"I'm hanging in here," he told her, putting a note of nonchalance into his
tone.  "Don't worry about me.  Just worry about keeping those assholes
back."

"Is the bleeding stopped?" she asked, insisting upon worrying about him.
"Will you be able to fly okay?"

"Paul wrapped me up nice and tight," Brett answered.  "And I can guarantee
that the flight won't bother it any worse than it's being bothered now.
Just put me out of your mind.  I'll be back overhead soon."

"Copy," she said slowly.  It was obvious that she could sense something was
not right but she mentioned it no further.

"And no more heroics," he told her sternly.

"No more heroics," she agreed.

No sooner had Jason finished the fueling process than Paul and his helpers
began to bring the wounded out.  They were wheeled one by one across the
parking lot on the homemade gurney.  Rhonda was the first one.  She was
barely conscious, obviously well doped-up, and had a large bandage over her
chest.  Her breathing was very ragged and sounded very wet, her face was
pale, almost ashen in color.  An IV had been started on her and was running
down into her arm.  Since there was not room for three people to lie down in
the back, she was forced into a sitting position against the back wall.

Megan Flitcroff was next.  She was even worse looking than Rhonda.  Megan
had been shot in the center of her chest during the first stages of the
assault on Matt's position.  Though it seemed her lungs had been spared,
some vital organ or vessel had been severed somewhere in there.  She was
completely unconscious, her breathing fast and shallow.  Two IVs had been
installed in her arms and Paul had already run in three liters of fluid in a
vain attempt to keep her blood pressure above 80/20.  She was forced, by
virtue of her lack of consciousness of any kind, to lie down on the floor.
It was somewhat cramped and her feet ended up between the two front seats.

The last gravely wounded person to be loaded up was Sarah, Steve's wife.
She had taken one in the right side of her chest and, like Rhonda, was
obviously suffering from a collapsing lung in addition to blood loss from
internal damage.  She was fully conscious but having considerable trouble
with her breathing.  Her pale skin was soaked in sweat and her chest heaved
up and down with the effort of respiration.  She had an IV as well and she
also had a catheter in her chest to help relieve the pressure that was
building up from the leaking air.  Steve, who had been standing in the
background until this point, rushed over and wept over her as she was loaded
up.

"I'll... be... okay..." she panted to him, kissing his face and offering him
a hug.  "A little... trip... to... the doctor... is all."

"I'll see you later," he said, sniffing as he returned the hug.  "Do you
understand?"

"I do," she said.  "And I will.  That's a promise."

Sarah, like Rhonda, was forced up against the back of the chopper in a
sitting position.  Steve gave her one last kiss and then allowed the door to
be closed upon them.

"All right," Brett said, looking at Paul and Jason, who were standing
outside in the rain.  "I guess it's my turn."

"I guess it is," Paul said.

Paul, Jason, and Steve, all working together, carefully lifted him out of
the right side seat and carried him around the nose of the aircraft to the
front.  He screamed a few times as his leg was jostled up and down during
the trip and a few more as they maneuvered him into the observer's chair.
Paul used a pillow to prop up his leg in the most comfortable position but
even so the pain was tremendous.

"War sucks," Brett said through gritted teeth as Jason climbed into the
pilot's seat.

"Give me your arm," Paul told him from just outside the door.  "I'll give
you a little something for the pain."

"Now you're talking," Brett said, handing over his left arm.

Paul wrapped a rubber tourniquet around his bicep and tied it off, causing
the vein in his elbow to poke up invitingly.  He pulled an alcohol swab
package from his pocket and ripped it open, discarding the wrapper and using
the pungent smelling swab to rub the vein.  He then produced a capped
syringe from a fanny pack on his waist.  He pulled off the cap and dropped
it to the ground.  A small needle on the end of the syringe gleamed up at
him.  He poked the needle into Brett's arm, just over the top of the vein,
and a moment later some of his blood could be seen swirling into the clear
liquid inside of the syringe, clouding it.

"Okay," Paul said, "I'm in the vein.  You should be feeling better in just a
moment."  With that, he slowly pushed the plunger on the syringe and
injected the contents.  "This is eight milligrams of morphine," he told him.
"As much as I dare give you.  It won't make you completely comfortable but
it'll take the edge off and let you still stay awake and alert enough to
make decisions and give instructions."

"Whatever helps," Brett told him.  Already he could feel the medicine
coursing through his body, making him a little dizzy, relaxing him.  "Damn,
that shit works fast."

"Nothing like IV push," Paul told him.  "All right.  I've done what I can
for you."

"You're a good man," Brett said.  "But we need to get going.  Get everyone
well clear of the area."

"Right," Paul replied.  "See you in a bit."

"Damn right you will."

By the time Paul had pulled everyone away from the helicopter and back
inside the community center, the morphine was up to nearly full effect in
Brett's body.  As Paul had told him, it didn't take the pain away, didn't
make him completely comfortable.  Instead, he just didn't seem to CARE about
the pain as much.  The swimming sensation in his head made it seem like more
of an annoyance than a living thing.

"All right," Brett said, looking over at Jason.  "You ready to fly?"

"I'm ready," Jason assured him nervously.

"Then let's do it.  Go through the engine start procedure and get the rotor
turning."

Jason flipped the proper switches and then engaged the starter, going
through the motions mechanically and with confidence.  This part he had done
many times before.  The turbine engine, still quite warm from the earlier
flight, flared immediately to life, making the vehicle vibrate almost
comfortingly.  Jason then disengaged the rotor clutch, allowing the blades
to begin spinning above them.

"So far, so good," Brett told him.  "Now go through the abbreviated
pre-flight check real quick and then we'll lift off."

Jason nodded and then began going through the checklist one by one.  He
called out each item as he checked it and then confirmed it's operational
status.  This was also something that he had done many times in the past and
it took him less than two minutes to accomplish.  "We're ready," he said
when he was done, now starting to feel REAL nervousness.  Was this really a
good idea?

Brett didn't allow himself to have second thoughts.  "Then let's go," he
said.  "Keep the cyclic and the collective neutralized and throttle up to
one hundred percent."

"Throttling up," Jason said, turning the knob on the collective all the way
up.  The whine of the engine increased greatly, as did the vibration of the
cabin.  The needle on the RPM dial swung upward and stopped just below the
red zone.  The rotor blades became a blur above them.

"Now push the collective gently forward," Brett told him next.  "And I mean
gently.  We'll lift up into the air once the blades bite into it.  Remember,
the moment that the skids leave the ground, you'll have major torque to deal
with.  Push down on the right pedal as soon as we go up, about two inches,
slowly.  That oughtta keep us under control at least.  You'll have to monkey
back and forth until you find the neutral position."

"Okay," Jason said, stuttering a little, he was so nervous.  "Here I go."
Slowly, as he had been told, he pushed forward on the parking-brake like
lever to the left of his seat.  As he did so, the angle of the rotor blades
was changed, creating lift.  The vehicle began to shudder as the force of
gravity was countered and then, after an agonizing five seconds, it lifted
up, the skids breaking contact with the ground.  Immediately and violently
the back end tried to swing in opposition to the rotor.

"Right pedal," Brett barked, feeling the swing.

Jason pushed down about two inches, dampening but not entirely killing the
torque.  The rear end continued to spin around as the helicopter reached the
top of the ground effect and stopped there, unable to lift any more.

"Get this thing stable," Brett said, watching Jason's every move.  "Hurry
up.  There isn't a margin for error here."

