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Message-ID: <29909asstr$987585002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Aftermath by Al Steiner - Ch 18 (FFF) 1/1
Date: Wed, 18 Apr 2001 05:10:02 -0400
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AFTERMATH
By Al Steiner

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




CHAPTER 18




The altimeter on the helicopter's instrument panel read 6300 feet above sea
level, about 300 feet above the point where the rain turned to snow.  This
put him almost 2000 feet above the rooftops of Garden Hill, high enough to
see the entire subdivision and the surrounding landscape.  Of course what he
was doing would not have been possible even a month ago.  The snow would
have quickly iced up on his rotor blades, degrading their aerodynamics,
eventually enough so that they would no long be capable of providing the
necessary lift to hold up the aircraft.  Nor would he have been able to see
anything, even before the icing became a problem.  But over the past month
the precipitation had slacked off some.  Not a lot.  It was still a moderate
rainfall down in Garden Hill and a moderate snowfall at elevations above
6000 feet, but it was certainly not the heavy rain that had been the norm
since the crash of Fenwell and the aftermath.  It was moderate enough that
Brett could risk being up above the snow level for a while.

"We've been some busy people down there," Brett said in admiration as he
hovered in place and looked below at the impressive array of trenches and
fortifications that the townspeople had been digging and constructing since
the news of the Auburn attack force had reached them.

"No kidding," said Jason, who was also looking down from his position in the
navigator's chair.  He had a large map of the area around Garden Hill, an
update of the one that Brett had used to brief everyone in before the
attacks had begun, unfolded on his lap.

The reason for this flight this morning was no more or no less than an area
familiarization.  The remains of the Placer County Militia were just
breaking camp a little more than seven miles to the east of them.  After
being harassed and hindered for the past fifteen days and nights, they were
now in striking distance - about to enter the ring of the Garden Hill main
defenses.  Brett would be responsible for directing the battle that was
imminent in no more than a day or two and - so busy had he been ferrying
strike teams and flying night missions - he had not been able to keep as
close an eye on the new defenses as he would have liked.  He and Jason were
now comparing the terrain below them with the map, making sure the two were
compatible with each other and that Brett would be able to reference
correctly when a troop movement needed to be made.

The work done by the women and men of the trench teams was admirable indeed.
To the north of the wall, towards the interstate, was the area that Brett
had always considered their most vulnerable to mass attack.  The landscape
between the wall and the lanes of the highway was marked by gently rolling
hills dotted with pine trees and the occasional redwood.  To the far east of
this area and to the far west of it, close in towards the wall, were the
taller hills that served as the main guard positions.  Between these two
hills, which were not close enough to each other to provide overlapping
fields of fire, the majority of the trenches had been dug, starting from
just south of the freeway and stretching all the way to within fifty yards
of the wall itself.  Each trench was of course atop of a hill and well
covered by trees and fallen logs.  The trenches themselves were lined with
sandbags made out of dirt and pillowcases for the most part and could hold
ten to fifteen troops.  If the militia chose to advance through this
corridor - which would seem the easiest route to them - they would meet some
very nasty surprises.

To the west - their second most vulnerable avenue of attack - the hills were
a little higher and steeper, covered with denser layers of trees.  The going
would be somewhat rougher for the militia over on this side but there was
also a much wider corridor through which they could potentially travel.  It
was also the closest approach to the wall and the community center, around
which the final defense lines were even now being dug.  There were not as
many trenches dug over on this side and they were both smaller and with
greater distance between them.  The trade off was that if the militia
attacked from this direction, many of the defending troops could station
themselves atop of the various hills and snipe at them as they advanced
before falling back into a solid network of bunkers a quarter-mile from the
roadway and the western wall.

Unfortunately, Brett saw that there were a few large gaps that could
potentially be exploited if the militia knew about them.  Though it was
almost impossible to approach the town from the east due to the cliffs on
that side, a group could conceivably hook around from the north and
penetrate along the east side of the subdivision between the wall and the
cliffs.  They would have to pass very close to the large hill on that side
of the town to do this and would take considerable casualties from that
alone, but once past that hill, no trenches had been dug and a defense would
be very difficult indeed.  Another such gap was along the southwest corner
of the subdivision, near the canyon itself.  If a group marched along the
rim of the canyon and penetrated from this direction they would once again
find their only major obstacle to be the hill that guarded the southern tip
of town.

Brett was uncomfortable about these gaps and, had he been given the time, he
would have done his best to close them, but he had not been given the time
and he had felt it more important to shore up the areas where the militia
PROBABLY would attack from.  He took a little comfort in the fact that it
was unlikely that the men commanding the Auburnites would attempt such feats
in the absence of any intelligence that such a thing was actually their best
bet.  It was a gamble but Brett was reasonably certain that the attack would
come from one of the two predictable directions.  Nevertheless, trying to
cover all of his bases, his mind began turning over just how he would react
if they DID do the unexpected.

"What about the old grocery store and the gas station and all that?" Jason
asked, looking at the roofs of those buildings off to the northwest.  The
entire strip-mall, home to the hair salon and the Starbucks and the Raley's,
was still there, just outside the wall and across the road.  Though a few of
the roofs had collapsed from the constant rain, the buildings would still
make an ideal cover point for an attacking army if they would reach it.

"Hopefully they'll never get that far," Brett said.  "If they do, you can
see there's a final network of trenches just on the north and east of it.
The troops will hold them from there and then retreat inside the wall if
they manage to close.  Paul and his team have rigged up the inside of those
buildings with more than a few of Steve's mines and some other booby-traps
he came up with.  The militia would find that occupying those buildings
would be a rather bad mistake."

"Cool," Jason said, smiling a little at the thought.

"My feelings exactly," Brett said.  "So how's that map looking?  Are you
able to figure out the trench numbers and compare them with the actual
ground?"

"Yeah," he said, looking from one to the other.  "They did a good job on
this map.  It's almost perfect."

"Good, because when we're in the middle of this thing, I'm going to be
relying on you quite a bit.  Both of us are going to have to multi-task up
here big time.  I'll need you to report to me what trenches our troops are
in and where the militia is advancing.  I'll need you to give me this
information by map grid and trench number as soon as I ask for it and then,
while I'm looking at the map, I'm going to need you to keep an eye on the
instruments for me to make sure I'm staying in a hover."

"No problem," Jason assured him.

"Goddammit, I wish we would've had time to get you checked out on flying
this thing," Brett said, shaking his head a little in frustration.  "That
would've made things so much easier.  I could've had you fly while I watched
everything from your chair."

"I know everything about this helicopter," Jason said, his tone sending a
message.  "You've taught me all of the instruments and what they do, you've
taught me how it flies, why it flies, and how you make it fly.  All I
haven't done is actually put the controls in my hand."

Brett looked over at him for a moment.  He shook his head, answering the
unasked question.  "Unfortunately, that's the most important part," he said.
"You can't just jump behind the controls of this thing and start flying it,
no matter how much you've watched someone else do it.  There's just no
margin for error.  If we had even a week to practice up, I'd get you up to
speed.  But we don't."

"It was just a thought," Jason said, disappointed but not terribly surprised
either.

"And a good one, I'll admit, but there's just too much risk.  You could
probably fly this thing right now straight and level and you could probably
make turns without too much problem either, but hovering in place for a long
time is one of the more difficult maneuvers and that's how a lot of the ops
in this battle are going to be done."

"Like I said, just a thought.  But as soon as we kick these assholes out of
here, how about we have some hands-on lessons."

"It'll be the first thing," Brett said.  "Now lets get finished up here.  We
still have one more day of hit and run drops to make."


+++++


The hit and run teams were only able to hit the militia twice during that
day, costing them only four men.  This close to Garden Hill there simply
wasn't all that many places that drops could be made safely without their
enemy being able to see and/or hear the helicopter.  But still, despite the
relative break that the militia got, the main function of the hit and run
strikes - that of slowing down the advance - was accomplished.  Though they
had started the day off only seven miles away from the wall itself, by
nightfall they had only marched a little more than four miles.  The main
lines of defense started a mile and half outside the wall on the west and
two miles out on the north.  The militia made camp that night to the
northwest of town, still more than a mile away from where their real
resistance would start.

Brett stood down the helicopter after one final high altitude flight at 5:00
PM.  Dinner was served in the cafeteria and, as mad as it seemed, all of the
traditional guard posts were left unmanned for the duration of the briefing
after it.  It was another gamble.  Brett thought it unlikely that the
militia would be able to move in on them in the darkness and he did not want
them listening in on the transmissions from the radios that were used to
transmit such meetings to the guards.

As such the cafeteria seemed unusually full that night.  Every table was
full of men, women, and children, many of them dirty and looking tired.
Dinner was yet another batch of canned soup and spinach, served cold of
course, and baked bread that had been made two days before.

"Okay everyone," Brett, looking more than exhausted himself, said into the
public address system.  "Let's call this meeting to order.  In all
likelihood, this will be the final briefing before the real fun starts.  As
I'm sure you've heard by now, the militia is camped out a little more than
three miles to the northwest.  From their current position it is but a short
march to our defense lines and I expect that contact will be made sometime
around 10:00 AM tomorrow."

Some nervous chatter met these words.

"Jason and I went over the tapes from our recon missions of the militia
tonight," Brett went on.  "While it is impossible for us to get a completely
accurate count of their numbers, we do have a very good estimate of their
current strength.  It appears that there are about 200 of them facing us."

There was some more nervous chatter as well as many expressions of disbelief
at that number.  "Two HUNDRED?" several people groaned.  "Jesus.  Two
fucking hundred."

Brett called for quiet before the grumbling could get out of control.  "All
right you pessimists," he said.  "You're looking at the glass as half empty.
You're saying to yourselves, "my god, there are two hundred of them out
there".  But remember, when they started their march, there were FOUR
hundred of them.  Four hundred fairly well disciplined men with guns bearing
down on us.  In the past fifteen days our two groups of hit teams and Jason
and I on the night missions - at the cost of only one death and one injury -
have killed or caused to desert HALF of that force.  Not only have we done
that, but you can bet your ass that those remaining troops are demoralized,
exhausted, and not able to think very clearly.  By no means are they looking
at a pushover.  And also keep in mind that 200 remaining troops is a
conservative estimate on my part.  The actual number may be even lower.

"Now back when we first heard about Auburn's apparent vendetta against us,
we knew that they once sent an attack force of 160 people which they turned
around at the last minute.  You may recall that I've said on multiple
occasions that if they had attacked us with that force at that time, they
would have beaten us.  Maybe some of you out there are thinking that that
same thing applies here, that the militia now has forty more people so that
maybe they'll be even more likely to come away the victors."  He shook his
head strenuously.  "That is simply not the case.  Had those 160 men attacked
us the first time, they would have found nothing but our basic defenses.
Now, they will find trenches and a coordinated defense and some women and
men that are ready to kick some fucking ass!"

His words stirred them up a little, alleviating some of the doubts.

"Now I know the numbers don't sound all that great," he said.  "We have a
town population of 179 people at this moment, not including Hector over in
El Dorado Hills.  That's 18 men, 104 women, and 57 children under the age of
7.  What that leaves us is 122 people that are capable of fighting these
fuckers.  Only, as you're aware, we can't all do that at the same time since
we only have 86 rifles, semi-automatic weapons, or automatic weapons to
fight with.

"But people, you've TRAINED to fight with those numbers and those
disadvantages.  You've been formed up into squads and you KNOW what your job
out there is going to be.  One of the most important rules of warfare that
you need to remember is: the advantage goes to the defender.  That is
certainly true in this case.  Though the militia has a better than 2 to 1
numerical advantage, they are going to have to fight their way across open
ground while you will be concealed in trenches.  In addition to that, you
will have Jason and myself in the air above you, feeding you information on
their movements and concentrations.  While we won't be able to provide fire
support during the daylight hours - the danger of having them bring us down
is too great - we will be able to deliver some of our other nasty little
surprises to them.

"But most important of all perhaps, is the fact that WE have the will to
fight.  We are defending our homes, our town, our children while they are
just following orders.  They don't have a lot to gain by fighting us and
they have much to lose - namely their lives.  We, on the other hand, don't
have much to lose by fighting since we know the fate that awaits us if we
are defeated and we have everything to gain by fighting as fiercely as we
are capable.

"Ladies and gentlemen - we will prevail."

A large cheer rose up at this.  Brett almost felt ashamed at it, thinking
that he would've made a good recruiter had he stayed in the army.  Now that
the patriotic, morale-instilling part of the speech was over, he got into
the meat of the matter.

