TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

CHARLIE’S REQUIEM: RETRIBUTION

BOOK 4

A. AMERICAN AND WALT BROWNING

Charlie’s Requiem: Retribution

Copyright © 2017 by A. American and Walt Browning All rights reserved.

First Print Edition: December 2018

http://www.waltbrowning.com

waltbrowningauthor@gmail.com

http://www.angeryamerican.com

Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

CHARLIE’S FATHER’S HOUSE

MAITLAND, FLORIDA

“Cherish the friend who tells you a harsh truth, wanting ten times more to tell you a loving lie.”

— Robert Brault

“ARGH!” I SCREAMED AS MY jaw snapped back.

An open-palmed strike jammed my jaw joint into its socket, sending a jolt into my skull and stars exploding across clenched eyes. I staggered back, but my enemy was unrelenting. I barely had time to sidestep a second jab before I was slammed into the wall by a wicked blow to my stomach. A sharp, bony elbow crushed my solar plexus, doubling me over and down on one knee.

I looked up in time to see a knee rocketing toward my head at an impossible rate. I was finished, and we both knew it. Just as my face was about to be crushed, the knee flashed by, the compressed air of the strike reminding me of what would have happened if that bony joint had connected with my nose.

“Not bad!” Cyn said.

“Yeah,” I grunted. “I lasted almost ten seconds longer this time.”

We were sparring in my father’s garage. Four lawn chairs had been brought in from outside, along with some folding TV dinner tables. While Cynthia and I used the area to spar and improve my hand fighting skills, John and Mike used the space for isometric exercises. So far, I hadn’t come close to landing a significant strike on her, while she had been using me as a dart board, her joints and fists slicing through my defenses.

Cynthia Terrones, retired Marine and my new friend, just smiled and casually walked to a table, where a pile of towels were stacked. Watching her take a sip of water from her canteen and almost daintily dab some minor drops of sweat from her brow reminded me of how complicated our friendship had become. Ours was a love/hate relationship, though mostly love. I appreciated her confidence and her desire to mold me into a fighter. I respected her experience and her passion to do anything and everything the right way. But these training sessions were starting to wear thin, and I had almost a dozen significant bruises to prove I wasn’t quite ready for battle. That was the hate part. I despised that I didn’t live up to her standards, coupled with the side effects of the training I was putting myself through to try to meet her lofty criteria.

As I pulled myself up, I realized sparring with her was like trying to ride a wild bull. The bull was a heck of a lot bigger and stronger than me, and I was sure the bruises and deep muscle injuries that come from a bull ride couldn’t be as bad as the ones Cyn was inflicting.

“You’re doing well,” she commented as I mopped the sweat from my face and neck.

“Yeah, I’m a real first-class punching bag.”

“Maybe, but in the end, we are all subject to the laws of physics. You just have to use them to your advantage,” Cynthia remarked.

She sat down on one of the room’s chairs and stared at me. “You are still fighting yourself, you know. Close-quarter combat is about instincts and speed. You’re still trying to think instead of reacting and pressing the fight.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve been doing this for years,” I shot back, a bit miffed that she would berate me after just a few weeks of instruction. The only reply I received was a slight smile and a shake of her head.

My collegiate swimming career had developed some lean, quick muscles in me. I had taken karate as a teenager as well, but Cynthia was at a far different level. Muay Thai was foreign compared to the training I took. It was codified street fighting, and Cynthia was definitely a brawler.

“In battle, you don’t rise to the occasion, you sink to the level of your training. I know you’ve heard that a hundred times, but I’m going to keep saying it until you’ve let it sink into that thick skull of yours.”

She continued to assess me, but I refused to reply. I had quickly learned that no matter what I might say, she would come up with a pithy response that would reinforce my insecurities. It was tough love, and she was good at it.

Cynthia just stared at me, like a scientist assessing an unusual bug she had just discovered. “You’ve got the basics down, you just need to let your mind use them without hesitation. For instance,” she continued, “your stance and hand position are spot-on. Forearms facing out, elbows up, and feet spread apart properly. You recognize the strikes well and block them with balance and speed. But you just don’t have the counter punch timing down yet.”

I tried to ignore her, but her incessant droning about my deficiencies was irritating.

“I mean, you really punch like a girl,” she said casually while rising from the chair. “I don’t normally say things like that because I’ve trained with a lot of women that can stay up with the men. But you really are a lightweight.”

Her arrogance was really starting to get to me, and I could feel my face flush. Why was she being such an ass?

“Geez, don’t be mad. I’m just trying to help.”

Cynthia strolled to one of the tables and retrieved a towel. After casually wiping her hands, she continued her onslaught of my fighting skills. “But I do wonder,” she said, almost absently. “What may have happened if you had learned to be a fighter before the lights went off?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, how many people died because you couldn’t fight? I mean, good fighters have the right attitude, and if you’d been trained, who would still be alive now?”

“Take that back!” I hissed. “You weren’t there!”

Cynthia turned her head toward me, her narrowed eyes boring a hole into my own. “I didn’t need to be there. I know your type. You let things happen to you instead of making things happen for you.”

“How dare you!”

“How dare I?” she asked. “You are like ninety-eight percent of the people in this world. You float down the river of life, never trying to use a rudder to steer, nor paddle to move. You’re a victim of life’s whims.”

The air in the room stood still as she shook her head at me, as if in disgust or pity. I didn’t like that at all.

“You arrogant bitch!” I grunted. “You worked for DHS and lived in an air-conditioned apartment, helping the enemy, eating their food and doing their bidding. You didn’t live my life. You weren’t being hunted by gangs that wanted nothing more than to take you as a sex slave then kill you when they’d had enough.”

“No, I didn’t live your life, Charlie. You did. And it was your choices that had you and your friends cowering in your daddy’s house.”

“Screw you! Just shut up and leave me alone.” My vision was narrowing, and the air appeared to turn pink around her. She had finally done it. She’d stepped over the line, and I wasn’t going to take it anymore.

“No. I won’t leave you alone. It’s not like you could do anything about it, anyway.”

“Don’t go there, Cyn! Just don’t.”

“Or what?” she asked. “What is poor Charlie going to do about it?”

If looks could kill, she’d already be assuming room temperature.

“Oh! Poor Charlie. You’re feeling sad for yourself, aren’t you? Well, you know who I feel sad for?”

“I don’t give a crap,” I shot back.

“Of course, you don’t give a crap. Otherwise, you and the others wouldn’t be here right now. You’d have left this place.”

I turned away, my blood searing. I was losing control. I started to walk away, but then she said the one thing I couldn’t let pass.

“I feel sad for Garrett and Janice,” Cynthia sighed. “They looked to you as their leader, and now they’re dead.”

“Oh, hell no!” I yelled as I spun to face her.

She started to slowly walk toward me, her eyes boring into my own. “Yeah. I feel sad for them. If you hadn’t been such a coward, all of you would have moved on months ago, and they’d be alive right now.”

“No!” I heard myself hiss with rage.

“Oh yes,” she said as she moved even closer, taking one measured step at a time. “They would have been miles from here when that Claymore mine was planted. They would be alive today and not vaporized into tiny meat particles. They wouldn’t be smeared on the wall of that building they died in. All because Charlie wanted to stay in her daddy’s study, where it was safe and quiet. All because you didn’t want to leave.”

I stood stiffly, my body shuddering with wrath. “Stop,” I whispered. “Stop it now.”

Cynthia paused then took one more step. She stood within arm’s reach and stared blankly at me. Then her lips parted, and she spoke in a quiet voice. “But the one I really feel bad for…” She hesitated. “Is their baby…”

I leapt forward, my hands a blur of motion and elbows striking deadly blows. Cynthia deflected my initial rush, but I kept pressing. I punched out with my right fist, barely missing her jaw as she stepped back and to the side. But I bent my arm slightly, and the right cross became an elbow blow to her cheek. I felt the skin and bone bend under my strike, and I heard a gratifying yelp of pain as she tumbled back.

Cyn rolled into a crouch and sprang back at me while I continued to press forward. She misjudged my speed, and before she could gather herself, I clutched her hair and pulled it down to the ground as I dropped and rolled under her. She flipped over herself and slammed onto the floor, momentarily losing her breath.

I rolled into a standing position and reversed back toward her, but she recovered and was up and in a fighting position before I could close in on her. My left jab found her shoulder as she pivoted away from my strike. Then I felt a hammer glance off the back of my head as she continued her spin and brought her elbow around to strike my skull. But I had anticipated the move as I felt her body twist next to mine, and I instinctively kept spinning, so the strike couldn’t land squarely.

I recovered and shot my right elbow out in defense as she tried to punch me in the neck. The bones in my arm shuddered as the sharp point of my joint caught her right wrist. She howled with pain; I had likely struck a nerve.

I let my body follow the momentum of my strike and spun, only to find myself facing my smirking old friend.

“Stop!” she yelled, holding up her left hand while shaking the sting out of the right one. “It’s about time you learned how to fight!”

I hesitated, the rush of blood draining from my head and my eyesight clearing.

Cynthia slowly walked toward me, holding up her good hand. “My dear friend.” She smiled. “That’s how you fight.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve told you, how many times? It isn’t just technique. It’s attitude. You must get nasty. You’ve got to go for broke. You have to become aggressive and not hold back.”

She dropped her hand and shook her injured wrist. “I think you broke it!”

“You deserved it,” I muttered, unsure if she was joking or not.

“Maybe. But you fought like you meant it. That’s what I wanted.” She smiled. “You need to have violence of action. It must be instant and unrestrained. That’s why we’re training. The bruises you get now will prevent bleeding later.” She shook her hand again. “Damn it. You really caught the bone. I wish we had some ice.”

“Sorry, but you didn’t leave me much choice. That punch you threw would have broken my nose, or worse.”

“Yeah.” She grimaced. “It would have. Just keep moving and stay on your feet. You did all right except for going to the ground when you threw me down by my hair,” she replied as she rubbed her scalp. “You could have stayed on your feet and sidestepped.”

“And missed throwing you to the ground? I don’t think so.”

“I’ll give you that one.”

Cynthia gathered the items she’d brought with her and turned to leave.

“That wasn’t a nice way to motivate me,” I halfheartedly said. “You didn’t mean those things, did you?”

Cynthia stopped. She had a brief look of sadness before replying. “I don’t need to tell you the answer to that question, do I?” She turned and left me with my thoughts.

I went to the table and grabbed my towel, her words still haunting me. A note dropped from a clean shirt I had brought. I picked it up and read it.

You have to forgive yourself. It said in Cynthia’s handwriting. I paused and stared out the door where my friend had just gone.

We both knew the answer.

I folded the note and gently placed it in my pocket. I sat down on the floor and leaned back against a chair. Images of Janice and Garrett flashed in front of me. Janice and her smile when she told me about being pregnant then her look of fear when our situation struck home… Garrett’s beaming face as he hovered over her shoulder, his eyes alight with a hopeful future. Then they were gone, and the reality of Cynthia’s statement sank in. I could have saved them if I had not been complacent. It was fear that made me want to stay in my dad’s house. I had chosen to be comfortable, rather than risk leaving the city. I traded a temporary feeling of security for our freedom, and it was my fault they were dead. I dropped my head and began to weep.

The tears didn’t last long. It had been a few weeks since my friends had been killed by a DHS-planted mine. Since then, I had pretty much cried myself out.

Now it was several weeks later, and the group had just voted to leave the neighborhood. Deciding what our future held was a difficult conversation. Jorge and Maria wanted to get out of the city and join his family south of town. One of his brothers worked a large cattle ranch, and they knew there was food, shelter, family, and some measure of safety at this isolated location. I couldn’t blame them for not wanting to stay. They still had a future together and, like Garrett and Janice, children were in their plans.

But as far as John, Mike, and Cyn were concerned, it was time to fight back. We were going to put some hurt on our oppressors. After they lost John’s partner to a drone-launched bomb, and with John’s girlfriend, Natasha, still trapped downtown with Beth, all talk of escaping the city had been pushed aside. And for my part, Janice’s and Garrett’s deaths at the hands of a DHS booby trap sealed my future. We were staying, and we were going to get some payback.

After much discussion, Jorge and Maria decided to temporarily remain with us, but only after Cynthia offered to get more intelligence and supplies. When asked about the source of this promised bounty, she simply replied we weren’t the only people in the city resisting the government and that she had contacts not too far away. When pressed further, she shrugged and refused to discuss it.

“Hey, Charlie,” John said, poking his head into the garage. “Harley and Ashley are giving us a going-away dinner in about an hour. The shower’s yours as soon as Mike finishes.”

“Thanks, John. I’ll be ready.”

I was sad those two wouldn’t be joining us. John tried in vain to convince Harley to leave, but he and his wife were comfortable and had no desire to abandon their home. Besides, we were out for blood. Those two were just trying to survive. We all had different goals.

Truth be told, we had amassed enough food from our scavenger hunts to keep the two of them fed for a long time. And with Harley’s fishing skills, they could probably stretch it out for over a year.

But the gangs still roamed the adjoining neighborhoods, and DHS was obviously paying attention to this part of the city. There were many enemies out there, so being proactive was the best way to survive.

I grabbed my towel and retrieved my holstered Glock. I went to my dad’s study and picked up my recently hand washed, line-dried clothes then went to the backyard, where Mike was just finishing up. He was standing outside the curtain, wearing only his camo pants. He was at least four inches past six feet and didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat anywhere. His biceps were as thick as my thighs, and his legs would make a mature oak tree proud. He was a giant man with a grace of movement that belied his size.

“I filled the shower bucket for you, Charlie,” Big Mike said.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said appreciatively.

“Yeah. But I heard about the ass-whoopin’ you gave Cyn. Respect, Charlie.”

“Were you sneaking a look?” I asked.

“Naw. She told me and John,” Big Mike said, drying his neck with a bath towel. His massive hands made the large linen look like a dishtowel. “I’ve fought beside Cynthia; she’s good. I’ve seen her fight and seen her knife work. She scares me, Charlie. I’d just walk away if I saw her in an alley with a blade.”

I tilted my head, sure he was exaggerating. But the far-off look he had, and his serious demeanor, convinced me otherwise. “You’re afraid of her?”

“Well, I respect her. A lot!”

“You sure are concerned about my skills,” I said. “I mean, I’m happy you care and all, but what’s the big deal?”

He put his hand on my shoulder and looked down at me. “We need you, Charlie. No weak links. That’s why Cyn’s been so tough on you. That’s why we’ve been holing up here these last few weeks.”

“I thought it was to get intel on the gangs.”

“Yeah, that was part of it. But you needed to up your game if you were gonna join up with us,” Mike simply replied. “You’re now my squad mate. You, me, John, and Cyn. We’re brothers now. We rely on each other. If one of us is broken, we all die.”

Mike started to walk back into the house and turned around with a grin. “Helps that you put a dent in her chin. Ain’t never seen her taken down like that.” He smiled widely and left.

That was when it sank in that we’d be moving out—not with the goal of escaping the city but with the purpose of killing those who were hurting others. On the surface, it looked like a daunting task, and one that was impossible. Fighting DHS and the criminal gangs seemed like a suicide mission, and Maria had brought that up in our discussions.

I thought back to the day after Janice and Garrett had been killed. We were sitting at the kitchen table, and Jorge brought up the seemingly hopeless situation we were putting ourselves in by fighting DHS.

“How can you kill them all? You’re just four people with guns, and they have drones and tanks,” Jorge said.

“You do what you can,” Cynthia replied. “We can make a difference.”

“But there are too many of them,” Maria had complained.

“Do you know how to eat an elephant?” John asked rhetorically.

Maria shrugged her shoulders.

“One bite at a time.”

“We’re not going to win the war by ourselves,” Mike had added. “But we can make ’em pay for what they’ve done.”

“Retribution?” I asked.

“Yeah, retribution,” Big Mike replied.

“I like that. Retribution.”

Justice had to be served in the name of all those souls trapped in the regime’s camps. They were using the prisoners as forced labor and prostitutes, then discarding them like trash when they’d been used up. There would be retaliation for the victims of all the gangs and other criminals the government was using to control and eradicate those of us who remained outside of Homeland’s control. We would bring revenge for those who were lost through a lack of rescue effort by our country’s leaders. And finally, for Janice and Garrett, who died because I lived in fear, wanting safety over the prospect of confronting these evil people.

“‘Vengeance is Mine, and retribution. For the day of their calamity is near.’ Deuteronomy, chapter Thirty-two,” Mike said with reverence.

“That’s all I need to hear,” I quietly replied.

Now we were going to mete out punishment to all those who were perpetrating evil, and I had finally earned a place in a group that needed me as much as I needed them.

The shower never felt so good. As I rinsed the lather from my hair and face, the last vestiges of doubt and fear seemed to be washed away along with the sweat and dirt. I was ready, and just as importantly, my squad mates thought I was ready as well.

A few hours later, we all sat back holding our bellies. I was stuffed. John and Cyn both insisted that we eat until we were ready to throw up, forcing as many calories into our body as we could. We’d be carrying all our food in our backpacks, and we weren’t sure when we could resupply.

“I officially hate canned spaghetti!” Mike complained before belching so loud, we thought the gangs nearby would hear us.

It was nearly dusk, and the summer storms had passed through, leaving the air wet and humid. My green t-shirt was soaking up my sweat, even though the outside temperature had dropped over ten degrees due to the downpour. It was likely under eighty degrees, but the air was saturated. My perspiration had nowhere to go other than wicking into my clothing. Worse, we always had to eat inside to avoid making noise that might attract unwanted attention. No electricity meant no air movement, and the smell of so many bodies was beginning to wear thin. I’d actually be glad to have a new place to sleep, given the stale odors that now steeped the air both here and in my dad’s home.

“All right,” Cyn said, spreading a map on the now cleared dining room table. “We’re heading to College Park.” She pointed to a spot near the city’s municipal golf course. “I have a contact who lives across the street from Dubsdread’s seventh green.”

Dubsdread Golf Course was an eighteen-hole public course. Its layout meandered through a neighborhood that had grown around it during its 100-year history. Cyn pointed out an area sandwiched between the city golf course and Little Lake Fairview. Nestled against the northern-most holes, a cluster of homes sat next to heavily wooded acreage that abutted both the golf course to the south and the southern tip of Little Lake Fairview to the west.

“Nice spot,” I said. “Just how many fighters do they have there?”

Cynthia waved her hand over the neighborhood where her contact was holing up. “Almost every house is occupied in his immediate vicinity. Over fifty men and women are using the area as a base of operations to resist the government.”

“Fifty?” John asked. “How’ve they survived?”

“Their leader used to own a local gun shop that was on Edgewater Drive. They cleared the neighborhood and only strike at least a couple miles or more away from their base. So, with no activity in that part of the city, DHS is convinced this area has already been pacified.”

“You talking about the guy that owns Always Armed? The gun store right there at Fairbanks and Edgewater?” John asked.

“Yeah. You know A.J.?”

“Anthony Joseph Bianchi. Yeah, he’s an ex-cop. Bought a few things there. He also did some work on my handgun. Say, is his gunsmith with him? He did the tune-up on my Glock.”

Cynthia snickered. “Yeah. His name’s Kern. The two of them are like an old married couple; they’re friends, but he drives A.J. crazy. He’s running the armory for them and keeps the gear in good order. He’ll hook us up with whatever we’re short of.”

“Other than some ammo, what do we really need?” Big Mike asked.

“Let’s just see what they’ve got. Besides gear and weapons, he has information. He’s going to know what’s happening in the city and beyond. He’s got a good ham radio with wires strung all over the trees to his south. I’ll bet the bastard could talk to the moon with his setup.”

“What’s he going to want in return? Nothing’s free anymore,” I said suspiciously.

“Probably nothing,” Cyn replied, albeit with a bit of caution in her voice. “He’s been a great resource for me in the past, and he’s still coordinating the resistance between his contacts in DHS and other groups throughout Central Florida. My guess is that killing the enemy will be enough compensation. He’s got a definite hatred for what the government’s been doing.”

Cynthia looked up at Maria and continued. “When he hears your story about your time at the work camp at the fairgrounds, I’ll probably have to tie him down to keep him from ordering a full-frontal attack on the place.”

“What’s our move once we get there?” Jorge asked. “Maria and I are sort of going in the wrong direction. We need to get out of town, not deeper into it.”

“Again, he has up-to-date information.” Cyn continued. “His inside contact should be able to give us the DHS patrol schedule for the upcoming week, along with an estimate of gang strength and their areas of activity.”

“With that, we’ll be able to pick our way through the city and avoid most of the trouble spots,” Jorge replied with a grin.

“It’ll save you miles of travel. You won’t need to go around the city and deal with the gangs out in Zombieland. That is definitely an unknown quantity, and I couldn’t even begin to tell you how and where to safely travel,” Cyn said.

“We called the area outside the city Zombieland,” Mike added, seeing Jorge’s confused look. “Too many agents went there and didn’t make it back. I never wanted to get stuck on the protection details that covered the repair crews they sent out to fix the powerlines.”

“DHS got the electric plant southeast of the city up and running. But the lines are constantly being cut, and the transformers are an easy target for anyone with a bullet and a grudge,” John said.

“That must be just about everyone,” I added.

“You know, DHS has enough trouble without looking for problems where they don’t have any. They’ve got to keep the road from the airport to downtown clear while protecting their precious electric lines. And let’s not forget that they’ve got to keep the coal and natural gas flowing to the plant’s generators. They’re constantly having to guard the facility itself along with the truck and rail transports coming in from the docks at Port Canaveral. So, if an area is quiet, it’s not a concern. A.J.’s figured that out and makes sure they strike well away from their base,” Cyn said.

“Mordor’s eye is focused well beyond its own backyard. This is an opportunity for us to put some real hurt on them,” John said.

“You’ve established that A.J. and his crew are an asset. Then what?” I asked.

“Then” —Cynthia’s eyes took on a shine— “we do some misbehaving!”

A moment later, Ashley rushed into the room. “Someone’s outside! I heard them moving in the next yard.”

We scrambled, grabbing our rifles and moving to the back door. Ashley hovered behind us as we strained to listen for the intruder.

“Was there only one?” Cyn whispered.

“I don’t know,” Ashley fearfully said. “I just heard a stick snapping in the next yard.”

“Perimeter!” Cyn said, triggering John and Mike to move.

John rushed to the front of the house, peeking out of a front door window. Mike strode to the east side of the house, disappearing into the home’s hallway.

“Mike’s checking the east, I’m going to the west side,” Cyn said. “You stay here and get me if you see anything.”

I looked at her. “But—”

“Just do it. I’ll be back when I’m sure my side is clear.”

Cynthia sped to the garage side of the house, leaving me to stare at the backyard pool. Unlike many Florida homes, Harley and Ashley hadn’t enclosed their pool with a screen. With no large trees in the walled-in yard, I had an unobstructed view of the area. I brought my rifle up to eye-level and scanned the backyard. My red-dot sight was unmagnified, and the crystal-clear optics gave me a wide field of view as I scanned the grounds.

Ashley’s hand suddenly grasped my left shoulder. If I hadn’t had my shooting finger indexed above the trigger, I’d have accidently discharged a round, alerting everyone around that we were here.

“Over there!” she cried, pointing to the back-left corner of the yard.

I swung my rifle toward the spot she was pointing to, and a pair of hands appeared, grasping the top of the six-foot-high concrete wall.

I extended my right thumb, feeling for the safety lever of my battle rifle, and flipped the switch down. The safety was now off, and my AR was hot. I put my finger inside the trigger guard and caressed the blade. Now a four-pound press of the trigger was all I needed to send my 55-grain bullet into whoever was sneaking around out there.

“Go tell the others,” I commanded.

Harley sped to fetch Cynthia while I heard Ashley run to her front door, then into the bedroom. Within moments, Cyn was at my side with her M4 up on her shoulders, her suppressed weapon bearing down on the person who was starting to boost themselves over the wall. I heard her snap her safety off as well.

“I’ll take this,” she said calmly.

I continued to watch through my Aimpoint red-dot sight as the intruder began to roll onto the top of the concrete block barrier. As he kicked himself over and landed in the hedges below, I had a sudden recognition and grabbed Cynthia’s rifle by the barrel. Pushing it down, I said with a smile, “We know him! It’s Beker.”

Cyn dropped the front of the barrel but continued to hold her weapon at low ready. “The kid that saved your group? What’s he doing here?”

“I’ll tell you in a second.”

I began to go out onto the back patio when Cyn forcefully grabbed me by the arm and flung me back into the room.

“Hold!” she hissed. “We don’t know if he’s alone.”

I was about to protest when Mike and John returned.

“All clear on my side,” Mike said.

“Same here,” John added.

Then Harley spoke up. “Hey! It’s Beker! And I thought your boyfriend abandoned you. Guess he’s come back for some friends-with-benefits action.”

“HUMPH!” I heard as Ashley elbowed her husband in the solar plexus, taking a bit of wind out of him.

“Let’s see what he wants,” Cyn said. “You two, go back and keep an eye on your designated area. Harley, you go to the garage and come get me if you see anything at all. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his upper belly where Ashley had speared him.

“I’ll go too,” Ashley said meekly. “Sorry babe,” she whispered to her husband as the four of them went to their stations.

Cynthia pulled me further back into the darkened room, and we watched as Beker crept up to the side of the pool.

He stared at the open back door, frozen in place for what seemed an eternity. Finally, I had enough of the James Bond attitude and leaned out of the doorway.

Beker immediately recognized me and broke out into a big smile.

“Are you alone?” I quietly asked.

He gave me a thumbs up, and I nodded at Cynthia.

“Come on in,” I said, backing into the lightless room.

Beker quickly joined me but stopped suddenly as Cynthia’s silhouette appeared, her rifle pointing somewhere near the kid’s groin.

“You sure you’re alone?” she asked.

Beker staggered back into me, then grasped my side and buried himself into me.

“No! Please don’t hurt me,” he whimpered.

I shielded him from Cyn’s rifle and pointed at her. “Put it down! Now!”

Cynthia lowered her rifle, her eyes narrowed. “He’s marked. Look at his tats. What are you? AYM? AN? Or are you just a run-of-the-mill skinhead?”

“AYM? What’s that?” Beker cried. “What’s AN? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Aryan Youth Movement. If you’re not AYM, are you Aryan Nation? What’s your gang?”

“I… I don’t know,” he said. “Charlie, what’s she talking about? Who is she?”

Just then, the others joined us, and I reminded them about the way he’d saved our lives, voluntarily joining Taurus’s group and leading them away from us. I thought that would win them all over. But the three of them remained inexplicably stoic.

“All right,” Cynthia finally said. “We’re good.”

Mike was less enthusiastic. “Yeah. I’m okay too. But them tats don’t sit well with me. Seen too many of them on the trash I had to deal with in prison.”

“Where are your friends?” I asked.

“They’re not my friends!” Beker replied, his eyes cast down.

“Well, where are the rest of the gang?”

“They,” Beker said with some loathing. “They’re up at the convenience store. They stole a gas tanker from DHS and are filling up the underground tank.”

“Why don’t they leave it in the tanker? They can pump it out of there,” I said.

“DHS has drones. If they find the tanker, they’ll blow it up.”

John’s steely eyes glared at the kid. “We know about the drones.”

“Smart to drain the truck then get rid of it,” Cyn absently said.

“Charlie. A word please,” John said in a commanding voice.

“Sure.” I turned to Beker. “I’ll be right back.”

Beker grasped my sleeve as I tried to pull away.

“Don’t worry, Beker. We’re here,” Ashely said, reassuring the young man.

He let go of my dark-green t-shirt, and I followed John into an adjoining bedroom.

“What’s your problem?” I began before John turned and bent down into my face, pointing back into the living room.

“That kid’s a murderer!”

“We don’t know that. Just because he’s with that gang…”

“No. He murdered his mother!”

“What? How the heck do you know that?”

“Because,” John said quietly. “I was the arresting officer.”

I fell back onto a bed and sat down, my legs giving way to the surprise revelation.

“I arrested him just before the lights went out. He was in the 33rd Street Jail awaiting transfer when the EMP took out power. I was the one that found his mother’s body.”

“Wait. I just can’t believe it.”

“Yes, you can. His mother and her girlfriend were both stabbed to death. I found them staged in bed,” John said. “And you know who stages their victims? Serial killers, Charlie. Serial killers stage their victims. Only a monster would do such a thing. You cannot trust that kid. We need to put him down and get rid of the body.”

“What?” I hissed. “Are you crazy?”

“He’ll tell his friends where we are, or at least about Harley and Ashley since we’re leaving tonight. And we have to make it look like an accident, so his friends don’t go looking for his killer.”

“No way!” I shot back. “We are not going to be like them. We’re better than that.”

“Charlie. There are no courts. There is no prison system.”

“So, we are judge and jury?”

“Out here, right now? Yes, we are.”

“But John. He hasn’t turned us in yet. Why would he now?”

“Who knows? Maybe he was just checking to see if you were still here before he told his boss about you. He wouldn’t want to promise his gang a few choice women and not be able to deliver.”

“That’s not Beker,” I said with some hesitance. “He could have turned us over to them a long time ago.”

“Things change, Charlie. Maybe he needs to get on their good side. Maybe he’s losing their loyalty. Maybe he’s just had a change of heart. Anything is possible when you’re capable of putting a knife into your mother’s chest.”

“But he’s been such a nice kid,” I replied. “How could he have done…”

Then I remembered the dozens of circular scars that Janice said had come from multiple cigarette attacks. I thought of the way he carried himself, as if always ashamed. Like a mouse that was afraid of being noticed.

“Now it makes sense!” I said.

“What makes sense, Charlie?”

I told him about Beker and his abused past. After we spoke for a few minutes, John softened up enough to go back into the living room with the promise that he wouldn’t immediately kill the kid.

“Okay, kid. Why are you here?” John asked in his police interrogation voice.

Beker was about to answer, when a spark of recognition flashed in his eyes. He began to cower, trying to hide behind Ashley as John continued to stride forward.

John frisked the young man from head to feet, finding no weapon other than a multi-tool. “No weapon?”

“Nnnnn… no,” Beker stuttered.

“Come on, kid. I know who you are, and you know who I am,” John said.

“What are you talking about?” Cynthia asked. “Who is he?”

“Seems I arrested Beker for murder just before the EMP hit.” John pulled Beker by the arm into the middle of the room and spun him around. John commanded Beker to lift his shirt.

“Pleeease!” Beker squealed. “No!” Then like a toddler, he whimpered and dropped to the floor.

John tried to pass me his rifle and sidearm, when I put up my hand. “No, I’ll do it.”

“Give me your weapons. I don’t want him to get anywhere near them.”

I gave John my AR-15 and Glock and quietly went to Beker’s side. The kid was weeping, half sitting up with both hands covering his face. His sobs were pitiful.

“Come on, Beker. I’m here.”

He threw his arms around me, pulling me down, and cried uncontrollably. His shoulders shook as he struggled to catch his breath.

“I know about your mother,” I began with a whisper.

He stopped crying and looked up at me, shame and pain shared his gaze.

“And I know what they did to you. They burned you, didn’t they?”

“Ye..Ye.. Yes,” he stammered. “Not my mom. Her friend.”

“Then why did you kill your mother?”

“She tried to choke me,” he said. “Her girlfriend was burning me. I couldn’t take it. It hurt so much, I couldn’t take it anymore. She was on top of me. She was burning me. I reached out on the floor and found a knife. Then my mom…” He started to cry again.

“What about your mom?”

“She saw what I did. She blamed me. She grabbed me by the neck, choking me. She was trying to kill me too. The next thing I knew…”

He began to calm down a bit and we regained our feet. I was still hugging him, rubbing his back through the stained shirt he was wearing. I could feel the scars, like corrugated packaging fiberboard in some places, and small craters in others. I tried to make him feel safe.

“They need to see.”

“Please, no,” he said quietly.

“They’ll understand if they see,” I said. “You’re not a monster, Beker. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I… I can’t.”

“Yeah, you can. I’m here.”

I gently reached around his back, and he gazed up at me, unsure and afraid. I squeezed him tightly with my right arm, and he folded himself into my chest. With my left hand I lifted his shirt.

Ashley cried out and began to weep.

John gave me a slight nod.

Mike’s and Cynthia’s gazes hardened.

“Bitch needed killin’,” was all Mike said.

Cynthia shook her head and left the room.

Harley took Ashley’s hand and led her to their bedroom. Her quiet sobs faded as they closed their door.

“Why?” was all Beker could muster.

“There’s no good reason,” John quietly replied. “She may have been abused when she was young. Maybe, she had a problem with drugs or alcohol.”

“They both stole medicine from their jobs,” Beker said.

“Some people just break, son. Charlie’s right. This wasn’t your fault.”

Beker seemed to relax a bit, his water-filled eyes darting back and forth between me and John. His breathing slowed as well, and he stepped away from me and blew his nose into his shirt.

“Really?” I deadpanned.

He smiled just a bit and, although it didn’t last long, it fit him well. He dried his eyes on his grimy t-shirt’s shoulders and let out a sigh.

“We need to get organized,” John said. “I want to push out of here after it gets dark.”

“You’re leaving?” Beker gasped, his eyes immediately widening with fear.

“Yeah. It’s time. We can’t keep hiding from Taurus.”

“You were going to leave me?” Beker whimpered. “How could you go without me?”

“We’ve waited for weeks,” I replied. “That’s all we could do.”

Beker stared at the wall, emotions churning within. He sat down quietly on the living room sofa.

“You’ll be fine,” John said. “Your friends will take care of you.”

“But for how long?” I asked. “How long before they turn on him? Staying with Taurus is a death sentence.”

“I don’t see any alternative,” John simply replied.

“We can take him with us. We have time to build him a pack and…”

“Absolutely not!”

“John. We have to. We’re all he’s got.”

“He’s got Taurus.” John turned to Beker and stepped up to the couch and continued. “Taurus likes you. Right, kid?”

Beker remained silent. Again, John asked him if Taurus would take care of him. Again, Beker sat stoically, refusing to answer John’s question.

“Beker,” I began. “Are you good with Taurus? Will he take care of you?”

Beker glanced up slowly and nodded.

“There!” John said. “Taurus likes the kid.”

“Does he? Does he like you?” I asked, sensing something more from Beker’s demeanor.

Beker shrugged and bowed his head once again.

“Beker,” I quietly said, crouching down in front of him. “What is it?”

He refused to answer, his tears beginning to return.

“Beker, does Taurus like…”

“Yes,” he whispered. “He likes me a lot. He even lets me sleep in bed with him.”

“No!” I gasped, my shoulders shaking. “Beker. Is he…”

“Yes,” he said quietly. He lay down on the sofa, curled into a ball, and began to sob.

I looked up, my feelings swinging wildly between shock and anger. I didn’t know which emotion to let out. But what I saw in John left no doubt what he was thinking.

“He comes with us,” John stated. “And if we run across Taurus…”

He stopped himself, but the rage in his eyes let me know what future he had planned for the despicable gang leader.

“Come on, you two. Let’s build him a pack.” John reached his hand out, inviting Beker to join him.

The young kid refused, so I took hold of Beker’s hand and reached out and grasped John’s open palm, coupling the three of us together. I looked at John; his blue eyes had darkened to a steely grey, and his facial muscles were taut. His mouth was clenched, and his lips were smashed together into a hard, thin line. He had grown a beard since coming here a few weeks ago, giving him an even more fearsome look. It was both frightening and reassuring to see his game face.

Standing there in the living room, I looked at him in a new light. His wide belt had a dull sheen from hours of attention with a leather conditioner. His suppressed rifle was slung at his side and his sidearm was holstered in a thigh rig on his right leg. A large Cold Steel Kukri machete was strapped to the webbing on the left side of his gear, the blade’s handle bruised with chips and gouges from months of use. Its curved blade was encased in a stained and worn custom sheath. He wore nylon gloves with hardened points on his knuckles and the back of his hands. His leather boots gave off a dull shine, and the black DHS gear fit him like it had been custom made for his physique. He was just a few inches shorter than Mike, and not nearly as thickly muscled. But where Mike was built for power, John was built for speed. He was a fearsome warrior, and I wouldn’t want to see him coming at me. I was glad we were on the same team.

“Come on,” I said to Beker. “Let’s get you ready to leave.”

A few hours later, darkness came to our neighborhood with a suddenness that surprised me. Normally, a Florida sunset would take its time, bleeding a rainbow of colors as the sun fought to stay above the horizon. Yellow would morph into orange, followed by a green-and-blue canopy before fading into a deep and dark purple. Finally, the last vestiges of light would melt away, leaving the moon and stars to dominate the sky. Tonight, it seemed that the change from daylight to night was a quick and colorless transition. I was disappointed; with the electricity out, the sunsets were one of the few attractive parts to the world we now lived in. I hoped it wasn’t a forewarning of the night to come.

Earlier, we’d put together Beker’s backpack, filling it with food, a LifeStraw, and some clothing Beker had retrieved from his old house. He’d insisted on a quick visit to his old home and was granted permission only after I was assigned to go with him. We were in and out within a few minutes. Along with his spare clothing, he’d snatched a bag that had been hidden in his bedroom. I grabbed it to make sure he hadn’t come back to get more stolen jewelry and was surprised to see a couple of 200-mililiter bottles of Jack Daniels.

I shook my head. “Really?”

“We might just need this,” was all he said.

“I don’t see how,” I replied as we left the single-story home.

Back at my dad’s house, Mike had been given the job of lecturing Beker on his role in our group. He was told that he was a passenger, not a participant. He was to be seen and not heard. He was to do as commanded and nothing more. The kid agreed.

But Beker was more than just a tagalong. As we discussed our planned path out of the neighborhood, he showed us places on a map where Taurus had set up listening posts. They were well out of sight and one, in particular, could be fatal to us as we moved down the road. He’d already proven to be an asset by the time we were ready to leave.

After an emotional goodbye to Harley and Ashley, we geared up and left my father’s house. Losing Janice and Garrett had already drained me emotionally, so after I had strapped my backpack onto my shoulders and slung my AR-15 over my neck and right arm, I walked over to a framed photo of my dad and his new wife and gave his picture a kiss.

“Be safe, Dad. Wherever you are.”

I looked at my stepmom, who had her arm around my father’s shoulder. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a broad smile on her face as the two of them stood with their backs to the Smokey Mountains. I patted her image and whispered, “Take care of him.”

***

The moon had yet to peek above the horizon, and the night was overcast with high, wispy clouds that were floating across the star-studded sky. It was obscenely humid and still over eighty degrees as we slid out the house’s back door for the last time. We were quiet and walked with a purpose, our footfalls muffled by the unkempt lawns.

As we walked up the road through the tall St. Augustine grass, a large pair of horned owls were hooting and squawking, sharing a farewell symphony with us. Having made a nest in the trees down by the lake, they had been my evening companions and many nights found them bellowing as one would call the other to their perch. It was a comforting sound that often lulled me to sleep. It was one of the few things I’d miss.

We reached the top of the hill and stopped by the wall that bordered our neighborhood.

“Get ready,” John whispered. “They should be doing a shift change any minute.”

Over the past few weeks, we had been watching the comings and goings of the gang, taking particular interest in their nocturnal activities. Every night about an hour after dark, the first of the hidden listening posts would have a change of guard. The two men guarding the post would leave and a minute or two later, two more would replace them. John was surprised they weren’t relieved at the post so someone was always manning the location, but Beker had explained that they had been doing it this way for weeks. It seemed they were becoming complacent, as there hadn’t been any intruders for a while.

“They’re getting lazy,” John had said. “Not surprised at all. Let’s take advantage of that.”

The problem was the second listening post further down the road. We hadn’t known about that one until Beker pointed it out. We couldn’t go around it and didn’t have a plan in place when we left. Worst-case scenario, we hit it then run like hell.

Almost on cue, two men emerged from a house across the street and down the road. They walked stiffly, both holding lit cigarettes as they meandered across the grassy median that separated the east – and west-bound lanes. Thirty seconds later, they had disappeared into the subdivision next to us.

“Now!” John whispered, and the five of us sprinted across the east-bound lanes and over the grass median. The foot-high ground cover and overgrown Ligustrum trees kept us hidden from the enemy. We turned to continue our sprint to the west and were out of sight by the time the two replacements had arrived at the gate.

We traveled further down the road, keeping in the shadows, and found ourselves moving through a city park. Chain link fences surrounded two overgrown tennis courts, with abandoned swings, monkey bars, and wooden playsets nearby. Minnehaha Park had a small, winding trail that doubled back on itself. North of us was a lake and heavily packed together homes. Beker informed us that the gangs were living up there as well, preventing us from going around. To our south was Lake Maitland, which effectively blocked an escape route in that direction.

The parking lot was strewn with detritus. Sun-worn wrappers from the nearby fast food joints were mixed in with Styrofoam and plastic cups. The metal garbage containers had been toppled and their contents spread across the asphalt. Now, many months into the “darkness,” they were a testament to a life, long lost. I shook my head and thought of the environmentalists that might be taking solace in the lack of industrial pollution and personal garbage that was no longer being generated.

“Beker,” John whispered.

We had stopped at the end of the trash-strewn parking lot. Our group was strung out over twenty yards, with John at point and Cyn drawing up the rear. Mike and I were in the middle with Beker, Jorge, and Maria. Beker left us and hustled up to John’s position.

“Where are they?”

Beker pointed up the road to where the trail emerged from the wooded park and wound itself back to our position. The woods just beyond the trail were dark and foreboding, a perfect place to set up an ambush.

John held up a closed fist, indicating we should all rally at his position. We were together in seconds, huddling in a stand of bushes that flanked the parking lot.

“I don’t see how we’re going to go around them,” John began. “I say we hold here and gather some intel. Maybe they’ll show themselves, or a pattern will develop in their routine.”

We agreed and took positions inside the brush. Cynthia retreated to a small stand of shrubbery at the other end of the lot, providing a rear guard for the group. John pulled out a spotting binocular and stared up the path.

“Can’t see a thing,” he bemoaned. “I don’t know what we can do if we don’t know where they are.”

“Give it more time,” Mike said. “Everyone’s gotta piss sometime.”

John grunted his approval, and we settled in. I had no idea how long we’d be waiting, but asking questions right now did no good. We’d leave when John thought it was appropriate. He’d explain himself soon enough.

As the night wore on, I lost track of time. At some point, I had dozed off, when I was awakened by Cynthia’s boots crushing the grass behind us.

“There’s a lot of activity back there,” she said.

Sure enough, muffled shouts and laughter wafted down the road. The sounds didn’t seem to be getting any louder, but there was something going on that hadn’t been there before.

“We need to do something,” John said. “I’ve scoped out the terrain ahead, and I think we can approach the tree line where the LP is set up without being seen.”

John and Mike crawled forward through the bushes and returned a minute later.

“Yeah. We can do that,” Mike agreed. “But we’re still thirty yards short of the tree line. There ain’t nothin’ between those last bushes and the ambush site.”

“We can crawl in the grass,” John said hopefully. “It’s dark and there’s a heavy cloud cover. They shouldn’t be able to see us.”

“Maybe,” Mike said, but I could tell from his answer that he wasn’t yet convinced we could get away with it. “I just don’t want to be out there without cover, in case the lead starts to fly.”

John remained silent. He couldn’t argue with the big guy’s logic.

Finally, after several tense moments of silence, John sighed. “I don’t see any other way. I’m open to suggestions. Anyone?”

No one could think of any alternative.

“I’ll go first,” John said.

Cyn stopped him. “No, let me go. My Glock’s suppressed.”

She reached onto her battle belt and opened a pouch, retrieving a cylindrical nylon sleeve. She slid a long, metal tube out and within moments, her handgun had doubled in length with a silencer screwed onto the end of its barrel.

“Not as quiet as mine,” John said, as he pulled his Kukri machete from his own belted sheath.

The next few moments were best described as a Mexican standoff, neither one wanting to give in. Mike broke the tension when he leaned over and whispered, “Okay. Put your dicks back in your pants and you both go.”

“I don’t have one of those. Fortunately,” Cyn whispered back. “But that makes sense. I’ll take the right, and you go left of the path.”

“Agreed.” Then turning to me and Mike, John continued. “If it goes sideways, go back to the road and make a run for it. Any gunfire will bring holy hell down on us.”

“I can flank ’em,” Mike said. “Charlie can too.”

“By the time we roll over them, the rest of the gang will be here. We can’t hold off dozens of armed thugs. Best to get five out and lose two than lose all of us.”

Mike began to protest, but Cyn shushed him. We all knew John was correct. Speed was our friend, along with silence. If we lost one, we needed the other.

“Let’s go,” Cyn said, and they quietly pushed through the hedge and began the long crawl to the stand of trees over thirty yards away.

Mike and Beker watched through the bushes, while Jorge and Maria huddled nearby. I moved back to the other side of the parking lot and assumed rear guard. What happened next was all Beker. And as John tells it, he was quite the warrior.

“The damn cloud cover had to break up right as we began to crawl toward the stand of trees,” John said later.

The moon was still low on the horizon when we lost the clouds. Its light reflected off the tops of the trees, casting a low glow over the open terrain. That slowed down John and Cyn terribly. It was like someone had flipped the switch on a darkened theater and both were trapped in the middle of an empty stage. The foot-high grass stood motionless in the humid night air, and the two of them lay frozen, hugging the dirt. Any attempt to move would cause the thick St. Augustine blades to sway, pinpointing their position.

They initially remained still, only twisting their heads to look above, searching for any clouds that might soon block the bright moonlight. But fate decided to unclutter the heavens, and rather than a seeing more clouds moving into the area, they saw a clear and bright night sky.

“I couldn’t believe it,” John later recounted. “I was lying there thinking about the previous two nights, and the heavy cloud cover we normally see during the summer. I mean, really. We hadn’t seen a clear night in how long? This seriously sucked.

“So, I did the only thing I could do; I started to slowly crawl forward. At least the other side had some shadowing near the edge of the field. If I could just get another twenty yards, I’d be able to get to concealment. I mean, what else could I do?

“I knew Cynthia was thinking the same thing. I peeked through the tops of the grass and could see the field sway slightly as she moved. It didn’t look too bad, and I figured that if we didn’t move too quickly, and randomly stopped a few times, it wouldn’t look too suspicious.

“Boy was I wrong. Those two guys were actually alert. I guess Taurus was smart enough to put a couple of his more reliable men on the perimeter.”

Beker said they were going so slow, he’d thought one of them had fallen asleep. Once, John didn’t move for over five minutes, and when he did finally go forward, it was less than a foot.

Cynthia was more aggressive, which almost proved their undoing. During one stretch, about halfway across, it happened. They’d been caught.

“Hey!” a gravelly voice yelled. “Yer in my sights! Stop where yeh are and stand up!”