Jason pushed the two pedals up and down for a moment as they hovered three
feet above the ground.  He overcompensated the first time, sending them
spinning in the other direction.  He then overcompensated for his
overcompensation, sending them spinning back the other way.

"Easy," Brett told him, feeling adrenaline shooting through him despite the
relaxing effects of the morphine.  "You're pushing the pedals down too hard.
Remember what I told you.  GENTLE movements.  It's almost like you just
think about doing it and it's done."

Jason, his face sweaty, his pupils dilated from his own adrenaline rush,
stopped pushing down so hard.  Gradually he was able to get control of the
spinning motion and arrest it, leaving them in a 3-foot hover facing the
community center.  The faces of Paul, Steve, and several others could be
seen peering out through the windows in front.

"Very good," Brett said, taking a few deep breaths.  "Now try to get the
feel of this thing for a minute.  If we were having formal lessons, I'd have
you do this for an hour or so, but since we aren't, we'll only spare a
minute.  Spin us back and forth by using the pedals.  Turn us around in a
circle, both ways, and stop us right where we are now."

Jason did this, holding the three-foot hover and pushing the pedals back and
forth, allowing the aircraft to spin slowly around in a circle and then back
again.  The motions were jerky at first, almost nauseatingly so, but very
quickly - quicker even than Brett had the first time he'd taken a trainer
helicopter up so many years before - the young man got the hang of it.
Within a minute he was able to spin them around and stop them on a
particular compass heading and then spin them back the other way and do it
again.

"Very good," Brett said, obviously impressed.  "You have an uncanny way of
getting a feel for it."

"All those years of playing computer games and PlayStation," Jason said,
giving them another spin to the right.

"That, and the unnatural reaction times of the young," Brett said.  "Anyway,
this portion of the lesson is over.  Let's get ourselves up in the air now,
shall we?"

"Let's do it."

"Okay," Brett said.  "It gets a little tricky here.  I want you to push
gently on the collective again, just a little bit more, okay?  We'll go
straight up slowly.  Once you get out of the ground effect, you're going to
be dealing with more torque, so get ready to compensate for it."

"Right," Jason said, bracing himself.  He slowly pushed the collective
forward, causing the blades to bite harder into the air and produce more
lift.  They moved upward haltingly, the back end trying to spin again as
more torque was created.  Jason, ready for it, countered it smoothly by
pushing on the pedals.  They spun less than two degrees before he had them
stable.  They continued to rise slowly into the rainy sky, clearing the roof
of the community center, the ground dropping away beneath them.  The
altimeter wound its way upward, the dial spinning clockwise.

"Beautiful," Brett said, relaxing his grip on his seat a little.  "You're
doing very well.  Take us up to 5000 feet and then we'll start playing with
the cyclic.  In the meantime, get us on the heading for Cameron Park."

As they continued to rise into the air, Jason manipulated the pedals so that
they spun around.  He watched the compass as they turned, arresting the spin
when it reached 234 degrees - the course to the Cameron Park Airport.  He
had to fine tune just a bit to achieve the exact heading and, so intent upon
this was he, that he didn't notice his altitude passing over 5000 feet.

"You're getting too high," Brett said.  "Ease up on the collective a bit."

He eased up too much, not just stopping their climb but actually dropping
them back down a bit.  He adjusted without being told, bringing them back
up.  He never did get them stabilized on the exact altitude before Brett
started him on the next phase of the flight.

"Don't worry about it," Brett said.  "You're close enough.  Let's put on
some speed, shall we?  Now remember what I told you, everything that you do
with the controls has an effect on some other control that will require
compensation.  When you push the cyclic forward..."

"Torque will change and lift will change," Jason finished for him, reciting
one of the lessons that he had been given time and time again.

"Correct," Brett said.  "So get ready to counter them.  And remember: GENTLE
movements.  Handle those controls softer than you do Stacy and Tina's tits.
You get it?"

"I get it," Jason said with a nervous grin.  "Here we go."  He pushed
forward on the cyclic, changing the angle of the rotor ever so slightly.
The nose of the helicopter dipped down a little and they began to move
forward through the air, slowly picking up speed.  As Brett had told him it
would, the torque eased up, trying to spin the back end around, and their
altitude tried to drop as some of the lift was reduced.  Jason pulled back
on the collective and eased up on the anti-torque pedal.  The forces
stabilized and they remained more or less on course and at altitude.

"You're flying my man," Brett said, proud of his student despite the effects
of the morphine and the pain beneath.  "You're actually flying."

"Goddamn if I'm not," Jason said, his grin as wide as it ever got.

Brett had him slowly pick up speed until they were moving at nearly ninety
knots.  They shot over the canyon and over the rugged terrain south of it,
heading towards the airport where the helicopter had once been housed.
Jason had a little trouble at first keeping them at a steady altitude but,
as he had with controlling the torque, he picked it up with uncanny
quickness.  It wasn't long before the airport and the devastated town
surrounding it was looming before them.

"Okay," Brett said, "there's Highway 50 up ahead.  Now it's time you learned
to bank."

"Turn right to 270, right?" Jason asked.

"That's right," Brett agreed.  "Banking is different than turning with the
anti-torque pedals.  It's a lot easier to get out of control if you do it
wrong.  Just ease the cyclic to the right and the aircraft will start to
bank.  It will continue to increase the bank as long as you hold it away
from the neutral position.  If you keep it there too long and bank us too
much, we'll lose all of our lift and go spinning to the ground, so don't do
that."

"Don't do that," Jason repeated.  "Right."

"And again, you'll have to compensate for the loss of lift during the bank
with the collective and then decompensate once the turn is complete.  So be
ready to that.  You shouldn't have to worry much about the pedals at this
speed however."

Jason performed the bank very well.  If anything, he was a little TOO gentle
with the controls, shooting them well beyond the landmark of Highway 50 and
then having to bring them back.  He countered the ups and downs of lift
fairly well but had a little trouble getting them back on their course.
This was all very well however since it allowed him some precious practice
banking back and forth.  At last they were at a steady altitude flying
directly over the lanes of the four-lane highway (when it wasn't washed out
by mudslides that is).  In a matter of minutes they saw the hills guarding
El Dorado Hills coming up before them.

"Slow up your airspeed to about 60 knots," Brett told him.  "And start a
gentle descent down to 2000 feet.  Again, remember to compensate for your
forces."

"Right," Jason said, pulling back on the cyclic and the collective.

As they did their jerky descent towards their neighboring township, Brett
dialed up the radio frequency that matched the one on the portable they had
given the town.  When he was sure that they had been spotted approaching by
the guard positions, he began to hail.  It took only a few seconds before he
was answered.

"This is Pat," said a male voice that both Brett and Jason recognized.  "Is
this Brett I'm talking to?"

"Yes it is," Brett agreed.  "We're approaching your town with three badly
wounded women from the battle.  Request permission to land in the usual
spot."

"Permission granted," Pat answered.  "I'll get the medical team scrambling
and we'll meet you at the LZ."

"Uh... it might be a better idea," Brett told him, "if you kept everyone
inside until after we touch down.  You see, I've been wounded as well and
Jason, my student, is flying the helicopter at the moment.  He's never flown
before, including never having landed."

The pause was almost comically long.  Brett could picture Pat down there in
the school building mulling that one over, perhaps wondering if he had heard
correctly.  "I see," Pat finally answered, not asking any further.  "We'll
keep everyone indoors until you're down."

"I think it would be for the best," Brett told them.  "We should be down
shortly."