"Now everyone already knows their jobs," he said.  "But why don't we go over
the main battle plan one more time, just for clarity.  From this point on
until this thing is over with, I want everyone to stay here in the community
center.  If you need to make a quick trip home after the meeting for some
essential supplies, by all means, do so, but everyone sleeps in here
tonight, okay?"

There was a little bit of good-natured grumbling but no one disagreed with
this.

"In here you're all within reach of the weapons and we're all within
instant, unmonitored communication with each other.  Now Jason and I plan to
hit them from the air several times during the night.  There's no sense in
letting them get much sleep now, is there?  But you folks, I want you to get
to sleep as soon as you can tonight.  Get as much rest as you possibly can.
Tomorrow is apt to be a long day.  We will get up before dawn in the morning
and those of you in the primary squads - those that will be carrying the
weapons - will assemble and get ready.  Paul will get his medical teams
ready to help any wounded and then we will do what the majority of warfare
consists of: we will wait.

"We will need to wait so that we can see how the enemy is going to attack
us.  At this point we do not know from which direction the attack will come
or if it will come from two directions at once.  If I were the commander of
that group, I would hit us from the north and the west simultaneously,
therefore splitting the defenders in two, but there's no telling what their
leadership is thinking.  We can be pretty certain that they will not be able
to hit us from THREE directions as Jean and Anna, our newest citizens, have
told us they planned.  They simply do not have enough troops for that any
more.

"Whatever their plan is however, I will discover it before they get close
because of our helicopter.  Once I know what they're planning, I will direct
your three platoon leaders - Chrissie, Michelle, and Matt - to deploy you in
whatever trench complex - or complexes if they hit from more than one axis -
will provide the best defense.  You will assemble there and I will do my
best to keep you updated on the enemy's progress and I will shift you if
need be.  Remember that we must talk in code during unit to unit broadcasts!
While we believe that the helicopter to platoon leader communications are
secure, the unit frequency is nothing but citizens band - the same band that
the militia uses.  Don't give yourselves away by talking in clear text, no
matter what kind of shit is hitting the fan.

"When you finally spot the enemy visually, hit them the moment they get into
range.  Don't just go blasting away at everyone in sight though.  Pick them
off using the "sector of responsibility" tactics that you were taught.
Those of you with the single-shot hunting rifles, you're the workhorses of
the battle.  You'll be able to hit them from a much greater range than those
with the semi-autos and the autos can.  Use those scopes and don't forget to
lead your target and to allow time for the bullet to reach.  Those of you
that do have the assault weapons, use them inside the two hundred and fifty
yard range.  Hit people that are clumped together.  Don't waste a whole clip
blasting after one man unless there's nothing else to shoot at.

"When it comes time to retreat, do it orderly.  One squad will provide cover
fire while the other retreats and so on and so forth.  When you have
wounded, call for Paul's team.  They'll be lingering in the rear ready to
pull casualties off of the line.  Remember the key word here - WOUNDED.  As
distasteful and as it may sound and as disrespectful as it may seem, you
need to leave the dead where they lie.  Paul and his people will be rushing
in through open ground.  I know we all know each other and care deeply about
each other, but be realistic in your assessments and don't risk our medical
teams by having them come and pull someone out that is dead.  It does
neither the dead person nor the rescuer any good.

"Are there any questions?"

There were many, so many in fact that the meeting lasted another hour.  And
even then, most of the people weren't sure if they had all of the
information that they needed.  Everyone had doubts about what was going to
happen tomorrow.


+++++


While the pre-battle briefing was occurring in the Garden Hill community
center, another meeting was taking place in the hills to the northwest of
town.  Most of the troops had bedded down for the night (although anxiously
awaiting the first of the air attacks - they had no reason to believe they
would stop tonight).  Others were walking the perimeter, taking their turn
at guard duty (one of these was actually in the process of slipping away -
he wanted no part of what was to come).  Near the center of the mass of
soldiers, three of them were sitting dangerously close together in the
partial safety of a grove of trees near the base of a hill.  These three
were the only surviving lieutenants of the Garden Hill expeditionary force:
Stu, Colby, and the technical second-in-command, Lieutenant Mitchell.

"There are 188 of us as of nightly role call," Stu said, taking a slug of
water from his canteen.  "That'll be more than enough to take that little
shitpot town in the morning.  Especially now that we've reorganized the
squads and the platoons again."

"I agree," said Colby, who agreed with almost everything that Stu said.
"We'll split into two elements at dawn and hit them from the north and the
west."

"I'll lead the group from the west," Mitchell said, his fingers nervously
playing with his own canteen.  Mitchell was a competent enough tactician,
having served a tour in the Marines in his former life.  He was also, like
most former Marines, an expert with his rifle.  "We'll stage just on the
outside of the far ring of hills and then move in once the other group is
ready."

Before they could discuss any more elements of this plan, Stu broke in and
scuttled it.  "I don't think that splitting the men up is a good idea," he
said.  "We've lost enough of our numerical advantage that we should just
charge in as one big group."

Mitchell looked over at him (or at least in his direction - he couldn't
actually see him since it was dark) as if he had gone insane.  "What the
hell are you talking about Covington?  If we split ourselves into two
elements, that means the enemy will have to split into two elements to
counter us.  It'll make it twice as hard for them to coordinate and each of
our own groups will be up against less resistance.

"That does make a lot of sense," Colby said, uncharacteristically agreeing
with someone other than Stu for once.

"It'll also make it much harder for US to coordinate with each other," Stu
said.  "We need to take the most advantage we can here and charge them from
the north, where the going is the easiest.  We send the bulk of the troops
right through the gap between their guard positions."

"That doesn't make tactical sense," Mitchell said in bewilderment.  "You
should know better than that."

"Actually," Stu countered, "it makes a lot of tactical sense.  The northern
route has much smaller hills and a lot less trees.  There's less room for
those bitches to hide and snipe at us.  If we get them to dedicate their
entire force in that area, it's just a matter of clearing each hill with
flanking maneuvers.  Remember, we're dealing with bitches here for the most
part.  They'll cut and run as soon as we close with them."

"That doesn't have anything to do with dividing into two or not," Mitchell
said vehemently.  "Jesus fucking Christ, the same principal applies to both
plans.  We need to hit them from both directions so that their forces are
split.  It's the only thing that makes sense!"

The argument raged for better than thirty minutes, with neither Stu nor
Mitchell giving any ground.  Colby seemed to swing back and forth in
opinion, tending to agree with whomever had just finished talking at any
given time.  He made a few points of his own from time to time, but nothing
that was original in thought.

"Look," Stu finally said when things started to get really heated, "why
don't we just shelve this discussion for the moment and get some sleep?  The
air attacks are going to start any time now and we're all bunched up."

"We need to make a fuckin' decision before morning," Mitchell said,
directing his comment at Colby, who was the one that would ultimately have
to do that.

"Well..." Colby started.

"We can sleep on it," Stu insisted.  "We'll be able to make better decisions
in the morning and we'll still have time to brief in the troops before we
move out."

"What?" Mitchell said, wondering what kind of madness Stu was talking now.

"Yes," Colby said.  "I think that's a good idea.  We'll pick this up in the
morning, before daylight."

"We need to decide this NOW!" Mitchell said.  "Goddammit, we..."

"In the morning," Colby said, more firmly this time.  "The air attacks will
be starting soon and we don't want to be bunched up like this.  Let's
separate for now."

And so they separated, each of them moving far enough away from the other so
as not to invite the attention of the gunship.  The decision remained unmade
for the time being.

It is debatable which decision Colby might have made.  Mitchell's arguments
were based on solid military logic and carried much weight, perhaps enough
to swing the favoritism that Stu enjoyed.  As it turned out however, Stu's
plan was the one that would prevail.  Stu knew that this plan entailed more
military risk but he was afraid that a mass desertion - perhaps led by
Mitchell himself - would take place if the militia was split in two.  Again,
whether or not this would have occurred is very debatable.

But after the first air attack of the evening - which took place shortly
after 9:00 PM - Lieutenant Mitchell was found to be among the three dead, a
victim of three rounds in the chest that were assumed to be from the
helicopter gun.  His body was stripped of weapons and supplies and then
dragged off to the side with the rest.  As with Bracken before him, no one
noticed the blood on the back of his head.

Stu was now second-in-command of the remaining militia and the sole military
adviser to Colby.



+++++


The community center was quiet but restless as 10:00 approached.  Most of
the Garden Hill residents were sleeping downstairs, either in the cafeteria
or the adjoining rooms.  They were laid out on the floor, covered with
blankets, their heads on pillows, their bodies tossing and turning on the
edge of slumber.  They tended to be bunched together by the squads and
platoons they had been formed up in, adhering to the bonding that comes in
such circumstances.  A few of them however, had slipped off with their
spouse or spouses to other parts of the building, knowing that this would be
the last chance they had to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh before the
battle tomorrow.

Steve Kensington and his two wives were in an upstairs storage room, all of
them naked.  Sarah and Lori, the wives in question, were not into lesbianism
and, as such, Sarah was patiently waiting her turn at the throttle while
Steve pounded in and out of Lori atop their blankets.

In yet another upstairs storage room, Ted Eljer and his wife Carrie were
busily involved in a threesome with Jenny O'Riley, who they had been having
such relations with for the past week.  Ted and Carrie had no intention of
inviting Jenny permanently into their relationship at any point; they were
just enjoying the freshness of her young body.  They had gone through
several such third persons in the last month, doing the Garden Hill
equivalent of playing the field.  Jenny, though she desperately wanted to be
a part of their union - of ANYONE's union - knew that they were just using
her for their own enjoyment but she consented to it anyway.  She craved the
release of sexual congress as much as anyone.  Especially on this night.

In the main food storage room, which was the domain of Tina and Stacy, the
two women were using their privileges to pass through the locked door to
full advantage.  Some weeks before they too had discovered the joys of
female to female sexuality and often they indulged in sessions of heated
passion both with and without Jason.  In this case Tina was kneeling between
Stacy's legs, licking her contentedly while running her hands over her huge
belly.  Stacy's due date was February 4, just over a week in the future, but
her impending delivery did not detract from her sexuality.  She had to
muffle a scream as she came, her hands tearing into Tina's hair.  When Jason
arrived a few minutes later, fresh off his first mission of the night and
under orders by Brett to get some sleep, he quickly joined in the fun,
sliding himself into Stacy from behind while she returned Tina's favor.

And down in the cafeteria, near the corner where Jessica had once tried to
kill Brett, another such pairing was in the works.

"Chrissie," Maggie whispered, having slid her body a little closer to her
squad leader's.  "Are you awake?"

"I'm awake," Chrissie whispered back, opening her eyes to look knowingly at
her friend.  The ambient light drifting in from the lanterns in the nearby
locker room was just enough to see the hungry look on her face.  "What's
up?"

"I... uh... need someone to hold me," she said softly, putting emphasis on
the word "hold".

Chrissie knew well what she meant.  Since their first episode nearly two
weeks before, after their first day of hit and run missions, Chrissie had
made love to Maggie five additional times.  They never talked about it,
never made allusions towards it.  Maggie still pretended each time that she
had not planned on it occurring.  But she always asked for it the same way -
telling Chrissie that she needed some comforting, that she needed someone to
HOLD her.

Maggie trembled in nervous, guilty excitement as Chrissie smiled at her and
told her that they should go find an empty storeroom.  "You wouldn't want
anyone to see you while you're... uh... upset, would you?"

"No," Maggie said, slipping out from beneath her blankets.  "I wouldn't want
that at all."

And so the two women, both dressed in clean pairs of jeans and heavy flannel
clothing (after all, the call to arms could come at any moment) but absent
of boots and socks, padded upstairs, slipping silently between the groups of
other people on the floor.  Maggie was under the impression that no one knew
where the two of them were going or what they were going to be doing - or at
least she pretended to be.  Chrissie was under no such illusions.  Garden
Hill remained a very small town where everyone knew everyone else's
business.

The storage rooms of the community center had long been a place for illicit
or semi-illicit sexual activity.  This practice stretched all the way back
to the days before Brett, Chrissie, and Jason showed up in town.  Since most
of the rooms did not lock, a system had developed by which lovers inside the
rooms could let others know that they were occupied and therefore avoid the
embarrassment of being walked in on while work was in progress.  This system
developed without anyone ever verbalizing it to anyone else or writing it
down, almost by telepathy.

"Can't use this one," Chrissie whispered upon coming to the first door.  The
sign of occupancy was clearly visible in the light of the candle she
carried.  A hair scrunchy that belonged to one of the women inside (it was
Jenny's) was hanging from the doorknob.  In the Garden Hill community center
this served the purpose of a motel's DO NOT DISTURB placard.

