Dan and the Bottle Ch. 14

"You DO realize that we don't have anyone here who knows a thing about running an oil well, let alone a refinery?"

"Yes, I do... but I also realize that we probably have the greatest library known to this country, currently, aside from the Library of Congress or the National Archives... if those places didn't get nuked. On top of that, Dorn and his team brought back close to a truckload of paperwork from the place... and we've got a whole generation of kids who've been taught to think with their fingers; between those things, I think we can learn to get the machinery back up and running."

"We're spread pretty thin as it is, you know."

Archer nodded. "Dangerously thin, at the moment... but we have to expand our territory. By this time next year, we should have at least eight or ten operating bases... and I mean Fully operational. Armor, artillery, air support, the works. We need to expand the training programs, get more people learning how to shoot, how to stalk these Chinese punks... outdoor survival comes naturally to most of them, so it's just a matter of teaching them the military side of things. We need an army."

He paused in thought for a moment, and added "And we need it right fuckin' now."

Corcoran gave him a sour look. "I see why you were so happy to leave office; this is gonna be a logistical nightmare."

"Oh, hell, Johnny, I'll bet you know a hundred people who could train new recruits at the rifle range right now. Delegate, guy! Get yourself a good bunch of instructors, get the classes going, and have the instructors rotate between the classes, so the trainees get more than one perspective on the art. Hell, you know all of this."

Corcoran nodded, deep in thought for the moment; he knew they had nearly four thousand snipers in the Cave alone, and another thousand in training. Adding in those who had moved down by the Rebel base, and a few of the other bases and villages in their Free Zone, would nearly double that. Most of the trainees were making good progress, too, and he knew that soon, their sniper corps would number into the low five digit range by itself.

The main trouble, as he saw it, was pilots and armor crews. They'd found four bases with planes stored in nitrogen atmospheres so far, including Juniper, and had at least five hundred usable planes and helicopters as a result... but they had less than half that number of good, certifiable pilots so far, though training was going quickly. Nearly a hundred of the planes were the two seat F16 trainers, but those had been dated even before the war, and transitioning the pilots into the F22s, F35s, and the F117 Stealths wasn't as easy as it sounded. The helicopters were a similar story; transitioning someone from an old Bell Huey to a Blackhawk or an Apache was a trainer's nightmare.

The armor was posing a similar problem; people who'd trained on the old Shermans and Pattons in the Cave had a tough time with the Abrams they were finding under the old military bases... they were worlds apart. Even with the hundreds of training manuals they were digging up, it was a long, slow process. Crews for their most modern armor were few and far between, and would remain so for months to come, perhaps years.

Brian Arthur took his class out to the impromptu shooting range, set on assessing their current skills. This group was predominantly Villagers, with a sprinkling of Cave raised kids, and so far, most of them were making good progress. Emma Wilkins had, in fact, taken several rabbits that had wandered too close to the range just the day before, both head shots, both at a range of over two hundred yards, with single shots from an M16, which he had given her high praise for. She was nearly ready for a class of recruits of her own.

As the class took turns shooting at the longer distance targets, out to three hundred yards, he saw that the main problem was that they were having trouble correcting for the wind, which today was blowing across the range from right to left, strong enough to blow their shots off to one side. At a short range, under fifty yards, it wouldn't have mattered so much; they'd still be 'on the paper'. Out at three hundred yards, however, this translated to being off by several feet or more.

After two hours, he called a cease-fire, and led them back to the large hanger on the base they were using as a classroom, sitting them down and putting their noses back in the books; an old training manual left behind by the US Army, telling them to read up again on the section on ballistics. Leaving them to their reading for a few minutes, he took the time to grab a cup of coffee, then started going through the paper targets, one at a time.

Emma was, once again, the star of the show; she was one of three who had actually gotten near the bull's eye, and had, in fact, placed a few shots close enough to the bull's eye to be considered killing shots. Most of the targets, though, were nearly clean, with just a few shots on the extreme left edges. He gave a deep sigh as he realized that it wasn't so much the ballistics aspect per se'; it came down to a lifetime of never having learned the basic math skills to begin with. He would have to get them back into school, learning to do the necessary math in their heads so they could calculate the compensation for wind drift and bullet drop.

