by Kyle Pratt
“I’m with the United States Army.”
Ryan shook his head. “I was beginning to think there wasn’t such a thing anymore.”
“We’ve been busy, but we still exist.”
“It doesn’t take great deductive insight to determine you’re here for the food.”
Franklin nodded.
“I can’t let you take it.”
“I didn’t think you had control of the warehouse.”
“I don’t yet, but,” Ryan gestured toward the other civilians, “we will soon.”
“Many of you will die if you attack the building.”
“Yes.” Ryan nodded. “But we’ll starve to death if we don’t.” He took a deep breath and continued. “There are only thirty or forty people inside. We have many more with guns.” He grinned. “And I was the manager of the warehouse and have all the keys.”
Franklin foresaw many problems. From the recon mission last night, he surmised that the group inside the warehouse had night-vision gear, rifles, and at least some training. Did they have military weapons? Had they barricaded the doors? He would have. Other questions came to mind, but he simply smiled and said, “Let’s try to work together. For a start, who are the guys inside?”
“I don’t know for sure.” Ryan shrugged. “They showed up two days after the sun storm. They had uniforms and insisted they were there under government orders, but then they killed a couple of security guards. The few of us who were in the warehouse ran for our lives.
“Five days later I ran out of food at home and so I came here with my wife and kids.” Ryan stared at the warehouse. “We’ve managed to get some food from town and hunting, but the camp grows daily.” He stared at the massive distribution center. “There’s enough stuff in that building for all of us, but I can’t wait much longer.”
“They’re surrounded,” Franklin said. “They must know that. Perhaps we can convince them to leave.”
“I don’t think so,” Ryan said grimly. “I inherited this leadership job after a couple of others tried to talk their way in—and got shot. Like I said, we’re going to take the food but not with words.”
“Perhaps talk and a show of force could push them out.” Franklin told Ryan about the rifles, reinforcements, and breaching equipment he had requested from the base. “The only way I see this ending is with them leaving, but if we have to fight, many of my soldiers will be wounded or killed, and even more of your people.”
“They won’t leave. Our choice is to attack or starve.”
“Then work with me until the additional soldiers and equipment arrive. We might be able to do this with significantly less carnage. Do you have a map of the building?”
“Yes.” Ryan called for one of his men to retrieve it.
Together they moved back to the Humvee for planning.
“I want a sign painted.” Franklin held his arms wide. “Two yards long on plywood and set on poles. We ask them for a dialogue. If that doesn’t work, then we shoot.”
Ryan grinned. “Standard plywood size is four by eight.”
Franklin rolled his eyes. “Can someone in your group make it?”
“Sure, but it won’t work.” He left and talked to one of his men and then returned. “Your sign will be up in about an hour.”
Franklin and Ryan discussed plans and the placement of both soldiers and civilians until a dozen men walked across the field into the no-man’s land beyond the camp. Two carried posthole diggers, while the others held poles and a large sheet of plywood. One side glistened white with red lettering.
Franklin glimpsed a couple of words but wasn’t sure what it said. He asked Ryan, “What exactly did you tell them to say on the sign?”
“The U.S. Army is here. Talk or we start shooting.”
Franklin gritted his teeth. It was what he had said, but not exactly what he wanted on the sign.
The holes were easily dug in the soft dry ground and the sign nailed in place.
Bang!
The sign shuddered. Splinters flew.
The crowd scattered.
More shots thundered as the soldiers hurried to find cover.
“Well, at least they read it.” Franklin jumped into one of the Humvees with Ryan and moved it behind the personnel building. There, they exited the vehicle and used its hood as a table while they continued to plan. “I suggest a diversion over here.” He pointed to the far end of the warehouse. “Then we attack at these loading bays. The semi-trucks will provide cover and, with breaching equipment, we can be inside the building in seconds.”
Between rifle shots, an engine roared.
Franklin looked over his shoulder. A Humvee raced along the road, turned into the parking lot, and screeched to a stop. Private Rankin jumped out and rendered a quick salute.
Franklin returned it and glanced at the empty Humvee. “Where’s Thomas and the reinforcements?”
“Thomas is dead, sir,” Rankin said with a stoic face. “The base is under attack. The general has ordered the platoon to immediately return and assist with the defense.”
Franklin looked at the warehouse and then at Ryan.
“I won’t be able to stop my people.” Ryan sighed deeply, then turned and walked back to his people. A ripple of alarm grew into shouts and cries as news of the departing soldiers spread through the crowd like fire through dry grass. A few civilians waved angry fists and shouted at Franklin and his soldiers. Moments later, random shots rang from the crowd and warehouse.
“Retreat!” Franklin ordered. “Rendezvous at the gas station.” Then he ran to the Humvee. As he opened the door to the vehicle, most of the crowd turned toward the warehouse. Like a wave hitting the shore, the crowd tore down the fence and rolled toward the building under a hail of gunfire.
Day Eleven
Portland, Oregon, Wednesday, September 14th
James stayed in the shadows as he crept through the gate and across the backyard to the garage where Emma waited. “It’s me,” he said into the darkness as he opened the door.