They moved further down the hall, coming to another storage room.  The
doorknob was empty on this one and Chrissie opened the door, allowing her
candle to show the inside.  This room was about 12 by 12 feet and had once
housed spare linen.  It was now nearly empty of this supply since much of
the linen had been converted into sandbags for the trenches.

"This should be good," Chrissie said, standing aside and allowing Maggie to
enter.  "We'll be able to... talk... without being bothered by anyone."

"Yes," Maggie said with an almost straight face.  "I'd hate to have anyone
walk in on us while we were talking."

Chrissie took off her own hair scrunchy, allowing her blonde strands to fall
to her shoulders.  Her scrunchy was very distinctive looking.  Instead of a
solid color favored by most of the town women, it was red and pink and had a
small silk bow sewed into it.  She twisted it around the doorknob and then
entered the room, allowing the door to shut behind her.

Once inside she set the candle down on an empty shelf.  Maggie was standing
nervously just behind her, biting her lip a little and wringing her hands.

"Come here Mags," Chrissie said gently, holding out her arms to her.  "Tell
me what's on your mind."

The two women embraced, Maggie burying her head against Chrissie's neck, her
body already heating up as she felt the press of breasts against hers
through their clothing.  "I'm just anxious about tomorrow," she said,
smelling the scent of her friend and trembling, telling herself that she
really did just come up here to talk and to be held.

"There's nothing to be anxious about," Chrissie told her, guiding her over
towards a pile of old towels in the corner.  She ran her hands up and down
her back, caressing her in a manner that was more than just friendly.
"We're gonna kick ass.  Don't worry."

"I know," Maggie said, enjoying the sensation of the hands upon her.  "I
just get... you know... scared."

"There's nothing to be scared of," Chrissie told her, turning her face to
hers.  She leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips, lingering just
long enough for the tip of her tongue to dart out for a second.

"Mmmm," Maggie sighed before pulling back a little.  "Chrissie, I just
wanted to talk.  We can't... you know..."

"I know?" Chrissie asked, pulling her closer, kissing her on the chin.
"What do I know?"

"You know?  Like we did those other times.  That was a mistake.  It was
wrong."

"Was it?" Chrissie asked her, letting her tongue slide down to Maggie's
neck.  She began to kiss and suck there.  She had Maggie's number down by
now.  Maggie liked to pretend she was an unwilling participant.  Part of it
was guilt at enjoying the touch of another woman.  Part of it was the love
of being seduced.

"It was," Maggie insisted, craning her head backward as she felt that soft,
wonderful mouth on her neck.  "I just... I mean we shouldn't... ohhh."

Chrissie nibbled her way over to Maggie's ear and began licking at the lobe.
She whispered into it, caressing her with her words and her breath.  "You
want me to suck your boobies, don't you Mags?"

"No," Maggie insisted, her hands pulling Chrissie tighter against her, her
chest thrusting into her.  "That's wrong.  I can't... we shouldn't..."

"I'm gonna do it," Chrissie told her, sticking her tongue into Maggie's ear
for the briefest moment.  "I'm going to take your shirt off and suck your
nipples for you and you're going to love it."

"No," Maggie said, shaking her head, her voice clearly saying "yes".

"Yes, you're going to love it," Chrissie told her, feeling the wetness
gushing into her own being.  She put her hands to the buttons on Maggie's
flannel shirt and began to undo them.  Maggie protested verbally but not
physically.  Soon the shirt was all the way open, revealing the white
T-shirt beneath.  The nipples on Maggie's store-bought breasts were sticking
out plainly against the cotton.  Chrissie pushed the shirt off of her back,
letting it fall to the floor behind her.  She ran her hands over her
breasts, marveling, as always, at the springy feel of them.

"Chrissie, we can't do this," Maggie said, leaning forward and kissing
Chrissie's neck for a moment.

"Lift your arms," Chrissie commanded, pushing at them a little with her own
hands.

Maggie lifted her arms, allowing Chrissie to pull her shirt up and off,
leaving her standing in her white bra.  Chrissie stepped forward again and
began kissing the tops of her breasts, running her tongue all over the pale
flesh, while her hands went for the bra clasp in the back.

"Mmmmm," Maggie moaned.  "I just wanted to talk Chrissie.  I just wanted to
talk."

"We're talking now Mags," she said, opening the clasp and pushing the bra
free.  It joined the T-shirt and the heavier shirt on the floor, leaving
those orbs naked before her.  She lowered her mouth and took a nipple into
it.

"No," Maggie sighed, her hands going to Chrissie's hair.  "We shouldn't."

Chrissie pushed her to the floor on her back, landing her in the pile of
towels.  Her mouth never left her nipple as she performed this maneuver and
she ended up lying partially atop of her.  "Shut up Mags," she said from
around the nipple.  She went back to licking at it with her tongue.

Maggie snuggled into the towels and enjoyed the blissful sensation of her
nipples being suckled.  Though they were not as sensitive as they had been
before her breast enhancement surgery (or, boob job if you prefer the non-PC
term), they were still equipped with enough nerve endings to send tingles
down to her vulva and clitoris.  She ran her fingers through Chrissie's hair
and only protested a little when Chrissie took off her own shirts and bra.

"I like to feel my boobs against yours," Chrissie told her, lying down atop
of her.  "And I like to kiss you.  You're a good kisser."

"Oh Chrissie," Maggie cried as she leaned forward and put her mouth against
hers.

They slid their tongues together passionately, slipping them in and out of
each other's mouths, sucking on each other's lips while their nipples ground
together.  Maggie ran her hands up and down the soft, bare flesh of
Chrissie's back while Chrissie plunged her hands through Maggie's hair.

"I can never resist it when you kiss me," Maggie said breathlessly when the
kiss broke for a moment.  "You drive me crazy Chrissie."

"I know," she said, licking at her upper lip, giving the tip of her nose a
soft nibble.  "And now, I'm going to take those pants off of you and give
you what you really want."

"Ohhhh," Maggie moaned, pushing her downward.

She felt the buckle of her belt being opened, felt the icy coolness of the
metal touching her stomach.  She felt Chrissie's hands fumbling with the
button on her jeans and finally opening it.  The zipper slid slowly down on
its track and then Chrissie's warm fingers were in the waistband, grabbing
the jeans and the panties at one stroke.  She lifted her hips so they could
be pulled off.  A moment later she was naked.  She spread her legs, feeling
the wetness between them, waiting for the exquisite touch upon her pussy.

Usually Chrissie teased her for a while first, licking her thighs and
blowing soft air on her vaginal lips until Maggie actually had to beg for
her mouth.  This time she didn't bother.  No sooner had the pants been
discarded behind her than Maggie felt that blonde hair tickling her thighs,
felt that wonderful tongue lapping up and down her slit.  She moaned and
raised her hips, increasing the pressure.  Oh god, how guilty she felt when
she did this.  But oh god, how heavenly it felt.  Chrissie ate pussy as if
she had been born to do it, as if she had been doing it all of her life.

"Oh yesss," Maggie moaned.  "Oh Chrissie, that's so good."

"Mmmmph," Chrissie mumbled from between her legs.

So far Maggie had never returned the favor for Chrissie.  She would bring
her off with her fingers while sucking on her boobs, but she had not been
able to gather the courage to actually put her mouth upon a vagina.  To do
so would mean that she was really a lesbian, wouldn't it?  Chrissie hadn't
pushed her on this unequal game of give and take, not yet.  Maggie wondered
how long it would be until that changed.  True she really was curious what
it would be like to eat another woman - she always had been - but when push
came to shove, she just... just couldn't.

She had no idea that just on the other side of the storeroom door was
someone who was going to help push the issue.

Michelle had finally found the distinctive scrunchy hanging from the
doorknob after first checking just about every other damn storage room in
the building.  Chrissie had worn that particular scrunchy on purpose,
knowing that Maggie was bound to break and ask for a session this night,
wanting something to signal her partner in crime with.

Michelle smiled, feeling wetness between her own legs as she heard a soft,
passionate moan come drifting through the wood.  It sounded like Chrissie
was doing her usual good job in there.  Since licking Michelle that first
time, Chrissie had become a pussy-eating machine of admirable efficiency.
She could deliver an orgasm quick and hard, with less than three minutes of
licking and sucking, or slow and soft, with more than twenty.  It sounded
like she was about halfway between the two at the moment.  Michelle was very
anxious to join the fun.

She put away the penlight she had been using for navigation through the
building and slowly turned the doorknob until it stopped.  She pulled softly
on the door, taking care not to allow it to squeak.  When it was about two
feet open she stepped inside, sliding the door back shut behind her.  In the
faint candlelight she could see the erotic sight of Chrissie, still in her
jeans but absent of clothing above the waist, lying with her head between
Maggie's widely spread legs.  Her blonde head moved back and forth and wet,
slurping sounds drifted from the junction.  The smell of musk was very heavy
in the unventilated room, giving Michelle an extra little charge of
excitement.  Maggie herself had her eyes tightly closed and was completely
unaware of the additional presence in the room.  Her fake boobs heaved
slowly as she rolled her body back and forth to the rhythm of Chrissie's
tongue.  Michelle couldn't wait to get her hands and mouth on those boobs.
She had never sampled fake ones before and was curious about them -
especially after being told by Chrissie how different they were.

She quickly and silently undid her shirt and dropped it to the floor.  Her
T-shirt and her bra joined it a moment later.  It was the jingling of her
belt that finally gave her away.  As her pants dropped it sent it's musical
chime into the air and Maggie's eyes opened with a start.

"Oh my god," she squealed, her panicky hands pushing Chrissie away from her.
"This isn't what it looks like!"

"No?" Michelle said with a smile, continuing to step out of her pants and
panties, until she too was nude.  "It looks like there's some fun going on
in this room.  Or am I wrong?"

"Hi Shellie," Chrissie said casually, as if nothing unusual was going on.
"Did you need to talk to me to?"

"In a bad way," Michelle said with a grin.

"What are you doing in here?" Maggie asked, covering her breasts with her
arm.  "Why are you naked?"

"Chrissie's my wife," Michelle said simply, walking over to the two of them
and kneeling down.  "We share everything.  Don't we Chrissie?"

"Everything," Chrissie agreed.

"I'll leave you guys alone," Maggie croaked, trying to get up and keep her
body covered at the same time.  "I... well... things kind of got out of hand
here.  I should just..."

"You should just lay back," Chrissie said, gently pushing her back down.
Unlike what was usual, she actually had to apply some force this time.
"Enjoy the fun.  Believe me, three is better than two."

"No," Maggie said.  "You don't understand.  I'm not really a les... a les...
you know?"

"Neither are we," Michelle told her, taking up position between Maggie's
legs and looking hungrily at a fresh, new vagina.  "We're just playing
around because our man happens to be crashed out downstairs at the moment.
It's no big."

"No really," Maggie said.  "I don't know what..."

"Hush," Chrissie said, helping to hold Maggie's legs apart.  She looked at
her co-wife.  "Give her your best Shell."

"You know it," Michelle said.  With a final lick of her lips she lowered her
face down and went to work.

"Oh god, no, no, no!" Maggie yelled, feeling a strange tongue touching her
center.  What was going on here?  She had just wanted to be HELD, to be
comforted, to TALK and now Michelle was... was... eating her pussy!  But it
was only a few seconds before that tongue between her legs, despite its
strangeness (or perhaps BECAUSE of it) began to feel really good.  Michelle
was aggressive in her licks, going so far as to plunge in and out.  And her
hands!  Her hands were working on her boobs while she ate, pinching the
nipples, squeezing the orbs.

"Feels good, doesn't it Mags?" Chrissie asked, letting go of her legs and
leaning down to kiss her on the mouth.

Maggie tasted her own musk on Chrissie's lips and clinging to her tongue.
Without even realizing she was doing it at first, she sucked the tongue into
her mouth and licked at her lips.  "Oh god," she said helplessly as the
sensation of two mouths upon her took her away.  "I'm sooo sick."

No one agreed or disagreed with her assessment of her mental health.  They
just continued to make love to her.  Michelle began lapping at her engorged
clitoris, driving Maggie nearly insane it felt so good.  Chrissie broke the
kiss and then attacked her breasts, pushing one of Michelle's hands out of
the way to take a nipple into her mouth.  It was less than a minute before
the first orgasm went rolling through her body, hitting her like a
highballing freight train.  She screamed loud enough for Jenny, Carrie, and
Ted down the hall to hear.  And still it went on.  Michelle abandoned her
clit for the moment and went back to licking her lips and plunging her
tongue in and out.  Obviously Michelle intended to pull another come from
her and knew just how to do it.

