The Jared Chronicles | Book 4 | The Devil's Bastion, page 14
part #4 of The Jared Chronicles Series
Both men abstained from communicating as Barry readied himself to depart; there was no need. Barry knew he would follow John, and John knew where they were going and how to get there. Once Barry was packed, John turned and began the methodical exercise of winding his way out of the thicket to the west. Surprisingly, Barry moved behind him, barely making much more noise than John was making himself. It was a peculiar thing that when someone’s life hung in the balance, they were oftentimes able to perform spectacular feats that their minds otherwise refused to allow them to effectuate under normal circumstances.
John reached the edge of the brush on the western edge and stopped, taking the time to ensure they were not crawling into a roving patrol or a stationary fighting position not there the night before. John used the goggles, which were down to twenty-five percent battery life, to scan the grassy hillside until he was satisfied they were the only two-legged creatures in the general area. John knew Josh would have NVG, but wasn’t sure about the rest of the soldiers. When he’d worked for Carnegie, his and Josh’s teams all were outfitted with the goggles. Carnegie had specially requested the equipment to outfit the two teams and received the exact number he’d asked for, not a single set more.
Unless Carnegie had somehow requisitioned more NVGs, John was pretty sure there were only five to seven pair that could be floating around the hills, other than the pair he was sporting. The last thing John wanted was to be spotted by a bored soldier sitting in a defensive OP, wearing NVG. This left John with only two options, crawl or walk upright like he owned the place. After a few moments of thought, John erred on the side of caution, choosing to crawl through the grass, with Barry following so close, he twice placed his hand on John’s foot.
John purposefully exited the brush a couple of hours earlier than he’d left the ranch, remembering the slow progress they’d made during their ingress. Like two four-legged animals, John led Barry through the lush and tall green grass, constantly moving to the west in an attempt to break Carnegie’s operational perimeter. John knew the moment they were clear, both he and Barry could breathe easier—walk upright and get off their aching hands and knees.
By 0200 hours, John was walking through the countryside, Barry trailing slightly farther back than he had during the crawling segment of their trip due mostly to physical fatigue. John kept his pace brisk, but not so fast Barry fell behind. Being separated in the dark was a real thing, and many men had lost their lives because of it. John wanted to avoid a search and rescue party if at all possible, so he kept their movement tempo measurably slower than he would have had he been with Jared or Rip.
John moved through the hills, crossed a road, turned south, and continued, resting every hour to take on water and get Barry off his feet. The hike back to the ranch wasn’t tough by any standards John was familiar with, but he’d grown accustomed to the wide array of mental toughness civilians possessed or at times lacked. John planned on moving to within sight of the ranch before hunkering down until daylight. Entry into friendly lands was always far safer when it happened when folks could clearly identify one as a friendly.
If he tried coming in under the cover of darkness, they would need to whistle or use some other sort of audible communication, which the enemy could and would most likely hear. John wanted Carnegie to think they were digging in and that was it. John didn’t want to alert the troops in the surrounding hills that he was running his own patrols. This would assuredly result in Carnegie tightening his security, making John and Jared’s job in the field significantly more dangerous. No, John wanted the ranch to appear a place of complacency, a target as soft as a feather pillow.
John wanted the soldiers to underestimate himself and the rest of the people at the Thacker ranch at every level. If Carnegie were to send his soldiers before John was able to thin their numbers, John wanted the violence he, Jared and Rip would bring to the table to be a shock. John knew the effect of having a battle suddenly go horribly wrong, when one fully expected to breeze through for the win, shattered men’s morale far quicker than anything else in warfighting.
When they stopped for the night, Barry was unable to make out the ranch with his naked eye, taking John’s word the ranch was several hundred yards out. John chose a ditch on the side of the road to wait for dawn, and thankfully there was no water in its bottom. A year ago, there might have been even though there had been no rain for some time; farmers and ranchers watering crops had created enough water that the drainage ditches at times remained wet or at least muddy year-round.
Neither Barry nor John slept, anticipation acting as a stimulant, beating back the fatigue both men felt, almost in the abstract thinking about reuniting with friends. John didn’t bother unpacking a single item from his pack as he waited, crouched in the dry ditch, rifle clutched tightly in his hands, eyes peering through the green-lit goggles, whose batteries were nearly dead. Other than a small herd of three deer and a single fleeting glimpse of a coyote, John saw nothing else moving about in the night.
Jared rose early, his mind worrying about John and Barry’s whereabouts. John’s initial intentions were to go out and return the following day, but Jared was well versed in how plans could change within the blink of an eye; still John’s delayed return troubled him. Jared skipped breakfast, walking outside into the cool April morning air, eyes searching the property to the south and west. Jared knew Devon was perched high in the back of the barn, watching to the north, the direction the soldiers would eventually come from. Jared highly doubted John would return from that direction, seeing that nothing but hostiles inhabited the lands to their north.
Jared strolled to the barn and climbed the ladder leading to the loft. There was a second opening in the loft, conveniently facing to the south, and if Jared leaned out slightly, he could also enjoy a view to the west. Devon looked over his shoulder as Jared mounted the top rung, stepping onto the loft’s wooden flooring. Jared jerked his chin up in Devon’s direction, acknowledging the youth before turning to the southern-facing opening.
