Chapter Sixteen
10 October 1845, Annapolis, Maryland
“Attention on deck!” Ensign George King barked the order, with less than satisfactory results. The fifty midshipmen lumbered to their feet with varying speeds, ranging from alacrity to sloth. The end result for most of them was far short of the position considered ‘Attention’ at West Point.
King fought the urge to retrieve the ‘starter’ tucked into his blue uniform sash. There had been a meeting the previous evening. The officer who had just walked in the room, Commander Franklin Buchanan, had been adamant that learning was to take priority over discipline at Annapolis. The other three officers and three civilians who comprised the rest of the faculty had concurred. King had bit his lip and remained silent.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” Commander Buchanan instructed.
The midshipmen collapsed back into their seats.
“We are making history today,” Buchanan began. “The 10th of October, 1846, will be remembered by generations of midshipmen to come as the date the United States Naval School was officially founded. The Secretary of the Navy, Mister Bancroft, has issued me specific instructions about my duties and responsibilities as Superintendent and those of the faculty. And what is required of you young gentlemen.
“You are to learn the science of ships and the art of naval warfare. You will spend a year on land, being instructed in the basics. Then you will go to sea for the next three years to put what you have learned into practice. Then you will return to Annapolis and spend another year finishing your studies.” Buchanan looked over the young men seated in front of him. “Gentlemen, you are the leaders of the future for the United States Navy. Do your duty with pride and honor.”
Buchanan walked out of the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, King shot to his feet. “Midshipmen, when an officer leaves the room, you come to attention. Is that understood?”
There was a smattering of discontent muttering. King reached into his belt and pulled out the starter. The officer to his right grabbed his arm. “That’s not appropriate here, Mister King.”
The midshipmen began to disperse, emptying the room.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” King said to the other officer, Ensign Reynolds, as soon as all the students were gone.
“You’re an ass,” Reynolds said.
King stiffened, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Apologize.”
Reynolds laughed. “You’re a murderer, King. I heard about the Somers. How you betrayed a confidence. How you talked the Captain into hanging those men without trial. How you rigged the ropes. How you were first on the rope of the son of the Secretary of War. How you—”
King slapped the starter across Reynolds face, knocking him against the wall. King leapt to deal another blow but the other two officers grabbed him, pinning his arms back.
Reynolds shook his head, blood dripping from his mouth. He stepped up to King and slapped him across the face. “On my honor, I challenge you.”
“Let me go,” King hissed at the two officers holding him.
They released his arms.
“Challenge accepted,” King said. “Dawn at the sea wall.”
The next morning King put on his uniform and strode into the early morning fog to the sea wall. He was a bit surprised to see all three men already there. Each second had a wooden box in hand and Reynolds was also in uniform, his face as cold as the water battering the wall.
“You can back down,” Reynolds said. “I’m an expert marksman and have stood my ground in three duels. My opponents are all in the grave.”
King ignored him. He turned to the other two officers. “Seconds, are you ready?”
The two glanced at each other, then walked between King and Reynolds. They flipped open the lids to the cases. Inside each was a flintlock pistol.
“Choose,” one of the seconds said. “They are identical.”
King picked the gun furthest from him and Reynolds took the other.
“Your positions are marked,” the other second said, indicating small stones set ten paces apart.
King marched to his and turned to face his opponent. Reynolds took his mark. “Once more, Mister King, I implore you to use common sense. Death awaits you if you continue.”
“I am ready,” King said to the seconds.
One of them held up a handkerchief and looked to Reynolds. “Sir?”
Reynolds nodded. “I am ready.”
The second let go of the small piece of cloth.
King swung his arm up, leveled it steady as a statue, and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit the flash pan, ignited and the gun jumped lightly in his hand as the powder inside the barrel fired. He heard the pop of Reynolds’ gun at the same moment.
The jump of the gun had been too light.
“Damn you!” King cursed, turning to the seconds. “You gave me an unloaded weapon.”
