Plymouth. The officer told the man to round up as many troopers as he could to help get the wounded civilians ready for evacuation.
Hunter and the officer then pitched in loading the more seriously wounded civilians onto stretchers. Within ten minutes, the medi-vac chopper-actually a large, CH-47 Chinook-had set down on the beach. The loading of the wounded began immediately.
A UA Army officer emerged from the chopper and
96
quickly sought out the militia commander. Hunter had just finished helping load a burn victim onto the Chinook when he joined the two men.
"This is not an isolated attack," the officer was telling the militia commander. "You've got to get your men organized and set up a perimeter around the village, or what's left of it."
Hunter quickly introduced himself. "Are you saying there was another attack like this somewhere?" he asked the man.
The UA officer removed his helmet and wiped his forehead of grime and perspiration.
"There's been as many as twenty-five attacks," he said grimly. "All along this edge of the Cape. Provincetown. Truro. Wellfleet. North Eastham. All hit, some of them worse than this, if you can believe it. We've also got calls that Chatham and Harwich to the south got it, too. It's a full-scale assault.
They're pulling hit-and-runs on the bigger towns. But there are a lot of reports of these people-whoever the hell they are-roaming the countryside, killing, raping, looting. And they seem to be moving to the south. That's why you've got to get a defense organized here."
But Hunter did not hear the man's last sentence.
He was too busy running. Through the smoldering village, past the bodies, up and over the bridge, and to his Corvette.
All the while his insides were turning inside out. He had made a terrible assumption-that the attack on Nauset Harbor had been a single, isolated action. Now that he knew it hadn't been, visions of his worst fears were flashing before his eyes.
Within seconds of reaching his car, he was screaming back down the turnpike, roaring at full speed back toward his farm on Nauset Heights.
*
97
Randy Montserrat was dying.
Blood was flowing so freely from the cuts on his wrists and ankles that it had soaked the pile of leaves and pine needles below his feet.
It took much effort for him to raise his head and look over at his wife, Tanya, who was tied to a pine tree about ten feet away from him. The small pool of blood around her feet was also growing. Tears welled up in his eyes as he saw that she was no longer moving.
He let out a muffled scream and once again tried in vain to snap the ropes that were holding him to his tree. But it was no use: the armed men who had so barbari-cally beat and slashed him and Tanya had lashed them to the trees with binds too strong to break. Now Randy, robust for his age of sixty-two, felt the last of his strength leaving him.
He was sure his spirit and soul would soon follow.
Death would bring one respite: He would not have to endure the memory of the nightmare he and Tanya had suffered in the past two hours. The men had come to their isolated beach cottage just as the sun was setting. Without warning they burst in on him, beat both of them, and then proceeded to ransack the house.
After finding little of value-both Randy and Tanya were artists and thus had very little in the way of material goods-the men dragged them out of the house and torched it. Then they marched them up into these woods and tied them to the trees, slashing their wrists and ankles as their final dastardly act.
The men left soon afterward, laughing and growling, almost like they'd become intoxicated by their acts. Through it all, only one of the men spoke. He was a huge bear of a man who was wearing a long black cape in addition to his black uniform.
He had barked to Randy and Tanya in a thick un-American accent that, instead of being killed right away, they were being left to bleed to death in the woods. The
98
reason was the men wanted to
Hunter and the officer then pitched in loading the more seriously wounded civilians onto stretchers. Within ten minutes, the medi-vac chopper-actually a large, CH-47 Chinook-had set down on the beach. The loading of the wounded began immediately.
A UA Army officer emerged from the chopper and
96
quickly sought out the militia commander. Hunter had just finished helping load a burn victim onto the Chinook when he joined the two men.
"This is not an isolated attack," the officer was telling the militia commander. "You've got to get your men organized and set up a perimeter around the village, or what's left of it."
Hunter quickly introduced himself. "Are you saying there was another attack like this somewhere?" he asked the man.
The UA officer removed his helmet and wiped his forehead of grime and perspiration.
"There's been as many as twenty-five attacks," he said grimly. "All along this edge of the Cape. Provincetown. Truro. Wellfleet. North Eastham. All hit, some of them worse than this, if you can believe it. We've also got calls that Chatham and Harwich to the south got it, too. It's a full-scale assault.
They're pulling hit-and-runs on the bigger towns. But there are a lot of reports of these people-whoever the hell they are-roaming the countryside, killing, raping, looting. And they seem to be moving to the south. That's why you've got to get a defense organized here."
But Hunter did not hear the man's last sentence.
He was too busy running. Through the smoldering village, past the bodies, up and over the bridge, and to his Corvette.
All the while his insides were turning inside out. He had made a terrible assumption-that the attack on Nauset Harbor had been a single, isolated action. Now that he knew it hadn't been, visions of his worst fears were flashing before his eyes.
Within seconds of reaching his car, he was screaming back down the turnpike, roaring at full speed back toward his farm on Nauset Heights.
*
97
Randy Montserrat was dying.
Blood was flowing so freely from the cuts on his wrists and ankles that it had soaked the pile of leaves and pine needles below his feet.
It took much effort for him to raise his head and look over at his wife, Tanya, who was tied to a pine tree about ten feet away from him. The small pool of blood around her feet was also growing. Tears welled up in his eyes as he saw that she was no longer moving.
He let out a muffled scream and once again tried in vain to snap the ropes that were holding him to his tree. But it was no use: the armed men who had so barbari-cally beat and slashed him and Tanya had lashed them to the trees with binds too strong to break. Now Randy, robust for his age of sixty-two, felt the last of his strength leaving him.
He was sure his spirit and soul would soon follow.
Death would bring one respite: He would not have to endure the memory of the nightmare he and Tanya had suffered in the past two hours. The men had come to their isolated beach cottage just as the sun was setting. Without warning they burst in on him, beat both of them, and then proceeded to ransack the house.
After finding little of value-both Randy and Tanya were artists and thus had very little in the way of material goods-the men dragged them out of the house and torched it. Then they marched them up into these woods and tied them to the trees, slashing their wrists and ankles as their final dastardly act.
The men left soon afterward, laughing and growling, almost like they'd become intoxicated by their acts. Through it all, only one of the men spoke. He was a huge bear of a man who was wearing a long black cape in addition to his black uniform.
He had barked to Randy and Tanya in a thick un-American accent that, instead of being killed right away, they were being left to bleed to death in the woods. The
98
reason was the men wanted to
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