Holding Their Own: The Salt War Part 12

Kevin nodded, jogging off to get ahead of everyone else and make sure there werent any surprises along the road.

Grim spun and informed the men from Cartersville what was going on. "Ill meet you all a half-mile up the road."

No one seemed to mind having the two armed men for protection.

Dr. Hanes climbed down from the semi-trailer, a look of pure disgust all over his face. "This is a crime... nothing less than a crime against humanity. Ive known Stan since he moved to Cartersville, and I would have never thought the man capable of such an atrocious act."

"With these supplies, we could have saved thousands and thousands of people," Victor added. "Ive always heard power was corruptive, but this is just insane."

"Weve seen it over and over again," Grim responded. "I hope you both understand why our team has been so deceptive and has had to resort to violence."

Victor looked at his friend. "So, Doctor, how do we go about sparking a revolution in Cartersville?"

The physician rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "We cant be overt with this information. Stan and the chief still command the loyalty of hundreds of armed men known for their trigger fingers. There has been enough death and destruction already. We need subterfuge and sedation."

"We are willing to help," Cory added. "But as Grim said, were limited in our scope."

Kevins voice sounded from atop a nearby trailer, "Ive got another security patrol coming down the east fence. You guys should take cover."

After helping the two older men climb into the empty hold of an adjoining semi, Grim said, "Whatever you decide to do, it has to happen quickly. Our man Nick cant stay out in the woods forever, and as soon as Gospel gives up hunting for his head, h.e.l.l put all those guards back here to protect this stash. I dont think theres much doubt that will make your job all the more difficult."

"Youre right," whispered Victor. "Our community has suffered enough already. We need to take advantage of this window of opportunity to improve our situation."

"If I know Stans heart, the word of your Alliance is going to make him tighten down on the town even more. Nows definitely the time to act," the doctor added.

A few minutes pa.s.sed before a soft thud sounded on the semis wall, the result of Kevin tossing a small stone to indicate the "all clear."

All four of the occupants squinted when Grim pushed open the rear doors, bright sunlight flooding their hide. "We need to get you men back to town," the ex-contractor stated. "That way you can plot your treason in the comfort of familiar, secure surroundings."

The return trip back to Cartersville pa.s.sed without incident, Cory and the two locals strolling the distance in silence. Everyone was deep in thought.

They cleared the north gate without much hara.s.sment from the guards, then entering the Exchange and returning to Victors place of business.

Dr. Hanes turned to Cory with an inquisitive expression. "Ive got an idea, but it is going to require some research. Can you and your team give me another day or two?"

"Well try. I dont know Nicks status. Like Grim said, he cant be the rabbit indefinitely, and if Gospel does manage to corner him, a lot of people are going to die before my boss goes down."

Victors grunt signaled his agreement. "I saw him take on four of the chiefs deputies. Clearly, hes not a man to be trifled with."

"Then Im off to my reference books," announced the sawbones, turning to exit. "Ill be in touch through Victor as soon as possible."

Nick was bored.

While the loft provided the most comfortable sleeping accommodations hed experienced in days, by late afternoon he was experiencing cabin fever.

It was a common problem in his line of work. Over the years, hed been deployed on countless hide and observe, scouting, stakeout, and intelligence gathering missions. Hours upon days, days upon weeks, and finally months of doing nothing more than hiding, watching and waiting.

He often mused that he would have never applied for Special Forces if hed known of the boredom, been aware of the monotony. The tedium, and its mind-numbing effect, was increased exponentially as a result of the intensive training and discipline imposed on the teams.

Nick thought "the teams," were men of action, trained specialists in the science of violence, death, and destruction. And they were.

But those duties seemed minimal compared to the countless hours spent doing nothing, much of that time requiring the utmost restraint and non-action.

Rising up on one elbow, he peered down into the barns central area, cautious that his movement didnt draw the human eye. There were only two men still inside the structure, the rest having moved out hours ago to scour the forest in search of his skin.

How many times had he carefully peeked through a jungle canopy, hoping to catch a glimpse without being spotted? Hed lost count of the desert washes that had hidden his body, forgotten more of the spider holes, dugouts, trap doors, and ghillie suits than he could remember. They were all used to conceal his presence, so much of his lifetimes work spent where he wasnt wanted or expected.

Silently, he smiled, thinking back to a miserably muddy, excessively cold hole in the Afghan mountains. A buzzing barn fly reminded him of a camel spider, the six-inch beastie deciding to visit his hide in the Syrian Desert. Those monsters have pinchers that can take off a mans finger, he remembered. Maybe the hay loft isnt so bad.

The dichotomy was a strain for men like Nick. They were immersed in the finest training available, instructed, drilled, and tutored in the art of ultimate violence. Each man was skilled to a high degree in the application of firearms, explosives, sabotage, and maneuver. Physical prowess was required to make the cut, the ability to endure extreme hardship, mental duress, and grueling standards of personal discipline all being minimum requirements.

