The Fall of America: Winter Ops Read Free

was still alive, with some injuries to his left arm and his side. The rest were dead.  
    “Kelly, cover Walsh as he checks the man for weapons.”
    No sooner had the two men moved into position than Kelly yelled, “Pistol!”
    I was looking right into the Russian's eyes as Kelly pulled the trigger on his Bison and stitched the man right up the middle. The man's eyes grew huge, he bucked violently as bullets struck him, and then he fell back, dead.  Blood, gore, and bone covered the ground around the dead man as his body quivered and jerked as his central nervous system shut down.  
     “Damn me, that was close.”  Walsh said as he looked around.
    “Too close, but that's why if it's possible, we always check the injured in pairs.  Alright, look for any ammo, gear, or food we can take.  Let's hurry, folks, the Russians will be on our asses twice as hard once they know we killed some of their men, too.” I glanced at the falling sleet and then the sky.  It looked to me as if we were in for a spell of bad weather and I prayed it turned barnyard bitch dog ugly.  The worse the weather, the more likely we'd make a clean get away.  
    Ten minutes later, we were back on the trail and moving north.  As we moved, the wind picked up and rain was mixed with the sleet. I noticed more rain than sleet and suspected that if the rain froze, the Russians would hunt a hole. I smiled, knowing right now they'd have to see us to find us and that made my day.  We were now cutting across a large forest filled with large pine and oak trees, and some looked to be hundreds of years old.  It was almost dry where we walked because the limbs on the big trees kept most of the moisture off us.  I considered stopping, but knew we needed to cover some ground as long as we could move.  The skies were dark, almost black, and the winds were growing stronger.
    Arwood, who was walking point, waited until I neared him and then asked, “When do you plan to hunt a hole?”
    “Not until we have to do the job. I want us to cover as much distance as we can before we stop.  Right now, distance and bad weather is all that is keeping us alive.  I think if we can cover 20 miles we can slow down and hunt a place to rest.”
    “We need someone to scout ahead of me, then. This sleet on the ground and the crackling noise it makes as it hits the ground confuses me and makes it hard for me to check for mines. I don't really expect any, not moving cross country, but they're always a consideration.”
    “Silverwolf, I need to talk with you.”  I said and glanced down the line of partisans to see him smile.  John Silverwolf was a good looking man of mixed Indian blood, his momma Lakota Sioux and his daddy Pawnee.  His hair was black, his skin the color of bronze, and his teeth even and almost too white.  His cheek bones were high and his eyes a deep brown, almost black.  He was a no nonsense kind of man, but did have his humorous side; it just didn't come out often.  Prior to the fall he'd been a cowboy and making good money with rodeos, but now he was about the best tracker we had in Mississippi.  
    When he neared, I said, “John, I need to have you roaming out in front of Arwood, say three miles, and see if you can spot any potential threats to us.”
    “Sure, I can do that.  Will you be maintaining this heading?”
    “For the rest of the day I will, but near dusk I'll swing due west.”  I said and gave a sigh. I  suddenly felt tired and worn out.  Years of constant battle, no real deep rest, and absolutely no escaping the constant threat of a violent death, was hard on me emotionally. Pull it together , I thought, you can think about being tired after all of this is over, or you die, whichever comes first.
    John nodded and said, “I'll be out there someplace.  If I don't come back at some point before dark, it's not likely I'll ever be back.”
    Our eyes met and I said, “I hear you. Now go.”  Then turning to my people I said,