Shortly turned out to be almost ten minutes.  Jason handled the descent and
the slowing aspect of the landing very well, bringing them to less than 600
feet above the LZ and less than 30 knots of airspeed, but the challenge of
the tight turns and lining up with the landing zone proved to be
frustratingly hard.  He overshot three times and undershot twice before he
was able to get them onto the correct angle of attack at the right point in
the parking lot.  Brett encouraged him gently during this process, never
yelling at him, talking almost soothingly the entire time.  Finally he got
them down to 3 feet above the parking lot only 30 feet from where he had
intended to touch down.  He successfully pulled into a shaky hover and then
let the skids thump down after a final twist of the tail from the torque.

"We're down," Brett said, letting out an exhalation of air.  "The eagle has
landed Goddammit!"

Jason was able to say nothing for a moment.  He was too keyed up.  Brett had
to remind him to neutralize the controls and throttle down.

"Keep us idling," Brett told him when he finally did this.  "I want to head
back to town as soon as they get our people unloaded."

"You bet," Jason agreed, wiping his sweaty face.

The moment the rotor slowed down to idle speed, Pat, Renee, and several of
the other townspeople came rushing out, pushing their gurney before them.
They reached the helicopter and opened up the side door, the others making
way for Renee to stick her head in.  She didn't even glance at Jason or
Brett, didn't acknowledge them in any way.  Instead, she began examining her
patients, giving them a quick look to determine severity.

"They all look pretty bad," she said, touching each of them with her hands.
"Let me do a quick triage to see who we take out first."  She homed right in
on Megan, frowning as she shook her a little by the shoulder.  When this
elicited no response she picked up her arm and felt for a pulse.  Another
frown resulted and she then felt at the neck.

"Is she dead?" Jason asked, watching all of this with alarm.

"Not quite," Renee said.  "She has a bradycardic pulse - only about 30.  Her
breathing is almost completely absent."  She paused for a moment, her face
serious.  "She won't make it.  She's probably already suffered brain
damage."  She turned to her team.  "We'll triage her as a black."

They nodded solemnly while she began looking at Rhonda.

"A black?" Jason asked.  "What does that mean?"

"It means there's nothing that can be done for her," she said.

"But you said she's still alive!" he cried in protest.

"For the moment," Renee said, her voice a little kinder now.  "But if I
waste time trying to treat someone who has virtually no chance of recovery,
one of these other people, who probably will make it, could die."

"But..."

"Jason," Brett said, putting his arm on him.  "It's okay.  That's the way
battlefield medicine works.  Let her do her job."

Jason most definitely didn't like it, but he kept the rest of his opinions
to himself.

Renee decided after examining the other two semi-conscious women that Sarah
was the worst of the two.  Once this decision was made, her team moved
quickly into action, pulling her out of the cramped confines of the
helicopter and onto their gurney.  Sarah moaned as her body thumped down
onto the small bed.

"Did Paul put in the chest catheter?" Renee asked, examining it.

"I'm not sure," Brett said.  "I would assume so."

"Tell him he saved her life," she said.  "She would've been dead some time
ago if not for that."  She turned to her team.  "Get her into the operating
room and have the surgery team prep her.  Tell them that I'll be in shortly.
As soon as you drop her off, get back out here and get this one."

"Rhonda," Rhonda croaked, her eyes creaking open.  "My name is Rhonda."

"Right," Renee said absently, not really wanting to know her patient's name.
"Rhonda.  She'll be next."

Her team moved off, leaving her and Pat standing there beside the chopper.
"And how about you?" Renee asked Brett, looking at the bandage on his knee.
"How bad are you?"

"My knee is pretty much shot - literally," he said.  "But I'll be okay for a
while.  Paul shot me up with some morphine and got my leg nice and
stabilized for me."

"You want us to get you inside?" she asked.  "It'll be some time before I
get around to..."

"No," Brett said.  "The battle is at a pretty critical phase right now and
Jason here is not quite ready to solo.  I need to stay here."

"Can't run the show without you huh?" Pat asked.

"Maybe they can," he said, "but I would just assume they didn't.  Besides,
there are other wounded back home that are worse than I am."

"How many?"

"Five more," Brett said.  "Mostly arm, leg, or shoulder wounds according to
Paul.  Nothing immediately critical."

Renee nodded, seeming to feel a little overwhelmed for a moment but then
catching herself.

"How is the battle going?" Pat wanted to know.  "Are you winning?  Losing?"

"We're winning," Brett said.  "There have been two engagements so far,
starting this morning.  I've been directing from the air while our forces
have been in the trenches they've dug.  We've chewed them up pretty bad
thanks to the ammo you folks gave us.  I'd say we've killed or badly wounded
at least a hundred of them, maybe more.  They're down to around sixty men."

"Sixty men out of four hundred?" Pat asked incredulously.

"Most of that was on the march," Jason said.

"That's right," Brett said.  "They came at us this morning with considerably
less than 200.  We've shot them, napalmed them, strafed them, and machine
gunned them every time they tried to advance."  He explained a little bit
more about the particulars of the battle, glossing over his own heroic
though ill-advised dive upon the attacking troops, concentrating instead
upon the bravery displayed by those in the trenches.

"Simply amazing," Pat said, seemingly in awe.  "Remind us never to start a
war with you folks."

"You don't have to worry about that," Brett said.  "When this shit is over
with I'm hoping we'll be able to retire from the war business."

"But it's not over yet?" Renee asked.

"Not yet," Brett said.  "They don't have a chance in hell of taking us now
but it looked to me like they were gathering for another try anyway when we
left."

"So there might be more wounded?"

Brett sighed.  "There might be," he agreed.  "But maybe I'll be able to
persuade them of the futility of their actions."

"How would you do that?" Pat asked.

"I'll try talking to them," Brett said.  "What can it hurt?"


+++++


Rhonda was pulled out of the chopper a few minutes later and whisked inside
the building by the medical team.  Renee bid Jason and Brett good luck and
farewell and then went off to begin the surgery on her patients.  In the
back of the helicopter Megan's heart had finally wound down to a stop, as
had her breathing.  She lay there lifeless, her IV's still installed in her
arms.

Pat gave her a sad look and then shook hands with both Jason and Brett,
wishing them luck.  "We'll see you later," he told them.  "Go kick some
ass."

"Thanks Pat," Brett said.  He closed his door and then watched as Pat headed
back for the school building.  When he was gone he looked over at Jason.
"Let's get back," he said.  "Same drill as before, lift-off, stabilize in
the ground effect, and then go up a thousand feet before you put on forward
speed."

Jason nodded, giving one last glance at the dead body behind him and then
throttling up.

His take-off and ascent was much smoother this time, not quite up to
professional standards of course, but not bad either.  He raised them up and
spun them around to a 90 degree heading before putting on the speed.  Soon
they were at 5000 feet once again and heading at 110 knots back to Cameron
Park.  His bank over the airport, bringing them to the return heading of 54
degrees, was also a vast improvement over the first time.  He only overshot
his compass heading once before putting it right on the dial.

"You keep this up," Brett said, still feeling the morphine working on him,
"and you're gonna put me out of a job."

"Oh, I think I'll need you around for a few more days at least," Jason said
in all seriousness.

Brett had him ascend even higher as they headed towards the canyon,
instructing him to level off at or about 6000 feet.  As soon as they were in
radio range of the town, Brett keyed up the radio.

"Brett to Garden Hill, is anyone out there?" he asked.

An ecstatic sounding Paul answered up first.  "You made it!" he said
happily.  "You actually made it there and back!"

