Ever Onward (51 page)

Jocco mind was awhirl. Such a scheme
would take a great deal of planning. Scouting parties would have to
be sent out, intelligence gathered. Roads still passable, airfields
still usable. Weapons and men and food and transport. Any
resistance met along the way would have to be dealt with. Treaties
made, bases set up. The task was enormous, yet Jocco came alive at
the very thought of it.

Lately he’d begun to loose interest in
things. The excitement of the first six months had drained away,
leaving only an endless treadmill of bureaucracy. There were no
worthy adversaries left, no obstacles to overcome. More and more
ruling the realm was left to Lord Walter and his tax priests. Life
had become stale and predictable again. Down deep he had secretly
welcomed the rise of the rebels. At least they added a little spice
to life. Now, with this glorious new dream of conquest, the rebels
were suddenly reduced to mere flies that must be quickly brushed
aside so that he could get on to bigger and better
things.

He made a mental note to engage a
historian to chronicle the formation of his empire. Christ! He’d
need a dozen of the little bastards!

Bobby-Joe Burlis coughed, bringing
Jocco back to the present. The rest of his officers were watching
him closely. Jocco straightened and crooked his finger in Scar’s
direction. The one-eyed man moved closer.

“Go with Heller. Wipe out the rebels.
Destroy their bases. Do this for me and I’ll see you get your
revenge.”

“How?” The word was more a demand than
a question.

Jocco’s own eyes were now afire. “I’ve
decided to send a large force to the east coast. You could be one
of its generals. Once there you could handle these ‘bastards’ of
yours as you saw fit. But first, my rebels in Bakersfield must be
dealt with.”

Scar didn’t know whether to take this
asshole seriously or laugh in his face. Still skeptical, he decided
to play it safe. “Why east? Haven’t you got enough here to keep you
busy? Christ, you’ve got your own fucking kingdom here!”

Jocco leaned forward. “Man does not
live by bread alone, captain. Besides, I’ve never been satisfied
with being a big fish in a little pond. I want it all, and you can
help me have it.”

‘This crazy bastard is serious!’, Scar
thought. ‘And he’s just crazy enough to pull it off!’ His mind’s
eye saw himself rolling into Mount Hawthorn at the head of a long
line of tanks and his face stretched into a hideous grimace. “For a
chance at the fuckers that did this to me I’ll bring you the rebel
leader’s head in a basket!”

Jocco laughed coldly. “Do that,
captain, and I might just fly you to New York in a
bomber!”

Chapter
39
: ‘JOCCO’S
JUSTICE’

Los
Padres National Forest

California, May
9
^th

Two days later Scar found himself
bouncing along in a landrover on his way to Bakersfield. Behind him
were a column of trucks, all four-wheel drives and troop carriers.
Fifty of his own guards and fifty of Heller’s men, all hand picked
and all loaded for bear.

Once past the San Fernando Valley, #5
winds upward into the Sierra Madre Mountains. The rich greens of
the forest closed in around them, yet no one was paying much
attention to the scenery. This was bandit country. Both Sweep Teams
and Tax Guards had been hit before while traveling through this
twisting stretch of high country.

Scar passed the time by checking his
weapons. Besides the Army issue Colt .45 at his hip, he now carried
a sleek looking .357 Mag Desert Wind in a shoulder holster. Seven
in the clip and one in the pipe. His military webbing held a dozen
extra clips, six for each gun, along with a wicked looking knife
reminiscent of his Rambo days. In a floor rack in front of him was
a 12 gage Defender Pistol-Grip and his own Heckler & Cock
Battle Rifle with a 50 round banana clip and four more in a canvas
pouch at his side. Mounted on a tripod behind him was a light
machinegun, its serpentine belt winding out of a box in the back
seat. Sal, the gunner, sat on two more boxes jammed in next to the
Chuck, the radioman and his equipment. Happiness is indeed a warm
gun.

The C.B. crackled behind him. Private
Chuck Bersher answered, then handed him the mike.

“Ya, what’s up?”

Roy Heller’s voice sounded tinny and
far away. In reality he was only a quarter of a mile behind them.
“Just checking in, Scar. Any word from Rat up on point?
Over.”