“Are they gone?” she whispered.
He shook his head but then realized she couldn’t see him. “No. They’ve moved up the street. But I think we can get to my house.”
“I saw some in uniform. Are they the good—”
“No, they can’t be regular army soldiers.” His foot bumped into her and he slid to the concrete floor beside her. “My dad talked about militia groups and gangs fighting for control. If we can get to my house ….” He had started to say that his dad would find them, but his father had gone on another mission and wouldn’t have returned yet. “My mom will be there.”
“Okay,” Emma whispered. “Maybe from your house, I can get to mine. Let’s go.”
In his search for a way home, James had seen the mob looting homes between here and Emma’s house. They were probably on her street right now, but he simply whispered, “I’ll get you home.”
“I found this while you were gone.”
She pressed it against his hand and he took it. “What is it?”
“A flashlight. It works.”
“Did you turn it on?”
“Yes, of course.”
James cringed. “Someone might have seen it.”
“I’m not stupid.” Frustration etched her voice. “I held my hand over it and turned it on only for a moment.”
“Okay.” He relaxed a bit. “Still we should leave.”
As they crept across the backyard, Emma asked, “Is anyone in this house?”
“No.” He didn’t mention the body on the front porch.
* * *
How many had died? As the platoon hurried back to Portland, Franklin pondered that question. How many were killed charging the fence at the distribution center, and, as he listened to Rankin describe the situation at the base, he wondered how many had died there. “Do you know who attacked? How many are there? What were their targets?”
“I can’t say for sure how many are involved, but it started when a militia group att
acked a weak spot in the perimeter fence.” Rankin shook his head and sighed as he followed Keller’s deuce along the freeway. “Hundreds, maybe thousands, of civilians followed them in and started looting homes.”
“What would motivate ordinary people to assault a military installation?” a soldier in the back of the Humvee asked.
“I don’t know what they wanted.” Rankin sounded apologetic. “I wasn’t there long before the general told me to get you guys.”
“Food, I’d guess,” Kohen said from the back. “You can only watch your family go hungry so long, and then you have to act.”
“Even if doing something gets you killed?” the first soldier asked.
“I’d rather die trying to get food for my family than not act and watch them die of starvation,” Kohen replied.
Franklin nodded inwardly as memories of the crowd tearing down the fence and rushing the warehouse under gunfire haunted his mind. He thought of Carol, James, and Logan, and his gut wrenched with worry. Had his own family been attacked for its meager food stock? Had they been hurt? Killed?
He knew that Private Kohen was Jewish but had never seen him read the Torah. In the last three days, he had read a half-dozen books of the Bible, including Matthew and Revelation. In those books, he had learned of the Great Tribulation, a time when the world would experience hunger and starvation. People killing for scraps of food … was it the end of days? It felt like it.
As a military man, he had seen famine and deprivation but not in this country. He faced the reality that battling for food was preferable to watching those he loved die a lingering death from starvation.
“Just before I left, General Sattler established a perimeter around the base warehouses.” Rankin turned off the freeway near the Cyber Intel Center.
“Then that is where we go,” Franklin declared with more confidence than he felt. Moments later, the convoy turned down the dark city surface streets. Smoke lingered in the air, punctuated by the sound of gunfire.
Franklin scanned the nearby apartments and commercial structures for any movement as he struggled to develop a plan. A few days earlier, the general had requisitioned two buildings in that area: a large warehouse for food and the other, across the street, served as the motor pool. Both were valuable targets for capture, but food would be the most important. However, he hadn’t been inside either and possessed only a vague idea of how to enter and secure them. He picked up the radio and clicked transmit. “Lieutenant Poole, have you been inside these warehouses?”
“Just the motor pool, not the food one, sir.”
“You’re our expert. When we get there, stay close to me.”
At the edge of the base, the convoy’s headlights illuminated the twisted remains of the gate scattered on the pavement along with a dozen bodies. No guards stood watch.
“Headlights off,” Franklin ordered over the radio. “Sergeant Keller, use night-vision gear and don’t stop until you reach the buildings.”
Weaving past bodies scattered in and along the road, Keller slowed but didn’t stop as the convoy proceeded under the meager light of a crescent moon. Every yard forward brought another body into view. Judging by the clothing, almost all were civilian men. Franklin shuddered inwardly. So much death.
The convoy reached the parking lot beside the motor pool and Franklin ordered the drivers to stop along the far edge near a line of trees. The soldiers poured out and gained quick cover and concealment in the darkness behind the vehicles. The black asphalt of the lot seemed to swallow the dull light that reached the ground.
Franklin exited his Humvee and, within moments, heard gravel crunch as someone raced toward him.
Poole emerged from the darkness and pointed. “That door opens to an office, break room, and hallway into the main part of the motor pool. The food warehouse is on the other side.”
Franklin listened to the night. Gunfire echoed in the distance, but here there was only silence. He tried the radio. “Motor pool, this is platoon three. Over.”
No answer.
Darkness would provide concealment as they advanced across the parking lot, but he wished he had more intel on the enemy and its positions. He hoped that his decisions would be wise. Adrenalin surged through him and his heart pounded. “Platoon, advance with me.”
