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Chapter 3: Exodus

  Knots of families were making their way to the motor court, clutching blankets and children like they thought someone would take them back. They mostly had eyes for each other and the way out. I took the riot helmet off so as not to scare anybody. As I passed each group, because they weren’t moving very fast, they would break into conversation with each other. The older ones would say, "Templar." Most would wave and call out thanks. One old guy gave me an "Oorah." Ex-Garda teams for sure. Him I could use. I veered back to talk with him.

  "Marshal Navarro out of North Mexico, who were you with?" He didn’t offer to shake hands but that was just respect for the exo, "Pruitt with the Virginia Regulars, born again Christian for the last fourteen years." I asked, "You go to VMI?" The Virginia Military Institute had been turning out some fine troop for hundreds of years. "Yes sir, went through on the artillery program." I told him, "Stick with me for a while, Pruitt. I’m going to see about getting you some kit." He looked me up and down, gave a quick nod and said, "Think I’ll tag along then."

  To use the walk time, I asked him about other security skilled Christians from the original mission. All too many of them were casualties. At least Saint Peter wouldn’t be using the PA to page dead men. I called and told him to replay the last five minutes at my location to update his list. He had probably done it anyway, but I wanted to be thorough.

  The motor court was busy. Idling buses filled with sick people. IV drip bags hung on window frames. Hospital staff were still tending to them under the eyes of armed prisoners. Rafe’s boys were handing out weapons from the arsenal. There would be a brief conversation and then the man in line would get a weapon or box of supplies according to his experience. Saint Peter was keeping them honest. Eight other trucks and maybe thirty cars were lined up at the curb and accepting children. As they filled up, they would drive over to the fleet pumps and top off. Our smuggler truck was filled with supply boxes, water and food. They had even loaded a dust control truck with drinking water. I took Pruitt over to the arsenal, got him to the front of the line and chatted with Rafe’s boys while Pruitt was strapping on gear.

  The report was, plenty of small arms, but a shortage of shoes and transport. Maybe two dozen Christians outfitted with paramilitary kit, another six with submachine guns. Two more got the tower rifles. I told the boys to keep doing what they were doing and I would see about their shortages.

  Pruitt came to my side with a Kalashnikov clone and some light body armor. He was already sweating heavily. "Is that good kit, Pruitt?" Pruitt squared up his stance, "Good enough, Marshal. Just show me where you need me." I pointed out one of our Christian Militia in full soldier kit standing near the buses, "I want you to relieve that man and send him over here." Pruitt fought to hide his relief. The man he was relieving was twenty five years younger and hadn’t missed any meals lately. "Yes sir." He trotted off, willing to burn some energy for a quick trip toward the supplies.

  My new recruit had his Kalashnikov combat strapped across his chest. Magazines filled his vest. He had a camel-pack canteen and an army helmet. He was covered with dust from standing in the motor court. He was also cruising on Cocktail number 7. "Corporal Strenko reporting, sir." I turned and said "Follow me, Strenko." We took a walk to the maximum quad gate.

  A dozen guards still lay between the fences on the left. The rest had moved away from the gate area. I could see maybe sixteen more with their stun sticks next to them. "Strenko, I want you to herd those loose guards over here to the gate. Try not to fire your weapon, just give them the idea." He trotted off.

  The gate opened at my command and closed again after I entered the dog run. Two of the near guards stood up. They both had arms that appeared to be broken. The rest were dead or too badly hurt to move. I told them, "Don’t get excited, I just want to get you people back indoors out of the sun." I watched Strenko guiding along the other guards. They had left their sticks.

  When they approached close enough I said, "We are taking you to the Admin building. Gather your wounded, leave the dead." A couple younger guards grumbled about leaving the bodies. I said, "They stay, just get yourselves in out of the sun." Both gates opened as the guards shouldered their fellows or gave a fireman carry. Strenko came through the gate, still motioning the guards along with his rifle. We let them move on ahead of us.

