Much to the chagrin of those in town, itching for payback, they chose the latter. But John wasn’t worried about the disappointment his men must be feeling since it wouldn’t be long before the enemy would regroup and attack again. Next time, stopping them wouldn’t be so easy.
Chapter 45
The two-mile strip between Jonesboro and Lake City, Arkansas was made up almost entirely of farmland and squat, single-story buildings. An observation which wasn’t completely lost on Brandon given the hunger churning away at his insides.
The sprawling camp which overlooked Highland Drive was ringed by a twenty-foot-high barbed-wire fence and dotted with guard towers. The camp was still under construction, most of it being built with American slave labor on what was once a farmer’s field.
In several places, weeds, grasses and wild flowers still grew in clumps around the fence line and near light poles and this was precisely where Brandon was snooping around, looking for something to eat.
“There isn’t anything here but grass,” Gregory told him, keeping an eye out for guards. It was only a matter of time before the two boys were processed into a labor group and until then they had been instructed to follow the rules. Failure to do so would lead to punishment. Problem was, no one had told them what the rules were.
“It’s not the grass I’m looking for,” Brandon clarified. “It’s patches of violets. As long as the leaves are heart-shaped they’re fine to eat.” He plucked one up and ate the petals and greens. “They may not taste great, but they’ll keep you alive.”
Gregory squished up his face, the cuts on his cheeks still visible from the train attack. “Just as long as we don’t need to eat any more worms. I almost gagged the last time.”
The painful grumble in Brandon’s stomach came again and not even the foul odor from the camp’s thousands of prisoners could divert his hunt for food.
“Eating violets and worms isn’t my idea of fine dining either,” Brandon snapped. “Don’t you think I’d rather be having a nice cheeseburger and chocolate shake?”
Gregory snapped his eyes shut and licked his lips. “With French fries and ketchup and a chocolate sundae.”
“Okay, you gotta stop or I’m gonna go crazy.”
A frown formed on Gregory’s face as he slowly phased back to reality.
From around one of the long wooden barracks Dixon appeared and waved them over. It looked like he was carrying something under his shirt.
Stuffing a handful of violets into his pocket, Brandon headed over with Gregory.
When they arrived, they saw Dixon had a black eye and a fresh cut on his forehead.
“What happened to you?” Brandon asked.
“A guard caught me leafing through the garbage pit over by the cooking shed.”
Brandon winced. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”
“It’ll take more than one of those North Korean goons to finish me off, let me tell you.”
That had been the first of many surprises after entering the camp. The guards weren’t Chinese as they’d expected, but North Korean. Seemed after years of throwing their own people into camps, they’d developed something of an expertise in the matter. What didn’t surprise anyone, however, was how cruel and heartless they could be. Every day dozens of American prisoners died from disease, starvation or execution. A disturbing rumor was floating around the camp that Commandant Jang Yong-ho, the short, brutish man who ran the prison, let his German Shepherd feast on dead human bodies. Brandon didn’t want to believe a word of it. Anything that ghoulish must be a story made up to frighten the newcomers.
But even in a hellhole like this where the oppressed should unite in misery, some prisoners chose to exploit the little power they could muster. Most of the time it would take the form of bullying others for scraps of food or clothing, maybe even the boots off a dead relative’s feet. In other cases it was worse.
Dixon reached under his shirt and handed each of them a bruised apple. Gregory’s had a worm in it.
“Hide it for later,” Dixon told them, then turned to Gregory. “And you better eat it all, little man. ’Cause you never know when you gonna get more.”
Gregory blinked hard and slid the apple into his pants.
Reaching into his pocket, Brandon removed about half of the violets and greens he’d collected and handed it to Dixon.
“What am I supposed to do with this? Make a hat?”
Brandon laughed. “You can if you want, but you’re probably better off eating it.”
“Some of my contacts have been asking for that mullin stuff.”
“You mean mullein,” Brandon corrected him.
“That’s what I said. Makes great TP.”
“I know, but there’s none growing inside the fence line.”
Dixon pretended to cough and shoved some of the flowers into his mouth, his face contorting from the bad taste. “Well, that might not be a problem for long,” he said after swallowing.
“You’re breaking outta here?” Gregory asked.
“Keep your voice down, son,” Dixon reprimanded him, scanning around to be sure there were no guards within earshot. “The plan’s in the initial stages, but I’m working on something.”
“They’ll shoot you,” Gregory said, seemingly in disbelief that Dixon was even contemplating a breakout.
“Not if you don’t give me away,” Dixon shot back. “Listen, don’t you find it a touch weird that all the men and women in camp are kept apart? And ain’t it even stranger that many of the women appear to be in the early stages of pregnancy?”
Brandon didn’t understand the implication, but if Dixon thought it strange, then it likely was.
“When the time comes will you take me with you?” Brandon asked.
Dixon slid some of the greens into his mouth, eyeing Brandon up and down. “I think this stuff is growing on me. You follow me and it could earn us both a death sentence, kid.”
Brandon scanned the rows of wooden barracks which housed the prison’s population. Even during the day, the smell of death was hard to miss. Anything would be better than staying here. “I don’t care. I’m in.”
“But what about me?” Gregory asked.
Dixon turned his glare in the kid’s direction. “What about you?”
“Don’t worry,” Brandon said. “We won’t leave you behind. Besides, your dad would kill me if I made it home without you.”
Chapter 46
Back in Oneida, John, Moss, General Brooks and several of his subordinates were in the conference room assessing the attack they’d only narrowly managed to repel.
“The chances are that was little more than a probing attack,” John told them flatly. “They know now we’re entrenched and have howitzers covering every approach. If I was them I’d send in some air power to soften us up and then move in where we least expect it.”
Captain Bishop was there as well and he cleared his throat before he spoke. “Given how close they came to reaching the town, they may not need a hat full of fancy moves the next time. Most of our men armed with AT-4s along the perimeter were largely ineffective against the reactive armor on those Type 99s.”
The room grew quiet.
“Then maybe we oughta take a page from the Chechens,” John offered.
“How’s that?” General Brooks asked.
John’s hands clenched the back of the chair before him. “The first months of the war in Chechnya saw the Russians lose ninety-eight percent of their heavy tanks and armor to rounds impacting areas not protected by reactive armor. The main areas of vulnerability were the rear of the turret and the engine in the back. Since the Chinese Type 99 main battle tank was largely inspired by the Russian T series, the same weaknesses will likely also be present. The Chechens knew of these weaknesses and developed hunter-killer teams armed with RPGs along with snipers and machine-gunners to protect the anti-tank gunner and suppress enemy infantry. The trick was to engage the armor from basements and upper floors where their main gun couldn’t traverse. It’ll also mean baiting the enemy armor by attacking them with our Abrams and Bradleys from the edge of town and then drawing them into predesignated kill zones.” John squeezed tighter, listening to the leather whine beneath his fingers. “First we’ll need every available AT-4 gunner reorganized into anti-tank teams spread throughout town.”