Devon was a kid of few words and didn’t need a dialogue with Jared, which Jared was thankful for this morning. He hadn’t slept well, worried about his friends, and was now regretting missing breakfast. Jared moved carefully to the opening, making sure there wasn’t anything on the floor he might trip over and pitch headfirst out the opening. The floor was clear of obstacles, allowing Jared to stand in the opening, studying the lands to the south with the naked eye.
Jared had brought his rifle and a small day pack, which he usually carried and in which he kept three days of food, a water-purification system, ammunition, dry socks, a flint, and several other small survival items. Clad in one of the outside pockets of the smallish backpack, Jared kept his binoculars, the same ones he’d scavenged all those months ago from an REI in San Carlos.
Not finding anything without the aid of his optics, Jared unslung the pack and dropped it to the ground. Jared shot an inquisitive glance over his shoulder, hoping to find a crate or something to sit on, but no such amenity existed. Jared dropped to one knee and fished the binoculars from his pack, then slid to his stomach, where he brought the visual aids to his eyes. Jared lay on the cold wood floor for thirty minutes before he spotted John, nearly six hundred yards out to the southwest, walking with Barry in tow.
“Jeez, where have you guys been?” Jared muttered under his breath before turning and calling out to Devon, “Boys are coming in from the south. Everything seems cool so far. Keep a close watch on your side though.”
Other than turning, straining his neck to see through Jared’s portal, Devon remained at his post. Jared watched John’s slow progress for a full five minutes before he climbed down to the barn’s floor and walked out to meet the returning two. Jared didn’t hurry, figuring if there was trouble around, having all three of them out in the open wasn’t the best-case scenario. Jared stopped at the fence line, rifle slung under his right arm, right hand resting on the familiar surfaces of his old friend and constant companion.
When John was one hundred yards out, Jared waved and got the same in return. Jared pulled the binoculars to his eyes one last time, quickly studying the two faces approaching. Neither man seemed overly apprehensive although Barry appeared enervated; John just looked tired. Jared wasn’t at all surprised by this, seeing the two had just spent the last forty-eight hours out in Indian country, as John would have put it.
As Barry caught sight of Jared standing near the fence, with the ranch as his backdrop, Barry felt he should have been relieved, but he wasn’t. Barry enjoyed no such warm homecoming feelings; instead, he felt adrift, as if he shouldn’t be associated with these people whose midst he was about to enter. The smiling faces he would undoubtedly encounter inside the ranch house were faces that, by association, spelled doom for him.
The old cliché You are who you associate with fluttered past Barry’s mind’s eye, causing his gut to clinch. He was going to die because he’d taken up with the wrong group of people, and this frightened Barry more than he could put into words. He’d been in dangerous situations with these people, but most of them were unexpected, lightning quick, violent, and then over, giving Barry no time to worry about what was currently festering.
Barry was no traitor, nor was he a hero—what he was, what he’d always been, was a survivor. Barry possessed an innate ability to foresee the future and what it held for him. In his past life, Barry was part of more than a few companies whose life cycle had run their course. Barry always recognized these cycles and was able to remove himself before the company dragged him under with it. Barry had always come out on top, even to the point of other employees watching what he did in order to protect themselves.
Now Barry felt that same impending undoing of a group he currently was a part of. Separating himself from them, however, would prove far more complicated and dangerous than leaving a company had been in his past life. The soldiers to their north were the new powerhouse in town, and Barry needed to find a way to switch sides, or he would die, facedown in the dirt like the rest of these proud, defiant, but sadly naïve people.
“You were only booked for a single night. What happened?” Jared called out when the two were within earshot.
John shot Jared a wry grin. “We got upgraded,” John returned.
“I hope it was to the penthouse.” Jared chuckled as John drew closer.
“Yeah, we spent the night right in the middle of it all.” John snorted.
Jared raised his chin to Barry, whose face conveyed a nervous uneasiness. Jared chalked it up to being out longer than he’d expected, and if what John was saying was true, Barry had probably spent most of the last forty-eight hours trying not to shit himself.
The three men walked back toward the house, talking about what John and Barry had seen out in the hills. Jared’s brain attempted to absorb every detail of Carnegie’s operation as John outlined the colonel’s preparations. Shannon and Stephani were standing on the front porch as the trio walked up to the house, Stephani’s face telling of the relief she was feeling at John’s return.
In typical fashion, John preempted any comments regarding his tardiness. “So, what’s for breakfast, ladies?” John fired off from the hip with his usual boyish grin, his teeth flashing in the early morning light.
Shannon shot Jared a dour look, expressing her displeasure with John’s cavalier style after worrying Stephani and the rest of them nearly sick. Stephani’s face transformed from its mixture of concern and relief to one of reproach after hearing what she termed as a highly offensive and male chauvinistic remark made at a time when people’s lives hung in the balance and those who cared for them were raked with anxiety.
“Whaaaat?” John backpedaled, realizing his mistake a second too late. “Come on, it’s been a long two days. I get it. I was just making a joke.”