"We did," Brett agreed, smiling at Jason.  "Did you ever have any doubts?"

"Of course not," Paul replied.

"Fuckin liar," Jason said good-naturedly.

"How was the mission?" Paul asked him.  "Any problems in El Dorado?"

"Well," Brett said, "we lost Megan on the way.  Rhonda and Sarah are still
hanging in there and are with the doctor now.  How are things going here?"

Matt came up on the frequency and handled that one.  "No contact yet," he
told Brett.  "We're all in position and just waiting.  We don't have a
visual on them and we're not really sure what, if anything, they're doing."

"Copy," Brett said.  "We're gonna head out over the battle area before we
land to have a look at what's happening.  ETA is about four minutes or so.
We'll update you then."

"We're standing by," Matt said.

They passed over the canyon still moving at 110 knots.  Thirty seconds later
the town flashed below them.  Brett had Jason slow up as they came up on the
battle area.  He leaned forward and peered out at the hills, trying to spot
the friendlies and the non-friendlies.  As he looked, he pulled out the map
and unfolded it on his lap.

"Ten knots," Jason said, struggling a little with the controls but keeping
them generally at the assigned altitude and heading.

"Good lad," Brett said.  "Try to pull a hover if you can.  Keep your eyes on
the instruments while you do it.  You have no reason to look outside."

"Right," Jason said, making the adjustments and bleeding off the rest of his
speed.

Brett spotted the friendly forces right away, finding them exactly where he
had left them, spread throughout the trenches just south of the first battle
area.  It took him a few more seconds to find the enemy but at last he
spotted the telltale figures of men among the brown and green landscape.
They were a quarter mile to the south of the main concentration of Garden
Hill forces, gathered loosely behind a row of hills.  It appeared they were
massing for an attack.

Brett compared their current location with the features on his map.  He
traced routes back and forth for a moment and then came to a decision.  He
keyed up his radio.  "Matt, they're massing for an attack in grid foxtrot 6.
It looks like the entire group is there - all that can walk anyway.  It
appears that they're doing weapons loading right now.  A bunch of them are
sitting in circles.  We need to shift forces to counter them."

"I copy," Matt said.  "Just give the word."

"You're platoon is fine where they are," he said.  "You'll catch the right
flank of their advance from your position.  Chrissie, you need to move your
people over to trenches 41 and 43.  That'll put you on their left flank.
You can concentrate heavily over there since we're dealing with a one
pronged advance."

"I copy trenches 41 and 43," Chrissie said a moment later.  "We're moving
now.  And it's good to hear your voice again."

"Thanks," Brett said absently.  "Michelle, you there?"

"Right here," she answered up.

"Shift your people over to trenches 38 and 39.  That'll put you dead center
of their advance if they go the way I'm thinking they will.  Once you've all
shifted, we're going to land and pick up another egg."

"I copy 38 and 39," she told him.  "And I'm glad to hear you back again
too."

Brett watched for a moment as his orders were carried out.  As before it
looked like ants leaving their nest and moving to another.  And also, as
before, they moved off to the south first in order to keep their shift a
secret from the enemy.

"Paul," Brett said into the radio.  "Are you still with me?"

"I'm still with you," he answered up.

"Get Steve to get an egg ready for me, will you?  We'll be coming down in
another minute or two.  And also, will you dig up Sherrie and ask her if
she's ready to have a little more fun?  I'll understand if she doesn't, but
we really could use her up here."

"Copy that," Paul said.  "We'll see you on the ground.  How are you doing?
Do you need another shot?"

"I'm cool for now.  Just get everything ready."  He unkeyed the microphone
and looked over at Jason.  "Well," he said.  "Shall we try another landing
lesson?"


+++++


Two weeks of firing back at hit and run attacks and night runs by the
helicopter, combined with the desertions of many of their supply carriers
and finally, two bloody attacks on the Garden Hill positions, had left the
remaining militia nearly out of ammunition.  The supplies on hand for the
automatic and semi-automatics had been the most critical, leaving less than
a single full magazine per bearer when it was all divided up.  This amount,
as well as the also critically low rifle ammunition supply, had been boosted
a little by the stripping of the dead and wounded from the first two
engagements.  That had yielded nearly a thousand additional rounds total,
which sounded like a lot but really wasn't when it was distributed among 56
people.

"If we don't do this quick," Stinson told Stu, "we're going to be hitting
them with our guns instead of shooting them with them."

"Don't worry," Stu had assured him, trying (and not succeeding very well) to
project confidence.  "We'll take them quick.  They'll scatter like rabbits
now that they don't have the safety of their trenches to hide in.  And
remember, they're probably almost out of ammunition as well.  Remember how
much that bitch of yours told us they had?  She was one of their leaders so
she should have known.  At the rate they've been firing at us I don't see
how they can have much left."

"No," Stinson was forced to agree, "I don't imagine that they do.  Unless
they found another supply somewhere."

"Where the hell would they find more ammo?" Stu scoffed.  "It's not like
they can drive down to the fuckin gun shop and pick some up now, is it?"

"I guess not," Stinson had said.

And now, just as they were finishing up the loading of their weapons and
magazines and about to form up into their new squads (their fourth
reorganization of the day), another prediction of Stu's was proven wrong.
The helicopter, which Stu had been counting as a casualty, had reappeared in
the sky above them.  True it had seemed to be flying just a little
strangely, as if it was somehow more difficult to control, but there it was,
hovering two thousand feet up once again.

"Don't worry about it," Stu barked at the men when they started grumbling
about it.  "It doesn't matter anymore you pussies!  Don't you get it?
They've lost!  We've chased them out of their trenches and now all that
fucking chopper is going to be able to do is direct those bitches into our
gun sights.  It'll be doing us a fucking favor!"

And though his speech did very little to alleviate fear or to instill
confidence, it shifted the balance just enough to stave off an open
rebellion for the moment.  When Stu barked the order to form up a minute
later, the men, Stinson included, obeyed him.

It was as they were establishing the new chain of command and assigning
radio sets to the various leaders that the helicopter suddenly turned on its
heels and began a shaky descent to the ground, finally disappearing over the
hills a few minutes later.  Everyone watched it go.  No one, Stu included,
commented on it.  All had a pretty good idea what it was going to pick up.


+++++


Jason only had to come around again twice before he was able to set the
aircraft down in the community center parking lot.  And the landing zone he
ended up in was only twenty feet away from where he'd intended to land.

"You're getting better," Brett told him, clapping him on the shoulder as he
idled back the engine.  "Pretty soon you'll be flying circles around me."

"Every landing is a good landing, right?" Jason asked, still trembling from
the adrenaline rush that setting them down had caused.

"That's the gospel," Brett assured him.

"I'm gonna go take a leak," Jason said, unstrapping his harness.  "Maybe
I'll throw up a little while I'm in there.  Be right back."

"Bring me an empty bottle when you come back," Brett told him as he opened
the door.  "A big one."

"An empty bottle?" Jason asked.  "What for?"

"Pretty soon I'm going to have to take a leak too," he answered.

"I see," Jason said, flushing a little.  He closed the door and headed off
towards the community center at a jog.

Brett opened his own door to let in some of the fresh air while Steve
Kensington and his crew came over with their handcart, a fresh tank full of
napalm resting on it.  While the crew worked on installing the tank itself,
Steve attacked the side doors with his wrench, removing them once again.  He
hardly looked at what he was doing as his hands loosened the bolts and
pulled them free.  He asked Brett about Sarah, his wife, and how she had
fared on the flight over.  Brett assured him that she had been doing well
when they'd left, that she had been the first one taken into surgery.  As
they talked and as Steve worked, he kept glancing at the dead body of Megan,
which was still lying in the cargo area, rapidly stiffening.  Neither of
them commented on it.