At Juniper Base, Pete Coswell was doing double duty, both as a flight instructor and slowly bringing equipment up from 'the basement', as he called it, starting with the trainers. Of course, there were other things coming to light as well; some of the side chambers of the massive underground storage bunkers held small arms, everything from M16s to M2 Browning big .50s. One section of one of the rooms held a number of lightweight personal six barreled miniguns, in .223 caliber, along with hundreds of cases of belted ammunition for them. Those were going to be fun... it would take a strong man to carry and control them, but they would come in handy at some of the Chinese bases.

Herb Montgomery sat back in his office looking over the report of the most recent patrols. His men were finding fewer of the Chinese; they were staying closer to their base. He knew that wouldn't last long, The commander of that Chinese base was an arrogant son of a bitch, and was thoroughly brainwashed into thinking that the Communist Chinese had every right to be here.

Montgomery had never attacked that base, but with the number of troops that were training now, plus the infusion of Militia troops, who had proven to be excellent drill instructors, he knew it wouldn't be long before he could. His people were not only learning to shoot straight; they were also learning the tactics that the Militia had already used successfully to destroy several Chinese bases. Give them another few months of instruction, plus the amount of equipment flowing in from the militia's discoveries, and he knew it wouldn't be long. His Rebels were hungry for some action.

Rick Jamison welcomed Jim Archer and Johnny Corcoran to Juniper base, all the while wondering what was on their minds. Jim explained that he was retiring from his post as the commander of the militia base and taking on the role of advisor, and instructing the newer recruits in tactics, ambushes, and other 'need to know' things that went with militia duty. He wanted to make sure the men he'd forged alliances with knew that there was a new hand at the helm.

Jamison nodded, sipping at his coffee. "It's a good thing you men are here, actually; I was going to call you, see if you could lend me some people."

"Oh? What do you have in mind, Colonel?" John asked.

"Well... we've got a Chinese base, about forty miles west of here. They hadn't really paid much attention to us before; I think they thought we were just a small farming community. That all changed a few weeks ago, when Captain Sharpe took one of those trainers up with a young woman from the base here and wound up shooting down four of their helicopters. We've had their jets doing fly-bys several times a week since, and that, gentlemen, makes me nervous, because I don't have enough trained troops to take them on, just yet."

"Have you sent out any scouts yet, to recon the place?"

Jamison nodded. "Preliminary reports say there are about two thousand troops there, and about twenty of those big helicopters. About fifty fighter jets, too... I'm not sure how many pilots they have for them, though."

Corcoran shot a look at Archer, who nodded.

"Ok... have your guys done any mapping of that base? We need to know all we can about it ahead of time."

Jamison sighed. "Not enough... we don't have any way to take pictures of the place, and my scouts, well... let's just say there isn't an artist in the bunch."

Corcoran grinned at this, pulling out his satellite phone. Punching in a series of numbers, he was quickly connected to the main swithboard back at the Cave.

"Hi, Katy? John Corcoran... listen, can you find Tom Dorn for me?"

Two minutes later, Dorn came on the line.

"Yes Sir, what can I do for you?"

"Assemble a team... night vision gear, silent weapons, digital cameras, extra memory cards, the works. Get 'em down to Juniper tonight. We have an enemy base to scout, and it sounds like a big one. Have them draw ration bars for at least a three to four day op. Have 'em bring down a few extra laptops with chargers and a case of extra digital cameras, too, while they're at it."

"Yes, Sir... anything else?"

Corcoran stroked his chin in thought for a moment, nodding to himself.

"Yes... Put the sniper corps on alert. Tell them we may have work for them in a few days... and have some of our demolition guys on standby, too... I think we'll put them to work on this one too."

Billy Jackson pulled his troops back to a small suburb, about eight miles from the enemy base, to wait and let the Chinese stew over the latest losses his squad had inflicted upon them. It was a gamble, giving them time to reorganize, but worth the risk. They'd relocated to an old hospital, which had an extensive basement, including what appeared to be a large conference room. They set up their small camp stoves, had a hot meal, and bedded down for the night.

