The Empire Page 22

  “Well, the good news is that one will be on the way here soon,” Kyle said dryly. “The bad news is that five thousand troops will be coming with it.”

  “How long do you think we have?” asked Annika.

  “To deploy a dozen regiments from Fort Yates and kill us all? Three days.”

  Annika saw an epiphany flash across Kyle’s face.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Our battle plan just changed,” Kyle replied.

  Standing Rock Reservation

  South Dakota

  September 25, 1890

  12:00 hours

  Timeline 003

  Kyle and Annika triaged the wounded men, then loaded the dead and wounded into two wagons. The dead were stacked like corkwood in one wagon. Improvising, they nailed a platform of flat boards to the rear benches of the second wagon, creating a mezzanine to enable more wounded to fit without laying them on top of each other. The grizzly work was exhausting. None of the thousands of Lakota tribespeople in the village offered to help. They watched with scorn as Kyle and Annika tended to their fellow white soldiers. Some spat at the ground as the pair gently loaded the wounded into their transport.

  Before riding out, Kyle looked for Padma to let her know that he was leaving to return the fallen soldiers to their comrades. He found her alone on the bank of the Grand River, smoking a cigarette in the same spot they had sat the night before. Kyle sat beside her. Padma exhaled smoke into the fall breeze.

  “This is my last cigarette,” Padma said.

  “You quitting?” asked Kyle hopefully.

  “No, goddammit, I’m out of cigarettes,” she said.

  “I brought you some tobacco and rolling papers from Deadwood. Pretty gnarly, but better than nothing.”

  “I guess it’s come to that,” Padma said. “I’m a frontier messiah.”

  They sat silently, watching the river slowly pass.

  “Kyle, there’s something I need to tell you,” Padma said.

  “What’s wrong?” Kyle asked, knowing well that good news never followed “there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Padma paused, preparing herself. She took another draw on her cigarette.

  “I still see that man’s blood on my hands,” she said. “The one who tried to rape me. I see it.”

  Padma held her palms in front of her face. Smoke wafted from her last American Spirit cigarette, pinched between two fingers on her right hand. Sunlight glinted off the diamond ring on her left hand.

  “I can see it right now…his blood…dripping off my hands,” she said.

  Kyle wrapped his arm around Padma’s shoulders. She did not respond to his comforting touch.

  “I understand, love,” said Kyle.

  “I don’t think that you do,” said Padma coldly, pulling away.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that, now that I’ve killed, I want to kill again,” she said. “I mean that I want more blood on my hands. I mean that I like killing.

  “I want to kill them all.”

  Padma extinguished her last cigarette on the riverbank and got up.

  “If you manage to make it back alive this time, I think you should move out of the tent,” she said coldly. “You can stay in the tipi until this is over.”

  She turned and walked away.

  Fort Yates, ND

  September 25, 1890

  20:30 hours

  Timeline 003

  Kyle and Annika drove their two makeshift ambulance wagons across the prairie in the dark. More than two dozen wounded soldiers lay in the double-decker bed of Kyle’s wagon. Annika’s wagon contained the flag-draped remains of an additional 40 soldiers.

  They drove their wagons east across a land bridge that connected mainland North Dakota to the demi-island in the Missouri River where Fort Yates stood. They could see lantern lights burning in the windows of the Fort Yates buildings. Fort Yates lacked the fortress walls of a traditional nineteenth-century fort. It was a collection of one-story buildings with barracks, offices, and armories.

  In recent weeks, thousands of tents had been pitched on the grounds of the fort to house a massive influx of soldiers. The largest army since the Civil War had been mustered at the fort to end the Indian problem once and for all.

  Pegasus was ponied behind Kyle’s wagon. Hoover walked alongside.

  Groans rose from the bed of Kyle’s wagon as a wheel hit a gopher hole.

  Kyle and Annika drew closer to the fort. They approached a small building that appeared to be a guardhouse. Two soldiers stood outside.