Paul came out a minute later, leading Sherrie with her.  They too took in
the sight of Megan lying in the back.  Paul looked sad while Sherrie, who
was pale and drawn, made the sign of the cross.

"You decided to go back up with us?" Brett asked her.

"I almost didn't," she said, looking at him meaningfully.  "But in the
end... I knew that I HAD to.  I'm the only one besides Paul that knows how
to do this.  And we can't very well spare Paul down here, can we?"

"No," Brett said.  "We can't.  And don't worry too much.  Jason flies pretty
good for a rookie, and I promise we won't be doing any more dives down on
the militia.  Hell, if everything goes all right, we won't have to use this
egg at all."

"You have a plan?" Paul asked.

"I wouldn't exactly call it a plan," Brett said.  "Maybe a little
psychological warfare will help though.  I don't know their exact state of
mind over there, but it can't be good.  We've killed too many of them for it
to be good.  Maybe a few plain facts will push them over that edge."

"You're going to talk to them?"

"I'm going to talk to them," he said.  "We know what frequency they're
using.  It's a simple matter of tuning our radio over to it and pushing the
button.  I'll give it a shot once we're back in the air."

"It would be nice to think this thing will be over soon," Paul said.  "It's
been one long-ass day.  It'll be even nicer to end it without anyone else
ending up like poor Megan here."

"Amen to that," Brett said.

Jason came back out a minute later carrying an empty apple juice bottle that
he'd scrounged from their supply room (Garden Hill NEVER threw containers
away).  He handed it over to Brett and then he, Paul, Sherrie, and Steve
went about the distasteful task of removing the corpse from the helicopter.
Without the time for a proper interment, and lacking any pomp and ceremony,
they simply dragged her over to the storage room and put her inside.  A
puddle of blood, now congealed, marked the spot in which she had lain.
Sherrie and Jason quickly wiped it up.

The rope coil was brought back from the storage room once again and
installed in the same manner it had been before.  Steve was able to move a
little faster this time and had the entire set-up ready for action within
ten minutes.

"You're ready to rock," he said, slapping the side of the helicopter.

"Let's get back up there then," Brett told his crew.  "Time's a wasting."

Sherrie climbed back into her spot, giving a little shudder as she passed
through the doorway that she had sworn a little more than an hour ago that
she would never pass through again as long as she lived.  She took her
accustomed spot and grabbed tightly onto the bungee cords that held the rope
coil in place.  She made the sign of the cross once more and then put on her
headset.

Jason climbed back in the pilot's seat, strapping himself into place and
putting on his own headset.  He seemed a little more confident in himself as
he made a check outside to make sure everyone had cleared the area.  He
turned to Brett who gave him a nod and a moment later he throttled up and
took off.  He found the handling of the machine to be noticeably different
now that the doors had been removed and with the extra weight and drag of
the napalm tank, but he was able to adjust to it very quickly.

Following Brett's previous examples, he turned towards the canyon and
climbed up to altitude over there, rising up to 6000 feet once again.  He
then turned back to the north, towards the battle area.  Brett leaned
forward as far as he could as they approached at 50 knots and finally slowed
up to a hover.  He saw that the militia was now formed up behind their hills
and apparently ready to make their advance at any time.  He turned the knob
on the radio set in front of him to the citizen's band frequency and tuned
in channel 24, which was the command frequency of the militia.


+++++


Stu was giving some last minute instructions on the coming attack to his
squad leaders when the radio on his belt suddenly began to squawk with an
unfamiliar voice.  The squad leaders, who all had their radios set to the
same frequency, heard it as well.  Stu and everyone else listened in
disbelief as they processed just what was being said.

"This is the commander of the Garden Hill forces," said a male voice,
"calling the commander of the Placer County Militia.  Do you copy me?
Please reply on this channel."

Stu took his radio from his belt and looked at it for a moment, making no
move to reply.  Around him his men became silent, watching and listening to
this new development, wondering just what it meant.  The message came again,
in the exact same words, and then once more.

"Are you going to answer them?" Stinson asked, looking at Stu.

"It's got to be some sort of trick," Stu said, feeling fearful for no good
reason.

"Hello down there," the voice said from the radio.  "Anybody home?  I know
you can hear me.  We've been monitoring your channel ever since the second
day of your march.  Why don't we talk?  Maybe we can come to some
arrangement that will prevent needless deaths.  It's worth a shot, isn't
it?"

The voice sounded very calm, very reasonable, but unmistakably sure of
itself.  Stu did not want to answer it.

"Maybe they want to surrender," someone suggested.  He wasn't taken very
seriously.

"Come on," the voice chided now, as Stu continued to stand there, not doing
anything.  "You're all down there gathering up to attack us again.
Obviously you're not cowards.  Surely you're not AFRAID to talk to me, are
you?"

It was this ancient, schoolyard challenge that forced Stu's hand.  Nobody
called him a coward.  He keyed up his radio.  "This is the commander of the
Placer County Militia forces," he said into it.  "Who am I talking to?  Is
this the one they call Brett?"  Stu figured that using the man's name would
instill an advantage.  He shortly found out that the name-dropping worked in
both directions.

"I'm glad you decided to talk," the voice said.  "Yes, this is Brett Adams,
commander of the Garden Hill forces.  It would seem that you've been talking
to Jessica Blakely.  We heard that she made it to your town.  And who am I
addressing?  Is this Barnes?  I was told that Barnes was in charge of the
group that would be making the march."

Stu started a little at these words.  How the hell had Adams known about
Barnes?  He fought to keep his voice calm and keyed the microphone again.
"This is Lieutenant Covington," he said, "acting commander.  Captain Barnes
was killed during one of your night runs on us during the march.  Who have
YOU been talking to?"

"We have our sources," Adams said mysteriously.  "Covington huh?  Would your
first name be Stu?  I've heard a few tales about you myself, particularly
the group that you were part of prior to being absorbed into the militia."

"Barnes' bitches," Stinson said upon hearing this.  "Jean and Anna must've
made it here.  That's how they knew we were coming!"

"Don't be fucking stupid," Stu barked.  "There's no way those two bitches
made it all the way here.  They must have a spy or something in the town.
Maybe that Jessica bitch has a radio transmitter or something."

Stinson looked at him as if he were an idiot, not bothering to shield the
expression.  A radio transmitter?  Did he really believe that?  Was it that
hard for him to accept the obvious, that Jean and Anna had successfully
escaped the town and made it here intact?

Stu, somewhat shaken by the exchange, decided to change the subject, to try
to regain the advantage in the conversation.  He keyed up the microphone
again.  "I believe," he said, "that you made the acquaintance of some of my
men back in the woods a few days after the comet.  That you killed them and
took their weapons."

"I prevented them from raping a young girl and killing her brother," Adams
replied.  "But that's neither here nor there.  The past is the past and the
future is now.  Why don't we talk about YOUR future Mr. Covington?"

"Why don't we?" Stu agreed.  "As you can see, we're preparing to launch
another attack.  Are you offering to surrender?  If so, it will have to be
unconditional before we accept it."