"Oh god," Maggie moaned, running her hands through Michelle's hair now.
"This is so depraved."

"And nasty," Chrissie agreed, sitting back up.  "That's why we love it.  And
it's time for you to get even nastier."

Maggie barely heard her, so caught up in the sensations going on below was
she.  But she couldn't fail to notice that Chrissie was now unbuckling her
own pants and pushing them off.  "Yes," she said.  "Give me your pussy.
I'll get you off with my hand."

"The hand's not got gonna cut it tonight hon," Chrissie told her, wriggling
out of her pants and panties.  "Tonight, I need a little bit more."

"What... what do you mean?" Maggie panted, her eyes locking onto Chrissie's
blonde bush and the pink, swollen lips peeking out from it.

"You KNOW what I mean," Chrissie whispered, sidling a little closer.

"I... I... I can't..." she stammered.  "I've never... I mean I don't..."

"You WANT to Maggie," Chrissie told her, speaking what Maggie knew was the
plain and simple truth.  "You WANT to eat my pussy.  You just don't want to
admit it to yourself.  Well now, you're going to."  She raised up and swung
one knee over her head, forcing Maggie to look at and smell the object of
discussion from less than four inches.  An actual drop of moisture dripped
out of it and onto her face.

"Chrissie..." Maggie tried, her voice lacking the slightest bit of
conviction, "this is..."

"This is how it's gonna be," Chrissie finished for her.  And then she
lowered herself down, her front facing Michelle.

For Maggie it happened in slow motion.  She saw Chrissie's pussy grow bigger
and bigger in her field of view and then suddenly it was pressing down on
her face, smearing fragrant wetness over her chin and lips.  She tasted the
tang of those juices and was overwhelmed by the odor of them.  Instinctively
her tongue reached out and took the first lick, sliding along the slippery
membranes of her inner folds.  After that, she was lost.  She plunged her
tongue inside and began to lap madly.  Soon she had Chrissie panting and
sweating from the pleasure.

For more than an hour they pleasured each other, making love in every
possible combination.  When Michelle and Chrissie were done ganging up on
Maggie, Maggie and Michelle ganged up on Chrissie and then Chrissie and
Maggie did the same to Michelle.  Every few minutes someone would scream out
in orgasm, usually as a result of a mouth on their clitoris while another
mouth kissed them or sucked on their nipples.  By the time they finally
collapsed into a naked, sweaty heap on the floor, exhausted, the room was as
hot as a sauna and almost as humid.

"I'm a lesbian," Maggie said as they cooled off.  She was between the two
other women, their legs intertwined with hers.  "I guess I should just admit
it.  I'm a fucking lesbian."

Chrissie giggled a little, rubbing her thigh against Maggie's.

"You're not a lesbian," Michelle told her lightly, planting a wet kiss on
her cheek.  "You're just a sexual creature, like we are."

"But I LIKED what we did," she protested, shaking her head a little.  "Don't
you understand?  I LIKED it!"

"I would hope so," Chrissie said.  "I gave you my best work."

"Me too," Michelle told her.  "I think I'd be kicking your ass about now if
you told me you DIDN'T like it."

Maggie was confused, much the same way that Chrissie had been confused the
first time such a thing had happened to her.  "But... but..."

"No buts," Michelle said, slapping hers a little.  "We just had a little fun
between the girls.  It's nothing to trip about.  It was nice.  It was REALLY
nice.  I like those bolt-on titties of yours Mag.  Very springy."

"I'm going insane," Maggie said, near tears now.  "I'm questioning my
sexuality and you're telling me that what we did is normal?"

"Normal for this reality we find ourselves in," Michelle said.  "Maggie,
we're in a town where not only are there four times as many women as men,
but where we all just survived a global catastrophe and where we're all
facing a potential town catastrophe.  Sometimes pleasures like sex are all
we have to keep away the madness that we're facing.  Don't you understand
that?"

Maggie looked at her, wanting to find comfort in what she was saying but
having difficulty.

"We're just having fun together," Chrissie said, putting it into simpler
terms.  "There's so little fun in this world, you just have to catch it when
you can.  So what if the old world would've thought we were sick for what we
just did?  The old world is dead.  If you enjoy something - smoking pot,
drinking, having sex with a woman - why not do it?  What's the harm?"

Maggie knew there had to be some harm in there somewhere.  Her religious
upbringing had assured her of that.  But she just couldn't say what that
harm might be.

"Listen," Michelle said, toying with Maggie's nipple and making it erect.
"Do you still think you'd like to have a nice hard dick in that pussy?"

"What?" Maggie said, shocked.

"Do you still want to get fucked by a man?" Chrissie re-phrased.  "Is that
still what you want sexually?"

"Well..." she considered, imagining a nice, firm cock sliding into her.
Yes, that is what she wanted.  "Yes," she finally said.

"So you're not a lesbian," Michelle said simply.  "You're just a sexual
creature.  So stop feeling guilty about making love to us.  We don't feel
guilty."

"Well..." she said, starting to feel convinced a little.

"And I think that maybe Brett would be happy to provide that nice hard dick
for you," Chrissie said.  "Don't you Shellie?"

"I don't think he'd protest too much," Michelle agreed.

She whipped her head back and forth, looking at each of them.  "What are you
saying?" she finally asked.

"Well," Michelle said, "if Brett's agreeable, maybe you'd like to join in
our marriage.  What do you think?"



+++++



At almost the same moment, in the gymnasium of the high school in Auburn, a
party of sorts was going on.  The lights blazed brightly, using almost all
of the generator's output but illuminating the large room in wonderful,
pre-comet brilliance.  The heater cranked away as well, burning many gallons
of precious propane but raising the temperature inside to a balmy 72
degrees.  Trays of food constructed out of the supply room staples by the
kitchen staff sat on a large cafeteria table near the front of the room
while bottles of liquor and mixers and buckets of ice sat on a similar table
next to it.  The table with the liquor was by far the more popular of the
two.

Upwards of 200 women were in the room, most of them drunk, a few of them
actually passed out.  Most were sitting on the bleacher seats that had been
folded down from the southern wall of the room, watching the "entertainment"
that their glorious leader had organized for them.  For the most part the
women in the room were those closest to Jessica, those that were her inner
and outer circles of gossip.

Madeline had been invited to the party of course.  She, as the military
leader of the town, was most definitely inside of Jessica's inner circle.
She had politely declined the invitation however, citing her ongoing
training of the guard details and the security apparatus as an excuse.  In
reality, she simply thought such a party was a horrible waste of their
supplies and the proposed entertainment was nothing short of barbaric.  But
when three of her nightshift guards failed to show up for their 11:00 PM
crew change at the bunkers, she was forced to make an appearance.

The hoots and cries of intoxicated females echoed throughout the room as she
opened the door and entered it.  Many of them were shouting: "Cin-dee,
Cin-dee, Cin-dee!" over and over again in delightful glee in response to the
current "participant" in the games: Cindy Miles.  Madeline tried not to
watch what was going on in the middle of the auditorium - which was the
stage area - but her eyes were automatically drawn to it the way they once
were to traffic collisions along the freeway.  You didn't WANT to look but
somehow you HAD to.

"Oh Jesus," she said, shaking her head in shocked disgust.  To hear about
what Jessica had planned was one thing.  To actually see it taking place...
that was quite another.

A wrestling mat had been placed in the exact center of the gymnasium, right
in the circle where the tip-off was performed during basketball games.  On
his hands and knees on this mat, completely naked, his hands clenched
tightly into fists, was Ron Schuyler.  His face was currently buried in
Tiffany Jenkins' crotch.  Tiffany was naked from the waist down and seemed
to be semi-enjoying the licking that he was giving her (or perhaps it was
the attention of the crowd she enjoyed).  But the real focus of the show was
Cindy Miles, who was kneeling behind Schuyler.  She too was naked except for
a large strap-on dildo connected around her waist.  The dildo was enormous,
probably meant more as a gag-gift than as a practical penile substitute for
lesbians, but apparently no one had told Cindy that it was for display
purposes only.  She was ramming it brutally in and out of Schuyler's anus,
using exaggerated pelvic-thrust motions that seemed an obscene parody of the
male thrust.  Even from sixty feet away Madeline could see that the huge
instrument had split him along the perineum.  Droplets of blood pattered
slowly but steadily to the blue mat, where a puddle had been formed.

Madeline tore her eyes away at last, knowing that Schuyler would quite
possibly die from the injuries that were being inflicted upon him.  Tearing
the rectum and the tissue around it could easily lead to infection,
particularly if the wound was not repaired.  And there was no way in hell
that Jessica - who had put herself in charge of supply allotment - was ever
going to kick loose any of their antibiotics for a man.

She tried to put these thoughts out of her mind.  What point was there in
thinking about it right now?  She had neither the power nor the support to
put a stop to it.  Stung by the way they had been treated by the men of
Auburn, most of the women were enthusiastically in favor of a little
payback, most of them pretending to not realize that there were turning out
just the same as their former masters.  And we're supposed to be the fair
sex?  Madeline sometimes wondered.

She walked along the far wall of the gym towards the bleachers, her eyes
looking for her missing guards.  She knew they were here of course, most of
the guards had been invited since most of them had been in Jessica's little
takeover plot from the beginning.  She found the first of them - Rhonda
Marx - after less than a minute.  Rhonda was sitting in the same row as
Jessica herself, right up front and center of the action.  She headed over.

"Hi Maddie," Jessica said as she saw her approach.  "Decide to join us after
all?"  Jessica's eyes had a slightly glassy sheen to them.  She was drunk
and had been spending much of her time that way since the revolution that
had put her into power.  She started off with three or four bloody mary's in
the morning and graduated to rum and cokes by afternoon.  Madeline often
wondered what she was going to do when the liquor supply finally ran out.

"No," Maddie said, looking at her leader for a moment.  "I came for Rhonda
here.  Her and some of the other girls seem to have forgotten to show up for
their shifts tonight."

"Oops," Rhonda giggled, the odor of whiskey wafting off her in a wave.  "Am
I bad?"

"You're drunk," Madeline said, shifting her gaze and glaring at her.  "I
told you not to drink before your shift."

"I just had a few," Rhonda said with another giggle and a playful slap that
landed hard enough to cause pain.

"Son of a bitch," Madeline muttered.  She increased the power of the glare a
little.  "Get your ass home right now and sleep this off.  You're pulling a
double shift tomorrow for this crap."

"Maddy!" Rhonda protested.  "I didn't..."

"No you didn't," Madeline said.  "And now Karen is going to have to work a
double shift tonight because YOU couldn't keep your hands off the booze.  In
fact, I think two nights of double shifts oughtta be your punishment.  Karen
certainly deserves a night off for something like this, doesn't she?"

Before Rhonda could answer, a hand touched Madeline's arm.  It was
Jessica's.

"Don't you think you're being a bit harsh on her?" she asked, favoring
Rhonda with a conspiratorial look.

"Harsh?" Madeline asked, fighting to maintain a proper tone.  "For getting
drunk and skipping guard duty?  I think not."

"Well I do," Jessica said, taking a sip out of her latest drink.  "My god,
you act just like Brett sometimes.  Lighten up a little."  She turned to
Rhonda.  "Rhonda, you pull a double shift tomorrow for Karen, okay.  In the
meantime, since you're already unable to go out there, just relax, have
another drink, and enjoy the show."

"Thanks Jess," Rhonda said happily, giving a vindicated glance at Madeline.

Madeline was shocked at this public mockery of her authority.  "Excuse me
Jessica," she said, still fighting to keep her tongue civil, "but the guards
and their schedules are MY responsibility.  I believe that disciplining them
is my responsibility as well."

"This ENTIRE town is MY responsibility," Jessica said firmly, her eyes
daring Madeline to contradict her.  "And you'll do well to remember that
little missy.  I think you're being too hard on poor Rhonda here and I'm
vetoing your decision, as is my right as leader of this town.  Do you
understand?"

"Jessica," Madeline said reasonably.  "I don't think you understand..."

"I understand everything," she said arrogantly.  "But what I asked is if YOU
understand?  Do you?"

Madeline sighed.  "I understand."

"Good," Jessica told her.  "Now leave poor Rhonda alone and don't go chasing
down any of the other girls that are here either.  Just cover their shifts
and have them all work doubles tomorrow.  It's fair for everyone.  Stay and
watch the show if you want, but otherwise, leave everyone alone."

Madeline bit back a number of angry replies.  It took some work.  Finally
she just said: "As you wish" and left the room.


+++++


"What's the count?" Stu asked Colby first thing in the morning, after the
customary roll call.

"182," Colby said.  "Four killed in the raids last night and two
desertions."

