"Let Slip The Dogs of War'

A week later all the forces were drawn up for battle; Gleason and Bad Santa on one side, and Sam, the good people of Mohawk and Grant's forces on the other. Both groups had written their letters, sent their messengers and made their plans. The few hours each night Sam slept he found himself dreaming that he was once again a soldier, off in some hot, strange, foreign country doing his best to keep naive, inexperienced young men alive. Waking in a cold sweat in his bed on the Witch with Fiona at his side he wondered if this time he'd be more successful than the last.

"Sam," Fiona said in the pre-morning dark. "What have you decided? Do we take the fight to them or let them come to us?"

For both safety sake and to have a little privacy, Sam had tied the White Witch to a mooring buoy two hundred feet off the dock and used a little wooden dingy to row back and forth. In the early morning breeze the Witch swung gently on her bow line. "We'll do both, I think. Mostly defend because the majority of us haven't been trained to attack --- but I want to sting them a bit before they get here."

Fiona pulled on one of his flannel shirts and went to the galley to start some coffee. She spoke while rummaging around. "Ambush them on the way here? That should be easy enough on the road, but how do we do it on the water?"

"A few small, fast boats hidden behind an island in the main channel. Come out fast, hit them with automatic weapons then scatter."

She chuckle in the half-light. "When do we leave?!"

Despite himself Sam smiled. 'What a wonderment she is!' he thought to himself. 'As fearless as a bloody teenager!' He was still amazed that she was even attracted to him. At fifty-seven, he was well over twenty years older than her! 'Old enough to be her bloody father!' flashed through his mind --- and not for the first time --- nor probably the last!

For his part he wasn't sure what he felt for her. It wasn't really 'love', at least not completely, yet it was more than lust. And a good deal of 'need'aswell. 'Perhaps it's all three --- and something more.' She was beautiful and brave, bold, reckless and very outspoken. She cared not a fig what other people thought of her and lived her life in a whirlwind of emotion. In many ways she reminded him of his own rather wild, French-Canadian mother .

Back in the hippy-dippy days of the first ten years of his childhood, before they retuned to live in Mohawk, young Sam lived in the back of camper vans, tents and in various hippy communes all over Canada and the US. Sam's father finally went to work for his father at the boatyard and Sam also spent his high school years working there until he joined the Canadian Navy after graduation.

"Sam?" Fiona said, moving closer. "You okay?"

"Ya, sure,' he replied, banishing the past and accepting the steaming mug she offered him. "Just thinking things through."

She came and sat on his lap, causing him to nearly spill the coffee. "I've found that it sometimes works out better if you just go on and do things. Thinking about them too much causes doubts and fears to creepin. It's better to just dive right in."

He put the mug aside and pulled her closer. "I've noticed that about you."

"What?" she asked. "You don't like it?"

He nuzzled her neck and slid his hand under the flannel shirt. "Oh, I like it. I like it just fine."

***

The sun was nearing high noon when Bridget Termin, aka 'The Terminator', peered through the powerful scope of a large caliber rifle at the distant town of Mohawk. The bouncing of the large, powerful pleasure yacht that St. Nick laughingly called 'Rudolph' made the picture jump about as it cut through the clear water towards the small village still nearly two miles away.

"Small craft off the starboard bow!" the lookout upon the flying bridge called out.

Bridget swung her big scope to the right and the green leaves of a small but densely wooded island swam into view.

After moving around for several seconds a low, fast moving motorboat appeared in the lens. It was coming out from behind the island and turning towards them! Two, no three more boats just like it appeared in the powerful lens and then vanished as her boat dipped into a wave! Bridget swore and tried to focus on the lead one. It was coming fast, with three people in it --- a driver and two shooters! Brigit adjusted her glass again and the last, larger boat came into view.

"Shit!" she swore as she caught a glimpse of a big fifty cal mounted on the bow! She knew that shooting at a fast moving, bouncing boat from another fast moving, bouncing boat was basically a waist of valuable ammunition --- but of course she did it anyway --- cursing out loud after every thick, finger-long bullet went wide of its intended target.

***

Sam, Fiona, Abner Hays and Molly Tweed were in the fourth boat. Abner was at the wheel, Sam was up front on the 50. caliber gun and Fiona and Molly were in the middle, each with an automatic weapon across their lap and a bucket full of spare magazines beside them. All were wearing some sort of bullet proof vest.

Abner's wide grin vanished as one of Brigit's bullets punched a hole high in the port side of the boat and another lower down in the starboards side close to his knee as it left.

"For Christ sake, Sam! They're shooting at us!" he yelled.

Molly turned to him and shouted over the sound of the big motor. "What did you expect them to do, Abe? Toss you a beer?!" She then raised her own weapon and sprayed half a clip towards the fast approaching yacht.

Up front Sam smiled grimly and pulled back the slide on the heavy machinegun. A part of his mind flashed a picture of Rambo screaming wild-eyed as the he poured round after round into the enemy. Sam however contented himself with several well placed bursts from the fifty cal --- a few of which actually hit the oncoming yacht.

