One Year After

CHAPTER FIVE

“There’s the flag of truce,” Burnett whispered. “Now remember, the slightest wrong move, and everyone is wasted.”

Things were still slightly blurry, the lingering aftereffects of the concussion.

“My people honor their word. I’m more worried about yours.”

They were sitting in an old Polaris four-wheel-drive off-road vehicle that had been upgraded with an attempt at some armor across the front to protect the engine. John and Burnett sat in the backseat, a couple of the reivers—heavily armed men—up front. A half dozen other vehicles of Burnett’s had stopped a quarter mile back above the north shore of the reservoir and with professional skill spread out on foot to either flank. John did worry now that maybe the entire thing was a setup, an ambush to wipe out some of his best before putting a bullet in his head.

It was good at least to be back out in the open after three days locked up in the fetid cabin. He got twice-daily visits from Maggie, who advised him to just stay in bed and let the concussion heal, and the food had actually been rather good—indulgent, even, given that it was pork stolen from the Stepp family, and rather than saving or rationing it, the group had been gorging themselves on it as if there were no concern for tomorrow. Only problem was chewing it, between the sore jaw on one side from getting slugged and the bad tooth on the other side. Maggie actually took a look at it and offered to “pop that little ole thing out,” but he adamantly refused.

Burnett had dropped in a few times, conversations short and a bit taunting that the group was still debating his fate—implying that execution was still an option—but John knew that was just a sham to see how he’d react. Why waste precious food on a doomed prisoner?

Then this morning, they had blindfolded him and led him out of the hut he was quartered in. He could hear the crowd gathered around to watch some jeering, and for a moment, his heart sank. Without comment from Burnett, he was shoved into the backseat of the Polaris, and the expedition left the encampment.

He said nothing, but there was definitely a wave of relief. Execution would have been a public affair. They were most certainly not just driving off into the woods for a private shooting. He could sense they were going back up over the Mount Mitchell range. It was a tedious, hammering, head-splitting climb of a couple of hours and then an equally jolting drive back down what must have been a fire road through the forest until coming to a stop, and Burnett unfastened the blindfold.

“So you’re letting me go.”

“Trading you.” Burnett chuckled. “Your weight in salt. We got plenty of ammo and food, but salt is getting hard to find.”

John took that in, not really feeling humiliated. A long time ago, trading prisoners for salt had been a practiced norm. Weight in silver also? For Burnett’s group, salt was more valuable than silver. Salt meant preserved food. Silver was to those living in a barter world just metal—though Doc Wagner was experimenting with grinding pure silver into a formula for antibiotics—but salt could preserve hundreds of pounds of meat and was a dire necessity of diet, especially in the heat of summer.

There was a long stretch of straightaway ahead paralleling the left shore of the reservoir—the same place where he had been ambushed—and in the distance, John could see his people deploying out.

“The negotiated agreement was twenty on each side as escorts, salt to be left in the road. But I suspect your people got a lot more hidden to the flanks.”

“Same with yours,” John said, looking back at the assortment of vehicles.

He could sense the tension. Though confined in the squalid cabin during his stay with the reivers, he could easily hear the conversations and arguments, George indeed arguing it would bring prestige to them if they strung John up and then sent his body back as a warning.

“So why didn’t you kill me?” John asked.

“I have a hankering for salt,” Burnett replied, “and this is the easiest way to get it.”

“It’s more than that,” John replied, and he actually forced a smile. “The real reason.”

Burnett sat back, asking the two escorts who were sitting up front—one of them George—to get out and go up the other road and signal when everything was clear. They were not happy with the assignment but followed his orders.

“Let’s talk,” Burnett announced, and then he did something remarkable for John. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes—merciful God, they were actually Dunhills—opened the pack, lit one up, and offered it to John, who was nearly trembling at the sight of them. He finally shook his head.

“I heard you were quite the smoker,” Burnett said.

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“I had a few people in with you for a while.”

John gazed longingly at the cigarettes but then remembered the day he quit. Once an addict, always an addict, he thought. And if I have one now, I’ll be begging for more, giving this man the advantage.

He shook his head in refusal, though he did breathe in deeply as the smoke curled around him.

Burnett shrugged at his refusal and stuffed the pack into his battle jacket tunic.

“This is about more than me being traded for salt,” John said.

“Yup. Ball is in your court, Matherson. So start talking. I can still change my mind and blow your brains out here in front of those people of yours, toss your body out, and boogie back over the mountain.”

“You want a war? Because that will trigger it.”