Stu nodded as if he'd expected that.  "That's enough," he said.  "Again, as
long as we stick to the single thrust from the north."

With no one to counter this notion, Colby quickly agreed to it.  "Let's
start briefing the squad leaders," he told Stu.  "We'll move out in thirty
minutes."


+++++


At 8:00 that morning Brett and Jason were up in the helicopter, hovering
2000 feet above the west side of town.  Brett was reasonably well rested as
far as current standards went.  They had flown three night attacks in the
previous twelve hours and he had gotten a little more than five hours of
broken sleep.  Jason had a little less sleep under his belt - he had spent a
few hours experiencing the finer things in life - but he was younger and
able to utilize it better.

"There they go," Brett said, holding his hover while his eyes watched the
tiny figures of men marching through the trees far below.

"They're heading north," Jason said, examining them through the FLIR, which
gave him a better count.  "Towards the interstate."

"And no one's heading for the west side," Brett said.  "It looks like
they're intending to keep together for the attack."  He shook his head a
little.  "Don't know what their commander is thinking, but he's sure as shit
giving us a break."

"Should we get our people down in the trenches?" Jason asked, eager to give
the deployment order over the radio.

"Not yet," Brett told him, glancing for a second at his instruments.  "Let's
wait until they cross the interstate and start heading east.  Once they do
that, they'll be pretty much committed."

So Jason gave an update on the troop movements below to Paul, who was
monitoring the helicopter channel, but told everyone to hold in place for
the moment.  They watched the troops continue to march north below them
while in the community center, the Garden Hill army continued to sit
restlessly in the cafeteria.


+++++


"I don't like that fuckin helicopter watching everything we do," Colby told
Stu over the radio.  "Isn't there anything we can do about it?"

The helicopter was plainly visible off to the east, hovering over the
western wall of the town, it's nose pointed towards the formation.

"It's too high to shoot," Stu replied.  "Even if a bullet somehow manages to
hit it, it won't do any damage.  They're more than 2000 feet above us.  That
almost 700 yards straight up."

"I don't like it," Colby repeated.  "It gives them too much of an
advantage."

"So they can see us?" Stu answered.  "It's no big deal.  We knew that would
be a problem all along.  Remember that we have the gun and numerical
advantage.  And we're MEN for god sakes, not a bunch of bitches with
rifles."

"I suppose," Colby said, continuing to put one foot in front of the other.
He was having a bad feeling about all of this.  A very bad feeling.


+++++


Up above, Brett and Jason were hearing every word that was being said on the
Auburn communications channels.  This was a simple matter of setting their
radio to the citizens band frequencies and putting it on scan.  And the
militia was dumb enough to talk in the clear.  Were they completely unaware
that they were being monitored?  Or were they just arrogant enough to think
that it didn't matter?  Brett favored the latter suggestion.  The statement
that "bitches" were inherently inferior at combat than "men" was the
clincher.  Didn't this idiot know that modern combat with guns did not rely
on physical strength, the only thing that the fairer sex was lacking when it
came to comparison?  Didn't he know that a good portion of the VC that had
kicked the shit out of the US army in Vietnam had been women?  Apparently
not.  If so, his blindness would be his undoing.


+++++


Thirty minutes later the lead elements of the militia climbed up a small
embankment and onto the asphalt lanes of the freeway.  They came out less
than two hundred yards from a sign that the Garden Hill squads had put up
three days before, especially for this occasion.  It was a large white
placard with neatly printed, almost gothic script upon it, composed by one
of the more artistic members of the community.  The sign was almost humorous
in nature, quoting from "The Wizard of Oz".

ENTERING GARDEN HILLS TERRITORY

I'D TURN BACK IF I WERE YOU

The militia did not find it very funny however.  When Private Williams, at
the order of Colby, approached the sign to knock it down - a completely
unmilitary goal - he stepped on a trip wire and set off a mine that was
mounted eight feet away on a pine tree beside the road.  The pellets blasted
out and ripped a hole in his side, causing him to utilize his pistol three
minutes later.

The rest of the militia, shaken and scared, continued forward.  The sign
remained in place.



+++++


"They're across the interstate," said Jason's voice over the VHF radio in
the cafeteria.  "The rear elements just made the crossing.  The lead
elements are turning east."

"We copy that," Paul, who was in charge of monitoring the frequency,
replied.

"Begin deployment in the north bunkers," Jason said, obviously repeating
instructions given to him by Brett.  "Platoon one and two, occupy the
bunkers in grid C-charlie six and D-delta six.  Platoon three, occupy the
bunkers in the rear of d-delta six.  Estimate ninety minutes to contact."

"All right people," Paul shouted after acknowledging and repeating the
transmission.  "The time has come.  Form up and get out to where you need to
be.  God be with us!"

Now that the initial phase of waiting was over, the troops moved in a very
efficient, very disciplined manner.  They had practiced just such a thing
many times in the past.  The squad leaders gathered their men and women and
told them to arm up.  The platoon leaders watched, making sure that
everything went according to plan.

Guns were put over shoulders and backpacks, heavy with ammunition, water
canteens, and first-aid supplies, were strapped to backs.  Each of the
squads was in possession of at least one of the automatic weapons that were
available.  Each of the automatic weapon carriers was in possession of a
full clip of tracer rounds in addition to a box of extras.  Each platoon
leader - Chrissie, Michelle, and Matt - was carrying a VHF portable so that
communications with the helicopter were possible.  They also carried a CB
portable to talk to their squad leaders.

As a group they donned their rain gear and headed out the door, walking in
formation through the paved streets of Garden Hill towards the gate that
guarded entrance to it.  They were silent, contemplative as they marched,
but determined.  They exited the gate and then walked along the walls, using
the road to travel on.  Above them they could see but not hear the
helicopter, their eye in the sky, hovering.  No one waved at it, no one
really even wasted time looking at it.  It was comforting enough just to
know it was there.  They reached the northern wall and continued forward for
another fifteen minutes, until they were approaching the Interstate.  Then
they headed off into the woods and the gentle hills there.

Within thirty minutes of getting the orders, they were climbing into their
trenches and assigning areas of responsibility.  They loaded their weapons
and began to wait.

Paul and his medical team, which consisted of three of the women, climbed
into the hauling truck and drove it out to the road, parking it along the
northern wall.  In the back were sheets and some makeshift carrying cots as
well as field packs of medical supplies.  A plastic cover tied over the top
kept everything dry.  When there were wounded (he could not, no matter how
much he tried, think IF there were wounded) he and his team would go out and
haul them in.  Another team was standing by in the community center to care
for them further - hopefully keeping them stable until Brett could fly them
to El Dorado Hills.


+++++


They staged for a few minutes just north of the interstate, reforming into
their squads and platoons for the coming march.  Everyone drank out of their
canteens and checked their weapons.  Squad leaders made a final inspection
while the platoon leaders - all of them except Stu and Colby hastily
promoted sergeants - tried to offer some encouraging words.

"All right guys," Stu said, addressing the men while Colby stood beside him.
"It's time for the final push into this town.  Somewhere across that
freeway, probably rather close to the wall itself, we're going to hit some
resistance from these bitches.  I expect it will be little sniping attacks
at first, maybe a little heavier as we get to the wall.  The hit and run
attacks that they've been pulling all this time are no longer effective so
it's time to tighten up again, close enough to hear orders.

"What we're going to do is spread into a wide front and move in quickly,
almost at a run if we can.  When they fire at us, we'll send platoons to
advance on their positions while other platoons provide fire support.
Again, speed is our ally here!  We need to move quick and wipe out the
resistance as soon as we hit it.  Surround their positions when we identify
them, that's the key."

He looked up and down the ranks, at the filthy, tired men that had managed
to survive the hellish march.  For the first time there seemed a certain
eagerness in their eyes.  At long last their goal was in sight and with it,
a chance for revenge upon their tormentors.  "If we do this right," he told
them, "we'll be inside that wall in less than an hour.  An hour after that,
we should outside that community center itself.  Now these bitches are gonna
scatter when we charge them, especially inside the wall, but have no fear.
We'll hunt every last one of them down and we'll have ourselves a fine party
tonight.  There should be just about one for each of us, how about that?"

There were some grins and sounds of enthusiasm from the ranks at his words.

"Now remember, we try to take that helicopter intact if we can, but don't
hesitate to bring that fucker down if you get a shot.  That chopper is their
only advantage over us - their only one - and if we take it out our job will
be that much easier.  So... is everyone ready to march?"

They all yelled that they were.  It almost sounded sincere this time.

"Then let's move out.  Remember, keep your dicks in your pants until
tonight."

At that, the militia began to move.  They crossed the freeway and began to
close with the Garden Hill positions.


+++++


"They're moving in," Brett, who had taken over the radio from Jason, told
his platoon leaders down below.  "They're crossing the interstate right now
in a line stretching across grid D-delta three.  They've tightened up
considerably and are layered in platoon-sized formations.  Estimate contact
in twenty minutes - that's two-zero minutes.  Chrissie, if they keep moving
on their present course, they're gonna reach your position first."

Chrissie, Michelle, and then Matt all acknowledged this information and
relayed it to their troops, using their voices instead of their radios.  86
sets of hands tightened their grips on 86 weapons.  86 sets of eyes peered
over the mud and through the trees, waiting to spot the invaders.

"We're gonna get to shoot first," Chrissie told her people, her heart
hammering in her chest.  "Let's keep sharp and remember what Brett told us.
Stick to your sector of responsibility if you can, both at the squad and the
individual level.  Remember, the riflemen fire first, as soon as they're in
range.  Those of you with the automatics, don't waste ammo.  Short,
controlled bursts when they're close enough to hit."


+++++


"Look how much they're bunching up down there," Brett said, alternating
glances between his instruments and the advancing line of militia.  "They
think they're out of danger now that they're close."

"If only they knew," Jason said with a grin.  "When are you going to show
them they're wrong?"

"Soon," Brett said.  "When they make contact they're gonna be pinned down
behind those hills over there.  That'll be the time.  In fact, it's about
time to head down for some fuel anyway.  See if you can get Steve on the
tactical net and have him get ready for us."

"Right," Jason said, switching the frequency button.

"And remember," Brett said, "code words only.  They're probably monitoring
the CB channels."

Jason looked wounded at the suggestion that we wouldn't remember something
so elementary.  "I know," he said indignantly.

"Sorry," Brett said, favoring him with a fatherly glance.  "It's best not to
leave anything to chance."

This helped Jason's pride a little.  He keyed up the microphone and said:
"This is mother bird calling Edison, are you there Edison?"

"Edison here," replied Steve after a few moments.  Edison was Kensington's
code name, picked because of his propensity for invention and assembly.  "Go
ahead mother bird."

"Mother bird's coming down for lunch," Jason told him.  "We'll be needing an
egg while we're down.  Can you get one ready for us?"

"One egg, coming up," Steve said, obvious pleasure in his voice.  "And I'll
get your lunch crew ready to rock too."

"You're the man Edison," Jason told him.


+++++


"What the hell does that mean?" asked Colby, who had heard the conversation
on his scanning CB.  It was the first time they had picked up anything but
clicks and static.  "What's an egg?  Who's mother bird?  Who's Edison?"

"They're using code," Stu, who was marching near him in the center of the
formation replied.  "Obviously mother bird is the helicopter.  You could
hear the engine in the background.  And I would guess that "going down for
lunch," means that they need fuel."

"And the egg?" Colby repeated, finding something sinister about that very
word.

Stu shrugged.  "No way of telling," he said.  "But I wouldn't worry too
much.  That chopper's not good for anything but recon during the day unless
it wants to get close enough to get its ass shot off."

"I have a bad feeling about this," Colby muttered, watching as the lead
elements continued to close.

"Don't sweat it," Stu said.  "In two hours this thing will be all over."


+++++


Brett touched neatly down forty feet from the shed where Kensington's magic
was made.  While the fuel truck, which had once been a water truck, came
rumbling over to fill the helicopter's tank, Steve and his crew emerged from
the shed with one of their "eggs" attached to a handcart.

The egg was actually one of the gas tanks that had been removed from the
cars in town.  Steve had cut it in half with a torch and then welded it back
together using a strip of thin metal to adhere the pieces.  It was a strip
that would easily come off if enough pressure were put on it in the right
way.  The top of the tank had two hooks welded onto it as well.  One hook
was in the center of the tank and the other was attached to the thin strip
that held the two halves together.  Inside of the tank was a mixture of
gasoline from the railroad tanker and Tide laundry detergent from the
tractor-trailer.  The concoction was nothing more or less than a very simple
form of napalm.