Jackson woke in the middle of the night at a prod from one of the men he'd put on watch; someone, it appeared, was nosing around in the hospital above them. He nodded, whispering to the watcher to wake the rest of the men. Everyone put on their headsets and crouched behind boxes and overturned tables.

They all got out silenced pistols and waited, focused on the entry stairwells at either end of the room.

They didn't have long to wait.

Jackson saw the first movement; a pair of legs appeared at the top of the stairs. The clothing was wrong, though; they were wearing what appeared to be very old blue jeans. He whispered "Hold fire... those don't look like soldiers."

Three men and a woman came down the stairs, dressed in old clothing and carrying bows. They were looking around warily, and appeared not to be in very good shape.

Jackson waited until they were all fully in the basement before standing up, flashlight in hand, and said "Ok... who are you people?"

The man in the lead started to bring his bow up, and Jackson cocked his pistol, saying "I wouldn't do that."

His men stood up from their own places of concealment, bringing silenced rifles and pistols to bear in a show of force. It worked; the man, and his three companions, lowered their bows.

"Man... who the fuck are you?"

"I'll ask the questions here, bud. What are you doing here?"

"Runnin' from the soldiers... there's patrols everywhere. We're lookin' to get out of their way."

"Ok, I can understand that. Now who are you?"

"The soldiers hit our village about an hour ago... they were lookin' for guns. They killed almost everyone. We barely got away."

"Damn... probably lookin' for us." Jackson muttered under his breath.

To the strangers, he replied "Ok, well, come on in... we aren't Chinese soldiers. Maybe you can tell us something about what's going on out there."

The leader of the foursome slung his bow across his shoulder and stepped forward. Extending his hand, he said "Don Brewer."

Jackson shook his hand, replying "Sergaent Bill Jackson."

Brewer drew back his hand in shock. "You're soldiers?!"

"Not in the way that you're thinking, no. We're members of the state Militia."

"Mil...militia? Never heard of it."

"Call us citizen soldiers. We kill Chinese."

Brewer's eyes widened as the implications sunk in.

"You must be the people they're lookin' for. They came to our town, screamin' at us about some o' theirs that got killed today, swore we were hidin' the people that killed them."

"Damn... I'm sorry about that. We're trying to drive those bastards out of our country. I didn't know there was a civilian town nearby. "

"It wasn't a big place... there were only about twenty five of us to begin with... and I think a few others got away."

"Ok, well... if you can find the others who got away, there's a small town, about thirty, thirty five miles southwest of here; if you can make it that far, you'll be safe there, it's part of our free zone, and under our protection. It's across the state border, in Northwest Wyoming. Look for a small town called Quincy. Tell 'em Sergaent Jackson sent you, and you need sanctuary. They won't turn you away."

Brewer nodded. "You guys got anything to eat? We ain't had any time to do any huntin'."

Two people from Jackson's squad stepped forward, pulling off their packs, reaching inside, and passed out half a dozen of the nuts-and-chocolate ration bars each. Pete Anderson showed them how to unwrap them, biting into one of his own and chewing. The four imitated him, eyes lighting up as they tasted the chocolate, apparently for the first time.

They would talk long into the night, and Billy finally decided his squad would have to escort the survivors; none of them had ever been more than a few miles from their town, and they had no sense of direction. They picked up another twelve survivors on the way out of the area, a mix of men, women, and children, and it took nearly four days to get them all across the state line and into the new town, where they got a warm reception from the villagers in Quincy. Within a week, they were integrating into their new home, and were, indeed, soon pulling their own weight on the farms and in the small grain mill that this town was built around.

Jackson and his team resupplied, and after a few days of sleeping in real beds, redeployed to the northwest, moving quietly back into the area of the Chinese base, only to find guards who were far more vigilant now. It didn't do them much good, though; the militia members changed their tactics, this time mining the road out of the base by night, then falling back and circling around to the opposite side of the enemy encampment and popping half a dozen guards before fading back into the deep woods, watching as the enemy troops streamed out of the front gate and walked right into the mix of bouncing bettys and claymores.