A flashlight shone from within the tree line, its white light splitting the night air, casting a spotlight over Cynthia as she remained motionless. The flashlight was blinding as hundreds of lumens spilled over the field. Its scattered light was bright enough to illuminate John’s position about thirty feet to the left, keeping him from moving forward as well. They were stuck and even from this distance, we heard the distinctive metal sound of a charging handle being racked as the thugs put a bullet into their rifle’s chamber.

“You got just five seconds to get up and show yerself, or I’m gonna start shootin’.”

With no other options, Cynthia was going to have to give herself up. Maybe the group could rescue her? After all, they wouldn’t be expecting seven people when no one other than the gangs had been in this neighborhood for many months.

“Hey!” a small voice yelled from the parking lot.

Beker began to walk toward the light, a brown bag in his left hand as he waved his right hand at the trees ahead.

“Who’s that?”

“Beker, dumbass.”

“Hold on there! Someone’s in the grass to your right!”

“Ain’t no one there,” Beker replied. “I don’t see a thing.”

“Stop there,” one of the thugs yelled. “About ten feet to your right.”

The light seemed to home in on Cynthia’s spot, and Beker could see her face staring at him as it was shadowed in grass, the field depressed around her prone body.

“Hold on,” Beker yelled, stepping toward Cynthia’s position. The kid slowly crept just behind Cyn and stared at the ground. “Scat!” he yelled and stomped the dirt at her feet.

“Just a freakin’ cat,” Beker said, as he strode forward to the men in the woods, barely missing Cyn’s head as he stepped by.

“Whatcha doin’ out here?” a second man asked.

Beker held up the brown bag. “Taurus thought you might want something. Everyone else is partying.”

“Yeah. Like this makes up for havin’ to sit out here in the dark, gettin’ eatin’ by these damn mosquitos. Ain’t no wind and can’t build a fire ta smoke ’em away.”

“Maybe this’ll help.” Beker pulled out his stash of Jack Daniel’s from the paper bag.

“Hot damn!” was all we heard before the flashlight turned away from the field and onto the bottles of Tennessee whiskey. Two men with AR-15 rifles stood under the trees, illuminated next to Beker as they each grabbed a bottle and held them up for inspection. “Seals ain’t been broken. These is fresh bottles! Where’d ya get ’em?”

“Hey. You know me. I’m the scavenger.”

“Well, hot damn, little buddy.”

“Here. Let’s open ’em,” one man said excitedly.

“Naw, just one fer now. Don’t want ta—”

A nearly silent thwak! came from just behind Beker’s right shoulder as a suppressed 9mm round smashed through the thug’s right eye and out of the back of his skull.

“Uumph!” came from Beker’s left.

Beker, still stunned by the sudden explosion of blood from the goon to his right, turned just in time to see the tip of John’s Kukri blade thrust out of the other man’s chest.

John pulled the long blade out of the man’s back as he pushed the man forward. The thud of his body hitting the ground, which was little more than bare dirt and protruding roots from the surrounding oak trees, was nearly as horrifying as the sight of the two unmoving bodies.

John bent over and wiped the blade of his curved machete on the man’s shirt then re-sheathed the blade. “Nice job, kid.”

“Yeah,” Cyn added. “Now, let’s move.”

Cynthia retrieved the tactical light from ground next to the man she’d just shot and flashed it back at the us. “Don’t forget the whiskey,” she said absently to Beker as she grabbed some loaded AR magazines from the dirt at her feet.

“Take the ones in their rifles too,” John said to her as the five of us joined them at the morbid scene.

I looked at Beker, his face frozen and eyes staring blankly. “Come on,” I said gently as the group formed up to leave. “You can’t help them now.”

“I knew them,” he said. “They were nice to me.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve lost friends too.”

“Yeah. But I did this to them.”

I didn’t say anything at first. I knew from Janice and Garrett that if you caused someone’s death, it was a deep stain on one’s soul. It never really leaves you and lingers in the cracks, waiting for you to accidently move through it, bringing its stale, acidic odor back to haunt you. It truly sucked, but there’s nothing you can do but deal with it and move on.

“I know how you feel,” I whispered compassionately. “I killed Janice and Garrett.”

Beker didn’t move.

“You didn’t have a choice. I did. You did the right thing. Sometimes doing what’s right feels wrong at first. But you saved six people just now. They would have killed John, Mike, and Jorge. And you know what would have happened to Maria and me, don’t you?”

Beker nodded his head and let out a deep sigh. “I get it,” he said in a quiet, calm voice.

We gathered ourselves to resume our advance. As we lined up just inside the tree line, Cynthia walked by me on her way back to cover our rear. She stopped and leaned into my ear.

“Kid’s going to be okay,” she whispered. “You were right about him.”

I nodded and as if sensing my silent reply in the now darkened copse of trees, she grabbed my shoulder and gently squeezed before moving on.

CHAPTER TWO

CSX RAILROAD LINE

MAITLAND LIBRARY

As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.

— John F. Kennedy

UNDER JOHN’S HYPOTHESIS THAT NO crook would be caught dead in a library, we had moved over a mile up Horatio Avenue and found his assumption to be correct. The brightening midnight sky was no help in our attempts at a covert journey, but we arrived safely at our first rally point, nonetheless.

The building was solid concrete block, and its hurricane-tempered windows were intact. A wrought iron metal gate lay open with a small patio just beyond. At the far end of the outside space sat the library’s entrance, where its commercial glass doors were secured from within.

John produced a leather pouch with a lockpick set. His rasp and hook tools had us inside the stuffy building in less than a minute, and we quickly verified that the place hadn’t been visited since the electricity went down. Dust hung in the air as John and Mike scanned the rooms with their own tactical lights. Keeping their thumbs over the light blocked the bright beams and cast an eerie red hue onto the abandoned bookshelves and tables.

Other than the thick dust that had settled onto the furniture, the place was spotless. We found a room with no external windows, and Jorge produced a crank camping lantern.

“Mike, you and I are on watch,” John said. “You guys close the door before you get that lantern going, and keep it shut while you’re running it. Remember your light discipline. Mike and I need to keep our night vision, so we’re out of here before you turn it on. We’ll take fifteen minutes to hydrate and rest before we move on.”

After Jorge had the small light running, Cynthia wiped her finger across the top of a desk, leaving a clean, thin trail through the dirt.

“Looks like I’d expect,” Cynthia said. “The world ends, and the librarian made sure everything was in its place. Look around; not a book or paper out of place.”

“People do what they do,” Jorge commented. “She was a librarian because she was organized. That doesn’t change, no matter what.”

“How do you know she was a she?” Cyn chided Jorge.

“Please,” he replied. “When’s the last time you saw a man running a library?”

“Or anything else that needed to be organized,” Maria added. “Men are pigs.”

“Hey!” Jorge cried.

Cyn smiled. “You’re outnumbered, compadre.”

Jorge looked around, seeing three women to his two men. And he wasn’t going to get any help from Beker, who hadn’t said anything since the ambush in the park. The kid just stared around the room, silently assessing his environment. I had watched him closely those first weeks after we’d saved him from the Latino gang. He could go to such dark places, and I had assumed he was trying to forget his near rape and death. But after learning about what he’d been through, including a horrific home life before the lights went off, I had an even better idea about why he was so quiet.

“Sorry, Jorge. I’m with them,” I said.

“How about you, Beker? Can a guy get some backup here?”

Beker came out of his trace momentarily. He shook his head and sat down at a desk, swiveling the chair away from the group.

Jorge shrugged and started going through his pack, retrieving a bottle of water. “Hey, Beker. Better get some water in you. We’ve got a long, stressful walk ahead.”

The kid reached down and grabbed a bottle but stopped short of pulling it from the pack. Instead, he pulled out the brown bag with the Jack Daniel’s and stared at it.

“I never said thank you for what you did. So, thanks. You saved our lives,” I quietly said.

He didn’t reply but kept staring at the bag.

Cynthia came over and joined us. “Hey, kid, I was wrong about you. I’m sorry. You saved my ass. Thanks. I mean it.”

Beker shrugged slightly and looked up. His eyes were moist, and his lower lip quivered slightly. “I don’t understand it,” he said with an almost silent voice. “Why are people so mean?”

Neither Cyn nor I had the answer to that life mystery. All I could say was, “Not everyone is mean. We aren’t.”

“I guess,” he replied. “I just wish you’d found me sooner.”

He wiped his eyes on his sleeve before taking a deep breath. He pushed the brown bag deeper into his backpack then removed a bottle of water and drank.

I turned back to my own backpack and hydrated.

Wow, that hurt, I thought as I downed half a bottle in one long draw. The kid kind of put my former career choice into perspective. Compared to what I could have done to make a difference in someone’s life, drug rep and intercollegiate athlete didn’t sound so impressive anymore.

A few minutes later, a knock on the door announced John. “Get geared up. We’re leaving in five.”

We were packed and ready in two minutes then waited a full minute in the darkness to allow our eyes to adjust before opening the door and joining Mike and John by the entrance.

“We’re taking the tracks south now,” John said, reviewing for the umpteenth time the route we were going to take.

“I wish it was darker out there but keep your spacing and remember our training. I’ll take point, Mike has rear. Ten yards spacing. Don’t bunch up, and you know what to do if we make contact.”

We filed out the door and went behind the building, where a tall, overgrown hedge separated the library from the CSX tracks. We were going to follow them south to College Park, keeping to the side of the metal rails and off of the slightly raised track bed. Being to the side meant we presented a minimal profile. We’d also avoid twisting an ankle if we had a misstep walking over the wooden sleepers.

Weeds were beginning to take over the formerly well-maintained line. The spring had brought an abundance of wild flowers to the area, and with the summer’s heat and abundant rain, even more wild growth was taking over.

As we approached a turn in the tracks, I saw John squatting next to a vine-laden fence. We slowly approached his position as he seemed transfixed with something off to our left.

“Stay here,” Cynthia said to us as she pushed forward to join John up ahead.

“Oh shit,” Mike, who was rear guard, said as he eventually caught up with our little group. Beker was, as always, a blank slate with no emotion or even curiosity about our circumstances. Jorge and Maria, as well as I, were much more interested in John’s strange behavior.

Up ahead, I saw Cynthia squat next to John and put her arm around his shoulder.

I turned to Mike. “What’s up?”

“It’s Bru. That’s where he was killed.”

“Mierda!” Jorge whispered.

“Come on. We can’t stay here all night. Let’s move. We’ve only got a few more hours before it’s light,” Mike said before moving up to John’s position.

When I got to John and followed his line of sight, I was stunned to see the destruction the bombing had wrought. The railroad had been demolished, with two large craters where iron rail lines and a metal bridge had once stood. An overturned HUMVEE lay in the middle of the road not a hundred feet from the destruction, everything covered in dirt, shredded asphalt, and chunks of rusting metal. The tires had been either shredded or blown off the giant vehicle, and one axle had been bent up at a severe angle. It was amazing anyone had survived the explosions.

John and Cyn stood up, and we moved beyond the destruction. We spaced back out and continued south. The moon’s blue hue bathed the landscape with an eerie glow while plants and weeds, clustered into sporadic patches of wild growth, thrust their blades and spore-laden stems into the air. We silently crept along the track, the only sound coming from our rubber-soled boots as we stepped along the rail line’s crushed-stone bed.

We passed through a combination of residential homes and commercial buildings, our heads rotating left and right as we searched for enemies in the dark. Tall foliage, originally planted to mask the sounds and sights of trains, lined both sides of the tracks. Now, the vegetation screened us from unwanted attention as we hugged the side, using the branches and vines for concealment.

The mood of the group changed after we ran across the overturned HUMVEE. If anything, we’d become more focused. Jorge and Maria seemed more determined than ever to escape the city, while John, Mike, Cyn, and I blended in a way I had never experienced before. We were more alert to each other’s movements. We became so attuned to each other’s mannerisms that hand signals were almost unnecessary. I could tell when John was going to stop even before he raised his hand. I’d look back and see Mike—he’d already know, as well. You get to really know your squad mates. Minor changes in their walking gait, a slight shift of their head, or a variation in their breathing now stand out like a flare gun lighting up the midnight sky.

I’d spent years playing both high school and intercollegiate athletics. On our championship swimming team at the University of Florida, I was the third of four swimmers on our 4x100 freestyle relay team. We had to anticipate our teammates’ movements and leap at just the right moment as they touched the wall. Some sped up at the last second, while others kept the same pace that they’d had for the lap down and back. Some stretched at the end, and some kept churning away as they touched the tile below me. I grew close to those women.

But the connection I had with my college teammates couldn’t compare to the bond I felt with Mike, Cyn, and John. Maybe it was the years that had gone by that faded those memories. More likely, it was the consequences of failure that made our connection that much more intense. I now understand the attachment that develops between men and women who serve in combat zones.

We were one, each of us an appendage of a greater body. It was essential not to be the weak link in the chain. Upping my skill level was critical because the squad was an organism, and I was one of its working parts. I’d never felt so whole and alert. It was both humbling and exhilarating, and I’d never forget this bond for as long as I lived.

We left the tracks where the rails entered a large downtown park. The open public space was too exposed, so we took to the darkened, brick-covered side streets. Moving in a bounding overwatch pattern, we sliced through the town without trouble until we met up, once again, with the train lines as they left Winter Park and headed south into Orlando.

“Okay. Get your battle buddy; we cross in pairs,” Cyn whispered as we gathered next to Route 17/92. The wide six-lane was quiet, but the fifty-yard sprint across would put us all at risk.

“Charlie, cover left and Mike cover right. John and I will go first and set up across the street. Once we’ve crossed, we’ll cover for you.”

This was the last large crossing we had to make before we got into A.J.’s area of operation (AO). The route we had taken took us through light industrial areas and high-end professional buildings. Cyn and John both surmised that we’d likely encounter fewer people this way, since most of the survivors and gang-members tended to spend their nights in a neighborhood rather than in structures, where a bed normally wouldn’t be found. So far, we hadn’t seen a soul.

Crossing the six-lane road in pairs went smoothly and we were soon following the tracks on the other side. John took point and Cyn was bringing up the rear. We were going into part of the city where homes could hide our enemy. Fortunately, the darkened streets provided us some measure of concealment from the houses that flanked our route. We had less than a mile to go before turning into neighborhoods where we’d most likely find people who didn’t appreciate our presence.

It had been a stressful journey, and the sound of crickets saturated the still, night air. The tracks were, once again, lined to our left with a chain link fence. Tall weeds shielded us from the adjoining homes on both sides while wild grass was reclaiming the track bed. The night sky distilled through the canopy of trees, lulling us into some level of peace and complacency. With no threat evident, I began to ruminate about Harley and Ashley. We’d left them, and I hoped the bodies we left behind during our escape didn’t get them into trouble.

I could see Jorge and Maria holding hands, her head lolling back and forth while Jorge walked slowly at her side. His head was bent over as he was either intently searching the stone-covered tracks for a safe place to step, or he was starting to fall asleep.

I yawned but then shook my head and took a deep breath, forcing my brain to re-engage with my surroundings. But it was proving to be a losing battle as I continued to watch Maria drag her feet with each plodding step. My mind began to wander once again, and I started to drift off as well. The gentle crunch of our feet on the white stones blended together with the chirping of the nearby insects. The adrenaline of the battle and the early morning hour conspired, and my arms and eyelids seemed to take on weight. Soon, both were dropping along with the muzzle of my rifle. My breathing slowed. I was at peace. All I wanted was a few more minutes of peace and quiet to let my brain recharge.

SNAP!

My brain registered something in the underbrush. The metallic click was followed by an apparition that seemed to rise from the darkened foliage to my right, its form failing to register with my exhausted brain. I stopped and stared at the amorphous mass, trying to make out an outline or some discerning silhouette that I could use to identify what it was.

“Don’t move!” a voice said. “Drop your weapons now.”

The glint of glass from a weapon-mounted optic flashed, and I knew then that we’d walked right into a trap.

I panicked and looked around. Mike, Jorge, Maria, and I had bunched up somehow during the walk, probably due to exhaustion, and we’d lost our combat spacing. Up ahead, I could see John raising his hands as another form crept from the side of the tracks, a battle rifle sticking out from a moving bush.

“Ghillie suits!” I muttered. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Just be smart and put your weapons down. Raise your hands and turn away from me,” the voice next to me commanded.

We lowered our AR-15s to the rocks and did as he said.

“Very good. Now kneel down and put your hands behind your heads, interlocking your fingers.”

“If you gonna shoot us, just get it over with,” Mike said defiantly. “I’m too tired to do this bullshit.”

“Just do what I said,” the voice hissed.

“Screw you. Just do what you got to do.”

“I’ll shoot you where you stand, asshole. Now do what I say, and you won’t die like a dog.”

“Whatever,” Mike snorted as he turned around and knelt on the ground.

We all followed Mike’s lead, and I saw John do the same not twenty yards ahead.

“Now, that’s better,” the voice said. “We’re all just nice friends now, aren’t we?”

I heard a pistol being racked behind me; a bullet was being chambered in a semi-automatic pistol. I was about to turn back and at least stare into the bastard’s eyes as he pulled the trigger, when one of the sweetest voices I’d ever heard filled my ears.

“Kern, you’re such a dumbass. Why don’t you just lower your weapon and tell your friend to do the same.”

Cynthia Terrones to the rescue. And did she just call him by his name?

“Kern?” I asked, spinning around on my knees.

There was Cyn, her Glock to the guy’s head. It was her pistol I’d heard.

“Shit, Cyn. I didn’t know it was you,” Kern blurted.

“Who the hell else would be out here at this hour? DHS ain’t in the area, and the gangs don’t sneak around like this. A.J.’s right. I don’t know if you’re worth the effort.”

“Awe Cyn, that just hurts. I’m the one that loves you, not A.J.”

Cynthia lowered her handgun and smacked the guy on the back of the head. “And where’s your spotter? I’ve been moving around in your ‘six’ for the last two minutes, and you don’t have anyone watching your back. Where’d you get your training?”

“I thought we had you all in our kill zone,” Kern replied meekly.

“Yeah. Real thorough. If I’d been anyone else, you’d both be dead and not even heard the shots that killed you. Honestly, I thought you guys were better than this.”

John and the other insurgent joined us as we moved off the tracks and through the underbrush.

“You’re safe. We own this neighborhood,” Kern said with some pride.

“How the hell do you know that?” Cyn shot back. “I’ve been creeping around out here and was never challenged.”

Kern just lowered his head, smiled, and started walking across the street, then between two homes.

“What, no words?” Cyn continued. “You’ve got enough fighters to do a better job than this.”

A voice came from an open window in the house to our left. “I think we’re doing just fine.”

A man appeared in the opening, the green glow of a night vision scope illuminating his torso.

“Saw you creeping around out there. Should have put a round in your butt for missing my hide, but I’d never want to make a scar in such a perfect ass.”

“Is that you, Tank?” Cynthia asked.

“Yeah. Saw you through the night scope. We figured that if you and your buddies got away it was just a matter of time before you showed up here.”

“Just three of us now,” Cyn replied. “Bru bought it.”

Tank shook his head. “Hey, sorry. Life’s kind of shitty right now.”

“That it is,” Cyn said.

“Take ’em to A.J,” Tank said to Kern. “And Cyn, you guys need to get some rest. You all look like a pack of zombies.”

“Had to kill a few to get here tonight,” I replied, a bit miffed that he’d scolded us. “It’s been a little tough out there.”

“Hmmph,” Tank snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know, but I do know this. You start ‘patrolling’ like that outside our AO, and you’ll be dead in a day. Now beat it and get some rest.”

Cyn grabbed my arm and dragged me away. “He’s right. You guys looked like the walking dead. We were lucky.”

I hate it, but she’s right. We were zoned out, and in today’s world, just a moment of inattention could be our last.

Twenty minutes later, we were at A.J.’s house. The one-story block home was overgrown, with trash and weeds cluttering the lawn. Vehicles littered the streets in a seemingly haphazard pattern, but looking more closely, I was struck by their strategic placement. Twice, we’d been challenged from scouts who were hidden under or next to large SUVs. After that, it was evident that although there were numerous cars and trucks dead on the roads, they created a gauntlet that could be manned in case of an attack.

“You guys look squared away,” John observed. “Lots of hides and areas of concealment. You’d never guess that anyone lived here.”

“Thanks,” Kern replied. “We let the grass go and left the garbage. A.J. doesn’t want a drone to notice anything unusual. A clean neighborhood can only get that way if someone lives there.”

We stopped under a large oak tree as Kern nodded to the house across the street. “A.J.’s over there. I’ll go wake him up. You stay here while I let him know you’ve made it.”

The wiry rebel trotted across the street and entered a side door. Soon we were in the house, a camp lantern lit the living room, revealing a middle-aged man sitting on a leather couch. He looked more attorney than warrior. His hair was combed back while his clothes were pressed with sharp creases in his pants and long-sleeved shirt. Other than a sidearm strapped to his belt, he could have been one of my clients when, what seemed a lifetime ago, I used to sell medical supplies to the physicians in town.

He stood up and smiled. “Welcome, my name’s A.J.”

We shook hands and took a seat.

“So, you made it,” A.J. began. “We were starting to worry. It’s been a few weeks.”

“Found a friend,” Cyn replied, nodding toward me. “John and Mike ran across her when this shitstorm first began.”

“Are you in the military?” A.J. asked me.

I snorted. “Just a survivor.”

“Too bad, but today, that still says a lot.”

After a moment’s pause, John spoke up. “So, what’s going on out there? How much information are you getting from inside?”

“We have several sources. Two of them went dark recently, but one is still sending. She’s a tough one.”

“Were the others compromised? I hadn’t heard anything about DHS being worried about spies.”

“If what we hear is true, things might be changing,” A.J. said as he sat on the edge of the couch and leaned forward.

“What? The new leadership?”

“Sort of. The Dragon Lady and her new paramour are certainly more of a challenge than the old director. That pervert was as predictable as a hangover after a night with tequila. You could set your watch by what he did. But even the Dragon Lady has her rhythms. No, there’s a new player entering the game.”

A.J. stood up and poured himself a cup of coffee from a thermos on the table. Turning to face us, he must have seen my look of envy.

“That smells darned good,” I said.

“Kern. Brew us another pot, would you?”

“Come on, A.J. I ain’t your maid.”

Cyn snorted and Kern’s face began to glow a light shade of red.

“I think you’d look rather hot in an apron,” Cyn teased.

“Now, Kern,” A.J. said. “I’m not saying you’re my maid. You just brew the best cup of coffee.”

Kern stood frozen. His face flared with anger, then embarrassment.

“Please?” I asked. “I haven’t had good coffee in months. I’d appreciate it if you’d do that for me.”

Kern turned and walked into the kitchen, Cynthia’s giggles following him as he retreated to brew a new pot of coffee.

“He obviously likes you,” I whispered to Cynthia. “That was just mean.”

She cracked a smile. “He’ll get over it.”

“You’re using propane?” Mike asked.

“Electricity. I have solar panels out back.”

“We looked for solar panels when clearing neighborhoods,” John said. “How do you hide them from air assets?” Mike asked.

“They’re hanging over the pool out back. Looks just like the water below them when you see them from above. We’ve got over a dozen homes hooked up like that. Been scavenging panels from homes, construction sites, and the expressway. Never realized how many solar-powered traffic management panels there are out there.”

Kern returned and sat down next to A.J. “It’s brewing. Be about five minutes,” he said to me, purposely avoiding Cynthia’s gaze.

I gave him a smile. “Thank you.”

A man in dark tactical gear appeared from a side hallway and interrupted our conversation. “Sir. We’re getting a transmission from downtown.”

A.J. jumped up from his couch. “At this hour?”

“Yes sir. She’s not scheduled to transmit until tomorrow night. This must be important.”

We followed A.J. down the hallway, and I glanced back at the front foyer to see if that entrance had been sealed somehow. Everyone had been going to the side of the house to get in.

At first glance, the single wooden door seemed normal. But a moment later, I saw the reason we’d not used that entrance. A Claymore mine, just like the one that had killed Janice and Garrett, sat ominously on the tile, about six feet inside. Anyone entering from that direction would be vaporized by the explosion.

We entered a room with a large window that looked out at a stand of trees. A ham radio was on an adjacent desk. It had a wire extending out into the branches of the oaks nearby. The operator was speaking into the mic, asking for information on unit size and personnel strength.

“Do you need me to repeat my last transmission?” came a woman’s voice over the speaker.

John’s face turned white as he rushed to the microphone, grabbing it from the operator’s hands.

“Tasha! Is that you?”

The woman’s voice came through the mic. “My God. Is that you, John? They told me you were dead!”

Her muffled cries were cut off as she let her finger off the transmit button.

A.J. grabbed the mic from John’s hand. “You idiot! You transmitted someone’s name over an open channel.”

John stared blankly at A.J., then said, “Natasha is your contact?”

“Yeah,” Cyn replied, getting between A.J. and John.

“How long have you known?” John asked Cyn.

“Long enough.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“You didn’t need to know that information, John.”

“The hell I didn’t!” he said, his face contorting in anger. “When were you going to fill me in on this little tidbit of information?”

“Never,” Cyn answered, standing firmly in front of John’s shaking body.

Both were slowly settling into a fighting stance.

“Hey. Hey,” Mike said quietly as he stepped between the two. “Let’s just take this down a notch.”

The big man’s frame towered over Cyn and, to a lesser degree, John. Although I thought it would have been impossible for Mike to look any more intimidating than he normally did, he had somehow made himself look even more imposing. With neither one of the two able to see the other, the situation quickly diminished, especially when Tasha’s voice came back over the radio.

“Did you get all that?” Tasha asked.

“Copy that. Troop strength, leadership, and schedules of arrival, and billeting.”

“Will transmit again at my normal time,” she replied.

“Go to channel delta. Same time.”

“Copy that. Channel delta.” Tasha ended the transmission.

“I’m sorry,” John said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to say her name.”

“We should be all right,” the radio operator said. “We do channel switching. We’ve set up our communications to adjust frequencies every few seconds. Worst-case scenario, if someone stumbled across the transmission, they hear no more than two seconds of it. Not likely they picked up her name.”

“Besides, there’s no active radio tracking being done by DHS right now,” A.J. said.

“Not true anymore, sir. You better read this.” The operator handed over the paper he’d been writing on.

A.J. began to read, slowly sitting down on an adjacent chair. “Shit,” he muttered as the operator nodded his head.

“Well…” Cyn asked impatiently.

“Seems that the rumors are true. Our president has invited some outside help.”

“Come again?” Mike asked.

“I was going to tell you back at my house, but this confirms it. The Russians, as they say, are coming.”

“What?” John and Cyn both shouted.

“The United Nations received a request from our leader for help from outside. The president asked for humanitarian aid, and both China and Russia are responding with supplies and troops. Looks like the East Coast is getting Ivan’s help while California has drawn the Chinese.”

“Damn it!” John muttered. Then he turned to A.J. “What the heck does that mean for us?”

“You mean aside from the need to maintain even more secure communications and a new, deadly aerial threat from their helicopters?” A.J. deadpanned.

Mike grunted. “Hummph.”

“Aside from that, smart-ass,” Cyn shot back.

“Other than those changes? We’ll have a boatload more bad guys to kill,” he said. “The targets of opportunity have now multiplied ten-fold. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to World War III.”

His sadistic smile didn’t go unnoticed.

CHAPTER THREE

DHS HEADQUARTERS

ORLANDO, FLORIDA

“Not all storms come to disrupt your life, some come to clear your path.”

— Unknown

BETH SAT AT THE COMMISSARY table, the one she used to share with Mike and John. She slowly stirred her coffee with one of the cheap spoons found at just about any government cafeteria. She had no breakfast companion now since John, Bru, and Mike had been killed during their attempted escape many weeks before. But Beth was running late this morning, something she was not known to do before she lost her friends.

As she looked around the room, she noticed that many of the tables were empty as the agents had already left to begin their shift. In a few minutes, Beth was going to have to get up and face another day living with the enemy.

Before she lost John and Mike, work was more than tolerable. The three of them had a mission to destroy the traitors who were now running the country. Their plans were vague and just beginning to gel when Travis Nixon ratted John and Bru out. Their initial escape was just short of a miracle, until that bastard sent two bombs down to kill her friends. Mike, John, and Bru were now gone, and Beth had been left to babysit the former DHS director’s wife and child.

A swish of air from behind her and the smell of lavender shook Beth from her thoughts.

“Beth, please don’t get up.”

It was Tasha! Her makeup had been thickly applied and her eyes were bloodshot. Beth sneered at the woman’s appearance. She was a tramp, and worse, a traitor.

“What do you want?” Beth hissed at the woman.

“We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t. Get your skanky ass out of the chair before I smack you out of it.”

“Please, let me explain.”

“There’s no explanation you could give me that will make me stop hating you,” Beth replied. “You have no excuse.”

“I know,” Tasha said, casting her eyes down. “Even if my goals are pure, my choices have been sinful. But it’s not about me and you. It’s about John.”

“Enough! Don’t even mention his name. How could you?”

Tasha dropped her chin and began to sob. Within a few days of John’s death, Tasha had begun sleeping with Travis Nixon. He considered her a trophy after he’d ordered the murder of her friends. Beth assumed Tasha took to Nixon’s bed for the security and the perks it brought. The two of them hadn’t even let John’s corpse cool before they hooked up. Nixon had some ego, living the big life with the Dragon Lady while sneaking off to do Tasha on the side.

Beth finally had enough of the woman’s sobbing. She had made her own bed, and now she had to sleep in it. “How could you?” Beth finally asked. “How could you betray John like that?”

Tasha stopped her tears enough to look at Beth. The regret in her eyes took Beth by surprise. “There are days I ask myself the same question. But that’s not why I stopped to see you. Beth, I just talked to John.”

Beth flared at the mention of John’s name. “Don’t screw with me, Tasha. Having some ‘coming to Jesus’ dream about John doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

“No, Beth. I literally just talked to John a few hours ago,” Tasha whispered.

Beth was stunned. Was Tasha losing it? Was she on drugs? If Travis Nixon was supplying her habit, that would explain their sudden relationship.

“Are you on drugs?” Beth asked. “I mean, we can get you treatment, even in this screwed up world.”

Tasha stopped and stared at Beth before quietly laughing. “I wish to God it was that simple.”

She moved her chair next to Beth’s and leaned in to whisper. The move was unexpected, and Beth froze in place.

“I work with the resistance,” Tasha began. “I am in communication with a large cell north of town.”

Beth looked into Tasha’s eyes, searching for a lie or deception. She saw only truth.

“Oh Tasha,” was all Beth could say, slowly shaking her head.

Tasha explained that she slept with Nixon for information, feeding it to the resistance. It explained why John’s former girlfriend would hook up with Nixon. He was a fountain of information.

Tasha wasn’t having a breakdown, and Beth realized that John might actually have spoken with her.

“Oh Tasha! He’s alive?” Beth asked loudly.

Several heads turned, then slowly the low din of the room resumed as the remaining agents went back to their normal breakfast conversations.

“I’m so sorry,” Beth said, realizing that she’d brought them unwanted attention. “Tell me everything you know.”

“It’s not much. I was talking to my contact when John heard my voice and grabbed the microphone.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing…” Tasha stopped talking and her eyes began to well up. “They grabbed the microphone from him before we could speak.”

Tasha yanked a napkin from the tabletop dispenser and blew her nose.

“What could I have said?” she continued. “That I’m sleeping with the man that tried to kill him, just to get information for the resistance? What would he think? That I was sleeping with him for the same reason? I love him, Beth.” Tasha began to quietly cry. “Oh, Beth. What have I done?”

The table where they were sitting was a few removed from the next occupied booth. No one paid them attention.

“Tasha, he doesn’t need to know.”

Tasha began shaking her head as she folded the napkin in her hand, searching for a dry spot to use. “He’ll find out. It’s just a matter of time.”

Tasha stopped crying and stared blankly at the far wall. Beth sat quietly, knowing that listening was the only thing she could do.

“Well,” Tasha said with some hesitance, “there’s nothing I can do about it. He’ll find out and that will be the end of it. I’ve lost John twice now. And you know, it’s almost harder this time because when I thought he was dead, I could put my feelings to rest. But now, knowing that he’s out there alive and well, it’s a whole different thing. Now, there will be resentment and even disgust in his heart because it was me that broke us. This time, it was my doing.”

Beth wanted to console Tasha, tell her it wasn’t her fault and remind her that it was Travis Nixon and the traitors in Washington who caused all this. But it would be best to give her some time.

Besides, Beth thought, I haven’t even begun to process the fact that my friends are still alive.

“I’ve got to get to work,” Tasha quietly said.

“Me too.”

“Thanks for listening. Believe it or not, you helped.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself, Tasha. This is war, and nothing is sacred. I think John may surprise you when he finds out.”

Tasha smiled slightly. “I doubt it, but thanks anyway.”

“You never know, Tasha,” Beth replied as she got up from the table to leave. “In the meantime, I have a twice-widowed mother and child to babysit.”

Beth practically skipped out of the commissary. Jogging down the street to the former DHS director’s apartment, Beth felt a renewed energy she thought she’d lost. Her friends were alive and fighting back. Just a few short minutes ago, the best she could hope for was survival. Now John would contact her, and she would join the growing resistance.

CHAPTER FOUR

DR. KRAMER’S HOUSE

MONTEVERDE, FLORIDA

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.

— C. S. Lewis

“DADDY. WAKE UP.”

Kramer rolled over toward his daughter’s voice. The sun had yet to peak above the horizon, although a morning glow was gradually pushing back the night’s hold on the Florida landscape. Claire stood next to the bed, her face barely perceptible in the pre-dawn darkness.

“What is it?” Barbara Kramer groaned, her body covered by a sheet and her head buried in one of the king-sized bed’s down pillows.

“Someone’s at the front door.”

Kramer spun up out of bed. “Who is it at this hour? Is someone hurt?”

“No, but you better come now.”

Kramer grabbed his sandals and began to hop toward the bedroom door on one foot as he struggled to put on his footwear. He followed his daughter and reached for his lever-action rifle that stood upright next to the bedroom door.

“You won’t need that,” she said, turning as she heard him padding down the wall in an attempt to grab the firearm in the shadowed room. “Wouldn’t help anyway.”

Kramer hesitated and looked back toward the bed.

“I’ll be right out,” his wife whispered before Kramer disappeared down the hall.

Claire was waiting at the front door, hand on the knob. Kramer stopped and gave his daughter a questioning look. She smiled tightly and opened the door.

Several dark figures hovered tightly at the entrance.

“Dr. Kramer?” Came a low, gravelly voice.

“Yes?”

“May we come in, sir?”

Kramer shrugged and backed up a step. Quietly, five men armored in camo gear strode in, the last one shutting the door behind him.

The first person through removed his Kevlar helmet and stuck out his hand. “Sir, I’m Sergeant D.J. Porter. Eighty-Second Airborne.”

Kramer felt his hand enveloped by the soldier’s grip. Porter was a large man, and with the light in the room slowly increasing, Kramer could see he was bearded and thickly muscled.

“Are you friends with my daughter?” Kramer asked.

“Not directly, sir. We just arrived in the area last night.”

“Sergeant Porter, what can I do for you?”

“First off, sir, just call me Porter. Secondly, we’d like to thank you and your family for getting involved in the Resistance.”

“Well, Porter, you’re welcome. But you didn’t come here, in the wee hours of the morning, just to bring me your eternal gratitude.”

“They were right.” Porter snickered as he looked back to his men. “Just like his daughter.”

“And who is ‘they’?” Kramer asked.

“About everyone that met her while Dr. Claire was up at Campbell. She wouldn’t take no for an answer when she was told she couldn’t accompany our recon units down here. Threatened one of the officers with a giant clamp.”

“A chest spreader,” Claire replied drolly. “And I would have used it.”

“Well, it got her back home, didn’t it?” Kramer added.

“That it did, sir.”

“So now that we’ve had such a nice introduction, what brings you here? And at this hour?”

“This may take a bit. Do you mind if we sit down?”

Barb Kramer stood in the hallway. “Please, take a seat at the kitchen table. I’ll make some coffee. But I have to warn you, it’s instant.”

“That would be fine, ma’am,” Porter replied.

The other four soldiers removed their helmets and followed Barb into the kitchen. For the next few minutes, Porter gave Kramer a quick synopsis of their mission while Barbara served coffee with sugar and powdered creamer. During the briefing, Kramer noticed that Porter was giving specific information at times, while being deliberately vague others.

“You’ve left out a great deal of information, Sergeant.”

Porter raised his eyebrows and grunted. “Yes, sir. You don’t have a need to know anything I didn’t fully explain.”

“That’s spy stuff. We don’t need to worry about that out here,” Kramer admonished the younger man.

“Well, sir. That’s not entirely true. You see, we just came from the Coventry electric plant. We’ve permanently decommissioned it.”

“Permanently, as in…?” Kramer asked.

“We blew the incinerators and took care of the people running it.”

“Took care of them?” Barb asked from the kitchen stove.

“They were terminated, ma’am, with prejudice.”

“Prejudice?” Barb asked.

“Killed, Mom,” Claire said with satisfaction. “What did you do with their bodies?”

“You’ll like this,” Porter said with a grin. “We burned them before we blew up the incinerator.”

Kramer smiled and sat back. Although the busses had stopped running down Highway 50 a few weeks past, there was no telling if other areas were feeding the plant with their own brand of undesirables.

“Thanks,” Kramer finally said. “That’s good to know.”

“Was it what we thought? Were they eliminating people?” Barb asked.

“I’m afraid so. We retrieved volumes of information, including lists of their victims and their scheduled arrivals. There is more than enough there to convict anyone involved in that enterprise of war crimes. We also recovered dozens of storage trunks loaded with personal items, mostly jewelry and other valuables. We’ve warehoused it all in a safe location and notified Campbell. When this is all over, we’ll try and find the victims’ relatives.”

“So why the social call at the crack of dawn? You could have brought us this news at a much more civilized hour,” Kramer asked.

“Consider our visit an early warning. When the result of our operation gets out, there will be a lot of activity in the area, especially aerial. You’ll want to keep a low profile for the next few weeks.”

Porter stood up and took his coffee mug to the sink. Taking a final long gulp of the hot liquid, he sighed as he watched the sun begin to creep over the horizon.

“That’s why I have to keep you out of the loop for much of what we have planned. If one of you is captured, the less you know, the better,” Porter said over his shoulder.

He turned back to the assembled group sitting at the table. “You need to evacuate this compound. At least for the foreseeable future.”

“Why, in heaven’s name, would we do that?” Barb snapped. “We’ve made this place as comfortable as we could, given the circumstances.”

“With all due respect, ma’am. That’s the problem.”

“How is that the problem?”

“This place screams of being occupied. Your yard has been maintained and vehicle tracks are everywhere,” Porter said as he approached the table. “One pass of a drone, and you’ll be target number one. You’ll never hear it coming.”

The room sat in silence while they processed this information.

“We have another team down at the Montverde School, evacuating them as we speak,” Porter added.

“How long do we have?” Kramer asked.

“Hours. Maybe a day.”

“That seems awful fast for DHS. They haven’t been able to respond to any ambushes the local militia has run. Why is it a concern now?”

“Because, Dr. Kramer, there’s a new kid in town. We’re now dealing with the Russians.”

“Russians?” Kramer yelled. “When? How?”

“It’s been coming for a few weeks. The president” —Porter practically spat the words out— “went to the United Nations and begged for help. The Russians and Chinese are responding by using troops to bring “humanitarian” aid into the US. We have freakin’ communists taking control of our country, and we’re letting them do it without a fight.”

Kramer dropped his head and sighed. Claire put her hand on his shoulder while Caroline hugged her mother.

“Well,” Barb stated with conviction. “There’s no time like the present. Do you have any suggestions, Sergeant Porter?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ve been communicating with an asset not too far from here. I believe you know him.”

“Don’t tell me.” Kramer said. “Sergeant Bragg,”

Porter smiled and nodded his head. “We already paid him a visit. He’s quite a piece of work.” Then suddenly, his smile changed to a thin, tight grimace. “But for God’s sake, don’t tell him I said that.”

“Yeah.” Kramer grinned. “That old rooster would put his boot up your butt.”

“And twist it, just for the fun of it,” Porter said.

“That he would,” Kramer concluded.

“Where will we stay?” Barb asked.

“The old man… err, Sergeant Bragg said he has access to some additional accommodations. His words, exactly.” Porter replied.

“Well, then,” Barb said, taking control of her family. “We better load up a truck with our supplies. Vernon Bragg will not have us feeding off of him.”

“Good idea, babe,” Kramer said. “From what I’ve seen of his freeze-dried selections, you’d probably starve yourself before eating his decades-old MREs.”

“Ah. Meals Rejected by Ethiopians. Good luck with that.” Porter grinned.

A knock on the front door interrupted the group as Ed Grafton pushed into the house. “I see you’ve had visitors too,” Grafton said, staring at Porter and his men.

“The other half of my squad already paid them a visit,” Porter explained to the Kramers.

“I just can’t pack and move out in a couple of hours. I have equipment, fuel, supplies, and vehicles. How the heck am I supposed to get all of that out of here?”

“You can’t,” Porter answered. “But if you don’t get away soon, you’ll probably be dead.”

Grafton appealed to his friend. “Gerry?”

“We’re leaving,” Kramer stated. “Sergeant Porter’s arguments were rather persuasive.”

“I just don’t know.” Grafton continued to shake his head, trying to come to grips with the situation. “I mean, how can I help the Resistance if I don’t have my shop to work out of? It’s not like I can pick up a gun and fight.”

Kramer understood his friend’s concerns. Old and slow didn’t cut it in today’s America. As a doctor, he’d be needed till the day he died. Grafton, on the other hand, was losing his value when he abandoned his tools.

“Specialist Porter, does this man’s army have use for a run-down mechanic and his men?” Kramer asked.

Porter smiled and nodded his head. “Absolutely, sir. We’re dying for anyone that can get our equipment up and running after the EMP took out our computers and electronics.”

“And where, Specialist Porter, could someone with an ancient education and an uneven disposition, apply that knowledge for the service of the country?”

“Benning, Rucker, Stewart to name a few bases under our control. At least those are close enough to get to. We could have them there within a week. There’s plenty to do. And now that the Russians and Chinese are bringing us humanitarian aid, we need to make sure we’re ready to greet our new friends.”

Porter stood and walked to Grafton. “Sir, we need your help more than you know. There’s a storm coming, and we’re not ready. You and your men would be most welcome.”

Grafton beamed and turned to Kramer. “So, I’m a run-down mechanic?”

“With an uneven disposition. That’s my medical opinion,” Kramer replied with a smile.

“Whatever you two families decide, it needs to be right now,” Porter said.

Grafton said in resignation, “What choice do we really have? I’ll organize my men and some equipment.”

“No equipment. We have everything you’ll need where you’re going.”

“But…”

“Sorry, sir. We need to move with speed and stealth. We’ll have everything covered at one of the bases.”

“Weapons?” Grafton inquired.

“Only .556 and 9mm,” Porter answered. “Nothing we can’t resupply.”

Porter turned back to the table and nodded at his men. His squad rose as a team and began to file out of the house.

“I’ll be here in two hours. Anyone who wants to go with us should be ready to leave at that time. Wear hiking clothes and equip yourselves for a week in the woods. Good footwear, nothing that’s falling apart, and bring several pairs of socks. You’ll want to keep your feet dry. Also, we’ve got MREs and water purification tablets if you need them. We’ll have motorized transportation for part of the trip, but you never know what we’ll run into. Don’t bring too much. We need to move quickly. In the long run, the base exchanges have all the personal items you’ll need when you get to your destination.”

Porter began to follow his men out of the house before turning back. “Again, we leave in two hours.”

“Well, I guess we’d better move it then,” Grafton sighed.

The room was silent as the gravity and suddenness of the situation hit them.

“I’m going to miss you, old friend,” Grafton said, breaking the momentary trance.

“Me too,” Kramer replied as the two men embraced.

Then Grafton turned and left.

“Will we see him again?” Barb asked, watching their neighbor stride away.

Kramer sighed. “Only God knows. I gave up planning for the future a long time ago.”

***

Seven difficult hours later, Barb and Claire were piling the last of the supplies into the back of Grafton’s Stovebolt pickup truck, a parting gift from their old neighbor.

“Finally done!” Claire said. “I had no idea how much crap we had accumulated.”

“Please,” Barb grunted, as she pushed a giant contractor’s bag filled with clothing on top of a large pile of long-term food containers. “Almost thirty years we’ve been here. I’d say I did a pretty good job of keeping the place clutter-free.”

“I guess.” Claire shrugged. “But there’s still a ton of stuff left.”

“The operative word in that sentence is stuff,” Barb replied. “A family with three women can gather quite a collection over three decades.”

“Yeah. I noticed that Dad’s things didn’t take up a lot of space.”

“Maybe so, but when he did spend money, it wasn’t for anything cheap. Remember what your uncle used to say about that?”

Claire laughed. “Men will spend twice the price for something they need, and women will spend half the price for something they don’t.”

“Your dad’s toys were few and far between, but what he lacked in purchasing volume, he more than made up for in the price.”

Claire stood on their circular driveway and stared back at her childhood home. The window shades had been drawn and outdoor furniture in both the front and back were now stored in the now empty horse barn.

“Do we lock it up?” Claire asked.

“No. If someone wants to get in, I’d rather they left the door on its hinges. Now let’s go. I’m sure Caroline is wondering where we are.”

“Yeah! She and Rob left hours ago with the horses. I’m not complaining here, but she sure knows how to disappear when there’s work to do.”

“We’ll see.” Barb cranked the old truck’s motor. “Setting up a temporary stall isn’t that easy, especially when all you have is tarps, rope, and some trees.”

With a final backwards glance, Claire jumped into the passenger’s seat. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled onto Bragg’s dirt road.

“Hey, look!” Claire said.

A few hundred yards from Bragg’s partially buried Quonset hut that the former Army sergeant called home, a small sinkhole pond was now lined with the Kramers’ solar panels. Bragg and the good doctor were stringing the last of their electric conduits to metal U-posts, the kind used to string up a chicken wire fence.

Barb stopped the truck, and both Claire and Barb got out. Kramer was unrolling the electric line from a large spool as he backed into the woods bordering the small body of water.

“Gerry Kramer, what the heck do you think you’re doing?”

“Hooking up our new home,” he replied as he continued to move deeper into the oak-canopied copse of trees.

Barb jogged toward him as he smiled and continued to unspool the plastic-covered cord. His face was smeared with mud and grease while his clothes were caked with God knows what else. She was about to scold him when she stopped and stared at their new polished-silver home.

Kramer’s smile grew when he saw his wife’s jaw drop.

“It’s an Airstream!” He grunted as more conduit dropped from the wire-wrapped spool. “Grafton helped Bragg drag it over here before they left.”

“But… does it work?” Barb asked.