While the fueling crew put the hose in the helicopter's inlet and began to
pump, Steve maneuvered the handcart next to the right skid and set the egg
down on the ground so that the two hooks were facing upward.  Behind him two
of his helpers were carrying an enormous coil of rope.  This coil contained
fifteen hundred feet of rope and was neatly wound up so that it would
(probably) play out without snagging or hanging up.  This was no small
accomplishment considering that the rope was not all one piece but many
spliced together from scavenged supply rooms and garages throughout the
town.  All of it was not even the same diameter.  In the test run however,
it had worked perfectly, the coils unwinding just as Paul - their rope
expert - had told them they would.

"Let's get these doors off," Brett told Jason as they climbed out.  "Steve,
can we borrow a couple of socket wrenches?"

"Help yourself," Steve told them, waving them towards the shed.

It took five minutes to remove the two side doors from the aircraft, ten
minutes to fuel it up, but by the time that was done, the egg was still not
attached.  Brett sat in the cab of the aircraft, nervously monitoring the
VHF frequency.  So far nothing had come across.  "I don't mean to rush you
or anything Steve," he said worriedly, "but they're about to make first
contact out there."

"I'm going as fast as I can," Steve said.  "Don't worry, they'll be fine."

With the assistance of his helpers Steve hung the tank from the cargo hook
on the bottom of the helicopter, utilizing the larger of the two hooks that
had been welded to the tank.  It hung there neatly, swaying back and forth a
little bit but otherwise not moving.  Once that was accomplished, Steve tied
one end of the long coil of rope to the smaller of the hooks, the one that
was on the welded strip of metal.  The other end of the rope, which came
from the inside of the coil, he stretched out and passed under the
helicopter, threading it between the bottom and the hanging tank.  He then
passed it through the two open doors and tied it off, using a knot that
would not easily come loose when jerked from below.  The rest of the rope
was set in the passenger compartment of the helicopter and strapped down
with bungee cords.

"You're in business," Steve told Brett.  "Make it count."

"You know it," Brett replied, climbing back into the aircraft.  He made no
move as of yet to go through the start-up procedure.

"Aren't we gonna go back up," Jason asked.  "The battle's about to start."

"Not yet," Brett told him.  "We'll stay down until it's time to make a nape
run.  We don't want them to see the egg until we're just about to use it.
Get on the radio and let them know that we're standing by for an airstrike
when they need it."


+++++


Matt, who had been the one to exercise and train with the ground forces over
the last two weeks, was technically in charge of them at that level.  He was
in one of the trenches with eight other people, holding on to one of the
automatic weapons and trying to keep himself calm.  He listened to Jason's
report over his VHF radio and acknowledged it.  "Did you copy that
Chrissie?" he asked his second in command, the leader of the platoon that
was going to make first contact.

Chrissie and her understaffed platoon of 24 women and 3 men were deployed in
a series of three trenches atop of two hills overlooking the alleged avenue
of advance.  Though Brett had assured her that she would be the first to
engage the enemy, there was still no sign of them.  "I copy," she said.
"And I'm still clear on the horizon."

She sighed a little, wishing for the comfort that came from having Brett and
Jason hovering above them, keeping an eye on things.  Though she understood
why they were holding back at the moment, she still didn't like it.  She
felt out of touch.

"Movement ahead," said Anna, who had once lived with these monsters and who
was now assigned to Chrissie's platoon.  She was in the adjoining trench but
her voice carried easily over.  "Three men, coming around the hill at eleven
o'clock."

Chrissie, along with everyone else, turned her eyes that way and, after a
moment, spotted the men.  They were about ten feet apart, rifles held out
before them.  Their formation was somewhat loose and they were moving very
rapidly, almost at a run.  Within a few seconds, other men began to appear,
both from around that hill and the hills to the sides of it.  They passed
out of the gaps and moved forward, all of them moving at that rapid, almost
careless pace.  As Brett had said, the line stretched for a considerable
distance.

Chrissie reported her sighting over the VHF frequency.  "They're outside of
firing range right now but closing fast," she said.  "Estimate contact in
two to three minutes.  We'll hit near the center of their line but the
flanks are out of our range.  They stretch all the way over to..." she
consulted her map for a moment, "to grid D-delta five.  Michelle, you'll be
able to hit their left flank when they move in."

"Copy that," Michelle said, her voice almost supernaturally calm.

"Matt, their right side should swing right towards you if they keep on
course," Chrissie said.

"Copy Chrissie," he said, his own voice a little more tense.  "They'll
probably move to flank you when you start firing though.  We'll hold here
and catch them in a crossfire if that happens."

"Copy," she said, putting her radio down.  She looked over the muddy hills
and the trees to her soldiers.  "All right," she told them.  "The fun's
about to start.  Riflemen, start picking targets."

Those with the hunting rifles aimed out through firing ports in the
camouflaged sandbags and began to scan their area of responsibility.  The
automatic and semi-automatic riflemen also put their barrels through firing
ports but they knew that it would be a few minutes until their time came.
Everyone watched tensely as the men continued to advance towards them.  They
moved through trees and over small mudfalls, weaving in and out but always
getting closer.

"Hold your fire until I say so," Chrissie said.  "We'll wait until they're
inside three hundred yards."

They waited, fingers tight upon triggers, eyeballs glued to scopes or
peering over sights.  They watched as the men who wanted to enslave them, to
rape them, to steal their food and take their children advanced in a neat,
rapidly moving line.  Soon the first of them crossed the invisible line that
marked the 300-yard range.  And then more passed over it.

"All right," Chrissie said, just loud enough to be heard.  "From this point
on, we're off radio silence.  Riflemen, fire at will!"

More than twenty fingers squeezed twenty triggers, all within a second of
each other.  The noise was tremendous, a shattering, drawn out explosion
that rolled off across the landscape.  Before the first bullets even hit,
the riflemen were working their bolts, putting in the next rounds.



+++++


The front lines of the militia easily saw the muzzleflashes of the first
barrage.  It would have been quite hard to miss it.  As such, most of them
dove to the ground before the bullets could arrive on target, their
instincts hurling them into the mud almost before their brains could
comprehend why.  Several people however, either did not see the flashes or
did not react to them quickly enough.  Of these, two of them were hit, the
bullets slamming into their bodies with meaty thuds.

"Take cover!" squad leaders yelled as whizzing projectiles came flying in.
"Get the fuck down!"

The shots landed in the mud and plunked into trees, coming in waves as the
enemy on the hillside ahead fired and then jacked in new rounds.  Those in
the open began to crawl for cover, looking for anything that would shield
them: a rock, a tree, a hole.  Most found such things but a few were hit as
they scrambled along the ground.  One corporal had his head damn near taken
off by a shot from a .460 magnum rifle.  Another took two .30-06 rounds in
the side.

Stu and Colby, both of whom were safely out of range of the gunfire, took
cover behind a fallen log.  They watched as the first few volleys came
rolling in and as the men up front tried to get out of the path.  The sound
of the gunfire echoed around them, badly out of synch with the pattern of
flashes because of the range and the slow speed of sound.  This sound was
contrasted by the sharper cracks of the militia rifles as the men began to
return fire.

Stu didn't even bother clearing his orders with Colby.  He simply grabbed
the radio and began to bark into it.  "First platoon," he yelled, "pour fire
on that fuckin hillside.  Third platoon, you guys move up and get ready to
advance to the right flank.  Fifth platoon, you get ready to advance to the
left flank.  Everyone else, you'll be covering fire for the advance.  Let's
get to it.  We need to take that fuckin hill now!"

Colby simply watched in amazement as the men scrambled around and got into
position in response to Stu's commands.  It simply didn't occur to him that
HE was supposed to be the one giving the orders.


+++++


"Keep the pressure on them," Chrissie yelled into her own tactical radio.
"Keep firing.  Try to hold them in place."

No one answered her but they all did as she asked.  The riflemen worked like
machines.  They aimed out over the area where the return fire was coming
from, unleashed a round, worked their bolt, and then did it all over again,
setting a pace of only a few seconds per shot.  Every fifth or sixth round,
depending on the size of their magazines, they would reach down to a box of
shells between their knees and shove in a fresh load.  They had no way of
knowing if they were hitting anyone, but the barrage had already had the
desired effect.  It had stopped the advance of the militia, forcing them to
start setting up a charge to take the hill.

The return fire was quite intense.  From below the sound of uncountable
rifleshots and the chattering of automatic assault weapons could be heard
crackling like firecrackers.  Bullets slammed into their positions
ruthlessly, riddling the sandbags that they hid behind with holes and making
frightening thuds each time one hit.  Other bullets whizzed over the top of
them or slammed into the mud around them.  So far, the sandbags were doing
their job and no one had been hit.

Chrissie watched through her firing port, her own weapon unfired as of yet.
She saw well over a hundred muzzleflashes winking at her from down below and
she took a moment to worry that one of those bullets just might find its way
through the small hole and into her face.  The odds were against it, that
was true, but that was how Hector had been hit.  She put this out of her
mind as an irrelevant worry and hauled out her VHF radio.

"We're in contact," she said into it, mostly for Brett's benefit since the
other platoons would easily be able to see and hear what was going on.  She
did not identify herself on the radio because she knew that everyone who was
listening to this frequency would recognize her voice.  "They're pinned down
at the moment behind the hills to the north of us.  Heavy return fire, no
casualties at this point.  It looks like they're setting up for an
envelopment maneuver to the east and west of us."

"We'll hit 'em as soon as they start to move," Michelle's voice assured her.
"How's that left flank looking though?"

"We'll be able to hit them from here," Matt, who was stationed on that side
said.  "Chrissie, once they start to swing around on my side and we engage
them, we'll lay a crossfire down on them.  Try to hold your position but
don't hesitate to get the fuck out if they close to within a hundred yards."

"Got it," Chrissie said, wincing as a bullet zinged off the top of the
sandbag above her, showering her with a small spray of mud.  "Brett, are you
there?"

"I'm here," he said, "we're firing up the engine right now."

"We could use a little airstrike if you're ready," she told him.

"Just tell me the place," he said, "and I'll be there in three minutes."


+++++


Brett lifted off carefully, mindful of the tank of explosive material slung
just beneath them.  Jason was strapped into his usual place on the passenger
side and Sherrie, one of Steve's assistants, was holding on to the bungee
cords that secured the rope for dear life.  Sherrie's leg had healed up
enough for her to walk but not enough for her to participate in combat out
in the trenches.  After her last pitiful performance under fire, she sought
redemption by volunteering to be the spotter and rope gatherer for the drop
missions.  This was only her second flight in the chopper and she was still
quite terrified of it.  Especially with no door on and especially in combat
conditions.  In her mind she kept seeing them crashing to the earth and
burning to death.

"How you doing Sherrie?" Brett asked her over the intercom.

"Just bitchin," she said, her voice broken.

"Glad to hear it," he told her.  "Three minutes to target."

Brett flew to the south of town, out over the canyon, and brought them up to
an altitude of 6000 feet above sea level, which would put them about 1800
feet above the battle area.  He then cut back to the north, heading for the
battle zone at forty knots.  Jason had the master map spread out before him.
Due to the wind in the cabin that taking the doors off had produced, he was
having a little difficulty keeping it flat.

Brett took a few glances at the map as he flew, matching the terrain below
him with the features on the map.  Though he could plainly see the flashes
of gunfire from the trenches and the answering fire from the militia, he
wanted to take no chances on dropping in the wrong place.  He was going to
put his load exactly where Chrissie wanted it.  There would be no repeat of
his Iraqi experience here.

As he came over the battlefield itself, he was able to see the tiny figures
of the militia below them.  They were huddled behind the trees and hiding
behind logs, firing back at the hillside that they had been engaged from.
As Chrissie had theorized, it looked like they were setting up to try to
flank the hill on both sides, unknowing of course that there were occupied
trenches on both of the flanks.  Well, they would find out about that the
hard way, wouldn't they?

He saw his target area ahead.  Behind a group of logs and small hills
directly across from Chrissie's platoon were twenty or thirty Auburnites.
They were part of the group providing covering fire for the coming advance
and were much closer together than was healthy for them.  They were the
group that had been hit first it seemed.  He could see a few dead bodies
lying in front of them. No more than three feet separated most of the men.
Brett flew towards them, slowing his airspeed.  His intent was to hover
right over the top of them.

"You ready to spot for me Sherrie?" Brett asked her.

"It's what I live for," she said, reluctantly releasing her hold on the rope
and crawling forward.  As horrid a thought as it was, she pushed her face
outside of the missing door and peered downward.  Brett and Jason, while
hovering directly over the target, would not be able to see it, but she
would.  The wind buffeted her violently, threatening to rip the headset from
her head.  Ice crystals pelted her neck painfully.  Below she could see the
entire battlefield, stretched out like some three-dimensional map.  She
plainly saw nearly two hundred militia in various positions, many of them
with rifles winking at the trenches where the Garden Hill forces were
deployed.