Barry wheeled and headed for the house as the two women stared silently back at John. Jared, beginning to feel a little hot under the collar standing so close to the early morning comedian, moved to Shannon’s side.
“Okay, Steph, I’m sorry, bad joke, my bad.” John relented, doing something he hated to do—apologize.
Stephani blew out a long breath, her body relaxing, the tension beginning to leave her frame. “So how badly are we screwed?” she asked in a tone much softer than John expected.
John’s lips tightened as he heaved a sigh like a man about to deliver very bad news. “We are in a situation that could go pear-shaped really quick if we don’t get proactive in deleting some of those soldiers before Carnegie orders his horde down from the hills.”
“Deleting?” Shannon asked quizzically.
“Kill,” Jared translated.
“Pear-shaped?” Stephani questioned.
Again, Jared offered his translation skills. “Bad.”
As John, Jared, and the ladies entered the ranch house, Barry was exiting, headed for the barn and whatever he was working on out there.
“You eat?” John asked skeptically as Barry brushed past.
Without looking back, Barry held a hand up. In his hand were several energy bars, which John guessed constituted Barry’s breakfast. Rip sat inside the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee that coated the home’s interior with its rich aroma. The coffee came from the MRE packets they’d taken from the soldiers when the SEALs, along with John, had fled the base a few months ago. When Rip decided he was staying with John and his SEAL commander, Matt had commandeered two Humvees in a less than graceful move after all John had done to assist in the SEALs’ survival, and Rip had gone to work. All was fair in love and war, and Rip had set about opening every single MRE and relieving each bag of its coffee packet. In the end he’d sent his SEAL brothers on their way minus twenty-two packets of the coveted beverage.
Rip didn’t view the theft as an act of a turncoat, but more a prank. The SEALs had basically planned on taking the two Humvees no matter how John or Jared felt about them doing so, and in turn Rip had stripped them of this little luxury. Down the road, the SEALs might not have viewed it the same way, but Rip knew brothers would always be brothers, and yeah, they might kick his ass in a playful yet serious manner if they were ever to meet up again, but it was worth it. Rip would have traded ten beatings for just one cup of steaming hot joe.
When John walked in, Rip got to his feet and offered John the last half of his cup, which John readily accepted.
“Thanks, brother,” John said, drinking in the coffee’s rich aroma through his nostrils. “God, that smells like home.”
There was an uncomfortable pause as everyone looked around the room at one another. The ranch was home, they all knew that, but it wasn’t where they all would have been were the solar flare not a factor. John finished scent sampling the coffee and poured the dark liquid onto his palate. Swallowing the hot fluid, John’s face glowed as his mouth curled at the corners.
“It’s good to be home. You all my peeps now,” he added in his best, but truly dismal gangster accent.
Everyone settled in around the kitchen table and the counter as John began relaying what he’d seen out in the hills. He laid the sketches out so everyone could have a visual reference for what he was talking about. Surprisingly, Stephani disappeared during this session, only to return twenty minutes later with scrambled eggs taken from the Thackers’ chickens and two pieces of very hard toast with fresh butter slathered across their tops. Bacon would have rounded the meal out to perfection, but John had learned his lesson earlier that morning and thanked Stephani both verbally and with a hug.
When John was quite finished eating and briefing everyone in the room, which was missing Carlos, Barry, Raul and Devon, he looked at Jared. “We need to remove twenty pieces from this chessboard.”
“Like at Dwight’s place?” Jared questioned cautiously.
John’s head swiveled back and forth almost sadly. “No, not like that. Killing them one by one would be like kicking a very large and dangerous anthill, then standing in the middle of it.” John sighed.
“So, what’s your plan?” Quinten probed.
“My plan is to kill twenty of them as close to all at the same time as possible,” John responded with a sardonic chuckle.
Jared leaned in at hearing this. “How?” he pressed.
John flung his arms to his sides in exasperated surrender. “Fuck, man, I don’t know. I mean, I know how I’d try it if we had a way to communicate with everyone, but aside from that, I need a little help with this scheme.”
“What about Barry and the stuff he’s working on in the barn?” Jared voiced to no one in particular.
Quinten waved off the notion. “He’s got nothing more than a circuit board he can make clicking sounds with, and he’s only got one of those.”
The room fell quiet as everyone either tried thinking of a work-around, or waited for those with an idea to spit it out.
Jared’s lips tightened as he gazed through squinted eyes, the look of a man puzzling over a great mystery. “John—let’s say you had radios and we could all talk, what would your plan be then?”
John chewed on the corner of his mouth; his nose scrunched in thought for a moment. “Well, I’d deploy teams out toward their line of defense, try to identify as many of their positions as possible. Once that was completed, I would coordinate a simultaneous shot from all my teams onto their soldiers’ positions. Figure we might get ten to twelve if we’re lucky. Since all their defensive fighting positions are manned by two soldiers, I’m guessing we’d leave a soldier alive in each post. Alive, but very fucked up, scared and confused. Rip here would then get to work in a more indirect fashion,” John said, smiling while raising the cup in salute to the younger naval warfighter.