“I don’t know why, but everything seems to be functioning. Bragg thinks it might be that the electronics weren’t hooked up when the EMP hit. Once I got power to it, the thing lit up like it was still in the showroom. Now, once we hook up the solar panels, we’ll be living in high cotton!”

“Mom?” Claire shouted from the parked truck. “What’s going on?”

Kramer stopped unspooling and nodded toward a tree-covered opening in the brush, about fifty yards up the road from the pond.

“She can park there. We made a path to the Airstream from that spot earlier today,” he said to his wife.

Barb walked quickly out of the woods. “Claire! Go get your sister, then drive back to that opening and park the truck. Then follow the path into the woods,” Barb yelled, as she pointed to the newly cleared parking space.

Immediately, Claire returned to the pick-up and gunned the engine, then sped up the driveway. Barb returned back into the trees.

“Almost there,” Kramer mumbled as he continued to unwind more conduit.

“We put the combiner box back by the lake. We decided to put the panels near the pond so that, from the air, they would blend in with the water when looking from above. I just have to hook this line into the charge controller, and since we’re using an RV, I don’t need an inverter. All the appliances use direct current.”

“You think I just understood that? All I want to know is when we’ll have power.”

“Already do. The batteries from the house had a good charge when I took them and I’ve already hooked them up to the Airstream.”

Kramer checked a makeshift breaker he’d put between the controller box and the batteries. The lever was in the “off” position. Now that he was sure he wouldn’t get a jolt from the already powered batteries, he attached the single, heavy-gauge electric wire to the solar controller.

“How’re ya doin down there?” Kramer yelled to Bragg.

“Yer all set, Doc!”

“Really, Gerry. You’re starting to sound like him!” Barb complained.

“Well, I wish I could take that as a complement.” he replied as he rotated the breaker box lever to the “on” position, connecting the solar panels to the rest of the system.

“In today’s world, men like Bragg are at the top of the food chain. No more high-priced attorneys. No more fancy investment advisors. It’s all about the people with blue-collar knowledge. They’re the ones keeping everyone alive.”

“And you?” Barb asked.

“Yeah. Doctors are pretty high up there too. But soon enough, if things don’t change, I won’t be much more than a witch doctor using herbs and concoctions instead of antibiotics and beta-blockers.”

Kramer looked at the solar setup’s gauges and smiled with satisfaction as the needle bounced off the zero position and showed a steady charge being sent to the batteries.

“We’ve got current!” Kramer yelled at Bragg as the old sergeant wobbled up the newly beaten-down path.

“Of course, yer got kerant!” he replied. “Ol’ Vernon ain’t no dummy.”

“Never thought you were. I’m just surprised I hooked it up properly.”

“Truth be told, so am I,” Bragg said with a raspy chuckle.

Bragg shuffled over to the Airstream’s metal door and opened it for Barb. Removing his boonie hat, he bowed to her.

“Ma’am. Yer carriage is waitin’ fer ya!”

“Sir,” she deadpanned, “I am honored.”

Barb stepped up into the elevated door and gasped. “My God, Gerry. It’s beautiful.”

“It’ll do for now,” Kramer said. “A bit tight for four people, but hopefully, this won’t be for too long. The sleeping arrangements aren’t going to be the best. These things don’t have slide outs, so what you see is what you get.”

“It’s thirty-three feet!” Bragg added. “Yer gonna have plenty of room.”

“Sleeping may be tight,” Kramer continued, ignoring the old man’s comment. “But the bathroom really makes up for that.”

Barb followed her husband to the back and stopped in front of a closed, cherry wood door.

“Go on in. Check it out.”

Barb pushed by her husband and into the bathroom. The back quarter of the large, aluminum tube was nothing, if not extraordinary.

“I never would’ve imagined!”

“Plenty of room,” Bragg said.

“Well,” Barb said as she scanned the cherry-paneled washroom. “The countertop space might be an issue with three women.”

“Makeup isn’t a problem anymore,” Kramer said. “Plus, just like back home, I’d prefer not to use blow-dryers or curling irons. They eat too much juice.”

Barb stood silently, then began to nod her head slowly. “You’re right, Gerry. This will be just fine. In fact, it will be perfect.”

“Wow. Mark the calendar,” Kramer said. “Today, Gerry Kramer was right.”

“Stuff it, Gerry. You act like you’re never right.”

He smiled. “Okay. Name the last time you said I was right about anything.”

Barb stood for a moment, then shook her head. “Gerry Kramer, it’s not my fault that you are so rarely correct.”

Bragg about gagged as his cigarette-encrusted lungs spasmed from his sudden laughter. The old man could barely breathe as he struggled to gain control.

“Well, that just about confirms my feelin’s ’bout marriage. Ain’t met a woman yet that wasn’t gonna try ta change ol’ Vernon. Even you two’r just like all the others I seen. Ain’t no woman gonna tell me what ta do. That’s why I ain’t never been married.”

Barb bit her tongue. She was a firm believer that you shouldn’t open your mouth unless you were absolutely sure that your foot wasn’t in the neighborhood.

Kramer stared at his wife, his eyes alit as he waited for a response that he was sure would follow. But after an uncomfortable ten seconds, he nodded at his wife’s restraint.

“I’ll bet it’s been difficult keeping all the women from latching on to you,” Kramer said, egging on the old salt.

“Yer ain’t got no clue,” Bragg replied with a sincere voice. “I’da been hitched a couple of times if’n I hadn’t caught myself. It done took a lot of willpower ta keep myself free.”

Barb couldn’t take it anymore. She burst out laughing, all control gone as she bent at the waist. “I think I just peed my pants,” she groaned between laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Bragg barked.

“No… Nothing’s funny,” Barb said as she finally caught her breath. “I’m just laughing at any woman foolish enough to pass all this by.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Bragg replied, unaware of Barb’s sarcasm. “But ain’t no woman ever gotten their claws in ol’ Vernon. Now, I’m gonna go back ta my place. You two just enjoy yer little ‘love palace’ and come on up to my house when yer finished.”

“Thanks, Sergeant!” Kramer said as he waved and closed the door.

Barb stood with an ear-to-ear grin. “Really, Gerry, I peed my pants. I’ll go change them! I want to get the girls organized. We have sleeping arrangements to make.”

Barb began to empty some of the boxes Kramer and Ed Grafton had brought up earlier. As she was rummaging through a bag of her clothes, they heard their truck careening down the dirt road and skid to a stop nearby.

“Mom!” Claire shouted. “Dad! Mom!”

Both parents rushed out the door as Claire came running up the path, crying and clutching a piece of writing paper.

“She’s gone!” Claire yelled. “She’s gone with Rob!”

“What?” Barb gasped.

Claire was shaking, her breathing short and rapid as she handed the note to her mother. Barb took the paper and began reading, her left hand covering her mouth as tears began to roll down her cheek.

Kramer grabbed the note and began to read as Barb hugged Claire, both of them softly sobbing.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I know you won’t understand why I’m leaving, but please know that I will miss you both terribly. Rob and I are in love. I know you think we are too young, but you are wrong. I just couldn’t stand losing him and he’s got to go north to help the Resistance. I would have died if I let that happen.

Mr. Porter thinks you gave me permission, so if you see him, don’t blame him. He’s staying here to fight, but Mr. Grafton and Rob are going to one of the bases up north to help fix all the broken Army trucks and Jeeps. I have to be with him. I love you all, but I love Rob too. Please forgive me. I will try and let you know where we end up. But when this all ends, I will see you back home. Take care of Claire for me. She doesn’t have anyone like I do.

Love,

Caroline

“Gerry, we have to stop her!” Barb cried. “We can’t lose another child like this.”

“You two go in the RV and start to organize. I’ll get Bragg and see if we can get her back.”

Thirty minutes later, a defeated father entered the Airstream and gave his wife and daughter the bad news. Caroline and Rob were already gone. Even Porter didn’t know their destination. A few of his men were escorting Grafton and his mechanics, along with Caroline and almost a dozen younger students from Monteverde Academy. Their final destination was classified, and there was strict radio silence. God willing, she would end up at a secure base somewhere in the Southeast. But when all was said and done, she was gone and there was nothing anyone could do to change that. Kramer’s world had shrunk by one child, once again.

CHAPTER FIVE

MINOT AIR FORCE BASE

5TH BOMB WING

CAPTAIN MATHERS’S QUARTERS

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

— C.S. Lewis

THE RUMORS BEGAN THE DAY following Captain Clark “C-Mat” Mathers’s airstrike in Tennessee. After returning, Mathers bragged about the ass-whopping he’d given the enemy. Two B-52s had dumped their bombs on a column of foreign fighters, evaporating them from the face of the earth. At least, that’s what everyone thought. But the rumors of a massive airstrike on US soldiers began to circulate, and soon after, it was confirmed that C-Mat and his bombers had decimated American troops, and not some foreign invading force. When confronted with these rumors, their contacts at DHS had congratulated him on a perfect mission, explaining that the armor and men he’d destroyed were part of a rebel force that had turned on the nation.

C-Mat didn’t dare believe that he’d killed his own kind, but with the help of his girlfriend, who was a Signals Intelligence Analyst, it was confirmed that he’d wiped out several thousand American souls. Worse, he was told that it had likely included their families and other civilians.

Days of struggling with his actions soon followed, which led to nights of binge drinking. He was placed on medical leave, but with no psychiatric assets available to help cure his growing guilt, he’d taken to drinking bourbon on an epic scale. Friends and senior officers visited during the day, when C-Mat had it together long enough to avoid appearing out of control. But sleep brought night terrors, and soon alcohol became his drug of choice, leading to blind drunkenness.

Last night’s bender, nearly a month after the fateful bombing run, had been especially hard on his body. The light from the mid-morning sun was bleeding through the drawn curtains, stabbing the back of his brain. The pain from his head blended with the agony in his soul, creating an unbearable strain on his will to live.

Glancing briefly at his government-issued nightstand, Mathers saw the remnants of his evening’s debauchery. A 1.75-liter bottle of Old Grand-Dad Whiskey stood sentinel over him, its contents still kneading his brain into a painful putty.

Mathers grimaced then reached for the bottle to drain the last inch of the brown poison. The harsh burn jolted his system, confirming the theory of “hair of the dog.” His vision cleared slightly, and his head felt a little less full.

Mathers dropped the empty bottle on the floor beside him and stretched. With nothing to look forward to, he felt no joy at the rising sun. Another day of existence just meant one more day of pain. If he’d had a firearm, he would have eaten a bullet. Dying of lead poisoning would have been a welcome end to his perpetual suffering.

A knock on his door did little, other than elicit a groan from the depressed Air Force officer. Ten seconds of silence brought a more ardent rap and Mathers groaned at the assault on his misery.

“Come in, dammit!” Mathers croaked.

A small, female-sounding voice called out. “Clark? You all right?”

“Yeah, Jessica. Sorry about the mess.”

Senior Airmen Jessica Waters cautiously slid into the room. It had been days since anyone had seen or heard from her friend. Waters understood why after seeing the mess and smelling the stale whiskey in the air of the disheveled room.

“I just wanted to check up on you,” Waters said.

“Well, you’ve checked. Anything else?” Mathers blurted out. His head was beginning to pound again. The stress of seeing an uninvited guest, especially the one who had given him the horrific news about his civilian target, was already tightening the vice that was squeezing his brain.

Waters crept into the room, quietly sliding up to Mathers as the hungover captain lay on his unkempt bed, his left arm draped over his eyes. She gently touched Mathers’s elbow, running her hand down his arm.

Gently stroking the broken man’s scalp, she bent over and whispered, “Please, Clark. Come back to me.”

Mathers could feel his eyes begin to well up. The two of them had become an item these past few months. Neither had been married before the EMP took out the grid, and soon after the event, they found themselves in each other’s arms. Officers and enlisted personnel were forbidden to interact in the before, but now these affairs were given tacit approval by the base command’s blind eye.

Since the day after the bombing run, the two of them had barely spent an hour alone. Mathers had hurled himself into a deep pit of self-despair, and Waters hadn’t found a way to help him back up. Finally, after a week of trying, she had given up. It was apparent that either Mathers would come back of his own free will, or he’d find a way to check out of the world. One way or another, Waters knew his decision would be made without her input.

Mathers wiped his eyes, the tears draining back through his lacrimal canal, finally finding his sinus. He sniffed the salty liquid down and looked up at Waters, who was staring at him with a sad but hopeful gaze.

“I’m not good company right now,” Mathers said. “You’d be better off somewhere else.”

“Sorry, cowboy, I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“That’s a ringing endorsement for our relationship,” Mathers replied jokingly. “I thought it was more than that.”

“Yeah, well. You take what you can get.” Waters leaned down and gently kissed him on the lips. Her warmth spread down his face and neck, and a tightening began in his stomach and groin, reminding him of what had once been between them. But that connection was quickly drowned out by the wave of guilt that refused to subside within him.

“Don’t,” Mathers said. “You don’t deserve someone like me.”

“No,” Waters replied. “You don’t deserve someone like me. But that’s my choice and not yours, so deal with it.”

Mathers sat up and spun around, his feet touching the floor for the first time in almost a day. He rubbed the back of his neck and groaned as his liver continued its uphill battle to rid his system of the acetates and other partially metabolized byproducts of his last bender.

“I must look like shit,” he said.

“I hope you feel as bad as you look. Maybe this will finally pull you away from the bottle.”

Mathers just sat frozen, afraid any movement of his sore and aching muscles would add to his brain’s agony.

“This may actually have done it,” Mathers said after a full minute of silence and pain. “I’ve never had a hangover like this one.”

“Well, if you’re done punishing yourself, I think a shower would do you some good. You smell as bad as you look.”

Mathers cracked a slight grin, his first in over a month.

“Ah. A light still shines within. Why don’t you get in there and scrub off that layer of filth. I’ll wait.”

Mathers nodded and shuffled into the connected bathroom. He gently bent into the stall and turned the shower’s lever, adjusting the temperature until a blanket of steam billowed out. He stripped and eased himself into the cascading liquid, letting the heat and moisture soak into his aching muscles. It felt divine. For the first time in many weeks, he forgot about his troubles and let his body relax.

A minute or two later, Mathers heard the clasp on the shower’s glass door snap open and within seconds, Jessica was at his side.

“Hi. I thought you could use some help.”

“Jess, I don’t think I’m in any kind of mood.”

Waters took a washcloth that was hanging on the top of the door. After soaking it in the shower’s stream, she took a bar of soap and created a foamy lather. She began to gently wipe down his back while Mathers leaned into the hot water.

Waters continued working the cloth over his body while Mathers used his shampoo to clean the grease from his hair. He rinsed off the grime as Jessica took the soap and rolled it back and forth in her hands, creating a soapy lather. He turned to her and she smiled.

“Just one more place to clean.” And she began to clean his lower stomach. As she continued down his body, he softly grabbed her hands.

“Jess. I don’t think I can.”

She smiled coyly. “We’ll see.”

Within a few moments, the steam, soap, and her gentle touch did the trick, and looking down, they both knew that he’d finally escaped the darkness.

***

The next day, Mathers spent his morning cleaning up his life. The room was torn down, and the bathroom had been sterilized. Trash was collected and the detritus of a month’s worth of self-pity, including a slew of empty liquor bottles, filled an entire contractor’s garbage bag. He got a haircut and took his dirty clothes and Service Dress Uniform to the base’s laundry, where an enterprising civilian had set up a dry-cleaning facility. His clothes would be ready by tomorrow.

A growling in his stomach reminded him of last night’s escapades with Waters. She had drained his remaining energy and he needed the kind of calories that weren’t connected with an alcoholic beverage. Mathers was walking to the base’s dining facility for his first meal in a week, when he heard his name and turned to see a short, thickly muscled man striding toward him.

“Captain Mathers. Glad to see you up and about,” Chief Master Sergeant Robertson called out.

Seeing the Fifth Bomb Wing’s chief master sergeant walking with a purpose directly toward him made Mathers glad he’d straightened himself out.

“Chief. Good to see you too.” Mathers smiled and after the appropriate exchange of salutes, he stuck out his hand. Mathers received a crushing squeeze back as the two men shook.

Robertson studied Mathers’s eyes and gave the captain an approving nod. “You clean up well, but it looks like you could use a good meal.”

“Yeah, a good meal sounds great, but I’m going to the dining hall instead.”

“Ha! Still the joker. Good. You’ve got your head right again. You’ll be needed for what we’ve got planned. Report to Colonel Cochran’s office after you’ve had something to eat. I’ll let him know you’re up and about.”

“Excuse me?”

“Listen, Clark. We all know what you went through. I can’t imagine it. But there may be a way for you to get some retribution. Just get something in your gut and stop by the CO’s office at 1400. You’ll be expected.”

With that, Robertson spun on his heels and strode away. Mathers smiled as he realized he’d just been given an order by an airman several ranks below him. But even with the difference in military grade, Mathers had no doubt that ignoring Robertson’s order would not be in his best interest. He checked his watch and saw that he still had a couple hours before he had to present himself to the colonel. Plenty of time to get some chow and maybe find Waters for a little more mattress therapy.

CHAPTER SIX

MINOT AIR FORCE BASE

OFFICE OF COLONEL GLENN COCHRAN

MINOT AFB BASE COMMANDER

“Sometimes by losing a battle, you find a new way to win the war.”

— Donald Trump

“AS OF TWO DAYS AGO, a new Southern Command has been operating out of MacDill in Tampa. The president has lost control of the military,” Cochran said. “After careful consideration of this rapidly changing situation, I’ve called this meeting to decide if we’re going to continue to serve the President or take orders from Tampa.”

A murmur ran through the group. Most nodded appreciatively, while a few sat in stunned silence.

“The special ops guys have strung up communication with our allies overseas. At the moment, we’ve got some overhead coverage from the Australians. They’ve repositioned one of our Indian Ocean spy satellites closer to CONUS. With new images and some recent reports from foreign intel assets, we’ve determined that both Russia and China are moving troops our way.”

“I don’t understand why this is happening,” Mathers blurted.

“The president approved this, Mathers. It’s an official United Nations mission. Why wouldn’t they accept that invitation?” Robertson replied tersely.

“Sir, with all due respect. Following this new military command is treasonous,” Colonel Richard Sheehan, commander of the Fifth Bomber Wing said.

“I know it’s a tough call. But in my opinion, the president has abdicated his primary responsibility to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States. I, for one, plan on upholding that vow. And re-establishing a functional homeland defense is job one,” Cochran said.

Sheehan sat stoically, while the rest of the group nodded in agreement.

“Our intel guys have concluded that the Chinese armada is heading for San Francisco as we speak,” the base commander grimly continued.

Most of the group shook their heads in disgust, staring at the white board that Cochran had been using. The list of Chinese ships included their entire East Sea blue fleet along with almost two dozen commercial freighters. All told, there were nine destroyers, eighteen frigates, ten corvettes, multiple supply vessels, and an unknown number of diesel and nuclear submarines now half way to the American coast.

“Satellite images show that the freighters are carrying much more than supplies. Those pictures confirm information provided to us by our Australian friends that both the First and 164th Brigades of the Chinese Marines are being transported by those civilian freighters. That’s over 12,000 highly-trained individuals. There are now over 30,000 foreign invaders that will be sitting off of our western shores within the week,” Cochran said.

“So, the Signals Intel folks see an invasion. Not an intervention,” Sheehan concluded.

“Exactly,” Cochran said. “Those people are coming here with bad intentions. There is no other way to look at this.”

“And the Navy is letting them just waltz right in?” Robertson asked.

“By order of the president, the Navy was told to stand down. They’ve just passed a thousand miles north of Pearl Harbor. Given their present speed, they’ll be off the coast in four days, five at the max.”

The room went silent as each man stared at the other. Over a minute passed by as an awkward silence hung thickly over the room. One man finally stirred and leaned onto the large conference table.

“We’ve got to stop them,” Mathers blurted out.

Like lancing a boil, his statement released a building pressure. Most of them began to nod their heads up and down in agreement. It was treasonous to even think what Mathers had actually said, but most of them knew he was right.

“What about other civilian leadership? Isn’t there anyone in the line of succession that can override the president?” Colonel Sheehan asked.

“None that has stepped forward,” Cochran replied. “There’s been no official communication from anyone other than the presidential bunker at Greenbrier.”

“Has anyone contacted Fort Knox and General Lester? He’s got to give some input here,” Sheehan said.

“No one’s told you yet? He shot himself early this morning after his wife succumbed to an overdose of sleeping pills. He’s in a coma and isn’t expected to live,” Cochran answered.

“Holy hell,” Sheehan gasped.

“DHS is now running Southern Command out of Kentucky. And as you gentleman all know, that was the last command with military leadership. Homeland is now officially in charge of all of our fighting forces.”

The distaste for Cochran’s last statement left a stench with each of them.

“What’s our next step?” Sheehan asked.

“That’s why we’re here,” Cochran said. “We need to decide where our loyalties lie.”

“The Constitution. We swore an oath to protect and defend it,” Sheehan said.

“But is the president within the Constitution now?” Cochran asked.

“He’s doing what he thinks is right,” Sheehan replied. “That’s what he was elected to do.”

“What if it is not a matter of countermanding a presidential order?” Mathers joined in. “Maybe he doesn’t know that the freighters are carrying the Chinese Marine Corps. Have we contacted the bunker and informed the president about that?”

“Yeah. He knows,” Cochran said. “SIGINT has been in constant communication with the bunker. They’ve relayed all the intelligence and satellite images to the president. That’s the problem. He and his staff are pretending the armada is purely humanitarian. He is either ignoring the invasion or he wants it. Either way, he’s not protecting the Constitution. He’s either incompetent or a traitor.”

“Now what?” Sheehan asked the room.

“We’ve gotten in contact with the 101st down in Tampa. They’ve re-established communication with most of the special forces community as well as bases overseas,” Cochran said. “They want to take back control of the military. If they do that, we need to decide who we’re going to follow. The president or the new military leadership.”

“The president is our Constitutional authority,” Sheehan immediately replied.

“But is the president following his Constitutional duties?”

“That’s not our job to determine,” Sheehan shot back. “We serve at his discretion. If he fails at his duties, then he needs to be impeached. By congress and not a military coup.”

Cochran took a deep breath and replied. “There is no one to impeach him, and that’s our dilemma. There are no more checks and balances.”

“I don’t like this one bit,” Sheehan said. “It goes against everything we’ve taken an oath to defend.”

“Unfortunately, our civilian leaders are not adhering to their oath, and good wishes are not going to stop a Chinese invasion. We’re dealing with that reality, and it’s heading our way, whether we like it or not.”

Cochran stood and began to pace back and forth. “As base commander, I could command all of you to follow my orders. But I would never do that. I want your input and more importantly, I want your approval. We can discuss this for one more hour, then I’ll make a final judgement. If you don’t approve of my decision, you’re free to resign. I will respect your choice. You and your families can continue to live on base so there won’t be any repercussions.”

An hour later, at the request from the leadership at MacDill, Cochran drew up orders for the destruction of the Chinese armada. The only officer who dissented was Colonel Sheehan. He resigned immediately after the vote had been taken.

As he stood to leave the room, Sheehan turned back to face the table. “I think you’re wrong. But I pray you’re right. May God have mercy on us all.”

The planning stage took very little time. Mathers would captain his B-52, armed with their recently acquired W80-1 nuclear-tipped cruise missiles. Each 150-kiloton weapon could produce an air blast of nearly two and a half miles and inflict thermal burns another five kilometers away. A tsunami wave measuring hundreds of feet tall would rush out from the center of the detonation, damaging and potentially capsizing any vessel.

The problem was that the Chinese armada was spread out over a fifty-mile circumference, so Mathers needed to send a full spread of missiles during his attack run. He was capable of carrying twenty of these ALCMs (Air-Launched Cruise Missile), although he wasn’t going to have to use them all.

CHAPTER SEVEN

OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN

47°07’58”N, 147°34’09”W

CAPTAIN CLARK MATHERS

“It is fatal to enter any war without the will to win it.”

— Douglas MacArthur

“TWO MINUTES,” MATHERS’S WEAPONS OFFICER said, indicating their long journey was near an end just twenty-four hours after the decision to take out the Chinese fleet had been made.

The bomber hugged the Pacific Ocean, using its onboard computer to fly below 500 feet. This prevented detection by the Chinese radar. With no land mass to provide visual references, manually maintaining altitude at this level was impossible, and the giant aircraft would likely be swimming in the ocean below.

For the prior two hours, Mathers and his crew had been strapped into their chairs as the BUFF flew itself toward the oncoming armada.

In the bay behind them were internally mounted pylons that were carrying the BUFF’s nuclear-tipped cruise missiles. With a fifty-mile-wide circle to cover, four nukes had been tasked for the first use of nuclear weapons against an enemy force in almost seventy years. Three detonations spaced around the perimeter of the target area, as well as one more near the center, would give a ninety-five percent confidence of wiping out the armada.

The need to strike quickly had been driven by two major concerns. The first was limiting fallout on the continental United States (CONUS). The further out, the better. The second was far more practical. The cruise missiles, once launched, relied heavily on its onboard GPS computer. The EMP had destroyed some of the Global Positioning System satellites over the North American continent, and the cruise missiles had to have that information to reach their designated coordinates. Out in the Pacific, unaffected GPS satellites continued to operate, providing the nukes with their needed guidance.

As the aircraft approached its launch point, the computer began to lift the large bomber into the air, gaining needed altitude so that the missiles could be disgorged from its belly.

“Coming up to one thousand feet,” Mathers heard his WEPS say in his headset.

His weapons officer continued to drone on as the BUFF’s computers connected to the GPS satellites. All Mathers could think about was the thousands of souls he’d inadvertently killed in his last bombing run in the northern Tennessee skies. He barely heard the computer’s confirmation commands and his crew’s responses. He felt, rather than heard the call, that the first missile had dropped from its internal rack. The bomber lifted then compensated for the sudden loss of weight, and then a second cruise missile was dispensed into the clear, Pacific sky. One by one, the nuclear-tipped missiles were released from their nests, each dropping a hundred feet before their own onboard engines ignited. Mathers could see them as they sped away then watched as they dropped to the deck, avoiding the enemy’s radar.

“Well, we just lifted our skirt,” his copilot said, recognizing their bomber just became visible to the advancing fleet. “I’m sure we just caused some Chinese radar operator to shit his pants.”

C-Mat smiled as he thought about that visual. Their release point was less than two hundred miles from the Chinese, so the subsonic missiles could reach their targets before the Chinese fleet could make a significant change of course.

“Back onto the deck,” C-Mat said, engaging the computer to take them below enemy radar and away from the oncoming devastation.

The BUFF dropped back down to five hundred feet and banked to the east. The four missiles hugged the ocean, each traveling to their appropriate GPS coordinates. The missiles designated for detonation nearest to the release point began a slow turn, taking their time so the furthest target could be reached, and the detonations synchronized.

The original plan was to release the missiles over a thousand miles from their target. The normal doctrine was to fire from a stand-off position, minimizing the risks to the lumbering giant bomber. But they couldn’t be sure of the reliability of the GPS coverage, and so instead, it was decided to release just a few hundred miles from the Chinese fleet. Now traveling at 550 miles per hour, the cruise missiles would detonate in less than twenty minutes. Even if the surface ships began immediate emergency course adjustments, the vast majority of their targets would still be within the blast zone.

As time ticked by, thermal drafts from the ocean were creating a roller coaster ride for the crew. Mathers felt none of it. He was still dwelling on his culpability in the Tennessee incident; he’d hoped that the launch of the missiles would bring him some level of satisfaction. But it hadn’t. He still felt small and guilty.

“Detonation in five, four, three, two, one…” the weapons officer said.

Multiple flashes lit up the compartment of the B-52. Like cameras at a red-carpet event, several seconds of intense white light burst forth from the ocean several hundred miles away, behind the lumbering aircraft.

“Holy shit!” the co-pilot shouted.

Mathers took manual control of the bomber and eased the yoke back and right. The BUFF rose and banked to the south, providing the crew with a front-row view of four mushroom clouds billowing skyward.

Mathers felt a weight lift. The sight of the armada disintegrating before his eyes brought some measure of peace after all. They had just saved millions of Americans from subjugation or certain death. His co-pilot turned and smiled. Mathers clasped the man’s shoulder and returned the grin. Leaning back, the tortured captain let out a loud rebel yell.

“Well boys, let’s head back to the barn,” Mathers said.

Refusing to re-engage the flight computer, he manually brought the BUFF back on course. He was going to fly them home.

“Steak and bourbon tonight!” the co-pilot shouted.

Mathers nodded and smiled. Maybe bourbon for the others, but for him it would be steak and a glass of sweet tea. After a month of drunken self-destruction, there was no way he was going to risk going back down that rabbit hole and put himself on Waters’s shit-list again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A.J. BIANCHI’S HOUSE

RESISTANCE HEADQUARTERS

ORLANDO, FLORIDA

CHARLIE

“A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; An optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.”

— Winston Churchill

“THE RUSSIANS CHANGE EVERYTHING,” A.J. said. “We can look at this as a setback, or an opportunity.”

A.J. had over forty fighters crammed into his house. Each was armed with an AR-15 variant and outfitted with battle belts and PVS-14 night vision goggles. One laser-guided bomb would had ended this Resistance pod in a flash.

“Our contact at DHS,” A.J. said, staring at John, who knew it was likely Tasha. “Has given us some amazing intelligence. It seems that the Russians are setting up multiple A.O.s. Each area of operation is centered around a large staging zone.”

Bianchi flipped a cloth that was hanging over an easel, revealing an oversized map of Orlando. Circled in thick red marker were multiple sites located around the city.

“These are the locations of the new Russian bases. The first one,” A.J. said, pointing to the south of town, “is at OIA. The airport is going to be home to the Eighty-Fifth Russian Helicopter Squadron. They’ve got MI-8 Hips and MI-24 Hinds. That’s a shitload of firepower.”

A.J. stopped in thought, then continued. “I think the best way to describe the Hip is that it’s like our Blackhawk but can carry twenty-four troopers instead of eleven. It’s an old machine, but reliable. It can defend itself, but it’s slower than the Hawk. From a practical standpoint, they’re going to be a real problem from this point forward. They’ll be able to put soldiers anywhere in the city within fifteen minutes of takeoff. And we don’t have anything to take them out.”

A low murmur spread throughout the room. A.J. waited for the din to subside. He reminded me of a conductor transitioning from one orchestral movement to the next.

“However,” he said in a low voice. The room stilled. His command of his people was impressive. “You know I always have a plan.”

A few chuckles and grunts of agreement wound their way among the group.

“Here is where we need to be tomorrow.” A.J. pointed at a spot well south of town. “The bulk of the Russian forces are scheduled to arrive in a few days. In the meantime, they have some advance forces that are pre-positioning material at these circled locations. They have troops on the ground here and here.” A.J. pointed at the Orlando Auto Auction on the west side of town, and the Seminole Auto Auction in Sanford.

“Hey, that Seminole Auction is near my home,” Mike whispered to me.

“But they’re not at full strength,” A.J. continued. “Oh, and one more thing. They’re bringing light armor, so we need to hit them now before they consolidate themselves.”

“To what purpose?” Tank asked. “Give ’em a bloody nose then run and hide?”

“Au contraire,” A.J. replied. “The Russians are running a convoy from OIA to their new base at the Orlando Auto Auction west of town. I think it is time we upped our game. They have what we need. People, the greatest military store we could ever ask for is coming to the City Beautiful, and we’re going to go shopping.”

He flipped the map over the back of the easel, revealing a large, white sheet with a list of Russian supplies. There were several tons of 7.62x39 ammunition for their AK variant battle rifles as well palates of food and personal supplies.

“Once you get past the things we can’t use, we get to the end of the manifest.” Pointing near the bottom of the long list, he had circled six or seven lines on the page. Several men gasped and grunted in approval. “If we can get even a third of those goodies, we could put a real hurt on the enemy. The targeted convoy will be carrying eight Grinch anti-air weapons, four Kord machine guns with ammunition, eight Kornet anti-tank guided missiles, four Kovrov anti-material sniper rifles, and twelve RPGs with night sights.”

“How the hell are we going to transport all this stuff? It’ll weigh a ton.” Tank asked.

“We’ll drive it out of there. The Russians haven’t gotten their air assets up and running yet, and the DHS drones are going to be down. One of our people inside DHS has access to their hangar.”

“You’re not seriously planning on having Tasha sabotage our drone!” John yelled out.

A.J. squeezed his lips together. He obviously wasn’t used to being interrupted. After a moment to collect himself, he continued. “John, we have more than one asset inside DHS. The plan is to sabotage both drones while they are being serviced.”

“That’s quite a trick. How are you going to pull that off?” Cyn asked.

“It’s being handled. Truthfully, that’s the least of our worries. The hard part is going to be getting the supplies without damaging them.”

“I suppose, you have a plan for that,” Tank said.

“Ah, my friend. You know me too well.” A.J. reached behind the easel and lifted a paper grocery bag. “There are two things that can make every military man lose his mind. Tank, name one.”

“Girls,” Tank shouted.

The group laughed, even the women chuckled and nodded their heads. Young men were often consumed by the vapors—perfume, the smell of fermented grains, and the smell of gasoline. Women, booze, and cars were the bane of a young man’s mind, especially testosterone-laden soldiers.

“Yeah. That’ll stop most guys in their tracks,” A.J. agreed.

“Booze!” Kern yelled, earning a rousing cheer from the group.

“What I’d give for a good Old Fashioned,” one of the female rebels added.

“Well, Kate, we may be able to help you there,” A.J. replied. “Tank and Kern, I need your help.”

The three men walked into the home’s hallway and disappeared.

“Holy Shit!” Kern yelled from an adjacent room.

I looked at Cyn, who was as confused as any of us. She shrugged her shoulders and gave me an “I don’t have a clue” look. A minute later, Kern came out of the hallway carrying two large boxes of Vodka, each holding six 1.75-liter bottles. Tank and A.J. followed with their own load.

All of the rest of us crowded up to the front of the room where they deposited the cases of booze. I had to admit, a cold vodka tonic sounded amazing right then.

“Where’d you get those?” someone asked.

“Remember that ambush we set up on the Latin gang last week? Tank found their storage unit.”

“It used to be guarded, now it isn’t,” Tank darkly pronounced. “We found other stuff that A.J. says will be distributed later.”

“Now before you start planning the party,” A.J. interrupted. “I have a use for these. If everything goes according to plan, afterwards we’ll have plenty of reasons for raising a toast to our new Russian neighbors.”

“This I’ve got to hear,” John whispered.

Over the next few hours, we did what John called an MDMP. A military decision-making process meant laying out a goal, coming up with a plan to achieve that goal, then tearing that proposal down by finding potential pitfalls. Then you revise it, tear that new scheme down as well and so on. When we were finished, we had a plan to take down a Russian convoy and capture some valuable gear and material. It was crazy and reckless, but if it worked, we’d be set up to do some real damage to our invading friends. Everyone in the group loved the proposal except for three people. Cyn, one of the Resistance fighters named Kate, and me. Why would we women be less than thrilled with our plan? Well, I guess it had something to do with the fact that the three of us were going to become part of the bait. That sounded just freakin’ wonderful… Not.

BISHOP MOORE HIGH SCHOOL

LATER THAT DAY

A large school campus sat across the lake from A.J.’s house. The area had been cleared for months, so the four of us walked through some trees at the south end of the lake and came out onto the facility’s parking lot. Following Kern’s directions, we made our way to one of the school’s buildings. I could hear the muffled pops of gunfire as we approached a brown metal door.

I hadn’t fired my handgun or battle rifle in a while, and I’d not done any serious range work in my life. My introduction into SUT or small unit tactics, began after John, Mike, and Cyn got to my dad’s house. I got a crash course on proper patrolling techniques as well as learning terms such as hasty ambush, bounding fire, and advancing under suppressive fire. My head was spinning at first, but we were limited in our training. We couldn’t fire our weapons.

A.J. set up an indoor firing range in one of the wings of the school, and there was a large gymnasium where we could practice our squad tactics. It would be the first time I’d actually shot for accuracy in a range, with my squad mates watching.

One of the first things Cyn had taught me was proper weapons manipulation. We spent the better part of a week dry-firing my weapons. I practiced drawing my Glock from its holster, presenting the handgun in a safe and efficient manner, then punching out at the target to press the trigger. I drilled on proper technique with my A.R., presenting it to a target from a low ready position. We did this over and over again, to a point where I’d actually gotten blisters.

When I complained about all the “fake shooting,” Cyn admonished me.

“Girl, there’s no secret on how to become a good marksman. There aren’t any mysterious tactical techniques to make you a standout gun fighter. It’s the basics and doing them over and over until you are sick of it.”

“But how do I know if I’m on target?” I asked.

“Proper technique and muscle memory. Obviously, I can’t tell yet if you’re going to hit the bullseye because there’s no lead going downrange. But if you do it the way I teach you, you’ll be damn close when the time comes.”

She began to time my progress, eventually getting me to draw, aim, and press the trigger to about a second and a quarter. When I got a little cocky and sped it up further, she’d correct me.

“Your technique sucks! You’re going too fast. Slow it down and train your muscles. Remember, it’s not about who the fastest one is, but who puts a bullet on their target first. Just concentrate on the mechanics. Speed will come with practice.”

As we walked through the doorway and down the hall, I got nervous. Now we were going to learn how effective Cynthia had trained me. I hadn’t fired my dad’s Glock yet, and I had no idea how I was going to do.

There was a lull in the gunfire as we approached an open door to our right. A folding table sat at the entrance to the room, and laughter was coming from within.

“You still suck,” a man chuckled.

I walked in just as one of the three guys gave his friend the one-finger salute. Cyn and Mike followed while John stayed outside.

“He’s going to check out the gym,” Mike whispered as I stared back into the darkened hallway.

The shooting range used to be a classroom. Actually, it had been two classrooms since the wall separating them had been knocked down. Numbers had been painted on the wall to my right in five-yard increments. All told, there was a twenty-yard range with old tires and what looked like school books stacked against the far wall.

“Hey, dipshits. Is the range cold?” Cyn asked.

“Anytime our buddy Larry is shooting, it may as well be.”

“Safest place to be is in front of the target!” the other added.

Larry, the one who had flipped off his buddies, stood silently as a faint blush began to rise on his face.

Cyn strolled over to a table that had been stationed at the back of the room. She casually picked up a target and an index card then strolled down to the ten-yard line. Twenty-gauge metal wire was strung from one side of the room to the other at each five-yard interval. Cyn attached the paper target with a cloths-line clip then did the same with the index card.

“Hey there, missy,” one of the three said. “That index card’s for keeping track of your scores. The big one is the one you shoot at.”

All three chuckled as she walked back to the firing table.

“You’re wrong,” Cyn said, turning toward the targets. “The big one’s for my friend there.”

“Mike, timer please.”

Mike pulled out an old functioning smart phone, the one Cyn used to train me. He started up the shot timer app and pressed the reset button. “Ready, Top,” Mike said, using Cynthia’s rank of first sergeant in DHS.

“Range is going hot,” Cyn said, grinning. We all put in our ear protection.

“Range is hot!” Mike shouted.

In a lightning motion, Cynthia had her Glock out of the holster, punched out, and fired three shots.

“Time!” Cynthia asked Mike.

“Three-point-two,” Mike replied with a satisfied grin.

Downrange, the index card was rocking to and fro on the wire. The three men stopped their joking and stared. Cyn re-holstered her firearm and retrieved the card. Dropping it onto the firing line table, the rest of us leaned in to see two holes touching each other, dead-center. The third hole was a half an inch to the right.

She shook her head and admonished herself. “I knew I pushed that second shot.”

“No shot goes wasted when you know what you did wrong,” Mike said.

“That’s what happens when you don’t get range time. Shooting is a perishable skill.”

Cyn looked at me and smiled. “Your turn.”

The three other men didn’t move as Cynthia reviewed her previous instructions to me. “Now, take your time on the first shot. Remember the four steps I taught you. I’ll walk you through it. Ready?”

I stood with the balanced stance she’d drilled into me those weeks at my dad’s place.

“No, relax. Let’s do this one step at a time. Now draw your weapon.”

I gripped the Glock in the thigh rig strapped to my right leg. I pulled it out of its Kydex holster and felt a slight snap as the gun popped out of its place.

“Now tight to your stomach, mate with your left hand.”

I brought the Glock up in front of me and clasped the handgun with my off-hand.

“Now punch out at the target.”

I pushed the handgun out, extending both my arms until my elbows were straight.

“Press the trigger.”

I pushed the four-pound trigger and was surprised when a bullet discharged.

“Good. Now reverse the process.”

I drew the handgun back to my body, keeping the barrel pointed at the target. I released my left hand then followed a tight path back above my holster. I pushed the Glock down into the Kydex and heard a satisfying click as it snapped gently into place.

“There. Let’s go look.”

Cyn and I walked down to the target, and as I approached, I could see a hole punched into the paper. The concentric circles were marked about an inch apart. I was just two inches below and a half inch to the right of dead center.

“Not bad, kid. Especially since that was your first shot with that pistol.”

I beamed, but only for a moment. Cyn nodded her head back at the firing line. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of practicing to do.”

Over the next two hours, I put several hundred rounds downrange. Cyn stayed with me for the first half hour, making sure my technique was correct and encouraging me to increase my speed. At one point, I got sloppy again and tried to draw and shoot too quickly. As I pressed the trigger, I felt a sharp pain in my hand.

“OUCH!” I cried.

Looking at my right hand, I saw the webbing between my thumb and finger was cut and bleeding.

“Slide-bite!” Mike grunted. “Been there, done that.”

“Too fast!” Cyn admonished me. “Your grip got sloppy and you grabbed the Glock too high on the frame.”

The semi-automatic pistol had fired, sending the slide back to eject the spent casing. As it flew back forward, grabbing a bullet from the magazine and chambering the round, my skin got caught between the slide and the frame of the gun. I was learning the hard way that firearms were to be respected and that really fast didn’t translate into really good.

I stopped my training and went through my utility pouch that was attached to my battle belt. I kept some non-emergency stuff in one of the nylon kit’s zippered pockets and put a Band-Aid on the cut.

The three jokers who were there when we first came in had stayed, asking Cyn for her input. By the end of our practice session, all three had improved their skills. Even Larry was hitting his targets with effect. In the end, Cynthia had made quite a name for herself, and I turned out to be quite respectable. John and Mike were impressive; I expected nothing less.

“Not done,” John said. “Let’s take a lunch break and hit the gym when we’re through with our meal. I want to do some live-fire training with the rifles.”

***

There wasn’t a central commissary or kitchen. Everyone did their own thing, so we wandered outside to sit under a tree. We had been lucky with the weather so far. Late summer could be brutal but today, the temperature was under ninety degrees. That was downright frigid in Central Florida. With a breeze and the shade of an oak to protect us from the sun, I was actually comfortable. We all sat down, Mike and John leaning against the tree’s trunk.

John had been carrying one of those recyclable woven-cotton bags that stores gave out as a promotional item. “Got some grub from A.J.” He blindly reached into the sack and tossed Mike a package.

“YES!” Mike said. “Mexican stew!”

He repeated the process with Cyn and me, then shook the last MRE onto the ground. “You dog. I’ve got the pork sausage and gravy,” John griped.

The two of them started bartering for the contents of their packages. Mike wasn’t giving up on his Mexican chicken stew, but he did trade his M&Ms and crushed red pepper pack for John’s Pop-Tart.

I opened my brown envelope and dug out chili and macaroni while Cyn had fajitas. We all put our entrees into our self-heating pouches and poured in some water, activating the chemicals that would cook our food. We folded the top of the plastic pouches and leaned them against the tree’s roots. Soon, steam was wafting up, and a harsh chemical smell hit my nose.

“Oh God. That smells.”

“You get used to it,” Mike said as he pulled a protein bar out from his pants pocket.

“Hey! Where’d you get that?” Cyn complained.

“That dude Marcus. The one with the mohawk. He’s the group’s scrounger. Had to trade some of my dip for a box of these.”

Mike occasionally used Skoal and hoarded it like it was the key to heaven.

“You gave him a tin of your dip?” Cyn asked.

“No way!” Mike said. “I gave him some of my dip. He had an empty tin and put a few pinches in it.”

“Just how much of that stuff do you have?” I asked.

“Not enough, little lady. Not nearly enough.”

Mike contentedly chewed on the sweet-and-salty protein bar while our meals heated up. The energy bar was dense with nuts and didn’t have any chocolate or other gooey fillers that would melt in the summer heat.

John grunted and gave Mike a sideways glance. Mike noticed but didn’t do anything but smile as he took another large bite of the giant peanut-encrusted bar.

Soon enough, the steam died down, and we dumped the heated pouches onto the grass. Tearing them open, we greedily began to eat.

Mike let us all know what he thought of his food, grunting and smacking his lips. John’s food looked like runny dog food and smelled just as sketchy. After a spoonful or two of the clumpy, grey meal, he gave up.

“This is just awful.”

I looked at my chili-mac mixture and felt guilty, but only for a moment. I attacked the pouch without remorse while Cyn did the same with her fajitas.

Mike stared at us, a smirk on his face. “Too bad. This here is some fine grub.”

John let out a sigh and picked up another pouch that came in his meal pack. Taking his spoon, he dipped it into the package of granola and shoveled it into his mouth. “Not bad! It tastes like bananas.”

Within a minute, he’d finished the granola and let out a contented burp. We all mixed our electrolyte drinks into our bottled water. Three of us got the orange drink, but Mike had a lemon-lime. By the look on his face, I could tell he wasn’t all that thrilled.

“Too bad, big guy. I’d have swapped with you, but I guess that Mexican chicken will make up for the green death you’ll be drinking.”

“I hate this shit,” Mike complained. “I ain’t using this.”

“Here, big baby. Take mine and I’ll take yours,” John said.

Mike reached for the orange-filled bottle, but John pulled back. “I want your cheese-filled pretzels.”

“Bullshit. I’m not giving them up for some orange water.”

By the time they were through bickering, John had the lemon-lime liquid and the cheese-filled pretzels. Mike got John’s crackers and jalapeno cheese spread along with the orange drink. It was like watching two grade school kids trading baseball playing cards. When it was all said and done, they were both smiling like idiots, each one thinking they’d gotten the best of the deal.

“Children,” Cyn said as she looked at me, shaking her head.

None of us used the instant coffee package, so we stored them in our kit along with the pack of creamer and sugar that came with it. John surprised us all by dumping several packages of flaked red pepper and salt into the pouch of the soupy sausage and gravy. He tipped the brown envelope to his lips and drank the grey goop down.

“Ugh. That was just nasty,” Mike said.

John didn’t look all that pleased with what he had done then wiped his mouth with a towelette that came with the meal. “Need the calories,” was all he said.

He was right. Beggars can’t choose what’s given to them. Eventually, my time would come when I didn’t want to eat what was available. Tough shit. You do what you have to. Calories and sleep are always in short supply, and you take what you can, when you can. It is that simple.

