The Final Day (After, #3)(97)

Three men came staggering out of the second bunker, hands up, one of them obviously burned, smoke swirling up from his scorched uniform.

“Medic forward!” Bob shouted. “Surrender; we’ll take care of the wounded. This is General Bob Scales, Eastern Command. I am giving you a direct order that will save your lives. Now give it up.”

One of Bob’s medics raced forward and actually knocked the man in the smoldering uniform down, rolling him back and forth in the snow and shouting for one of the other surrendering men to help him. The sight of this finally broke the standoff at last.

More men and women began to emerge from concealment, many of them wounded.

“That’s it! Keep coming forward!” Bob shouted. “All medics up front and center. Treatment center on me. Move it!”

The Apaches continued to circle overhead like birds of prey eager to strike. Looking up, Bob picked the transmission mike up, clicked it, and passed the order for them to climb a bit higher, hover, and hold fire unless directly ordered to attack.

He let the mike drop, grimly surveying those coming in, and then looked over at John. “Thank God you’re okay,” he said. “I looked back when your bird was hit; I thought it was you in the doorway.”

“It was my friend Lee,” John replied, still struggling with emotion.

Bob looked at him questioningly.

“He’s dead.”

Muttering a curse, Bob turned away. “Damn them, damn them. There was no need for this. I had to come in sharp and fast, not just go up to the gate, knock politely, and ask to please come in. But it didn’t have to be this way. Damn fools should have seen we had the firepower edge.”

Several dozen surrendering were now coming forward, the majority injured in some way. A captain, dragging a wounded leg, approached Bob and stopped half a dozen feet away, and just glared at him. “Who the hell are you?” the captain snapped.

“First off, I am your superior officer, and you will salute before addressing me,” Bob snapped.

The captain glared at him and those around him, attention focusing on John and his people for a moment, who, other than their flak jackets and helmets, were decidedly unmilitary.

“And this rabble?”

Sergeant Bentley stepped forward and got within inches of the captain’s face. “You will address the general as sir, you son of a bitch, and salute a superior officer. Now close your damn yap and answer when spoken to.”

The captain began to reply, and Bentley leaned in almost nose-to-nose, exactly like a professional DI intimidating a jerk of a recruit who, if behind the barracks and out of sight, would get his butt kicked.

The captain relented, stepping backward a few paces and to one side, turned his focus toward the general, and finally offered a salute.

“Captain Dean Hanson, United States Air Force.”

Bob barely returned the salute. “Your unit?”

“223rd Security Battalion.”

“Oh, Christ, air force security,” one of the men behind Bob growled. “No wonder.”

Bob did not look back at whoever spoke out with disdain. “Why did you fire on us, Captain?” Bob snapped.

“Sir, our standing orders are anyone enters this compound, we shoot first and ask questions later.”

Bob looked around at the carnage. Lee was not the only casualty on their side. Several men near Bob were down. Dead and wounded were being carried in where one of the medics was shouting that he was setting up a clearing area, literally next to the command Black Hawk. The ship John was in was beginning to burn, and no one was bothering to try to suppress it.

“Now listen to my orders,” Bob snapped at the captain. “That steel door over there, open it now.”

The captain stiffened and shook his head. “My name is Captain Dean Hanson, United States Air Force, serial number—”

Bob stepped closer. “Cut the bullshit, Captain. Open the damn door.”

“Sir, what you are ordering is in direct contradiction to my orders.”

“From where?”

“Sir, I do not have to answer that question.”

“Bluemont?” Bob shouted and John saw a flicker in the captain’s eyes, and he knew Bob saw it as well.

Bob shoved past the captain and strode the hundred yards to the door, ducking down for a moment as more munitions from one of the bunkers ignited like a Fourth of July display. A dozen of Bob’s troopers and John and his friends fell in behind him. As they approached the vast steel door, they could see it looked almost like a safe, its face pockmarked from the strafing runs by the Apaches that still circled overhead.

“Captain, open that door!” Bob said, looking back at Hanson, whom Bentley was shoving along behind them.

“I can’t.”

‘What do you mean you can’t?”

“The control mechanism was inside the bunker you just destroyed.” There was an edge of triumphant sarcasm to his voice.

John looked at the captain with unconcealed hatred. In a world of starvation, those like Hanson stood out. He was full fleshed, actually overweight, face round and florid, obviously spending more time sitting in a comfortable office, three good meals a day, and not out scrounging for enough calories to struggle through one more day.

“Bullshit,” Bob snapped. “There’s always a backup. Something like this, no idiot built it with only one way to open the door. You’ve got a backup.”