Yet, the finest, most highly trained killing machines available spent copious amounts of time hiding, stalking, sneaking, and remaining as absolutely still as they possibly could. It was torture of a nature, a necessary evil that most accepted, but never embraced.

As time wore on, Nicks restlessness continued to build, forcing the big man to resort to mental games of distraction. Images of Diana and Kevin were always near the surface of his conscious mind, his occupational downtime leading to the usual wonderings of what his loved ones were doing, how their days were progressing, and if they were thinking about him.

His thoughts of Kevin were especially poignant, his only son now carrying a rifle in harms way, probably no less than a few miles from his present position. He tried to redirect that negative energy, but didnt succeed. If something happened to Kevin, he knew it would be a struggle to remain on the reservation.

With an extreme effort, he pushed it aside, entertaining himself by guessing the time of day from the scarce shadows within view. He made a serious attempt to eavesdrop on the limited conversations nearby. Tried to catch up on his sleep. Nibbled on the salted beef from his pack.

A ray of sunlight brought him back to the job at hand, the narrow slice of light finding a small gap in the planks that comprised the barns wall. About two hours of daylight left, he judged. The men hunting him in the woods would soon be returning, moaning and tired, b.i.t.c.hing about yet another day of fruitless activity. The thought made Nick smile.

He then had an interesting idea, a concept that could make his new friends from Cartersville adore him even more.

There was only one man in the barn turned command center, an older gentlemen who seemed to be enjoying his afternoon nap. Nick listened carefully for several minutes, trying to determine if there was anyone else nearby. He heard only the occasional bird and buzzing insect.

He repacked and shouldered his ruck carefully, eyes darting between the main door and the snoring gent below.

A last minute idea popped into the operators head. Taking his Shemagh from around his neck, he quickly folded the square cloth into a triangle and then began wrapping it around his face and head, Palestinian style. When hed finished, only a small slit reveled any part of his face, an inch-wide opening for exposing an a.s.sa.s.sins eyes.

Down the ladder he stepped, gradually letting his weight settle on each rung, hoping to avoid squeaks and creaks. The solid, packed earth ground felt good under his boots. It was only four steps to the sleeping man, Nicks knife drawn and carried low to thrust. He gave the dozing occupant a rude awakening.

With one large hand, his cupped the poor fellow around the mouth, jerking up and back with unbelievable force, tipping chair and man over, and pinning both to the floor.

Nick was just above his victims shocked face, staring though his cotton mask with steely, green eyes that promised death. For a moment, the big man thought about screaming "Allahu Akbar," the traditional Islamic battle cry, but decided his new friends heart probably couldnt handle it. Bishop would do it, he decided.

The barn-keeper must have thought terrorists had invaded the Texas countryside, his face growing instantly pale as he peered up into the nightmare hovering just above his nose. Nicks voice did little to settle the mans heart rate, growling low and harsh. "Make a sound and I separate your head from your body," he stated.

With his eyes darting between Nicks knife and the unblinking, fanatical stare, the older gent nodded a rapid agreement.

Before removing his hand-gag, the big man let his victim feel the point in his throat.

"When are the patrols coming back?"

"I... please... I," muttered the terrified prisoner.

"When!" hissed Nick, pretending to be on the edge of homicidal rage.

"Dusk," came the whimpered response.

"How many men are guarding the transports outside?"

Nick saw a flash of bewilderment pa.s.s behind his new friends eyes, the man more frightened of not knowing the answer than anything else.

"Transports?" came the honest question.

If he hadnt been playing crazed-madman, Nick would have laughed at the situation. "Transports. The buses and trucks used to haul the men from Cartersville. How many men are guarding them?"

The guy started to nod his understanding, but the tip of Nicks blade made him reconsider the expression. "Three I think, maybe four."

"Okay, friend. Heres what were going to do. Im going to let you up, and we are going to stroll to the door. You are going to call to the guards, instruct them to come inside the barn. Tell them you just received some good news. Tell them anything you have to, but get them in here. Do you understand what I am telling you to do?"

"Yes."

Nick raised up, pulling the much smaller fellow up by his shirt. Making sure his new acquaintance could clearly see the safety coming off his carbine, the big man waved his captive towards the door. "f.u.c.k this up, and I will cut you in half. Do as I ask, and youll see your family tonight."

After a few hesitant steps to the door, Nick listened as his instructions were followed to the letter. "Hey! Hey, you men! Come on inside. I just found out theyve got him! We can all go home soon."

Nick could hear the message being pa.s.sed around outside as he motioned his captive to move away from the door. The prisoner did as he was told.

The sound of footfalls came from the entry, the first arrival finding Nick standing inside, rifle three inches from his head, finger on his lips. He grabbed the new arrivals lever-action 30-30 and shoved him out of the opening.

The next two came in at the same time, one of them trying to be clever and raise his shotgun. Nicks left fist knocked the poor fellow staggering into his mates.

"Any more?" the big man grumbled.

No one seemed to want to answer. "Hey guys, where did they catch him at?" a new voice just outside the threshold queried. The question never received a response.