  I checked feeds for the administration building. The boys had the lobby clear and some staffers stacked up in Processing. The visitor lot had two police cruisers and a government sedan. They were empty. I called Saint Peter, "I want the four soldiers working the motor court arsenal to shift over here with about thirty of the men. We will be collecting more supplies and vehicles."

  The maximum security door opened and we herded the guards into the ready room. "I want all of your shoes and socks right now. Take them off and set them on the floor beside you." Once they complied, "Now we’re moving you into the cell block. Go through the sally door." I had to push a few along who thought it was some kind of trap. They settled down once they saw the cell block was empty. "You will settle in here. There’s a water fountain and showers. Lay the wounded on the cell beds. Stay away from the sally door, I’ll be sending some more guards in here in a minute."

  I closed the door on them and turned to Strenko, "The rest of your squad is heading this way with some help. I want you to supervise handing out the gear from this arsenal when it opens. Keep prisoners near the sally door as I shift them here." I moved into the offices.

  A quick check showed all offices were empty. I entered the processing area and saw a lot of cuffed guards and staff sitting on the floor. My boys and Etienne’s farm boys were lounging around with their guns casually aimed at the prisoners. There were four policemen and three lawyers who weren’t here when I left. There were also two women who were not cuffed but sitting apart from the guards. I slid over to my team leader for a sitrep.

  "These cops brought in the women, suspected Christians. The lawyers showed up for the usual interrogations. We also rounded up some staffers who were hiding in their offices. The cop belts are piled up behind the counter. Here are the car keys." I took them and asked, "What do the suspected Christians have to say?"

  "Samaritan girls who brought stuff in a few times. The magistrates have been doing a witch hunt lately. They say going with us is preferable to their life here."

  "I want these people moved to the ready room. Two of you and Etienne’s team get them moving and watch them close going in. One of our militia will be in there. Get the cuffs off of them. I’ll bring the cops and Samaritans with me." I took a quick trip down the hall and slipped into my tasseled loafers, size sixteen double wide. Never forget an objective.

  We had a few broken bones to deal with, but the whole group headed back to the ready room. Strenko was herding them along with his gun barrel, he was very eloquent with an assault rifle. When they were stacked up by the sally door, I stopped my cops and the two women at the entrance to the ready room. "I need you ladies to go over to that exit door on the left. Some men will be along in a minute to let you out."

  I turned to the four cops, "I want you men to go into this office behind us." They complied and I went in with them and put my back to the door, "Strip down to your underwear. Pile the stuff in front of you." An older cop said, "Like hell…" before my open handed slap interrupted him. Another made a move toward me and I clamped my hand painfully on his elbow before pushing him back. "I don’t mind causing some harm here if you boys can’t follow simple instructions." Their compliance improved a bit after that. I watched them close while cutting off their cuffs with a razor knife.

  When the clothes were piled, I told them to get back in the ready room. I had to push one of them along to rejoin the crowd. "The rest of you people, I’m going to need your shoes and socks. Take them off and put them in front of you." We put them all in the cell block after they were done. Then I opened the other door and let four militia and a large group of Christians come in. "Fall in with Corporal Strenko
and collect all this gear. I need six men who can pass for cops and drive." I had to pare the volunteers down to just six. There were soon four outfitted as police, even though the uniforms didn’t fit just right. I had all six volunteers follow me up to the processing counter. "Get yourself some side arms and radios from back there." When they came back I gave them three sets of keys, "Pair off into the cars in the parking lot. Use channel four on the radios for further instructions." I walked them over to my two remaining infiltrators and sent them out with the fake cops. Saint Peter would direct them with the radios wherever we needed. One of Etienne’s farm boys had a guard outfit and was sitting behind the glass window, I sent him out to ride in the government sedan. The visitor door locked as they left. I called Saint Peter and told him to route the three official cars to the nearest school on this side of the river and pick up three more buses. Our infiltrators were trained to steal cars, they were just bad drivers. The Christians had grown up with wheels. They would be our drivers. It was Sunday at an empty school and they would look like cops. I grabbed a case of flash bangs on my way back to the motor court. Everybody needed to pitch in.