“Reynolds’ is also unloaded,” one of the seconds said. “We—”
King dropped the worthless pistol and pulled the starter out of his waistband. He headed for the two seconds, intent on beating them, when a commanding voice called out of the fog: “Halt, Ensign King.”
King spun on his heels and then snapped to attention when he recognized Commander Buchanan accompanied by Secretary of the Navy Bancroft walking toward them, with two armed marines as escort. “Sir!”
Buchanan stopped two paces away from King. “Gentlemen, what are you up to so early in the morning? And with pistols?”
King said nothing.
“Target practice, sir,” Reynolds called out.
“And what—or who—would be the targets? Seagulls?” Buchanan asked. “Never mind. You other gentlemen are dismissed. We must speak with Mister King.”
The three officers quickly gathered up the weapons and disappeared into the fog. King remained at attention, his eyes directly ahead.
“Relax, Mister King,” Bancroft said, gesturing for the two marines to step out of earshot.
The best King could do was drop his shoulders a fraction of an inch and look at the Secretary. “Yes, sir.”
Bancroft shook his head. “Dueling is stupid and a waste of manpower. Are you stupid?”
“No, sir.”
“I’ve been told you aren’t. Yet, you were dismissed from the Military Academy for dueling, and we have barely begun this School and once more you duel. Maybe schools are not the place for you.”
“Sir, I—”
“Silence.” Bancroft continued. “I read the report reference the Somers. And have discussed you with Commander Buchanan. He feels you are an excellent officer. But, he also feels you are not appropriate for what we want to achieve here at the Naval School and this event supports that inclination. We must educate first, Mister King. The military aspects will come later.”
King opened his mouth to say something, but Buchanan cut him off. “This is not a discussion, Ensign. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I did not come here to debate,” Bancroft said. “I came here to give you orders.”
“Yes, sir.” King stiffened. “Sir, may I ask a question first.”
Bancroft nodded. “Yes.”
“The two of you set this up, didn’t you, sir? The duel. The unloaded weapons. You were testing me.”
“Why would you think that?” Bancroft asked.
“Because it happened and both of you were here when it happened. It is either a plan or coincidence so extraordinary that it bears attribution to the divine.”
A slight smile of approval cracked Bancroft’s face. “I was told you were quick. That is good. Very good. And you are brave, standing fast, knowing Reynolds’ dueling record. While you might not be appropriate for the Navy School faculty, there is a mission for which I now know you are perfect. I understand your brother, a graduate of the Military Academy, is on an Expedition of Exploration to the West with Fremont.”
King blinked. “That was the last I had heard, sir, in a letter from St. Louis. But—“
Bancroft began strolling toward the sea wall, Buchanan on one side, King on the other. “Walk with me, ensign, and I will tell you what you are going to do for the next few years. And, by the way, you’re joining the Marine Corps for the time being. I believe it fits your temperament better.”
October 1845, Vicinity Natchez, Mississippi
Violet Rumble stood on the portico of Palatine House waiting for the riders. She’d spotted the dust cloud rising over the Natchez road from her sitting room window. After decades of watching the road, each plume of dust was distinctive, from that of a heavily laden wagon to a horse being pushed hard. This was the latter, and from the amount of dust, there were at least two, if not more, riders.
Violet’s shoulders were slightly slumped, as if the weight of the large white house behind her and all it portended rested on them. Samual stood in the shadows of the portico, heavily muscled arms folded across his chest. Samual’s daughter, Echo, stood behind Violet and to the left, as still as her father. The day had started out with serious news and Violet did not imagine good tidings were winging their way to Palatine with the horses.
The two riders appeared at the end of the lane, riding swiftly underneath the overarching branches of the oak trees. Violet recognized them immediately. Her youngest son from the stiff way he held himself in the saddle. Seneca had never bonded with horses and viewed them as a necessary evil for transportation. The flowing blue skirt billowing around the saddle of the second horse marked Rosalie, as did the glint of sunlight on her golden hair.