“My camp is mobile; you saw that. I can be twenty miles away before nightfall. You and yours are stuck in one place, and we’ll just keep pecking away at you. I have all the advantages of mobile offense over static defense, and you know it. And you don’t have the manpower to send an army up over my mountains; we know far better than your people. We’ll run you ragged, wear you down, and just keep picking you off.”

“So you are telling me you hold all the cards.”

Burnett smiled. “Most of them. If you throw in with this new government in Asheville, you just might have more, but word is half your strength is getting drafted off, making you even more vulnerable.”

“So back to the original question,” John said. “Why the trade? It’s about more than salt.”

Burnett shrugged. “You tell me.”

“You want a truce?” John replied.

“A trade in our favor, I’d prefer to call it.”

“I don’t give away favors without a quid pro quo,” John snapped. “And besides, I said it the first day and will say it again now just so everything is perfectly clear. If I find out my friend Maury was killed by your people—especially that psycho of yours, George—it becomes personal for me, mayor of the town or not. You’ll have a personal vendetta on your hands.”

“Ballsy talk for someone I could still shoot now,” Burnett said, and he actually smiled and then nodded. “Your friend is okay. My negotiator checked on that.”

“Wish you had told me earlier, spared me some anxiety.”

“Psychological advantage, Matherson.”

“Yeah, thanks.” There was an inward sigh of relief with that news.

“You are beginning to sound like a professor, John, with this quid pro quo stuff, but I know what you mean… what’s in it for you and yours?”

“Exactly.”

“Other than your life, of course.”

John nodded.

“I want a secure southern flank,” Burnett said, nodding back to the high range of Mount Mitchell.

“You already have that. My folks don’t venture over it. The area is pretty well hunted over for food, anyhow. So you have no worries, if that is your big concern.”

“Not from you, Matherson. From the feds setting up in Asheville. We kept clear of them when the army was there, though they did send a few expeditions up Interstate 26 to Johnson City and back. That was a joke; we could have shredded them but didn’t want to pick the fight, and they really didn’t want to go off chasing us. But this new group moving in… there’s been news reports, even on the shortwave, of this million-man army they’re forming up. I figure those poor bastards will be off to Texas and California, but they are also talking about taking out groups like us. We get jumped out in the open by one Apache helicopter while on the move and a couple hundred of my people get killed.”

“Apache helicopter?”

Burnett took a deep drag on his cigarette, tossed the still smoldering butt, fished another one out, and lit it with an old Zippo bearing the insignia of the 101st Airborne—a deft act for a man with one arm.

“Yeah, you’ve been out of the loop for a few days. My spotters saw four choppers—two of them Apaches—come in and land at the old shopping mall parking lot. They’ve got a defensive perimeter up there—a regular base, it seems. Did you know about this?”

“News for me too,” John replied, honestly surprised by the information. “When I met with Fredericks, he said they were getting some assets in. I had no idea it’d be Apaches.”

“Still in desert paint,” Burnett said. “They must have shipped them back from the Middle East. Anyhow, I got enough worries without dealing with that, as well. You put in a word to just leave us alone, and I’ll count that as part of this quid pro quo thing of yours.”

John shook his head. “I doubt if I’ll have any influence, but I’ll see what I can find out. But I’m making no promises, Forrest.”

“You weren’t in Afghanistan. I was, and I’m paranoid about someone having air superiority over us, since it was the only real advantage we had against the Taliban. I let you go, you negotiate on my behalf with that person down in Asheville to leave us alone, and other than some pig and chicken raiding, we’ll leave them alone.” He paused. “And you too.”

“I won’t be your proxy,” John said. “You have one helluva murderous record.”

“Pot calling the kettle black, Matherson. How many did you kill in the Old Fort pass? How many did you personally execute, starting with those two drug-addled punks?”

“Different situation,” John said softly.

“They’re still dead, and my ex and my son may be two of them. And over the last three days, I thought more than once I should just even the score and be done with you.”

John took a deep breath. “So again, why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m stuck in the same boat you are at times. You officer types maybe read Machiavelli; you’d be surprised how many of us waiting it out in barracks read some of the same shit. Machiavelli said a prince had to transcend traditional morality for the greater good of those he led.”

John looked at him, unable to contain his surprise.

Burnett cleared his throat. “I might be a good ole boy, John, but that doesn’t mean I don’t read. You know the old line about soldiering being long months of boredom interspersed with occasional moments of pure terror. A lot of time to read. I even thought about making the army a career until this happened.” He pointed to his empty sleeve and torn face.

John felt genuine admiration for the man. He was a consummate actor in many ways, but then again, most good leaders were, knowing how to play their audience. Now, with just the two of them, he realized Burnett could easily slip into an academic discussion on the literature of war.