  Rafe and Etienne sent me their feeds. They were doing the final sweep, moving stragglers to the motor court. The women guards were sealed in their hub behind a wall of landscaping blocks. I flipped through Saint Peter’s feeds to see that all was well. A fight had broken out in the maximum security cell between a few guards and the lawyers. The aftermath showed no corpses, so I guessed it was just an attorney being flip with the wrong guy. Debaters and fighters rub each other wrong under pressure.

  The motor court was like a gypsy caravansary. People perched on vehicles in ways never intended by the manufacturer. Some handy soul had removed a few trunk lids from cars to make rumble seats. The tops of buses and trucks were piled high with riders and supplies. Hundreds were still on foot, but all of them that I saw had shoes. We were ready for our Exodus. Saint Peter began giving instructions over the tactical radios distributed to the various drivers. I could tell because the outer gates opened and vehicles began slowly moving out among the crowds on foot. They turned west, toward the river road. The radios were short range and Saint Peter’s transmissions were beamed into a small footprint, but still some leakage would get picked up by a radio hobbyist or other unwanted listeners. We could expect a reaction soon. Then Pharaoh would send his chariots.

  The alert came thirty minutes after our exit. Our militia forward unit spotted two police cars heading for the bridge. They collapsed the south end of the bridge into rubble, a distant rumble audible from where I walked. We had moved up our eight trucks full of soldiers during the night. Saint Peter made them invisible to the Battlenet surveillance. It was unlikely the military could fix our high speed graphic editing of their satellite images without an orbital mission. The trucks positioned themselves along our route and mined some critical bridges. As long as we stayed on the south side of the river and stuck close to the trucks, we could travel fifty kilometers toward the mountains without too much risk of interception.

  It took another thirty minutes for the military to get an observation plane over us. Saint Peter told us it was coming, from what direction and that it was unarmed long before we heard it. We let it take up station for a little while. The plan called for their Army aviation to engage us. We just needed to position right and get inside their decision loop. An hour later, Saint Peter told us that three armed helicopters were coming. One of our militia trucks roared behind the parade and disgorged soldiers with shoulder fired missiles. They had minutes to set up and fired before the helicopters were even visible. The observer plane converted itself into a black smudge high in the air. We never saw the helicopters, but Saint Peter reported all three were down. The enemy’s air power would be much more respectful in the future.

  Two hours later we stopped to collect stragglers, eat and trade riders. The Christian refugees could not go very far without rest. We were lucky to make five klicks an hour. It would only get worse the harder we pushed. When we got them moving again, a militia observer reported military trucks at the next bridge a few klicks ahead of us. That bridge was blown into the river also. The militia truck with the mortars went ahead to set up in case the soldiers there had something that could engage us across the river and the intervening terrain. Luckily, they didn’t. Folds in the terrain concealed the river road from any direct fire and we passed by without actually seeing them. A few rounds of accurate mortar fire discouraged them from following. Their trucks were very thin skinned.

  Saint Peter alerted us to an airstrike inbound just after we cleared the bridge area. They were sending jets this time. A flight of four ground attack models loaded with bombs and rockets. Once again our Christian militia fired their missiles into the empty air and once again Saint Peter guided them well beyond their rated engagement envelope to destroy the jets. The Army aviation wing was sent back to the drawing boards. It would now be clear to them that they could not enter range to attack without being shot down by some kind of super missile. They had become obsolete without any idea of how it happened. It was now up to the ground forces.

  Saint Peter alerted us to movement by the forward Army division that had been readying itself to attack us in the mountains. Scout units were moving ahead toward the point where the river became passable. They would be there about an hour before our ETA. The rest of the division was shaking itself out to reinforce the scouts a few hours later. We could expect tanks and artillery to hit our refugee train from behind about the time we could see the mountains. It would be a slaughter.

