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Rebels pulled out, with Ben’s Jeep leading the column, his Scouts ranging far out in front of the main column. Sylvia driving.
“Isn’t this awfully brazen, Ben?” Sylvia asked. “Just driving right out on the interstate in broad open daylight?”
“No. We’re driving vehicles with IPF markings. If Striganov has spotter planes out, the pilots will think it’s a column of their own people. I would think our greatest danger would come from Americans along the road; maybe with a sniper rifle.”
Sylvia muttered something under her breath that Ben ignored with a smile. It sounded suspiciously like, “Smart-ass!”
Ben halted his column on Highway 273, just west of the interstate, and waited for another report from his recon team. Redding was about five or six times the size of Red Bluff, so the airport would be much larger, and probably with a much larger contingent of IPF personnel assigned to guard it. While they waited, Ben studied maps taken from the slain IPF guards at Red Bluff.
“Curious,” he muttered. “But typical of the arrogant bastard.”
“Who?” Sylvia asked.
“General Striganov.”
“What’d he do?”
“Put his back to a wall of raging ocean. He might have a spectacular view, as I’m sure he does, but he cut off a valuable escape route.” Ben thought for a moment, then said, “No, he didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“If by some chance we do trap him in there, he can walk right out of there. He could put the women and children in front of him, knowing we wouldn’t shoot through them to get him. Or he’d stay put and start killing hostages if we tried to rush him.”
“He’s ruthless enough to do it, too.”
“Tell me.” Ben’s thoughts were flung through a mist of bloody events, back to when Hartline and the Russian had tied naked men and women to the front of tanks and trucks and Jeeps and APCs, and used the helpless men and women for cover while they advanced on Rebel-held positions. And mixed in with the advancing mercenaries and IPF forces were several hundred elderly people, stripped naked and forced to jog and trot ahead of and mingled in with the advancing forces.
If the elderly couldn’t keep up and fell down, they were run down and crushed by the vehicles behind them.
Ben sighed and lit one of his rare cigarettes. “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me about Hartline and the Russian.”
“You say contact is poor from the Red Bluff end of the transmission?” Striganov asked his radio operator.
“Yes, sir. It’s the atmosphere again. That radioactive belt must be dipping closer again.”
“Then it would affect
both
ends of the signal,
fool!”
Striganov shouted. “Goddamn, I’m surrounded by
idiots!
Get Red Bluff.”
With shaking fingers, the young woman operating the radio keyed her mike and called Red Bluff.
But in the time the IPF had occupied northern California, the Americans had learned a lot of Russian. And the man Ben had left in charge of the civilians in Red Bluff, George, had grinned and agreed when Ben had given him instructions as to what to do when his base was contacted.
George smiled and keyed his mike.
“Da
… Red Bluff …” He paused for several seconds between each word, as if his radio was faulty.
“Kaxkb … bce … tyt.”
He hoped the other end would understand that everything was quiet here.
Striganov cursed as he listened to the man’s voice break up. “I don’t like it. I just don’t like it. Start contacting the others, all of them. Chart their responses and have it sent to me as soon as you are finished.”
“Yes, sir.”
Redding reported that everything was quiet. So did Yreka and Old Station. Yuba City, Marysville, Oroville, Paradise, and Chico all reported everything normal.
But when she tried to contact anything south of Highway 20 and north of Highway 299, she once more experienced that odd breaking-up of transmissions.
Strange, she thought.
But everything was all right in Susanville, Lake Almanor, in
“Isn’t this awfully brazen, Ben?” Sylvia asked. “Just driving right out on the interstate in broad open daylight?”
“No. We’re driving vehicles with IPF markings. If Striganov has spotter planes out, the pilots will think it’s a column of their own people. I would think our greatest danger would come from Americans along the road; maybe with a sniper rifle.”
Sylvia muttered something under her breath that Ben ignored with a smile. It sounded suspiciously like, “Smart-ass!”
Ben halted his column on Highway 273, just west of the interstate, and waited for another report from his recon team. Redding was about five or six times the size of Red Bluff, so the airport would be much larger, and probably with a much larger contingent of IPF personnel assigned to guard it. While they waited, Ben studied maps taken from the slain IPF guards at Red Bluff.
“Curious,” he muttered. “But typical of the arrogant bastard.”
“Who?” Sylvia asked.
“General Striganov.”
“What’d he do?”
“Put his back to a wall of raging ocean. He might have a spectacular view, as I’m sure he does, but he cut off a valuable escape route.” Ben thought for a moment, then said, “No, he didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“If by some chance we do trap him in there, he can walk right out of there. He could put the women and children in front of him, knowing we wouldn’t shoot through them to get him. Or he’d stay put and start killing hostages if we tried to rush him.”
“He’s ruthless enough to do it, too.”
“Tell me.” Ben’s thoughts were flung through a mist of bloody events, back to when Hartline and the Russian had tied naked men and women to the front of tanks and trucks and Jeeps and APCs, and used the helpless men and women for cover while they advanced on Rebel-held positions. And mixed in with the advancing mercenaries and IPF forces were several hundred elderly people, stripped naked and forced to jog and trot ahead of and mingled in with the advancing forces.
If the elderly couldn’t keep up and fell down, they were run down and crushed by the vehicles behind them.
Ben sighed and lit one of his rare cigarettes. “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me about Hartline and the Russian.”
“You say contact is poor from the Red Bluff end of the transmission?” Striganov asked his radio operator.
“Yes, sir. It’s the atmosphere again. That radioactive belt must be dipping closer again.”
“Then it would affect
both
ends of the signal,
fool!”
Striganov shouted. “Goddamn, I’m surrounded by
idiots!
Get Red Bluff.”
With shaking fingers, the young woman operating the radio keyed her mike and called Red Bluff.
But in the time the IPF had occupied northern California, the Americans had learned a lot of Russian. And the man Ben had left in charge of the civilians in Red Bluff, George, had grinned and agreed when Ben had given him instructions as to what to do when his base was contacted.
George smiled and keyed his mike.
“Da
… Red Bluff …” He paused for several seconds between each word, as if his radio was faulty.
“Kaxkb … bce … tyt.”
He hoped the other end would understand that everything was quiet here.
Striganov cursed as he listened to the man’s voice break up. “I don’t like it. I just don’t like it. Start contacting the others, all of them. Chart their responses and have it sent to me as soon as you are finished.”
“Yes, sir.”
Redding reported that everything was quiet. So did Yreka and Old Station. Yuba City, Marysville, Oroville, Paradise, and Chico all reported everything normal.
But when she tried to contact anything south of Highway 20 and north of Highway 299, she once more experienced that odd breaking-up of transmissions.
Strange, she thought.
But everything was all right in Susanville, Lake Almanor, in
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