Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗
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“Look!” gasped one of the other kids. Denny did not bother to look. His eyes were locked on Jeb’s and he smiled as the kid’s eyes widened in surprise.
Jeb’s eyes narrowed. Denny could almost see the courage return to his opponent.
“Ah, you don’t know how to use that thing! It’s a prop,” Jeb called over his shoulder, “Halloween costume!” He spoke quietly to Denny. “I got two state records with this.”
Jeb cocked the bat and shifted into a batter’s stance. He looked at Denny, pure hatred in his eyes. He shifted his left foot forward and started to swing.
“Jeb, don’t!” shrieked one of the boys.
In a movement that would have made Grandfather proud, Denny lurched forward, closing the distance to Jeb in a heartbeat. The young punk barely had time for the surprise to register on his face before Denny body-checked him with his shoulder. He used his momentum to spin around behind Jeb and let the shaft of his tomahawk deflect the bat as easily as if it were nothing more than a cardboard tube. When Jeb turned to try and pull his bat back, he found the razor-sharp edge of the tomahawk resting against smooth skin of his throat.
Looking down his outstretched arm and along the haft of the tomahawk to the milk-white face of the teenager, Denny said two words, “Drop it.”
The bat made a muffled sound as it hit the snow-covered grass.
“Holy shit,” whispered one of the other kids behind Denny.
Without taking his eyes off Jeb, Denny said loudly, “I don’t think there’s anything more here for you boys. Time you got in your car and left.” When no one moved, he said louder, “Now.”
Defiant to the end, Jeb narrowed his eyes and tried to reclaim some cockiness. “You made a big mistake, kemosabe. When my dad hears about this—”
“Jeb, your dad is the town drunk. If he wants to start something with me, you tell him I could use another scalp for my collection. Now get the hell out of here and don’t come back.” He flicked the tomahawk away so that it left a stinging welt on Jeb’s neck but didn’t draw blood. The teenager winced and then stooped to grab the bat, one hand on his throat.
“Leave it,” said Denny, pointing toward the bat with his weapon. “Go.”
“Fuckin’ red-skinned bastard,” muttered Jeb as he hurried to Johnny’s car, hand on his neck. He got in the front passenger seat and slapped the side of the car, staring at Denny through the open window. “This ain’t over!” he yelled as the car spun out in the cul-de-sac, kicking up snow in its wake. Someone in the car was hooting like a Hollywood Indian.
Denny stood there on the lawn, watching them until the car, its horn still honking, turned the corner and sped off down the road into the gathering dusk. Finally, he exhaled. His hands were shaking.
“That was one hell of a performance, Denny,” said John, clapping him on the back.
“They’ll be back,” Denny said.
“I know,” said John quietly. “But they won’t get us. We’ll be locked up in the shelter.”
“Skutelawe,” muttered Denny, still watching the road through the snowflakes drifting down out of the sky.
“Huh?” said John.
“It’s Shawnee for ‘turtle,’” said Denny with a grin. “You and Ruth are going to hide in your shells.”
“And you won’t join us?”
Denny shook his head, his long black hair flecked with snow. “No. I am not skutelawe. I am m’wewa. The wolf. My family belongs to the Peckuwe clan of the Shawnee.” He turned to look at John. “The warriors of my people. You and Ruth are my neighbors, my family. I will watch over you, and I will do it from out here,” he said, looking around in the twilight. “Among the trees and the rocks and the hills. In the snow and the wind. It is where I belong.”
John looked at Denny for a long moment. “I sure wish you’d reconsider, son,” he said, a gentle hand on Denny’s shoulder. “Ruthie would feel safer if you were with us in the shelter. We have plenty of food and water. We could survive down there for months.”
“Maybe.” Denny shook his head. “I can’t stay cooped up like that down in the ground. I just…I can’t.” He grinned. “Besides, they won’t be back tonight. I think Jeb is going to need to change his pants.”
“He didn’t look that scared,” said John with a lopsided smile.
“No he didn’t,” said Denny, stooping down to pick up the discarded bat. He handed it to John. “But he shit his pants. I smelled it.”
Los Angeles, California
“I hate these things!” said Mike’s static-filled voice.
Cooper grinned and adjusted his earbud radio receiver as he watched the dark surf flash by under his feet. He loved the feeling of freedom that filled his being when he was sitting on the platform strapped to the side of a Killer Egg. He turned his head to look through the open body of the MH-6M Little Bird as it hugged the coast heading toward Los Angeles.
“No better way to see the sights, Beaver,” was Jax’s scratchy reply from the other side of the small special-operations helicopter.
“Hooyah!” someone yelled.
Cooper checked his dive watch and noted the time. 18:49. He glanced straight out to sea and could see the vestigial glow of the sunset over the long horizon line. A little behind and to the port side, the second fireteam of his platoon flew along in formation. Two other Little Birds were on the starboard side, carrying eight more SEALs. Team 9 was going in full-strength on this mission.
He could barely hear himself think over the roar of the six-rotor engine a few feet above his head. That was fine, actually. He rather enjoyed the relative calm of this part of a mission. It didn’t matter if he was flying in the back of a heavy transport ready to do a HALO jump, clinging to the side of an SDV fifty feet below the ocean surface, or sitting on a bench on the outside of a helicopter racing along the Pacific Coast.
God, what a job. Cooper was savoring this reprieve from his forced-retirement, but regretted knowing this might really be his last mission. He tried not to think about that and tightened the brace on his right knee.
If it weren’t for the fact that the President’s personal security was at risk, he doubted he would've been tapped to lead his fireteam one last time. But the LT went to his defense and was adamant to the higher-ups: it was Cooper or bust.
The pilot swung wide out over the ocean, about a half mile offshore from downtown Los Angeles, dipping the starboard side down. The maneuver rotated Cooper over onto his back so he was able to get a good look at the night’s crop of stars popping out of the deep purple sky.
Something caught his eye. “You see that, Beaver?” he asked Mike, sitting next to him on the Little Bird’s port outrigger bench. “Ships on the horizon…”
“Say again?”
“I thought I saw ships on the horizon…”
Mike leaned forward, looking. He shook his head. “There’s nothing there. Better get you some bifocals when we get back, old man,” he chuckled. Cooper held up his middle finger.
The pilot’s no-nonsense voice crackled over their headsets, “Coming up on final approach. Viper flight, hit the deck.”
In perfect formation, Cooper watched the trailing Little Bird swoop gracefully through the turn and then angle down to where it, along with Cooper’s vehicle, was skimming the ocean swells, just fifteen feet above the waves. He leaned out around Mike and could see the lights along the Santa Monica Freeway rapidly approaching. Cooper noticed how deserted the shoreline was as they roared toward the glittering line of white that was Santa Monica State Beach. He had heard that the flu was getting bad, but never thought it would empty the beach on a fine day like today.
“Anyone want to stop at the Pacific Park?” asked Charlie from the second bird as they flew over the park. Cooper grinned, watching the few people walking around The Pier look up in surprise as the four small black helicopters split the peaceful evening air and flew overhead in an arrowhead formation.
“Nest, Viper Lead. Viper flight is feet dry,” reported the pilot.
“Roger that, Viper Lead,” replied the voice of the mission handler back at base.
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