Violet threw her shoulders back and took the steps down to the drive. “My dear,” she said to Rosalie as they arrived, “you simply must wear a hat. And you must ride sidesaddle. It’s most inappropriate for a woman of your standing to be straddling a horse.”
Rosalie dismounted before Samual could reach her to help. “Violet, darling, you haven’t ridden further than the river in years. And the poor beast you ride can barely be considered a horse. Do you remember how much discomfort sidesaddle from Natchez could cause? I’m being practical. Plus, sidesaddle is so much slower.”
Seneca accepted Samual’s outstretched hand to assist getting off his horse. Feet firmly on the ground, he glared at the beast as Samual took the reins of both animals. A younger slave dashed up and relieved him of the horses, guiding them toward the stable.
Violet hugged Rosalie and then her son, his body stiff and unyielding. “What’s wrong?” she asked him.
“I have a letter from Lucius,” Seneca said.
Violet automatically looked over her shoulder at Echo. The young slave girl nodded, indicating that her mother was with Ben and Abigail. There had been so much excitement already today, that Violet had not had time to check on the children.
“And how is your brother?” Violet asked.
“On his way to Mexico,” Seneca said.
“That we knew,” Violet said.
Rosalie took her arm, just above the elbow and leaned close. “He has news that you should hear. Privately.”
“Come then,” Violet said, turning for the stairs. She paused on the third one and stopped. “By the way,” she said over her shoulder, “John Dyer passed on this morning. I’m doubtful he is in a better place now. Tiberius has gone to make arrangements for his funeral. As if the cur deserved one. And for that—” Violet rotated on the step dramatically, “my husband is able to lift himself out of bed. Of all things.”
Shaking her head, Violet reversed once more and headed into the house. Seneca and Rosalie followed. Samual and Echo trailed them. When the whites went through a door and shut it behind, Samual and Echo flanked it outside like guards.
They were in Violet’s sitting room, her private sanctum in the large house. She reclined on a cushioned window seat, one arm draped across a large tasseled pillow. She lolled back, the perfect picture of wealth and leisure, although she felt neither today. Rosalie and Seneca took straight-backed chairs facing her.
“The letter?” Violet said. “What news does my eldest son send, causing you to come here by horse rather than more appropriately by carriage?”
Seneca produced a piece of paper. “Lucius sent it via steamer from New Orleans just before his regiment departed for Texas. He addressed it to me, as he must have assumed I would eventually read it, and since I was most likely in Natchez, it made more sense to do so.”
“Don’t assume anything with regard to your brother,” Violet advised. “If he addressed it to you, then he wanted you to read it first. Lucius always does things with purpose.”
A muscle on the side of Seneca’s jaw quivered. “I would say his purposes have not made much sense so far.”
Violet shrugged. “Who knows what the future holds? Now. What’s his message from New Orleans?”
Seneca unfolded the letter to read, but Violet interrupted. “Tell me what message you think he sends, my son, then read it.”
Seneca stiffened. “You don’t think I can discern my brother’s message?”
“I think you can discern his words,” Violet allowed. “His intent might be something completely different.”
Seneca looked at Rosalie. His wife leaned forward. “Violet. Please. You know why my husband and I have not been at Palatine much. As long as Tiberius let John Dyer run the plantation, there was no point being here.”
Seneca spoke up. “Your news on the stairs was most welcome. A major problem has been removed by the hand of God.”
Violet laughed bitterly. “You think God struck down John Dyer with consumption? If so, why didn’t God do it ten years ago?”
“Hush, mother!” Seneca was shocked. “Don’t speak that way.”
“And you think his son will be any better?” Violet sagged back on the pillow, weariness playing across her face. “Enough. What do you believe your brother’s news to be?”
Seneca licked his upper lip, his tongue brushing the fledgling mustache he was trying to grow. “Lucius saw St. George Dyer in New Orleans.”
“I know St. George went to New Orleans,” Violet said. “Tiberius sends him every year. For his fine liquor and his fancy cigars. As if he couldn’t trust a store in Natchez. St. George is still gone, but his father must be in the ground. I sent word via steamer of his father’s passing. My letter must have passed Lucius’ on the river.”