Brett described for her what the target area looked like, explaining that he
was now almost directly over the top of it.  She looked at the confusing
blur of brown and green below and finally spotted what he was talking about.
A group of men huddled behind some logs, firing their guns.  "I've got
them," she said into her headset.

"Are you sure?" he asked her, not meaning to be insulting, just wanting to
be sure.

"I'm sure," she said.  "Go forward a little and to the right."

Brett, who was now in a hover, eased forward and edged the machine just a
tad to the right.


+++++


Stu had taken note that the helicopter had returned a few minutes before but
was otherwise ignoring it.  Instead he concentrated on whether all of his
men were in position for the flanking attacks he was about to send into
motion.  Everything looked about right so...

"What the fuck is on the bottom of that helicopter?" Colby asked, putting a
set of binoculars to his eyes.

"What?" Stu asked, alarmed.  He looked up and was able to see that there was
a definite change in the normal shape of the aircraft.  It was hovering,
moving slowly over their troops, as if... as if positioning itself.  What
the hell?

"It looks like a gas tank out of a car," Colby said, shaking his head.
"What the fuck?"

At the words "gas tank" Stu stiffened.  Anything that the Garden Hills fucks
made out of a gas tank and suspended above troops with a helicopter could
only be something bad, something that went bang.  He looked directly below
where the machine was positioning itself.  "Oh shit," he muttered, grabbing
for the radio.  "First platoon," he screamed into it.  "You need to pull
back now!"


+++++


"Now," Sherrie said when he was directly overhead.  "Right now!"

"Got it Sherrie," Brett said calmly, his hand reaching for the lever that
released the hook.  Before pulling it he keyed his radio, which was set on
the VHF frequency.  "Are you ready Chrissie?" he asked her.

"We're ready," she assured him.

"It's on the way," he said and pulled the lever.

The tank dropped like a rock, straight down, picking up speed according to
the laws of gravity.  Below, the men were trying to get turned around so
they could crawl free of the drop zone but they would not, could not have
enough time.  The tank pulled the rope out behind it, uncoiling it neatly
just as Paul had intended.  When it reached the end of the rope the
120-pound tank jerked to a sudden halt from more than a hundred miles per
hour.  This was more than enough pressure to rip the flimsy piece of steel
down its weld like a zipper.  The tank ripped in half and fifteen gallons of
napalm spread out and began to fall 300 feet above the retreating troops.

Just before the terminal snap of the tank released the gelatinous
concoction, Chrissie and two other squad leaders opened up with their M-16s,
aiming for the area just below the tank.  All had switched their magazines
over to ones containing tracer rounds only.  The red phosphorus streams
looked almost like laser beams.  Two of them intersected the falling napalm
and set it alight.  There was a solid whoomph sound as the weapon ignited
and a second later the burning gel fell over the formation below.

Three of the men were completely engulfed in flames, dying right were they
lay.  Two more were partially engulfed and they ran screaming into the
woods.  They tried to do as they were taught back in school and stop, drop,
and roll, but that would not put out the fire.  Their clothing, hair, and
flesh burned away in only a few moments.  They screamed wildly, frantically
until some horrified soldiers gathered their wits enough to shoot them.  Two
others got slightly hit from the attack, sustaining second and third degree
burns that would eventually kill them from infection but that allowed them
to fight on for the moment.

In the air above, Brett spun the helicopter around and began to move slowly
off to the south once more. Sherrie, after confirming a good drop, began to
pull the rope back inside.  Paul himself had taught her how to do this and
within ten minutes she would have all fifteen hundred feet of it ready for
the next drop.


+++++


"What in the fuck was that?" Colby yelled, smelling the strong gasoline odor
mixed with the stench of burning flesh. The ground around the drop zone was
still ablaze, though weakening.  The two halves of the tank had dropped to
the ground just on the sides of the position.  They too were burning.

"Holy shit," Stu said, stunned and doubtful for perhaps the first time.
"Fuckin' napalm.  They dropped fuckin napalm on us!"

"Napalm," Colby said, nearing hysteria.  "Where the hell did they get
napalm?"

"It's homemade," Stu said.  "They're dropping it out of gas tanks and
igniting it with their tracers."  He shook his head a little.  "Clever
fuckers, aren't they?"

"How the hell can we win against someone with napalm?" Colby asked.  "Maybe
we'd better pull back and think about this a little."

"No," Stu said.  "We need to push forward.  They only have one chopper and
it takes time to load those things up.  They won't be able to use it that
often."

"But..."

"We need to clear that hill and push on," Stu said.  "The quicker we get
inside that wall, the quicker we'll be safe.  They won't drop that shit in
their own territory.  Now let's get those troops moving."

Colby said nothing, just continued to stare at the smoking corpses in fear.
What a horrible way to die!  Being burned alive by jellied gasoline dropped
from the sky.

Stu didn't wait for his acknowledgment or his consent.  As far as he was
concerned, Colby was just a useless appendage at this point.  He keyed up
his radio.  "First platoon, get back into position and start shooting.
Third and fifth platoons, get ready to move in.  We'll cover your advance
while you close in on the flanks.  Everyone else, covering fire on that
hill, right now!"

The volume of fire at the hillside picked up to a ferocious level as more
than a hundred guns opened up on it.

"Third platoon, fifth platoon," Stu ordered, "go, go, go!"


+++++


"Holy Jesus," Chrissie said as the barrage came rolling in.  Sandbags
exploded, spraying dirt everywhere and it sounded like a swarm of angry
insects was buzzing overhead.  There was a thud and a scream from the end of
her trench and she looked over to see that Sally Brigham had taken a round
right in her face, blowing the back of her head off.  The scream had come
from Laura Mint, who was looking at her former friend in horror.

"Oh my god, Sally!" Laura screamed, edging over to cradle her.

"She's dead," Chrissie yelled, unable to feel anything but fear at the
moment.  "Get back to your position.  They'll be moving in on us!"

Sally gave a terrified look at Chrissie, a longing look at Sally, but did as
she was told and got back to her firing port.

A moment later Maggie, who was in the next trench over in charge of a squad,
reported on the tactical radio that she had one of her troops wounded.

"How bad?" Chrissie yelled into the radio.

"Shot through the shoulder," Maggie's voice said, abandoning code for the
moment.  "She needs to be pulled out.  She's bleeding bad."

"Copy," Chrissie said.  "Get some bandages on her and get ready to evac her.
As soon as the firing slacks off, get her out of here."

While Maggie acknowledged this, Chrissie put her head back to her firing
port.  She saw what seemed to be hundreds of flashes down below and an
actual haze of gunsmoke over the enemy positions.  Bullets continued to slam
in all around her, shredding her protective sandbags even more.  From the
right side of the militia line a large group of men, about forty or so,
suddenly broke from cover and began to dash towards the eastern side of her
hill.  At the same time another group of forty to the west broke cover and
began running towards that side.

"They're moving in," Chrissie told her platoon.  "Shift fire to the flanks!"

Everyone in the three trenches abandoned the effort to pin down the platoon
in front of them and moved their guns either to the left or the right to
engage the men trying to envelope them.  From the distance they were at
their fire was not very accurate and only a few men on each side fell, the
rest continuing to rush forward.  It was terrifying to watch.

In a set of trenches a quarter mile to the west, Matt's platoon watched this
advance and tracked targets with their weapons.  They were about to give the
charging Auburnites a big surprise.  In yet another set of trenches to the
east, Michelle and her platoon were preparing to do the same.

It was Michelle's group that opened up first.  The advancing fifth platoon
nearly ran right into them.  When they were under three hundred yards in
range, the riflemen opened up.  This time surprise was almost complete.  So
intent was the enemy on reaching their objective and getting around behind
it, that they didn't notice the flashes off to their left until four of
their number suddenly fell to the mud.  And even then it took them a minute
to figure out that the shots had NOT come from their objective.  By that
time they were well inside 250 yards and easy fodder for the semi-automatic
and automatic weapons of Michelle's squads.  They opened up with a harsh
chatter, spraying bullets down all over the formation.  More men fell, their
heads splitting open, their chests riddled with bullet holes.  Others,
finally figuring out that they'd been trapped, dove to the ground and began
returning fire.

Their own shots were ineffective, doing nothing but slamming into sandbags
and mud, but they themselves were caught between two groups of armed enemy
and the cross-fire on them was murderous.  More men fell as aimed rifle
shots and bursts of automatic weapons fire raked over them.  Within three
minutes more than half of the 40 man platoon - including the leader - was
dead or dying and more than ten of the remaining twenty was wounded.


+++++


Sergeant Stinson had started off the march as nothing more than a simple
squad leader.  Now, with more than half of the army dead or deserted, he was
the commander of a rag-tag platoon that had been formed from pieces of other
platoons.  It was a responsibility that he had never hoped for and that he
did not enjoy, especially not on this mission.

It was his platoon - the third platoon - that was tasked with hitting the
right flank of the hill.  He was near the rear of the formation as they
jogged across the uneven, muddy ground, heading towards a gap between two
hills.  Bullets from the objective zinged in at infrequent intervals but the
range was at the extreme to hit moving targets.  Still two of his men, he
didn't have time to identify just who, had been felled by lucky shots.

"Almost there," he yelled encouragingly as they continued their run.  "Keep
it up!"

No one answered him but they kept running, more out of fear for their lives
than his command magnetism.  Just as they began to think that they were
going to make it to the relative safety of the gully between the two hills,
bullets began to hit them with frightening accuracy.

Three men dropped within two seconds, two from body shots, one from a leg
shot.  Two more quickly followed, thumping to the mud and sliding on their
faces.  Stinson just had time to wonder how the troops firing from the
objective were getting so lucky all of a sudden when the automatic weapons
fire began to rake across them.  Three men were cut down in two seconds, one
of them screaming as he fell.  It was then that he saw the flashes coming
from the hill to the right of them.  They had been tricked!

"Get down!" he screamed, throwing himself into the mud and trying to
scramble behind a tree.  All around him other men were doing the same, more
because they had come to the same realization as he had - that they were
caught in a crossfire - than because of his order.

He made it behind the tree and managed to successfully place it between
himself and the direction that the most accurate concentration of fire was
coming from.  The problem was that there was no way to protect yourself from
both angles at once.  Though he was not hit it was only through providence -
he was horribly exposed.  Others around him were not so lucky.  Private
Jennison, who was lying on his belly preparing to return fire, was hit right
in the face, blowing his head apart.  Corporal Preston, who was less than
six feet away from him, took a four round burst in the chest.  From behind
him he heard the screams of several others as bullets plowed into them.

"Stinson!" Stu's voice yelled from his radio.  "What the hell is going on?
What's your situation?"

"Return fire," Stinson yelled at his men, terrified, sure that he was going
to feel a bullet thudding into him at any moment.  "Return fire at the
closer ones!"  He pulled the radio out of his belt and keyed it up.
"Stinson here," he said into it, his voice broken with fear, "we're taking
heavy fire from the hill west of the objective.  We're also getting hit from
the objective itself.  We're taking heavy casualties."

There was a long pause and then Stu's voice replied something but Stinson
didn't hear what it was because the booms of return gunfire from the men
around him drowned it out.

"What was that?" Stinson asked.  "Repeat?"  He turned up the volume on the
radio.

"I said retreat!" Stu's voice yelled back, obviously disgusted by the
failure.  "Get the hell out of there and back to the main formation!"

A bullet drilled into the tree right above Stinson's head, dropping a large
piece of bark onto his helmet.  He jumped a little, his heart hammering even
faster.  "You got that shit right," he said and then rolled onto his back.
"Retreat!" he yelled.  "Everyone, get back to the formation!  Retreat!"


+++++


Circling high above in the helicopter, Brett and Jason had a bird's eye view
of everything.  They saw the two flanking attacks by the militia surge
forward and then watched the hidden positions on the hill pummel them.  From
up above it was a strangely surreal scene.  They saw tiny figures rushing in
and out of trees and over brown ground, they saw flashes coming from the
trenches, and they saw some of those figures fall.  They saw no blood, not
even Jason who was watching through the FLIR, and they heard no gunfire, no
screams.

"They're retreating," Brett told the platoon commanders below.  "Both of the
attacking platoons are withdrawing in disarray.  Estimate at least fifty
percent casualties in both.  We held them!"

First Matt then Chrissie then Michelle acknowledged his observation.

