Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

it were made of paper. The vehicles moved slowly, allowing the soldiers to follow along like so many armed, camouflaged ducklings.

One group of soldiers peeled off from behind their vehicle and started kicking in doors to houses unfortunate enough to be just across the street from City Hall. He saw a family emerge from the rear doors of one house and rush into the backyard. He could feel his hands gripping the binoculars tighter as he saw the parents try to usher their children toward the back fence and a row of trees and bushes. If they could make it in time, they might have a chance to escape—

He lowered the binoculars as the popping sounds that signaled the death of the family reached his perch on the side of the mountain. The family had died together in a hail of bullets as the Russians poured out of the house, kicking lawn furniture and toys out of the way as they went. Without stopping, they scaled the chainlink fence and moved methodically on to the next house. The scene was being repeated all through the town.

Denny had seen enough. John was right. His hand moved toward the radio at his belt and clenched air. Looking down where John’s radio had been before he went hunting, he saw nothing. Then he remembered he’d left it back at the ranger station. Denny had been worried he’d drop it or the damn thing would go off with one of John’s requests for a little conversation. He could visualize the little radio sitting on a dusty crate back in the ranger station.

It would take him about thirty minutes to get to the ranger station if he was just casually hiking. Sprinting back up the slope, even through numerous bushes and trees and over some loose gravel, it only took him ten minutes.

Denny opened the door to the ranger station and collapsed on a camp stool in a cloud of dust. He picked up the radio and tried to calm his pulse. He took a deep breath and activated the radio. “John! John…you there?”

He counted thirty heartbeats before his neighbor’s voice crackled over the radio’s speaker. “We’re here, Denny. What’s going on? You sound out of breath? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Denny said quickly. “But you’ve got trouble. I just watched a whole bunch of—I think they were Russian soldiers get dropped into town.”

“I know,” John said sadly. “I heard it on the HAM net.”

“They’re killing people! I just saw them shoot an entire family…” Denny suddenly felt the urge to vomit.

“Listen to me,” John said. “I want you to promise me, that whatever happens, you will stay up there in your fortress of solitude, son. Okay?”

“John…”

“Denny, I don’t know what is going on—it’s like the end of the world. But I do know that this country will need men like you soon. Men on the outside, men not willing to give up the fight. Promise me you won’t give up, Denny.”

Denny could feel something heavy rising in the pit of his stomach, a feeling of general rage he'd not felt since his teenage years when he'd been consumed with anger that his people had been put on reservations. He had been a hot-tempered youth, young Denoyan Tecumseh. In college, he'd learned to control his anger and use it, instead of letting it turn him into a tool of blind rage. He'd pushed that fury he felt on behalf of his ancestors down into the deepest part of his heart. Instead of acting on his anger, as some of his friends and relations had—they had been arrested or worse over the years—Denny decided to strike at the Anglos in another way.

He'd focused all his energy on becoming a teacher. A history teacher. He taught young Anglos the real truth that their parents and government tried to cover up. He taught that the United States of America was the only western power to get away with genocide. Millions of Native Americans murdered at the hands of Uncle Sam but no war crimes trials, no international outrage, no war of liberation for his people.

Denny had impressionable youths in his classes. So he had always lectured about the truth: about the Trail of Tears, about the families destroyed, the lives ruined and taken, the villages burned down, the death, the diseases, the heartache, and the injustice. And the powers that be had loved him for it.

Political correctness run amok had ushered Denny into the open arms of apologists at the local, state, and federal level. He got raise after raise, tenure, promotion, sabbaticals, anything he needed for his classroom. It was a dream come true.

And then one day, it was over. The anger that had driven him to succeed, to indoctrinate the supple, young Anglo minds with the truth, to fight back and strike at the soft underbelly of his enemy in the only way he could…was just…gone.

One day, he woke up and the voice full of burning desire to strike back for his ancestors was silent. The anger was all used up. He backed off on his zealot-like quest and just enjoyed his job for what it was. He was a history teacher, and he was good at it. He brought a passion for the past that never failed to spark some interest or excitement in his students.