Seneca shook his head. “That isn’t entirely why St. George was in New Orleans.”
Violet sat up straight. “Go on.”
“Lucius reports that St. George was trying to sell a young slave girl to some northerners. That he had the paperwork from father giving him the right to sell the girl. Lucius further reports that the girl’s skin was most fair, although her features were negro.”
Violet closed her eyes and nodded. “I imagined something like that must be Tiberius’ answer to his problems.”
“’His problems’?” Seneca asked.
Violet waved a weary hand. “What else?”
“The girl was the daughter of Mary. My brother did not say who the father might be. Lucius writes that St. George was confrontative and that he nearly shot St. George.”
“Too bad he did not,” murmured Violet. “Especially now.” She spoke louder. “Anything else?”
“The rest is of little consequence. Lucius says that St. George was in the company of a woman from Texas. A Sally Skull. She trades cattle and was making a deal with the Army.”
“That was the last thing in the letter?” Violet asked.
Seneca nodded.
Violet looked at Rosalie. “Have you read the letter?”
“I have.” Rosalie had a kerchief in her hand that she was running through her fingers, a most unusual sign of nervousness.
“Speak,” Violet commanded.
“I believe we now know the Dyer’s hold over Tiberius,” Rosalie said. “I imagine John Dyer used to take—” she searched for a word—“Tiberius’ problems to New Orleans and now the task has fallen to St. George. They must have a paper trail of these transactions.”
“What else?”
“I made some inquiries as soon as we received the letter while my husband was preparing for our ride here. This Skull woman is known along the river. She has a wicked reputation. It’s said she deals in more than cattle. That she will buy and sell anything she can make a profit on and the law does not inhibit her in the slightest.”
“Does the letter say she bought the slave girl?”
“It does not,” Seneca said. “Why would you ask that?”
“I love you, son,” Violet said, “but you must rely on Rosalie for advice about people. There are always manipulations being made and being planned.” She looked out the window and the room was quiet for a while. Then she called out in a loud voice. “Samual!”
The door swung open and the slave filled the opening. “Mistress?”
“Close the door behind you,” Violet ordered.
Samual was uncertain. “Mistress, it aint allowed for—”
“My son is here to preserve my honor,” Violet said wearily. “What little I have left of it.”
Samual eased the door shut, then waited.
“I know this isn’t easy for you,” Violet said. “But it’s important. For all of us. How many other children has Mary had besides Agrippa and Echo?”
Samual looked down at the floor and did not answer.
Violet stood and walked to him. She looked up into his dark eyes. “How many?” she asked gently.
Samual’s answer was a whisper. “Four.”
“Why were they allowed to be born?” Violet asked. “That is not the way.”
“Mary was ordered, Mistress.”
“By John Dyer?”
“No, mistress. By Master Tiberius.”
Violet tensed as if preparing for a blow. “And the father? It wasn’t one of the Dyer’s was it?”
“No, mistress.”
Violet took a step back. Her shoulders slumped. Rosalie stood up and hurried over, putting a supporting arm around the older woman’s shoulder.
Samual looked up. “You need know, Mistress. Mary cannot bear again. She saw to it two year ago. She afraid Master Tiberius has caught on. She afraid he looking at our Echo now.”
“He can’t get out of the damn bed,” Violet hissed.
“He’s out of the bed today, isn’t he?” Rosalie said.
“With John Dyer gone,” Seneca said, “we can—”
“We can do nothing,” Violet snapped. “St. George is worse than his father ever was. And this is Tiberius’ plantation. I brought Samual with me from Tennessee and that is the extent of my holdings.” She turned back to Samual. “Is St. George stealing cotton? Selling it to this Skull woman?”
Samual met her eyes. “Yes, mistress.”
“Does my husband know of it?”
“I don’ know, mistress.”
“How much—” Violet began, but the door to the room flew open and Tiberius stormed in, leaning heavily on a cane.