In three day's time, they racked up an impressive body count. They counted over thirty Chinese dead.

Tom Dorn looked over the Chinese base, down near Juniper field, silently cursing. The place was huge, and it was going to be an absolute nightmare to take on, even with the twenty five hundred snipers under his command. What was worse, they had not one but two barracks full of female prisoners, one at either end of the base; and Dorn knew how Corcoran and Archer felt about collateral damage. An air attack was out of the question. This would have to be ground troops only, and even with silenced weapons and surprise on their side, it could easily turn into an out-and-out slugfest.

Don Brewer looked around the small town with something approaching awe... he didn't recognize any of the equipment set up around the area, but he knew, somehow, that it wasn't anything generally used by regular people. When he asked what on earth 'those things' were, he was told they were anti-aircraft guns, 60MM mortars, and 105MM howitzers, plus a sprinkling of Patton and Abrams tanks. This town was not without it's defenses. On top of the town hall, at the top of a twenty foot mast, was a small, camoflagued radar dish, which was monitored around the clock.

The whole town was surrounded by farmland, and four acres had been set aside for orchards, although none of the trees would be large enough to bear fruit for several years; still, the Cave-started saplings were off to a good start. Their planting holes had been dug extra deep, and half filled in with compost before lowering the young trees into place. They were buried half way up their young trunks, which the Cavedwellers knew would promote a huge root ball.

At the small military barracks in the center of town, actually an old warehouse that had been converted for their use, Bill Jackson and his team resupplied with fresh ammunition and other equipment. They'd decided to take a week to rest and give the Chinese time to settle, perhaps thinking they'd seen the worst of it.

It worked; when they returned to the area, they saw that the enemy troops had been busy, clearing the land and mowing the grass out to a hundred and fifty yards from their fencelines. Jackson knew the land they'd cleared had probably been mined as well... he looked at his teammates and grinned... knowing there wasn't one of them who couldn't hit a man sized target from five hundred yards. This was going to be fun.

Cassie, Mickey, and Doris drove down to the new village in three new-old pickups, all of their worldly possessions stored in the backs under the bolted on caps. The three of them had made the decision a few days after their last party.

They'd made the decision, mostly, because with the influx of villagers, the value of their wages had gone down- the Cave just had too many farm and kitchen workers. The new town, located a few miles from the Rebel base, had been started as a joint set up between the Rebels and the Militia, a place for the local refugees from both areas to set up and start farming and trading with the Rebels, and to train with both Rebel and Militia instructors in the deadly arts.

Mickey and Doris had both been learning to shoot since they were seven or eight years old, so they would make a welcome addition to the village south of the Cave, known as Middleton, and Cassie was a pretty decent combat nurse... and of course, all three were well versed in farm work. Cassie was also a pretty fair hand in the kitchens, so none of them would lack for work.

They took up residence in a sprawling three bedroom ranch house in the little suburb, moved in their belongings, and within a month, had a small garden growing in the backyard, including a dozen pot plants of varying types, and had established themselves in jobs in the community. Mark and Fran were frequent visitors.

Mickey settled on an old log in the woods near the quiet suburb, sweaty after a full day of cutting and collecting firewood. The house they'd moved into had three separate fireplaces; a big woodstove in the basement, which also heated the water for the house, and two on the main floor, which were the main source of heat and could, in a pinch, be used as cook stoves, in case the electricity went out.

He'd been cutting up deadfalls, mostly, for the past four hours, and had the back of the big pickup nearly full. Two or three more days like this would see them through the winter with ease, and he'd marked enough dead, dry wood for at least an extra two days of cutting and splitting. The hydraulic woodsplitters back at the town were going to get a workout.

He loaded up the chainsaw and gas can last, wrapped up the four rabbits he'd shot with the .22 automatic pistol after frightening them from under the logs he'd been cutting up, and put them in the old, faded brown truck, and was just about to head back to the settlement when he saw them... Chinese soldiers, three of them, walking through the woods bold as brass, a bit over a hundred yards away. They hadn't seen him, yet, so he eased the door of the truck open, quietly grabbing the M-4 Carbine from behind the seat and chambering a round as quietly as he could.