"Are they forming up for another run?" Matt asked.  "We have two wounded
that we need to get out of here."

The mention of friendly casualties served to take a little of Brett's
enthusiasm away.  "You have a clear corridor to the rear," he replied.  "And
it doesn't look like they're going to be attacking again at least until they
get their troops back and have a chance to regroup.  Evacuate your wounded
now.  Contact Paul's team on the VHF for a meeting place."

"Got it," Matt answered.  "We also have one dead.  Should we pull her body
out while we have a break?"

"Negative," Brett answered regretfully but immediately.  "We can't spare the
manpower to move a body.  Sorry."

"Understood," Matt said, a little regretful sounding himself.

A moment later, while the Auburn troops were still rushing back the way they
had come, Brett saw two figures being taken from the trenches.  One of them,
from Chrissie's platoon, was walking and being escorted by only one person.
The other - Brett didn't know who it was or how bad the injury - was from
Matt's position and was being carried on a litter by two people.

"Assholes," Brett said, shaking his head a little.  "I think we need to make
another nape run while they're regrouping.  Keep them from getting too
comfortable in our territory and maybe break up their rhythm a little more."

"Fuckin aye," Jason said.  He turned to Sherrie, who was holding tight to
the bungee cord of the rope coil again.  "We all wound up?"

"Ready for action," she agreed.

"Cool."  He turned back to Brett.  "Want me to get Steve on the VHF?"

"Do it," Brett said.  "If we need to airlift those casualties to El Dorado
we'll have just enough time to make one run."

Jason called Steve and used the code phrases to tell him to get another
"egg" ready to drop.  By the time they landed four minutes later the
canister was on the handcart and waiting to be mounted.  Brett touched down
and let the engine idle but he didn't shut it down.  He stepped out onto the
wet parking lot and waved Steve's team over.

"We're gonna hot load it," he told them as they rushed over.  "I want to be
back in the air in three minutes."

"Right," Steve said.  He turned to his team.  "Let's get it on!"

They quickly shoved the tank under the belly of the chopper and then crawled
under there after it.  Two of them lifted up on the sides on a count of
three and, with grunts of exertion, maneuvered the bulky tank until the hook
caught on the cargo hook.

"Give me the rope," Steve yelled up at Sherrie, holding out his gloved hand
for it.  She passed the end of it down and he pulled it through, tying the
end onto the weld strip.  No sooner had he fastened the knot in place than
he was scrambling out from underneath.  "You're in business," he told Brett.

"Good job," Brett replied, giving him a thumbs up.  He climbed back into his
seat and strapped in.  As soon as Steve and his team cleared the rotors he
was putting on the power and lifting back into the sky.

By this time, Paul and his team were with the two casualties and dragging
them back to the truck.  Since they were in possession of one of the scarce
VHF radios, Brett contacted them as he pulled up to bombing altitude over
the canyon.  Paul himself answered the hail.

"What's the word on the wounded?" Brett asked him.  "Do I need to make a run
to El Dorado Hills?"

"That's negative," Paul responded, sounding somewhat dejected.  "I have
Susan Michaels with a shoulder wound.  It's painful but she can wait for
evac to the doctor's office for a while.  The other is Helen Johnson.
She's... well... she took one in the chest.  I don't think that she'll be
needing evac either."

"I see," Brett said slowly, clearly reading the message that Paul was
sending about Helen.  A chest wound that wouldn't require evac to the doctor
could only mean one thing.  Helen would not live long enough to make the
trip.  "Keep us updated on Susan's condition.  Bring us in if it gets worse.
Remember, priority for the aircraft goes to the wounded."

"I'll keep you updated," Paul promised.  "And she will have to go there
eventually."

"Understood," Brett replied.  He looked over at his altimeter, which was
coming up on 6000 feet.  He then looked over at Jason and Sherrie.  "Are we
ready to rock?"

They agreed they were ready to rock and Brett, putting thoughts of Helen
Johnson out of his mind, turned to the north and the battle area once again.



+++++


The militia's ranks were once again gathered in force behind the hills and
trees of their embarkation line.  Isolated pops of gunfire came from both
sides as they sniped at each other, neither side suffering any casualties.
The troops themselves were in a semi-chaotic state, stinging from being
repulsed in their first attack so soundly (by BITCHES no less) and at the
cost of nearly forty soldiers.  Some of the wounded were being tended to by
those with medical training just behind the main groups.  Though some of
them would have qualified to be put out of their misery on the march, they
were now being spared on the theory that soon the Garden Hill community
center would be in their hands and they could now be cared for.

Stu and Colby stood near the wounded area, Stu talking hastily to his
platoon leaders, Colby still trailing behind him like a pet dog,
contributing nothing to the discussion.

"Stinson," Stu barked, "we're going to combine the remnants of your platoon
and fifth platoon.  You'll be in charge of it.  You'll still be designated
as third platoon.  Get your men together and reorganize your squads as quick
as you can.  I want to be able to attack those positions again in twenty
minutes."

"Yes sir," Stinson said, not bothering to salute or even sound enthusiastic
about his orders.  He had nearly died out there, was still alive only by
virtue of random chance after the disastrous first charge.  He wished Colby,
who was REALLY supposed to be in charge of this abortion, would step in and
put a stop to this madness before they lost everyone.  But as a simple
sergeant he did not question.  He trudged off and began gathering his new
men into one group so he could pick new squad leaders.

With that taken care of, Stu called over the platoon leaders of the other
platoons.  "All right guys," he said, "this is what we're going to do next.
We need to..."

"Incoming napalm run!" someone screamed, pointing into the air at the
approaching helicopter.  Fear rippled through the ranks as everyone saw that
it did indeed have one of the gas tanks slung beneath it and that it was
indeed heading right towards them.

"Shit," Stu muttered, trying to gauge the speed and distance of the
aircraft.  He guessed it would be over the top of them in less than a
minute.  "Take cover!" he yelled to the troops.  "Don't bunch up!

Those that were standing or kneeling or lying near each other quickly began
to scramble around, trying to put as much distance between themselves and
anyone near them.  For the most part this accomplished nothing since many of
them, in their panic, ran into each other instead.  Several of the front
soldiers that had been trading shots with the enemy were hit with gunfire as
they exposed themselves in their efforts.

"Goddammit," Stu screamed in frustration, "if you're in the front, keep your
asses down, you morons!"

The troops were still in a state of flux when the helicopter banked and
began to move slowly right over the top of them.  Faintly a face could be
seen leaning out one of the doors, obviously to guide the drop.  Stu
screamed again for everyone to move faster but there simply wasn't enough
time.  The tank dropped while the helicopter was still moving forward,
falling down at an angle behind the aircraft.  Because of the motion it was
very difficult to see just where the tank was going to hit.  Again, just
before it reached the end of the rope, solid streams of tracers blasted out
from the enemy positions, four of them this time.  The tank jerked roughly
and ripped in half, spraying a wide pattern of the napalm out over the top
of them.  The tracers hit it, there was another one of those "whoomph"
sounds, and the burning concoction landed, spraying over a thirty-foot area
and igniting everything within it.

This attack was not as devastating as the first had been, but it was still a
horrible thing to witness.  One man was completely engulfed and two more
were liberally doused on the head and torso.  They, like those before them,
ran screaming in circles as their clothing and flesh burned away.  Gunshots
rang out from the soldiers nearby, mercifully putting them down, but still
they burned, as did the ground around them and the two halves of the tank,
which fell just to the sides of the main impact.  The smell of gasoline and
roasting flesh filled the air.

"You're gonna pay for that motherfuckers!" Stu yelled up at them.  "Do you
hear me?  You're gonna pay for that shit!  I'm gonna stick a motherfuckin
flare up your ass when I catch you!"

The helicopter moved off indifferently to the south once more, pulling into
a hover over the town, unimpressed with his threats.  Stu continued to look
at it murderously.

"Stu," Colby said, tapping him on the shoulder.  "Maybe we should think
about..."

"Not now Colby," Stu responded in irritation, shaking off the hand.  "We
need to get this next attack organized.  The first thing we're gonna have to
do is spread out to flank those outside positions.  I'll use..."

"Stu," Colby said, more firmly now.  "We need to talk."

Stu looked up at him impatiently.  "What?" he said.  "You wanna talk, then
talk."

"Over here," Colby said, jerking his head towards an area of privacy.  He'd
intended it to sound like an order but instead it came out sounding like a
request, and a very meek one at that.

"All right," Stu sighed, walking over that way.  "But let's make it fast.
We can't let those fucks dig in any further than they are."

Colby followed him over and turned to face him.  "I think we need to pull
back," he said.

Stu looked at him as if he were an idiot.  "We already DID pull back," he
said.  "Now we need to regroup and push forward."

"No," Colby said, shaking his head.  "I mean pull ALL the way back.  To the
highway and then... and then to Auburn."

Stu digested these words for a moment and then took an angry step forward.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" he asked.  "Pull back when we're almost
within sight of the wall?  What kind of shit are you spouting?"

"They're killing us Stu," he told him, a little more conviction in his voice
now.  "We just lost an entire platoon worth of soldiers in less than ten
minutes.  This was just the first battle.  They're in prepared positions on
top of the hills.  They can shoot at us almost with impunity and they can
drop fucking napalm on us from higher than we can shoot.  We can't win!"

Stu stepped forward and pushed him roughly, sending him against a tree.
"Are you pulling that from the deep depths of your military experience?" he
asked with vicious sarcasm.

"I know I'm not very experienced," Colby said, holding his ground.  "But
I've been on this particular campaign as long as you have.  I've seen just
as well as you what these Garden Hill people are capable of doing.  They've
got an organized defense here Stu and the only way we're going to get
through it is to sacrifice almost all of our men."

"They don't HAVE that many people," Stu insisted, continuing to glare.  "All
we have to do is keep flanking them and we'll get around.  We'll clear those
fucking hills with the next attack."

"There's not going to be a next attack," Colby said.  "We're pulling back to
the highway and we're going home.  I'll take full responsibility for the
decision, don't worry about that."

"You'll take full responsibility?" Stu asked, his voice becoming strangely
calm all of a sudden.

"That's right.  I'm in command and they're my orders.  If Barnes has a
problem with it, then it's me alone who will take the heat."

Stu raised his rifle up and pointed it at Colby's head.  "Here's some
fucking heat for you Colby," he said.

"Stu," Colby said nervously, looking at the bore of an M-16 pointing at him,
"what are you..."

"I'm doing what I have to do," he said and pulled the trigger.  A single
shot cracked and suddenly there was a hole in Colby's forehead and a
splatter of blood and brains on the tree behind him.  Colby remained
standing for the briefest of instances, an expression of terrified surprise
upon his face, and then he fell forward to the ground.

Stu looked around, seeing that everyone within view had stopped what they
were doing and was staring at him.  Even those who had been firing back at
the enemy, even they were looking at him in stunned disbelief.  Slowly,
carefully, he lowered his rifle back down.  "Platoon leaders," he yelled.
"Form up on me, right now!"

It took a moment but finally, one by one, they filtered over, the sergeants
and even the odd corporal that had been put in charge.  They looked at him
fearfully and with anger.  What he did in the next minute was going to
decide his fate.

"What did you kill Colby for?" Stinson asked, his hand gripping his weapon,
his eyes demanding answers.

"I had to," Stu said.  "He was going to get all of us killed."

"Oh?" Stinson asked, his finger edging a little closer to his trigger.

"He was going to order a repeat of the last attack," Stu told them.  "I was
trying to tell him that it would only get more men killed, that we had
already figured out that it wouldn't work that way, but he wouldn't listen
to me.  He wasn't fit for command so I relieved him the only way I know
how."

"He was going to order us to rush those hills again?"  Sergeant Vickers
asked in disbelief.  "Jesus fucking Christ!"

"He was going to order it with the same amount of troops," Stu said.  "I
don't know what he was thinking or why he wouldn't listen to me, but I'm in
command now and we'll do it the way it's supposed to be done."

"The way it's supposed to be done?" Stinson asked, his finger not moving
much.  "And what might that be?"

"We're going to send TWO platoons to each side," Stu answered.  "That's
eighty men on each side.  The rest of us will stay back here and provide
covering fire."

Everyone looked at each other, their expressions varying between confusion
and outright fear.

Feeling a little more confident now, Stu shouldered his rifle.  "Let's get
ready," he said.  "Everyone gather around and we'll go over the plan.  I
want to be on the move in the next twenty minutes."

Slowly everyone did as he said.  They gathered around and sat down next to
him for a briefing.  After a moment Stinson let his finger off the trigger
and joined them.





Al Steiner - 4/17/01
Chapter 19 to follow

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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