  Our militia trucks raced ahead to set up a hasty defense against the Army scouts. Forty Christian soldiers with Cocktail number 7 and the best equipment the enemy could provide would stop the Scout units at the end of the river and use the mortars to pin them in place. The idea now was to bunch up the division of killers and get our refugees ahead of the pursuit. If we could just get in view of the mountains, Saint Peter would sort out the rest.

  The hours passed. The caravan crawled along. We started rotating vehicles to the rear to pick up stragglers and change riders. No more breaks were taken. Everyone understood the danger. One of the things faith was good at was pushing a body past its limits. The Christians rallied to each other's aid and made good time in spite of their worn condition. If they had more breath to spare, I think a few would have broken into song.

  There was fear and urgency in the flock but also something less definable that I had only felt among Christians in trouble. I still couldn’t describe that feeling. Maybe one day I would understand it, but for now I just felt a conviction that they were family. It smacked of over-involvement and delusional empathy. My Garda commanders would have medicated me in a heartbeat if they thought I had gone native like that, but the Templars would just caution me and maybe prescribe Cocktail number 7 if they thought it was countermission. I would see how Saint Peter felt about it in the after-mission confessional.

  I trotted up toward the front of the column. The exo smoothly brought me to a good clip and I only slowed down when I could hear distant mortar fire. Feeds from Etienne showed he was in front of some burning armored cars about two hundred meters in front of him. Our anti-tank rockets were running low, but four of the enemy’s vehicles were destroyed. The mortars drove off the rest when they found how accurately they could be targeted with an AI assisting. Saint Peter reported they had withdrawn a kilometer away, but a few dismounted survivors were lying down about three hundred meters away. He would conserve ammunition unless they attempted some maneuver. Night was coming.

  It really hurts to be on the wrong end of orbital surveillance and a compromised Battlenet. Saint Peter could see everything and practically direct traffic for the enemy. Their own surveillance showed them just about anything we wanted it to. Right now they were looking at signatures for our suspected positions and numbers. Both were altered to our advantage. We looked like a company skirmishing a little east of where we were. Force multiplicat
ion for free. The budget guys would love this in the after-mission report.

  As the Scout unit survivors dug in to wait for reinforcements, newly armed refugees continued harassing fire and the rest of the Exodus streamed past behind their screen. Trucks moved the militia along our route to clear the way forward. They would leave chemical hand warmers and simulators in their old positions. Saint Peter could command detonate a good illusion of battle if needed. It was old media tech.

  Just in case the Scouts thought about a flanking maneuver, our Battlenet signature grew another platoon and spread further out to discourage bold moves. The enemy had to be thinking that an army had sprung up out of the ground and could be battalion strength by the time the rest of their division arrived. They would wait for the artillery to catch up before engaging a force of our apparent size. They would mass their own battalions and armor for a breakthrough push. The good news was they would also move much slower. We had bought some time.

  The refugees pushed on toward the mountains. The foothills were visible at the head of the column. South River road became a dirt path winding toward freedom. A plume of dust marked the column’s location for the enemy’s forward observers. Our militia shifted along the route and the enemy Scouts a few kilometers back began moving in parallel to keep the dust plume in sight. Their Battlenet showed us leapfrogging by platoon to maintain the screen.

  Saint Peter reported aircraft gathering northeast of us about twenty kilometers out. We could expect them to provide close air support when the enemy ground forces got into range. Lead armor units were already linking up with the Scout unit survivors. Their artillery would be getting into range within the hour.

  The refugees were spent. Without a night of food and rest, we would start losing people to exhaustion and dehydration. They were still too close to the oncoming division. When the assault began, they would be into our column before we could react.

  Our ghost battalion of Christian militia formed up into a defensive line on the enemy’s Battlenet. The refugees in vehicles surged ahead to a bivouac area selected because it was kilometers behind our illusionary screen. Smuggler Fokin went ahead to lead and supply the movement. When they dumped off the refugees and supplies, the vehicles would return to shift the stragglers forward. Visibility was falling as full night set in. Now we just needed to hold until the enemy division was concentrated for the attack.