After resting for about thirty minutes, we moved back to the school to continue our training. We formed our four-man squad and began to drill.

I didn’t realize how long creating rhythm between us would take. An hour into it, we still were stumbling along because Cyn was spending a great deal of time drilling into me the need to maintain safety as well as speed. Turning the fire select lever to safe before moving seemed silly, and I voiced it.

“Are we going to do this when we’re out there? I mean, don’t we lose time having to engage and release the safety?” I asked.

“There’s no reason to help the enemy by shooting your own people,” Cyn said. “You’ve got to remember that we won’t be alone out there, and I don’t want you accidentally popping off a round because you stubbed your toe or hit the ground hard when you go prone.”

“Things get confusing in battle.” John added. “Muzzle discipline isn’t always enough. Believe me, she’s right. Just trust her.”

I shut my mouth and did what I was told.

Eventually, we managed to form some semblance of teamwork, and the last hour found us working well. I thought I’d known those three before today. I knew some of John’s and Mike’s habits and facial expressions, but that was a far cry from this. Doing something kinetic with a small group and knowing where they were and what they’d be doing, all without having to look, was a whole new level of trust. I was surprised at how we gelled. At the end of it all, we all felt better about our squad and what we were capable of.

“Let’s do this again tomorrow,” Cyn said. “Then we’ll be ready for the operation.”

“Two days isn’t much, but I feel a lot better about us,” Mike said. “Just gotta see how Charlie does when her cherry gets popped.”

“Say what?” I yelled.

John and Cyn smiled. “When you see your first combat. That’s when your cherry gets busted.”

“I’ve seen combat,” I shot back.

Mike grinned. “We’ll see. There’s a big difference between fightin’ to survive and going into battle on purpose. You’ll see, little one. It’s the time before you fight that’s the hardest. There’s ain’t nothin’ like it.”

“I know how it is. I remember what it was like before a big swimming meet. I did just fine.”

“Swimming meet?” Cyn chuckled.

“Hey. We won the SEC championship. I’d say that was a lot of pressure.”

“I hope you’re right,” Mike said.

***

Our first night there, we’d claimed one of the nearby abandoned homes, so we went back there to drop off some of our gear. Then off to A.J.’s house for dinner. A.J. was holding court with several of the others, including Tank and a few of the military vets.

“Just making some last-minute changes,” A.J. said as he joined us in the kitchen.

I picked up the faint smell of something cooking and began to search. The open windows brought a gentle breeze with a hint of grilled and spiced meat.

“You’ve got a treat tonight,” A.J. said. “Kern’s on the grill.”

“Grilling what?” I asked.

“God only knows,” A.J. replied.

“You’re kidding! Seriously, what’s he cooking?”

“Truly, I haven’t a clue,” A.J. said. “Half the time, I have no idea how or where he gets the meat. All I know is that when he does come up with some animal meat, it’s delicious and I’ve yet to get sick or die.”

Seconds later, Kern’s head appeared in the window. “Hey y’all. Dinner’s ready.”

We started filing out of the kitchen when Cyn leaned over to me. “I think he heard us,” she whispered.

“I’m not eating any of it.”

She agreed. “No way I’m touching anything he’s pulled out of a tree or sewer.”

We warily sat down as Kern finished scooping hunks of meat off of the grill. The table had been set with outdoor dishes and cutlery. I smiled and pointed at the large faded-yellow flowers painted on the dishes.

“Cyn,” I whispered. She was directly across from me, staring with dread at Kern, who’d was turning off the propane. He had an iron skillet on one side of the grill, and small carcasses cooking directly on the hot grate next to the pan.

“He’s a keeper!” I smirked, pointing at the plates and their Fifties floral design. “You’ll make quite a couple.”

She flipped me off as Kern approached with a large plate of tiny roasted birds. He placed the platter on the table. They looked like whole chickens that I used to get from the Publix deli, only these were much smaller. They were both cute and horrifying to look at.

“I hate to ask,” A.J. said. “But… what are these?”

“Squab,” Kern said with pride. “After I baked them, I made a glaze from a small jar of apricot jam and sprinkled some spices on top. Then I finished them off on the grill.”

Mike’s eyes lit up. “Damn. I love squab!” he said as he shoveled four of the cooked animals onto his plate.

Kern went back and retrieved a large four-quart sauce pan from a side burner. “Potatoes and peas,” he proudly stated.

Mike passed the plate of squab to Cyn, who reluctantly put one of the birds onto her dish, then sent the platter on to John.

Mike took a large spoon of the vegetable mixture. The small potatoes had been sectioned and left with their skins. Peas were scattered among the red-and-white wedges.

“Freeze-dried peas and taters from my garden.”

Mike took a deep whiff of the meat and sighed. “You put bacon on this! Just like my mama.”

“Used some bacon grease in the fry pan. Haven’t had bacon in a while, but I’ve got the leftover grease in the fridge.”

“A refrigerator? Your solar setup must put out a lot of power to use the space for some grease.”

“A.J.’s got a couple of camper refrigerators that run on DC current. It’s not too bad of a drain on the batteries.”

I eyed the meat as A.J. passed it to me. There were still a dozen cooked birds left. “What the hell is squab?” I finally asked.

“Pigeon,” Kern replied. “I made some glue and put it on top of a wall by the high school. Laid out some bird feed and voilà!”

“You caught pigeons with glue,” Cyn said suspiciously.

“It’s easy. You bait them, and they get caught in the glue. Then I just come back an hour or two later and pluck them off the wall.”

“Okay. If you say so,” I said.

Mike was attacking the food, tearing the meat form the bone in large bites and draining it down with some cold water. I wasn’t convinced yet. The food looked good, but Mike would eat a living room couch if it was grilled and spiced.

Cyn took a dainty bite; her eyes lit up and she began to nod her head. “You burned the birds just right! Good job.”

I tore a small piece from the leg and chewed. It was fantastic.

We finished the meal, and when it was all said and done, we’d depleted the city’s flying rat population by nearly three dozen.

“Why haven’t you done this before?” A.J. asked. “That was fantastic.”

“I just found the right kind of glue,” Kern replied. “Remember when we did the op over by the Lowe’s hardware store last week?”

“Sure, but we’ve been by a bunch of hardware stores,” A.J. replied.

“Yeah. But Lowe’s had mouse glue. None of the other places had anything I could use.”

“Gross!” I said. “You used mouse glue to catch these birds?”

“Sure. But you have to doctor it a little, otherwise the smell will keep the birds away.”

“I guess,” I said reluctantly.

“Heck. I’d eat your cookin’ anytime,” Mike said. Then, turning to Cyn he added, “If you ain’t hookin’ up with him, I’ve got dibs.”

I thought Cyn was going to explode, but Mike was sitting too close for her to land a good swing. Either that, or the rest of us laughing made choosing a target too difficult.

Kern, on the other hand, blushed and began to stammer. “Hey guys. Come on. Leave her alone. You guys need to grow up. I mean, stop busting on her. It’s not like she’s my girl or anything!”

That just sent us back to laughing as Kern scoffed and left the table to clean the grill. Cyn stood up from the table and smacked Mike in the back of the head then walked away.

“Aw, come on. We’re just joking,” John said with a grin on his face.

“Yeah. We ain’t serious,” Mike added.

Cyn kept going, then we heard her slam the door as she left the house. A half hour later, we found her back at the abandoned home we’d claimed. She’d already cleaned up and changed into shorts and a t-shirt. The rest of us did the same, although we all kept our battle rifles and spare magazines close at hand. That had become ingrained in me this past year. Always keep your rifle nearby.

It was a dark and dusty house that no one had used for nearly a year, so we ended up sleeping under the stars. The sky was clear and by nightfall, it was almost cool. We scrounged up four poolside chaise lounges and drifted off to sleep. At least, the other three did. I tried to drift off to sleep but couldn’t.

I was bone tired from the run-and-gun training. My body felt drained, and even though my now daily dose of Advil took away the aches, my brain wouldn’t shut down. I kept mentally reviewing everything I’d learned and, although part of me felt like I was ready, I continued to doubt myself.

John and Mike both snored while Cyn’s faint throat rattling was holding her own with the guys. I just lay there, listening to the night sounds that wafted over me. Crickets and frogs from the nearby lake sang their song, while the occasional night raptor screeched as it swept across the sky, searching for its midnight meal.

I don’t know when I finally drifted off, but when I woke, the sky was beginning to brighten. The others were already awake, heating water to make instant coffee from the packs we’d saved from the day before.

“You look like shit,” Cyn said.

“Didn’t sleep well?” Mike asked with a grin.

“Nope. Couldn’t shut my mind down.”

“Cherry’s ready to pop,” John said. “Welcome to the club.”

“Thanks,” I said sheepishly. “Should’ve believed you guys.”

“Thought you’d have figured that out by now,” Cyn said unsympathetically. She adjusted the flame on her mixed-fuel camp burner. The old aluminum two-quart pot she carried in her pack was beginning to rumble from the near-boiling water. “We’re ready. Grab a mug from the kitchen.”

“Yeah, Cherry. Grab a mug,” Mike added.

“Don’t even start with that,” I said, squinting angrily at him. “I do NOT want that to become a thing.”

“Sure, Charlie. It’s just that it flows right off the tongue. Cherry Charlie,” Mike replied, smiling. “Or we could call you Cherry Charlotte if that helps. Maybe we’ll just call you C.C.”

I growled then clenched my fists and stared at the big idiot. Mike howled and scampered back into the house. “I’m out’a here. Gotta take a dump,” he said over his shoulder.

“I’ll get some mugs,” Cyn said, shaking her head.

I looked at John, who just smiled then began packing his sleeping gear into his ALICE backpack.

After more bantering while drinking our instant coffee, including me making several threats and promises to use my KA-BAR knife on anyone who continued the “Cherry Charlie” line, we drifted over to A.J.’s place.

“Do I smell biscuits?” Mike asked as we approached the single-story block home.

Sure enough, we found Kern back at his grill. A plate of biscuits covered by a dish towel sat on the picnic table. “Mornin’!” he said, opening the grill top to inspect a thirteen-by-nine-inch Pyrex baking dish stuffed with a scrambled egg casserole.

The top of the mixture was light brown and the crispy edges bubbled from grease. There were chunks of green pepper and tomatoes along with brown bits suspended within. “Egg casserole and biscuits,” Kern proudly exclaimed.

We all took in a deep breath. The savory aromas of onion and basil filled my nose.

“I thought you said you didn’t have any bacon!” Cyn said, pointing at the suspended brown fragments. “Is that what I’m looking at?”

“Well, it’s bacon bits. TVP, not meat. But it still tastes good.”

Kern turned the gas off and grabbed the dish with a couple of oven mitts. “We should have plenty. I figured you guys would be back for more after dinner last night.”

My mouth watered at the thought. The four of us had figured we’d be eating protein bars and trail mix. This was an amazing treat.

“Grab the biscuits and shut that grill top for me, will ya?” Kern asked as he balanced the glass dish with one hand and opened the door into the kitchen with the other.

“Not eatin’ out here?” Mike noted, as he shut the lid to the grill.

“No. It’s cool enough to eat in the kitchen. Besides, the sun’s rising and it’s going to be heating up the back patio any minute. It’ll be better in there.”

Once inside, I saw that Kern had placed the plastic plates from the night before on the counter, along with a newly opened jar of homemade strawberry jam. He reached into a cabinet and brought out a squeeze bottle of honey and a small tin. Unscrewing the top of the metal container, he set it down next to the biscuits and added a knife. He put the baking dish on a hot pad then took a metal spatula and cut the casserole into six equal squares.

Hearing the commotion of a small gang of hungry people entering his house, A.J. came into the kitchen. “I see the strays came back.”

“Where else would they go?” Kern replied with a smile.

“Holy shit!” Cyn said. “Red Feather butter?”

The tin was a twelve-ounce can of butter that had been sealed for long-term storage.

Cyn dabbed her finger on the top of the pale-yellow cake and tasted it. “Wow. I haven’t had butter in months! Even DHS ran out of the stuff.”

“Here. Put some of this on it after you spread the butter on the biscuit,” Kern said, throwing several small paper packs of restaurant salt on the counter next to the tin.

I’ve never seen Cyn so enamored. Even last night’s meal hadn’t charged her up like this. Her eyes lit up as she hefted a large slab of egg onto a plate. With a dozen biscuits between us, she eagerly took two and spread a healthy dose of butter and jam onto them, then lightly salted the plate.

“You brought out your butter!” A.J. exclaimed. “You must really like her.”

Kern blushed. “I wish you would quit with that. These guys haven’t eaten anything normal in a month!”

“Those three worked for DHS. I haven’t had fresh eggs in almost a year,” I added.

Cyn sat down at the eat-in kitchen table. Kern brought out some Solo cups and a pitcher. He poured an orange liquid into the cup for her.

“Thanks, Kern.” She took a sip and smiled. “Tastes like cold Tang. You keep water in the refrigerator too?”

“Yeah, along with the eggs we get from one of the other guys. He’s got a large chicken coop set up in one of the backyards. We get a good two dozen eggs a day.”

I stood in line for the food and watched as Kern beamed while Cyn ate her meal. She gobbled up the first biscuit, grunting at the flavor.

“He’s really got a thing for her, you know,” A.J. whispered to me.

“How long have they known each other?”

“A few months now. She ran across his patrol. That’s when she let us know she’d like to help us. She’s been an invaluable asset. But this is the first time she’s been around us for more than an hour or two.”

“He does seem to like her,” I agreed. “But I don’t know if she feels the same way. She’s a hard woman to read, and even I know little about her past.”

“Well, we’re living in a different world. It really doesn’t matter much what you did then, it only matters what you do now,” A.J. replied.

I smiled. He was right. If there was any sunlight to these cloudy days, it was that everyone was getting a new start. I thought of Beker, who was staying in a house with Jorge and Maria. It would be a long healing process from his years of abuse, but at least he had a chance.

We sat down at the table, with Kern still acting like an attentive servant.

“Kern, quit hovering and grab some grub,” A.J. ordered.

“Sure thing,” he replied, quickly joining us with his plate of food.

“Jorge and Maria want to meet with us later,” A.J. said, stuffing a fork of eggs into his mouth. “Any idea why?”

“They want to go south,” John replied. “Probably want to talk about that.”

“That’s no small task,” A.J. said. “I don’t know what’s out beyond the 417.”

The 417, also called “the Greeneway” is a toll road that circles the city. It runs south of the airport, and DHS considered it one of the town’s borders. They only maintain a presence on this road to keep the highways inside this loop safe. This was the boundary line of their AO, and it was patrolled on a regular basis. Beyond that perimeter was no-man’s land.

“So, what are you four doing today?” A.J. asked.

“Back to the range this morning,” Mike answered.

“Mind if I tag along?” Kern asked. “We heard about the training you’ve been doing. Josh and the others said you really helped them.”

“Sure, Kern. In fact, if you cook like this for me every day, I’ll make it easy and just marry you,” Cyn said.

Kern blushed again, this time a deeper red. We all laughed. Cynthia smiled as she shoved another fork full of eggs into her mouth. But I grinned when I saw that she was almost serious about it.

“Who would have known that the way to a girl’s heart was through her stomach?” I quipped.

This earned another round of chuckles.

“You ain’t half wrong,” Cyn said as she swallowed the last of her food and let out a dainty burp.

***

The training later wasn’t as difficult as the day before. We went directly to the gymnasium and practiced as a squad. We ran the same drills, creating mental and muscle memories that would serve us when things went kinetic.

Fear and adrenaline had a way of wiping out your fine motor skills. You have to train yourself to do things instinctively, using your big muscles, because that’s all you have in a firefight.

We yelled out to each other as we moved as a group, communicating our status with shouts of “I’m out!” or “Moving!” It seems simple, but simple works when the air is filled with leaded death.

We ended the squad drills and finished the morning at the “square” range, where Kern and two others joined us for more “Cynthia” instructions. By the end of that two-hour session, I was hitting an index card consistently at ten yards. Cyn insisted that we become capable of drawing and hitting the four-by-six target inside of two seconds. When one of Kern’s friends complained that she was too hard on them, Cyn put him down hard.

“The only place you know that your target doesn’t have armor covering their vitals is their face. That card out there,” she barked, pointing to the four-by-six piece of paper hanging on the range’s wires, “is the size of the brain box. If you want to make sure they go down, you better shoot them there. Otherwise, body armor or a Kevlar helmet will leave them in the game. Don’t ever assume that anything other than a bullet between their eyes will put them down and out of the fight.”

Everyone stood silently while she dressed the man down. In the end, we had all improved, and I personally felt good about my skills.

We went back to A.J.’s house about noon and found him with Jorge and Maria stooped over the kitchen table while Beker was hovering behind them. A map of Central Florida was spread out, as well as a legal pad with notes scribbled on it. A.J. held a handmade spreadsheet, and they were deep in conversation.

“Whasup?” John asked.

“Jorge wants to join our raid tomorrow and use the distraction to get south of town,” A.J. replied.

We all gathered around the table as Jorge explained his plan. “The raid is going to be on the 528. That’s only a mile north of the Greeneway,” Jorge began.

“With these patrol schedules,” A.J. added, pointing to the spreadsheet he’d created, “we know that the way will be clear for them.”

“At least to the 417,” Jorge continued. “From there, we can take the 417 east to Narcoossee Road then turn south. That’ll get us out of the city.”

“After that?” I asked.

“We’ll improvise,” Jorge said.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here with us?” A.J. asked. “We could use the help.”

“No. Both Jorge and I want to be with his family,” Maria said. “They probably need us too. No disrespect, but I’d rather be fighting with my family.”

“La familia lo es todo,” I replied.

“Huh?” Kern asked.

“Family is everything,” Jorge said appreciatively.

“¿Tu hablas español?” Maria asked.

“Un poco. Aprendí español por mi trabajo.”

Jorge smiled and grasped my shoulder. “You never fail to surprise me,” he said. Then turning to A.J., he continued, “My family needs me. We want to try.”

In the end, we really didn’t have a choice. We had promised the couple that if they accompanied us, we’d help them find a way to his brother’s ranch. A.J. had the necessary intel to allow the two of them to make their way safely south of town. That was far more than they had back at my father’s house.

Beker slid up next to me and gently poked my side.

“Hey, Beker. What’s up?”

“I want to go too,” he whispered.

I put my hand on his shoulder and led him out of the house. “That’s not a good idea,” I said. “You haven’t been training with the squad, and you don’t have any trigger time. Not the best combination.”

“I don’t care if something happens to me. I want to help.”

“Trust me, Beker. If you go, you’ll put us all at risk.”

His body slumped, and he turned away. I’d hurt the kid and it felt horrible. “Please, Beker. I appreciate your bravery. But everyone going has tactical experience. I mean, I’m the least trained of all of us, and I feel like I might screw up. But Cyn has been drilling me for over a month, and you haven’t spent a moment learning how to fight. You’ll end up getting killed.”

“I don’t care if I get killed,” he huffed.

“Well, I do. You’ll put me under a lot of pressure keeping track of you. I can’t have that distraction.”

“But I can stay back. I can do something else.”

“There isn’t anything else that we haven’t thought of,” I replied. “The only thing you’ll end up doing is take up room that we’ll need to haul the weapons back.”

I saw the defeat in his eyes and it made me feel like crap.

“I just want to help.”

“You’ll help more by staying here and waiting for us to come back.”

“But maybe you won’t come back,” he said fearfully.

And there it was. He was afraid I’d die. “I promise, I’ll be back. I mean, if everything goes according to plan, I’ll have the easy part. I just have to stand by the side of the road and try to look helpless. Believe me, that won’t be hard to do. The others are going to do all the dirty work. You have to trust me.”

He stared down at his shoes and gently nodded his head. I hugged him and went back into the kitchen where we’d left the others.

“Well, I like our odds,” John said after we’d reviewed the modified plan. “I like everything except for one major issue. What about the DHS drones?”

“We’ve got that covered,” A.J. replied. “I can guarantee they won’t be up when this all goes down.”

“More inside help?” Mike asked.

A.J. nodded. “Yep. More inside help.”

CHAPTER NINE

DHS HEADQUARTERS

ORLANDO, FLORIDA

CAPTAIN KURIS

“Communism has never come to power in a country that was not disrupted by war or corruption, or both.”

— John F. Kennedy

“THINGS HAVE GONE SIDEWAYS IN a major way,” Lieutenant Ferraro grumbled.

“Tell me about it,” Captain Kuris replied. “And I thought Bedford was a cluster fuck. Between Director Qualls and that piece of shit Nixon…”

Kuris’s voice trailed off as the two of them jogged down the steps of the building. The summer’s heat was still in full swing, and the late morning brought a gentle burn from the overhead sun. The afternoon thunderstorms hadn’t made an appearance in a few days, which explained the lack of humidity. All in all, the changing weather would be a welcome relief when fall eventually arrived.

Ferraro stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked around. “I remember coming here a few years ago,” he said. “Me and Stella came for a week. Just the two of us.”

They stood motionless as DHS agents and civilian contractors scurried about. The downtown area had been transformed, and not for the better. Ever since the Dragon Lady had assumed command, militarization of the city had quickly taken hold. Multiple HESCO bastions had been placed at critical intersections, their mesh filled with rubble from nearby destroyed structures. Concrete Jersey barriers ran down the middle of every downtown street, funneling traffic into manageable firing lanes in case of a VBIED attack. Kuris scoffed at this measure, given the lack of suicide bombings so far and the total absence of any resistance within a five-mile radius of the downtown corridor. The only recent actions taken against the DHS agents had been by the occasional sniper. Vehicle-borne explosive devices hadn’t been used yet, and there was no reason to expect they would be in the future.

“They called it the City Beautiful back then. And it was,” Ferraro said. “Now look at it. I thought we came here to save the city. All we’ve done is trash it.”

“Preaching to the choir,” Kuris said.

Kuris’s radio squawked, and he grabbed it from his belt. “Kuris here,” he said into the mic.

“Captain, Director Qualls wants you at her office as soon as possible.”

“I’m right down the street,” Kuris replied. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Yes sir. I’ll let her know.”

Kuris replaced his radio and sighed.

“Think we’re bugged?” Ferraro half-heartedly joked. The idea that they were being monitored by DHS was a distinct possibility.

“Maybe,” Kuris replied. “But I doubt that they’d give us the courtesy of reporting to her office. For that, they’d pay you a midnight visit. A lot cleaner that way.”

“Meet you at the pub for lunch?” Ferraro asked.

Kuris thought for a moment. “Yeah. But if I’m not there in thirty minutes, go ahead and eat. I have no idea why she’s calling for me.”

Ferraro grinned. “If I don’t see you, I’ll check on you at the jail.”

“I wish that didn’t have such a ring of truth to it,” Kuris replied.

Bounding back up the stairs, Kuris entered the building and went up the elevator. Exiting the lift, he stood and stared at the new director’s renovated space.

After Bedford had been arrested, Ramona Qualls had gutted and changed both the layout and accouterments of the former director’s office. Where it had previously been an opulent space with sexually suggestive artwork, it was now the model of governmental efficiency. Bland, boring, and without a hint of cheerfulness. Not that Bedford had created a hospitable environment. His perverted morals had been reflected in his artistic tastes. So, if the newly refurbished office reflected Qualls, then it told of a cold and business-like person. It was without a soul.

Kuris reported to the director’s assistant and took a seat. Moments later, he was led into Qualls’s office, where he found her sitting behind a large, oaken desk. She saw the captain enter and motioned him forward.

“Captain Kuris, reporting as ordered.” Kuris snapped off a crisp salute.

Qualls nodded and replied, “Sit down please, Captain.”

Kuris took one of the two seats facing her desk and sat stiffly.

“Captain let me get to the point. I am sorry to give you this information, but I am afraid that General Lester is dead.”

Kuris felt like he’d been sucker-punched. Slumping down in his chair, he dropped and turned his head slightly.

“Since his wife took her own life,” Qualls continued. “The general has been despondent. Last night, he shot himself with his sidearm. His death was a tragedy, but not a surprise.”

Lester’s wife, upset at losing both grandchildren while under her care, had taken an overdose of pills. The general rushed to her side, but a week after being put on life-support, they declared her brain-dead. General Lester had the unfortunate duty to turn off the machines that were keeping her alive. He watched her take her last breath and then a minute or two later, saw the EKG flatline as her heart finally gave way.

Kuris had been too busy to get back to Kentucky when he’d heard that the general’s wife had slipped into a coma. But when news came that she had passed away, he’d sped back to Fort Knox to console the general. Lester wouldn’t have any of it and sent him back to Orlando.

Kuris had known Lester was passionate about living by the rules. Lester had given his wife permission to leave the base to travel to their lake home in Tennessee. That had been against the general’s own rules. It was there that they were exposed to the nuclear fallout of a dying Watts Bar reactor. Lester had blamed himself for breaking protocol and Kuris knew it. Kuris didn’t doubt that the general privately tortured himself for the loss of his only grandchildren and wife. In the end, Lester’s death at his own hands wasn’t a surprise at all.

“Are you all right, Captain?” Qualls asked. “I can have a counselor have a word with you.”

Kuris was prodded out of his trance. He smiled at her lack of a soul. She was ready to dump him off to a mental health counselor rather than offer him sympathy.

“Is something funny, Captain?” Qualls asked.

Kuris scolded himself for letting his guard down. The last thing he needed to do was have her suspicious about him. Not with what he was about to do.

“No, ma’am. I was just thinking that the general is finally out of pain. He blamed himself for allowing his family to leave Fort Knox and get exposed to the fallout from Watts Bar. I know it was tearing him up inside. I’m actually relieved for him.”

Qualls smiled at the cold and calculating answer. Satisfied, she terminated the meeting. “That will be all, Captain.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

As Kuris exited the building, he realized that he was now fully committed to what he had to do next.

He walked briskly to the pub to deliver the heartbreaking news about their former general. Kuris knew how Ferraro felt about Lester and thought about using this new tragedy to sway the lieutenant into joining him in the Resistance. But when Kuris saw his friend sitting at the table, his right fingers playing with the wedding band on his left ring finger, he realized that would be a bad idea. Not that Ferraro would betray him. Ferraro hated working for Homeland as much as he did. But the less Ferraro knew, the better it would be for him and his family. Getting his friend involved with the Resistance would also put his wife and kids in danger. Better to leave him in the dark.

“How’d it go?” Ferraro asked hesitantly.

“I’m glad you’re sitting down,” Kuris said, taking a seat next to his friend. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about the general.”

Ferraro took the news hard. Lester was a man who made you proud to serve. He’d adopted both of them as extended family.

“Do you think he did it because of the Russians? I mean, his wife died weeks ago. You’d think he would have killed himself back then.”

“Probably,” Kuris said. “Can you imagine how he must have felt? He’d sacrificed everything, including his family, for his country. Then he learns last week that the Russians and Chinese are invited to the party, and the president wants him to coordinate our forces with theirs.”

“Shit. He had to have been crushed.”

“The general did everything by the book. How could he reconcile serving the president and yet allow his enemies free rein on the land he’d sworn to protect?”

Kuris’s anger spiked. He felt dirty every time he had to work with the Homeland traitors running the country.

“I never challenged my orders,” Kuris then confided to Ferraro. “I did what I was told because the general ordered me to. But now, I just don’t know.”

“I know how you feel. I wish there was something I could do about it,” Ferraro replied.

The lieutenant stared expectantly at his captain but Kuris wasn’t taking the bait. “No. You need to keep doing your job,” he said. “You’ve got a family to take care of.”

“What about you?” Ferraro asked.

“I’ll keep doing my job as well, at least for now.”

Lester was dead, and Kuris felt like a ronin, a samurai without a master. Like a wind-driven sailboat running with no rudder, it was both frightening and exhilarating at the same time.

“Sir? What should we do?” Ferraro asked, pleading for direction.

Kuris simply stood up and nodded. “Keep your nose down and your ass covered. Take care of Stella and the kids. That’s job number one for you.”

“And you, sir? What’s your job?”

“Lester’s dead. I now have no family.” Kuris quietly left the pub.

CHAPTER TEN

ORLANDO EXECUTIVE AIRPORT

MIDNIGHT

“In war, events of importance are the result of trivial causes.”

— Julius Caesar

KURIS CRAWLED THROUGH THE OPENING he’d made in the chain link fence. The flap he’d cut with his KNIPEX CoBolt cutters snapped back into place. He scurried quietly behind several nearby large shipping containers.

With DHS using most of their guards to secure OIA, the perimeter of the nearly abandoned executive airport was nothing, if not porous. There were only two agents patrolling the boundary, and with only a single fence, rather than the two that normally surrounded a military installation, entering the facility was remarkably simple.

Kuris could see the closest guard lazily walking away, the man’s flashlight scanning ahead of him as he attempted to avoid potholes and other hazards that lay in the high grass he was patrolling. DHS hadn’t even taken the time to install a proper paved path for them to use. This inattention to detail, along with the lack of a second fence and corresponding dog run that was created by the two barriers’ proximity to each other, reflected the ineptness of Homeland’s leadership.

Given the lack of concertina wire that normally topped any military wall, Kuris could have easily scaled the top of the barrier rather than cut through. But the risk of a sprain or broken leg from a misstep if he’d try to climb over the barrier led him to cut the fence.

Kuris researched the guards’ schedules and knew the only people patrolling at this hour were the two sentries he’d already identified. Further, there was no video surveillance, leaving the pathway open for what he was about to do.

There were two Predator drones assigned to Orlando. One of them was presently flying a search pattern over the city, watching for threats from the surrounding area. With the bulk of the Russian reinforcements beginning to arrive tomorrow, the eye in the sky would be looking south around the airport for another eight hours.

The second Predator was in “the barn,” already inspected and fueled for its scheduled flight at noon the following day. Each drone was tasked with a twenty-four-hour rotation, and their hangar was only a hundred yards from where he now stood.

Kuris hiked the rucksack he carried further up his back and tightened the chest strap, keeping it from bouncing around as he moved. It was laden with C-4 plastic explosives that had been stolen by the Resistance. A simple countdown clock had been rigged that would detonate the bomb. If timed correctly, he would catch both drones.

The soon-to-be-retired Predators were short on armaments, forcing the drones’ maintenance crew to swap weapons between flights. This left them grounded together in the hangar for about an hour. It was during this turnover that Kuris hoped to catch the two of them together.

He took a deep breath, slowly releasing it over a seven count, calming his nerves. He strode out from cover, walking briskly to the hangar door and entered the cavernous building.

He produced a green-tinted flashlight and followed the beam to a spot in the middle of the giant room. A line of tool carts and portable storage bins were positioned in the center of the building, splitting the vast space into two work areas. The idle drone sat on the side closest to him. Its matte-grey skin was immune to his green light, seeming to eat the photons rather than reflect them. The polished concrete floor shimmered while the Predator absorbed both the torch’s rays as well as the floor’s reflected light. It gave the drone a sinister and dangerous aura. Kuris got an involuntary shiver. The deadly craft seemed to be staring at him, as if ready to pounce.

Kuris had been given instructions on how to arm the bomb. Searching some of the many tool carts in the center of the hangar, he found trays loaded with metal hardware. Heavy bolts, nuts, and aviation parts were stacked inside. They’d make excellent fragments for his explosion.

He removed the block of C-4 and set it on a nearby table then pulled out a tabletop clock that had a 6V-lantern battery taped to it. Finding a spot to hide this large package was going to be difficult. Every drawer was full, and the metal cabinets were without any space. The bomb needed to remain hidden well after the maintenance crews reported in the morning, and none of the metal containers offered a reliable place to conceal the device.

Searching further, he noticed that the legs of a number of the tool carts had a bit of room under them. Dropping to the ground, he saw there was a metal skirt hanging down from the bottom of several cabinets. This left a recessed area between the bottom panel of the wheeled container and the floor.

A roll of Gorilla tape came out of his pack next. He set the clock’s alarm to noon and plunged two metal electrode spikes into the block of C-4, linking the clock and battery to the explosives. He wrapped them all together with the Gorilla tape. Dropping to the cool floor, he tried to tape the bomb to the underside of the elevated tool box.

Fixing the heavy IED to the bottom of the cart proved daunting and Kuris’s back and face were saturated with sweat. Several times, beads of salty liquid dripped into his eyes while he struggled to secure the package. After nearly tipping the whole cart over, he finally taped the bomb in place.

He returned the equipment to his ruck and took one last look at the maintenance area. Everything appeared undisturbed, although with the green light’s minimal intensity, he couldn’t be sure. It would have to do.

Kuris hoisted his assault pack onto his shoulders and tightened the straps. With the heavy C-4 and battery now gone, it felt almost weightless. Slinking up to the door, he looked outside.

Lights. Two of them. Coming directly at the hangar.

Both guards approached the door and Kuris scampered back, searching for a place to hide.

He drew his sidearm, the only weapon he’d brought. Looking at the open maintenance area, he found little concealment. The drone dominated one side of the space but sitting up on its spindle-like landing gear meant there was no hiding behind it. The flashlights drew up to the window, and Kuris lunged to the wall of the metal building just a few yards from the door. He made himself as small as he could, crushed up behind the end of a low counter. He held his Beretta M9 at his side and said a silent prayer.

Moments later, the two guards entered. Kuris raised his firearm and aimed down the barrel. The overhead bulbs began to flicker on, as one of them tripped a switch, igniting the fluorescent lights above.

Within seconds, the hangar was bathed in a flat bluish glow.

How could things go sideways, so fast? Kuris felt defeated.

Both men strode into the room. But instead of searching for an intruder, they continued to walk to the far side of the structure. Kuris watched the two make their way toward a refrigerator at the other end of the hangar, where they opened it and searched through its contents.

Taking the break that he’d been praying for, Kuris sprinted silently out the hangar and ran toward the concealment of the shipping containers a hundred yards away. He expected to hear the crack of the guards’ M4 rifles and was fully prepared to feel his lungs compress as a .556-round slammed into his back. But he made it to the cover of the large metal storage units in Jesse Owens time and leaned back against its steel walls. Just a few seconds later, he heard the two DHS agents talking as they exited the hangar. Each took a different path away from Kuris, and a minute after that, the exhausted captain scurried away. He found the flap in the fence and crawled under the wire to the freedom of the outside world.

He hustled to a nearby building and flopped down onto the ground next to a bicycle he’d ridden. He looked up at the sky and a clear, star-filled night stared back. He’d made it! He wiped the sweat and grime from his face and began to chuckle. His arms and legs began to involuntarily shake as his sympathetic nervous system continued to pump adrenaline into his bloodstream. Kuris lay quietly, letting the adrenaline bleed from his system. The spasms quickly passed.

The click of a battle rifle’s safety rang in the night. Kuris froze as he heard the soft footfalls of a pair of boots crunching through the dried, knee-high grass. He’d been caught.

“That was some pretty James Bond shit right there, Captain.”

Kuris recognized the voice immediately. He rolled over to face a soldier who was decked out in full camo, his face streaked with black and green battle paint.

“Ferraro! You stupid son of a bitch.”

“If I could speak frankly, sir. Not as stupid as you. I thought I was going to have to shoot those two when they entered the hangar. I was on my way in, weapon hot, when I saw you running out of there like a fat kid stealing candy. I didn’t think an old man like you could move that fast.”

Kuris let out a low laugh. He sighed and stood up. “Neither did I, Lieutenant. Was that your safety I just heard?”

“Yes sir. Weapon’s cold now,” the lieutenant replied, having flipped the battle rifle’s lever to the safe position.

“You didn’t drive your vehicle here? They can track it, you know. You’ll leave a history leading right to this place.”

“No sir. You raised me better than that,” Ferraro replied, nodding his head at a second bicycle leaning against the building nearby. “I figured you’d do something stupid, sir. Just followed you out here.

“I assume you’ve checked the patrol schedules, sir,” Ferraro continued. “I’d hate to run into an armed HUMVEE while I’m cycling along in full battle rattle. Or did you think this was a one-way trip?”

“I’m not a martyr,” Kuris said. “Let’s go. We’ve got thirty minutes to get back before the patrols become an issue.”

“Outstanding, sir. But in the future, you really should keep a better eye on your six when you’re out doing this kind of shit.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Lieutenant.”

“Never too late to learn, sir. And if I can be so bold as to ask, could you fill me in later? I’d like to know just what kind of shitstorm I’ve gotten myself into.”

Kuris nodded as they mounted their bicycles. “You’ll get it all, Ferraro. I just hope you’re ready.”

“By the way, sir. I spoke with Stella tonight. With the Russians coming, we both agreed that she should move back to Fort Knox with the kids. It’s safer there. She’s leaving in the morning.”

“Makes sense, Lieutenant,” Kuris said. “You want to know what’s going on? Then let’s have breakfast. The pub at zero eight hundred.”

“Copy that, sir. That’ll give me a chance to send off the wife and kids. Now, may I suggest that we get the hell out of here?”

Both men began to pedal west toward downtown.

“Stay on my six, Ferraro,” Kuris said sarcastically over his shoulder.

Ferraro grinned. “Won’t be hard to do, sir.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JOHN YOUNG PARKWAY, SOUTHBOUND

ORLANDO, FLORIDA

1100 HOURS

CHARLIE

“All warfare is based on deception.”

— Sun Tzu

SITTING IN THE BACK OF the old Army cargo truck wasn’t half as bad as I’d imagined. We were all decked out in captured DHS uniforms. The late-morning temperature was pushing ninety degrees, but the back of the M35 was open. Carboard boxes labeled as vodka and bourbon were carefully tied down to the bed. Given that all but a few of them were empty, it was a good thing. Otherwise, they’d have been blown out long ago.

Our official-looking convoy was flanked to the front and rear by two captured HUMVEEs. Tank and Kern were in the front vehicle with John and Mike in its back seat. The Hummer behind us had four more men. That fireteam had been together since the EMP hit. They were, as John described them, squared away. Sandwiched between our M35 and the trailing HUMVEE was an old Chevy Impala, driven by Maria and Jorge.

But Kate, Cyn, and I were bouncing around in the back of the Deuce and a Half. The old truck had been with A.J. for a decade, its older motor unaffected by the electromagnetic pulse that shut the rest of the country down. The wooden bench seats attached to the walls of the bed were literally a pain in the ass, but the breeze from the moving vehicle made up for it.

The drive was remarkably smooth, but traffic was heavy in spots. From A.J.’s place, we drove west to John Young Parkway. This north-south artery would be the first leg of our journey to the Route 528 toll road, where an ideal spot to ambush the supply convoy had been chosen. As we drove south, we passed through the Highway 50 intersection. I saw we were within a mile of the Fairgrounds and the DHS camp in which Maria had been interned. I looked west and saw lines of busses waiting their turn to disgorge the latest batch of refugees. They were still bringing people in from the city and suburbs as food and crime took their toll on the ones who had held out so far. I was shocked so many were still trying to get by on their own. With millions of Americans living within a hundred miles of the city, I shouldn’t have been surprised. John told me DHS estimated fifty percent of the civilian population would be dead by the end of the first year. Crime, starvation, and disease would take most of those who died, but that meant that about a million still remained.

I looked back at the Impala and smiled when I saw Maria, who was driving, throw her hand toward the facility and flip the bird at the Fairgrounds camp. Her fist thrust forced Jorge to throw himself back as she nearly gave him a black eye with her one-finger salute. I could see him bitching at her for nearly slugging him in the cheek. She started yelling right back as we blew through that intersection. A few seconds later, my mind returned to the coming mission.

We passed under the East-West toll road and the raised highway where I first saw Mike. That’s where he had thrown a gang of skinheads off the elevated road like so much trash being tossed into a dumpster. He saved my life up there.

Further down the road, we turned east and then quickly swung south when we hit Highway 441. Cyn looked sternly out at the buildings we were passing. This part of the city had always lived on the fringes of society. In the before, multiple “gentlemen’s clubs” had set up shop along this route, all clustered in a mile-long area as per city zoning laws. I rarely drove this part of town back then since there were no physician offices to visit, and I’d never darkened the doorway of a strip club.

Now, several of the bars had been re-occupied along with an old one-story motel. Hookers had reclaimed the area and were now sitting in lawn chairs in the trash-laden parking lots. Heavy on makeup and light on clothing, they waved and danced for us. We were just another passing convoy of soldiers who had goods to trade. Kate gave me a disgusted look and stared down at her feet. She’d seen enough.

Watching these women degrade themselves for food or drugs made me wonder if fighting for the country was worth it. Sometimes, people can disappoint you to a point where you stop caring. But in the end, you have to believe in something greater, otherwise you end up just existing, and I can’t think of a greater hell than not having a purpose in life.

A few more miles down, we slowed and made a turn onto the 528 toll road. Going west, we found a shallow culvert on the right side of the highway and pulled over.

Everyone got out of their vehicles except A.J. He was on a radio talking with one of their imbedded agents stationed at Orlando International Airport. John and Mike joined me and Cyn as we stood next to the old Army truck.

“Should we start unloading the boxes?” I asked.

Tank was leaning into the window of the HUMVEE where A.J. sat.

“Negative. Something’s happening. A.J.’s been talking with someone at OIA and whatever it is, it’s big.” John replied.

We milled about for a few minutes, talking nervously and trying to kill time while we waited for A.J. to finish.

“We need to move soon,” John said. “Some kind of fuckery is going on at the airport. I couldn’t hear a lot of what A.J. was saying, with the road noise and all, but we should have been set up and ready to engage by now.”

“I know I ain’t an old timer like you,” Mike quipped. “But I worked for the government for three years before all this shit went down. They couldn’t find their own dick with a map back then, and the same folks is in charge of it now. I ain’t surprised.”

“Back then you didn’t get a bullet in the head if things went sideways,” I replied. “So, I’ll worry for you.”

Tank leaned out of the HUMVEE and jogged back to the assembled group. “It’s on, but some serious shit’s going down. A.J.’s gonna let us know what’s happening.”

Moments later, A.J. crawled out of the Hummer and strode back. “All right, we haven’t got as much time to do this as we thought. The convoy will still be here at twenty past noon, but the next one is scheduled to pass through an hour later instead of two.”

“We were planning on all two hours to load the weapons and get back to base,” Kern said. “What happened?”

“They’ve stepped up their timetable,” A.J. replied. “They’re staging out at the auto auction west of town for some big push north. Their brass wants to have everything in place in the next couple of days.”

“What’s the rush?” John asked. “What changed?”

“Seems that our armed forces aren’t cooperating like the United Nations was told they would,” A.J. said. “The president is losing control of the military and a new Southern Command is being set up. They were in Tampa, but some things have changed, and they’re moving north to coordinate and reorganize the new leadership.”

“Hallelujah!” Cyn said, earning a chorus of shouts from the others—all except A.J. and Tank, who stayed cryptically silent.

“It’s not all great news,” A.J. said. “Seems that, against the president’s orders, the Air Force destroyed a naval armada that was bringing Chinese troops to the West Coast.”

“That’s great!” Kern said. “Kick those bastards in the balls. Maybe they’ll think twice about invading.”

Several of the group agreed, but A.J. stayed stone-faced. “No, boys and girls, you don’t get it. The Air Force didn’t just bomb them.”

“Then what the hell did they do?” John asked.

“They nuked them.”

“Holy shit,” I blurted.

“Exactly,” A.J. stoically replied. “It’s gone nuclear.”

“What does that mean for us?” Jorge asked.

“New timetable. The Russians are going to get everything in place as quickly as possible. They figure that if they’re in a large population center, then nukes are off the table. It’s going to make it tougher to move around, but it’ll get a lot worse in a day or two when they get established. Right now, we’ve lost an hour to do the job and get home. Our target should be here soon, but with their accelerated schedule, we only have an hour to collect the supplies and get back to base.

“Now it’s even more important we try and salvage the transport vehicles. With so little time, we won’t be able to transfer the supplies. We’ll have to use the convoy’s own vehicles.”

“What about the GPS trackers in the convoy’s trucks?” Kern asked. “They’ll be able to follow us home.”

“I can help,” John said. “I know where they’re installed. I can disable them.”

“Great. We salvage the transport vehicles. Now, let’s go. We need to set up the trap and move with a purpose once it’s been sprung. Get to your positions and do what we’ve trained to do. Let’s kick some ass,” A.J. said.

Everyone jumped and began to make ready. There was work to do, and some of us may not come back. Heck, any one of us may not make it back for any number of reasons. John told me that battle plans never survived first contact with the enemy, and he had already been proven correct.

The old truck was positioned in the highway’s breakdown lane with its front hood opened. I glanced at A.J. as we began to stack the mostly empty cardboard boxes onto the side of the road. He gave me a stern nod then started walking back to his HUMVEE.

Maria and Jorge approached A.J. before he could get to his vehicle.

“Should we go now?” Maria asked. The two of them were supposed to help with the ambush then head off afterwards to the ranch where Jorge’s family was sheltering.

“Yeah. Get going. With less than an hour to make this work, it’ll be cutting it too close if you stay. You’ve got the map. Just get your butts as far away as possible in the next forty minutes,” A.J. replied.

“You guys going to be all right without my rifle?” Jorge asked.

“We’ll be fine. No offense, but I didn’t count on the two of you to make this work.”

“What about our route?” Maria asked. “We were going to take the 417 just south of the airport.”

“Hell, when word of your ambush gets out, anyone even a hundred feet in the air will spot us on the road,” Jorge added.

“That’s your call,” A.J. said, shaking his head. “But I’d do anything to avoid being seen by any type of air asset. If they put eyes you, the best you could hope for is that they will direct land forces to your location. Your worst day would be if they had anything armed and in the air. You’d never hear or see the missile coming.”

“So, we’ve got forty minutes?” Jorge asked.

A.J. looked at his old Timex watch. “Nope. Thirty-eight minutes now.”

“We have to go!” Maria said as she turned to get in the car.

“Thank you, A.J.,” Jorge said. Then turning to me, he suddenly hugged me tightly. “Thanks, Charlie. And good luck.”

“Shit, Jorge. This is too sudden. I thought we’d be able to say goodbye after we creamed the convoy.”

“Life ain’t fair, is it? Just remember that if you need to get away, there’ll be a place for you at the ranch.”

“Maybe we’ll catch up after this is all over,” I said doubtfully.

“Sure, Charlie. We can meet up then.”

“Come on! We’ve got to go!” Maria yelled out the driver’s side window. She’d started the car and was nursing the old engine, tapping on the gas pedal to keep it from stalling.

Jorge waved at me and jumped into the Impala. Moments later, the couple sped away, and a part of me left with that old clunker. Blue-black fumes from some leaky engine seal belched out of the rusty tailpipe, and then they were gone.

“Hey, Charlie. Get your butt over here and help us stack these boxes,” Cyn yelled.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ORLANDO, FLORIDA

1200 HOURS

“Hence that general is skillful in attack whose opponent does not know what to defend; and he is skillful in defense whose opponent does not know what to attack.”