“Just talked to him. Says he hasn’t
seen dick-all. Roy, I know he’s your boy and all, but you sure you
want that little spic riding point? He looks like a fucking
space-cadet to me.”

Roy’s laughter was momentarily broken
up by static. “Rat’s okay. Weird as they come, but one hell of a
shot. Trouble is, he shoots everything he sees. Relax, Scar.
Connors is with him. Over.”

“Ya, I’ll do that.” Scar thumbed off
the mike, feeling anything but relaxed. “Asshole!”, he muttered,
then turned to his radioman. “Get me Lt. Crofton.”

Static crackled as Pr. Bersher
switched to a clear channel. “Got him, Sir.”

Scar took the mike. “Crofton, get up
here and take the point. Continuous radio contact but hold down the
chatter.”

“What’s wrong, Captain? Heller’s boys
can’t cut it?”

Scar growled. “Just move your ass,
Lieutenant.”

“Yes Sir!”

As Crofton’s chopped-down Pathfinder
roared past, Scar’s driver, Corporal Dick Jules, better known as
Tricky Dicky, glanced at the disfigured man beside him. The captain
was feeling bloody today, and when he was feeling bloody it didn’t
pay to drag your feet.

At the sound of the Pathfinder’s
approach, Rat swiveled his machinegun around and sighted down the
perforated barrel. As recognition sank in, disappointment
registered on his swarthy face. When Crofton passed him, a part of
Rat wanted to cut loose anyway. Just who the fuck did he think he
was?!

Lt. Crofton motioned for his radioman
to get Rat’s Blazer, then took the mike. “I’m taking the point,
Connors. Drop back fifty yards.”

Connors’ heavy brogue cut through the
static. “Sure you want to do that, Cap’n? Me n’ Rat have done this
before, n’ just up ahead the road gets tighter than a nun’s
twat.”

Crofton’s reply was short and to the
point. “Connors, either drop back or I’ll drop you!”

Connors dropped back, while an irate
Rat shot them the finger. Crofton’s own machine gunner returned the
gesture.

The roar of the chainsaw stopped as
the tall, Ponderosa Pine came down across the road. Six men and
half as many women scrambled into position. All wore browns and
greens and all were armed. One, speaking into a walkie-talkie,
looked up towards a rocky ridge high above the road.

“Dink? Where are they now?”

“Just entering the second turn. Be
there in four or five minutes.”

The man glanced back towards the
blocked road. “You and Jenny cover us, but keep low.”

A woman’s voice spoke. “You just take
care of yourself, Don. Dink and I will be fine.”

Donald Paxton smiled. Jenny was a real
firecracker. They weren’t sleeping together yet, but that really
didn’t matter. He liked her spirit. God knows there were more than
enough gloom and doom types around! Still, maybe tonight, after
this little raid...

“Hey, Don. Where do you want
me?”

Paxton turned to see James Peers
hefting a bazooka. They’d stolen it from the armory in Bakersfield
and used up three of the six shells figuring out how the bloody
thing worked. Don pointed to a gully on the far side of the
road.

“Take the second truck if you can.
We’ll handle the lead one.”

James waved and vanished into the tall
grass. The others did the same. Don checked the road once more,
then scrambled for cover, the image of Jenny’s flashing eyes
dancing before him.

Roy Heller heard Rat’s high voice
yelling through the mike. “Tell him those fuckers nearly ran us off
the fucking road! Tell him that scarfaced prick is sniffing up our
ass! Tell him...”

Connors cut Rat off. “Captain, Ratty’s
a tad upset. One of the guard’s vehicles is now on point and
Captain Scar is.... Oh shit!!”

Heller frowned, then called out
Connors’ name. All he heard was gunfire. He called out again, then
yelled at his driver. “Move it!”

Heller’s jeep shot by the two troop
carriers filled with tax guards. His gunner, Corporal John
Hardgrave, worked the slide on his H & K mini cannon while
Private Nina Escarlo relayed orders to the Sweep Team following
behind.