They charged into the parking area.
“Freeze!”
In the middle of the lot, Franklin stood like a statue in the open while most of his less-exposed soldiers scattered for cover. The voice was that of a woman, her forceful delivery a bark of authority from the darkness. It might be just her, or there might be a hundred people pointing guns at him and his soldiers.
“Identify yourself,” the voice ordered.
“Major Dirk Franklin, United States Army.” He took a deep, slow breath.
“Come forward and be identified.”
“Corporal Briscoe?” Keller called to the voice. “Is that you?”
“Sarge?”
Franklin gazed at Keller and then into the darkness as he tried to put a face to Briscoe, a driver working in supply.
“I’m glad to see you guys.” A young woman in ACUs led a dozen others from the darkness into the shadowy parking lot. “We just cleared this area of enemy stragglers.”
Staring at the face etched by darkness, Franklin struggled to recall her first name. Debbie? No, Dana.
Lieutenant Poole and Sergeant Keller joined Franklin in the parking lot.
Franklin relaxed and inhaled a deep breath. “Corporal Briscoe, what’s the situation here?”
“I’d call it stable. We regained control of the motor pool.” Briscoe pointed at the building. “And now command the surrounding area. The remaining militia fighters are bottled up inside the food warehouse.”
“Do you know the name of the militia group?”
“They call themselves the Sovereign Militia,” Briscoe said. “We captured one of them.”
“Good.” Franklin rested both hands on his hips as he recalled Dick mentioning the group. “I’d like to talk with your prisoner, but first, where’s General Sattler?”
“He’s inside, sir, badly hurt. Our medic is also wounded and low on supplies.”
“Medic! Bickel!” Franklin looked about. “Where are you?”
“Here, sir.” She emerged from the shadows.
Along with Briscoe, Franklin led his soldiers into the building. Lanterns provided scattered circles of dim yellow light inside the large, windowless room. Near the far end, a woman huddled with two small children. Briscoe pointed to a dim corner. “The general is over there.”
With one arm in a sling and a bandage around his head, the medic knelt near one of the half-dozen wounded. He held a lantern while another soldier followed his instructions. “Keep pressure there.”
“General?” Franklin hurried toward the corner.
“Major?” a weak voice whispered.
Franklin knelt by his side.
Bickel ran to the other medic. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live,” the wounded medic said. “So will the others, but the general … He has internal bleeding that I can’t stop. We need to stabilize and transport him. Do you have an IV?”
“Yes.” Bickel pulled blue gloves from her pack.
“Glad you’re here,” the general whispered to Franklin.
“Try not to talk, sir.” Bickel checked the wound.
“Got to.” The general struggled to breathe. “We figured it out too late. The attack on housing … a diversion. Burton told them about … the food.”
“Burton?” Franklin tried to put a face with the name.
“Brad Burton.” Poole knelt beside him. “The guy from the Multnomah County Planning Department.”
Franklin shook his head in disbelief. “He told the Sovereign Militia?”
Bickel reached down with bloodstained blue gloves and inserted a needle in the general’s arm, taped it down, and attached tubing. Then she passed an IV bag to a nearby soldier. “Hold this.”
<
br /> The general coughed blood. “Don’t know who Burton told … but they found out … kidnapped his family.”
When Bickel finished bandaging the wound, she locked eyes with Franklin. “He needs a hospital.”
“Don’t waste the time … save the food. You’re going to need it.” The general’s eyes glazed. He shuddered and then seemed to relax with a long, slow exhale.
Bickel checked for a pulse then thrust her hands to his chest and started CPR. When sweat ran down her face, Franklin relieved her and continued chest compressions. Then Keller relieved him.
Bickel checked again for a pulse and shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir; the general’s wounds … he lost too much blood.” She wiped her face with a hand, smearing sweat and blood across one cheek.
His friend had been murdered by Sovereign Militia traitors. Franklin half stood before slumping into a nearby chair. He had been content as the second in command of this small intelligence center. Now General Sattler was dead and the entire situation fell to him. He wanted to find his family and run away. Where were they? Were they okay? As the adrenalin spike faded, exhaustion swept over him.
“Shouldn’t there be a lot more vehicles in here?” Poole shined a flashlight around the open space. Only three Humvees, two deuces, and a fueler were visible along the back wall of the main floor.
“The Sovereign Militia attacked here and the food warehouse at the same time. They killed or wounded those on duty.” Briscoe pointed a flashlight to a dark corner where twelve bodies, three in bags, lay in a line. “Then they moved most of the trucks to the other building. These vehicles were all that remained when we secured the place.”
Franklin borrowed the flashlight and walked over to the bodies. Some wore standard ACUs, but instead of an American flag, they wore a crossed rifle insignia with the words Sovereign Militia below. He moved down the line of the dead to a man in a dark business suit. He had been shot, execution style, in the head. Despite the wound, he looked familiar. “Who was this man?”
Briscoe joined him. She shrugged. “He’s the Brad Burton guy the general mentioned. The militia killed him during our assault on this building. That’s his family over there.” She pointed to the woman and two children.