— Sun Tzu

TWO PREDATOR DRONES WERE BOTH parked in their designated spaces while over a dozen mechanics and maintenance workers were working to get the second bird into the air. The hangar’s large bifold doors were open, as the four-panel portal had been retracted to the side. The outside breeze found its way into the large structure, making the work bearable, especially when compared to the earlier hot mid-summer months.

When the timer on the bomb detonated the large cache of plastic explosives, thirteen people were instantly killed. They had been having a nice day up to that point. At least that’s what Kuris told himself as he stood outside the DHS building. He heard the distant explosion, its concussive force reverberating off the walls of the surrounding concrete canyon. Like so many claps of thunder that routinely blanketed Central Florida during the long and hot summer months, he felt and heard its echo off the glass and stone buildings.

“That’s strange,” an agent who was passing by said. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

“Yeah, well. There’s a storm coming,” Kuris cryptically replied.

“Didn’t know that.” Then the unsuspecting agent walked away, leaving Kuris with a feeling that the man would soon learn just what kind of tempest was waiting on the horizon.

Kuris spun to return to the building and was surprised to see Ferraro standing on the steps, looking off to the north.

“That was louder than I expected,” Ferraro remarked.

Kuris nodded. “May have set off one of the Mark 82s.”

“Yeah, well, at least we know the Predators won’t be a problem now.”

Kuris started back up the steps, but Ferraro stopped him. “Came out here to tell you something. Just heard it from a friend at OIA.”

“You didn’t come out for the show?”

“Quite frankly, I lost track of time. So no, I didn’t come out to enjoy our handiwork. Can we go for a walk, sir?” Ferraro asked.

The two men strolled together, neither speaking until they reached a nearby park. Large geese paddled in clusters on the greenspace’s urban lake. In the center was a broken fountain that dozens of aquatic birds were now using as a nesting ground.

“Back in the day,” Ferraro observed. “This lake used to have quite a nice fountain out there.”

“That’s nice, Lieutenant. But let’s dispense with the history lesson and get to the point.”

“I just heard that the Chinese aren’t on their way anymore,” Ferraro said.

“Did the president have a change of heart?” Kuris asked hopefully.

“Not a chance.”

“Well, let’s have it. What’s going on?”

“Some wing nut or his commander got it in their head that stopping the Chinese was a good idea.”

“The Air Force has a soul after all,” Kuris said. “What’d they do? Take out some of their ships?”

“A little more than a few. Sir, they nuked the whole armada. They sank a third of the Chinese navy and took out over thirty-thousand troop and sailors.”

“Oh my God.” Kuris plopped down on a nearby concrete bench. “A nuke?”

“No, sir. Four nukes. It was a thorough ass-kicking. The president is furious, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s still in his presidential bunker up in West Virginia, and most of the remnants of the military are falling in line against him. The armchair generals are being pushed aside.”

“What about our guys overseas?”

“They’re behind the new group. Seems the president has been keeping them holed up on their foreign bases. They’re dying to come home. It’s been months since they’ve seen their families.”

“Geez. This is getting complicated,” Kuris said.

“Thought you should know. Has Qualls told you anything?”

“No, but that’s not unusual. She’s a spook by trade so secrets are part of her D.N.A.”

“Well, I’m still in it if you are,” Ferraro said. “Wife and kids left this morning. She’s already landed at Godman.”

“I’ll bet you feel better,” Kuris said.

“You’ve got no idea, sir.”

“Does she know why you sent her back?”

“Not really. She knows something’s changed. She asked me, ‘Why now?’ I just told her things were different with the Russians coming. Said that Knox was much safer than an uncontrolled city. I think she was good with that.”

Kuris stood back up. “Well, Lieutenant, we still have a job to do.”

“What’s our next move?”

“I was told further instructions would be coming. Everything’s FUBAR now, so I have no idea when that’ll be. Let’s just let things play out for a week or two. Then, if we haven’t heard anything by then, I’ll get in touch with my contact.”

“Sounds like a plan, sir.”

“That’s what these railroad tracks mean, Lieutenant,” Kuris said, nodding down at the captain’s rank pin attached to his collar. “I’m the plan man.”

“You’ve been called worse things, sir,” Ferraro said with a smile.

Kuris laughed for the first time in a while. “Thanks, Ferraro. Keep the jokes coming.”

“I wasn’t joking, sir,” Ferraro deadpanned.

Kuris shook his head as they both walked back into the DHS building. Lord knows where life would be taking them over the next week, but whatever happened it would be good having a friend like Ferraro by his side.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ROUTE 528

ORLANDO, FLORIDA

CHARLIE

“War does not determine who is right – only who is left.”

— Bertrand Russell

I COULD HAVE SWORN I HEARD a distant clap of thunder, but with a clear sky and calm winds, I knew it had to have been an explosion. The sound I’d heard didn’t have the audible shadow that an electric strike carried. There was no rumble that followed.

The distant pop sounded like a transformer blowing up. In Florida, that had been an event that happened all too often. Before the EMP, the city’s population had been exploding and the older electric system was often overtaxed during the mid-summer months. Older homes, new apartment buildings, and a multiplying number of businesses overloaded the equipment. The expanding metropolis relentlessly sucked off of the grid, pushing a system to its limits that was created for a much smaller population. When a transformer went down, the flow of electrons had to be rerouted around the broken component. It was a hit-or-miss proposition. More often than not, the pop of the transformer left you without power for several hours. Looking back now, it had been nature’s warning klaxon, a tiny taste of life today. I wish I had taken those warnings more seriously. If I had, I’m sure I would be in a much better position right now.

I looked at A.J. and saw a contented smile. He nodded at me and gave a thumbs up. I assumed the drones had been taken care of. That was nearly fifteen minutes ago.

“Look sharp!” A.J. called out. “Our targets are approaching. Two minutes until contact.”

Both up-armored HUMVEEs were positioned off the highway, about fifty yards from our “broken-down” truck. A concrete Jersey barrier separated our lane from the eastbound side, preventing the supply convoy from turning around once the ambush had been sprung. If we executed our assignments, the front and back vehicles were to be disabled first, blocking the supply trucks from escaping. At least, that was the plan.

The trap was simple. We three women and the cardboard boxes labeled as Vodka and Bourbon were the bait to lure the convoy onto the “X.” Tank was positioned on top of a nearby two-story building, his 50-caliber Barrett rifle providing heavy sniper cover. He was tasked with eliminating the drivers in the front and rear vehicles, then killing any targets that presented themselves. His job had become much more complicated, given that the original plan was to take out all of the convoy’s engine blocks. Now, he’d have to try to kill the drivers without disabling the trucks, so they could be quickly driven away.

A.J. confirmed that we’d be seeing five vehicles—three unarmed supply trucks manned by a driver and his backup, flanked in front and behind by up-armored HUMVEEs.

At first, I was worried we hadn’t brought enough weapons to the fight. After all, we only had two HUMVEEs ourselves. But A.J. assured me that surprise and violence of action would win out. Our two 50-caliber machine guns, each mounted on top of our vehicles, would make short work of their HUMVEEs, leaving three supply trucks for the taking.

The three of us were standing in the sun, sweat trickling down our necks and soaking the back of our uniforms. We wore body armor, which hid our figures. I was grateful we hadn’t been asked to show more skin. A.J. was smart enough not to demand that of us, but we did agree to tie our hair into ponytails, allowing them to drop out the back of our ballcaps. That would designate us as women. I still felt slighted. It was degrading that we were being prostituted for our gender instead of sitting behind our battle rifles.

“They need to see that you are women,” A.J. had said to me and Kate. Cyn’s hair was too short to pull back, and A.J. didn’t say anything to her. If he had, I had no doubt that she’d have decked him.

We were staring off to the east, each of us wearing reflective sunglasses. Our battle rifles were slung over our shoulders so we wouldn’t appear too aggressive. We needed to look helpless, or at least, like we needed them to stop.

The rumble of multiple diesel engines drifted over to us. The prey had finally arrived. A moment later, the convoy appeared.

“Fuck me sideways!” Cyn hissed. “Those aren’t HUMVEEs. They’re Tigers.”

Instead of the four-man Hummer, the first vehicle looked more like a stout, armored car. The back of the vehicle was big enough to hold up to eight troops, and there was a machine gun mounted on top, manned by a soldier who looked very alert and very dangerous. They were Russian infantry carriers and could hold a full squad of soldiers.

“Stay here and be ready,” Cyn said. Then she did something I never would have believed. She unslung her AR-15 and removed her plate carrier. Unbuttoning her top nearly halfway down to expose some cleavage, she re-slung her rifle over her neck so that it hung at her right side. The rifle was facing down and appeared non-threatening, but she could quickly bring it up and into the fight.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Uhhhh…” I stammered.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Glad you approve.”

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

“Just watch and be ready.”

Stepping out into the highway, she stopped in the middle of the road, suggestively tilting her hips. She began to slowly wave her arms over her head, and the lead vehicle slowed to a stop right in front of her.

“Hey!” she yelled. “We need some help!”

The machine gunner happily waved back and disappeared into the vehicle. Moments later, the driver’s side door opened and a young, smiling soldier came out.

He looked just like us. Other than wearing a camo pattern that I hadn’t seen before, he could have been any American soldier. He had wrap-around sun glasses and tightly cut hair that he exposed when he took his Kevlar helmet off to speak with Cyn. I had a sudden feeling of guilt when he’d shown her that kind of respect, and I almost felt like turning to flee. But then he spoke.

“Hello,” he said in a thick, Russian drawl. “Do you ladies need assistance?”

His Eastern European accent jolted me back to reality. They were invading our country. My doubts evaporated with each word he spoke.

“Oh. You’re so kind!” Cyn said in the worst Southern accent I’d ever heard. If we made it out of here, I’d make sure she never lived this down.

She got up next to the man, and I couldn’t make out anything she was saying. But when she pointed back to us and the truck, I made sure I waved and smiled. The driver eagerly gestured back and stuck his head into the vehicle.

That’s when it all went down.

As fast as I’ve ever seen a person move, Cyn had her battle rifle up and unloaded her magazine into the inside of the Tiger. Our two machine guns then opened fire moments later, shredding the rear of the convoy. I couldn’t see what they were shooting at.

I froze when the hell-storm erupted, but only for a moment. Without thinking, I began sprinting toward Cyn, who was now moving out of my sight on the far side of the Tiger. She was firing at the next truck in line as I watched her shots raking the windshield of the large supply carrier directly behind her.

I was less than fifty feet from the first Tiger when a soldier popped out of the passenger’s side. All I could see was the top of his head as he raised up from behind the cover of his reinforced door to shoot me. His AK was pointing at my chest as he began to settle behind the weapon’s sights. In that moment, my vision became a tunnel and the world went blank.

BAM!

It was sudden and unexpected.

Moments later, it was over. I don’t remember what happened next, and my first conscious thoughts were on the drive back to A.J.’s neighborhood.

Two of the three vehicles were still functional. After disabling their tracking devices, A.J. and Mike drove them back to base and hid them by driving them through the front of two of the abandoned homes. They were effectively hidden inside the structures, although one of the houses partially collapsed on top of the truck. No matter, just another trashed out building in an abandoned neighborhood. It was a quick and effective way to conceal the stolen vehicles.

***

We all gathered at A.J.’s house, and I sat there for a while, trying to remember what had happened. John and Kern did a body check, making sure none of us was wounded. We all made it without serious injury. Even me.

During our debriefing, we all talked about what we’d seen. Other than my memories of our initial encounter and Cynthia’s horrible Southern accent, I couldn’t remember a thing. Cyn shot me a dirty look when I described her attempts to imitate a Southern belle, but I droned on, ignoring the laser darts shooting from her eyes. I just didn’t care.

When it came to my actions, Kate said she’d never seen anything like it, and even John said he didn’t think I was going to survive. But I did.

According to them, as the Russian placed his sights on my chest, I unholstered the Glock and brought it up and fired. In one motion and in about a second, I’d placed a 124-grain hollow-point slug into the man’s brain box, all from ten yards away. A few inches up or down would have sent the slug bouncing harmlessly off the reinforced door or glancing off his Kevlar helmet; a half second slower, and he would have gotten off a shot. Either way, I would have been dead.

Cyn was the only one not to see my shot, but she did check the man’s body after the gunfire had stopped.

“You hit him in the right eye.” Then she added, “You pulled your shot. You need more practice.”

John and Mike snickered, the big guy poking John in the side. But they both shut up when Cyn glared at them. She was serious. I was just happy that I survived.

Later than night, after two packs of MREs that our exhausted bodies were almost too tired to heat, we sat on our back porch. The night was a bit warmer than the evening before, but my t-shirt and shorts were a blissful change from the heavy battle gear I’d worn all day.

Kern stopped by to give us an inventory of our haul, but mostly to spend time near Cyn. Interestingly, she didn’t pull back from him when he sat closely at her side.

I have no idea what most of the stuff was. The names were foreign to me, but in the end, we’d pulled off quite a score. We’d captured multiple Kord machine guns, several crates of rocket-propelled grenades, the Kornet anti-tank missiles, and all of what Kern called the Grinch MANPADS.

“What’s a MANPAD?” I whispered to Mike.

“MANPADS. Man-Portable Air-Defense System.”

“And that is?”

“Portable ground-to-air missiles. It means we can shoot shit out of the sky.”

“Cool,” I said loudly. Kern, who was talking to the others, stopped reciting the inventory of the captured weapons and looked at me.

“How many?” I asked him.

“How many of what?”

“MANPADS?” I replied.

“Four tubes and a dozen rockets,” he said proudly.

“What did we leave behind?” I asked.

We used several captured grenades to blow up the remaining non-functional vehicle. It was an American MTVR, which looked like the up-armored M35 six-wheeled truck that we’d brought along. The three MTVRs had open beds, which made it easy for the group to determine what to take and what to destroy.

“AK-47s and their ammo,” Kern replied. “No need for that crap.”

We talked quietly for another half an hour, and our exhaustion bled into our conversation. No emotions, no drama. I even stayed away from Cyn’s horrible attempts to impersonate a helpless Southern lady.

***

The crickets began to sing as the moon slowly crept into the night sky. Only Cyn and Kern spoke. Their voices were muffled, creating a background noise that mingled with the insects and frogs nearby. The breeze began to pick up, caressing my arms and legs. It seemed to carry away the stress and memories of the battle and soon enough, I drifted off to sleep.

I woke to the snoring of John and Mike. The night was still blanketing the sky, and the moon had moved directly overhead. I turned away from the two noise machines. Their throat rattling was mostly background noise now. I was getting used to it.

I looked to Cyn’s lounger, expecting to see her passed out as well, but there was only a folded blanket and empty space. I sat up and searched the patio, finding it abandoned.

I settled back onto my woobie, which I had bundled into a soft and silky pillow, but I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I stared at the stars, trying to find memories of the battle, but they all stopped at the point where I saw the Russian’s rifle bearing down on me.

John had assured me that I’d continued to fight after killing the soldier, bringing my rifle up to bear and unloading my magazine at the front windshield of the next truck in line. I even searched the Tiger afterward, verifying that everyone had been killed.

We had done our job with remarkable efficiency, with only two Russians surviving the initial firefight. They were both executed by A.J.

My thoughts were interrupted by movement from within the house. I turned back and saw Kern and Cyn come out, arm in arm. He leaned over and planted a peck on her cheek, but Cyn pulled his face back to hers and gave him a very aggressive and passionate kiss. Then, slapping his butt, she shooed him away.

I rolled onto my side and faced her lounger. Moments later, she crawled under her blanket and rolled toward me. Even in the half-moon light, she must have seen the look on my face.

“What?” she whispered.

“Uh. What was that?” I asked.

“What, Kern? I had sex. What do you think it was?”

“I don’t know. I’m just surprised, I guess.”

“At what, Charlie? That I wanted to have sex? Grow up. We almost got killed out there today. I needed that, and we both wanted the same thing.”

I didn’t reply. It was so unlike her, or what I thought she was. When I didn’t respond, she rolled out of the lounger and sat down, Indian style, next to me.

“Charlie, you need to recognize that we’re in the moment out here. Any day, any second, could be our last.”

“I suppose,” I replied, staring up at the sky. “It just doesn’t seem like the right time.”

“And when is the right time, Charlie? Tomorrow? Next week? There may not be a next week. You have to take what you can, when you can. There may not be a tomorrow.”

She stood up and leaned down. She was serious, but instead of a taskmaster, I saw a friend. “Live now, Charlie. Don’t wait for tomorrow. It may not come.”

“What’s all the noise?” Mike grumbled from the other side of the pool.

“Cyn got laid,” John replied.

“’Bout time,” Mike replied. “You do Kern?”

“Screw both of you!” Cyn shot back.

“I got a girl, but thanks,” John said tiredly.

“I’m game!” Mike said, snorting.

Cyn flopped into her lounger. “You wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

Both men chuckled, then Mike replied, “Night, lover.”

Cyn wisely shut her mouth and turned away from us all.

Then I covered my mouth, muffling my voice, and spoke in my worst Southern accent, mimicking Cyn from earlier. “Night, sugar-pie.”

Both of the guys busted out laughing, causing Cyn to roll over and give me the stink-eye. I knew I was in trouble with her, but all I could do was smile back. She just shook her head, flipped me the bird, then rolled away.

Right then, I knew I’d become part of the team. My battle cherry was popped, and not only had I survived, but they told me I’d done my job well. Too bad I couldn’t remember much of it.

I closed my eyes and immediately joined the others in a deep sleep, the kind that hard work and a clear soul brings. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MONTEVERDE ACADEMY

MONTEVERDE, FLORIDA

“A pint of sweat, saves a gallon of blood.”

— George S. Patton

SPECIALIST PORTER STEPPED OUT OF the abandoned school building and nodded to himself. This was the final structure he’d walked through, confirming the academy had been cleared. It was none too soon, if the reports were to be believed. The Russians were landing out at the airport. OIA had been transformed from a refugee processing center into a forward operating base in record time, and the invading force had been pouring men and equipment into their new FOB at a record pace. Of course, it helped them that DHS was lending a hand in the whole affair.

First squad had gathered under one of the few trees on campus, a scrub oak that had survived the construction of the school. For miles around them, the land had once been flat-pan sand, covered by scrub oaks and the kind of grass that seems to crop up regardless of the soil conditions or the amount of rain. After the academy was built, the only thing remaining of the indigenous vegetation were overgrown fields of the sparsely spaced, razor-like blades of grass and the occasional tree.

Porter was from North Carolina, where the grass and other ground cover was at least as thick as the pine needles that blanketed their forests. But here, the land seemed to conspire against any form of higher life. The sandy dirt was always hot, having been cooked for hours by the intense sun. The vegetation that managed to grow, did so in spite of the nasty conditions. Everything had a thorn, burr, or sharp edge to it.

And the creatures that flourished here were as prehistoric as the weather. The dominant life form was the insect. Mastodon-sized mosquitos attacked at dusk and were unrelenting through the night. Fire ants thrived in the sandy soil where their large mounds bubbled up high enough to be seen within the knee-high meadow. Like small volcanos, they formed every few hundred feet. They were a nasty bug that forced the men to put down tarps, just to sit in the tall, spindly grass. In general, if something survived here, it was out of sheer maliciousness. Porter couldn’t wait to get back north, where the nights were cool, and the land didn’t conspire to injure or kill you on a daily basis.

Six of his eight men were loitering in the shade. The other two were tasked as sentries, positioned a few hundred yards away. In normal times, a squad leader wouldn’t be the only one to worry about these things because the chain of command above him would have organized most of the tasks that he himself was performing. But these weren’t normal times. Leadership was fractured by a lack of manpower, minimal intel, and a general level of fuckery. Because of this, Porter had to take the role of platoon leader, a position normally occupied by a captain. In the Army, parental responsibility was normally spread amongst many NCOs and officers. Here, it was all up to him.

“SITREP, Martinez,” Porter said as he approached the group. He noticed that some of them had become sloppy, their rifles leaning on the tree or slung lazily over their shoulders. Their normal level of readiness had been degraded over the last few weeks, and he couldn’t blame them for that. Homeland’s troops had been their only worry. As a fighting force, they were marginal, at best. His squad’s encounters with these black-clad thugs had been such lopsided victories, it had almost become comical. There had not been a need for a normal high state of readiness to do their job.

But that was changing as the Russians entered the picture. Now there was a need for speed, stealth, and conviction. He wasn’t going to bring the hammer down on them because they were all professionals. But he would have to remind them of who they were and what they were now facing.

“Sir, I’ve contacted Elgin and sent our ACE report. They confirmed that the Chinese naval armada was destroyed.”

“Outstanding,” Porter nodded. “What about the Russians?”

“They’re hauling troops in from Cuba,” Martinez said. “They’re using Port Canaveral, offloading a mechanized battalion as we speak, and they’re presently landing men at the airport. Elgin thinks they’re from the Eighteenth out of Grozny, but they can’t be sure yet. And they’ve confirmed that their Eighty-Fifth Helicopter Squadron will be stationed at OIA within the next few days.”

“Shit. Hind and Hip helicopter support,” Porter said. “Gentlemen, we’re facing a real enemy now. They’ll have FLIR and night vision capabilities, and that’s going to make our life a whole lot more complicated.”

Porter was satisfied to see his squad’s demeanor change. It was a sign of their professionalism. This wasn’t boot camp, nor was it qual-school. These men had passed all of those obstacles. They just needed a reminder of where they were and who they were now up against.

“Have you relayed that information to the locals?”

“That ham operator, Sergeant Bragg has been notified. But I haven’t confirmed it with Newsome’s group yet.”

The feed store owner had taken some of the older, trained Monteverde students and integrated them into his Resistance pod. Porter was scheduled for a resupply tonight, then they were due to rendezvous with Newsome the next day.

“Get command on the radio and find out where the drop’s going to be. We’ve got a lot of prep work to do and not much time to do it before the shit gets real.”

“Copy that,” Martinez replied, reengaging his satellite transmitter.

Communications were spotty at best. The EMP blast had taken out the ground-based electronics, but some of the equipment above the Earth had survived through luck and distance. Many of the communication satellites were in geosynchronous orbit, which placed them over twenty thousand miles above the planet. Some of them had been shielded against solar radiation as well, so the nuclear detonation had left a few of them functioning.

Relying on a GPS device, if one could be found that worked, was unwise. But communications sometimes operated. It was hit or miss. Unlike receiving unverified GPS coordinates, there was no doubt about a satellite’s function when you were actually speaking to the other side.

“Resupply confirmed at zero one hundred at coordinates alpha two,” Martinez said.

They were to get an airdrop tonight, possibly their last air resupply for a while. If the Russians brought anti-aircraft weapons or positioned any fixed-wing aircraft nearby, they would own the sky.

Porter retrieved his map and verified alpha two’s location. The predetermined coordinate was at the Pine Ridge Recycling landfill. Porter grunted with satisfaction. Not only would they have privacy since no one would want or need to be at a garbage dump in the middle of the night, but it had the added benefit of being close to Newsome’s camp.

“Okay. Let’s get ready to move. Drain your veins and saddle up. We’ve got to be fifteen klicks south of here by dark.”

The men began gathering themselves, tightening up their attitudes as well as their gear. They were ready within five minutes, having relieved themselves and repacked their assault rucks.

Porter anticipated that the trip to the landfill would be uneventful. They’d been moving throughout this AO for the last two weeks, sorting out who was with them on blue team, and who was red. Nearly all of the population had fled to the city, and there were few left in the area to even catalogue. Other than Newsome and the Kramer/Monteverde group, the remaining folks could best be described as survivalists. They wanted to be left alone, and if you didn’t screw with them, they’d leave you alone as well. Porter dubbed them the purple people, neither taking sides nor wanting any outside group to take an interest in them. They’d be no trouble today, just as they’d been irrelevant so far.

PINE RIDGE RECYCLING PLANT

SOUTHWEST OF WINTER GARDEN, FLORIDA

The sound of the night insects, which had been their constant companion since the sun set, began to suddenly abate. Like an alarm in reverse, the fields became deathly silent, alerting Porter and the men that something was approaching. A few seconds after the last of the insects had gone quiet, the low drone of a twin prop aircraft began to rumble in the distance.

Porter flipped his NVG down and looked a hundred yards away where a strobe had been activated. An invisible, infrared flash flared every second, guiding the plane to the drop zone.

The CN235 was a lumbering twin engine aircraft. The grey transport was a small but reliable plane that was used by the special forces community. Its arrival seemed to take forever. The growl from the approaching engines barely grew in volume, the sound seemingly just off in the distance. Just out of reach.

Then the craft exploded from above the nearby trees. The two 1750-horsepower engines shattered the silence as the plane raced barely 500 feet overhead. It dropped three parachute-equipped cases out of its back ramp before disappearing over the horizon once again. At over two hundred miles per hour, it was only visible for a few seconds before leaving a slowly dissipating rumble on their southern horizon.

After the supply crates had landed in the field, the men rapidly moved to them. Heavy plastic boxes were strapped to small aluminum-framed sleds. The men cut away the nylon straps that held the supply chests in place and pulled them into the dirt. Nine green-tinted flashlights lit up the crates and each was opened to confirm their contents.

“What did they send? Anything we can actually use?” Porter asked sarcastically.

What they requested and what they got were often two different things. It wouldn’t surprise him if they’d received shaving supplies and tampons instead of ammo.

“Looks good,” Specialist Kapshaw said. “Manifest has us with almost thirty thousand rounds of 556 and ten thousand 9mm.”

“Hell, that’s more than enough,” Porter said.

The two squads had only spent nine hundred rounds taking the power plant. They’d used another two thousand training the kids at the academy, but that had come out of Newsome’s stash.

“Hey, Sarge. Check this out!” Martinez said, hovering over the third sled.

The communications specialist popped off the lid to one of the six large, heavy plastic bins. Reaching inside with both hands, he hefted out a long, metal tube.

“We’ve got a Javelin here,” he gloated.

“We’ll need some help hauling all of this away,” Porter said. “Let’s stash this stuff and send someone to Newsome’s place. No need to lug this stuff around if he’s got transportation.”

“I like your thinking,” Martinez said, relieved that they wouldn’t have to carry around the fifty-pound anti-tank rocket launcher. “There’s a bunch of rockets in here too. That’s a lot of shit to haul.”

“Okay everyone, top off your mags and let’s move the remainder to the tree line to our west.”

Twenty minutes later, the supplies were repositioned, and Porter sent a four-man team to Newsome’s camp.

Several pack mules and a dozen men, including Second Squad, accompanied the team back to the landfill. By mid-morning, Porter’s group and their valuable supplies were safely tucked away at Newsome’s ranch.

“Hot damn,” Newsome said when the full inventory of the supply drop was opened and distributed. “We burned through quite a bit of ammo training these kids. We really need these supplies.”

“I’m just happy we got ammo and not condoms,” Porter joked.

“Tell me about it,” Newsome said. “I’m just surprised they made the drop. I’ve been feeling quite lonely out here. No one’s helping.”

“Yeah. We’ve seen a lot of that,” Porter said. “The ones left are staying out of it. Guess they don’t see the need to get involved.”

“Well, as far as they’re concerned, it’s just another weak-assed attempt by the government to mess with their lives. Most of these folks have just wanted to be left alone since the day they moved out here. Nothing’s changed as far as that’s concerned.”

“Well, it may make a difference when they find out the Russians are getting involved,” Porter replied.

“Maybe,” Newsome said. “But most people won’t do anything unless there’s a leader. And how can anyone lead when you can’t communicate with them. We’re blind and deaf out here. No one can follow someone they don’t know anything about.”

“Well, that’s got to change. And you’re the only one that can do that.”

Newsome sat down heavily on a chair. The weight of the situation was oppressive and unrelenting. It was bad enough worrying about his own group, along with the lives of the eighteen new souls he added from the academy. Now he was being asked to organize hundreds of other people, none of whom he knew personally.

“There’s no way I can do that,” Newsome said. “Those folks don’t want any part of this mess. And besides, what would I get them ready for? We don’t have a mission, and there’s been no direct action taken against any of us yet. I wouldn’t have any idea what to train them for.”

“Train them to resist. They don’t have to pick up a gun to help. Show them how to gather and report intelligence. See if they will let you set up a weapons cache on their property and have them keep an eye on it. Give them some communications gear. I was in your radio room; you must have a dozen Baofeng radios sitting unused in your com shack.”

“I suppose we can do that.”

“And get Kramer involved. He and his daughter can set up a clinic near-by. Invite the locals in for a checkup. The Kramers are already doing that north of Monteverde. Spread around some good will, and you’ll find out who wants to get involved. You’ve got to win their hearts and minds, Newsome. You saw that in Afghanistan. Didn’t I hear that a few of you were deployed over there?”

“Yeah. I spent time in J-bad,” he replied. “I hear you.”

“You need to bring this community together before it gets shattered by the Russians. Believe me, the U.N. and every swinging dick wants to take us down and piece us out to the highest bidder. The time’s coming real soon when people will have to decide if their freedom is worth fighting for.”

“Damn it, Porter. How are we supposed to hold back the f’ing Russians?”

“The Afghani people did it. They’re still kicking butt. It’s been over thirty years, and the world’s two superpowers haven’t taken them down. But we don’t have to hold out for decades. We just may need to hold out for a few more weeks or months,” Porter said. “Our troops overseas are starting to line up with the new military. We have hundreds of thousands of fighting men and women just waiting to come home.”

“That’s been bothering me,” Newsome said. “Why haven’t they been recalled?”

“Hell, ask the president. They say the threat of a Russian invasion is keeping the troops locked down in Europe, and there’s been a huge surge of trouble in the Middle East and Afghanistan. China is also causing problems with Taiwan and the Korean peninsula. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. We’ve been the world’s security force for decades. If we leave, bad things will happen everywhere. And you know what’ll happen then. It’ll truly be us against the world.”

“You think the U.N. is helping the Taliban and ISIS?” Newsome asked.

“How many Islamic countries are part of the U.N.? Dozens, right? And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that we’ve been cut down at the knees. I mean, if we don’t get the country back up and running, the supply chain is going to dry up. Any hot spots that flare up will use up most of our bullets and bombs.

“In fact, I’ll bet Russia and China are encouraging haji to heat things up,” Porter continued. “They chew up our gear and material while the big dogs sit back and let us get weaker by the day. We can’t fight if we don’t have the ammunition. It’s been almost a year since our factories have shut down. The situation must be degrading quickly. I just hope we can get our shit together and get control of the situation.”

“Then, I’ll do what I can,” Newsome said. “I like the idea of Doc Kramer setting up a facility nearby. I don’t want it here at this ranch, for obvious reasons. But our people can provide security and transportation. I’ll use my wood gas pickup to bring them in if they can’t make it on their own.”

Newsome smiled and looked out his kitchen window at Newsome’s old Chevy pickup. The truck’s bed had a couple large, cylindrical metal drums where wood was burned and filtered. Pipes ran around and down the side of the pickup, where they all eventually ended up at the front of the vehicle. Along the way to the engine, multiple filters and condensation towers refined the smoky gas, pulling out carbon and other contaminants along the way. In the end, the wood was converted into hydrogen, which provided fuel to run the engine. He also had hitched a flatbed trailer to the rear of the modified pickup.

“I think I’ll put some chairs and an old couch on the trailer. I’ll go all Beverly Hillbillies on ’em. They’ll think they we’re the Clampett family when I haul them over to see Kramer.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Porter laughed. “Now I just have to convince Dr. Kramer or his daughter to work our new medical facility.”

“It would help it if we actually had a place picked out, don’t you think?” Newsome asked sarcastically.

Porter laughed and nodded. “Good point. Do you have anywhere in mind?”

After a few moment’s thought, Newsome replied. “Actually, I do. See that fellow out there by the stables? That’s Jay Stine. He’s a veterinarian. His office is up Route 27 near the King’s Ridge subdivision. It had a full surgical suite, and we’ve got some generators that could run his equipment.”

“Is it safe? I mean, that’s next to a strip mall and a lot of homes.”

“Yeah. DHS cleared out the area months ago. The grocery store across the street and all the stores nearby have already been looted. There’s nothing left.”

“Why wasn’t his office touched?”

“It was. But he’s been a member of our prepper group for years. One of the first places we cleaned out was his office. You’d be surprised how much of the meds and supplies he uses are good for people too. All the equipment is stored in one of our shipping containers out back. We installed some DC-powered fans and put solar panels out by our pond, then stuck the containers under the trees. With the fan moving air and the trees providing shade, it rarely gets above eighty degrees inside those big metal boxes. His equipment is just fine. On the other hand, the meds and other soft supplies are inside the basement of this house. That keeps them cool and dry.”

“Basements in Florida? I thought you couldn’t do that here,” the North Carolina native said.

“You can in this part of the state. We sit on the spine of the peninsula. We’re 140 feet above sea level and fifty feet from any ground water. A basement’s not a problem.”

“Well then. I guess I need to speak with the good doctor,” Porter said.

“Why don’t you wait until tonight. I know you snake eaters like to work in the dark. Grab some sleep, and we’ll have some fresh meat for dinner. We took a wild hog yesterday, and it’s been roasting underground all day.”

“Sounds great. I’ll let the guys know.”

“Go on, then. Get some rest. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Thanks, Newsome,” Porter said. “See you tonight.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DR. JAY STINE’S OFFICE

CLERMONT, FLORIDA

CLAIRE

“The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

IT HAD ONLY BEEN TWO days since Porter snuck up to the R.V. in the middle of the night to ask if either Dr. Kramer or Claire could work in the new clinic.

“That sick bastard just enjoys scaring the crap out of everyone he meets,” Claire had whispered to her father as they watched the Ranger leave, entering the surrounding foliage to disappear once again.

Her father just smiled and nodded. “It’s his job, sweetie.”

As lovely as the Airstream was, it left her feeling a bit exposed, especially at night. With large windows and tight living quarters, it was like camping out, but in a tin can instead of a nylon tent. The walls just didn’t feel too sturdy, at least in comparison with her childhood home. And the afternoon Florida thunderstorms! They were truly teeth rattling.

There were two of them now and not enough work for them both, so Claire had been chosen to man the new medical office.

“This is a real nice office, Dr. Stine,” Claire Kramer said, admiring the veterinarian’s clinic and its efficient layout.

“Please, Dr. Kramer. Call me Jay.”

“And call me Claire. They call my dad Dr. Kramer.”

“I know him,” Jay said, then added. “By reputation only. He has quite a name in the medical community.”

“So, I hear,” Claire said absently as she catalogued the supplies that Newsome had hauled back to the vet’s office. “But to me, he’s just my dad.”

“It must be hard following in his footsteps,” Stine said, hovering over Claire’s shoulder.

“I guess so. But I wouldn’t know. I’m making my own tracks now. But he’s a good father.”

“That’s a lot.”

“For a daughter, it’s everything.”

“How are we doing? Are you finding what you need?” Porter asked.

“Well, we didn’t find any snakes to eat,” she said with a smile.

She’d heard Newsome describe the special ops guys as snake eaters. Having spent several weeks with them on her trek home from Fort Campbell, it was more than an appropriate nickname.

Porter, for his part, played along with the nickname. Technically, it was the Army’s Special Forces and not the Rangers, that were known as snake eaters. But Porter enjoyed Claire’s sarcastic and droll sense of humor.

“Too bad. I’m hungry,” Porter dryly replied.

Claire smiled at the big guy’s humor. She tallied up the list of medications and soft supplies, then shook her head. She began scribbling notes on a separate sheet of paper, then handed it to Sergeant Porter.

“We need these meds,” she said. “Doctor Stine has a fine supply of antibiotics, pain meds, local anesthetics, and blood thinners. We even have some general anesthetics for emergency surgeries. But he doesn’t have much in the way of blood pressure and heart meds.”

“Can we just send them to the hospital for these medications?” Porter asked.

“No, they won’t go. DHS is registering people. If you want medical treatment, they want to know who they are treating and your address.” Dr. Stine said. “You control the healthcare, you control the people. These folks don’t want to be on anyone’s radar.”

“Oh, and I could also use some more trauma supplies,” Claire added. “I’ve written those on the back side of the paper. If you run across anything on the trauma list, stash it somewhere, and we can retrieve it later. Cases of gauze and saline will be hard to carry. You’ll need to get transportation for those things. I can get by with sterilized cottons and linens for now, although the saline supply could use some help.”

“Is that all?” Porter asked sarcastically. “And what drug store do you want me to visit?”

“Bottom of the page.” Claire pointed to an address she’d scribbled down. “That’s a house in Winter Garden. The owner was a drug rep for my dad. She’d keep a hefty supply of samples at her house. I’d try that first.”

“And are you sure about this address?”

“Very sure. She had parties at her house for the doctors and liked to show off the place. She kept the pills in a workroom off the garage.”

“Copy that,” Porter said. “I’ll send out a fireteam tonight to get eyes on the house.”

“Always at night, Specialist Porter. Are you a vampire or something?” Claire teased.

“Not at all, ma’am. But we own the night. It’s when we have the advantage, and I like having every edge I can get.”

“Well then,” Claire said. “Now that we’ve got that all cleared up, could you get some of your boys to help carry Dr. Stine’s surgical table into the first room. I want to be ready for patients by tomorrow.”

“You got it.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

WINTER GARDEN

FIRETEAM CHARLIE

SOUTH OF WINTER GARDEN

“It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it.”

— Robert E. Lee

THE SOUNDS OF HEAVY EQUIPMENT were unmistakable. The grumble of large diesel engines grew louder as they approached Winter Garden. Coming in from the south, they had made excellent time and were well ahead of schedule. But a mile back, the team had been forced to slow down as the mechanized sounds became more and more obvious. A flash of headlights on an elevated highway just up ahead triggered Kapshaw to hold up his right fist, freezing the other three men of his fireteam in place.

Spaced about twenty yards apart, the men dropped to their knees, each one turning to cover their pre-assigned fields of fire. After allowing thirty seconds for the team to scan their areas, Kapshaw made a twirling motion with his hand, and the other three Rangers moved rapidly to his side.

“A lot of activity for the middle of the night” Kapshaw said.

Flipping up his NVGs, he pulled out a map and spread it on the ground at their feet. Kneeling down, he drew a flashlight and sprayed a green light onto the paper.

“We’re here.” Kapshaw pointed to a spot on the chart. “That’s the local high school on our right. But all that racket sounds like it’s coming from the other side of the 429, which is running north to south.” He was pointing to a spot a half mile east of their location, where a bright glow from manmade lights brightened the sky; this was where the turnpike and Route 429 intersected.

The fireteam was a few hundred yards from the Florida Turnpike overpass, its dark concrete tunnel staring at them in the near distance, almost daring them to enter. To their right was a massive high school complex with cars scattered haphazardly around its parking lot. Many of the vehicles had their front hoods open, a distant memory of the first day of the EMP strike. The lack of cars in a lot that would normally be swollen with automobiles was a reminder that the whole thing started after school had let out. Most of the students had already left for home, and the only ones remaining were likely the kids who played sports. Back in the day, Kapshaw had been one of those athletes, with November football still a bright and happy memory. One of those cars would have been his, had the whole mess begun just a few years earlier than it did.

“Our objective is the house, and we don’t have to cross the 429 to get to it,” Kapshaw said as he tapped the north part of town on the map. “We’re not here to cause problems.”

“Over the turnpike or use the underpass?” Martinez asked. “And before you ask my opinion, I don’t like either option.”

“I don’t want to go over. Too much traffic, and we’ll be silhouetted at the top. Let’s stay low and go under. Martinez, you take point.”

Kapshaw refolded the map and pocketed it as Martinez moved forward to clear the underpass. The remaining men stayed back until they got the “all clear” from their teammate. Once again, they spaced out about fifty feet from each other, and by the time the last man began to walk, Martinez had already disappeared under the turnpike.

They passed through the tunnel with no problem. But that changed as they approached Highway 50, a six-lane state road that bisected the state all the way from the Space Coast to just north of Tampa.

About a hundred yards short of the thoroughfare, the area opened up with nothing growing nor any structure available to provide concealment. To their left was a knee-high chain link fence surrounding a large retention pond. To the right was a gas station that had been destroyed by an explosion. A deep crater marked the spot where the business’s fuel storage tank had been buried. The station’s pumps had all burned as well, their rubber hoses melted away, leaving their mangled metal handles lying on the concrete pad. Several cars had been blasted to the side, two lying on their sides while the third was an overturned pile of incinerated junk with bare metal rims where rubber tires should have been. The concrete lot had been pitted and was a dark, sooty grey—a sure sign that a very hot and immense fire had occurred.

The four-man team rallied just short of the open space.

“Ten to one, someone tried to get at the fuel and blew themselves up,” Martinez offered. “Looks like the explosion came from the underground tanks. It cleared the whole corner.”

“Which would explain why we don’t have any cover,” Kapshaw replied.

The groan and whine of a large diesel engine came from their right. Moments later, a black MRAP barreled down the road and shot past the intersection.

“We need to keep eyes on this for a while, see if there’s a pattern to the traffic,” Kapshaw said.

“What about moving a block east?” Martinez said. “We might have cover there.”

“Good idea. Let’s go.”

After moving to a better location and sitting on the road for nearly half an hour, the team sprinted to the far side of Highway 50 and entered the parking lot of a large towing company. Moving among the abandoned cars, they gathered at the back of the lot and took a break.

“Take five. Hydrate and take a piss if you need to,” Kapshaw said.

Martinez leaned back against the wheel well of a large SUV. Pulling a protein bar out of his pack, he took a large bite, then sucked a long draw of water from his CamelBak tube.

Another vehicle approached from the east and sped away from the huddled warriors.

“That’s an awful lot of activity,” Martinez said before taking another large chunk from his PowerBar.

“Yeah,” Kapshaw agreed. “Who knows, we might be getting some echoing from the buildings, making it sound worse than it is.”

“I don’t know, Kap.” Martinez replied, nodding to the east. The sky was illuminated by spotlights. With the electric grid down, the distant, faint glow from a few lit blocks of downtown Orlando had been the only light pollution seen from this part of the state. But now, just a half a mile away, the sky was ablaze with light. Between the stars above and the spotlights nearby, there was enough illumination for the group to negotiate their way north without their NVGs.

“I think we should put eyes on that place and see what’s going on,” Martinez said.

“What about you guys? What’s your take? Should we risk a peek?” Kapshaw asked the other two Rangers.

They nodded in agreement.

“We’re supposed to gather intel. That’s what we do,” one of them said.

Kapshaw spread the map back out on the ground, and the four men studied the chart. “I’m still voting to get to the house first. We have no idea if the meds are still there and if they are, how much we’ll be hauling back.”

“There’s no easy way to get to the other side.” Martinez answered as they all assessed the situation from a closer vantage point.

“We need to approach from the north,” Kapshaw replied. “The 429 and Turnpike intersection has too much concrete to cross. We need to get beyond the cloverleaf and come back south on the other side. The road should be less elevated up there and there’s a straightaway about a mile up the road that’ll give us some distance to see any approaching vehicles. That’ll give us enough time to cross over.”

“You know Kap, I think you’re right. We need to find the house first,” Martinez said. “Then once we verify that the drugs are still there, and if we have enough dark left, we can scout the other side. We are here to get the meds. That’s our primary mission.”

Kapshaw nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got another six hours of night. What do you guys say?”

After further discussion, they decided to hit the house first. Whatever was going on to the east could wait. From where they were huddled, it didn’t sound like the activity would be finished for a while. If anything, the cacophony seemed to be increasing in volume and intensity.

Their trek became more urban. Passing through the towing lot, they scaled a six-foot fence and dropped into some overgrown acreage. Then the houses began. People weren’t the problem now. For the most part, the few who were left stayed hidden in their homes. Their biggest difficulty moving through the city was packs of dogs that hunted the town’s nighttime streets. When they had departed Fort Campbell, each man had been issued a large can of pepper spray. Martinez had his attached to the webbing on the left shoulder strap of his MOLLE chest rig. So far, having moved through two other small burbs over the last month, he’d used up half of his can.

The dogs ran in groups, which was fortunate in that he had some audible warning when they were nearby. Unlike predators that hunted alone, these animals communicated with growls, yips, and barks. It gave them plenty of time to grab their pepper spray and prepare to fight.

The men had also taken to wrapping their off-hand forearm with Kevlar fabric, the material they used to repair their battle gear. It would prevent a puncture wound if a dog clamped down on the arm, but it wouldn’t keep the bones from being shattered. Because of that, it was best not to let the pack get close enough to latch onto a limb.

Movement was deliberate. Taking a path north pushed the team east as well, where large patches of undeveloped land provided them with concealment and minimized the chances of running into any other survivors. They crossed over Bay Street and moved north on Crown Point Road. They passed through a burned-out apartment complex, which sat in front of a housing subdivision, and then entered the parking lot of several professional buildings lining the right side of the street. Walking among the light industrial buildings provided less cover but was preferable to the density of the homes on the left. Having some clearing gave the men a line of sight, which was more important than cover, especially when the sound of a pack of dogs could be heard in the distance. The nearby noise from the activity to their east was loud enough to hide any suppressed gunfire, as long as it was limited to a few bursts. Better to see something coming, rather than run into it unexpectedly.

Martinez, for all his charm, didn’t do well with dogs. It was a great relief to him when they moved beyond the snarls coming from a group of the feral animals as they fought each other for pack dominance. Plant Street quickly came into view. This was the last major road to pass over before the final push to their destination. Scanning east, the light from the nearby activity illuminated the road. It may as well have been a full moon, for as bright as it was.

“Once we cross, I want to move further east,” Kapshaw said. “There’s a copse of trees right at the bend in the road. We’ll be able to see the Route 429 overpass from there.”

Ten minutes later, the fireteam reached the tree line and disappeared within. Kapshaw retrieved his binoculars from a pouch on his battle belt and glassed the road to the east.

“Christ, there’s a lot of shit going on down there,” he said.

He handed the binos to Martinez and drew back, allowing the other Ranger a better field of view.

“What the heck is that?” Martinez looked for a moment longer before returning the binoculars to Kapshaw. “Here. Check out the area in front of the bridge.”

Kapshaw brought the binoculars up and scanned down the road. The eight-powered glass reduced the distance between them and the overpass. He sat down in the line of trees and used his knees to support his elbows. It steadied his view. Even in the low light, he could make out several soldiers manning a roadblock down the road. There was a machine gun protected by sandbags with concertina barbed wire strung along its flanks. Groups of soldiers lay in small clusters nearby, while several men loitered about the gun emplacement. The discipline of the group reflected the time of night. Two of the machine gun fireteam members were smoking; the orange glow of their cigarettes could be seen, even without magnification.

Kapshaw was about to drop the binoculars when he spotted something under the bridge. Hidden in the darkness was some kind of vehicle that he couldn’t quite see.