  “Halt! Who goes there?” shouted a guard.

  Kyle raised a makeshift white flag made from a sheet tied to a cottonwood pole.

  “My name is Kyle Mason. My colleague and I are returning dead and wounded soldiers from Standing Rock Reservation,” shouted Kyle. “The wounded require medical attention.”

  Kyle and Annika could see the two guards talking to each other. One mounted a horse tied at the guardhouse and galloped to another building.

  “You will stay where you are,” shouted the guard.

  Kyle and Annika looked at each other.

  Minutes later, Kyle saw torches bouncing in the darkness—riders were approaching. Kyle and Annika made out five soldiers on horseback. They cantered their horses to within 30 feet of Kyle and halted—a captain, a lieutenant, and three privates. They rode bay quarter horses with black leather tack. Five brass hearts gleamed from the Y-junctions of the horses’ breast collars.

  The captain, in his thirties with brown hair and a well-manicured mustache, wore an officer’s cavalry hat with a brass crossed-sword insignia and gold cord, capped with traditional ornamental acorns. Captain’s boards rode the shoulders of his navy uniform. In one gauntleted hand, he held his horse’s reins, in the other, a fiery torch.

  They stared at each other—Kyle waited for the captain to speak first.

  “I am Captain Montgomery,” he said in a confident voice. “State your business.”

  “My name is Kyle Mason. We are bringing wounded and fallen soldiers to you,” Kyle said. “The wounded are in need of medical attention.”

  “I thank you for returning our comrades to us,” said the captain. “Our general wishes to speak with you. You will accompany us.”

  The request surprised Kyle. He had expected one of two outcomes—either a hasty retreat after returning the men or a swift hanging.

  “A minute, please,” said Kyle.

  He pulled the brake on his wagon, jumped out and walked to Annika’s wagon. The soldiers eyed him closely.

  “What?” asked Annika

  “You should wait here,” Kyle said.

  “Why?”

  “It isn’t safe.”

  “Holy shit!” Annika exclaimed. “You’re kidding! It’s not safe to return a company of soldiers that we shot and killed back to the army where they came from? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  The image of Padma, naked on the riverbank with the dying scout, replayed in Kyle’s mind.

  “I mean, it isn’t safe for you,” he said.

  In the torchlight, Annika could see the worry on Kyle’s face. She refereed conflicting feelings—the insult of Kyle’s sexism against the warmth of his genuine concern for her.

  She leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Look,” she said. “Does it make you feel any better to hear that if we get into trouble, I won’t let them take me alive?”

  “Whew!” Kyle said. “That’s a relief. The thought of you dead makes me feel so much better.”

  Annika flashed a smile. “C’mon—let’s go.”

  Kyle climbed back aboard his wagon and released the brake.

  “After you
, Captain,” he said.

  The soldiers turned their horses toward a row of buildings in the distance. The torchlight illuminated hundreds of rows of tents they passed along the way. Dozens, then hundreds of soldiers climbed out of their tents to watch the procession. Many carried lanterns. Some carried torches. By the time they reached the long, narrow, single-story wooden building, Kyle and Annika gazed upon a sea of nearly 1,000 flickering lights mobbed around the wagons. Grumbling sounds ascended from the light brigade.

  “The only good Indians I ever saw were dead!” shouted one of the men.

  A roar erupted from the mob. Kyle and Annika pulled their wagons to a halt.

  The captain shouted, “You men, stand at attention! Doctors! Attend to the wounded.” He turned to Kyle and Annika. “You two get out of the wagons.”

  Kyle and Annika climbed out and stood next to each other between the wagons.

  “Still think this was a good idea?” asked Annika.

  Kyle shook his head. “Not so much, no.”

  An alternating series of doors and single windows ran the length of the long, narrow building in front of them. To Kyle, it appeared to be an administrative building. The door directly in front of them opened, and a large man stepped out. A young African American man followed the general out the door, carrying an oil lantern. The general’s valet wore a private’s uniform.