  The enemy general decided to push some observers forward. Scouts and observation planes were prodded into a probe of our line. The aircraft were nervous, holding at the far edge of observation range. The one that tried to go around to our bivouac caught one of our super missiles instead. The Scouts were also very tentative, pushing here and there until mortars or anti-tank teams could be maneuvered into them. Their movements were always under surveillance and their own Battlenet guided them to ambushes. We seemed to be everywhere in force. Media pyrotechnics multiplied our apparent front line.

  The armor units lined up behind the Scouts for exploitation of any breakthrough. Their artillery set up about five kilometers back and began lobbing shells at suspected positions. Our control of the Battlenet fed them the suspected positions, but they were getting uncomfortably close with called in missions against our ambushes.

  The mortar team began drawing counter battery fire and had to disengage. We recalled the rest of the militia, leaving only improvised fire simulators to be triggered at their old positions. Within minutes, the enemy would see past this subterfuge and roll through the abandoned line. I called Saint Peter and asked him to send the Sword.

  Back at the Christian village, a concrete slab slid open, exposing the nose of a rocket. Saint Peter had built it in orbit and shipped the pieces down for assembly. Jets of flame poured from several ground vents as the rocket slowly climbed out of the hole and gathered speed. Within a minute, it was a pillar of fire shooting straight up into the sky. Higher and higher it climbed until the flame shut off at twenty kilometers of altitude. Small jets fired to orientate the base of the rocket toward the distant enemy division.

  As the rocket reached apogee, an explosion separated the booster section, which moved several hundred meters away before it too exploded in the blinding flash of a nuclear device. The explosion poured energy into hafnium rods in the bulbous head. This generated a tuned beam of gamma radiation, which is called a Graser in military parlance. The beam was directed through a twitching collimator lens that skewed it over a wide area on the horizon. The process occurred in the fraction of a second before the low yield mining nuke consumed the whole works.

  For those of us on the ground, we saw a bright star appear high over the mountains. Clouds suddenly formed around the new star, encircling but not obscuring the bright light. At this angle, we would not be blinded. A rumbling noise was audible over the sound of artillery shells falling on our old positions. Crackling explosions sounded to the east. Slowly, the star faded. Gusts of hot air stirred up dust at our bivouac.

  To the enemy division, the experience was very different. Invisible gamma rays played over their positions for that fraction of a second. Armor was nearly transparent to the Graser. The beam was tuned to organics. Soldiers flashed to bone and ash, those who weren’t just blinded. Chemical compounds in fuel cells and warheads exploded. Before the debris began to fall back to earth, the division had suffered forty percent casualties. In three hours, another ten percent would die of radiation poisoning. At least two thousand soldiers had died for our Christian dead. Pharaoh had lost his chariots.

  Father Luke called the Premier of the regime on his private line. He termed it a courtesy call. We thought of it as a sales pitch. He explained why the Premier’s elite division wasn’t advancing anymore. He informed the Premier that any military presence within the horizon of the mountains could expect a similar calamity. We would live and let live as long as no new threat appeared.

  It was all a bit overwhelming to the Premier. So much had changed so fast. He wanted reports from his own sources before committing to anything. The Father said that would be fine. Just hold his forces at the horizon and confirm with whomever he liked. When the Premier received initial confirmation of the calamity, delivered in harsh whispers by someone in the room, Father Luke secured a medical cease fire. We would call again in the morning and continue negotiations.

  The Christian militia put out sentries against blind or irradiated survivors. Enemy aircraft went back to base or hovered around the dead division, recording destruction for the inevitable reports. Tomorrow we would deliver the flock to their promised land.

  Back at the bivouac, the refugees got some much needed food and rest. Many sang favorite hymns and Deacon Humboldt led them in open prayer. No prison guards broke up the service, though many looked around as though it might still happen. It would take years to overcome the reflex, pounded in their heads with pain and death.