Like a flock of angry sparrows defending their nest against an intruding crow, the smaller boats with Sam darted in, out and around Bad Santa's large yacht. He too had his own flock of sparrows, but they were somewhat larger and packed with people, so therefore slower. Sam's little 'fleet' buzzed in, did its damage and then buzzed out, vanishing back behind the small island. Foolishly several of the enemy followed ---and were met with a line of other small boats and duck hunters waiting in ambush on the shore.

***

In pre-Covid times Fred Pearson had been an insurance salesman who enjoyed blacksmithing as a hobby. He had specialized in making knives and had even been on the popular reality-TV show 'Forged in Fire'. He hadn't the coveted 'champion' slot, but had come in a close second. Since the pandemic, with insurance policies gone the way of Smart Phones and the Internet, Fred had taken up blacksmithing full time, though now he made more horseshoes, door hinges and plough shares than knives. He was also Captain of the North Shore Militia, a collection of men and women from in and around Mohawk who now used their shotguns and deer rifles to guard the roads and bridges around their community.

Until now their biggest threat had been wandering bands of hungry people forced out of the bigger cities. These groups had been poorly armed and even more poorly organized and hadn't presented the militia with anything that a few well placed warning shots couldn't turn away. However when Sam had been forced to shoot Billy-Ray Gleason, as Alistair MacPherson so colourfully put it, 'the shite really hit the fan!'

Captain Fed Pearson looked around at the men and woman who made up the North Shore Militia and wondered how many of them would live through the coming fight.

He saw their various types of weapons, hunting clothes, tactical gear --- and the lack of it. He saw too lack of training as well, obvious in the nervous looks, the constant fidgeting and the clenched jaws.

Sam had asked them to set up an ambush at the Canadian side of the International Bridge. Old cars, trucks and cement barriers had been used to close down the bridge to one lane only for the last thousand yards. A large truck was waiting nearby to close it off completely when needed. A half dozen working walky-talkies had been scrounged up and three volunteers were watching from the top of the span for any sign of Gleason's convoy. Fred had them call in a radio check every fifteen minutes just to be sure they weren't over-run. He was looking up the empty one lane when his radio squawked --- and it had only been a few minutes since the last check-in.

"Pearson here. What's up?!"

"They're coming! They're just entering the bridge now!

"Take a breath. Dan. How many vehicles?

"A whole shitload!" Dan shouted back.

"Count them, for Christ sake!"Captain Pearson said firmly. "Tell me what kind!"

There was some brief shouting in the background, then the Dan was back. "One Hummer out front, then four big SUV's --- what looks like a troop truck in the rear!"

Pearson thumbed the radio and tried to keep his voice calm, inwardly afraid of what the answer might be. "Any sign of heavy weapons? Rocket launchers? Shit like that?!"

Another pause, then. "The Hummer has a big machine gun mounted on the top!"

Pearson's heart sunk --- then inspiration struck. In the few hours of tactical training Sam had give all the newly elected 'officers', he had stressed what he called the 'Wolf Pack Attack'.

'You fight in fire teams of two in fast moving groups of six. Don't fully engage, just hit them hard and fast, then retreat. Circle round them. Isolate them from the larger group. Cut them off. Then go in for the kill!'

Pearson wanted to try that with the Hummer. Dan said it was out front, so they could let it through then close off the lane! Isolate the 'big gun' and hit the Hummer from all sides. Maybe even turn the captured gun on those following?!

"So, what do we do, captain?!" a gruff, rather belligerent voice demanded. The speaker was Bill Flask, the loud mouth that had given Sam a hard time at the meeting in the church. Flask had put his name forward for 'captain', but had only received a couple of votes. "I still say that we should block the bridge completely and hold them back with heavy fire!"

Pearson shook his head. "Like I told you before, Bill, they'll likely outman us and outgun us, and we can't win an all out battle with just shotguns and deer rifles against automatic weapons. So we'll let the lead vehicle through, then close off the lane. That way we capture their heavy gun for ourselves."

"Sounds risky if you ask me," Flask rumbled.

Pearson managed a mirthless smile. "No-one's asking you, Bill. Now, either join in or get the hell out of our way!"

Flushing red, Flask balled his fists, but Pearson stood his ground and after a brief nose-to-nose 'stare', Flask snorted, turned and stomped off.

"Alright!" Pearson ginned to the others around him. "We let the Hummer through, then block the lane. Squads one, two and three then open fire at the others coming towards us. Squads four and five stay with me while we take the Hummer. Ready? Good. Let's move!"

***

Once the lead vehicle was isolated, four deer-hunters from the 'Sniper Squad' took out both the driver and the man on the big gun. A volley of four shots and four hits and it was almost over. The heavy vehicle rolled to a stop and when the two men in the back raised their weapons to fire they we killed instantly by a lengthy barrage from squads One, Two and Three.

"Alright, men! Well done!" Pearson shouted. "Sergeant Green! Take three men and see if you can turn the Hummer around and get that big gun working! The rest of us, let's join the others on the bridge!"

Over a dozen men and women went to help their fellow brother's in arms defend the bridge. After several minutes of continual heavy fire, the two of the four SUV's and the large truck backed up the bridge as fast as they could, turned and sped away. The North Shore Militia had won the day!

***