The sound of fighting reached them
over the roar of the jeep. As they came around a curve, Heller
looked down into a scene straight out of ‘Apocalypse Now’.
Crofton’s Pathfinder was in the ditch. His driver, Tricky-Dicky,
was slumped over the wheel. Bersher, the radioman, lay half in,
half out of the truck. Both Rat and Scar’s guns were humping away.
Tracer bullets streamed across the narrow gap. Trees exploded.
Bodies littered the roadway. Fire was being returned from a half
dozen places. As Heller watched, there came a loud womph! and Rat’s
Blazer went up like a mushroom cloud. Rat, his clothes ablaze, was
blown clear. Connor, however, burned like a Roman
Candle.

Nina handed Heller the mike. “Orders,
Sir?”

“Get the fuck down there!”, he
screamed.

As the jeep shot forward, Hardgrave’s
H & K opened up. Heavier than the other guns, the mini-cannon
tore the shit out of the attackers. The Ponderosa Pine blocking the
road began to shed its gnarled bark. Limbs, both from the tree
itself and the people behind it, flew through the air. Smoke
watered the eyes. Cordite stung the nose. Screams from the dead and
dying hurt the ears.

Scar, his rifle on full Rock &
Roll, sprayed the right side of the road while Sergeant Sal
Goldberg stitched a zigzag pattern to the left. When his clip ran
dry, Scar drew both his .45 and his .357 and calmly stepped out of
the jeep. Sporadic fire still came from a few attackers, but it was
random and not sustained. The few rebels left alive were intent on
melting into the forest.

One, however, had something else in
mind. Donald Paxton, gut-shot and holding his intestines in with
one hand and a .38 in the other, raised the gun and fired. The
first shot went wild. The second fell on a spent shell. Don
continued to dry-fire his weapon as Scar walked up to
him.

“Where’s your base?”

“Go to hell!”, Don yelled
defiantly.

Scar shot him in the leg and repeated
his question.

Don screamed and tried to pull a
knife.

Scar shot him in the other leg and
repeated the question.

Don fainted.

Scar pressed the Desert Wind to Don’s
forehead and was about to pull the trigger when something slammed
into his chest, spinning him around. Down on one knee, he saw a
hole in his Kevlar vest. His left shoulder ached like he’d just
been kicked by a mule. A moment later a second bullet wized by his
head. Glancing up, he caught the flash of sunlight on
metal.

“Goldberg!”, he yelled, pointing. “Up
on that ledge!” He then calmly shot Donald Paxton in the
head.

Sergeant Sal Goldberg swiveled the
machinegun up towards where Dink and Jenny crouched on the rock
outcropping. Jenny, her eyes wide with terror, stood watching
through binoculars that trembled as Dink frantically worked the
bolt on his daddy’s .306.

“I’ll kill that one-eyed
son-of-a-bitch!”, he hissed.

Then Goldberg opened fire. Fifty
caliber rounds tore up the granite wall. Birds, rock-chips and
Dink’s soul all flew into the air as three of the two dozen odd
bullets found their mark. As Dink’s near headless body flopped
backwards, Jenny’s legs buckled.

“NNOOOOO!!”, she screamed, crawling
towards the corpse. What was left wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was
one that Jenny Simpson would remember for the rest of her life;
that and the one-eyed monster that casually killed the man she
loved. As though in a dream, she woodenly straightened Dink’s
twisted limbs, then staggered off into the trees. She tried to
think, but her brain refused to function. Trembling as the shock
set in, one thought came to her mind. ‘Warn the others!’

‘What others?’, a cowardly voice
inside here demanded. ‘All of your friends are back
there!’

‘The other groups! Des and Sam!’, she
said out loud.

‘You can’t walk all that way!’, the
voice wined.

Jenny set her jaw. ‘Watch
me!’

Chapter
40
:
‘DESPERADOES’

Rebel’s
main camp

Sierra
Madre Mts.

California, May
9
^th

Lieutenant Sam Waterton, former pilot,
former squadron leader and most recently, former prisoner of King
Jocco the First, stood on the cabin’s front porch and gazed at the
encircling mountains. Unlike the Sierra Nevada’s further north, the
Sierra Madres were not snowcapped the year round. A bloody good
thing too, Sam reasoned, pulling his jacket tighter. Nights at
4,000 feet were brisk enough, thank you very much!