“What’s he doing in here?” Tiberius demanded, jabbing the end of the cane at Samual. “I told you he’s never to be in the house.”
“But you don’t feel that way about his wife,” Violet said.
Tiberius planted the cane on the floor, hands shaking. “I have commanded Palatine for thirty years. I just buried a friend. As long as I breath, I continue to command.” He glared at Violet. “Get your nigra out of here.” He jabbed his cane toward Seneca. “When you are ready to be my right arm, you can return.”
With that, he exited the room, slamming the door shut.
October 1845, Pilot Peak, Nevada Territory
“You were right,” Carson said.
The Expedition’s horses drank from the small spring at the base of the prominent peak Cord had barely glimpsed two days ago. It was dusk and Fremont had led the rest of the column to their signal fire an hour ago. The Pathfinder seemed in a much better mood and was walking about the camp, talking to the men as they settled in for the night. The smell of elk meat cooking wafted over the campsite. Food, water and fire were the lifeblood of the Expedition and all were in abundance.
Cord rubbed his hands together over the small fire he and Carson had built up. They were on the edge of the camp, away from the main body of the men. It was Carson’s way and Cord had never thought to question the habit. “Sometimes a little faith works.”
“You a lucky man,” Carson said. “Back in Saint Louie when—” he paused and grabbed the Lancaster long rifle near at hand.
Cord snatched his rifle. “What is it?”
Carson stepped back from the fire, into the darkness. Cord mimicked the move, standing shoulder to shoulder with the scout. When Carson gently pulled back the hammer on his rifle, Cord did the same.
A figure staggered out of the darkness, heading straight for the fire. An old Indian woman, her body emaciated, a scrap of cloth tied around her waist her only protection against the cold and decency. She held shaking hands over the flames, completely focused on absorbing the warmth for almost a minute, before she looked up with cloudy eyes and called out in her native tongue.
“Paiute,” Carson whispered. “She thinks she’s in one of her people’s camps.” He lowered the rifle’s hammer. He held up one hand, palm out, and stepped into the light. “No harm,” Carson said in her language.
She turned to run, but one of the pickets belatedly came rushing up, weapon at the ready and barred her way, while calling out for Fremont. Within seconds, a large group of men were clustered around the cowering old woman.
“What does she want?” Fremont asked Carson.
The scout had been standing close to the woman, trying to calm her down, and talking quietly to her. He looked over at Fremont. “She been left behind by her tribe, sir. Left to die. She’s too old to gather food, so she’s no good to them.”
“Damn heathens,” Fremont declared. “White people would never treat their own like that.” He gestured at the circle of onlookers. “Go back to your bed-rolls, men. Get some sleep. We’ve got hard traveling in the morning if we’re going to cross the Sierras before the snows.”
While Fremont was talking to Carson and the men, Cord had gone to the nearest cooking fire and grabbed a leg of elk. He walked up to the woman and offered it.
“What are you doing?” Fremont demanded.
“She’s hungry,” Cord said.
The woman hesitated, frightened, but hunger won out. She grabbed the meat, tearing away at it feverishly with her teeth as she ran off into the dark.
“That’s our food,” Fremont said. “We’re going to need everything we’ve got to get through the mountains.”
“I’ll kill some more game tomorrow, while we’re on the march,” Carson said.
“Leave her be,” Fremont ordered. “Her people left her to die, let her die. You’re just prolonging her misery.” He stalked off toward the main encampment.
When he was gone, Carson called out into the darkness in the woman’s language. A few minutes later, the old woman tentatively appeared, having already gnawed the elk leg down to the bone. Cord grabbed one of his two blankets and tossed it to her. She clutched it to her chest.
“Now that you might well miss going through the Sierras,” Carson said.
Cord shrugged. “She’s probably somebody’s mother.”
The woman had already disappeared back into the darkness. Cord took his flask out and drained the drops of liquor that were left.
The following morning as the party set out, Cord left the small fire burning and put together a pile of food next to it.
“You a weird fella,” Carson said from atop his horse, long rifle across the pommel.