Nick found himself with five severely frightened locals, all of them staring at him as if he were the devil just arrived from the gates of some Middle Eastern h.e.l.l. He also had collected quite the respectable stash of weaponry.

Covering the detainees with his carbine, Nick ordered one of them to toss the weapons outside the door. That task completed, he issued a final set of orders.

"Im going to leave you guys inside of this barn. Come out, and I will shoot you. Make a ruckus, and Ill set the place on fire and watch you all burn alive. Remain quiet, and you can all enjoy meatloaf at home with your wives and kids tonight."

All five heads signaled their agreement with the plan, but then again, they didnt really have any viable options.

Nick stepped outside, pulling the heavy wooden door shut, and then securing the latch with a small length of paracord. That ought to hold them until Im done, he thought.

Most of the cars, buses, and pickups were parked in a relatively straight line. There were at least 50 vehicles. Deciding to "work" on every third unit, Nick began moving down the row, his knife visiting each fuel tank.

It seemed to take forever, moving along, rolling under the b.u.mper, and issuing the fateful thrust.

After 20 minutes, he finally made it to the end of the line, the smell of petrol growing thicker in the air.

Again using a small length of paracord, he tied a handful of hay into a bundle, and then wrapped the torch onto a sc.r.a.p piece of lumber he found lying along the route. After blowing to make the flames good and hot, Nick reversed his direction, pacing back along the line of leaking tanks, sticking his torch underneath each one until a whoosh sounded, and the fire began licking out from underneath.

With his arson now complete, Nick trotted off, needing to put some distance between his crime and the men who would be rushing back from the woods as soon as the smoke became visible.

After crossing a nearby field, he paused and looked back. It was an unusual sight, every third car in the long line appearing as a glowing red ball of fire. The first tank exploded just then, sending a column of red ash and yellow flame high into the sky. The two neighboring cars were burning just a few moments later.

"Now that is really going to p.i.s.s them off," Nick grunted. Without looking back, the big man swerved, jogging toward the setting sun.

Chapter 8.

Dr. Hanes pushed open the screen door leading to his back porch. Under one arm was an old medical reference, its yellowed, dog-eared pages indicating a life of toil from a time before the internet came to exist.

Like so much of his library, The Forensic Guide to Poisons was once again proving useful, the hardcopy tomes lining his office shelves in vogue since the collapse.

He casually meandered over to a bushel basket of potatoes, bending to lift one of the small tubers he had intended to plant for the last two weeks.

Holding the specimen up to the light, the physician squeezed the skin, taking careful note of its softness and color. The now-sprouting eyes were another positive indicator. He then used his fingernail to slice a small cut in the soft exterior peeling.

A slight tinge of green just under the skin made him smile. Returning the sample to the basket, he whispered, "Thats the ticket."

After making his way back to a cluttered desk, he reopened the book and reread the page that had sent him on the potato quest.

He remembered his grandmas warning when he had been just a lad and confirmed his suspicion with the ma.n.u.script. There was a toxin in potatoes. Called solanine, it only developed in the tubers eyes and green portions just under the skin of near-spoiled specimens. The poison would make anyone consuming it very, very ill.

Most spuds grown in North America had been genetically modified to remove the potential threat, but the doctor had joined the all-natural, non-GMO crowd a few years before everything had gone to h.e.l.l.

He began reading the necessary dosages required, noting the milliliters that would cause symptoms ranging from a mild stomachache to vomiting and severe diarrhea. If too much solanine was ingested, death could occur.

Once satisfied with his calculations, the physician made his way to the kitchen. It took him several minutes of searching, eventually finding the lemon squeezer in a seldom accessed drawer.

A few minutes later, he was squeezing one of his potatoes, using pressure to milk the liquid from the mash. After three such samples had been drawn, he began spinning the beaker of cloudy liquid in tight, centrifuge-like circles.

His arm began to tire after a short time, but that was just fine. He turned up the oil lantern to its brightest setting, holding up the clear container and pushing his wire-rimmed gla.s.ses back to their most effective perch.

"So there is a separation," he said, observing a small layer of green-colored liquid residing at the bottom of the beaker.

He verified his theory with a slide and microscope, the magnified image of the solanine matching the pictures in his guide. "Poison from spuds," he whispered, rising from the scopes eyepiece. "Who would have known?"

He closed his book and destroyed his notes. The potatoes remains were thrown out, the small amount of liquid in his beaker the only remaining evidence of his treachery.

"Time to recruit a co-conspirator," he mused, slipping on his jacket and heading for the door.

He approached Victors booth with a neutral expression. "How do we get access to the security guards meals?" he asked bluntly.

Initially taken aback by the inquiry, Victor soon caught on. "Poison?" he whispered.

"Just to make them sick. Theyll think they have the flu or some other nasty crud. When they come and ask for my help, Ill tell them they are all about to die. 'Too bad we dont have any antibiotics, I will say. The guards will spill the beans to save their own hides, and the secret will be out."