  “General Nelson Miles,” Kyle said.

  “I think I must have slept through the General Nelson Miles chapter in history class at West Point,” replied Annika.

  “Civil War hero,” Kyle said. “He went from lieutenant to brigadier general in only six years, and eventually became commanding general of the United States Army. He won the Medal of Honor for gallantry at the Battle of Chancellorsville. He was shot twice in that battle—in the neck and chest.”

  The cavalrymen dismounted their horses and tied them to a hitching post in front of the building.

  Captain Montgomery saluted the general. The general returned his salute. The captain turned to Annika.

  “Madam, what is your name?” he asked.

  “Annika Wise,” she replied.

  “General Miles,” announced Captain Montgomery, “I present Mr. Kyle Mason and Miss Annika Wise.”

  “Mr. Mason, Madam, you will disarm,” the captain ordered.

  A soldier approached Annika from behind and reached for her MP7, holstered to her thigh. She grabbed the soldier’s hand and spun to face him, twisting his hand and arm in the process. The soldier suddenly found himself facing the palm of his hand. Annika pressed on the back of his hand. The simple action crashed him to his knees. Another soldier approached, pulling his Colt revolver. While still holding the first soldier’s wrist, Annika snatched the second soldier’s revolver and smacked him on his temple with the butt of the gun, knocking him unconscious. Annika snapped the kneeling soldier’s wrist as a third soldier, standing next to Kyle, stepped toward her. Kyle doubled him over with a roundhouse kick, then leapt in the air, smacking him on the back of the head with a scissor kick. Kyle cracked another soldier’s nose with his elbow.

  Hoover growled and gnashed his teeth at an approaching soldier who cocked his leg to kick the dog. Kyle pulled his knife and hurled it. The blade plunged into the earth an inch in front of the soldier’s boot. Kyle pulled his MP7 and snapped its laser sight on the soldier’s chest.

  “Don’t hurt my dog,” Kyle advised.

  Annika pulled her MP7 and flicked on her laser sight, standing back to back with Kyle. The targeted soldiers moved their hands over the strange, brilliant red pinpoint light on their chests.

  Dozens of soldiers raised their rifles and revolvers to fire.

  “You are at a disadvantage, sir,” boomed General Miles. “We will have your weapons, one way or another.”

  “Maybe so,” replied Kyle. “Though your army will be a few hundred soldiers lighter by the time you do.”

  The general eyed the strange weapons Kyle and Annika were holding. The sole survivor of the 6th Regiment’s B Company had told him of bizarre weapons, compact but far more lethal than a Gatling gun, cutting down dozens of soldiers in mere seconds. These appeared to be the weapons the soldier described.

  “Stand down,” ordered the general. The soldiers lowered their weapons.

  The general gestured for Kyle and Annika to enter his office. They cautiously holstered their submachine guns as they climbed the short steps to the porch and entered the office.

  The office was some 30 by 30 feet. A large wooden desk with a blotter, telegrams, and other documents sat at the far end of the room. An oil lamp sat on the desk, casting yellow light. A journal was open on the blotter, with handwritten notes in blue ink. A Waterman fountain pen bridged the open book.

  A small round table with four chairs sat on a hooked rug with a depiction of a bald eagle against a blue sky. A garland of olive branches surrounded the eagle along the perimeter of the rug.

  The general gestured toward the table. “Please, sit.”

  “I prefer to stand,” Annika said, keeping an eye on the door.

  The general stood, uncomfortable.

  Annika realized that decorum would not allow the general to sit while a woman was standing in his presence.

  “General, please sit,” she said. “I’ve been riding all day and I would prefer to stand for a while.”

  “Very well,” the general said, taking a seat. Kyle sat as well.

  The general’s valet entered the office carrying a tray with a whiskey bottle and three glasses. The valet stood at the general’s side.

