Forty-Seven Minutes

By a novella by Jon D. Marsh

Just like Ed, we've all encountered them--the unusual over- or underexpectation surprises, the un-norms. A person or place or thing that isn't quite as advertised. They happen sometimes. From time to time. Usually spread out over time. Time. One time we might find a place that isn't the sleepy little backwater, East Tree-Stump town, where nothing happens. Another time we might meet a person who isn't the average nobody. There might be a love story hiding in a paperback thriller at one time, or we get fooled by an old man that appears to be just a tourist on vacation at another. An anemic grocery store clerk with seemingly no imagination that apparently doesn't like the particular shade of green on the traffic signal. A helpless waif ignorant of life's challenges and demands. A heavyset old southern sheriff with an attitude and a bad memory for names. Sometimes we don't see it coming. Sometimes we don't have time, enough time, before we get hit by another un-norm. Just because we see and hear something doesn't mean it's true. Bank robbers are bad; cops are good. Old veterans tell good stories but are harmless. Santa isn't real. Mothers know what is best for their sons. Everything moves slower in small agricultural southern towns. Intrigue would die of boredom in Amery, Georgia, where young people have no role models or encouragement. The town is stagnant and dying. Nothing ever happens here. It will probably whither up and blow away anytime now. Just anytime. So why then are spooks and spies and business tycoons and billionaires and thugs and assassins converging on this small Southwest Georgia-wide spot in a red clay road? What is going on with all the communications? What is about to happen? And why? And when?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889438359

Book preview

cover.jpg

Forty-Seven Minutes

a novella by Jon D. Marsh

ISBN 979-8-88943-834-2 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88943-835-9 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Jon D. Marsh

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Photo credit to Lissa Marsh

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

09:13

09:13

09:13

09:15

09:15

09:15

09:19

09:19

09:19

09:21

09:21

09:21

09:21

09:24

09:24

13:24 ZULU

09:24

09:28

09:28

09:28

09:29

09:29

09:29

09:34

13:34 ZULU

13:34 ZULU

09:34

09:34

09:35

09:35

16:37 LOCAL

09:37

09:37

09:39

09:39

09:39

09:41

09:41

13:41 ZULU

09:44

09:44

09:44

14:46 LOCAL

09:46

09:46

09:48

09:48

09:52

09:52

13:55 ZULU

09:55

09:55

09:55

09:59

09:59

EPILOGUE

About the Author

PROLOGUE

We often hear people jokingly claim that Military Intelligence is an oxymoron. To the ladies and gentlemen who make up that community, it is heard all too frequently. They even say so themselves, sometimes. Dark humor is often the only self-defense mechanism that works. Tedium and details, death and horror, disappointment and disillusionment and distrust—standard fare for most of them on a daily basis, 24/7. They put up with it so that we don't have to. Most of the time, when they are successful in saving us from something unthinkable, we don't hear about it. Sometimes these heroes don't even know why they are being told to do what they do. They simply trust that it is indeed necessary. It's just another day at the office.

Someone might, for example, be told to go to Southwest Georgia as though they were on vacation and to keep their eyes open and see what the story was. They might learn that most stories have more than one hero. They might learn just how far some of them would go for love.

09:13

THE BANK

HALT!

A second of silence.

THINK!

ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-EIGHT GRAINS. ARMOR PENETRATING. Steady, loud clear voice.

FORTY-FIVE CALIBER. THIRTEEN HUNDRED FEET PER SECOND, COMBAT VETERAN, ARMY RANGER. After another short pause.

I DON'T MISS!

The booming voice was nearly as loud as the two shots had been. It echoed into the hallways outward from the marble-walled lobby of the old building. It slammed harshly against the subdued generic music piped in through hidden speakers. The speech was quick, plain, and loud; but Danny didn't flinch. He didn't move; he didn't even breathe.

THINK! Again steady.

"This isn't your first firefight! I can tell by your boots and the way you're holding that weapon that you're a vet. They taught us to think. Where were you? The sandbox? You're too young for the Storm or the Shield…Enduring Freedom? Were you in Ganny? Talk to me, Son, enough people hurt already…"

THINK!

I know that's a Hellfire on your trigger, but the muzzle is pointed the wrong way, Son. You might get off four rounds before you get it turned all the way around to me, but you'll be dead before the fifth round even gets chambered. Think! One hundred fifty-eight grains!

Danny wondered how in the world he had gotten into this. They weren't his boots; they were his cousin Roy's. Danny was only nineteen. His daddy had taught him how to hold a gun like this one. The gas mask he was wearing hid his youth. They had put them on as they were walking into the bank to hide their faces and add to the confusion. That was only seconds ago, but it felt like a lifetime. It was a lifetime for the two men he had come in with. Now they lay in slowly growing red circles on the floor.

Ed knew he had to keep the boy's mind busy with numbers. He had learned that long ago. If this guy was thinking about numbers and trying to calculate the speed and effects and probabilities surrounding the mechanics of the firearms and ammunition, then he wouldn't have time to plan his next move effectively. Ed had to keep him off-center, mentally playing catch-up. He saw Danny's eyes flit quickly to the men on the floor, and then back to Edwin and his Colt.