  In the morning, our plan bore fruit. The Premier would sign a Letter of Understanding with the Church or learn to keep his location secret for the rest of his life. Christianity was here to stay. The Father wasn’t nearly so blunt, but the core message was received. The Premier filled the airwaves with the offered pack of lies about a rogue solar flare destroying a military unit on maneuvers. Citizens should restrict their outdoor activity and wear sun block until scientists could determine the danger was past. Parts of the mountain range had become irradiated and the entire area was placed behind a military cordon until the damage could be assessed. All information about our Christian militia and the prison break was suppressed or twisted into unrecognizable shapes. The Letter of Understanding was quietly couriered to a location in the foothills. The Premier declined a face-to-face. I think he was afraid of us.

  To our reformed Christian mission, it was a source of laughter. Spirits ran high as their freedom became more real. United into a community again, armed against further depredations and supplied with the resources they needed to grow. There were over four thousand of them now and whole clans of the nomads were c
onverting, eager to join a kinder future. Our Christian militia was absorbed within the larger body of recruits from the refugees. Father Luke smoothed the transition with his knack for organization and psychology. Inside of a couple of months, we had re-organized and trained the Militia to a full battalion. We created a cottage industry of armament contractors to supply them. Purely defensive weapons enjoyed a certain economy. All the big money items tended to be offensive and thus unneeded.

  Resources were brought in from the western routes around the cordon. An anti-aircraft laser was built underground, directing its energy to remote lenses that were easily replaced. Saint Peter built a quantum computer and mirrored over selected portions of his mind to assist the Mission’s further efforts. Even a subprogram running in quantum was better than what the Regime had. They didn't recognize AI rights and so recruited none for their colony. Their loss.

  Within four months of insertion, our Mission had become a small nation. The enemy regime believed we had stockpiled Graser weapons sufficient for their armies. There were even a half dozen more rockets built to continue that illusion for any infiltrators. In truth, we would not leave nuclear devices unattended. Only the Garda could approve their use. Our authorization was the Old Testament "Eye for an eye" mutually assured destruction policy that worked well enough for a thousand years. Once we left, we would leave behind only Potemkins. Only if relieved could we turn over live weapons.

  Eventually, a new Priest and specialists arrived on a slow boat from home. I met Templar Voslov, the young woman who would be continuing the Sword of Damocles mission. She could be here for years, but seemed all right with it. Maybe she was getting away for a while. When I said the formal transfer, "I stand relieved" she gave me a sotto voce, "I'll bet you do." It was a thing I might have said. Saint Peter and Father Luke declared the operation a success and we left the Christians to their brighter future.

  It was quite a going away party. Those nomads had something a lot like tequila, buried in casks for years. Not up to my mom’s standards, but good with a fruit chaser. Voslov had such a good time, she relieved me again. It was quick and unexpected, with a rough energy. I hoped the Regime believed she would use the Grasers. After that night, I sure did.

  Saint Peter translated quantum copies of our minds and debriefed them on the way home. That was a real timesaver for Rafe, Etienne and I. We would hear the reports and recommendations once they were compiled. Our confession by copy gave Saint Peter an unobtrusive ontological tool for mental health evaluations. Initial review looked good.

  One day, Saint Peter called me and asked a few questions. They were questions he already knew the answer for, but the act of answering them gave me food for thought. The Garda AI’s used the technique, but I found the Jesuit parameters to be less cold and inhuman. In this case, Saint Peter made me think about the differences between accepting Christian fellowship and rejecting the dogma. He indicated that the dogma was not always necessary to lead a righteous existence. That the exercise of free will was contrary to blind acceptance.

  I always leave his confessions in a thoughtful mood. But I don’t get the feeling I’m being pressed into a mold, like the Garda AI’s did. The pragmatists considered spiritual matters only important for their effects on the Real. It’s delusional but permissible. Just don’t screw up because of it or they’ll try to fix you.

  End replay of subject Navarro, J

  Excerpt of mission debrief DT-312-3

  Narrative feed with medium paraphrasing