There was an awkward moment of silence between the two, finally broken with Burnett leaning over the side of the Polaris to spit and mutter an obscenity. “Look, John, for now, you agree not to come over the mountain, and we’ll try to do the same.”

“Try?”

“You saw my group. I can only order them so far.”

“You know if any of my people get hurt, we’ll come after those who did it.”

“To the top of the mountains, no farther.”

“That’s a bit one sided, Forrest.”

“That or nothing. I’ll at least try to restrain things a bit along this front. Over toward Tennessee, there’s a lot of easier pickings there anyhow for right now—better crop and grazing lands than what you got.”

John hesitated. He knew he wasn’t going to get any further than where they were. Of course, he most certainly did not want to get shot now, so close to freedom, an act that would trigger a deadly firefight between the two sides, but he did not want to just sell out.

“I’ll agree to this. You try to hold your people back, and I’d suggest that you break camp and move north. Do so, and you got no concerns from us.”

“Fully intended to anyhow once back in case you decided to try to screw me over and launch an attack tonight, but I warn you, none of you will get over the mountain. We know it better than you do and will be watching.”

John nodded. “Understood, but I’d suggest moving anyhow for now. Gives me a bit of leverage. You can look down our throats at any time from up at Craggy Pass.”

That fact had always made John uncomfortable. From the top of Craggy Pass along the old Blue Ridge Parkway, anyone posted there with a good spotter scope could look straight down into Black Mountain.

Within a few more days, he was going to have airpower, as well, a classified project that apparently Burnett did not know about. The wreckage of the old L-3, piloted by his friend Don Barber, who had been killed in the fight for the pass, had been ever so slowly reconstructed. There were enough pilots still alive in the community itching to get back up, and with the plane, he could again monitor things out in every direction for seventy-five miles or more, including the reivers’ territory and their perch atop Craggy Pass.

“I can recall from drives up along Craggy years ago that you can see the town hall.”

“One of the reasons we like having a watch station up there,” Burnett replied. “And if you are asking me to give it up, the answer is no.”

He knew Burnett was not going to concede giving up a vantage point like Craggy and other points along the old Blue Ridge Parkway that allowed him to watch any movement in a fifty-mile radius. Perhaps it could be turned to an advantage and help avoid future problems.

“Let’s do this,” John offered. “If I feel there’s a problem between us, I’ll run up a signal on the big flagpole at the old car dealership. Three American flags, one atop the other.”

“And?”

“I’m trying to set something up between us to avoid future hassles. I’ll use that as a signal that I want to talk. You fly some sort of flag in return up at Craggy when ready to meet, and we meet here. If you feel we need to talk, send a messenger down to my watch post at the end of the reservoir here. We both work to keep our people back from each other. You keep that nutcase George away, and I’ll make sure the Stepps aren’t running amok.”

“Why talk?”

“We’re doing it now, aren’t we? It’s better than continuing to kill each other.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Forrest, differences are going to come up. We’re trying to step back from what eventually was going to be a full-scale blowout. We both have people who’d want that. So we set up a means of talking at times to smooth things over. Better than continuing to kill each other, isn’t it?”

Burnett took it in and finally nodded.

“Okay, John, deal. Now get the hell out of here. I think your people and mine are getting itchy, and I don’t want any mistakes.”

John got out of the Polaris feeling a bit light-headed, but then he steadied himself.

“I wouldn’t mind getting my vest and .45 back. The gun belonged to my dad, who carried it in Nam.”

“Kiss my ass,” Burnett replied with a wry smile. “Spoils of war.”

John shrugged and started to turn.

“Matherson.”

He looked back, and Burnett was extending his hand. At first, John thought he wanted to shake, and he reached out. Burnett put a cigarette into his hand and laughed.

“You’ll trade big time for these if I get you hooked again. I got cartons of ’em.” Laughing, he called for the driver to get back in and start to back up.

“You are one lucky son of a bitch, Matherson.” It wasn’t Burnett; it was George casually pointing a rifle in his direction. “I should have put my second round right into your face.”

John knew better than to reply. He just started the long walk of several hundred yards along the lakeshore, and as he drew closer to his own side, there was an immense sigh of relief. He could see Maury in the passenger seat of the lead Jeep, left arm in a sling. There was no reason now for a vendetta. Burnett must have known his friend was alive all along.

He slowed and started to turn to look back and actually offer a salute, a symbolic gesture in front of both sides that issues above and beyond his mere release in exchange for some bags of salt had just transpired.

It was a sudden move that saved his life. At the same instant, he felt the frightful crack of a bullet snapping past his face just a few inches away. He dived for the gravel pavement.

More shots.

Burnett was standing in the back of his vehicle, .45 drawn, and for a split second, John thought the man had betrayed him, after all.