Don't look at them, look at me…look at me! armor penetrating! He wanted to make sure the boy understood the situation perfectly. If he didn't, he was going to be dead in a few seconds. "I handload these myself. I know you're wearing Kevlar…probably body armor too. It won't do any good, Son, not a bit. One hundred fifty-eight grains…hyper-sonic…even if it doesn't penetrate…it will hit you so hard the shock will kill you. Think, boy! This deal has gone sideways on you! Your pals are ready for toe tags! The cops have probably had a hundred calls by now. Everybody in town heard this old Colt bark. Breathe easy and think, now. Don't take a big breath…you take a big breath. You're gonna make me think you've made a decision to do something. You remember? That's what they taught us…that when the enemy is trapped and he suddenly takes a deep breath…it's usually because he has decided to make his play…and he believes he can succeed if he's fast enough…and he never is. Don't make me think you're about to make your play, Son. I will shoot you…Army ranger…I do not miss. He watched the boy's hands. If he did decide to move on Ed, his hands would tighten just a fraction of a second before anything else moved. The other people in the bank were starting to recover from their initial shock of the robbery gone awry. Ed sensed movement among the others but wouldn't take his eyes off the sole remaining robber. A woman started to cry, a man was muttering to himself, a teller was frantically pushing buttons on his cell phone (presumably 911), and Edwin feared the commotion would cause the would-be-bandit to panic. He yelled, Everybody, shut up and don't move!" Sudden stillness again.

A man hollered at Ed, Shoot the son-a-bitch, and someone else agreed.

I said shut up! Everyone! Shut up and stay still! His eyes, still on the boy. Nobody else needs to get hurt here today, Son. Just slowly slide your finger away from that trigger a bit. Those Hellfires are not always real stable, and we don't need any accidental discharge now, do we?

But his finger didn't move off the attachment fitted to the trigger of the weapon. The little piece of bent steel and a spring would turn the carbine into a near-full-automatic assault rifle. The Russian semiauto was scary and deadly enough without the Hellfire adapter on it. The boy didn't look like he was about to panic…or surrender.

"Yeah, this thing's goin' south, all right, but I still got a job to do, Gramps. Don't make me hurt anyone. I might not get you…but when this thing starts sprayin'…well, there could be a lotta folks get hurt." He looked at Ed for the first time.

Just who are you anyway? And why you carryin' that antique cannon? You think you're Wyatt Earp or sumpin?

Ed was standing about twenty feet from the third robber, with his side toward him, offering the smallest profile he could—both hands controlling his weapon, right hand firmly gripping the plow-handle grip, and left-hand palm up to support the right. The hammer was back all the way on the old single-action revolver. He was wearing a light-yellow polo shirt tucked into blue jeans. A stonewashed Wrangler denim jacket and well-worn but nicely shined Tony Lama cowboy boots. A brass belt buckle—the type that Union soldiers of the War between the States had worn held up the jeans on his six-foot frame. His white Justin straw cowboy hat had considerable experience, and the brim was bent down just enough in the front to lend a sense of danger to the man. His holster was plain black leather, with satin silver conchos and a dozen cartridge loops on the belt. Shiny silver cartridges filled all twelve of the leather loops.

Dan kept his hands and eyes steady. He was wondering what the old guy would do if he knew there wasn't any ammunition in the assault weapon they had given him. He was wondering why Roscoe had insisted he is in on this anyway. It didn't make any sense at all, but nothing had made a lot of sense for quite a while, now. Danny wondered if he would have time to explain about Lucy if he just surrendered right now. Would the old guy just shoot him like he had shot the other two? For the first time, Danny realized he didn't even know their names. Roscoe had told him, It's better that way. He hadn't explained any further. Danny thought he should keep everybody guessing for a while, let 'em think the SKS was loaded. It was frightfully wicked looking. Folded lightweight paratrooper stock, laser site attachment, and sound suppressor, extended magazine. Danny was surprised when the tall guy handed it to him. The guy laughed at him and told him it wasn't loaded. Called him a punk. Now the tall guy was dead. Danny was scared but didn't dare show it. Learned that from his daddy too. Don't ever let 'em see you're scared, he had told him. Danny thought, I won't, Daddy!

My name is Major Edwin P. Thomas, U.S. Army, retired. What's your name, trooper? There hadn't seemed to be any nervousness in the young man's voice. There was no disdain. No confusion. Just a little curiosity. Ed didn't like that. The boy was too smooth like he was used to tense situations—a professional. If he was scared, he wasn't showing it. He was right, too, that SKS could hurt a lot of people even after the boy was falling dead to the floor. Even after a round from his revolver had drilled a near half-inch diameter hole through his head. Even with a dead hand holding the ugly carbine, there could be thirty-caliber bullets ricocheting off the stone walls and floor for several seconds. Ed thought about shooting the Russian-designed assault rifle in its action, to disable it. He was pretty sure he could do it, but he hesitated. He didn't know why. This boy didn't seem as evil as the other two had, for some reason. Ed had walked into the bank lobby only seconds behind the three men. He had barely noticed them as they were all three messing with their hats or combing their hair or scratching their heads or something as the lighting shifted from bright summer morning sunshine to the more subdued ambient lighting inside the bank building. He was in the lobby before he realized they had put gas masks on and had demanded everyone to lie on the floor, one of them knocking the lone bank guard out cold with the butt of his rifle. Two of them noticed Ed behind them a half second later and turned toward him, looking like deadly threats as had many of the enemies he had faced in horrible little nameless