The Quest

Chapter 27

“We got Committees of Resistance formin’ in Tennessee, Alabama, Pennsylvania, both Carolinas. We’ll alert ‘em all to keep their eyes peeled for your woman and kids, and that’s a promise,” Abner Fulsom stated emphatically. “Don’t think we can’t sympathize with y’all, cause we can. And don’t y’all think we don’t appreciate it, hear? I mean you and these other fellas helpin’ us go up against them Reds—tough stuff, huh?” Rourke remembered having met the man once some years back. He’d run a hardware store. The “Committee of Resistance” was some twenty men strong, at least this night, and their weapons ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, Rourke thought, and everything in between. There were lever action .30-30 Winchesters, bolt action rifles of various persuasions, Colt, FN and Heckler & Koch assault type rifles and one or two sawn-back pump shotguns. The handguns ranged from single-action Ruger Super Blackhawks in cowboy-style holsters to Walther PPK/S .380s to .45s to almost every imaginable Colt -or Smith & Wesson revolver variant. One man had a MAC-10. He’d been a submachine gun collector before the war and had loaned or given away much of his collection to the Resistance. Unfortunately, Rourke thought, the people who had most of the selective fire weapons were somewhere else at the present.

“What about Colfax?” Reed asked.

“Yeah, but somethin’ tells me, Captain, I’m gonna leave that information on where Jim Colfax is hangin’ out ‘til after tonight. You never know what might happen,” Abner Fulsom said, smiling, his bright white teeth catching the light of the Coleman lamp.

“All right,” Rourke said, tired of the talk, tired of the entire situation. “Where’s the raid going to be, on what. What kind of resistance can we expect, how do we get there, you know, all that standard movie stuff, hmmm?” Darren Ball, Rourke thought, had been strangely silent, sitting with an AR-15 across his lap and a Government Model .45 in a military type across the chest shoulder holster. Rourke thought Ball’s silence wouldn’t last for long.

Abner Fulsom began to speak. “There was a huge, modern shopping center not too far from the city—real popular place before the war. Russian occupation forces are usin’ it now as a supply depot and helicopter base because of the big parking lot. Some of us blew up the airport when we learned the Russians were comin’ in, so they’ve been usin’ the shopping center. There’s a big ammo dump there, too. Figure we can steal all the AK-47s and such we can carry and ammo for them, blow up everything else. We go to the shopping center. We got a code name for it—Firehole.” “Anything else?” Rourke asked.

“Yeah, we know a secret way into the place, too, through a big storm drain. It’s still operational, but there hasn’t been no big storm lately so the drain should be pretty dry. I figure—” “That’s all?” Rourke asked Fulsom.

“Yeah, about it. Why?”

“Well ...” Rourke began slowly, then stopped, Darren Ball interrupting him.

“What he means is a commando type raid against a hardened military site like a supply depot isn’t somethin’ you whip up on the spur of the moment, Fulsom. Same thing I’ve been tryin’ to tell you for a long time. That’s why the last raid got you so many casualties.” “What last raid?” Rourke asked.

“These damned fools,” Ball began. “Aww—they decided to go and dynamite the guard posts in the center of town, blew up one part of the installation, killed maybe a half dozen Russian soldiers, and lost five of their own men.” “How many men you have?” Rourke asked Fulsom.

“Well, we got a—”

“You ever use women?”

“Well, we always figured the women wasn’t really good at—”

“Women do just as well in Resistance work as men—some of them are more savage fighters than a man could ever be,” Rourke told the assembled Committee of Resistance. “You’re cutting down your personnel pool by more than half that way. Women can get in places innocently where men can’t—the whole thing. What explosives are you using for this raid?” Rourke asked, changing the subject.

“Well, we got a little dynamite. Figure to steal our explosives on the spot and take some extras along.” Fulsom looked nervous for the first time.

Rourke shook his head, saying, “What if they’re fresh out of explosives, what if they don’t keep detonation devices anywhere nearby, what if—a whole bunch of what-ifs. This isn’t a raid, its mass suicide. Count me out,” Rourke said, unhooking his right thumb from the carry handle on the CAR-15 slung under his arm and wrapping his fist around the pistol grip. He turned to go back toward the tree line.

“Mr. Rourke?”

It was Fulsom’s voice, and Rourke turned around.

“What?”

“We need a raid like this. We need to show the Russians we can strike back and strike back hard. I got some dynamite. Maybe we can rig something. Maybe—” “Hell.” Rourke almost whispered, turning back toward the members of the Committee of Resistance. Like most committees generally, Rourke thought, it wasn’t doing too well in the logic department.