The Ranger handed the binoculars to Martinez then dropped his NVGs over his left eye. He brought his rifle up to the light-magnifying device and stared through his four-power ACOG. It offered a wider field of vision than the binoculars, and because it worked with his night vision monocular, he could see far more effectively.

Kapshaw could now make out the military vehicle’s outline, but the smaller magnification prevented him from immediately identifying it. “Is that a Stryker under the bridge?”

Martinez copied his battle buddy and brought his own Trijicon up to his NVGs and scanned ahead. “I don’t know. The outline doesn’t seem right. It looks a lot lower than a Stryker. And the turret is set farther forward.”

“Yeah. And it’s armed with a small cannon and not a 50-cal.” Kapshaw noted.

“What the hell?” Martinez said, glassing the vehicle once again. “I think it’s Russian.”

Martinez pulled a wallet-sized book out of his backpack. He moved deeper into the foliage, and using his hand to shield the green light, he flipped through the laminated colored pictures.

“Son of a bitch. It’s a BTR,” he said, pointing to one of the pages.

“Already? I thought we had more time,” Kapshaw said.

The others looked at the photo then glassed the overpass to confirm that it was, indeed, a Russian infantry fighting vehicle sitting under the bridge.

“Looks like a BTR to me, too,” Kapshaw said, staring up the road.

“We better report this back to Porter,” Martinez said.

Kapshaw shook his head. “We’re a klick from the house. Let’s get there first, and then make one call. You can bet if there’s Russian armor under the bridge, they’ve got a team monitoring the radio. The fewer transmissions, the better.”

After gathering their gear, the trek to the drug rep’s house went smoothly. The team moved with both a purpose and urgency. They had several hours of darkness left, but the mission had just expanded, and there was no sense wasting the perfectly good cover of darkness.

Kapshaw led the team into the abandoned house. After clearing the structure, they searched the garage. The storage room had been broken into, but amazingly, the majority of the drugs had been left alone. Whoever had burgled the place hadn’t found a use for cardiac medications.

“Looks like druggies don’t like heart pills,” Martinez said.

Kapshaw looked to his men. “You three, break down these boxes. Doc said the packages are mostly advertisement, so strip out the bubble packs and stuff the pills into the spare ALICE pack we brought. I’ll go out back and make the call to Porter.”

He threw an empty assault pack on the floor and moved to the back of the house. The home sat on Lake Apopka, a forty-eight square-mile body of water that was home to all kinds of night creatures.

Using his night vision to move in the pitch-black house, he went through the home’s rear sliding glass doors and onto the screened-in pool deck. The green hue of the monocular NVGs enhanced what was likely pea-green colored water, making the pool look like a black pit of liquid. Sudden movement on the lip of the pool startled the Ranger. He switched his fire selector to semi-automatic and engaged his infrared laser.

His heart jumped when he watched a large snake, at least four feet long, slide into the murky water. He put the M4 back on safe and dropped the rifle back to his side. His heart continued to race as the adrenaline surged through his bloodstream. He moved cautiously beyond the pool, staring over at the algae-infested water, convinced the moccasin was going to come flying out at him at any time. A moment later, he was outside the screened enclosure and into open backyard.

The air was thick with the chirping of frogs calling to each other while the occasional deeper, barking croak of an alligator reminded Kapshaw of the harsh swamp creatures that were living just yards from where he stood.

His heart didn’t begin to slow until he’d confirmed that the outside patio was free of critters. After carefully inspecting under and around a wooden picnic bench, he sat down and drew out his radio to send his report. The burst transmission broadcast was encrypted, hopefully preventing anyone from deciphering their conversation. But if DHS was working with the Russians, there was no guarantee that the network was still secure. For all Kapshaw knew, he could be sharing their location and mission report with some gear-geek named Ivan.

***

It wasn’t until he received a message in reply that he was sure Porter had received his transmission. At least he’d gotten back the appropriate password. Only his team and Porter knew that information.

A flurry of activity startled Kapshaw. He spun back to the pool enclosure and brought his rifle up. Martinez popped out of the screen door, his KA-BAR knife in one hand and a limp snake in the other.

“Fucking moccasins have a nest in there, Kap. You’d better be careful where you walk.”

Martinez threw the dead carcass into the overgrown grass that had taken over the backyard, then sat down next to Kapshaw. “Didn’t you see it?” Martinez asked before taking a draw of water from the CamelBak’s tube clipped to his plate carrier’s shoulder strap.

“I saw one slink into the pool,” Kapshaw said.

“Huh. You’re lucky you didn’t trip over that one. It was right by the sliding doors. Like I said, there must be a nest of ’em in there, so watch your step. And remember that the babies have as much venom as the adults.”

“Where the hell did you grow up, Martinez?”

“Spent most of my time in Louisiana at Fort Polk. My dad transferred there in ’93. I’ve seen plenty of these vipers. They’re sneaky little bastards.”

“Great. We’re stuck here next to a pool full of poisonous snakes.”

“Not much longer. We’ve got most of the drugs packed up. Floor-to-ceiling boxes of samples, and after getting rid of the inserts and advertising, the pills all fit into a thirty-liter backpack. The whole garage floor is littered with flyers and empty cardboard containers. No wonder we’ve got so many landfills. Anyway, Kap, the snakes can keep the pool; we’re ready to leave.”

“We’re not leaving yet. Porter wants us to stick around for another twenty-four hours and gather more intel. He wants to know what the hell the Russians are doing on the other side of the turnpike.”

“Is that all?” Martinez said sarcastically.

“We’ve still got three and a half hours before sunrise. What do you say we go for a stroll?”

“Can we grab a bite to eat first?” Martinez asked.

“Yeah. We leave in fifteen.”

Kapshaw stood but hesitated. He didn’t want to go back by the pool, but Martinez had already moved to the screened enclosure. Not wanting to let his friend know that he was terrified of snakes, Kapshaw jumped up and followed.

“After you,” Martinez said, opening the aluminum framed door.

Kapshaw stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Martinez asked smugly. “You want me to go first?”

“Get out of the way,” Kapshaw said and pushed through the door, but not before Martinez noted that he’d flipped his NVG monocular down and took a hard look at the pool. It was all Martinez could do to keep from busting up right there.

The two men joined the others in the garage. They’d opened one of the windows, letting the stuffy air out and were rewarded with some cool air blowing in. Martinez was correct, most of the garage floor had been covered with paper and cardboard. The amount of package waste was stunning.

“New plans,” Kapshaw said. “We’ve gone from search and recover to intel gathering.”

He spread the well-worn map onto the floor and looked up at one of the men. “Cover that window,” he ordered. “Light discipline.”

The Ranger drew the dusty curtain over the open window and Kapshaw lit up the map with his flashlight. “Suggestions, gentlemen?”

The other three put in recommendations, but as fireteam leader, it was Kapshaw who had the final decision.

“Nothing says we have to stay in this house. We’ll move east then cross the 429 here,” he said, pointing to a spot where the toll road bent to the northeast. They’d have a good mile of open vision in each direction.

“From there, we’ll head south, find a building to hole up in and set up watch. Martinez suggested we take a quick break to eat and take care of business. We leave in fifteen.”

The other three men scrambled to get their MREs out of their packs. If they hurried, the entrée could be heated and ready in short order, leaving at least five minutes to eat and another two or three to repack and get ready.

Kapshaw grabbed one of his own MREs and ripped open its cardboard box. A bag of spaghetti came out along with some bread and a chipotle spread. Not a bad thing at all. He activated the heating chemicals with a dose of water, put the sealed pasta into the included heating bag, then set it against the wall to cook.

“I’m going to take a dump,” he told the others as he walked back into the house.

Well aware of the snakes still outside, Kapshaw decided to use one of the bathrooms. There likely wasn’t any water in the toilets, but if they weren’t staying in the house, who cared if it didn’t flush?

He shined his flashlight ahead of him, having toggled the light from green to white, and then to pure infrared. With the NVGs over his eye, he carefully swept the beam across his path, checking every corner and even under each piece of furniture. Off the main room, the first door down the hallway was a bathroom.

Kapshaw slowly opened the door and, using a golf club he’d found in the garage, moved the throw rugs around. He used it to pull back the shower curtain as well, carefully inspecting the tub for snakes, lizards, and any poisonous or gross-looking creature that might have set up shop. Finally, with his colon about to burst, he lifted the lid to the dry bowl and did a final inspection. He’d heard about rats and snakes living in pipes, using the toilet as an entrance to their disgusting, underworld homes.

He shoved the end of the club into the opening and rattled it around. Satisfied that he’d done all he could, the big Ranger dropped his pants and sat on the porcelain throne. He felt himself empty and gave a contented sigh.

A creak in the hall grabbed his attention. Looking up, a massive, tubular creature seemed to be flying at him, and a giant moccasin landed on his lap.

“AHHHHHHH! SON OF A BITCH!”

Martinez howled as he ran back to the garage. Kapshaw’s entire body spasmed as he sprung up from the toilet seat, sending the four-foot carcass of the dead water moccasin into the tub in front of him.

“DAMN IT! YOU TACO EATING BASTARD!” Kapshaw yelled, earning more laughter from the other three.

Kapshaw spent the next few minutes cleaning himself. By the time he got back to the garage, the other three stood in full battle rattle, their assault packs mounted, and rifles slung.

“It’s been fifteen, Kap,” Martinez said. “Time to go?”

Kapshaw knew better than to complain. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging his tardiness, as that was a sure way to get hazed even more. He geared up quickly, leaving his meal uneaten. The spaghetti remained on the concrete floor, its smell still filling the garage with hints of oregano and garlic. As the fireteam moved out the side door, Kapshaw took a last glance at the food pouch, where steam was still wafting into the air. The damned MRE, which everyone complained was barely edible, sure smelled good. He would remember this moment. From now on, he wasn’t going to bitch about the food, and he would find a way to get Martinez back. All of them understood that revenge was a given. It was part of the game.

***

The team moved with caution down Fuller Cross Avenue, covering the distance to the toll road in thirty minutes. To the north, a small creek ran under the 429, giving them an underpass to the other side of the elevated expressway. A chain link animal fence on the far side hung above the stream and provided an easy challenge to get by. They were through it in seconds. The side of the road was dense with Florida scrub vegetation, including a thick stand of trees, where homeowners had created a natural sound barrier to filter out the roadway noise.

The night sky glowed to their south, and the lights and sounds of heavy machinery drew the fireteam inexorably forward.

As the team proceeded, each home had to be approached and cleared before passing by. At first, the houses were spaced out on large, one-acre lots that were followed by some farmland. All of that meant a speedy passage. But soon, they hit a zero-lot-line neighborhood, which required a lot more time, bleeding away the remaining darkness. With less than an hour until dawn, they had finally arrived at their rally point, a mobile home park with unobstructed views of the 429 and points south.

“This’ll do,” Kapshaw said, pointing to a single-wide trailer with its back windows facing the lit-up sky.

They cleared this final structure and quickly set up shop inside.

Kapshaw scrambled on top of the portable home and glassed south. A quarter mile away, heavy equipment worked to clear a large parking lot that was filled with cars of every type. It was an auto auction. Two industrial cranes were grabbing vehicles, stacking them on the perimeter of the lot. It was like they were building a wilderness fort, but instead of using wooden pikes, they were creating a wall of metal and plastic nearly ten feet high.

Further south, Kapshaw could see military supply trucks lined up in a slow-moving caravan. They were turning into another large fortress that had already been created. Interspersed with these transports were Russian BTRs and BMPs, which accounted for about a quarter of the traffic waiting to enter.

Kapshaw began to tally up the vehicles, writing down an estimate of the enemy’s strength. It was an impressive number. The wall of cars prevented him from getting a full picture of the lot’s contents, but the line of vehicles pouring into its entrance left no doubt as to what they were making. It was a staging area, and it was being created to support a mechanized brigade.

“It’s a real shitstorm out there,” Kapshaw said after jumping down from his perch. “I counted over a dozen BMPs and BTRs, and those were the ones I saw on the road. I’ve got no idea how many they’ve already stashed inside the barrier.”

“Was it all Russian shit?” Martinez asked, knowing that DHS had to be involved.

“Best I can tell. I didn’t see any of our stuff on the road, but I couldn’t really glass the inside of the lot.”

“We need to get a better look,” Martinez said.

“Yeah. But not tonight. Sun is up in thirty minutes, and it’s already starting to get light to the east. Let’s get some rest. I’ll take first watch. You three, get some sleep.”

“Two-hour shifts?” Martinez asked.

“Yeah. You want to go after me?”

“I’ll take it,” one of the others replied.

They agreed on a schedule and Kapshaw returned outside. Flipping down his NVGs for one final light-enhanced look, he scanned the area around him. Satisfied that he was reasonably safe, he moved to the back of the yard to find a spot with a good line of sight. Four scrub oaks grew on the yard’s border with Virginia creepers choking the branches. The heavy canopy of oak and vine draped itself over the dried grass and sandy soil. Several bougainvillea plants, with their thorny tendrils and thick branches, provided both a barrier to unwanted visitors and concealment from any casual observer. He settled down in the line of bushes, where he had a view of both the auto auction and Route 429 to the right.

Kapshaw spread his tarp over the ground and prayed a fire ant mound wasn’t nearby. Glassing the area more intently, he now noticed that each intersection was guarded by a squad of soldiers. It was difficult to make out their uniforms in the moving headlights.

But on the cloverleaf overpass to the south, where the 429 and the turnpike intersected, there was a roadblock. A Russian-made BMP and a BTR sat on the crest of the bridge with a Cuban pennant strung to each of their radio antennas.

“So, Cubans are part of the show,” Kapshaw said to himself. He wasn’t surprised, given that the Russians had been “resupplying” their stricken ally since the EMP had gone off. Seeing the Cubans also meant there were Russians involved. The island nation didn’t have a navy large enough to pull this off on its own.

Regardless of who was manning the armor, they presented a whole new level of problems. Both of the Russian IFVs (infantry fighting vehicles) had their own strengths. With a 100mm, low pressure turret, the BMP could put rounds down range that approached the destructive power of a tank. It could also fire laser-guided anti-tank missiles and had a 30mm auto-cannon slaved to its main barrel.

But even the smaller cannon on the BTR could do serious damage to anything short of an Abram’s tank. Its own single 30mm cannon lacked the punch of the BMP’s main gun, but the eight-wheeled BTR was twice the speed of its tracked companion. The bottom line was that it was fast and could blow away anything the Resistance could put up against it.

Kapshaw would add this to his next report, which was scheduled for dusk that evening. It looked like the Russians were going all in, and that they were here for the long haul. With only a handful of Javelin missiles at their disposal, Kapshaw had no illusions about their chances in a stand-up fight. Even with a 100% kill ratio, they’d run out of missiles well before they’d take out the last of the Russian armor. Hopefully, Elgin could arrange a more appropriate introduction to the home team and give the Russians a proper greeting.

***

The first two shifts rapidly went by. Martinez had fallen asleep almost immediately after Kapshaw left the trailer, and just four hours later, he’d been awakened for his turn. Having the third shift sucked. You got just enough time in the sack to be functional but missed the next two hours that often brought the best sleep.

Finding a good place to stretch out in the trailer was a challenge as well. The mattress and couch had seen better days and had obvious rot and mildew. He could see it even in the dim, green hue of his NVG. Clearing the back-room’s floor of decaying sheets and a nasty-looking blanket, he parked himself on the carpet next to the bed and crashed. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was awakened and sent outside.

Martinez settled into position within the bushes. He had just pulled out a protein bar when he heard the whine of several engines approaching from the north down 429. He brought his ACOG up and scanned the road. He didn’t have to wait long as three American MRAPs were careening down the road, rolling over the collective debris of a year of inattention like it was a typical Sunday drive. All three were armed with automatic weapons. The first had a Ma Deuce in the turret, its heavy 50-caliber weapon pointing forward while the gunner slowly swept the barrel right and left. The second had a lighter, unmanned SAW M249 (squad automatic weapon) hanging lazily on its mount. The third had an automatic grenade launcher bolted on top, again unmanned.

Martinez’s blood began to boil as he watched the American MRAPs driving right to their Russian partners. He assumed they were DHS, and it made him sick to see his fellow countrymen in collusion with people who would likely occupy the land and turn it into another Russian state. How could anyone who took an oath to protect the Constitution do such a thing?

But his anger quickly turned to surprise. The three-truck convoy suddenly slammed on their brakes when they came over a rise and could finally see the Cuban blockade. Within moments, the MRAPs had reversed direction and were weaving and bobbing their way back north. That’s when all hell broke loose.

The two Russian infantry fighting vehicles began to react to the sudden appearance of the Americans. The BTR, with its 30mm cannon, fired on the fleeing Americans. Its first shell landed well short of the retreating vehicles, but about five seconds later, the follow-up shot fell with the targeted zone.

The closest MRAP, the one with the 50-caliber gun, finally fired back. Martinez’s first thought was that the gunner had been paralyzed with fear, with no initial return of fire. But then he remembered that the Russians had designed their IFVs to withstand small-arms fire. Even a Ma Deuce couldn’t normally penetrate the BTR’s armor.

Martinez watched as the American machine gunner walked his rounds toward the Russians. Several three-round bursts exploded in the concrete around the BTR, but with the MRAP swerving back and forth, its gunner didn’t have much chance of landing a round. Even if he did, it would just as likely bounce off the machine’s armored plates.

Martinez heard his teammates rushing out of the trailer, their heavy boots thumping on the hard-panned sand. They flung themselves into the bushes with two of them cursing as they caught the sharp edges of the Bougainvillea’s thorns.

Martinez turned back to the fight just as the rear MRAP straightened itself out and landed a burst of fire onto the BTR. Two holes punched through the vehicle, then the Russian IFV turned slightly, rolled to a stop and fell silent. They were using SLAP rounds, a tungsten-core bullet that had the penetrating energy to slice through the BTR’s armor.

“Report!” Kapshaw said.

“Three MRAPs just got ambushed. Looks like the BTR took a fatal hit.”

A loud growl of the BMP’s engine brought the tracked beast past its wounded partner. Martinez looked back north and watched as the three desert tan MRAPs continued to weave and bob. They were nearly out of range, just a hundred meters from the bend in the toll road, when a loud “whoosh” shot past the Rangers. All four watched as a Russian anti-armor missile struck the middle vehicle. The explosion threw the doomed IFV into the air and almost a hundred feet further down the road, where it screeched to a flaming stop. The entire vehicle had erupted, and a fire began to consume the remains.

The last MRAP had just barreled past the destroyed truck, when a burning soldier stumbled out of the flaming wreckage. A merciful burst of machine gun fire from the MRAP’s Ma Deuce ripped the dying man apart. Then the remaining two American IFVs disappeared around the bend and out of range.

“Mierda! That was brutal,” Martinez said. “You see that?”

“Yeah,” Kapshaw said. “Brutal. But I’d hope you guys would do the same for me. I don’t want to go out burning.”

Martinez nodded as they watched the Cubans regroup on the overpass. Medical teams rushed to the wounded BTR. Two bodies were removed and hauled away on a stretcher. Several more soldiers crawled out on their own and were transported back to their base at the auto auction. A new BTR was brought in while the damaged one was towed off.

All the while, the American IFV burned not a mile from the overpass.

As the day progressed, Russian troops began to filter onto the scene. Bivouacs popped up within the car-lined fortress. By dusk, several burn barrels and a few bonfires had been lit. Over a hundred Russian soldiers had joined the fun. Combined with the forty or so Cubans, a forward operating base was beginning to take shape. The auto auction provided an ideal staging area for the Russian light armor. An unknown number of fighting vehicles had been stashed here, along with tons of supplies that would be needed by a brigade of infantry and their mechanized partners.

Later that night, under a blanket of heavy clouds, Kapshaw made his report. Equipment and supplies were described, and the Cuban presence was noted, along with the addition of the Russians. They received back an encrypted message that the fireteam should ex-fil back to Newsome’s ranch.

The team packed up and retraced their steps, but with one minor change. The wreckage of the fallen MRAP had lain undisturbed since its destruction over twelve hours earlier, sitting on the overpass where the creek ran beneath. The last vestiges of the fire had burned out hours ago. As the team exfiltrated under the 429, Kapshaw crawled up from the water bank and retrieved four scorched, T304 stainless steel dog tags. The pitted metal I.D. plates were all he could recover.

It hurt to leave the bodies behind. Soldiers threw themselves into the most impossible situations, partially because they knew if they were wounded or killed, their comrades would come back for them. No soldier left behind. Alive or dead, you’d be brought home. Leaving the remains seemed sacrilegious, even though recovering them was an impossible task. Kapshaw vowed to come back some day and finish the job. He’d get the bodies and make sure they were laid to rest properly. It was a soldier’s way.

By dawn, the four-man fireteam safely returned to the farm. Debriefing took a while, but Kapshaw eventually found his assigned bedroom, where he locked the door and laid his head down for some needed sleep.

A scream from the shower startled the house; everyone except Kapshaw. The tired Ranger smiled and rolled over. The Icy Hot liniment he’d added to Martinez’s liquid soap did its job, bringing a measure of retribution for the dead snake. With a locked door and clean sheets, Kapshaw felt his eyelids drop. He smiled as his brain switched off and he felt sleep’s embrace. It was good to get a little retribution.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

U.S.S. JIMMY CARTER

SEAWOLF CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE

ATLANTIC OCEAN

THREE DAYS LATER, 0600 HOURS

“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”

— Albert Einstein

CAPTAIN DARIUS JACKSON STUDIED THE detailed computerized map, watching as both merchant ships and potential foes were monitored in real time. His three-billion-dollar submarine was only one of three produced before the Navy was forced to switch over to a far more cost-effective Virginia class attack vessel. His Seawolf submarine was created to counter the former Soviet Union’s underwater fleet. But with the fall of that empire in the late 1980s, the need for a super stealthy, obscenely expensive attack sub quickly fell to the wayside.

Jackson loved his boat. The underwater craft was unparalleled in both speed and stealth. The U.S.S. Jimmy Carter could silently slide through the water at twenty-five knots while pushing any manner of weapon out of its launch tubes, including Harpoon missiles that could take out enemy aircraft. It also carried Tomahawk cruise missiles that were able to strike a ground target over a thousand miles away, all the while never rising more than a hundred feet off the water as it sped to its destination. And of course, it had standard Mark 48 torpedoes that could sink both enemy submarines as well as any floating vessel. The Jimmy Carter was a mobile killing machine that could enter enemy waters unseen, demolish its foe, and quietly return home to reload for more mayhem and destruction. No other military platform came close to its performance and devastating power. And Darius Jackson was its commander.

A high school all-state football standout and Ohio Scholar Athlete finalist, Captain Jackson was admitted to Annapolis Naval Academy. His father was a veteran of the Navy and machinist who now owned a successful tool and dye company in Cleveland. His mother worked for a local bank, taking the job after her three children all entered high school.

Darius was the oldest of the three and, as first born, he felt incredible pressure to be a role model for the other two. Always an overachiever, he pushed himself at the Academy, earning a reputation as a leader.

Being the co-captain of the Navy football team made him popular with his fellow Midshipmen, while his organizational abilities and raw intelligence brought him salutatorian honors in his Annapolis graduating class. These accomplishments put him on a fast-track to command something big and deadly for the United States government and now after nearly two decades of service, he was in charge of the world’s most lethal naval craft. He relished every minute of it.

“Sir, how can I help you this fine, Navy day?” Chester Trumbell, Chief of the Boat, asked as he stood on the elevated conn. His thick arms were crossed as Jackson strode up to the platform. Jackson could see the man’s tongue rolling over his teeth under his tightly sealed lips, like a man searching for a cigar that just wasn’t there.

“Permission to join you on the conn,” Jackson deadpanned, a slight smirk on his face. The commanding officer didn’t need permission to go anywhere on his ship.

“Shit,” Trumbell replied. “I don’t need your crap.”

The ship was nearing its 0730 shift change, and Trumbell’s attitude was as sour as last night’s coffee.

“I assume permission is granted,” Jackson replied, stepping up next to his COB.

One of the sonar technicians seated nearby snickered at the ongoing banter. Unfortunately for the ST, he quickly earned Trumbell’s attention.

“Stuff it, sailor. I don’t know what kind of shit-for-brains laughs at my discomfort, but I am your God while we are out here. So, if you don’t want to eat death pillows for the rest of your deployment, I’d suggest you shut your cock-holster and do your job. Do you understand?”

“Yes, COB,” the ST blurted, quickly dropping his eyes back to the electronic display in front of him.

Jackson chuckled at the crusty old enlisted sailor’s language. Like most Chiefs of the Boat, Trumbell was a man you wanted on your side as well as someone to be feared, at least if you were under his authority. Even though he outranked his Chief of the Boat, Jackson tried to make Trumbell happy since the COB effectively ran the guts of the ship. He assigned jobs and made sure the nuts and bolts that made the submarine function worked flawlessly. He was one of the three men who were the heart of the Jimmy Carter.

The Captain, XO (executive officer), and Chief of Boat made up a triad that ran the vessel and getting on any of their bad sides would condemn the unfortunate soul to months of crappy assignments. Trumbell’s threat to restrict the ST’s diet to canned ravioli (death pillows) wasn’t an idle threat. Being assigned to the wrong watch section often meant you missed normal meals and were relegated to eating whatever could be heated up quickly or assembled outside of normal food preparation. And although the ravioli wasn’t considered (by some) to be the worst in the world, it was a far cry from the normal meals the submarine crews were served. In general, submarine food was fairly edible, but having to eat “mid-rats” or midnight rations really sucked. None of the cooks wanted to get out of the rack to make a late-night meal, so reheated casseroles and death pillows were the best you could get.

Jackson turned his attention to the Officer of the Deck, one of over a dozen officers who were assigned to his boat. The OOD stands watch over the function of the boat and, depending on mission requirements, his job could include deployment of weapons and sensors. The Officer of the Deck’s ultimate responsibility was ensuring the safe navigation of the submarine.

“Status, Lieutenant Drew,” Jackson said to his OOD.

“Sir, we are presently tracking four hostiles and thirty-two merchant vessels. All non-hostile vessels are maintaining their reported passage plans.”

Since the EMP attack, civilian vessels filed voyage or passage plans with the US Navy in Pearl Harbor. From there, the information was disseminated to other functioning bases throughout the world, which eventually trickled down to the few Navy ships patrolling the Eastern and Western seaboards of the continental United States.

“How about our uninvited friends?”

“Sir, we have four contacts. Three are surface vessels on track for Cuba and the forth is a large submersible. Our ping jockeys have determined that it’s a Chinese submarine and, given the vessel’s profile, it is likely the Silent Wind.”

Jackson wasn’t worried about the ships travelling to Havana. The Russians had been sending a massive number of cargo vessels to the island, reportedly to help Cuba recover from their own electric grid disaster. It was China’s submarine that had his attention.

“A Chinese boomer?” Jackson asked. “Show me.”

The sonar tech reviewed the enemy submarine’s actions over the prior six hours. The Jimmy Carter had just entered the southern Atlantic region the night before, and this was Jackson’s first report of the day on the status of this area.

“Looks like he’s keeping his distance, maybe heading to Cuba,” Trumbell interjected as he stood over Jackson’s shoulder.

“Maybe,” Jackson replied. “Just let me know if he changes course.”

“Yes, sir,” the Office of the Deck said.

“Keep a sharp eye on this one,” Trumbell reinforced, as both he and Jackson left the conn.

As the two men worked their way to the officers’ wardroom for coffee and breakfast, Jackson maintained a stoic silence. Upon arrival, they joined the XO, who had already begun to eat his meal. LCDR (Lieutenant Commander) Langford had an interesting relationship with Trumbell. Under normal circumstances, there was no love lost between the crew and the XO. There was an old saying that the CO (Jackson on the Jimmy Carter) gave the good news, while the XO (Langford) gave the bad. But Jimmy Carter’s XO wasn’t typical. Early in their deployment, the tradition of stealing the XO’s door would normally have been followed by Langford going on a tirade, searching the ship from bow to stern, until the door was found. But Langford approached it differently, instead assigning one of the submarine’s ensigns to stand in his doorway holding a door knob. This encouraged the other lower ranking officers to find his door, effectively punishing his own officer corps rather than the enlisted who perpetrated the prank. Now, the enlisted men had taken a liking to their XO and tended to blame their troubles and direct their complaints at Trumbell. It amused Jackson that his cranky but experienced Chief of the Boat had been outmaneuvered by the younger commissioned officer.

Only after having their coffee poured and a vegetable omelet delivered did the captain begin to speak. “I don’t like having Chinese nukes parked off the coast. After the shellacking we gave their task force a few weeks ago, I don’t want them anywhere near the continent.”

“It doesn’t seem like there’s anything we can do about it. Naval command is still reporting to the president, and China and Russia are now our friends,” Trumbell said.

“Didn’t stop the Air Force,” Langford added. “I have some new respect for those guys.”

“Regardless, we can’t take direct action against the boomer yet,” Jackson added.

“Sir, we can’t sit back and do nothing,” Langford complained.

“I didn’t say that,” Jackson shot back. “I am just recognizing what our operational limitations are.”

Both Langford and Trumbell snorted, bringing a smile to Jackson’s face.

“What’s that smirk for?” Trumbell asked.

“You two. That’s the first time I’ve seen you both agree on anything.”

“Even your stupid, young XO recognizes a shitty order when he hears it. Even more proof that Pearl still has its head up its ass. I mean, letting that Chinese armada float right by our own Navy about tore my guts apart.”

“Agreed,” Langford replied, ignoring Trumbell’s jab. “But we can’t do nothing.”

“And we won’t,” Jackson said.

“Langford,” Jackson continued, “have the OOD change course. Put us behind that Chinese boomer as quickly and quietly as possible. I want be close enough to know when one of their crew so much as farts.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Langford replied as he stood and left the wardroom.

Both men were silent until Langford was long gone.

“What happens if they make a move against us?” Trumbell asked.

Jackson attacked his breakfast. “We’ll make that decision when the time comes. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

As they finished their meal, Jackson returned to the conn. “How long before we are in position behind the Silent Wind?”

“About six hours,” the OOD replied.

“Very well. Make sure they don’t hear us.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

SILENT WIND

TYPE 092 SSBN

XIA CLASS NUCLEAR SUBMARINE

1200 HOURS

Captain Jaw-long Huang could barely contain his rage. The after-action report from the American nuclear strike on the Chinese People’s Liberation Naval taskforce had catalogued the devastation of the nuclear attack. Fully a third of his navy’s fleet had been obliterated along with two of their prized Jin-class nuclear submarines. The loss of the two subs left just three more SSBNs, including his own, to defend mother China.

It seemed the reassurances from the American president that the Chinese would be welcomed as saviors had been greatly exaggerated. It was now obvious the politicians from Washington had lost control of their military and now tens of thousands of his fellow sailors and marines were dead, evaporated by the nuclear fireball that had been launched by the remnants of the American Air Force.

Huang had done his best to warn his commanders about the invasion of America, at least as much as he could, given the authoritative nature of the Chinese military. His country’s politicians had convinced themselves the request from Washington to aid the United States, made through the United Nations, could be disguised as a humanitarian mission. There had even been a vote by the U.N., which had been relocated to Geneva after the destruction of the American electric grid, to send troops and aid the wounded nation. Huang had seen the debate, watching as most of the world turned on the United States. All but a few nations voted to authorize the invasion of their former ally. Jackals fighting for a piece of the fallen king, he had thought at the time.

Not that Huang felt sorry for his old enemy. As far as he was concerned, the Americans had it coming. They had been bullying the world for decades, dominating the globe with their economic and military power. Now, they lay wounded and ready for a final death blow. Huang had watched the proceedings in Switzerland, not to gloat over his fallen enemy, but to remind himself about the future of his own country. Jaw-long knew that China’s rise would not be as welcomed as the American surge had been.

Back in 1945, the United States had been untouched by the world wars that had devastated the economies and infrastructure of the European and Asian continents. Standing on top of the rubble, America used its industrial might and created a sphere of power that extended across the globe. For more than seventy years they dominated both major oceans, controlling both the world’s commerce and currency.

Acting as the world’s police force for those many decades, the United States was often seen as an interloper, which often led to resentment and anger. One British journalist had even described relations with their mighty former colony as having a friendly elephant in the bathtub with you. The pachyderm never intended you any harm, but you could be left with a few cuts and bruises when the whole affair was over.

And compared with their Soviet enemy, who had a pathologic need to expand and control the rest of the world, the aftereffects of an American invasion were far less dire. Where the Soviets left troops and their KGB following a successful invasion, the only thing the Americans would leave behind were a few Walmart stores and some fast food restaurants.

China, on the other hand, had a different plan. With 1.4 billion people, it had hundreds of millions of potential colonists waiting to permanently project Beijing’s power. Unlike the United States, the world wouldn’t be seeing a Chinese retreat.

Huang sat back in his chair, rocking back and forth in front of the desk in his private berth. It had been days since the loss of their fleet, and still no word from command on the fate of his nuclear payload. The submarine’s captain ached for revenge, and like an angry dog pulling at the leash, he prayed for his master’s command to attack.

His present command, the aging Silent Wind, had only recently been modified to carry China’s latest nuclear missiles. Twelve 1000-kiloton nuclear-tipped rockets sat behind him in their vertical silos, their combined power having enough destructive force to evaporate and render barren most of the remaining functional American military instillations. As far as he was concerned, he should unleash them all.

Huang was a firm believer in the old adage, If you are going to strike at the king, you must kill him. In his mind, losing so much of their fleet to the American nuclear strike demanded that all twelve missiles be launched. Now was not the time for half measures. It had been far too long since that devastating attack.

Just then, the telephone receiver on his desk trilled and its red light began to flash.

“Captain Huang. We are receiving a secure message from Beijing.”

Finally, Huang said to himself. They’ve made a decision.

“Bring it to me at once,” the captain demanded.

A full thirty minutes after receiving the coded message, Captain Huang called a meeting with his command staff. All of them noted that their captain’s right hand had a temporary aluminum splint wrapped with medical gauze. Word had quickly spread that he had hammered his fist against the steel bulkhead after reading his orders. All sat quietly when the commander took his place at the table, his flush face and grim demeanor commanding their undivided attention.

For nearly a minute, the room remained silent. Huang sat stoically, his hands lying still on the faux wooden surface in front of him.

“Our mission,” he began, “is to proceed to coordinates approximately five hundred miles south of Florida and launch a single missile. Our target is MacDill Air Force Base, a military instillation located on the west side of the peninsula. This is where the orders to destroy our naval fleet originated.”

There was a low murmur throughout the room, which was immediately silenced as Huang raised his injured hand.

“Sir,” Lieutenant Commander Fang Zhou, Silent Wind’s second in command, said over the din. “Only the one?”

“Our orders came directly from Fleet Admiral Fei,” Huang snorted.

“But sir…”

“Enough!” Huang slapped his wounded hand onto the tabletop. “Most of the American naval fleet has survived, including its vast nuclear submarine armada. It has been determined that a full strike against the American continent would unleash hundreds of nuclear weapons against our own nation. We would not survive such an attack. This limited strike will send the message that our leaders desire, hopefully without provoking a full-scale response.”

Huang tried to flex his injured hand, sure that he had just done more damage. His fingers were now numb, and he was pretty sure he’d broken some bones. He’d have to report to the ship’s surgeon after he completed the meeting.

He stood up, the others quickly following suit. He turned to his XO and handed him the orders that he’d received from the Admiral.

“Lieutenant Zhou, proceed to the listed map grid and enter the appropriate coordinates into the firing computer. Alert me when we are an hour from our destination; I will be in my quarters.”

Huang spun on his heels and left the officers’ mess, leaving the remaining men in stunned silence.

“You heard the captain!” Zhou shouted. “To your posts. We’ll be at our firing coordinates inside of three hours. Get your men ready. Now go!”

Within moments, all had left the room except Zhou. He continued to stare at the secret directive and saw the fear in his leaders that led them to order a limited strike.

Like Captain Huang, the young XO believed in the divine destiny of his ancient country. A full-scale strike by all of the People’s Liberation Navy’s remaining nuclear weapons would ensure that America didn’t rise from the ashes. Even the use of their twelve weapons would cripple their enemy beyond the point of recovery. The orders they had received were from weak men who were more interested in retaining their own power and not in fulfilling China’s destiny as the world’s premier superpower.

Zhou strode from the room and quickly found himself in front of the captain’s quarters. After a moment to collect himself and to make sure his uniform was in proper order, he rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Enter!” Huang replied from within.

Zhou pushed the lever doorknob down and entered the captain’s room. The walls were paneled with light bamboo, softening the cabin’s fluorescent light and giving the three-by-four-meter room the appearance of more space. A flat-panel screen with a live map of the surrounding waters was mounted high on the wall, hanging over a desk, where his captain sat. Huang had spun himself around from his work station and faced his young lieutenant.

“Sir,” Zhou began. “I wish to speak to you about our mission.”

Huang remained silent as his second-in-command stood with a look of both concern and apprehension on his face.

“I wanted to speak to you about the use of our weapons,” he continued. “I am convinced that we are not following the proper course.”

Huang remained silent, his emotions impossible for the young second-in-command to read, so Zhou continued. “I… I don’t know how to say this. But I am a patriot, and if this means I am to be removed from command, then so be it. Sir, I think we are wasting an opportunity by limiting ourselves to just one target.”

“We have our orders,” Huang replied as he rose from his chair to stand in front of the nervous officer.

“I understand, sir, but we are at a unique point in time. Never again in our lifetime will we be able to utterly destroy the Americans. If we limit ourselves to just one missile, we only delay their return to power. We owe it to our nation to consider further action.”

Huang reached out with his good left hand and placed it on the young man’s shoulder. “I am glad you said that,” Huang said. “I will need you for what I have planned.”

Zhou looked at his captain with confusion.

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander. We do think alike. I have come to the same conclusion as you.”

Huang stepped to the side, allowing Zhou to see the papers spread on the top of the desk. The surface was covered with maps, and when Huang lifted his laptop’s lid, a spreadsheet with a list of military targets and their GPS coordinates appeared on the screen.

“I would have hated to relieve you of command and take your nuclear key,” Huang said with a grim smile.

Launching a nuclear missile required that two staff officers give the submarine’s nuclear firing computer permission to launch their weapons. The old days of two physical keys had long ago been replaced by computer launch keys or passwords. The captain would need a second high-ranking officer to confirm his commands for the missiles to be fired.

“I was about to call you into my room,” Huang stated. “It was to either conspire with you or relieve you. I am glad I didn’t need to make that decision.”

Huang pushed aside a pile of notes that were cluttering the top of his desk, revealing a laminated map of the United States. He had circled over a dozen spots on the plastic with a grease pencil. Zhou drifted forward to see his captain’s handiwork.

“I have marked the top fifteen targets, and we only have twelve missiles,” Huang stated. “What do you think?”

After an hour of discussion and calculations, they selected the twelve targets and determined the optimal launch position for their JL-2 SLBMs. The submarine-launched ballistic missiles had an effective range of over 4000 miles, making the Gulf of Mexico a perfect spot to send forth their deadly rockets.

“How much more time to our new coordinates?” Huang asked.

“Only an additional two hours.”

“So about five hours until we launch? I’ll have time to have this hand properly treated.”

“Go ahead, sir. I’ll take care of this. I will let you know when we approach our coordinates,” Zhou said. “And I wish to thank you, Captain. It is an honor to serve with such a patriot.”

Huang grunted and left his room to have his hand attended to. Heroes were often cast as traitors immediately after they had done their duty, he thought to himself. The American president Truman was reviled immediately after using the atomic bomb at the end of World War II. After the Japanese surrendered, pictures of the burned victims of the nuclear blasts sickened many in the United States, making use of nuclear weapons a last-ditch option for the American military. So, when his own Chinese army counterattacked the Americans during the Korean war, Truman refused McArthur’s request to use these bombs. Even though the Chinese lacked their own nuclear response, the American president denied his country the one weapon that would have immediately ended the conflict and won the war.

This guilt in using their nuclear arsenal gave birth to the present situation on the Korean peninsula, where a prospering south and 35,000 American troops were aligned against a Chinese-sponsored north, where thousands starved daily as tyrannical leaders bled the population into subservience. Years later, most historians saw Hiroshima and Nagasaki as an undesirable but necessary attack to quickly end the war. Without their use, millions of Japanese and hundreds of thousands of American troops would likely have been slaughtered taking the Japanese island.

So as the submarine captain walked to the ship’s surgeon, he had no illusions that it may be years before the books rewrote today’s events, giving him the final credit for sending his beloved country on its destined path as the new leader of the world.

USS JIMMY CARTER

GULF OF MEXICO

1200 HOURS

The OOD was startled when the sonar technician spoke out loudly. With his shift about to end, his thoughts were of sliders and fries rather than sonar contacts and other more mundane tasks.

“Sir, the Silent Wind has changed course,” the ST stated.

“Where is she headed?” Drew asked with concern.

“Bearing 290.4°.”

“Right to the center of the Gulf,” Drew said out loud.

“Yes sir.”

“Follow them,” the OOD commanded. “I’ll let the skipper know.”

A minute later, Jackson joined the OOD on the conn. “How long until we’re behind them now?”

“With their new heading, about four and a half hours, sir.”

SILENT WIND

GULF OF MEXICO

1800 HOURS

“Sir, we have reached our coordinates,” Zhou said in a booming voice.

“Very good,” Huang replied. “Take us to launching depth.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the helmsman replied as he eased back on his steering column, bringing the giant tube toward the surface.

“Fire control. Open outer doors.”

The Silent Wind’s vertical launch tubes began to fill with water, and the outer hatches swung back on giant hinges. Compressed gas canisters used to fling the missiles out of their housing and into the air were armed. Once outside the submarine and into the air, the missiles’ engines would ignite, sending them off to their intended targets. The missiles’ computers would then take over, guiding the deadly rockets to their final destinations, where 1000-kiloton explosions would create five-mile-wide momentary stars. As the energy of the nuclear blast spread out, an area almost thirty miles across would be incinerated or flattened by the intense heat and its associated shock wave.

U.S.S. JIMMY CARTER

1000 METERS BEHIND THE SILENT WIND

“Captain!” the ST called out. “The Chinese are going shallow.”

“Distance to target?” Jackson asked.

“One thousand meters.”

As Jackson hesitated, trying to determine the Chinese boomer’s intent, the ST shouted. “Sir! They are opening their missile doors.”

“All ahead flank, cavitate.”

“Aye sir. All ahead, cavitate.”

“Firing solution on the enemy vessel?” Jackson barked.

After a moment or two, the fire control technician replied, “Locked in, sir.”

“Time to target?” Jackson asked.

“Fifteen seconds!” the firing control technician immediately replied, indicating the time it would take for the Mark-48 torpedoes to get to the Silent Wind.

“Sir! I have a launch!”

“DAMN IT!” Jackson yelled. “Fire!”

The Jimmy Carter spat out four MK-48 torpedoes. The underwater missiles unspun a thin wire that gave the US submarine’s fire control computer the ability to guide them to their target. All but one of the MK-48s maintained their connection to the Jimmy Carter. The fourth torpedo lost its wire and immediately activated its onboard sonar in an attempt to complete its mission. The uncoupled torpedo sent out a sonic blast, pinging the Silent Wind with an underwater pulse of energy. The returning echo gave the torpedo all the information needed to direct itself to its prey. All four torpedoes now sped at the Silent Wind, each with 650 pounds of high explosives, all armed and waiting for their triggering device to send an electric pulse that would detonate the warhead and destroy the enemy submarine.

SILENT WIND

GULF OF MEXICO

“Missile one away!” the Chinese fire control officer yelled.

The submarine’s first SLBM was belched out of its vertical tube and into the air. Its onboard engines ignited, and the rocket turned east, heading to its final destination at MacDill Air Force Base outside of Tampa.

A satisfying grin came to both Huang and Zhou as they felt the floor lurch with the launch of the weapon.

“Sir! Torpedo alert activated!” the Silent Wind’s sonar technician yelled.

“Countermeasures now! Turn forty degrees to port and dive,” Huang yelled.

“Countermeasures activated!” a technician said.

The Silent Wind banked and dove, leaving behind multiple sonic buoys that produced as much turbulence as possible. Spinning capsules created tiny typhoons in the water while sonic jammers invited the oncoming torpedoes to visit them and ignore the rapidly descending submarine.

“Status?” Huang yelled while holding onto a railing that surrounded the Silent Wind’s conn as the giant submarine dove for the bottom.

“Two contacts have lost us,” the sonar technician said. “But two remain.”

“Time to impact?”

“Ten seconds.”

Huang calculated in his head. “Get ready to blow our ballasts!” Huang commanded. “Let’s see if we can make them miss.”

USS JIMMY CARTER

“Sir! Silent Wind has launched a missile.”

“Track it and alert command!” Jackson said as he continued to stare at the sonar image projected on the flat-panel display.

“Sir, we lost two of the fish. Two still tracking. One and three are off course. Two and four still on target.”

The countermeasures disrupted and confused two of the MK-48s’ onboard tracking computers as they passed through the maelstrom created by the spinning buoys. Unfortunately for the Chinese submarine, the MK-48s’ built-in brain would recalibrate and reacquire their intended target. The Chinese countermeasures were just delaying the inevitable.

“Watch the two that lost target lock,” Jackson commanded to the fire control technician. “And let’s keep track of two and four. I am sure they will deploy more countermeasures.”

“Aye aye, Captain. Ten seconds to target.”

SILENT WIND

“Ten seconds to impact!”

“Emergency blow on my command,” Huong said quietly.

The Chinese captain counted to himself. Six seconds later, he barked out, “Blow ballasts. Countermeasures!”

The giant submarine tilted up as compressed air was forced into its ballast tanks. The sudden ejection of the heavier water from the sub’s bladders lifted the massive beast upward as more sonic distracters were ejected from its rear.

U.S.S. JIMMY CARTER

“She’s blown her ballasts!” the sonar technician yelled.

“Torpedoes one and three are turning to reacquire,” the fire controller said. “Two and four closing on target. Five seconds to impact.”

Jackson could barely breathe as time slowed to a crawl.

“Sir, torpedoes two and four might miss low. Torpedoes five through eight are ready to launch.”

“Hold those,” Jackson said. “We’re close enough to reach out and ram them up their ass if we need to. Let our first four have their turn.”

SILENT WIND

Huong knew he was only buying time with his maneuver. He knew the capabilities of the American torpedoes, and once launched, they eventually found their prey. All he wanted to do was find another thirty seconds to get off more SLBMs. Even three or four more nukes delivered to the right locations would be enough. This was all he had left after the American submarine fired on them.

“Ready torpedoes one through four,” Huong commanded. “We will give them a taste of their own medicine.” The Silent Wind had six torpedo tubes along with its twelve vertical SLBM silos.