  “May I offer you a drink?” asked the general.

  “Very kind. Thank you,” replied Kyle.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Annika.

  The valet poured the three shot glasses, placed the bottle on the sideboard, and exited the office. The three downed their drinks. Kyle waited for the general to speak.

  “Mr. Mason, I am hearing the strangest stories from Sitting Bull’s camp,” began the general. “I hear stories of a messiah appearing out of thin air at a Ghost Dance. I hear the apparition is an Indian woman, and that she was accompanied by a white man—you?”

  Kyle was silent.

  The general continued, “The Indian agent, Mr. Royer, says the woman is bulletproof. Says he fired his Henry rifle straight into her heart at point-blank range and she survived. His nephew corroborated the account.

  “And now, I hear that a company of my mounted cavalry was slaughtered by another woman that fits the description of Miss Wise, with a weapon that sounds very much like the ones you both are carrying.

  “What I want to know, Mr. Mason, Miss Wise, is who you are, and what are you doing on the reservation?” asked the general.

  “That will be difficult to explain,” replied Kyle.

  “It will be necessary for you to try, Mr. Mason.”

  Kyle considered the general’s request for a moment. “OK, why not?” said Kyle. “I’m a colonel in the United States Army. So is ‘Miss’ Wise.”

  Annika rolled her eyes.

  “We’re from the future—the year 2008, to be precise. These weapons are MP7A1 submachine guns. They fire 950 rounds per minute—enough to kill you and all your men in under five minutes…”

  …Assuming we’re in close range, we have at least 5,000 rounds of ammunition, and no one kills us while we’re reloading, Kyle thought.

  General Miles struggled to parse which part of Kyle’s explanation was the most bizarre—that he and Annika were from the future, that their compact sidearms were more powerful than Gatling guns, or that a woman could be an officer in the Army.

  “Mr. Mason, you will find that I have little patience for insolence...”

  “And I have no patience at all,” interrupted Annika.

  Sh
e snapped up her MP7 and fired at the wooden sideboard, shredding it to splinters in seconds.

  “Good God!” exclaimed the general.

  “Subtle, as always,” Kyle critiqued Annika.

  “The general needed help suspending his disbelief,” replied Annika.

  Three soldiers burst through the office door with their Colt pistols drawn. Kyle and Annika trained the brilliant red laser sights of their MP7s on the chests of two of the soldiers.

  “Order your men to lower their weapons, General, or we will kill them all,” Kyle said.

  “Stand down,” the general ordered.

  “General?” asked the lieutenant who led the charge.

  “You heard me, Lieutenant!” said the general.

  “Sir, yes sir,” replied the lieutenant, saluting and exiting with the men.

  “Did the whiskey survive?” asked Annika. “I wouldn’t mind another round.”

  Kyle looked for the whiskey bottle on the floor. It had miraculously survived the sideboard’s obliteration. He picked it up and uncorked it. Annika extended her glass for him to pour.

  “General?” he asked, motioning the bottle toward his glass.

  “Please,” replied the general, attempting to regain his composure.

  Kyle noticed the general’s glass was shaking in his hand.

  “So it’s ‘Colonel,’ is it?” asked the general.

  “Yes sir,” replied Kyle.

  “I outrank you, soldier,” said the general.

  “Yes sir, though I’m afraid my wife outranks us both,” said Kyle.

  The general looked at Kyle, then burst out laughing. “As do all wives,” he said.

  Then the general looked at Annika with confusion. “Colonel Wise is your wife?”

  “No,” Kyle said, “my wife is the Indian woman Mr. Royer shot.”

  Kyle was comfortable with his politically correct use of “Indian” to describe Padma, as she was probably the only authentic Indian-American in the state of South Dakota.

  The general continued, “I cannot say that I believe your story, though I am, as yet, unable to explain your impressive parlor tricks. Assuming for the moment that I am willing to accept your explanation, will you tell me why you are here?”