Adams was laughing as he came back on the air - actually LAUGHING.  "You are
very amusing Mr. Covington," he said, still chuckling a little.  "It's been
a while since I've had a good laugh.  I thank you for that.  Now, let's get
serious, shall we?  What I am offering you is the chance to back out of this
attack and return to your town with your lives intact.  Here are the terms
we are offering.  You drop your rifles and head back to the interstate.  You
may take your pistols for self-protection on the march back home.  If you do
this right now and start heading back to Auburn, we will not harass you in
any way on your return.  We will even leave a supply of canned food along
the highway to sustain you if you are short of that staple.  If you persist
in this attack, you will fail miserably and, when you finally give up, we
will hound the survivors as you try to make your way home.  We will do this
night and day, from the ground and from the air until every last one of you
is dead.  That's the offer.  Give up now and leave in peace, or try to push
forward and be slaughtered."

The men all tittered nervously as they heard this.  More than one of them
expressed the idea that it sounded quite reasonable to them.  Stu barked at
them to shut the fuck up.  They did so only reluctantly.  Once he had quiet
again, he keyed up.  "Nice try Adams," he said.  "I understand that you're a
military man and a former pig.  You've probably bluffed a thousand dumb
thugs with your little speeches in the past.  I, however, do not bluff so
easily.  Your trenches were a very effective defense of your town and I must
commend you.  They were well constructed and they almost did the job that
they were meant to do.  Almost.  But, as you can see, we have pushed your
bitches out of them.  I know and you know that there is nothing stopping us
from marching to your wall and inside your town now.  You might be able to
put your bitches in front of us to snipe at us from time to time, but they
will not be able to stand up in the face of my highly trained troops."

The men, despite their cynicism, their fatigue, and their defeatist
attitude, actually responded to this speech.  There were several cheers at
Stu's words, several hands raised in clenched fists.  Apparently there was a
little pride left in there somewhere.

"I hate to tell you this Covington," Adams' voice replied, "but you are
wrong.  I won't tell you that I don't bluff, because I do, but in this
circumstance, I am not.  I'm going to break a little rule of military logic
now in the interests of wrapping up this war between us up.  Ordinarily, you
never let your enemy know what your defenses are like, but in this case, I'm
going to make an exception.  As you may have guessed by now, two of your
women made their way from Auburn to our town.  Jean and Anna are their
names."

"Goddammit, I told you!" Stinson said angrily.  "Those fucking bitches made
it here!"

"He's bluffing," Stu said, although not as self-assuredly as before.

"Bluffing?" Stinson asked, taking a step forward.  "How the fuck could he be
bluffing?  He knows their names!"

"We probably said them on the radio at some point," Stu replied.  "They've
been monitoring us."

"Oh for Christ's sake," Stinson said, shaking his head in disgust.

"These two women," Adams' voice continued, "have told us very much about
your town.  You were dumb enough to discuss your attack plans in front of
them and they provided us with considerable intelligence.  We knew you were
planning to come at us with 400 men divided into three companies of 120
apiece and a reserve platoon of 40.  We knew this long before you even left
the town.  The moment we found out that an attack of that size was imminent,
we began to prepare for it.  Since that day we have had work crews out in
the hills around town digging trenches and fortifying them with sandbags.
We have over a hundred of them total, on all sides of the town, layered all
the way from the first line you encountered to the wall.  Inside of the wall
we have more trenches as well as mine fields surrounding our community
center.  You see Stu, we were prepared to fight off all 400 of you, perhaps
minus a few from our hit and run attacks.  You have what?  Maybe 60 men
there that are capable of fighting?  Your army is now a sad joke.  We have
air superiority, napalm, and the ability to shift our forces into prepared
positions in your path no matter what path you decide to take.  You cannot
defeat us.  Further advances will only lead to more death, mostly on your
side."

The men began to titter again as they listened to him.  Could it be true?
Could what this man was saying possibly be the truth?  Did they really have
more trenches in front of them, enough so that no matter where they decided
to attack from, they would have to fight through prepared positions?

"He's bluffing!" Stu yelled, hearing the doubtful mutters, seeing the
doubtful faces.  "Don't you see what he's doing?  He's trying to psych you
out!  He knows they don't have a chance against us so he's trying to get us
to give up."

"What if he's NOT bluffing?" someone asked.  Choruses of agreement met this
question.

"There is no way in hell that they have more than one set of trenches!" Stu
assured them.  "It's impossible!  There's no way those bitches could have
dug that many!  No fucking way!"

"Are you still there Stu?" Adams asked.  "Do the smart thing and put down
your arms.  There's no reason for anyone else to die.  If you head back
today and follow the highway, you can be back home in a little more than a
week.  You can sleep tonight knowing that no one is going to attack you.
Wouldn't that feel nice?  To get a full night's sleep?"

"Thanks, but no thanks," Stu said toughly into the radio.  "But I'll counter
your offer with my original one.  If you unconditionally surrender, we won't
kill anyone else.  Take it or leave it."

"I guess we'll have to leave it then," Adams told him, a tinge of regret in
his tone.  "Apparently you are not able to see reality.  For those of you in
the militia that are listening in to this conversation, please keep in mind
that you have a choice as well.  If you choose to follow the man you're
following and go forth with this attack, you will die.  Once you move
forward from that line, the offer is off the table.  We will throw you back
and then pursue you until you are all dead.  We've already killed more than
three hundred of you.  Don't think for a moment that we will hesitate to
kill the rest.  After all, you came here with the intent of doing harm to
us, of stealing from us.  It's not too late to live.  If you move forward,
it will be."

Adams said no more.  The men, having heard his final message, forgot all
about the brief flash of patriotism that they'd shown.  It was clear that
most of them believed what they had heard.  Stu knew that he was edging into
a very precarious position.  "Listen you guys," he said to them, projecting
his voice so that everyone could hear him.  "He's bluffing us.  How many
times do I have to tell you that?  Think about what he's saying for a
minute.  If he really had the trenches and the firepower that he's boasting
about, why would he have told us about them?  Why?  Why wouldn't he just let
us come on and then slaughter us?  That is what makes the most sense
militarily.  If he's telling the truth, he has absolutely nothing to gain by
letting us off the hook.  Nothing!  The only thing that makes sense is that
he's trying to convince us to surrender at the last moment to avoid the
capture that he knows is otherwise imminent!"

The men looked at each other, turning these words over in their heads.  They
did not want to be convinced to go forward, that was obvious.  But at the
same time, the logic that Stu was laying down was very compelling.  When
they thought about it, it WAS hard to come up with a logical reason for
Adams to reveal their true defenses to them.  It really didn't make sense on
any level that they could see.  The thought that Adams might be trying to
save a few of his own troops lives simply didn't cross their minds.

Stu sensed a turning of opinion and pushed his meager advantage to the hilt.
"He's trying to get us to turn away at the last minute," he told his troops.
"He's trying to trick us into giving up our victory now that it's finally in
our grasp!  We've been through hell, all of us, getting to this point!
We've lost friends every step of the way, including our leaders.  Are we
really going to give up now?  If we push forward, we'll have that town in
our possession in less than an hour!  Less than an hour!  Think about that.
We could be drinking their booze and fucking those bitches in less than an
hour.  Instead of marching back in defeat, we could be sinking into some
warm pussy!  We could be eating warm food!  Most important of all, we could
be slicing the dicks off of the men who did this to us and sticking them up
their asses!"

It was this last, the promise of rape and murder, that finally convinced
them.  Though opinion was far from unanimous, favor turned just enough in
favor of Stu's plan to hold the cohesion of the group together for a little
while longer.  When Stu yelled for them to form up a minute later, they
obeyed him.


+++++


Brett saw them forming up into attack groups below.  He shook his head
slowly at their stupidity.  He had really thought that his plan was going to
work.