Luong’s commands were cut short as the two American torpedoes came within range of the ship’s hull. Streaking just below the rapidly rising Chinese submarine, the Mark-48 computers detonated their warheads, slamming a compressed wave of water against the Chinese hull. Proximity detonations were the most effective method of destroying an enemy submarine, as a focused blast would breach the metal skin of the craft.

The twin explosions bent the Silent Wind’s propeller as the pressure wave of the detonation slammed into the back third of the submarine. The first torpedo hit near the engine compartment, disabling the submarine’s propulsion and the giant metal tube slowed, its momentum rapidly diminishing without the propeller’s help.

The second torpedo detonated outside the reactor compartment. The heavy lead bulkhead that lined the reactor to contain its radiation prevented a hull breach, but the shock wave’s energy was transmitted through the metal and into the pipes and electronics that controlled the reactor. The computers shut down the radioactive core, and alarms blared throughout the submarine, warning the crew of the damage to its nuclear heart.

“Damage assessment!” Huong yelled.

“We’re dead in the water. Severe damage in the engine compartment, screws offline. Radiation alarms, but the core is contained. Depth control tanks online. Sonar computer rebooting. Weapons systems computers are rebooting as well and will be online in twenty seconds.”

“Target the enemy submarine as soon as the computers are back up,” Huong commanded. “And then continue to launch our missiles.”

“Yes sir!” the weapons control officer replied.

I will kill as many Americans as I can! Huong vowed to himself. He looked at his XO, who was pale and grim-faced. Huong nodded his head to the young officer and gave him a smile. They would have their revenge on the Americans after all.

USS JIMMY CARTER

“Skipper, the Silent Wind is slowing down. We’ve knocked out her engines,” the weapons control tech said.

“But they can still use their missiles,” Jackson replied.

“Yes sir.”

“Where are our other two fish?”

“They’ve turned back, sir. Estimate impact on the Silent Wind is in twenty seconds.”

“Send two more at them. Fire five and six, then thirty degrees to port and dive.”

“Firing,” the weapons control officer barked.

The WEPS confirmed the release of two more torpedoes. “Fish away.”

The helmsman pushed forward on his sticks and turned to the left, sending the giant submarine plunging down and to port. Torpedoes five and six were now streaking toward the doomed Chinese submarine, joining the other two Mark-48s that had lost their way but now had reacquired their target. All four would be arriving at about the same time.

Jackson began to count down in his head. “Countermeasures. Get ready.”

“Countermeasures ready, sir.”

Now it was just a matter of time. Twenty seconds was a lifetime for the remaining Chinese submariners. The question was, would they be able to fire back?

SILENT WIND

“Sir. Our fire control computers are back online, sonar will be up in fifteen seconds.”

“We are at launching depth, Captain. Firing controls online. Calculating new launch instructions. Missiles away in twenty seconds.”

“Excellent. Launch all remaining missiles as soon as possible.”

Huong was pleased. At least he’d be able to avenge the flotilla that the Americans had destroyed. He waited patiently as the computers calculated their updated instructions and sent them to his deadly missiles.

“Sir, sonar back online. Sir! TORPEDOES! Four of them.”

Luong jumped. Their JL-2 SLBMs would be loosed on the Americans in less than ten seconds.

“Time to impact?” Huong asked, pleading to the heavens for just ten more seconds.

“Now—” was all the sonar technician could say before four warheads detonated within yards of the submarine’s skin. It was the last thing any of them would ever remember as the waters that surrounded them smashed through the rendered hull and instantly killed all on board. Within moments, the pieces of the Chinese submarine drifted down to the bottom of the Gulf, along with the mad hope of a patriotic captain and his second-in-command that the Chinese would dominate the world.

USS JIMMY CARTER

“Sir!” the fire control tech said. “We have four detonations.”

“Missile launches?” Jackson asked.

“None, sir. We got her.”

Jackson exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath for nearly a minute. He slouched back against a console as a cheer erupted from the bridge. He grabbed the intercom, which was hooked to the metal ceiling above his station and keyed the mic.

“Attention crew. This is Captain Jackson. Target destroyed. I repeat, target destroyed.”

He put the mic back on its hook and looked at his XO. “Langford. Prepare for salvage and rescue. See if anyone is left out there.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I’ll be in my room. Contact command and let me know where that nuke went.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Langford said. “I’ll handle it.”

Jackson turned to leave but stopped short. He turned back to his XO and whispered in his ear. “I should have fired sooner.”

“Captain,” Langford replied. “We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t insisted on following that bastard.”

Jackson had initially been denied permission by a direct order of the president. But after the secure connection to the presidential bunker in West Virginia had been disconnected, the admiral in charge of US Fleet Forces had given Jackson full discretion to use his judgement in making the decision. So, left to his own devices, Jackson decided to follow the Chinese submarine.

“Sir,” Langford said again, “you stopped eleven more nukes.”

“I missed one,” Jackson replied as he left the conn.

I missed one. How many died because of me?

It was a failure he’d never forget, even though he’d saved tens of millions of lives that day by preventing the other eleven from launching. His need to be perfect would never allow him to forgive himself for “letting one get out.” It was the curse of an overachiever. The obsessive need to be perfect made him the best, but a single failure to live up to that standard would haunt him for as long as he lived.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A.J. BIANCHI’S HOUSE

CHARLIE

“Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

— Robert Oppenheimer, Father of the Atomic Bomb

THE DAYS FOLLOWING OUR AMBUSH were good. The haul was already paying dividends as we’d used one of the RPGs to take out a DHS Hummer that was patrolling east of Winter Park. We’d planned the attack with HUMINT (human intelligence) from inside the DHS.

Once again, Tasha was providing invaluable information on patrol schedules and Russian deployment, and John always seemed to be in the radio room when scheduled calls were being received. He never could talk directly with her, but he got a lot of satisfaction whenever her voice came over the speakers. It was his way of knowing she was all right.

We spent a few hours one morning working with Tank’s squad. We did some SUT (small unit tactics) drills, both as separate teams and then running the same maneuvers after mixing up the two squads. It seemed prudent. Who knew when some of us would be wounded or killed, forcing the survivors to have to be able to work together.

So far, A.J. had kept Kern and Cyn from spending too much time together while in the field, but they’d more than made up for the daytime separation these last two nights. I was happy for her. She seemed to be less intense, but maybe that was just us living in the relative security of A.J.’s camp.

It was early evening, and we’d just spent the last three hours at the gymnasium’s gun range. Once again, a crowd had gathered to learn gunfighting skills from Zen-master Cyn. She was actually starting to take to the role.

We were walking back from the range, the evening sky starting to fade into a typical Florida sunset, when Mike asked Cyn, “What’s for dinner tonight?”

“How the hell should I know? I hope you aren’t expecting me to cook for you. You’d be very disappointed.”

“Naw. I figured you’d know, seeing that you and Kern are so tight now,” Mike said smiling.

“I like you, Mike,” Cyn replied. “But I never pegged you as the jealous type.”

“Of course, I’m jealous.” He sounded serious.

Cyn stopped, unsure if the big guy was joking or not. “You’re serious? You couldn’t handle someone like me.”

“Oh, hell no,” Mike said. “Ain’t like that. I’m talkin’ about Kern. ’Cause every time he cooks, I wish I was into guys. Eating his BBQ last night, I’d have married his ass in a second.”

Cyn shook her head. “You really are an idiot.”

The birds became silent, and the world seemed to come to a standstill. All four of us stopped, each sensing that something was not quite right. I looked at Cyn, who seemed just as confused as I was, when a bright flash lit up the sky to the west, its blinding light washing out all of the color of the Florida sunset.

We looked toward Tampa, and I gasped. Even Cyn covered her mouth as a mushroom cloud billowed up into the evening sky.

“Mom!” I whispered, remembering that she’d moved to Tampa with her most recent partner. Was she in that mushroom cloud, or did she die from the overpressure wave of air generated by the blast? Maybe she got a fatal amount of radiation from the initial spray of gamma rays, or perhaps it was a lower, cancer-causing dose from the spreading radioactive ash. Did she die suddenly or is she destined to waste away from a nuclear poison that would eat away her flesh over time? I began to cry because I knew, more likely than not, I’d probably never know.

***

Twenty miles to the west, Dr. Kramer and his wife sat under the canopy of their Airstream. With Claire down at the new clinic, Kramer had spent the day traveling on horseback to see several of his chronically ill patients.

“Could you grab a pillow?” he yelled to his wife, who was in the R.V.’s kitchen. She put a tray with iced tea down on the counter and leaned out the door.

“For your head or butt?” she asked.

“My butt. Horseback riding should be left to the kids.”

They were living in the 1800s again. Driving the old stove bolt truck would have saved him time, but it also made him a potential target to any drone that may be hovering above them. The idea of going on horseback had a kind of old school draw to it. He’d fancied himself an old west physician, going on house calls from farm to farm. But three days of living as Doc Adams from Gunsmoke had cured him of his fantasies. Air conditioning and a hot shower reminded him of the benefits of modern society.

“I’m taking the truck tomorrow. I don’t care if they drop a bomb on me,” he grumbled.

“No problem, Jesse James.”

Barb handed her husband the pillow and placed the two glasses of sweet tea on the table between them, when suddenly, the copse of trees they lived in lit up with a diffused, white light.

Kramer grabbed his wife’s hand and led her out to the field in front of Bragg’s partially buried Quonset hut. Bragg was standing there, staring off to the west.

“Oh, Gerry!” Barb Kramer gasped. “What have they done?”

The mushroom cloud was topping out in the distance. Kramer watched the expanding gas as the orange and purple light from the distant sun began to reassert itself. It was both beautiful and terrifying. It was death. Kramer wiped his eyes with his free hand. He feared for their lives.

***

Downtown Orlando was quiet. Kuris was sitting on Ferraro’s patio, looking out at the setting sun. With Ferraro’s family safely back in Kentucky, the two men had been spending most evenings together.

“Another beer?” Ferraro called out from the apartment.

“You had to ask?”

“Shit!” Ferraro grumbled, the clanging sound of plastic on a tile floor dribbled out onto the patio.

“What’s wrong?” Kuris asked loudly.

“Nothing. Just dropped the sandwiches.”

“Jeez, Ferraro, you need constant supervision!” Kuris joked.

He sat up and walked through the apartment’s sliding glass doors, when the sky behind him lit up. He spun around and squinted as a rapidly dissipating man-made sun was replaced by a ballooning black cloud.

Kuris was stunned into silence.

“Hey, what’s…” Ferraro said, then stopped. The tray of food and beer crashed to the floor once again.

Kuris turned to his friend, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Are we next?”

Ferraro just shook his head as he thought, not about Orlando but Fort Knox, where his wife and kids were living now. In his mind, he prayed that if there were more nukes on their way, that Orlando would be the next target. That meant there would be one less missile to aim at his family.

“I hope so,” Ferraro absently replied.

A confused Kuris ignored his friend’s strange reply. Turning back, he watched the purple and orange cloud expanding in the distance, marking the nuclear destruction of over a million people.

TOBY JOE QUINN

OLD TAMPA BAY

Toby Joe had muddled through life, living on the edges of society by begging or stealing what he needed to get by. He had drifted down to the Tampa Bay area several years ago, walking the smaller state highways where the occasional driver would stop and let him hitch a ride. If it wasn’t for the food and showers at the occasional homeless shelter or the whiskey stills found at a couple of rural vagrant encampments, he’d have made it in half the time.

As it was, Toby Joe Quinn took all spring and summer to get from his central Kentucky hometown to the Florida state line, and another two months of panhandling, petty theft, and a week in a county jail to make it to Tampa.

Why Tampa and not another northern big city that was closer to his old home? Living on the streets in a Florida city had the benefit of not freezing to death while living outside of society. It also had the unintended advantage of preparing Toby Joe for the civilization-ending EMP blast. As far as Toby Joe was concerned, life didn’t change when the electricity disappeared, other than having more homeless people surrounding him. But the folks who were thrust into darkness after the electric grid shut down were unprepared for the evil and callousness of a lawless society, and Toby Joe took advantage of that.

The first month after the world went dark found Toby Joe running with a group of thugs. They concentrated on stealing things that were valuable in the pre-EMP days. They took flat screen televisions, computers, and any number of functionless electronic devices, along with all the food and liquor they could find. Living on the wrong side of the law for all those years also gave Toby Joe a leg up when avoiding the authorities. There wasn’t a DHS or other federal agent out there who could even come close to the wily Kentuckian.

Eventually, his small crew figured out that electronics wouldn’t be worth much now, so they concentrated on things that held universal value. Gold and jewelry would always be worth something, and still were today. But Toby Joe’s vices of smoking, booze, and women quickly depleted his ill-gotten booty and today, many months since the world went dark, Toby Joe barely scraped by. Finding anything of value anymore was nearly impossible, and all the booze, food, and women were controlled by just a few evil men. Three former drug lords had carved out large sections of the city, and they doled out their wares to whomever could trade something of value. And Toby Joe had long ago spent his loot.

But today was different. Today, Toby Joe had something of value and he couldn’t wait to spend it. Scavenging a home that sat on an inlet of Old Tampa Bay, Toby Joe stumbled onto two treasures. The first, he was standing on now. The owner had camouflaged and partially buried a Jon boat in some high grass behind the waterfront mansion. Toby Joe cleaned it and was pleasantly surprised that it still floated. He crafted a fishing pole from a bamboo stand nearby and used some old electric wire and metal hardware from the mansion’s attached garage to fashion a fishing rig. With this sudden and unexpected bounty thrown in his lap, Toby Joe actually took a moment to thank a God he hadn’t believed in, let alone spoken to, for many years.

Toby Joe’s hands were beginning to cramp and bleed as he held onto the 14/2 black direct bury electric wire. He had separated the double stranded cord and used a single strand as his line. About an hour back, while floating on his Jon boat at the mouth of the inlet where the mansion sat, something big and strong hit his jerry-rigged hook and bait. Whatever he had caught was huge and was dragging him around Old Tampa Bay. Without a motor, Toby Joe was at the mercy of his strong and untiring catch.

Less than fifteen minutes after landing his fish, the bamboo pole snapped, and Toby Joe barely caught the broken end before the large fish steamed away. Now, the wire was wrapped around his hand, and both his fingers and palms were straining to hold on. He could feel some blood beginning to trickle from his right fist, but he could also tell that the fish was beginning to tire. Every minute or so, he would pull in about three feet of wire, which would trigger more fierce fighting from his hooked prey.

Must be a grouper! Them’s the only thing that would fight this hard, he thought to himself. A grouper would provide pounds of succulent meat, a far cry from the bony fish he’d been plucking from the small lakes and inlets that he’d occasionally troll.

As Toby Joe brought in another three feet of cord, his left foot hit a Ziploc bag that sat on the bottom of the shallow craft. This brought a smile to the sunburnt, wrinkled vagrant. This was his second treasure, the one he’d stumbled across when he had pushed into some bushes to take a leak next to the mansion. A plastic bag filled with gold jewelry and a few silver coins had been buried by the side of the giant house. It had been rainwater, running off the side of the roof rather than through clogged gutters, that had partially unearthed the treasure.

In the distance, he could make out the skyline of St. Petersburg and the city’s baseball stadium dome. The fish had towed him many miles already. Now, after being dragged for nearly ninety minutes, first under the I-275 and then the Route 19 overpasses, Toby Joe was close to capturing his delicious grouper. He could already taste the fire-grilled meat as he pulled once again on the ever-tiring fish. He smiled when he realized he’d be stuffing himself soon, followed by a trip to the local brothel, where he’d trade some of his jewelry for a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and a night with some of the prettiest whores in Tampa.

“Thank ya, God!” he said out loud as he used his foot to push the booty bag away.

The bay was choppy, and water was splashing up at the crusty vagrant. When a couple of homemade banana leaf cigarettes in his front shirt pocket became soaked by the salty bay water, Toby Joe cursed. But he quickly smiled when he remembered that a silver coin could buy a whole carton of real smokes at the brothel’s commissary.

Finally, after another ten minutes of fighting, Toby Joe knew that the end was near. Smiling at his upcoming night, he pulled in another three or four feet and could see his dinner darting about below his flat-bottomed craft. As he stared into the dark, choppy waters, a large body shot across his line of sight, its side flashing a silvery reflection back at him.

“Nooooo!” Toby Joe cried as he realized it was a sailfish, and not a grouper, spinning on the end of his line.

The large game fish was tough and bony. Smoking the meat could provide some usable flesh, but most sailfish were caught and released or used in dog food.

“All that fightin’ for nothing!” the wretched man yelled. “Damn you, God!”

The sailfish twisted once again, then as often happens when a large fish nears the surface, it got a glimpse of the bright sun and shot straight down and under the shadow of the boat, pulling Toby Joe over. Toby Joe released the line and grabbed the edge of the shallow craft, stopping his forward motion. But the sudden shift caused by the sailfish’s last run had tilted the vessel beyond its edge and water plunged into the Jon boat’s bottom. Toby Joe flung himself back and landed in a deep puddle of bay water, still afloat but without a fish.

“Damn it!” he cursed again.

Toby Joe sat for a minute, his right hand pulsing with pain. Finally, he retrieved a paddle from the bottom of the shallow craft to begin the long journey back to shore. But before he could dip the oar in the water, he realized the Ziploc bag was missing.

He dropped to his knees and desperately searched the water-filled boat for the sealed plastic bag, but none could be found.

Frantically, he bent over the side of the craft in a futile attempt to find his treasure.

“Nooooooo!” he cried again as he barely made out a slowly descending bubble, glints of gold shimmering back at him, drifting down and out of sight.

Bent over the edge, he swore and cursed God, sure there was not a greater power above and only the devil and hell awaiting below.

As he was slouched over the aluminum edge of the boat, wishing he could face the Creator and give him a piece of his mind, a brilliant flash surrounded him. Looking up to his east, his eyes were seared by light from an expanding manmade star that had ignited on the nearby peninsula of land. MacDill Airforce base was a few miles away, and as the 1000-kiloton explosion expanded, Toby Joe had just a fraction of a second to recognize he was totally blind and that he may have just seen the face of God after all.

Then the small sun touched Toby Joe, instantly disintegrating him into atomic dust. The Chinese warhead had done its job and thirty miles of the west coast of Florida became a radioactive inferno that would eventually, through fire and radiation poisoning, kill nearly a million pitiful souls.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

STINE VETERINARY CLINIC

CLERMONT, FLORIDA

“A hero is someone who understands the responsibility that comes with his freedom”

— Bob Dylan

CLAIRE KRAMER WAS TIRED. EXHAUSTED from lack of sleep and an uncertainty of the future. If she had to decide which of these two factors played the greatest role in her depressed mood, it would be the latter. Having no way to gather the needed information to make a rational decision about her future was the antithesis of her personal life philosophy. She was a person who needed to be in control.

Looking around her new work space irritated her. She was stuck in a windowless room, surrounded by devices and tools that provided less-than-adequate medical information. Sure, there was a crossover between a veterinarian and a physician. But she didn’t even have the equipment to run simple blood tests. She felt like an eighteenth-century witch doctor, using her observational and interviewing skills to diagnose illnesses. Without laboratory confirmations and radiographic results, she was throwing darts, hoping to land on the bullseye.

Yet with all these limitations, she was making a difference, and that was something. Her father always said the goal of a physician should be to bring both comfort and hope. That she could do, and for her patients, it seemed to be enough. She just needed to accept this new change in her life.

When she was back in Nashville, working under the Department of Homeland Security, she had access to all of those fine machines. She could run a complete blood panel, order x-rays and even a C.T. scan.

Back then, she often slept in the residents’ quarters, complaining to her friends about the spartan accommodations. But now, all those complaints seem so petty.

Claire leaned back against the metal examination table. A local veterinarian assistant named Kim was a life saver. She took on all the mundane, but necessary, tasks that were required to properly diagnose and treat her patients. Kim reviewed the patient’s medical history, noted their chief complaint, and took basic measurements like blood pressure, heart rate, and temperature. This left Claire free to do the most important part of the examination; she listened. Her father remarked that he’d learned more by watching the patient enter the room and then letting them explain why they were there, than any diagnostic test he could run.

If you watch and listen, he’d said, the patient will give you everything you’ll need to treat them properly. You just need to pay attention. Now those words were coming back and proving the old man correct.

People with weak hearts sounded different when she listened to their breathing. Their skin color often had a slightly blue hue, and they compensated during their daily lives by changing the things they would normally do at home. All things that you had to observe and talk about. She’d never thought she’d become such a conversationalist.

She’d already diagnosed several cases of early diabetes, just by asking about their levels of energy, frequency of urination, and in one case, smelling the patient’s breath. The slight, fruity scent gave her the same diagnosis that a blood test would have. At least she hadn’t had to taste a patient’s pee! That was used back in the day to see if sugar was spilling into the urine, giving it a sweet flavor. Who ever thought to do that had to have been a little loopy.

And because she didn’t have the laboratory confirmation of her initial conclusions, she would have to see her patients daily. If this clinic was anything like her dad’s, at some point, the patient or their spouse would ask how many more visits would be required to treat their malady. Her stock answer was always the same. “As long as it takes.”

The practical answer was simpler. She knew she’d done all she could when the patient let her know. Most of the time they’d show up for their appointment with improved signs and symptoms, smiling and thanking her for her help. Sometimes, it was less congenial; they’d just stop coming in. Either way, she had done all she could. And if that meant all she’d accomplished was to give them some hope or take away some pain, then she accepted that. As her father had told her many times, life is a fatal disease. It’s not curable. Just make it as prolonged and comfortable for your patient as you can. And that’s just what she was doing. In the long run, that had to be enough because that was all she could do. It was a humbling and frustrating situation.

She heard the glass door open and then swing shut. Kim had left the clinic a few minutes before, but with one of Porter’s men in the parking lot, she wasn’t worried about intruders. However, the idea of examining one more soul today was exhausting. Without Kim, she’d have to do all the paperwork. It’d be another half an hour before she’d be able to go back to Newsome’s ranch, where she’d be given hot food and a room to sleep in.

“I’ll be right there!” Claire yelled as she turned to clean the examination table.

The footfalls continued down the ceramic tile hallway, followed by a light rap on the room’s doorframe. “Hi Pumpkin,” Dr. Kramer said to his daughter.

Normally, Claire would cringe at his pet name for her. But deep inside, it was comforting to know that she was still his little girl.

“Hi Dad,” she said with a sigh and gave her father a long, much-needed hug.

“What are you doing down here?” she said, breaking their embrace.

He handed her a nylon gym bag. “I brought you these.”

“Did I miss my birthday?” she sarcastically asked, setting it on the table.

Claire unzipped the satchel and found dozens of cardboard blister packs containing anti-radiation iodine pills.

“I didn’t even see the cloud,” Claire said. “We were in here working with patients and, as you can see, there are no windows.”

“You didn’t miss much. It was horrible.”

“Do you think we need to distribute these? We’re over fifty miles from the explosion.”

“I was told it was an air burst, so the fallout is minimal. Also, Bragg said there’s a hell of a storm front moving in. If it rains like they say it will, then no, we don’t need them. But keep these because we don’t know if Orlando will be their next target.”

“Oh,” Claire replied. She hadn’t thought of that.

“We haven’t heard of any other strikes, so we may be in the clear.” Kramer said.

“Did it hit MacDill?”

“Yeah. Bragg got the word from Elgin that MacDill and most of Tampa are gone. It’ll be a while before we can even try to move back into the area.”

“How many did we lose?”

“Soldiers? Not many. It was manned by a few platoons. But they were mostly special ops, and that hurts. But if you’re asking about people? It’s hard to say. We don’t know how many were still alive after all these months.”

Claire absently zipped the bag closed, her gaze unfocused on the room’s walls. She was jolted out of her trance as the lights suddenly went out.

The instantaneous darkness frightened Claire, bringing back memories of the EMP. She gasped and quickly found her father, sliding up to his side.

“Don’t worry, Pumpkin. Your guard told me he was shutting the generator down to conserve fuel. I guess he thought we’d be done by now.”

Kramer produced a Streamlight from his pocket and clicked the end-cap button. Its beam cut through the blackness, and he felt his daughter relax. He made a mental note to speak to her later. She definitely needed to see a counselor, at least whenever one could be found. In the meantime, he’d have to watch her. PTSD could strike suddenly, if the trigger presented itself.

“I hear the food at Newsome’s place isn’t half bad. What do you say we go over there and grab some before I head back to the R.V.?”

“Mom’s okay with you being gone after dark?”

“No,” Kramer replied with a smile. “But it does me good to see her struggle a little when I leave. You know, she thinks she runs the family. It’s nice to see her hide her panic when I might not be back by nightfall.”

Claire snorted. “You really think she doesn’t run the family?”

“Well, let’s just let an old man have his fantasies,” Kramer replied. “Let’s go. I don’t want to make her wait too long.”

“That could be fatal,” Claire said with a smile.

“Death is the least of my worries when your mother’s wrath appears.”

As they went out into the parking lot, Kramer noted that Bragg was correct; a massive storm front was moving in. Bragg had said the tropical depression was likely to hit soon. Kramer now realized that the timing of his trip couldn’t have been worse.

“I think I may need to leave right away,” Kramer said, staring at the oncoming tempest. “I don’t want to be stuck in that.”

Claire saw that he’d ridden her sister’s horse. Her father had tied the animal up to one of the trees lining the lot. She also noticed that someone had found a bucket and that it had been filled with water. The brown steed was lapping up its fill. Her guard, a soldier named Marsh, was wiping the horse down with a moistened towel. It was obvious the Ranger was smitten with the animal.

“Looks like you’ve done this before,” Claire said as she and her father approached.

“Yes ma’am,” Marsh replied. “I grew up on a farm in New Hampshire. I had plenty of experience with horses. She’s a beauty. Your dad’s taken good care of her.”

“My other daughter did,” Kramer painfully replied, thinking of Caroline. “This is her horse.”

Claire noted his use of the present tense verb. “Any word yet?” Claire asked hopefully. “Has Bragg found out if she made it somewhere safely?”

“Not yet, Pumpkin. You’ll be home in two days, right? We should know by then.”

The original plan to staff the clinic called for Claire to see patients for a few days then go back to her father’s Airstream for some time off.

“I don’t know, Dad. I’ve got a number of patients that need me to monitor their progress. It’s a day-to-day thing.”

“Well, if you can’t make it, let us know. I’m sure your mom will force herself onto a horse and ride down for a visit.”

Kramer then stood in front of the Ranger and looked him in the eyes. “What’s your first name, son?”

“It’s Brad, sir.”

“Well, Brad Marsh. I expect you to protect my little girl. Is that understood?”

“Clear, sir. I’ll take a bullet for her, if needed.”

Kramer studied the young man and nodded. “Thank you, Brad. That means the world to me.”

“For you two, I think we’d all take a bullet. We appreciate what you’re doing. Not everyone is stepping up to the table.”

Kramer nodded and mounted the horse. Marsh noted the leather sleeve riding on the side of the saddle. The wooden buttstock of a lever-action rifle protruded out from it.

“Do you want an M4, Dr. Kramer? I’ve got a spare in the HUMVEE.”

“No thanks, son. I wouldn’t know how to use it. This’ll have to do.”

Kramer gave a light snap to the reins and pulled to the right. The horse immediately responded and began to walk across the concrete parking lot. As soon as they found the grass, they began to trot north, quickly disappearing from sight around the side of the strip mall.

“Are you all ready, ma’am?”

“Just have to lock the door.”

As Claire returned to the vehicle, she found Marsh holding the passenger door open for her.

“Anything else, ma’am?”

“Yeah,” she said before sliding into the Hummer. “Do not let me hear you tell anyone about my nickname.”

“Pumpkin,” Marsh said. “I’d never do that. That’s between a father and his daughter.”

“Okay. But you promise.”

Marsh nodded his head. After closing her door, he jogged around the front of the vehicle and hopped into the driver’s seat. He flipped the heating element switch on, and after a few moments, started the engine.

“Munchkin,” Marsh mumbled as he turned to the left, moving southbound on Highway 27.

“Say what?” Claire asked.

“That’s my daughter’s nickname. Munchkin.”

The pair rode silently for a bit, before Claire replied. “How old is she?”

The Ranger caught his breath, but only for a moment. He wiped his face with his sleeve, preventing a tear from welling up. “She was three when I deployed, ma’am.”

Claire was not happy that she’d gone down this path. Her silence was telling, and Marsh glanced over at her. He saw her regret.

“It’s okay. She was back in New Hampshire with my wife and the grandparents when the EMP went off. Both of us grew up on a farm, so I’m sure they’re all right.”

Claire looked at the man, his face stoic as he maneuvered them around several stalled cars. “You must miss them.”

“You’ve no idea. I mean, we’re used to being apart. I’ve deployed for over fourteen months before. But now…” He let his words hang in the air as they turned off of Route 27 and rolled toward Newsome’s house.

“Now, there’s no more home front to come back to,” Claire replied, saying the words that demanded to be said.

Marsh just nodded. With a child stranded and a wife who faced the tremendous hardships she was enduring, the Ranger’s commitment to stay on mission was unfathomable. He was, in Claire’s mind, a true hero.

***

Later that evening, Barb Kramer sat in the Airstream, the wind howling through the surrounding stand of trees. Branches slapped off of the aluminum roof, reminding her that she was in a thin, metal tube and not surrounded by thick, brick walls.

Gerry had been gone longer than expected. At least, that’s what it felt like. The upcoming storm was threatening to spawn a tornado or two. That was a rather common occurrence in Central Florida, but usually only in the spring. It was a rare occurrence to have tornadic winds in the fall. If Sergeant Bragg was correct, the tropical depression had just missed becoming a hurricane, but the expected winds and rain would still be devastating. One fallen tree would crush their abode, and possibly any occupants within it.

Rain began to pelt the leaves, with the occasional drop finding its way through the overhanging limbs. She looked through the drapery of branches and off into the clearing beyond. She saw a steady downpour beginning to dance on the nearby pond. Soon, it would be too dark to see, and then she’d really become frantic.

“Gerry Kramer, where the hell are you?” Barb said out loud.

There was no response.

A half hour later, she heard a knock on the door. Barb rushed to the entrance and flung it out, ready to give her tardy spouse a piece of her mind. But instead of a contrite husband, she saw Bragg looming in the shadows. He was draped with a large, green poncho and his face was barely alit by the glow of one of his many cigarettes. He pulled a drag off the cancer stick, its size having dwindled to a stub. If he’d been smoking a normal cigarette, he’d probably be inhaling the fumes of a burning filter. But his unfiltered Camels gave him a few extra draws.

“Is yer husband back yet?” Bragg asked.

“No, he’s not, Sergeant.”

“I wish yer would call me Vernon,” the crusty old soldier replied.

“Well, I’m just trying to be respectful.”

Bragg snorted then hacked. He spit into the darkness. Likely a large, brown piece of his lungs, Barb thought to herself.

“Ain’t no need for respect, Mrs. Kramer. Ya ain’t one of my soldiers so yer can just call me Vernon. Just don’t call me Vern.”

“Thank you, Vernon. Now, can I help you with something?”

“Well, I guess so. Can I come in out of this rain?”

“I’m sorry, sure. Come on in.”

***

When Kramer finally returned home, the wind was more than just a storm. Gusts of at least fifty miles an hour had forced him to walk his horse the last part of the journey. The darkness was profound, the kind of inky blackness that comes from a heavy downpour during the first hours of dusk where the grey masked any contrast of the surroundings. He couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him as he led the animal through grassy lawns and over puddled up asphalt roads. What made it worse, was that he had to navigate safe passage for both him and the horse. He had to make sure he didn’t take either one of them into a rut or hole that could have led to a broken limb. Once, he had to stop their trek and backtrack when a field that they had passed through earlier was now flooded. That cost them almost thirty minutes.

Both man and beast were drenched, and Kramer’s first job was to secure the animal. Once it was brushed and dried, he slogged his way back to the Airstream. The wind continued to pound them, but he was glad to see that nothing of significance had broken and fallen on the R.V.

Kramer braced himself for his wife’s fury. Not only did she have to endure hours of darkness without him, but they were being blasted by a tropical storm. He shivered at the thought of her reception. But as he approached the Airstream’s door, he heard laughter from within. The lights from inside shone onto the surrounding twisting branches, creating a macabre dancing shadow show on the surrounding cluster of trees.

Kramer twisted the lever and opened the door. The smell of cooked garlic hit his nose as he heard both Bragg and his wife laughing deeply.

“Oh! Hi honey! Glad you made it. I’ve got some chicken on the cooktop that Vernon brought over.”

“Kilt it this morning,” Bragg said. “Yer wife’s a mighty fine cook. Yer a lucky man, Doc.”

“I tell myself that every day,” Kramer said with his mouth agape. “What’s going on?”

“Vernon came by earlier. He brought great news! Caroline’s safe. She made it to Elgin!”

Kramer forgot that he was tired, and he didn’t feel his water-logged clothing anymore. Barb stood up from the table and rushed to her soaking wet husband, embracing him like she hadn’t in months.

“I didn’t think they’d make it this fast. That there, is God’s work. Ain’t it, Doc?” Bragg croaked.

“Yes, my friend. It truly is a miracle.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

A.J. BIANCHI’S HOUSE

CHARLIE

“Distance means so little when someone means so much…”

— Unknown

IT WAS NEARLY DINNER TIME. A.J., John, Mike, and I huddled over the kitchen table, staring at a map of the city. It had been a few days since the nuclear device went off out west. The next day, a severe storm front moved into our area, shutting down just about everything in the already injured city.

Our normal communications had been interrupted by the swirling winds when they tore through the trees next to A.J.’s house. The wires he’d strung for his ham radio had been ripped apart when several trees went down. From the looks of things, it had likely been a microburst of wind, or even a tornado. Poor Kern had spent the entire day repairing the antenna, finally finishing up less than an hour ago.

“I’ve been able to use the ham successfully. We’re up and running. I just don’t know whether our contact in DHS will be able to use her unit. That was a hell of a storm last night,” A.J. said.

“I’ll be here,” John said. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

“John. You know you can’t speak to her. OPSEC and all.”

“I know. I just want to hear her voice.”

A.J. nodded. The man was in love.

Tasha had three designated times to send her report. Each fell at thirty-six minutes past each even hour after dark. The first chance to communicate would be at 2036 since the sun was officially timed to set at 1907, or 7:07 p.m. If she couldn’t do it then, she could still transmit at 2236 and 0036. John was going to stay close by until they heard from her, or all three deadlines had passed.

“I’m worried about my mom and sister,” Mike said. “That nuke really spooked me.”

“I have a feeling we’re going to be asked to put eyes on the auto auction up in Seminole County,” A.J. said. “That’s right in the neighborhood for you, isn’t it?”

Mike’s eyes lit up as he looked at the map. “Damn sure is. It’s less than a couple of miles to my mother’s house from there.”

“If we have to send a team there, you can join up with them and have some company for the trip.”

“That would be most righteous!” Mike replied, smiling. “I’d really appreciate that.”

“Well, give it a day or two. Next transmission from our contact should give us more information.”

“Congrats, big guy!” I said.

“Thanks, little one. I ain’t felt this good in a long time.”

A.J. looked at his watch and nodded. “We have a couple of hours before the first window. Let’s grab a bite to eat. I’ll get Kern and see if he wants to fix something.”

A.J. left us, walking to the back of the house. John, Mike, and I chatted for a minute. It was nice to see their moods lighten. John was going to hear from his girlfriend and Mike would likely be checking in on his family. And once again, I found myself alone with my thoughts. The lingering doubt about my mother’s fate nagged at me. For as much as I fought and resented her, she was still my mom. That bond, no matter how much I fought it, was still entwined within my soul. I couldn’t cut it out of me any more than I could cut off my hand or rip out a lung. It was part of me, and her likely death gnawed at the back of my mind.

A.J. returned, his face flush and with little to say. “Kern’s, er… Kern’s busy. We’re on our own.”

I could tell that Cyn had something to do with his embarrassment. I hadn’t seen her in a while and neither had we run across Kern. Those two had turned into a pair of rabbits. I didn’t even want to think about that.

A.J. sat down, his face still contorted with an uncomfortable grimace. If he’d caught them in a compromised way, it was an image that would be hard to forget. For some reason, I laughed at his discomfort.

“What?” Mike asked.

“A.J.,” I said, pointing and giggling.

Both of the guys looked at A.J. and suddenly understood his discomfort.

“Need some eye bleach?” Mike asked.

“Uh. I, uh…” A.J. stammered.

John chuckled. “Oh Lord. That must have been some sight.”

The three of us began to laugh, especially when we heard a large thud coming from a back bedroom. Something large had fallen, and it didn’t sound like furniture.

“Oh, hell no!” A.J. cried.

Mike looked at me and then at John. Immediately, all four of us burst out laughing. It lasted for over a minute before we quieted down. Then, in a rare moment of silence, we heard a voice cry out from the back.

“Argh! That hurts!”

Kern’s cry was followed by a loud “shushing” noise.

We couldn’t help it anymore. The tears began to run down my face as the four of us broke out laughing once again. It was cathartic because some of those teardrops were for my mother. When we were done, I felt relieved of the pain I’d taken on since the nuke went off. I knew she was dead. I had cried it out and now I was in a different place. I knew that the time for remorse was over. Now, I vowed, was the time for retribution.

A.J. BIANCHI’S HOUSE

LATER THAT NIGHT

John was disappointed, but not surprised, that the first window went by without any communication. In the past, Tasha had never used that early slot. Perhaps it was never safe or maybe she just wanted to eat and clean up.

But as the next potential window approached, John found himself tapping his toes rhythmically on the linoleum floor. He sat in the kitchen alone, checking his Seiko every minute. Time felt heavy, dragging itself a second at a time around the auto-winding watch’s analog dial.

At 2234, John got up and went into a back room, where the radio was located. A wire threaded its way out of the back of the unit and through a drilled hole in the wall. It disappeared into the trees beyond.

At 2236, the radio crackled to life and John heard Tasha giving a coded call sign. A.J. replied and John heard his girlfriend’s voice once more.

Tasha began her report while John sat with his eyes closed, imagining that she was sitting in the room with them. After filing her ACE with A.J., she asked to speak with John.

“Sorry, OPSEC rules. We don’t want to be tracked.”

“Don’t worry. The Russian counter intelligence truck is down. It had damage from the storm. No one is tracking me, so we’re clear until the end of the week.”

A.J. thought for a moment then got up from the desk. He waved John over and invited him to take a seat. “Push the bar on the bottom of the table mic to transmit but take it off to receive. If you don’t let up, you’ll keep transmitting, and she won’t be able to reply.”

“I’ve got it. We used two-way radios at the police department.”

“Close enough,” A.J. replied.

John sat down and hesitated before finally pushing the transmit bar. “Hi baby. Are you all right?”

At the other end, Tasha felt a thrill of joy and relief run through her. The last few weeks were forgotten, and all she heard was her lover speaking to her, seemingly back from the dead.

“Oh John. You haven’t a clue how much I’ve missed you.”

Drosky looked at A.J., who was hovering at the back of the room. “Do you mind?”

“Oh, sure.,” A.J. replied. He left the room and closed the door, giving John some privacy.

“We’re alone,” he transmitted. “I love you so much.”

Tasha grabbed a quick breath and stifled her tears. What could she say to him? How could he tell him about her relationship with Nixon? She decided not to say a thing, at least for now. “I love you too. I miss you in my bed.”

“You have no idea how much you’ve meant to these people. We’ve been able to use your reports to do some real damage.”

“Please be careful, John. The Russians are serious about this. They’ve got more helicopters and armored troop transports on their way. They’re starting a war.”

“I will. But I’m not going to stand still. We’re just going to be a little more careful than before.”

“Please do. Their helicopters are like flying tanks. They’ve got infrared and night vision. You can’t rely on the dark anymore to hide. Be careful.”

John wasn’t surprised but hadn’t wanted to think about this new threat. The Russians had airpower that rivaled their own military’s capabilities. In some way, they were better, with bigger crafts and more firepower than their American counterparts.

“Let’s not talk about it. Tell me about you. How’s your hair now? You know how I like it off your ears.”

Tasha blushed, remembering how John used to brush her hair back. He said it framed her face better. “Not since you left. I really don’t have anyone to impress here.”

She cringed at the last sentence, thinking of the way she prostituted herself at least two times a week. Travis Nixon disgusted her, and every time he touched her it was all she could do to keep herself from ramming a knife into him. Had she not become privy to classified material, she’d have left long ago.

The minutes went by, and Tasha soon forgot about her recent past. As John’s voice resonated in the room, she closed her eyes and dreamt he was next to her. She could imagine his hands caressing the back of her head and his fingers massaging her temples. She could almost feel his breath drifting over her ears, as he often did before turning her head to kiss her.

She was listening to him describe his escape from Maitland and the team they’d created with Mike, Cyn, and a new woman named Charlie.

“Charlie? What kind of name is that for a girl? Did her dad want a boy?”

John laughed. “You sound jealous.”

“Not in the least. Is she fitting in?” Tasha asked, realizing that she was jealous of the woman. Charlie had spent more time with John over the last month than she’d spent with John in the last half a year. At least, awake time. Sleeping next to John didn’t count.

“She’s a pistol,” John said. “And a quick learner. Cyn has gotten her straightened out. She’s a good teammate. I like her a lot.”

That didn’t help Tasha in the least, and she suddenly realized that she could lose John, especially if or when he found about her relations with Nixon.

“Don’t let her fool you,” Tasha blurted. “She could be trouble.”

John laughed but fortunately didn’t push the transmit button down. He quickly realized that she really was jealous and diffused the situation. He pushed the bar on the base of the mic and spoke. “She’s not my type. Not that I’d be looking.”

He lied. Charlie wasn’t as curvy as most of the girls he had been attracted to in the past, including Tasha. She was more athletic, but not in a tomboy way. She lacked the self-awareness of her feminine beauty, pulling her hair back into a ponytail whenever she could rather than primping it to impress someone else. He never saw her wear makeup and in truth, she didn’t need it. It was Charlie’s casual approach to her appearance that was so alluring. And her smile. She could light up a room when she smiled. But she rarely had that moment. In truth, no one smiled much anymore.

He and Mike had private man-talks, arguing about what Charlie would be like as a girlfriend rather than a teammate. Both agreed it would be both fun and interesting. Charlie was passionate about everything she did and most importantly, she was confident once she made up her mind. A pretty woman with a good attitude was a winning combination.

But that was locker room talk, and neither man had any intention of doing anything stupid, like making a pass or even accepting her invitations. Not that she’d ever done anything like that. Their private conversations were just that, the ramblings of two men displaying their testosterone to each other. They wouldn’t and couldn’t risk breaking up the team. And to top it all off, Cyn would either leave with her, or kick both their butts. Nothing positive going down that lane. Besides, John realized long ago that he loved Tasha. There was no room for a Charlie in his heart.

Tasha sensed that the tone in John’s voice was less than honest. Her female instincts started buzzing. Her blood began to rise when John continued. “You make me laugh, Tasha. The last time you got jealous, you thought Mike and I had a thing.”

Tasha grinned, remembering when she’d first gotten together with John. She was convinced he was having a relationship with another woman. When she stormed into his apartment and heard someone in his shower, she accused him of having an affair. A minute later, Mike walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Tasha decided she was overreacting to John’s voice and let the thought slide. They continued to talk, and time flew by. The clock that had seemed to drag earlier in the evening was now rushing by at quantum speed.

“I have to go,” Tasha said. “But we can talk tomorrow.”

“Same time?” John asked.

“Yeah, babe. Same time. Whiskey Delta Kilo four three, out,” Tasha said, then disconnected.

John sat stoically in the chair, straining to hear any echo of his girl’s voice. After a minute, he calmly switched off the power to the ham unit and quietly left the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DHS HEADQUARTERS

COMMUNICATIONS

“The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost.”

— G.K. Chesterton

A FEW MONTHS INTO THE RECOVERY, and not long after she and John had become an item, Tasha transferred out of personnel. When the opening came up in the Communication Department, she had jumped at it. She had already been contacted by the budding Resistance after making some ill-advised comments following a few drinks at one of the resident tower’s parties. Fortunately, she had made them to a fellow sympathizer. Her name was Cynthia Terrones, and she was developing a network of contacts to fight the growing tyranny.

After her transfer, Tasha immersed herself in the technology and was soon promoted to supervisor. It put her in the position of overwatch, giving her access to all the new government’s secrets. Supply routes, duty assignments, and transportation routes were all at her disposal.

The need for DHS to keep track of its assets was almost obsessive. It reflected the top-down approach to governance. It made electronic tracking imperative so that the bean counters above her pay grade could monitor their progress. It also gave Tasha all that information, right at her fingertips. She was legitimately doing her job when she accessed the information. It was the perfect cover.

Her talk with John had brightened her mood, and she came to work the next day with a smile and new attitude. Even the depressing atmosphere of her communication center, where she oversaw several dozen drone workers, couldn’t suppress her joy. The morning seemed to fly by.

After lunch, she was sitting at her desk, filling out a never-ending rash of emails and electronic forms. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she filed report after report. Looking back, it was probably her efficiency at this mundane task that led to her supervisor position. In government, it wasn’t the person who performed the best, but the one who reported the most who got the next position. Volume rather than results determined who would be elevated. It was a less than productive system, and one that was guarded with a passion. If you strayed from the official path, you were thrown out like last night’s leftover fish dinner.

Tasha finished her paperwork in record time. She went out onto the floor, where her people worked, gathering information to pass up to those higher.

She went to a table where a coffee machine sat, giving her agents a place to take a break without having to leave the room. She saw two of her people, both neighbors of hers at the tower, sipping coffee while quietly talking among themselves.

Her female instincts told her there was some serious gosiping going on, and Tasha slid up next to the women, joining them in their conversation. She was quickly included in the chat, which revolved around some seedy and lurid chatter about a couple of their floormates. It was pure gossip and the three of them loved it.

Tasha had her back to the rest of the room, so her first inclination that something unusual was occurring didn’t register until one of the others looked over Tasha’s shoulder. Her eyes widened, and she suddenly threw her empty cup into the trash can and walked quickly back to her station.

Tasha turned to see what had scared the girl and gasped. Travis Nixon stood behind her, a smile on his face. “Well. You’re in a good mood. I haven’t seen you this happy since, well, since your boyfriend decided to become a traitor.”

Tasha bit her tongue. Nixon was a notorious sadist. He loved to hurt her, mostly mentally. He’d slapped her one time, and Tasha had scratched him back so hard that he’d backed off. She later heard that he told his friends the gouge on his chest was from his prowess in bed. It just confirmed to Tasha that the man was a coward. He disgusted her.

“Really, Travis, you don’t need to keep bringing that up. That may have been the best thing to happen to me,” Tasha said.

Complimenting an egotistical coward was easy and deflected their line of thought. As before, it worked on the weak, self-centered man.