“You think she’s still around?” Cord asked as he mounted.
“She around. Where else she got to go?” Carson said as he spurred the horse and they headed off toward the white capped Sierra Nevada’s and California beyond.
The End
Book II of Duty, Honor, Country follows Cord and Rumble and the rest into Mexican War. It is still to this day, percentage-wise, the bloodiest war in our history.
Book II in the Presidential Series
Chapter One
The Present
HERE RESTS IN
HONORED GLORY
AN AMERICAN
SOLDIER
KNOWN BUT TO GOD
Colonel Paul Ducharme stared at the panel on one side of the marble monument that marked the graves holding the unknown soldiers from World War I through Vietnam here in the heart of Arlington Cemetery. He doubted there would be any more unknowns given DNA typing. The military had even backtracked and identified the Vietnam unknown and his family had claimed his body and re-buried him at Jefferson Barracks. But that did not mean there would be an end to the dead, because as Plato said millennia ago, only the dead have seen the end of war.
Emergency lights were flashing around the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and Ducharme knew the ‘authorities’ had their hands full trying to explain the night’s activities and remove the bodies. Too many people with too much power needed this entire event hushed up, so Ducharme wasn’t overly concerned about publicity. When the covert world wanted something kept quiet, they would go to any lengths.
The 3rd Infantry, more commonly known as the Old Guard, whose duty it was to guard the Tomb, had not only just defended it, but already had a man ‘walking the mat,’ even though he was dressed in camouflage, not dress blues. Arlington was shut down right now, but by daylight, all would be back to normal, the guard would be in the proper uniform and the world at large would be no wiser about what had happened overnight to save the country.
Twenty years of Special Operations duty had carved their hardship into Ducharme. Scars crisscrossed his skull underneath hair that was more white than silver. He also had a scar just underneath his right eye. Despite his age, he was fit, physical conditioning being an ingrained part of his lifestyle and profession. Physically fit, that is. His hands occasionally had a slight tremor in them, and there was little he could do about the intermittent pain that lanced through his brain. He’d worked hard in rehab to deal with the mental problems associated with his traumatic brain injury (TBI) and was still, as he liked to say, functional.
Almost all the time.
“We can’t put part of the Cipher in the Tomb,” Evie said.
“We’re not going there,” Ducharme replied.
Evie Tolliver, the curator of Monticello and former CIA agent, was of roughly the same age as Ducharme, in her mid-forties, and also fit. Flanking her was Sergeant Major Kincannon, the third leg of the group that had succeeded in beating the Society of the Cincinnati to the parts of the Jefferson Cipher and decoding it in order to uncover the Jefferson Allegiance before the SOC did, thus keeping control of it.
A powerful document, one that was a secret part of the Constitution, control of the Allegiance had allowed the country to keep the fulfillment of an Imperial Presidency at bay for two centuries. It was the ultimate weapon the Philosophers used to battle the Society of the Cincinnati. Brokered during the growing pains of the country between Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton, it was, and continued to be, the ultimate compromise between either extreme of government.
Without another word, Ducharme headed out into the cemetery and the two followed without question into the calm of the fields of the dead. Dawn was lighting up the eastern sky and the tombstones cast long shadows in the early morning chill.
Ducharme halted. “Here.”
Evie looked at the newly emplaced headstone:
CAPTAIN CHARLES LAGRANGE
BORN NEW ORLEANS 6 MAY 1972
DIED 3 JANUARY
DUTY-HONOR-COUNTRY
SILVER STAR
Book II in the Presidential Series
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Chapter One
Roland fired the M-240 from the hip—not approved procedure for accuracy, but he was a former Special Forces weapons man with three combat tours, and every 7.62-millimeter round went directly at the seventeen-inch screen of the laptop. The golden iris emanating from the screen sucked the bullets in like a raging ocean absorbing rain, without the slightest ripple or effect.