"What now?" Jason asked, sparing a glance down below.  He was really
starting to get comfortable behind the controls.

"I guess we fight again," Brett sighed.  He keyed up the CB channel one more
time.  "You're making a big mistake Stu," he warned.

Stu's reply was arrogant.  "I'll be seeing you soon Adams," he told him.
"You'll have to land some time."

Brett changed the frequency back to the VHF channel and called up Matt and
the others.  "It didn't work," he told them.  "They'll be moving in any
minute now.  Get ready."

First Matt, then Michelle, and finally Chrissie advised that they were more
than ready.


+++++


"All right everyone," Stu said over the command frequency.  "Let's move out.
Keep yourselves spread and we'll advance to contact.  You know the drill."

They knew the drill all right.  One by one the men moved forward, hands
gripping rifles, boots slogging through mud, eyes peering outward, alert for
the first sign of gunfire.  Stu and Stinson lingered near the rear, waiting
for all of the men to form a wall between themselves and the enemy
positions.  Then they too moved out.

Stinson gripped his rifle nervously, his finger playing around the trigger
guard.  He didn't like this.  He didn't like this one bit.


+++++


"They're moving in," Brett's voice said over the VHF channel.  "Same
formation as before.  They're in a line stretching out about 150 yards
laterally.  They plan to advance to contact and then probably try another
flanking maneuver with the shoot and cover tactic."

Matt was looking over the sight of his own weapon, peering outward into the
landscape in search of the enemy.  As of yet, he saw nothing.  He took his
hand off the rifle long enough to key up his radio.  "I copy Brett," he
said.  "How's their orientation?"

"The center of the group is heading right for Michelle's position," Brett
answered.  "Matt, your group and Chrissie's will be close enough to give
them a hell of a crossfire once they're in range.  Michelle, did you copy
you'll have first contact."

"I copy," she said.  She was near the center of her troops, looking through
the opening in the sandbags.  She couldn't see them yet either.  "We'll open
up at 300, just like before."
.
"How about we change that order just a little bit," Brett said.  "Don't open
up at 300 this time.  Let them come in to 200 first."

Michelle wasn't sure if she had heard him right.  "What did you say?" she
asked.  "Confirming you want us to let them close to 200 yards before we
fire?"

"You got it," he said.  "That way, you'll be able to hit them with all of
your guns at once.  They'll also be in range of Matt and Chrissie that way.
The effect upon them should be quite overwhelming."

"Brett," Matt cut in, not liking the sound of that at all, "are you sure
that's a good idea?  200 yards is awfully close."

"I know," Brett said.  "But don't worry.  They have no reserve left to send
in in front of them.  Trust me on this.  You'll be safe."

"I copy," Matt said.  "Michelle, do you copy?"

"I do," she said.


+++++


It was another five minutes before Michelle's group spotted the first of
them moving in.  Within a minute, they had all of them.  Within another
minute, all three platoons in their trenches had the enemy in sight.  The
initial range was close to 400 yards.  They were moving a little slower than
they had on their previous attacks, seeming to step carefully now instead of
jogging.  The command to hold fire was passed up and down the ranks one more
time for clarity.

Michelle chewed a large wad of gum nervously as she sighted in on the closer
of the men.  She breathed deeply and slowly, feeling the familiar sensation
of calm that overtook her whenever combat was imminent.  Around her, many of
her troops were doing the same.

The group of militia passed over the 300-yard mark and kept coming.  No one
fired but everyone tensed up.  They came closer and closer, passing 250
yards, and still they held their fire.

"Steady," Michelle told everyone, her finger caressing her trigger, her mind
marking the spot where the 200-yard mark was.  She picked a small group of
trees that she figured was about that distance, commanding herself not to be
conservative.  Though letting them get that close went against every
instinct that she had, she knew that she had to trust Brett's instincts more
than her own.

Finally the first of the men stepped past her invisible line.  She waited
until a few more passed over as well.  And then, unable to stand it anymore,
she gave the order to fire.


+++++


Stinson was getting edgier and edgier with each step that they took forward.
They had already gone well beyond the point where he had figured contact
would be made with the enemy.  Why weren't they firing?  He could not bring
himself to believe that they were really going to march in without any
opposition.

"Something's not right," he said to Stu, who was about ten feet to his left
and slightly behind.  "They should have shot at us by now."

"They're probably..." Stu started, but he never finished.

 From the hills directly in front of them, barely 200 yards away, a multitude
of flashes suddenly erupted, including the repeating flashes of automatics.
The range was much too short for there to be a meaningful reaction time and
before anyone could dive down, a wall of lead came rolling in, cutting into
their ranks like a lawnmower.  Screams filled the air as more than fifteen
men went down at once, blood flying from their bodies.

"Get down!" Stinson and Stu and several squad leaders yelled simultaneously.
They yelled even as they were doing this themselves.  It was an unnecessary
order in any case since everyone left at this point in the battle was well
versed in the concept of getting their asses in the mud when the shooting
started.

Unfortunately, in this circumstance, hitting the dirt did precious little
good.  The range from which the gunfire was coming was simply too close, the
gunfire itself far too accurate.  Before anyone could scramble to cover,
another volley of fire slammed into them, riddling those on the ground with
bullets.  More screams pierced the air as another six or seven were shot to
pieces where they lie.  Stinson himself had a burst of fire stitch through
the mud less than two feet in front of him, spraying dirt and water into his
face and temporarily blinding him.

"Return fire!" Stu screamed, unleashing a burst with his automatic.  "Get
some fucking fire up on those hills you assholes!"

Stinson, like everyone else, ignored him in favor of finding some sort of
cover to stop the deadly rain of bullets.  He found a large rock that had
once been under ground but that the constant rain had exposed due to
erosion.  No sooner had he pulled his body behind it then more bullets came
flying in, this time from the flanks.  He looked up just in time to see the
flashes from the hills to the left and right of the position from which the
original fire had come.  "Jesus Christ," he said, terrified.  Three more men
fell to it in less than five seconds.  "Stu," he cried at the leader, who
was crouching behind a fallen log twelve feet to the right.  "They've got us
in a crossfire!  We need to pull back!"

"We're not pulling back!" Stu yelled.  He fired one more burst and then
looked over at Stinson.  "We need to get around on the flank," he said.
"We'll leapfrog again, just like before.  You lead first and second squad
over there, I'll lead the rest.  Get ready to go!"

"We can't flank them," Stinson protested angrily.  "Goddammit you idiot,
they're on both sides of us and up the fucking middle.  They're killing us!
We need to pull back!"

"We'll give you covering fire, just like before!" Stu yelled.  "Now get
going before they kill all of us!"

"They're in trenches Stu!" Stinson yelled back, making no move to get ready
to charge.  "Don't you see that?  Adams was telling the truth!  They're
firing at us from trenches and our covering fire won't do any fucking good!"

Stu simply glared back at him, seemingly not hearing this last piece of
information.  "I gave you an order!" he said.  "Get your fucking squad
moving right now or I'll shoot you were you are!  Do you understand me?"

Stinson stared back, ignoring another burst of fire that slammed into his
rock.  He knew that even if HE tried to go forward, there was no way in hell
that the men would follow him.  They had reached the end of their rope.  The
unit cohesion - while it might have been enough to get them to advance under
light resistance - would never hold under an advance against THIS murderous
fire.  There was simply no way.  Even now, as the first and second in
command stared at each other, three more men were shot to death, victims of
the crossfire from the right and left.