Now, for the first time in years, that anger had awakened. It was yawning and stretching his previously subdued limits of tolerance. He wasn’t sure who to focus it on—the Russians for murdering his fellow residents, or his own government for allowing it to happen…regardless, the anger was awake.

He closed his eyes and counted twenty heartbeats. “I promise, John.”

“Good,” was the immediate reply. “I think we’ll be okay. A burned-down house sits on top of us, remember? I haven’t tried to open the door yet, but I think we’re pretty well hidden.”

“But don’t we need to tell someone? The sheriff? The Army?”

There was a long pause. Denny was about to try again when the radio broke squelch. “I don’t know son. It’s hard to imagine they don’t already know. Why they’re not here protecting us…well…who knows? What with all the craziness back east and the Koreans in California…” His neighbor sighed, static breaking up his sad voice.

“It just doesn’t make any sense. Ruthie is real tore up about it all,” he whispered. “It does her good to know you’re at least safe. We haven’t had word from the children yet…”

Denny could hear the worry in his friend’s voice. Before he could speak, he heard another sound, and it nearly made his heart stop. He put the radio to his mouth and keyed the transmit button. “John, I gotta go. I think someone is landing a helicopter nearby!”

“Go, run, Denny! Stay safe and call me when you can!”

The unmistakable sound of rotors slicing the air reverberated in the ranger station. He raced to the large wooden wall that spanned the entrance to the cave and threw open rough-hewn door. Almost as an afterthought, he snatched his bow and quiver on the way outside. Without a glance at the sky, he fled downhill toward the edge of the lake and made for the shadows and pines of the surrounding alpine forest. He didn’t stop until he was a dozen yards inside the tree line and dropped down behind a partially rotted log.

He lay there panting, listening to the sound of the helicopter reflect off the curved ridge of granite surrounding U.P. Lake. It seemed to be coming from the left, then behind him—the rock formation acted like an amphitheater.

He’s circling, checking to see if anyone is home, the voice of Grandfather Red Eagle whispered.

Denny closed his eyes. Now I’m hearing things. Mishe Moneto, hear my prayer—make my sight straight, my arrows fast, my aim true. Help me defend this place and protect my friends. Let me die well.

The helicopter noise increased and remained steady. It was right behind him on the other side of the tree line. He peeked around the edge of the fallen tree and saw the great monstrous, alien-looking thing hovering there in midair, buffeting the closest trees and bushes with the downdraft from its big rotors. The spray kicked up off the lake swirled in a white mist directly under the helicopter. The noise was incredible.

It definitely wasn’t American. The graceful lines of a Black Hawk were unmistakable to anyone who had ever seen a TV. This thing had a bulbous nose, longer wings than seemed prudent on a helicopter and a heavy belly. It was ugly, but it worked. The hallmark of Russian engineering.

As he watched, a side-door slid open and two black, thick ropes dropped out. Two men leaned over the edge and slid down the rope, followed by two more. It wasn’t long before all four dark-camouflaged men were down on the rocky beach on the north shore of U.P. Lake. Once they’d moved safely away from the dangling ropes, one turned and waved to the waiting helicopter some thirty feet up. The evil-looking machine raised up effortlessly and moved on, trailing the ropes. It flew overhead and vanished behind him, flying east down the mountainside toward Salmon Falls. In a few moments, the serenity of the lakeside environment returned.

Denny watched, fascinated, as the four men raised rifles, pointed out in all directions. He could see the blue, white, and red shoulder patches with ease—that was not the American flag.

Whoever they were, the men wasted no time and scurried up from the north shore of the lake to take positions on either side of the door to the ranger lodge. Two watched the trees. Denny had to fight the urge to duck. He had to remind himself, there was no way they could see him, as far back in the forest as he was.

Besides, unlike the Russians in their mostly black camo, he was wearing a woodland pattern and his green-and-brown face paint. He knew he looked like just another clump of greenery in the forest, but still, he had to force himself to stay calm.

The two men closest to the door nodded at each other and quickly moved inside. It only took a moment for someone to shout, and