Then he saw the pistol recoil again, but it was aimed downward at George, sprawled out on the pavement, George’s body twitching as Burnett put a full clip into the man.

John sprang to his feet, waving to those who were waiting for him. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I’m all right!”

For a terrifying few seconds, he thought the situation was about to spin out of control. Someone from his side actually did empty out half a dozen rounds, causing Burnett to duck, a sickening thought that the man was hit and a full-scale war had just started. Burnett, though, was suddenly back on his feet, facing backward, shouting the same as John did for his side to hold fire.

Before anything more erupted, John forced himself to jog down the road, waving his arms, shouting for his people to hold their fire. He caught a glimpse of movement in the woods to either flank, his own reaction team. Back in my territory, he thought. It was strange, this realization, as if he were a medieval baron captured by a rival, negotiated over with an uneasy peace coming out of the encounter.

He reached the Jeep, head swimming, gasping for breath. Ed was driving the Jeep. Maury was in the backseat, his left arm in a sling but with the M1 carbine raised in his right hand.

“Get the hell out of here!” John shouted as Ed pulled him in, threw the Jeep into reverse, and floored it back down the road until they were finally around the bend.

A score of vehicles were parked up along the road, concealed from view. His troops, actually a hundred or more, were carefully filtering back and beginning to mount up. He stepped out, wanting to shake their hands, but then arms were around him. It was Makala and Elizabeth, both of them sobbing with relief.

“I’m okay, just a little banged up,” he said, wincing as the two women held him tightly, not yet aware of his cracked rib.

“We thought you were dead until yesterday when that negotiation team appeared!” Makala cried. “Even now, we feared it was a trap to lure us in.”

“I think we can still flank the bastard,” Ed said, holding up one of the two precious mobile shortwaves owned by the town. “I got our second company up above the quarry ready to swing in behind them.”

“And knowing those people, they’re waiting for just that. No, what happened back there just now was a mistake, and their leader handled it. Now let’s just get the hell out of here and go home.”

He looked down at his hand. The cigarette was still intact, and he smiled, hesitated, thinking of his lost daughter and the promise he made to her to quit smoking. He crumbled it up and tossed it to the ground.

He stood up, looking around and watching as the reaction teams came back in. Thankfully, no more shots echoed. He got back out of the Jeep, making it a point to go up to as many as possible and thank them, many of his students—some in tears—coming up to salute him and more than a few flinging their arms around him, so grateful that he was alive, after all.

He spotted Grace, went up to her, and actually started to point a finger at her to chew her out for her disobedience in following him. He saw the tears of joy and loving concern in her eyes and relented.

“So glad you’re alive, sir,” she gasped, and then she turned around to shout for her team to mount up as ordered.

He waited until the last of his students, his troops, were safely into the vehicles and heading back to town before getting back in the Jeep.

“What the hell happened, John?” Maury asked. “I saw you go down, thought you were dead, and then they dropped me. By the time we got up to where you were, you were gone.”

“Anyone else hurt?”

“Wilson Stepp shot in the leg, but you must have seen him lying there. He said they were minding their own business and got ambushed.”

“You believe that?” John asked.

Maury shook his head. “But we do have a problem. Pat Stepp is dead. We found him in the morning, or what was left of him, inside that shack.”

“Damn all this,” John said. He thought he had an agreement, but it was one the Stepps would never observe. Feuds that lasted for generations, such as memories of the Shelton Laurel Massacre over in Madison County during the Civil War, still caused tensions between the descendants of those on opposing sides 150 years later. Truce or not with one of the border reiver gangs, the Stepps would continue to wage their own war, and nothing he could say would stop it.

He sighed. “I got a bit of a concussion and a cracked rib. How about we go home? I’ll fill everyone in on what happened. It actually turns out the whole affair could be to our advantage, though we’ll have to figure out how to deal with the fact that old Pat got killed.”

“Not tomorrow morning,” Ed said.

“Why?”

“Yesterday afternoon, Fredericks has ordered ‘select leaders of the community,’ as he put it, to come to Asheville.”

“Did he know I was captured?”

“Of course. It was news across the entire valley.”

John took it in. It was getting hard to think. “I’m going home for now,” he replied, and he looked at Makala, who was gazing intently at him and pressed in close to his right side in the backseat of the Jeep, Elizabeth on his left.

“Damn right. A week of rest and bed for a concussion, at the least.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order.

“And this meeting?”

“The hell with him,” she said. “He figured you were dead, John, and was summoning the rest of us for an audience. Don’t respond at all, and let’s see what he does in reply.”

John looked at her and smiled. “You ever read Machiavelli?” he asked.