The laptop rested on a boulder at the foot of a mesa fourteen miles outside of Tucson. A generator was stuttering nearby, providing power to the laptop and having supplied energy for the initial opening of the phenomenon protecting the computer. Roland was still in his jump harness, having just completed a high-altitude, low-opening parachute drop through the night sky.
“Confirming a Rift,” Roland yelled into his throat mike. “Six Fireflies are out.”
Moms’s unflappable voice replied in his earpiece. “Roger. Inbound.”
Roland released the trigger after wasting a second fifteen-round burst, knowing bullets were now useless against the Rift. His head was on a swivel. He’d spotted six golden sparks come out of the screen just before his feet hit the ground, and who knew what they’d gotten into? The Rift was Doc’s problem now. The Fireflies were the real danger.
The Snake came roaring in, wings rotating from horizontal to vertical, jet engines pulsing, almost eerily silent as the thrust passed through sound dampeners. Doors slid open on both sides of the delta-shaped aircraft and fast ropes were tossed out. Four figures slid down. The fast ropes were released and the Snake rose to over-watch height. A door slid open at the nose of the Snake and the chain gun extended into firing position.
Racing from the discarded ropes, Moms—the team leader—led the way, her MP-5 submachine gun at the ready. Nada was on her right with his sub, along with Burns armed with an M-203, and Doc brought up the rear, carrying a military-hardened laptop of his own along with a small dish transmitter.
“Eagle,” Moms ordered the pilot, “get a Wall in.”
The Snake banked and raced in a clockwise circle, five hundred meters around the Rift, firing down probes every three hundred meters of the circumference. When the last one was in, they were activated, forming a Wall around the area of operations, and the Snake returned to over-watch.
Out of the corner of his eye, Roland caught movement as he shrugged off his parachute harness. He wheeled as a coyote launched at him from twenty meters away. An unnatural leap for a coyote and plenty of distance for Roland to stitch it with a solid burst. But close enough that the rounds weren’t enough to stop a creature taken over by a Firefly. The bullets barely slowed the coyote’s flight.
It landed on Roland, teeth snapping, claws ripping at his body armor.
Moms and Nada fired at the coyote on top of him, making the Delta Force live-fire training for hostage rescue in the Kill House at Bragg look like child’s play. Every round hit the beast, not a one scratching Roland.
The combined force of the fusillade knocked the coyote off Roland and he rolled in the opposite direction, bracing for what he knew would be next.
“H.E.,” Burns warned as he fired the forty-millimeter grenade launcher underneath the rifle barrel of his M-203. The high explosive round hit the coyote center of mass, blowing a huge chunk out of the creature’s chest and stunning it for the moment. It had been dead since Roland’s initial burst, but the Firefly still had enough to work with.
“Doc, forward!” Moms ordered. “Nada, cover him. Burns, finish it. Eagle, we got one in a coyote, scan for anything living.”
Doc—a short, balding man with thick glasses—was completely out of place among the military personnel blasting away with weapons all around him. And yet he ran toward the growing golden iris in front of the offending laptop. He dropped to his knees and opened up his own computer. He scrambled to connect a FireWire cable to the dish.
Roland ignored Doc, firing his M-240 at the coyote, but despite the damage, the remains of the coyote came toward Roland.
Burns fired again and this round blew the remnants to shreds. Roland slid the machine gun on its sling over his shoulder and grabbed the pistol grip attached to the tank of napalm on his back, pulling it out of its asbestos sheath. He flamed the remains, charring it to ashes.
A golden spark of light, four inches in circumference, lifted from the corpse, then disappeared into a wisp and then nothing.
“How many?” Moms was at Roland’s side as he slid the flamer back into its holster and readied the machine gun once more.
“Six. One down.”
“You certain?” Moms asked as the two went back-to-back to gain 360-degree coverage. Nada was hovering over Doc, head turning to and fro.
“Yes.”
A new voice came over the team’s net. “Got two hot to your west, moving in tight to each other toward you,” Eagle reported from the Snake, hovering a hundred feet overhead. “Targeting. Looks like more coyotes. I’ve got a Wall surrounding you at five hundred meters.”
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