The pair moved into her private office, and Nixon closed the door. He smiled and grabbed her face, planting a sloppy kiss on her lips. Tasha barely had time to respond, faking a slight moan, which satisfied Nixon’s ego.

“I’ll be tied up tonight and tomorrow with the Russians. I just wanted to let you know. I’ll miss you. I don’t think I can wait three days.”

“Well, I’ll be waiting for you. Maybe that will help,” Tasha said.

“I don’t want to wait.” He pushed her back onto the desk.

Tasha, once again, forced herself to play the part. She couldn’t wait until she could retaliate against the traitorous pig that was pulling at her shirt and fumbling with her bra.

Retribution. I will have retribution, she thought as she took her mind to another place, and another time.

DHS HEADQUARTERS

Beth strode down the hallway after her dinner had been interrupted by a call from the personnel office. Not that she would miss the food, with its white “secret sauce” covering thin slices of mystery meat. But at least it was a hot meal. As she walked, she reflected that being summoned to the place where assignments were meted out didn’t bode well for her continued presence guarding Tanya and her daughter.

The arrival of the Russians had been both sudden and dramatic. One minute there was a rumor of reinforcement and the next, Russian and Cuban troops were swarming out of large, transport planes at OIA. That had been about a week ago, and since then, several of their officers had taken apartments in the city.

Her primary job was to guard the former DHS director’s widow and daughter. But within a few days of the Russians’ arrival, one of their officers had taken a liking to Tanya. The widow was anything but stupid. She quickly latched onto the man, and Beth soon found herself standing guard next to a pair of large, Russian soldiers who spoke not a bit of English. Neither she nor her new uninvited companions had any inclination to learn the other’s language. Beth now found herself at night alone with her own thoughts while the two Russians smoked and laughed together.

When she did have Tanya by herself, it was primarily during the day when the officer was off at a meeting or with his troops, taking the two guards with him. Beth spent her time entertaining the little girl or following the pair around town as Tanya shopped or was having some form of grooming done.

A local masseuse had set up shop, and the fortunate spouses and concubines of the well-to-do clustered there daily. A hair salon also found space nearby and, between the two, they were killing it. Beth heard rumors that a tea room was planned. She wasn’t surprised. The level of disconnect to the plight of the rest of the country was astounding.

Now, she was heading to the office, likely for reassignment. Lost in her thoughts, her stomach lurched as she turned a corner and saw director Qualls and Nixon walking toward her. The pair was deep in conversation, but Beth almost reached out to slap Travis Nixon when he glanced up and gave her a condescending smirk. The stupid SOB had no clue that his bombing strike failed to kill her friend and that their only casualty was John’s partner. Poor Bru. He was in the wrong place, next to the wrong person.

The pair passed by and Beth found herself in front of the door to Personnel. The smoked-glass insert covering the top half of the old, oak door had been re-stenciled to reflect DHS and its new purpose. She entered without knocking and strode up to the long, chest-high reception desk. But for Beth, who was barely over five feet tall, it was nearly up to her chin.

Beth stood up on her tiptoes before tapping the top of an antique brass call bell. Ding. Ding. Ding.

With it being after five, most of the staff had already departed. It seemed that DHS would be rebuilding a wounded nation using banking hours.

“Be right there,” came a call from a back office.

A minute later, a man appeared from a side room, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. He made his way to the counter and smiled. “May I help you?”

“Beth Hildreth, reporting as ordered.”

“Just a moment,” he said as he looked down at the other side of the barrier. The sound of shuffling papers met her ears as he looked for the appropriate documents.

“Ah! Found you,” he said, then with a questioning look, he continued. “That’s strange.”

“What’s strange? Nothing surprises me anymore,” Beth said with a sigh.

“Well, you’ve been reassigned, and your housing quarters are being terminated. But there are no follow-up orders.” The man continued to look confused as he dug around for further information.

After a minute, her ankles hurting from the continued effort to stand on her tiptoes, Beth got the agent’s attention. “What does this mean? If I don’t have a new assignment, who do I report to?”

“Honestly, Agent Hildreth, I have no idea. But your orders are specific. You have to be out of your apartment by midnight, and I have no idea where or when you will be reassigned.”

“This is ridiculous! I mean, where do I sleep?”

The man stood in front of Beth with a totally perplexed look. “Honestly, I’ve never had this problem before.”

“Can I see the orders?” Beth asked.

The personnel agent handed Beth the paperwork. She read carefully each line of the order. She was to vacate her apartment. Her position guarding Tanya was officially terminated, and it was blank where it listed her new assignment.

How could this happen? Beth thought to herself as she stared at the thin, white sheet of paper. What have I done?

The answer eluded her. She’d been keeping her head down and done her job. As far as she knew, Tanya had been thrilled with the situation, especially given that her daughter adored the attention lavished on her while she was under guard. Most days, Beth felt more like a daycare worker than a DHS agent.

Then, at the bottom of the page, Beth saw the reason for her misery. The order had been signed by none other than Travis Nixon. Now the smirk made sense. Nixon had done it.

“I suppose you could report to the new arrival center,” the agent said, seeing Beth’s consternation.

The new arrival area was nothing more than a large, reception space where former police and military were temporarily assigned a bunk before induction into the new government. It was worse than boot camp. There was no gender separation, including the bathrooms. She shuddered at the thought.

“Thanks, I’ll take that into account.”

“You will need to turn in your sidearm,” the agent said, holding his hand out to collect her pistol.

“I’ll take it to the armory after I’ve cleaned out my room,” Beth replied. She had no intention of giving up her Glock, at least until someone forced her to.

“You better have it back by midnight,” the agent replied.

“I will,” Beth lied. “I have to go now.”

“I’ll contact the armory to check on your compliance,” the agent said sternly, his cryptic tone leaving no doubt as to Beth’s future if she didn’t do as she was told.

Beth left quickly and went directly to her apartment. As she surveyed the one bedroom flat, she noticed that a year’s worth of unnecessary items had somehow accumulated in her room.

As she began to pack, she realized she had no future with DHS. If she stayed, eventually Nixon would have her killed. He could assign her a task with a high probability of death, or just have her shot by “an intruder” in the middle of the night. Either way, Beth knew her days were numbered.

She had only one option, and that was John Drosky. Somehow, she’d have to find him and join the Resistance. Beth had no idea where John was, but she did know one person who had that information. Natasha would know.

Beth reassessed the things in front of her and decided to use her assault pack rather than stuff her duffel bag full of crap she’d never use again. She would only take what she could carry and fight with. It made her decisions much easier, as every ounce counted when you were a middle-aged, diminutive female with minimal combat experience. The less weight, the better.

With night absorbing the remaining light, she began to pack. Then it was off to Tasha’s place to get an address, or at least be directed to a part of the city where she could search for her lost friends.

Several hours later, Beth closed the door to her apartment for the last time. She slunk out the back of the building to avoid the possibility of being taken by one of Nixon’s henchmen and quietly disappeared. She continued moving away from downtown for a few blocks. Then, when she was sure no one was following her, she swung around and began the journey back to Tasha’s apartment.

ORLANDO COUNTRY CLUB

The stately clubhouse had been recently restored. Glass windows, over fifteen feet high, now gleamed with the reflected light of the hanging, brass chandeliers. Tattered carpeting had been torn up and the underlying wood floors restored.

Director Qualls and Travis Nixon sat at the front table with two Russian colonels and a Cuban captain. The meal, a healthy slab of local roast beef and potatoes, was staring back at Nixon. It had to be at least a pound of rare flesh, and after his romp with Tasha that afternoon, he greedily devoured the bloody meat.

The meal began with a healthy dose of Russian vodka, and the guests were feeling good. Nixon had nursed his drink, never giving his enemies or friends an advantage over him. For her part, Ramona Qualls was feeling no pain as she flirted with one of the Russian officers sitting next to her.

Nixon could appreciate her actions. Both of them were calculating, and if showing off some of her ample cleavage could gain them an advantage later, it was worth letting his woman flaunt her assets.

Never one to pass on an opportunity, Nixon gazed around in search of his own prey. Several of the Cuban representatives were more than attractive. And although cultivating inter-political relations with the Cubans held less potential than what Ramona was doing with the high-ranking Russian, he felt free to pursue the hot Latin women. By their demeanor on the dance floor, the girls appeared to be looking for a good time.

Ramona’s laughter was tinted with a bit too much booze. The Russian’s eyes told of his intent, and there was little Nixon could do about it. He might be sleeping alone after all. Then, looking at a particularly inviting Cuban sitting at a table nearby, he saw hope that he’d salvage the evening and find a warm bed with her.

There was a sudden flurry of activity at the ballroom door, and two Russians walked quickly to the head table. One of them interrupted Ramona’s conversation and bent over to whisper into the Russian colonel’s ear. His facial expression changed. A predator of a different kind appeared, replacing the subtler one that he’d been showing just a moment ago. The man frightened Nixon.

“Director, our team has detected RF signals emanating from the north side of the city,” the Russian told Qualls.

“I thought you said your truck would be out of commission until Friday,” Nixon complained.

“I did. But we were convinced the continued insurgency is being helped by someone within your organization. I am sorry for the deception, but we now have a location.”

“Two locations, Colonel,” the Russian soldier said.

“Ah yes. Where is the other radio frequency coming from?”

“The DHS residential tower.”

Colonel Vodovatov gave them a satisfying grin. “I am afraid that you have a traitor amongst you, Director. I would suggest that you handle this at once.”

She turned to Travis and said, “Take care of this.”

“Take this man to the communications truck and assist him any way you can,” the colonel commanded his men.

Nixon looked at the Russian colonel who was staring back at him. The man’s eyes confirmed that Travis would not be sleeping in Quall’s bed tonight.

DHS RESIDENTIAL TOWER

Once Beth had circled back into town, she quickly moved toward Tasha’s apartment. The downtown avenues were still filled with foot traffic, as people were feeling more secure.

Overhead, Beth heard a long-forgotten sound that had recently become an almost hourly occurrence.

Whump, Whump, Whump, Whump.

A Russian two-seater helicopter called the Ansat, a new addition to the Russian air force, shot overhead. It was armed with a forward-looking machine gun and had hard points that could mount various kinetic weapons. But its primary mission was as a scout and not a tank knocker. The Russians had brought a couple along and were now using them as ghetto birds, hovering over an incident or suspected enemy position, shining their powerful spotlights to mark the desired location.

Several weeks back, DHS had made the decision to cut their ties with the roaming gangs. Once useful in scaring the city’s holdouts into reporting to the government internment camps, they had rapidly become a liability as several gang leaders had tried to become local warlords. Drugs, alcohol, and prostitution were still in demand. The hoodlums had carved out a niche in the post-apocalyptic city, raiding supply convoys and overrunning several Homeland outposts.

Now the gangs had become as much a problem as the growing Resistance. Because of this, a lot of the government’s focus had been pledged to eradicating their presence. With the addition of the Russian helicopter assets, the war against the gangs had just gone to a whole new level.

Beth walked casually through the streets, just another DHS agent returning from a long day’s work. She strolled by the city’s urban lake. Swan boats were chained to a dock, and the park’s bandshell had just received a fresh coat of paint.

“The country’s burning down, and the government wants to put on a concert to keep up morale,” Beth muttered to herself. Their priorities were amazingly callous to the needs of the people.

She pointed herself toward the tower, lit up by spotlights that flooded the front of the building. Rather than taking a straight path to the front door, she’d learned from John to take her time and scout the way first.

Beth turned and walked around the back of the building. The sidewalks were illuminated by solar-powered garden lanterns, which put off enough light to keep her on the path. Rounding the back of the structure, she stopped when she recognized one of the colonel’s guards smoking next to two vehicles. The first was the colonel’s personal GAZ Tiger. The 4x4 IMV (infantry mobility vehicle) didn’t have a machine gun nor any other heavy weapon mounted on it. It was, however, a fierce-looking vehicle that could survive anything short of a direct missile hit. The second vehicle was one she’d never forget for as long as she lived. It was Nixon’s HUMVEE.

“Not good!” Beth said to herself. “He must be here for one of his booty call visits.”

Beth backed up and found some shadows in the adjacent bushes. She unstrapped her assault pack and dropped it into the thick brush. She found a plastic bucket and flipped it over then sat down. If she could read Travis Nixon at all, it wouldn’t be long before he finished. That last thought brought a sarcastic smile to Beth’s face, until she realized what Tasha was putting herself through. She decided to thank the poor woman when she saw her next. It was the least she could do.

***

Inside, Nixon walked behind a Russian technician who had a handheld RF signal locator. They were accompanied by one of Vodovatov’s guards. They stopped on each floor to allow the signal man time to focus on his equipment.

At first, they took the elevator, but they soon learned that the lift blocked their ability to track the RF signal. Since the third floor, they’d been relegated to the stairwell where its concrete shaft had less of an effect on their reception. At least they could maintain a lock on the source, which was transmitting at irregular intervals. By the fifteenth level, he was not breathing too hard, although his muscles felt like he was running a marathon.

The colonel’s guard, on the other hand, was wheezing and gulping oxygen with each step. The hazards of smoking unfiltered cigarettes, Nixon thought. The man knew better when he’d started smoking. Nixon had no sympathy for him.

“I’ve lost signal,” the equipment operator said.

“Shit!” Nixon spat. “All this way for nothing?”

They all stood still, waiting for the machine to begin registering again. After a minute, the out-of-shape guard sat down on one of the steps and pulled out a cigarette.

Nixon grabbed the white cancer stick from his hand and threw it down the shaft. The big man jumped up and put his hand on his sidearm, cursing in Russian.

“Kem ty sebya vozomnil!”

Nixon stepped up to the Russian, putting himself into the man’s personal space. “I don’t know what you just said, but you may want to rethink what you’re about to do.”

The signal operator smiled and said, “He asked you who you think you are.”

Nixon was still ticked off that Ramona was going to bed with the colonel. She was his, regardless of his own salacious adventures. He wasn’t in the mood to smell the foul Russian tobacco.

“Tell him that I’m the boss here. And there’s no smoking, especially that Russian crap! It smells like ass.”

The signal operator translated Nixon then got the man’s reply.

“He says that he’d be happy to discuss who is in charge. He reminds you that he can shoot you quicker than you can get to your own pistol.”

“Tell him to look down, then let me know if he wants to try it.”

The Russians gazed down and saw Nixon’s KA-BAR pointing at the guard’s belly, just above the groin area and just below the man’s body armor.

“Tell him that my knife will have his intestines on the floor before he even gets that piece of shit Russian pistol out of its holster.”

The translator hesitated, causing Nixon to push the tip of the knife gently into the man’s skin.

“Tell him!” Nixon screamed.

The signal operator spoke in Russian, causing the guard to blanch. He pulled his hand away from the holster and held them both up and began to shake his head side-to-side.

“Nyet! Mir!”

The translator began to speak, but Nixon cut him off. “I know what the words mean! Peace.” Nixon snorted. “Just like the old days, peace through strength. Is that the only thing you punks understand?”

Nixon put his knife back into its sheath. Neither of the Russians spoke.

“Ah. Détente!” Nixon said. “I feel like Henry Kissinger.”

The men stared at each other, when suddenly, the signal returned.

“It’s back. Let us go,” the Russian signal man said.

Nixon nodded, and they started ascending once again. As they passed the thirtieth floor, Nixon began to get a bad feeling. Only the most trusted agents were given a room up here. But as he reflected on the increasing radio signal strength, his shock was tempered when he reminded himself that John Drosky had been living up here at one time.

They stopped a few more floors up. When the signal began to weaken, they went back down one flight.

“Da! We are here,” the Russian agent said. “This is the floor.”

Nixon looked at the numbered placard hanging next to the metal door and felt his stomach hit the ground. He knew one person who lived on this level. One person who had access to all the information required to become the perfect spy. One traitorous woman who had used him to help the Resistance. He began to see red on the edges of his vision as his anger swelled.

“We don’t need that thing anymore,” Nixon told the signal man. “Just follow me. Tell your partner downstairs that we’ve found the traitor. Get his ass up here now.”

The signal operator gave him a strange look but did as he was told. After calling the remaining guard on his radio, the men moved into the hallway and stopped in front of Tasha’s apartment.

A minute later, the elevator door opened, and the other Russian guard joined them. Nixon leaned up to the door and put his ear to it. Satisfied that Tasha wasn’t in the living space beyond, he produced a set of keys and gently opened the door. The sound of her muffled voice came from the bedroom to the left.

“Wait here,” Nixon commanded, and he entered Tasha’s flat.

The three Russians stood as told, one holding the door open while the other two stared curiously at Nixon’s back. Nixon slunk into the darkened room and gently shut the door.

How could I have been so foolish? Nixon thought. It’s been right in front of me the whole time. Tasha is the traitor!

For weeks, DHS had suspected someone of leaking information to the Resistance. Several lower level people had been purged in an attempt to stop the flow of information. The efforts had been fruitless, as the attacks had intensified. Ramona had put Nixon in charge of finding the leak and was nearing her breaking point. Now that he’d found the mole, they could put a stop to the bleeding. Travis’s frown turned into a snarl as he thought of the pleasure laid out before him. He’d exact revenge on the cursed woman then put her down like the diseased vermin she had become.

Nixon was about to storm into the room when he realized that if he implicated Tasha, he’d implicate himself. Tasha was the traitor, but she got some of her information from him. The Russian convoy ambushed the other day was a perfect example of that. The Russians hadn’t sent any official timetables to DHS. They had confided their plans to Qualls, including their scheduled supply runs. Ramona had then passed that information down to him. He realized that Qualls would sacrifice him to save her own position. She would never allow anyone to put her in the chain of evidence.

Nixon didn’t know what to do and froze. The stillness of the room amplified the conversation coming from the next room, allowing him to make out both words and tone. Nixon cautiously moved forward, inching himself toward the cracked open bedroom door. A slice of dim light spotlighted out into the hall. Nixon stepped into its shadow and nudged the door open an inch or two more. He leaned to the opening and saw Tasha sitting at a desk, where a microphone was corded to a small suitcase that had two wires coming out of it. The first wire was a power cord attached to the wall. The second was a coaxial cable that ran from the box to a device that was sucker mounted to the window. The circular antenna was stuck to the glass and facing north.

“I think about you all day,” Tasha said as she depressed the transmit bar. “Do you think we can meet up soon?”

“I’ll talk to the others,” the male voice said over the small speaker. “I could use some time with you too.”

Nixon let out an audible gasp as the man’s voice echoed from the bedroom. It can’t be. He’s dead. John Drosky is dead!

“Hold on,” Tasha said. “I just heard something.”

“What is it?” John asked.

“Probably nothing. It might just be someone in the hallway. Let me go check on it.”

“Be careful, babe. I’ll stay by the radio. Let me know you’re all right.”

“I will. Love you. I’ll be right back.” Tasha stood up from the desk and turned to the door.

Travis Nixon seethed with a blind rage.

I’ll strangle the bitch and make sure he hears me do it. In fact, Nixon thought. I’ll do more than just strangle her while the piece of crap listens to me finish her miserable life.

Tasha silently walked to her bedroom door. She opened it slowly but smoothly, then leaned into the darkened hallway.

Nixon had retreated into an adjoining bathroom. He watched with morbid anticipation as Tasha crept out of her room and moved past him down the short hallway. He stepped out of his hide and tapped her on her shoulder.

Tasha spun and let out a terrified scream.

“No!” she cried out as Nixon reared his fist back and struck her on the side of her face. She tumbled onto the living room floor, moaning from the brutal attack.

Travis smirked and began to think of the ways he was going to abuse her, all while John Drosky listened on the other end. As he stood over her prostrate body, he leaned down slightly and spoke.

“I’m going to take you into your room. Then I’m going to tell your boyfriend all the depraved ways you’ve satisfied me. And then we’re going to do those things over and over again while he listens to me describe it all in intimate detail. Hell, he might even enjoy it.”

Nixon had reached down to drag her into the bedroom, when hell broke out in the hallway. Gunfire. A lot of it. Nixon retreated back, hiding in the shadows. He drew his sidearm and waited. One way or another, he was going to get Tasha and make Drosky suffer.

OUTSIDE THE DHS TOWER

Beth was quickly becoming bored. She’d been hiding in the brush for a while and knew it might be many more minutes or even hours before she could get upstairs. Idle time and uncertainty lead to self-reflection, and Beth had an abundance of both.

Her life had been thrown upside down over the last week. First the Russians and now Travis Nixon had taken her stable world and shattered it. Being fired from her job was just the final note of a terrible song, the requiem to a life that had been less than stellar. She’d always been second to the party and lingered to get in line because it was safe. Just like the last year after the event.

She talked a good game. She joined DHS and spoke about their abuses and limitations. She listened to John and Mike complain about it and even covered for them when they escaped. But in the end, she stayed above the fray. She got a cushy assignment guarding a woman and child who needed no protection. She carried a rifle and sidearm while acting as a daycare worker. No matter how she tried to justify her actions, she couldn’t escape the fact that the only thing she’d truly committed to was her own comfort and protection. Hell, even Tasha was doing something about it.

It was in this frame of mind that Beth reacted when the lone guard answered a call on his radio and sprinted into the building.

Beth knew that run, the kind that oozed of urgency and action, and responded in kind. She ran after the man and into the building’s lobby. At this late hour, it was empty. She saw an elevator door close and begin to ascend. She knew where he was going. Beth jumped onto an adjoining lift and pressed a button, taking her up to the floor just below Tasha’s.

The door slid open, and she found an empty hallway. Beth quickly moved to the end of the corridor and drew her Glock. She eased the metal door to the stairwell open and produced her Surefire G2X flashlight. She scanned the dark, empty shaft and entered. One level up, she froze next to the door to Tasha’s floor. She barely breathed. After a moment, she heard some voices mumbling in the distance. She put her hand on the doorknob and pushed down on the thumb lever, easing it open, one slow inch at a time.

She had the door ajar about a foot and leaned into the opening. Three Russian soldiers were hovering around Tasha’s door. The guard who had sprinted into the building was talking to his companion. Hearing their Russian conversation infuriated her. They were invaders. How she hadn’t reacted to this when they first arrived both enraged and embarrassed her.

But, what to do now? Had she overreacted when the Russian sprinted from the vehicles, leaving them unguarded? She froze in indecision.

What to do? she asked herself.

Then, the decision became clear. A scream came from within the room. Tasha’s scream. Beth slid into the hallway as the three Russians continued to stare at the door, talking animatedly between themselves. She eased the door closed and shut it with a slight click. She brought her sidearm up and tactically moved toward the three unsuspecting men.

Fifty feet quickly became forty. Then at thirty feet, she put her finger into the trigger well and massaged the four-pound blade.

“This one’s for you, Tasha,” she said loudly, then began to rapidly fire.

“Fuck you!” she screamed as she emptied seventeen hollow-point rounds down the hall at the unsuspecting men.

“Fuck you all!” she yelled again as the last of the three fell, mortally wounded by a final shot that caught him in the neck.

Beth stopped and stared at her handiwork as all three were motionless on the floor, blood pooling under their corpses. Beth was caught up in the rage. She snarled at the door and depressed the magazine release. Flipping the handle, she ejected the empty mag and slammed a spare into the Glock’s mag well. She snapped the slide back and released it, sending the first of seventeen more bullets up the feed ramp and into the handgun’s chamber.

Beth twisted the knob and flung the door open. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Tasha struggling on the living room floor, moaning and trying to rise.

“Tasha!” She rushed to the woman’s side.

Nixon slid out of the shadows, bringing his handgun up. “You!”

Beth had little time to react. She turned at the sound of Nixon’s voice and had just a moment to watch as the man’s gun flashed. The bullet hit her in her left temple, pushing through the skull and sending her brains and its fluids onto the wall next to her.

Beth’s lifeless body flopped down onto the floor next to Tasha, who opened her eyes and saw her friend’s body convulse next to her. She screamed once again, rolled away from the horror next to her, then blacked out.

Nixon stood over the bodies, trying to assimilate what had just happened. It had all turned sideways so quickly. There was way too much to comprehend. As the sounds of screams and yelling came from the hallway, he stepped out to find several of the residents standing over the fallen Russians. One of the men saw Nixon and staggered back. Everyone knew Travis, the man who stood next to the Dragon Lady. Travis Nixon was not a man to be trifled with.

Nixon saw the reaction. It invigorated him as he remembered who and what he was to most of the people in Orlando. He was the alpha predator. He was the king. Their fearful stares reminded him that he could say and do anything. A plan burst forth in his head.

It will work, he thought gleefully. It fits perfectly.

“What’s your name?” Nixon said, pointing to the cowering agent.

“Uhhh… Kennedy, sir.”

“Kennedy. I’m going to contact DHS. When they arrive, have them collect these three bodies. There is a fourth body inside, but I also have a suspect that I’m going to interrogate. She’s a spy. It going to be noisy. No one is to come in. Is that understood?”

“Yyyyesss, sir.”

“Good. I expect my orders to be followed.”

Nixon slammed the door closed. The sounds of Tasha suffering would serve to remind the men and women nearby that nobody messes with Travis Nixon. Nixon was king and could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to. The noises of Tasha’s final minutes and death would be talked about for months. No one would challenge him now.

Nixon dragged Tasha into the bedroom and laid her down by the desk. He sat down, flipped open her computer, bringing the laptop’s screen to life. The desktop picture was covered by a warning window, demanding a fingerprint or password challenge to access DHS’s database.

Nixon lifted Tasha’s hand and pressed her thumb onto an attached fingerprint reader. The window disappeared, leaving him with the highest access to Homeland’s personnel files. He found Beth Hildreth’s personal data and scrolled down to a box labeled “languages.” He was surprised to see that she spoke fluent Spanish. He smiled and began to type, then closed the connection. As of now, Beth Hildreth was fluent in two languages, both Spanish and Russian. He had just created the link he could use to blame Beth, and thus the Russian colonel, for the ambush that had taken out their supply run the other day. He’d taken care of two problems. He’d broken the spy ring, and he’d see that the Russian colonel and his two guards took the fall for their supply convoy losses.

Nixon grabbed a secure radio and called headquarters. After letting them know that he needed enough ambulances for five bodies, he connected with Homeland’s tactical headquarters.

“This is Nixon. What’s the status on the Russian Katyusha?”

The mobile rocket launcher had arrived a day prior. It carried enough rockets to obliterate about a hundred acres or a square box a quarter of a mile on each leg. If Drosky was broadcasting on a ham radio, he’d be well within that space since the radio waves were coming from his attached antenna.

“They are ready to launch on your orders,” the agent replied.

Nixon looked at his watch. The launcher was at the airport and Drosky’s signal was about fifteen miles away, well within the weapon’s range. All of the rockets took about ten seconds to be sequentially launched and each would be in the air less than three seconds.

“Launch them on my mark. I’ll be in contact shortly,” Nixon ordered.

The ham radio crackled to life as an incoming broadcast came over the small speakers. It was John Drosky, there was no doubt about it.

“Starlight, come in. Starlight,” Drosky said.

“Starlight!” Nixon said to the semi-conscious woman. “That’s a nice name for you.”

Nixon wasn’t ready to push the send bar on the microphone. He had some work to do.

He lifted Tasha into the chair and positioned her facing away from the desk. He pulled the microphone to the edge and found a heavy book. He watched as Tasha regained her senses. She absently stared around the room, then her eyes found Nixon hovering over her. They went wide with fear, and she tried to push the big man away. He struck her across the cheek, lightly enough to keep her conscious, but hard enough to take her breath away. He was practiced at this, and it had the desired effect. She lay still, but quite awake. She was his to be used as he wanted.

Nixon reached over her and pressed the transmit button. “Hi John. I’ll bet you’re surprised to hear from me. How’s it shaking?”

Silence. Pure, blissful silence, Nixon thought as he waited for Drosky’s reply.

“Sounds like your boyfriend is at a loss for words,” Nixon said to Tasha. “Let’s see how quiet he stays when I tell him what fun you and I have had these last weeks.”

“No. Please. I’ll do anything for you. Just don’t tell him.”

“Oh, you’ll do everything I want. I can promise you that. But I really think he would enjoy listening to us have one more fling. What do you say?”

“Nixon. Don’t do it. You want me, not her,” Drosky said over the speakers.

“Got your attention? That’s nice,” Nixon replied. “I have a treat for you, my friend.”

Nixon released the transmit bar and waited. Several seconds went by before Drosky responded.

“Let her go, and I’ll turn myself in,” John said. “I promise you, just don’t hurt her.”

Nixon pushed down on the bar. “Now, John. I’m not planning on doing anything the two of us haven’t done before. I mean, your girlfriend is quite the little tiger. I’m just hoping you enjoy our final performance before I have her killed for espionage. Do you want to listen in? I know you do.”

Keeping the bar depressed, he positioned the heavy book over the transmit button, sending a continuous message that Drosky couldn’t interrupt.

“Now, Tasha. What do you say we try something new?” Nixon reached down and ripped her blouse, exposing her bra and bare torso. Tasha screamed, bringing a sadistic laugh from his lips.

“Let’s play the rape game. How does that sound?” He reached down to unbutton his BDUs.

The pants had buttons instead of a zipper, forcing Nixon to holster his pistol. Tasha, her head reeling from the pain of the prior head strikes, focused on the man’s sadistic voice. She leaned away, her hands trying to grab at anything she could use as a weapon. Nixon dropped his view, looking for the buttons that refused to release. She found a pen and shoved it into her hair.

Nixon released his belt’s clasp and pants. With a battle belt and its attachments hooked onto it, Nixon’s pants and gear all quickly fell, as one piece, onto the floor. He pushed Tasha back into the chair, his right hand clenching her throat as he struggled with his left hand to drop his underpants.

Tasha’s scream was muffled by his grip. All the while, the transmit button was depressed by the heavy book, sending the whole assault over the airwaves. All John could do was cover his face and listen.

As Nixon grabbed at Tasha’s leg, she desperately tried to push back. But the big man was too physically overpowering. She began to lose her mind with fear.

“Now John, let me tell you what’s going on. But first, are you enjoying yourself, Tasha? Tell John how much you love having me here.”

Nixon released his grip slightly, giving Tasha air and space to reply.

She reached back and grabbed the pen that was riding in her hair. She stared up at Nixon’s leering face. All she could see were his lips, sneering at her as he exerted control. She swung the pen at that mouth with all her might. She felt the satisfying feeling of the tip penetrating flesh, like a knife piercing a slab of beef. She couldn’t be sure where she’d hit him, but wherever the pen had found his face, it caused him to release her and he screamed.

Nixon rolled off of her and fell to the side. Tasha struggled up from the reclining office chair and tried to run. She knocked the table, sending the book and microphone tumbling. The radio broadcast ended, leaving John at the other end. The last thing he heard was a screaming Nixon and a crying girlfriend fighting for her life.

Nixon was stunned. The bitch had stuck him with a pen. It was still sticking out of his left cheek, and blood was already starting to pool in his mouth where the ballpoint had raked his gums and tongue.

He spit a bolus of bloody spit out onto the floor and searched for Tasha. She was struggling out of the chair and starting to run for the door. He grabbed her leg and spun it. She crashed to the ground. She had landed on her back and was again stunned by his assault. He pounced.

Nixon leapt and straddled the woman. His first strike was deflected by her arm, and as he brought his fist back up, he felt her grabbing for something on the floor next to him. It was his pants and attached battle belt. She got a hold of his Glock and was trying to pull it from the holster. He reached down and held her hand over the grip, refusing to let her draw the gun. He laughed at her efforts, but he didn’t see her right hand come from the other side, holding a small metal trash can. It connected with the other side of his face.

Stunned, he fell and twisted the Glock from its Kydex holster. In one motion, he brought the gun out and put a bullet through the bridge of her nose. Her head snapped back, and she went still, her lifeless eyes staring and mouth agape.

“Damn!” He shook his head in pain and spat another wad of blood and spittle.

“Tasha!” He heard over the ham speakers.

Nixon grabbed his DHS encrypted radio and called into the tactical center, all the while listening to Drosky plead for his girlfriend’s life.

“This is Nixon. I want those missiles launched in one minute.”

“One minute, confirmed,” the DHS agent replied.

Nixon checked his watch, wiped his face, and latched up his pants.

He walked over to the table and stood the microphone back up. He sat down in the chair and checked his watch once again. Thirty seconds until the saturation bombing and the death of John Drosky. He’d finally be rid of that scum.

“John. It’s Travis. How are you doing?”

“Travis. Please. Don’t do it.”

“John. I have to admit. Your offer is appealing. In fact, I didn’t rape her. She’s right here next to me.”

There was silence. Nixon looked at his watch once again. Fifteen seconds until launch. At over 3000 miles per hour, the first missiles would strike less than three seconds after they were sent.

“Thank you, Travis. I will turn myself in.”

“John. There’s no need to do that.”

Drosky sat momentarily confused. “What do you mean?”

“I have other plans for you and your friends. I’m sending a package your way. Forty packages, if I have to be specific.”

John suddenly understood what was happening. They’d used Tasha and his conversation to locate their neighborhood. They were going to blow the place up.

“Can I say something to Tasha?” John said, resigned to his pending death.

“Sure, John, talk away. I just don’t think she’ll be able to reply, with a bullet through the brain and such.”

Silence.

“Oh, and by the way, Beth is looking forward to saying hello when you see her in hell.”

Nixon looked at his watch. Three. Two. One. Launch.

“I’ll get you, Nixon. I swear, if it takes the rest of my life, I’ll…”

The broadcast went silent.

In the distance, fireballs were erupting as multiple explosions were tearing up a three-million square-foot swath of the city.

With a northern facing window, Tasha’s room gave Nixon a front row view of the destruction as almost four tons of explosives had finally put an end to John Drosky and his rebellious friends.

“You were like a cockroach, you just refused to die. But I finally got you. I finally won,” Nixon said.

The sound of multiple people yelling in the hallway brought Nixon back to the present. He went into the bathroom and extracted the pen from his face. He collected himself and cleaned up the best he could then exited the room.

The crowd that had collected gasped at his appearance. The wound in his face looked far worse than it was. The flap of tissue where the pen had punctured through was still attached to his skin. It would heal with a minimal scar but bled profusely enough that it gave Nixon a fearsome appearance, as his shirt and face were a patchwork of blue bruising and drying blood.

“Two more bodies inside,” he said to the medical squad.

“Let me look at that, sir,” one of the medics said.

“In a minute. I’ve got a report to make. Stay here and do your job.”

Nixon walked to the elevator shaft and drew out his radio. “This is Nixon. Patch me through to Director Qualls.”

He listened to the reply.

“I want to be patched through immediately. I know she’s with the Russian colonel. It is imperative that she’s informed of this immediately.”

The line went silent, then a reply came back.

“All right. If she won’t speak to me directly, pass along this message and have her contact me when it is convenient. The Russian colonel’s office was the leak. I’ve eliminated two spies, one of which was tied to the colonel. I’ve destroyed the rebel base. After you get her the message, ask her if she needs me to do anything else tonight.”

He listened to the reply.

“Yes. Let her know I’ll be at the medical facility. I’ll contact you after I’ve been patched up. Do you have all that?” The reply left him with a grin.

Nixon turned off his radio. Let her stew on that! Nixon thought as the elevator arrived.

The door opened, and four more medical personnel exited, each with a shocked look on their faces when they saw him. One of them was an attractive blonde woman. He pointed to her. “You! Take me to medical.”

The girl hesitated, then joined him on the lift.

“At least someone attractive can stich me up,” he said to her, earning a shy, but willing smile.

Let’s see how Ramona likes that, he thought as the doors closed, and the elevator rushed the two of them down.

He’d just put one more notch in his belt, earning yet more glory and respect. The stories that would be told would only grow in their embellishment. He smiled widely, then grimaced, as the adrenaline began to subside and the pain from the fight filtered through. All in all, what had started out as a losing evening had become a total victory for him and their fight against the Resistance.

It had been a great night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A.J. BIANCHI’S HOME

“The righteous will rejoice when he sees the vengeance; He will wash his feet in the blood of the wicked.”

— Psalm 58: 10

“I’LL GET YOU, NIXON. I swear, if it takes the rest of my life, I’ll tear you apart, you son of a bitch.”

The sounds of explosions rocked the house. John looked out the window but saw a normal landscape. Flashes of light popped on the darkened leaves and A.J. appeared in the doorway.

“Quick, follow me,” he said.

John sprinted out of the room and followed A.J. out the front door. Looking off to the north, a dozen rebels stared a mile away where the carpet bombardment was striking.

The concussive effect of the detonations was creating a vacuum that sucked the air toward the oxygen-demanding blasts. They could all feel the air move almost a mile from the bombardment. It was both humbling and terrifying. It would have decimated the neighborhood and everyone in it. The detonations were like the finale at a Fourth of July fireworks display, with impacts coming at several per second. It was over less than twenty seconds later.

“Why?” John muttered.

“Why?” A.J. asked back. “Why there and not here?”

“Yeah. He obviously tracked my transmissions. Why didn’t they take us out?”

“Do you remember the other day, when the storm messed up my antenna?”

“Kern went out and repaired them,” John replied.

“We set up a repeater several weeks ago. We mounted it on the roof of the television station up off of Lee Road and Wymore. We put a directional antenna on it, and Kern put one up here. The broadcast was sent out on a tight beam to the repeater, then sent out throughout the area. They just killed our repeater,” A.J. said smugly.

“That’s it?” John said.

“Not really. They know we are here now—at least north of the city. That means we need to break up and move. We’re too big of a group to continue to hide.”

“I did this,” John said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Well, you did move up our timetable. And I did lose my repeater. But this was inevitable the day the Russians arrived. They’ve got FLIR and night vision capabilities. They can see a group this large from miles away. This was happening with or without you.”

“You trying to make me feel better? Because you can’t. I just heard Tasha and Beth were killed.”

“What?” A.J. replied. “What the hell are you talking about?”

John began to tell his story, but A.J. stopped him almost immediately. “I think you can save it until we meet. I’m calling a meeting in fifteen minutes. You can let us know then.”

“Then what?”

“We break up and fight for as long as it takes to kill all those bastards. Or we die trying,” A.J. said. Then he turned and walked away, grabbing Kern by the arm as he went by.

Fifteen minutes to get back to the house, tell his friends, and return for the meeting at A.J.’s house. How do I explain this?

But John steeled himself for that conversation. After all, he had a lot to do. He had a piece of vermin named Travis Nixon to deal with. And he had the advantage. For the second time in less than a month, Travis was convinced he was dead. He wasn’t going to give him a third chance. Next time they met, it would be the last meeting for one of them, and John meant to make it Nixon’s final requiem. He would kill him and make it a long and painful end.

CHARLIE

Poor John. He told us how he’d led Nixon to Tasha. His guilt was palpable, but the overlying anger and commitment to strike back left no doubt about his intent. He was going for blood. He was singularly focused on retribution. I couldn’t blame him.

We gathered at A.J.’s house. There were forty-eight of us, all told, and we were going to break up. Fireteams would be maintained, and no single group would be greater than eight people. We would go from a large fighting force to over a half dozen smaller groups.

A.J. split the munitions up into eight parts, doling out the more powerful weapons to the four groups that had combined teams. Each squad of eight had a machine gun, an anti-tank and one anti-aircraft launcher with three reloads for each. They could do some serious damage.

The rest of the fireteams would have to make do. There was a doctrine in the special forces community, primarily the former Green Berets. If you needed a weapon, you found it, usually by stripping it off of your dead enemy.

After the meeting, A.J. met briefly with us. There were still six or seven hours of darkness left, and the Russians hadn’t begun regular flights over the city. He wanted up out and scattered by dawn. No one knew where the others were going, other than each group having an assigned “area” of the city.

“Do you guys want to join us?” A.J. asked.

We had decided before we joined the emergency meeting that we were going to take care of our own needs first. John spoke for the four of us.

“No sir. We’ve got our own agenda.”

“I won’t ask for specifics, but maybe we can help each other. My guys are spreading out all over the city. Having someone travel with you, even part of the journey, would be helpful for everyone.”

John looked at us and nodded. We shook our heads in agreement. He turned again to A.J. “Cyn and I are heading downtown, at least in that direction. We’ve got some retribution to perform.”

“The head of the snake?” A.J. asked.

“And anyone around him,” John replied.

“And what about you two?” A.J. asked Mike and me.

“My family’s up in Sanford. I’m going to find them,” Mike said.

“I’m going with Mike,” I said. “He’s my battle buddy now, and I won’t leave my battle buddy.”

Mike nodded appreciatively, as did John and Cyn. We were team. We were there for each other.

“What about your friend?” A.J. asked.

Oh, crap, I thought. Beker. What about him? I was at a loss. “I don’t know. He sort of just tagged along.”

“I know of some refugees west of here. It’s not too far. I’ll have him accompany one of my teams that’s going in that direction. He’ll be safe.”

“Thanks, A.J. You are amazing.”

“I have to agree!” he stated. “But I’ll miss this place.”

“We knew this time would come,” Kern said, having joined us for the last of the conversation. Then, turning to Cyn, he walked up and hugged her and grabbed her by the butt. “I’ll miss the hell out of you.”

He planted a kiss on her lips, stunning her like no one I had ever seen before. She barely had a chance to complain, when he let her go and strode from the room.

“There goes a new man,” A.J. said. “You must be a heck of a woman!”

Cyn had no reply, and instead of teasing her, I stepped in. “Yes, she is. She makes us all better.”

Both John and Mike grunted their assent.

“Well, I’ve got a team going north to Sanford,” A.J. said. “They leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll give you directions to their house if you two want to travel along.”

I looked at Mike, who smiled and nodded.

“That would be great.”

“Then it’s settled. I wish you all Godspeed. Kill them all.”

A.J. left us, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again. But I’d never forget his group and their help.

“Well, we’re already packed,” John said. “I guess this is good bye.”

“How about, until we meet again?” I said.

John smiled. “That works.”

I walked up and wrapped my arms around him. At over six feet, two inches, I was hugging his waist and my head lay against his chest rig. He dropped his chin onto the top of my head and wrapped his hands around my head.

“I am so sorry, John. I’ll try to avenge Tasha the best I can.”

“Thanks, Charlie. I’ll be doing the same.”

He kissed the top of my head then grasped Mike’s right arm. He broke from me, and the two big men hugged. Not a man hug, where there was more chest bumping than real contact, but an honest-to-goodness hug. They loved each other, and it showed.

“Be safe, bro,” Mike said, a tear forming in his eye.

“Back at you, brother. Until we meet again.”

We parted right there, our assault rucks already packed and our supplies topped off. Mike and I got an address from A.J., and we found the four-man team ready to roll.

A half hour later, six silent killers slunk out of the neighborhood and headed north toward Sanford. An hour after that, the neighborhood was empty. Well, not quite empty. A number of the homes still had their Claymore mines set up, and one or two cars were gasoline bombs, waiting for someone to set them off.

As our group moved north, I had to admit I felt like we were under observation. The idea that we were being watched wouldn’t leave my mind. “Mike. I think someone’s watching us.”

We had gathered at a home with a large backyard. There was a vine-covered trellis covering a formerly manicured backyard. Had it been larger, you could have charged admission. A year of overgrowth had changed the landscape. What was once a shrine to managed growth was now a testament to the power of nature. We had cover and concealment. It was a good place to rest and hydrate.

“Come on. You’re just paranoid. Ain’t no helicopters up there, and the drones were destroyed.”

“I know. But I can tell.”

“Let it go, Charlie. It’ll take your mind off the journey. Don’t get distracted. We need your eyes.”

“You’re right,” I said with more conviction than I felt.

We only stayed for a few minutes then moved off.

***

Five minutes later, a pale and thin young man quietly followed our footsteps. He had a nylon backpack over his shoulders and carried only a multi-tool. His eyes, which had seen more than any human should see, darted back and forth. Then, he disappeared into the brush, maintaining a respectable distance from the six insurgents. He too, was on a mission. He wasn’t going to let his only friend walk away. He was committed as well.

EPILOGUE

DR. KRAMER AND HIS DAUGHTER sat under the awning of their mobile home. A week had gone by since the nuclear detonation, and their movement had been restricted due to the presence of the Russian and Cuban soldiers.

“Dad. Are you as tired as me?” Claire asked.

Dr. Kramer took a sip of his iced tea and sighed. “I wish I knew. All we can do is take this day by day.”

“Did you hear about Sergeant Bragg?” Claire asked.

“You mean about his contacts in Orlando? Sounds like he’s going to be busy.”

“I’m worried,” Claire said. “If he’s going to be working for the Resistance, won’t that make this place a target?”

Kramer sat silently. He’d thought of that but was reassured of their safety after Bragg told him he was switching over to a satellite radio with advanced encryption technology. They’d been paid a visit by some Rangers who were coordinating a military response. Bragg was now in charge of distributing information throughout Central Florida.

“I’ve thought about that,” Kramer answered. “But I think it’s a risk we have to take. He’s assured me that the technology is strong and the amount of radiation he’s generating is in the microsecond realm. Very hard to trace.”

“Are you sure about this?” Claire asked.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Then, after a few moments, he added, “Just don’t tell your mother.”

“Did you hear about Porter?” Claire asked, trying to extend a conversation with her father. He was notorious for closing down at night, allowing his thoughts to simmer and stew.

“What about him?”

“He’s heading into Orlando. A four-man team is connecting up with some guy named Drosky.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Yeah, they said he escaped from DHS along with three others. Two other agents and a girl named Charlie.”

Her father stopped his rocking and froze. “What did you say?”

“A guy named Drosky. Do you know him?”

“No, the girl. What was her name?”

“Charlie. I thought that was strange.”

Kramer let out a contented laugh and began gently shaking his head. “Charlie. She is a tough one,” Kramer replied. “I’m glad she made it.”

“Who is this Charlie?” Claire asked.

Kramer took another long draw from his tea and gave a satisfied sigh. “You know, I’d about given up hope I’d get some good news out of the city. But hearing that Charlie is up and about is just what I needed.”

“She’s doing more than that. From what I hear, she’s quite the fighter.”

Kramer nodded. “Let me tell you about Charlie.”

They stayed there for the rest of the evening while Dr. Kramer spoke about a young woman who had the heart of a champion, and the will that went with it. All the while, he felt his mood lift and spirit rise. If Charlie was still alive and fighting in that hellhole, then they could make it too.

At the end of their talk. They raised their glasses to the former drug rep turned insurgent.

“To Charlie,” Kramer said.

“And to every other Charlie out there, fighting for their freedom.”

“Amen. The Founders would be proud,” Kramer replied.

They drank a sweet tea toast to Charlie and to all the Americans who were fighting for their independence. It was as it had been, and likely would be again. Tyranny never rests, so good people everywhere must always be prepared to put their life, liberty, and fortune on the line. It was a forever fight, and right now, the bad guys were winning. Kramer said a prayer. The time was late, so they packed up and went inside.

Tomorrow, what would it bring? We would all know soon enough.

Table of Contents

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Epilogue