"Did you fucking hear me?" Stu yelled at Stinson.  "Get your ass moving!"

Stinson didn't pause to debate what he did next, which is probably why he
was able to do it.  "I hear you," he said softly.  He raised his M-16 up and
pointed it at Stu.  He squeezed the trigger, holding it down tightly.  The
weapon was still set on full automatic fire and Stu had time for one quick
look of shock and surprise before his face, neck, and body were riddled with
an entire clip of ammunition.  He flopped, rolled, and bounced, blood flying
into the air around him.  Even after the action locked open on the empty
chamber, Stinson continued to hold the trigger down.  Around him the men,
who had somehow known that that burst of fire was something different than
return fire, were staring at him in shock as the bullets continued to fly
in.

"I'm taking command of this group," Stinson yelled out calmly.  "Does anyone
have an issue with that?"

No one answered him, either in the positive or the negative.

"Good," Stinson said.  "My first order is to cease fire.  Do NOT return fire
at them.  We're pulling back!"

The looks of relief were unmistakable.


+++++


Brett watched out the window of the chopper at the slaughter taking place
below.  Already he could tell that the militia would not be able to hold on
for more than another minute or so before they went fleeing in terror back
the way they had come.  And when they did that the troops in the trenches
would keep up the volume of fire on them, perhaps dropping half of the
survivors as they retreated.  And then, when the ones who survived that
gathered in the rear to lick their wounds, he would direct Jason and Sherrie
to drop the napalm canister on them.  It was not something he was looking
forward to, but it was something that would have to be done.

"It's almost too easy," Jason said, obviously less than happy about the
slaughter as well.  "They don't have a chance."

"They were given a choice," Brett said.  "I didn't make it for them."

"I know."

Brett noticed now that there was no longer any return fire coming from the
militia positions.  What was up with that?  Surely they hadn't killed
EVERYONE down there.  And surely they weren't out of ammunition yet.

The answer came a moment later when the CB band, which they were routinely
monitoring, came to life.  "Garden Hill command," said an unfamiliar voice.
"This is militia command.  Do you copy?  Request immediate communication!"

"What the hell?" Jason said.

"Who was that?" Sherrie, who had heard everything through her headset,
asked.

"That wasn't our friend Stu," Brett said.  "That's for sure."

"Are you going to answer him?" asked Jason.

Brett nodded and reached forward to turn the transmit frequency back to the
militia channel.  He keyed up.  "This is Brett Adams," he said.  "Go ahead
militia commander.  And please identify yourself."

"This is Sergeant Stinson, new commander of the militia," said the voice.
"I'm requesting an immediate cease fire."

Brett and Jason shared a look with each other.  Brett keyed up again.  "Why
should we do that?" he asked.  "And where is Covington?  Has he been
killed?"

"I killed Covington," said Stinson.  "I did what should have been done a
long time ago.  I realize that we have crossed over the line that you drew
in the mud down here, but I would like to accept the offer that you made
earlier.  We will surrender, drop our weapons, and go home right now if you
cease fire."

Brett didn't hesitate a bit.  "We accept your terms," he said.  "Hold in
place and I'll contact my commanders.  I'm warning you though, if you fire
so much as a single shot towards us, if you so much as take one step in any
direction but back to the highway, you will all be under a death sentence."

"Believe me Adams," Stinson returned, "the last thing in the world that
anyone of us left down here want is to be shot at any more.  We'll put down
our guns as soon as the firing stops."

"Stand by," Brett said.  "I'll be right back to you.  Don't move until I
tell you to."

Sherrie seemed a little concerned.  "Could they be trying to trick us?" she
asked.

"They could be," Brett said.  "But I don't see what good it would do them.
They're beaten.  I think they're probably on the up and up."  He reached
forward and turned the frequency knob on the radio again, bringing him back
to the VHF frequency.  "Matt, Chrissie, Michelle," he said.  "The militia is
surrendering.  Cease fire immediately.  I repeat: cease fire immediately.
It's over.  Please acknowledge."


+++++


It was perhaps the longest minute of his entire life.  After Adams told
Stinson he would be right back with him, the bullets had continued to fly
in.  Two more men were killed and one injured as shots hit them.  They all
itched to pick up their rifles and shoot back at their tormentors, but none
of them did, everyone knowing the consequences.  All they could do was lie
there behind their rocks and their trees and hope that they could live long
enough for the communication channels of Garden Hill to work.

Finally, after an eternity, the last groups of bullets came rolling in,
hitting trees, plunking in mud, and whizzing through the air.  The sound of
the gunshots that had sent them lasted another few seconds as they trailed
behind the projectiles.  The last crack of a rifle echoed away into the
distance and then, at long last, there was quiet, broken only by the sound
of the rain and the groans of the wounded.  The war was over.

"Stinson, are you there?" came Adams' voice on the radio.

"I'm here," he answered, rolling onto his back and sighing in relief.  No
matter what else happened, he was at least alive.

"The cease fire is now in effect," Adams told him.  "Our troops are watching
you very carefully of course, and they still have their weapons trained upon
you, but they will not fire upon you unless you fire at them or you start
forward."

"Thank you," Stinson said.  "Thank you very much."

"Don't thank me," Adams said.  "Thank yourselves.  And remember this moment
the next time talk in Auburn turns to conquest of Garden Hill.  We don't go
quietly."

"No," Stinson agreed.  "You certainly don't.  For what its worth, most of us
didn't want to come here in the first place."

"But still you did," he answered.  "We have free will as human beings.  You
folks came here and you caused the deaths of not only many of your people,
but many of ours as well.  And for what?  For nothing.  Had you taken our
town you would have captured a few men, a few women, a few children and some
food supplies.  Was what you suffered really worth all of that?  Don't
bother answering me, I'm not up here to converse with you, just to get you
out of here so we can go back to existing.  I expect you to start your
pullback to the highway immediately, without your rifles.  We have two more
hours of fuel in this helicopter and by the time we have to land to fill up
the tank, I want you and your people back on the freeway and past the border
sign that you encountered on the way in.  On your return, you will follow
the freeway lanes wherever possible.  We will be watching you."

Stinson looked around at the men that had been shot.  Many of them were dead
but more than a few were merely wounded.  And then there was the group of
wounded back at the original jump-off point.  "What about our wounded?" he
asked Adams.  "What should we do with them?"

"Those that can walk, take with you," Adams replied.  "Those that cannot,
you can either carry them on litters or leave them where they are."

"Will you treat them if we leave them?" Stinson asked.

"They will be killed where they are," Adams told him coldly.  "We don't have
the resources to care for enemy wounded; we have enough problems caring for
our own.  Sorry.  Again, this goes back to the choices you made when you
started marching this way."

Stinson sighed.  "I understand," he said.  "We'll take as many as we can."

"And make sure that the ones you leave behind," Adams added, "do not have
any weapons available to them.  Remove their rifles and place them apart
from them.  Take away their sidearms.  If any of my people are shot at while
we are clearing our terrain, if even a single bullet flies from one of your
wounded that you leave behind, then this armistice that we have agreed upon
will be null and void and we will hunt you down on your return march."

"I understand," Stinson said again.  "It will be done."

"Good," Adams said.  "I suggest you start doing it then."

Stinson sighed again and put the radio away.  He looked over at the men, all
of whom were still lying in the mud, still unable to believe that it was
really over.  "Everybody who is not wounded," he said.  "Form up on me.  We
got some work to do."


Al Steiner - May 	10, 2001
Chapter 21 coming soon

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+